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THE DAY OF THE JACKAL THE ODESSA FILE THE DOGS OF WAR THE DEVIL’S ALTERNATIVE NO COMEBACKS THE FOURTH PROTOCOL THE NEGOTIATOR THE DECEIVER THE FIST OF GOD
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THE DAY OF THE JACKAL THE ODESSA FILE THE DOGS OF WAR THE DEVIL’S ALTERNATIVE NO COMEBACKS THE FOURTH PROTOCOL THE NEGOTIATOR THE DECEIVER THE FIST OF GOD
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Bantam Books NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
THE NEGOTIATOR A Bantam Book Bantam hardcover edition / May 1989 Bantam paperback edition / April 1990 Bantam reissue / August 1995
All rights reserved. Copyright© 1989 by Frederick Forsyth. Cover art copyright© 1995 by Bantam Books. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-43346.
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Contents
Cast Of Characters.8 Prologue.10 Chapter 1.11 Chapter 2.24 Chapter 3.39 Chapter 4.54 Chapter 5.70 Chapter 6.84 Chapter 7.99 Chapter 8.112 Chapter 9.125
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Chapter 10.138 Chapter 11.153 Chapter 12.168 Chapter 13.182 Chapter 14.198 Chapter 15.211 Chapter 16.222 Chapter 17.236 Chapter 18.250 Chapter 19.264 About the Author270 About the e-Book.271
Cast Of Characters The Americans
JOHN J. CORMACK
President of the United States
MICHAEL ODELL
Vice President of the United States
JAMES DONALDSON
Secretary of State
MORTON STANNARD Secretary of Defense WILLIAM WALTERS
Attorney General
HUBERT REED
Secretary of the Treasury
BRAD JOHNSON
National Security Adviser
DONALD EDMONDS
Director, FBI
PHILIP KELLY
Assistant Director, Criminal Investigations
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Division, FBI KEVIN BROWN
Deputy Assistant Director,CID,FBI
LEE ALEXANDER
Director, CIA
DAVID WEINTRAUB QUINN DUNCAN MCCREA IRVING MOSS
Deputy Director (Operations), CIA The negotiator Junior field agent, CIA Discharged CIA agent
SAM SOMERVILLE
Field agent, FBI
CYRUS V. MILLER
Oil tycoon
MELVILLE SCANLON
Shipping tycoon
PETER COBB
Armaments industrialist
BEN SALKIND
Armaments industrialist
LIONEL MOIR
Armaments industrialist
CREIGHTON BURBANK Director, Secret Service ROBERT EASTERHOUSE Free-lance security consultant and Saudi expert ANDREW LAING
Bank official, Saudi Arabian Investment Bank
SIMON
American student at Balliol College, Oxford
PATRICK SEYMOUR
Legal counselor and FBI agent, American embassy, London
LOU COLLINS
Liaison officer, CIA, London
The British
MARGARET THATCHERPrime Minister SIR HARRY MARRIOTT Home Secretary
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SIR PETER IMBERT
Commissioner, Metropolitan Police
NIGEL CRAMER
Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Specialist Operations Department, Metropolitan Police
JULIAN HAYMAN
Free-lance security company chairman
COMMANDER PETER WILLIAMS
Investigation officer, Specialist Operations Department, Metropolitan Police
The Russians
MIKHAIL GORBACHEV General Secretary, Communist Party of the Soviet Union GENERAL VLADIMIR KRYUCHKOV Chairman, KGB MAJOR PAVEL KERKORIAN
KGB rezident in Belgrade
GENERAL VADIM KIRPICHENKO Deputy Head, First Chief Directorate, KGB IVAN KOZLOV
Marshal of the U.S.S.R.
MAJOR GENERAL ZEMSKOV ANDREI
Chief planner, Soviet General Staff Field agent, KGB
The Europeans
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KUYPER
Belgian thug
BERTIE VAN EYCK
Director, Walibi Theme Park, Belgium
DIETER LUTZ
Hamburg journalist
HANSMORITZ HORST LENZLINGER
Dortmund brewer Oldenburg arms dealer
WERNERBERNHARDT Former Congo mercenary PAPADE GROOT
Dutch provincial police chief
CHIEF INSPECTOR DYKSTRA
Dutch provincial detective
Prologue The dream came again, just before the rain. He did not hear the rain. In his sleep the dream possessed him. There was the clearing again, in the forest in Sicily, high above Taormina. He emerged from the forest and walked slowly toward the center of the space, as agreed. Theattaché case was in his right hand. In the middle of the clear-ing he stopped, placed the case on the ground, went back six paces, and dropped to his knees. As agreed. The case con-tained a billion lire. It had taken six weeks to negotiate the child’s release, quick by most precedents. Sometimes these cases went on for months. For six weeks he had sat beside the expert from the carabinieri’s Rome office—another Sicilian but on the side of the angels—and had advised on tactics. The carabinieri officer did all the talking. Finally the release of the daughter of the Milan jeweler, snatched from the family’s summer home near Cefalù beach, had been arranged. A ran-som of close to a million U.S. dollars, after a start-off de-mand for five times that sum, but finally the Mafia had agreed. From the other side of the clearing a man emerged, un-shaven, rough-looking, masked, with a Lupara shotgun slung over his shoulder. He held the ten-year-old girl by one hand. She was barefoot, frightened, pale, but she looked un-harmed. Physically, at least. The pair walked toward him; he could see the bandit’s eyes staring at him through the mask, then flickering across the forest behind him. TheMafioso stopped at the case, growled at the girl to stand still. She obeyed. But she stared across at her rescuer with huge dark eyes. Not long now, kid. Hang in there, baby. The bandit flicked through the rolls of bills in the case until satisfied he had not been cheated. The tall man and the girl looked at each other. He winked; she gavea small flicker of a smile. The bandit closed the case and began to retreat, facing forward, to his side of the clearing. He had reached the trees when it happened. It was not the carabinieri man from Rome; it was the local fool. There was a clatter of rifle fire; the bandit with the case stumbled and fell. Of course his friends were strung out through the pine trees behind
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him, in cover. They fired back. In a second the clearing was torn by chains of flying bullets. He screamed, “ Down!” in Italian but she did not hear, or panicked and tried to run toward him. He came off his knees and hurled himself across the twenty feet between them. He almost made it. He could see her there, just beyond his fingertips, inches beyond the hard right hand that would drag her down to safety in the long grass. He could see the fright in her huge eyes, the little white teeth in her screaming mouth ... and then the bright crimson rose that bloomed on the front of her thin cotton dress. She went down then as if punched in the back and he recalled lying over her, covering her with his body until the firing stopped and theMafiosi escaped through the forest. He remembered sitting there holding her, cradling the tiny limp body in his arms, weeping and shouting at the uncomprehending and too-late-apologetic local police: “No, no, sweet Jesus, not again ...”
Chapter 1 1989
November
Winter had come early that year. Already by the end of the month the first forward scouts, borne on a bitter wind out of the northeastern steppes, were racing across the rooftops to probe Moscow’s defenses. The Soviet General Staff headquarters building stands at 19, Frunze Street, a gray stone edifice from the 1930s facing its much more modern eight-story high-rise annex across the street. At his window on the top floor of the old block the Soviet Chief of Staff stood, staring out at the icy flurries, and his mood was as bleak as the coming winter. Marshal Ivan K. Kozlov was sixty-seven, two years older than the statutory retirement age, but in the Soviet Union, as everywhere else, those who made the rules never deemed they should apply to them. At the beginning of the year he had succeeded the veteran Marshal Akhromeyev, to the surprise of most in the military hierarchy. The two men were as unlike as chalk and cheese. Where Akhromeyev had been a small, stick-thin intellectual, Kozlov was a big, bluff, white-haired giant, a soldier’s soldier, son, grandson, and nephew of soldiers. Although only the third-ranking First Deputy Chief before his promotion, he had jumped the two men ahead of him, who had slipped quietly into retirement. No one had any doubts as to why he had gone to the top; from 1987 to 1989 he had quietly and expertly supervised the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan, an exercise that had been achieved without any scandals, major defeats, or (most important of all) publicized loss of national face, even though the wolves of Allah had been snapping at the Russian heels all the way to the Salang Pass. The operation had brought him great credit in Moscow, bringing him to the per-sonal attention of the General Secretary himself. But while he had done his duty, and earned his mar-shal’s baton, he had also made himself a private vow: Never again would he lead his beloved Soviet Army in retreat—and despite the fulsome PR exercise, Afghanistan had been a de-feat. It was the prospect of another looming defeat that caused the bleakness of his mood as he stared out through the double glass at the horizontal drifts of tiny ice particles that snapped periodically past the window. The key to his mood lay in a report lying on his desk, a report he had commissioned himself from one of the bright-est of his ownprotégés, a young major general whom he had brought to the General Staff with him from Kabul. Kaminsky was an academic, a deep thinker who was also a genius at organization, and
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the marshal had given him the second-top slot in the logistics field. Like all experienced combat men, Kozlov knew better than most that battles are not won by courage or sacrifice or even clever generals; they are won by having the right gear in the right place at the right time and plenty of it. He still recalled with bitterness how, as an eighteen-year-old trooper, he had watched the superbly equipped Ger-man blitzkrieg roll through the defenses of the Motherland as the Red Army, bled white by Stalin’s purges of 1938 and equipped with antiques, had tried to stem the tide. His own father had died trying to hold an impossible position at Smo-lensk, fighting back with bolt-action rifles against Guderian’s growling panzer regiments. Next time, he swore, they would have the right equipment and plenty of it. He had de-voted much of his military career to that concept and now he headed the five services of the U.S.S.R.: the Army, Navy, Air Force, Strategic Rocket Forces, and Air Defense of the Homeland. And they all faced possible future defeat because of a three-hundred-page report lying on his desk. He had read it twice, through the night in his spartan apartmentoff Kutuzovsky Prospekt and again this morning in his office, where he had arrived at 7:00A.M . and taken the phone off the hook. Now he turned from the window, strode back to his great desk at the head of the T-shaped conference table, and turned to the last few pages of the report again.
SUMMARY.The point therefore is not that the planet is forecast to run out of oil in the next twenty to thirty years; it is that the Soviet Union definitely will run out of oil in the next seven or eight. The key to this fact lies in the table of Proved Reserves earlier in the report and particularly in the column of figures called the R/P ratio. The Reserves-to-Production ratio is achieved by taking the annual production of an oil-producing nation and dividing that figure into the known reservesof that nation, usually expressed in bil-lions of barrels. Figures at the end of 1985—Western figures, I am afraid, because we still have to rely on Western infor-mation to find out just what is going on in Siberia, despite my intimate contacts with our oil industry—show that in that year we produced 4.4 billion bar-rels of crude, giving us fourteen years of extractable reserves—assuming production at the same figure over the period. But that is optimistic, since our production and therefore use-up of reserves has been forced to in-crease since that time. Today our reserves stand at be-tween seven and eight years. The reason for the increase in demand lies in two areas. One is the increase in industrial production, mainly in the area of consumer goods, demanded by the Politburo since the introduction of the new economic reforms; the other lies in the gas-guzzling ineffi-ciency of those industries, not only the traditional ones but even the new ones. Our manufacturing industry overall is hugely energy-inefficient and in many areas the use of obsolete machinery has an add-on effect. For example, a Russian car weighs three times as much as its American equivalent—not, as published, because of our bitter winters, but because our steel plants cannot produce sufficiently fine-gauge sheet metal. Thus more oil-produced electrical energy is needed for the production of the car than in the West, and it uses more gasoline when it hits the road. ALTERNATIVES.Nuclear reactors used to pro-duce 11 percent of the U.S.S.R.’s electricity, and our planners had counted on nuclear plants producing 20 percent or more by the year 2000. Until Chernobyl. Unfortunately, 40 percent of our nuclear capacity was generated by plants using the same design as Cherno-byl. Since then, most have been shut down for “modifications”—it is extremely unlikely they will in fact reopen—and others scheduled for construction have been decommissioned. As a result, our nuclear production in percentage terms, instead of being in double figures, is down to 7 and dropping.
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We have the largest reserves of natural gas in the world, but the problem is that the gas is mainly located in the extremity of Siberia, and simply to get it out of the ground is not enough. We need, and do not have, a vast infrastructure of pipelines and grids to get it from Siberia to our cities, factories, and generating stations. You may recall that in the early seventies, when oil prices after the Yom Kippur war were hiked sky-high, we offered to supply Western Europe with long-term natural gas by pipeline. This would have enabled us to afford the supply grid we needed through the front-end financing the Europeans were ready to put up. But because America would not be benefiting, the U.S.A. killed the initiative by threatening a wide range of commercial sanctions on anyone who cooperated with us, and the project died. Today, since the so-called “thaw,” such a scheme would probably be politically acceptable, but at the moment oil prices in the West are low and they have no need of our gas. By the time the global run-out of oil has hiked the Western price back to a level where they could use our gas, it will be far too late for the U.S.S.R. Thus neither of the feasible alternatives will work in practice. Natural gas and nuclear energy will not come to our rescue. The overwhelming majority of our industries and those of our partners who rely on us for energy are indissolubly tied to oil-based fuels and feed-stocks. THE ALLIES.A brief aside to mention our allies in Central Europe, the states Western propagandists refer to as our “satellites.” Although their joint pro-duction—mainly from the small Romanian field at Ploesti—amounts to 168 million barrels a year, this is a drop in the ocean compared to their needs. The rest comes from us, and is one of the ties that holds them in our camp. To relieve the demands on us we have, it is true, sanctioned a few barter deals between them and the Middle East. But if they were ever to achieve total independence from us in oil, and thus dependence on the West, it would surely be a matter of time, and a short time, before East Germany, Poland, Czechoslo-vakia, Hungary, and even Romania slipped into the grasp of the capitalist camp. Not to mention Cuba. CONCLUSION....
Marshal Kozlov looked up and checked the wall clock. Eleven o’clock. The ceremony out at the airport would be about to begin. He had chosen not to go. He had no intention of dancing attendance on Americans. He stretched, rose, and walked back to the window carrying the Kaminsky oil report with him. It was still classified Top Secret and Kozlov knew now he would have to continue to give it that designation. It was far too explosive to be bandied about the General Staff building. In an earlier age any staff officer who had written as candidly as Kaminsky would have measured his career in microns, but Ivan Kozlov, though a diehard traditionalist in almost every area, had never penalized frankness. It was about the only thing he appreciated in the General Secretary; even though he could not abide the man’s newfangled ideas for giving television sets to the peasants and washing ma-chines to housewives, he had to admit you could speak your mind to Mikhail Gorbachev without getting a one-way ticket to Yakutsk. The report had come as a shock to him. He had known things in the economy were not working any better since the introductionof perestroika —the restructuring—than before, but as a soldier he had spent his life locked into the military hierarchy, and the military had always had first call on re-sources, materiel, and technology, enabling them to occupy the only area in Soviet life where quality control could be practiced. The fact that civilians’ hair dryers were lethal and their shoes leaked was not his problem. And
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now here was a crisis from which not even the military could be exempt. He knew the sting in the tail came in the report’s conclusion. Standing by the window he resumed reading.
CONCLUSION.The prospects that face us are only four and they are all extremely bleak. 1. We can continue our own oil production at present levels in the certainty that we are going to run out in eight years maximum, and then enter the global oil market as a buyer. We would do so at the worst possible moment, just as global oil prices start their remorseless and inevitable climb to impossible levels. To purchase under these conditions even part of our oil needs would use up our entire reserves of hard cur-rency and Siberian gold and diamond earnings. Nor could we ease our position with barter deals. Over 55 percent of the world’s oil lies in five Middle East countries whose domestic requirements are tiny in relation to their resources, and it is they who will soon rule the roost again. Unfortunately, apart from arms and some raw materials, our Soviet goods have no at-traction for the Middle East, so we will not get barter deals for our oil needs. We will have to pay in cold hard cash, and we cannot. Finally there is the strategic hazard of being de-pendent on any outside source for our oil, and even more so when one considers the character and histori-cal behavior of the five Middle East states involved. 2. We could repair and update our existing oil production facilities to achieve a higher efficiency and thus lower our consumption without loss of benefit. Our production facilities are obsolete, in general disre-pair, and our recovery potential from major reservoirs constantly damaged through excessive daily extrac-tion. We would have to redesign all our extraction fields, refineries, and pipe infrastructure to spin out our oil for an extra decade. We would have to start now, and the resources needed would be astronomical. 3. We could put all our effort into correcting and updating our offshore oil-drilling technology. The Arc-tic is our most promising area for finding new oil, but the extraction problems are far more formidable even than those in Siberia. No wellhead-to-user pipe infra-structure exists at all and even the exploration program has slipped five years behind schedule. Again, the re-sources needed would be simply huge. 4. We could return to natural gas, of which, as stated, we have the largest reserves in the world, virtu-ally limitless. But we would have to invest further mas-sive resources in extraction, technology, skilled manpower, pipe infrastructure, and the conversion of hundreds of thousands of plants to gas usage. Finally, the question must arise: Where would such resources as mentioned in Options 2, 3, and 4 come from? Given the necessity of using our foreign currency to import grain to feed our people, and the Politburo’s commitment to spending the rest for im-ported high technology, the resources would appar-ently have to be found internally. And given the Politburo’s further commitment to industrial moderni-zation, their obvious temptation might be to look at the area of military appropriations. I have the honor to remain, Comrade Marshal, —Pyotr V. Kaminsky, Major General
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Marshal Kozlov swore quietly, closed the dossier, and stared down at the street. The ice flurries had stopped but the wind was still bitter; he could see the tiny pedestrians eight floors down holding their shapkas tight on their heads, ear-muffs down, heads bent, as they hurried along Frunze Street. It had been almost forty-five years since, as a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant of Motor/Rifles, he had stormed into Berlin under Chuikov and had climbed to the roof of Hitler’s chancellery to tear down the last swastika flag fluttering there. There was even a picture of him doing it in several history books. Since then he had fought his way up through the ranks, step by step, serving in Hungary during the 1956 revolt, on the Ussuri River border with China, on garrison duty in East Germany, then back to Far Eastern Command at Khabarovsk, High Command South at Baku, and thence to the General Staff. He had paid his dues: He had endured the freezing nights in far-off outposts of the empire; he had di-vorced one wife who refused to follow him, and buried an-other who died in the Far East. He had seen a daughter married to a mining engineer, not a soldier as he had hoped, and watched a son refuse to join him in the Army. He had spent those forty-five years watching the Soviet Army grow into what he deemed to be the finest fighting force on the planet, dedicated to the defense of the Rodina, the Mother-land, and the destruction of her enemies. Like many a traditionalist he believed that one day those weapons that the toiling masses had worked to provide him and his men would have to be used, and he was damned if any set of circ*mstances or of men would stultify his beloved Army while he was in charge. He was utterly loyal to the Party—he would not have been where he was had he not been—but if anyone, even the men who now led the Party, thought they could strike billions of rubles off the military budget, then he might have to restructure his loyalty to those men. The more he thought about the concluding pages of the report in his hand, the more he thought that Kaminsky, smart though he was, had overlooked a possible fifth option. If the Soviet Union could take political control of a ready-made source of ample raw crude oil, a piece of territory presently outside her own borders ... if she could import in exclusiv-ity that crude oil at a price she could afford, i.e., dictate ... and do so before her own oil ran out ... He laid the report on the conference table and crossed the room to the global map that covered half the wall oppo-site the windows. He studied it carefully as the minutes ticked away to noon. And always his eye fell on one piece of land. Finally he crossed to the desk, reconnected the inter-com, and called his ADC. “Ask Major General Zemskov to come and see me—now,” he said. He sat in the high-backed chair behind his desk, picked up the TV remote control, and activated the set on its stand to the left of his desk. Channel One swam into focus, the prom-ised live news broadcast from Vnukovo, the VIP airport out-side Moscow. United States Air Force One stood fully fueled and ready to roll. She was the new Boeing 747 that had super-seded the old and time-expired 707’searlier in the year, and she could get from Moscow back to Washington in one hop, which the old 707’scould never do. Men of the 89th Military Airlift Wing, which guards and maintains the President’s Wing at Andrews Air Force Base, stood around the aircraft just in case any overenthusiastic Russian tried to get close enough to attach something to it or have a peek inside. But the Russians were behaving like perfect gentlemen and had been throughout the three-day visit. Some yards away from the tip of the airplane’s wing was a podium, dominated by a raised lectern in its
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center. At the lectern stood the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Mikhail Sergeevich Gorbachev, bringing his valedictory address to a close. At his side, hatless, his iron-gray hair ruffled by the bitter breeze, sat his visitor, John J. Cormack, President of the United States of America. Ranged on either side of both were the twelve other members of the Politburo. Drawn up in front of the podium was an honor guard of the Militia, the civil police from the Interior Ministry, the MVD; and another drawn from the Border Guards Director-ate of the KGB. In an attempt to add the common touch, two hundred engineers, technicians, and members of the airport staff formed a crowd on the fourth side of the hollow square. But the focal point for the speaker was the battery of TV cameras, still photographers, and press placed between the two honor guards. For this was a momentous occasion. Shortly after his inauguration the previous January, John Cormack, surprise winner of the preceding Novem-ber’s election, had indicated he would like to meet the Soviet leader and would be prepared to fly to Moscow to do so. Mikhail Gorbachev had not been slow to agree and to his gratification had found over the previous three days that this tall, astringent, but basically humane American academic appeared to be a man—to borrow Mrs. Thatcher’s phrase—“with whom he could do business.” So he had taken a gamble, against the advice of his security and ideology advisers. He had acceded to the Presi-dent’s personal request that he, the American, be permitted to address the Soviet Union on live television without submit-ting his script for approval. Virtually no Soviet television is “live”; almost everything shown is carefully edited, pre-pared, vetted, and finally passed as fit for consumption. Before agreeing to Cormack’s strange request, Mikhail Gorbachev had consulted with the State Television experts. They had been as surprised as he, but pointed out that, first, the American would be understood by only a tiny fraction of Soviet citizens until the translation came through (and that could be sanitized if he went too far) and, second, that the American’s speech could be held on an eight- or ten-second loop so that transmission (both sound and vision) would actu-ally take place a few seconds after delivery; and if he really went too far, there could be a sudden breakdown in transmis-sion. Finally it was agreed that if the General Secretary wished to effect such a breakdown, he had but to scratch his chin with a forefinger and the technicians would do the rest. This could not apply to the three American TV crews or the BBC from Britain, but that would not matter, as their mate-rial would never reach the Soviet people. Ending his oration with an expression of good will toward the American people and his abiding hope for peace between the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R., Mikhail Gorbachev turned toward his guest. John Cormack rose. The Russian gestured to the lectern and the microphone and made way, seating himself to one side of the center spot. The President stepped behind the microphone. He had no notes in view. He just lifted his head, stared straight at the eye of the Soviet TV camera, and began to speak. “Men, women, and children of the U.S.S.R., listen to me.” In his office Marshal Kozlov jerked forward in his chair, staring intently at the screen. On the podium Mikhail Gorbachev’s eyebrows flickered once before he regained his composure. In a booth behind the Soviet camera a young man who could pass for a Harvard graduate put his hand over a microphone and muttered a question to a senior civil servant beside him, who shook his head. For John Cormack was not speaking in English at all; he was speaking in fluent Russian. Although not a Russian speaker, he had before coming to the U.S.S.R. memorized in the privacy of his bedroom in the White House a five-hundred-word speech in Russian, re-hearsing himself through tapes and speech-coaching until he could deliver the speech with total fluency and perfect accent while not
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understanding a word of the language. Even for a former Ivy League professor it was a remarkable feat. “Fifty years ago this, your country, your beloved Moth-erland, was invaded in war. Your menfolk fought and died as soldiers or lived like wolves in their own forests. Your women and children dwelt in cellars and fed off scraps. Mil-lions perished. Your land was devastated. Although this never happened to my country, I give you my word I can understand how much you must hate and fear war. “For forty-five years we both, Russians and Ameri-cans, have built up walls between ourselves, convincing our-selves that the other would be the next aggressor. And we have built up mountains—mountains of steel, of guns, of tanks, of ships and planes and bombs. And the walls of lies have been built ever higher to justify the mountains of steel. There are those who say we need these weapons because one day they will be needed so that we can destroy each other. “ Noh, ya skazhu: mi po-idyom drugim putyom.” There was an almost audible gasp from the audience at Vnukovo. In saying “But I say, we will/must go another way,” President Cormack had borrowed a phrase from Lenin known to every schoolchild in the U.S.S.R. In Russian theword put means a road, path, way, or course to be followed. He then continued the play on words by reverting to the meaning of “road.” “I refer to the road of gradual disarmament and of peace. We have only one planet to live on, and a beautiful planet. We can either live on it together or die on it together.” The door of Marshal Kozlov’s office opened quietly and then closed. An officer in his early fifties, another Kozlovprotégé and the ace of his planning staff, stood by the door and silently watched the screen in the corner. The American President was finishing. “It will not be an easy road. There will be rocks and holes. But at its end lies peace with security for both of us. For if we each have enough weapons to defend ourselves, but not enough to attack each other, and if each one knows this and is allowed to verify it, then we could pass on to our chil-dren and grandchildren a world that is truly freeof that awful fear that we have known these past fifty years. If you will walk down that road with me, then I on behalf of the people of America will walk it with you. And on this, Mikhail Sergeevich, I give you my hand.” President Cormack turned to Secretary Gorbachev and held out his right hand. Although himself an expert at public relations, the Russian had no choice but to rise and extend his hand. Then, with a broad grin, he bear-hugged the American with his left arm. The Russians are a people capable of great paranoia and xenophobia but also capable of great emotionalism. It was the airport workers who broke the silence first. There was an outbreak of ardent clapping, then the cheering started, and in a few seconds the fur shapkas started flying through the air as the civilians, normally drilled to perfection, went out of control. The Militiamen came next; gripping their rifles with their left hands in the at-ease position, they started waving their red-banded gray caps by the peak as they cheered. The KGB troops glanced at their commander beside the podium: General Vladimir Kryuchkov, Chairman of the KGB. Uncertain what to do as the Politburo stood up, he, too, rose to clap with the rest. The Border Guards took this as a cue (wrongly, as it turned out) and followed the Militia-men in cheering. Somewhere across five time zones, 80 mil-lion Soviet men and women were doing something similar.
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“ Chort voz’mi...”Marshal Kozlov reached for the remote control and snapped off the TV set. “Our beloved General Secretary,” murmured Major General Zemskov smoothly. The marshal nodded grimly several times. First the dire forebodings of the Kaminsky re-port, and now this. He rose, came around his desk, and took the report off the table. “You are to take this, and you are to read it,” he said. “It is classified Top Secret and it stays that way. There are only two copies in existence and I retain the other one. You are to pay particular attention to what Kaminsky says in his Conclusion.” Zemskov nodded. He judged from the marshal’s grim demeanor that there was more to it than reading a report. He had been a mere colonel two years before, when, on a visit to a Command Post exercise in East Germany, Marshal Kozlov had noticed him. The exercise had involved maneuvers between the GSFG, the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, on the one hand and the East Germans’ National People’s Army on the other. The Germans had been pretending to be the invading Americans, and in previous instances had mauled their So-viet brothers-in-arms. This time the Russians had run rings around them, and the planning had all been due to Zemskov. As soon as he arrived in the top job at Frunze Street, Mar-shal Kozlov had sent for the brilliant planner and attached him to his own staff. Now he led the younger man to the wall map. “When you have finished, you will prepare what ap-pears to be a Special Contingency Plan. In truth this SCP will be a minutely detailed plan, down to the last man, gun, and bullet, for the military invasion and occupation of a for-eign country. It may take up to twelve months.” Major General Zemskov raised his eyebrows. “Surely not so long, Comrade Marshal. I have at my disposal—” “You have at your disposal nothing but your own eyes, hands, and brain. You will consult no one else, confer with no one else. Every piece of information you need will be obtained by a subterfuge. You will work alone, without sup-port. It will take months and there will be just one copy at the end.” “I see. And the country ...?” The marshal tapped the map. “Here. One day this land must belong to us.”
The Pan-Global Building in Houston, capital city of the American oil industry and, some say, of the world’s oil busi-ness, was the headquarters of the Pan-Global Oil Corpora-tion, the twenty-eighth-largest oil company in the United States and ninth-largest in Houston. With total assets of $3.25 billion, Pan-Global was topped only by Shell, Tenneco, Conoco, Enron, Coastal, Texas Eastern, Transco, and Pennzoil. But in one way it was different from all the others: It was still owned and controlled by its veteran founder. There were stockholders and board members, but the founder retained the control and no one could trammel his power within his own corporation. Twelve hours after Marshal Kozlov had briefed his planning officer, and eight time zones to the west of Moscow, Cyrus V. Miller stood at the ceiling-to-floor plate-glass win-dow of his penthouse office suite and stared toward the west. Four miles away, through the haze of a late November after-noon, the Transco Tower stared back. Cyrus Miller stood a while longer, then walked back across the deep-pile
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carpet to his desk and buried himself again in the report that lay on it. Forty years earlier, when he had begun to prosper, Miller had learned that information was power. To know what was going on and, more important, what was going to happen gave a man more power than political office or even money. That was when he had initiated within his growing corporation a Research and Statistics Division, staffing it with the brightest and sharpest of the analysts from his coun-try’s universities. With the coming of the computer age he had stacked hisR andS Division with the latest data banks, in which was stored a vast compendium of information about the oil industry and other industries, commercial needs, na-tional economic performance, market trends, scientific ad-vances, and people—hundreds of thousands of people from every walk of life who might, by some conceivable chance, one day be useful to him. The report before him came from Dixon, a young grad-uate of Texas State with a penetrating intellect, whom he had hired a decade earlier and who had grown with the company. For all that he paid him, Miller mused, the analyst was not seeking to reassure him with the document on his desk. But he appreciated that. He went back for the fifth time to Dix-on’sconclusion.
The bottom line is that the Free World is simply running out of oil. At the moment this remains unperceived by the broad mass of the American people, due to successive governments’ determination to maintain the fiction that the present “cheap oil” situation can continue in perpetuity. The proof of the “running-out” claim lies in the table of global oil reserves enclosed earlier. Out of forty-one oil-producing nations today, only ten have known reserves beyond the thirty-year mark. Even this picture is optimistic. Those thirty years assume contin-ued production at present levels. The fact is that con-sumption, and therefore extraction, is increasing in any event, and as the short-reserve producers will run out first, the extraction from the remainder will increase to make up the shortfall. Twenty years would be a safer period to assume run-out in all but ten producing na-tions. There is simply no way that alternative energy sources can or will come to the rescue in time. For the next three decades it is going to be oil or economic death for the Free World. The American position is heading fast for catas-trophe. During the period when the controlling OPEC nations hiked the crude price from $2 a barrel to $40, the U.S. government sensibly gave every incentive to our oil industry to explore, discover, extract, and refine the maximum possible from domestic resources. Since the self-destruction of OPEC and the Saudi production hike of 1985, Washington has bathed in artificially cheap oil from the Middle East, leaving the domestic industry to wither on the vine. This shortsightedness is going to produce a terrible harvest. The American response to cheap oil has been in-creased demand, higher crude and product imports, and shrinking domestic production, a total cutback in exploration, wholesale refinery closings, and an unem-ployment slump worse than 1932. Even if we started a crash program now, with massive investment, and large-scale federal incentives, it would take ten years to rebuild the pool of skills, mobilize the machinery, and execute the efforts needed to bring our now-total reli-ance on the Middle East back to manageable propor-tions. So far there is no indication that Washington intends to encourage any such resurgence in national American oil production. There are three reasons for this—all of them wrong: (a) New American oil would cost $20 a barrel to find, whereas Saudi/Kuwaiti oil costs 10-15 cents a
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barrel to produce and $16 a barrel for us to buy. It is assumed this will continue in perpetuity. It won’t. (b) It is assumed the Arabs and especially the Saudis will go on buying astronomical quantities of U.S. arms, technology, goods, and services for their own social and defense infrastructure, and thus keep on recycling their petrodollars with us. They won’t. Their infrastructure is virtually complete, they cannot even think of anything else to spend the dollars on, and their recent (1986 and 1988) Tornado fighter deals with Britain have pushed us into second place as arms suppliers. (c) It is assumed that the monarchs who rule the Mideastern kingdoms and sultanates are good and loyal allies who would never turn on us and hike the prices back up again, and who will stay in power forever. Their blatant blackmail of America from 1973 through 1985 shows where their hearts lie; and in an area as un-stable as the Middle East any regime can fall from power before the end of the week.
Cyrus Miller glared at the paper. He did not like what he read but he knew it was true. As a domestic producer and refiner of crude oil he had suffered cruelly in the previous four years, and no amount of lobbying in Washington by the oil industry had persuaded Congress to grant oil leases on the Arctic National Wildlife Range in Alaska, the country’s most promising discovery prospect for new oil. He loathed Washington. He glanced at his watch. Half past four. He pressed a switch on his desk console and across the room a teak panel glided silently sideways to reveal a 26-inch color TV screen. He selected the CNN news channel and caught the headline story of the day. Air Force One hung over the touchdown area at An-drews Base outside Washington, seemingly suspended in the sky until its seeking wheels gently found the waiting tarmac and it was back on American soil. As it slowed and then turned to taxi back toward the airport buildings, the image was replaced by the face of the gabbling news-caster relating again the story of the presidential speech just before the departure from Moscow twelve hours earlier. As if to prove the newscaster’s narration, the CNN pro-duction team, with ten minutes to wait until the Boeing came to rest, rescreened the speech President Cormack had made in Russian, with English-language subtitles, the shots of the roaring and cheering airport workers and Militiamen and the image of Mikhail Gorbachev embracing the American leader in an emotional bear hug. Cyrus Miller’s fog-gray eyes did not blink, hiding even in the privacy of his office his hatred for the New England patrician who had unexpectedly stormed into the lead and the presidency twelve months ear-lier and was now moving further toward detente with Russia than even Reagan had dared to do. As President Cormack appeared in the doorway of Air Force One and the strains of “Hail to the Chief” struck up, Miller contemptuously hit the off button. “Commie-loving bastard,” he growled, and returned to Dixon’s report.
In fact, the twenty-year deadline for oil run-out by all but ten of the world’s forty-one producers is ir-relevant. The price hikes will start in ten years or less. A recent Harvard University report predicted a price in excess of $50 a barrel (in 1989 dollars) before 1999 as against $16 a barrel today. The report was suppressed, but erred on the side of optimism. The prospect of the effect on the American public of such prices is night-marish. What will Americans do when told to pay $2 a gallon for gasoline? How will farmers react when told they cannot feed their hogs or harvest their grain or even heat their houses
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through the bitter winters? We are facing social revolution here. Even if Washington should authorize a massive revitalization of the U.S. oil-producing effort, we still have only five years of reserves at existing consumption levels. Europe is in even worse shape; apart from tiny Norway (one of the ten countries with thirty-plus years of reserves, but based on very small offshore production) Europe has three years of reserves. The countries of the Pacific Basin rely entirely on imported oil and have huge hard-currency surpluses. The result? Mexico, Venezuela, and Libya apart, we shall all be looking to the same source of supply: the six producers of the Middle East. Iran, Iraq, Abu Dhabi, and the Neutral Zone have oil, but two are bigger than the rest of the eight put together: Saudi Arabia and neighboring Kuwait—and Saudi will be the key to OPEC. Today, producing 1.3 billion barrels a year, and with over a hundred years (170 billion barrels a day) of reserves, Saudi Arabia will control the world’s oil price, and control America. At predicted oil-price rises, America will by 1995 have an import bill of $450 million a day—all payable to Saudi Arabia and her adjunct Kuwait. Which means the Middle East suppliers will probably own the very U.S. industries whose needs they are supplying. Amer-ica, despite her advancement, technology, living standard, and military might, will be economically, financially, strategically, and thus politically dependent on a small, backward, semi-nomadic, corrupt, and ca-pricious nation that she cannot control.
Cyrus Miller closed the report, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. If anyone had had the nerve to tell him to his face that he stemmed from the ultra-right in American politi-cal thought, he would have denied it with vehemence. Though a traditional Republican voter, he had never taken much interest in politics in his seventy-seven years except as they affected the oil industry. His political party, so far as he was concerned, was patriotism. Miller loved his adopted state of Texas and his country of birth with an intensity that sometimes seemed to choke him. What he failed to realize was that it was an America much of his own devising, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant America of traditional values and raw chauvinism. Not, he assured the Almighty during his several-times-daily prayers, that he had anything against Jews, Catholics, Hispanics, or nigras—did he not employ eight Spanish-speaking maids in the mansion at his ranch in the hill country outside Austin, not to mention several blacks in the gardens?—so long as they knew and kept their place. He stared at the ceiling and tried to think of a name. The name of a man whom he had met about two years back at an oil convention in Dallas, a man who told him he lived and worked in Saudi Arabia. They’d had only a short conversa-tion, but the man had impressed him. He could see him in his mind’s eye; at just under six feet a mite shorter than Miller, compact, taut like a tensed spring, quiet, watchful, thought-ful, a man with enormous experience of the Middle East. He had walked with a limp, leaning on a silver-topped cane, and he had something to do with computers. The more he thought, the more Miller remembered. They had discussed computers, the merits of his Honeywells, and the man had favored IBMs. After several minutes Miller called in another member of his research staff and dictated his recollections. “Find out who he is,” he commanded.
It was already dark on the southern coast of Spain, the coast they call the Costa del Sol. Although well out of the tourist season, the whole coast fromMálaga the hundred miles to Gibraltar was lit by a glittering
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chain of lights, which from the mountains behind the coast would have looked like a fi-ery snake twisting and turning its way through Torremolinos, Mijas, Fuengirola, Marbella, Estepona, PuertoDuquesa, and on toLa Linea and the Rock. Headlights from cars and trucks flickered constantly on the Málaga-Cadiz highway running along the flatland between the hills and the beaches. In the mountains behind the coast near the western end, between Estepona and PuertoDuquesa, lies the wine-growing district of south Andalusia, producing not the sher-ries of Jerez to the west but a rich, strong red wine. The center of this area is the small town of Manilva, just five miles inland from the coast but already having a panoramic view of the sea to the south. Manilva is surrounded by a clus-ter of small villages, almost hamlets, where live the people who till the slopes and tend the vines. In one of them,Alcántara del Rio, the men were com-ing home from the fields, tired and aching after a long day’s work. The grape harvest was long home, but the vines had to be pruned and set back before the coming winter and the work was hard on the back and shoulders. So, before going to their scattered homes, most of the men stopped by the village’s singlecantina for a glass and a chance to talk. Alcántaradel Rio boasted little but peace and quiet. It had a small white-painted church presided over by an old priest as decrepit as his incumbency, serving out his time saying mass for the women and children while regretting that the male members of his flock on a Sunday morning pre-ferred the bar. The children went to school in Manilva. Apart from four dozen whitewashed cottages, there was just the Bar Antonio, now thronged with vineyard workers. Some worked for cooperatives based miles away; others owned their plots, worked hard, and made a modest living depend-ing on the crop and the price offered by the buyers in the cities. The tall man came in last, nodded a greeting to the others, and took his habitual chair in the corner. He was taller by several inches than the others, rangy, in his mid-forties, with a craggy face and humorous eyes. Some of the peasants called him“Señor,” but Antonio, as he bustled over with a carafe of wine and a glass, was more familiar. “ Muy bueno, amigo.¿ Va bien?” “ Hola, Tonio,”said thebig maneasily.“ Si, va bien.” He turned as a burst of music came from the televisionset mounted above the bar. It was the evening news onTVE and the men fell silent to catch the day’s headlines. The newscaster came first, describing briefly the departure from Moscow of President Cormackde los Estados Unidos. The image switched to Vnukovo, and the U.S. President moved in front of the microphone and began to speak. The Spanish TV had no subtitles but a voice-over translation into Spanish instead. The men in the bar listened intently. As John Cormack finished and held out his hand to Gorbachev, the cam-era (it was the BBC crew, covering for all the European stations) panned over the cheering airport workers, then the Militiamen, then the KGB troops. The Spanish newscaster came back on the screen. Antonio turned to the tall man. “ Es un buen hombre, Señor Cormack,”he said, smil-ing broadly and clapping the tall man on the back in congrat-ulation, as if his customer had some part-ownership of the man from the White House. “ Si.”The tall man nodded thoughtfully.“ Es un buen hombre.”
Cyrus V.Miller had not been born to his present riches. He had come from poor farming stock in Colorado and, as a boy, had seen his father’s dirt farm bought out by a mining company and devastated by its machinery. Resolving that if one could not beat them one ought to join them, the youth had worked
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his way through the Colorado School of Mines in Golden, emerging in 1933 with a degree and the clothes he wore. During his studies he had become fascinated more by oil than by rocks and headed south for Texas. It was still the days of the wildcatters, when leases were unfettered by envi-ronmental impact statements and ecological worries. In 1936 he had spotted a cheap lease relinquished by Texaco, and calculated they had been digging in the wrong place. He persuaded a tool pusher with his own rig to join him, and sweet-talked a bank into taking the farm-in rights against a loan. The oil field supply house took more rights for the rest of the equipment he needed, and three months later the well came in—big. He bought out the tool pusher, leased his own rigs, and acquired other leases. With the out-break of war in 1941 they all went on stream with maximum production and he was rich. But he wanted more, and just as he had seen the coming war in 1939, he spotted something in 1944 that aroused his interest. A Britisher called Frank Whittle had invented an airplane engine with no propeller and potentially enormous power. He wondered what fuel it used. In 1945 he discovered that Boeing/Lockheed had acquired the rights to Whittle’s jet engine, and its fuel was not high-octane gasoline at all, but a low-grade kerosene. Sink-ing most of his funds into a down-market low-technology re-finery in California, he approached Boeing/Lockheed, who coincidentally were becoming tired of the condescending ar-rogance of the major oil companies in their quest for the new fuel. Miller offered them his refinery, and together they de-veloped the new Aviation Turbine Fuel—AVTUR. Miller’s low-tech refinery was just the asset to produce AVTUR, and as the first samples came off the production line the Korean War started. With the Sabre jet fighters taking on the Chi-nese MiGs, the jet age had arrived. Pan-Global went into orbit and Miller returned to Texas. He also married. Maybelle was tiny compared to her husband, but it was she who ruled his home and him through thirty years of marriage, and he doted on her. There were no children—she deemed she was too small and delicate to bear children—and he accepted this, happy to grant her any wish she could devise. When she died in 1980 he was totally in-consolable. Then he discovered God. He did not take to or-ganized religion, just God. He began to talk to the Almighty and discovered that the Lord talked back to him, advising him personally on how best he might increase his wealth and serve Texas and the United States. It escaped his attention that the divine advice was always what he wished to hear, and that the Creator happily shared all his own chauvinism, prejudices, and bigotries. He continued as always to avoid the cartoonist’s stereotype of the Texan, preferring to remain a nonsmoker, modest drinker, chaste, conservative in dress and speech, eternally courteous, and one who abominated foul language. His intercom buzzed softly. “The man whose name you wanted, Mr. Miller? When you met him he worked for IBM in Saudi Arabia. IBM con-firms it must be the same man. He quit them and is now a free-lance consultant. His name is Easterhouse—Colonel Robert Easterhouse.” “Find him,” said Miller. “Send for him. No matter what it costs. Bring him to me.”
Chapter 2 November 1990 MarshalKozlov sat impassively behind his desk and studied the four men who flanked the stem of the
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T-shaped confer-ence table. All four were reading the Top Secret folders in front of them; all four were men he knew he could trust—had to trust, for his career, and maybe more, was on the line. To his immediate left was the Deputy Chief of Staff (South), who worked with him here in Moscow but had over-all charge of the southern quarter of the U.S.S.R. with its teeming Moslem republics and its borders with Romania, Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan. Beyond him was the chief of High Command South at Baku, who had flown to Moscow believing he was coming for routine staff conferences. But there was nothing routine about this one. Before coming to Moscow seven years earlier as First Deputy, Kozlov himself had commanded at Baku, and the man who now sat reading Plan Suvorov owed his promotion to Kozlov’sinfluence. Across from these two sat the other pair, also en-grossed. Nearest to the marshal was a man whose loyalty and involvement would be paramount if Suvorov was ever to succeed: the Deputy Head of the GRU, the Soviet armed forces’ intelligence branch. Constantly at loggerheads with its big-ger rival, the KGB, the GRU was responsible for all military intelligence at home and abroad, counterintelligence, and in-ternal security within the armed forces. More important for Plan Suvorov, the GRU controlled the Special Forces, the Spetsnaz, whose involvement at the start of Suvorov—if it ever went ahead—would be crucial. It was the Spetsnaz who in the winter of 1979 had flown into Kabul airport, stormed the presidential palace, assassinated the Afghan president, and installed the Soviet puppet Babrak Karmal, who had promptly issued a back-dated appeal to Soviet forces to enter the country and quell the “disturbances.” Kozlov had chosen the Deputy because the head of the GRU was an old KGB man foisted on the General Staff, and no one had any doubt that he constantly scuttled back to his pals in the KGB with any tidbit he could gather to the detri-ment of the High Command. The GRU man had driven across Moscow from the GRU building just north of the Cen-tral Airfield. Beyond the GRU man sat another, who had come from his headquarters in the northern suburbs and whose men would be vital for Suvorov—the Deputy Commander of the Vozdyshna-Desantnye Voiska or Air Assault Force, the para-troopers of the VDV who would have to drop onto a dozen cities named in Suvorov and secure them for the following air bridge. There was no need at this point to bring in the Air De-fense of the Homeland, the Voiska PVO, since the U.S.S.R. was not about to be invaded; nor the Strategic Rockets Forces, since rockets would not be necessary. As for Motor/Rifles, Artillery, and Armor, the High Command South had enough for the job. The GRU man finished the file and looked up. He seemed about to speak but the marshal raised a hand and they both sat silent until the other three had finished. The session had started three hours earlier, when all four had read a shortened version of Kaminsky’s original oil report. The grimness with which they had noted its conclusions and forecasts was underscored by the fact that in the intervening-twelve months several of those forecasts had come true. There were already cutbacks in oil allocations; some maneuvers had had to be “rescheduled”—canceled— through lack of gasoline. The promised nuclear power plants had not reopened, the Siberian fields were still producing little more than usual, and the Arctic exploration was still a shambles for lack of technology, skilled manpower, and funds. Glasnost and perestroika and press conferences and exhortations from the Politburo were all very well, but mak-ing Russia efficient was going to take a lot more than that. After a brief discussion of the oil report, Kozlov had handed out four files, one to each. This was Plan Suvorov, prepared over nine months since the previous November by Major General Zemskov. The
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marshal had sat on Suvorov for a further three months, until he estimated the situation south of their borders had reached a point likely to make his subordinate officers more susceptible to the boldness of the plan. Now they had finished and looked up expectantly. None wanted to be the first to speak. “All right,” said Marshal Kozlov carefully. “Com-ments?” “Well,” ventured the Deputy Chief of Staff, “it would certainly give us a source of crude oil sufficient to bring us well into the first half of the next century.” “That is the end game,” said Kozlov. “What about fea-sibility?” He glanced at the man from High Command South. “The invasion and the conquest—no problem,” said the four-star general from Baku. “The plan is brilliant from that point of view. Initial resistance could be crushed easily enough. How we’d rule the bastards after that ... They’re crazies, of course. ... We’d have to use extremely harsh measures.” “That could be arranged,” said Kozlov smoothly. “We’d have to use ethnic Russian troops,” said the paratrooper.“ Weuse them anyway, with Ukrainians. I think we all know we couldn’t trust our divisions from the Moslem republics to do the job.” There was a growl of assent. The GRU man looked up. “I sometimes wonder if we can any longer use the Mos-lem divisions for anything. Which is another reason I like Plan Suvorov. It would enable us to stop the spread of Islamic Fundamentalism seeping into our southern republics. Wipe out the source. My people in the South report that in the event of war we should probably not rely on our Moslem divisions to fight at all.” The general from Baku did not even dispute it. “Bloody wogs,” he growled. “They’re getting worse all the time. Instead of defending the south, I’m spending half my time quelling religious riots in Tashkent, Samarkand, and Ashkhabad. I’d love to hit the bloody Party of Allah right at home.” “So,” summed up Marshal Kozlov, “we have threeplusses. It’s feasible because of the long and exposed border and the chaos down there, it would get us our oil for half a century, and we could shaft the Fundamentalist preachers once and for all. Anything against ...?” “What about Western reaction?” asked the paratrooper general. “The Americans could trigger World War Three over this.” “I don’t think so,” countered the GRU man, who had more experience of the West than any of them, having studied it for years. “American politicians are deeply subject to pub-lic opinion, and for most Americans today anything that hap-pens to the Iranians can’t be bad enough. That’s how the broad masses of Americans see it.” All four men knew the recent history of Iran well enough. After the death of theAyatollah Khomeini and an interregnum of bitter political infighting in Teheran, the suc-cession had passed to the bloodstained Islamic judge Khalkhali, last seen gloating over American bodies recov-ered from the desert after the abortive attempt to rescue the hostages of the U.S. embassy.
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Khalkhali had sought to protect his fragile ascendancy by instigating another reign of terror inside Iran, using the dreaded Patrols of Blood, the Gasht-e-Sarallah. Finally, as the most violent of these Revolutionary Guards threatened to go out of his control, he exported them abroad to conduct a series of terrorist atrocities against American citizens and as-sets across the Middle East and Europe, a campaign that had occupied most of the previous six months. By the time the five Soviet soldiers were meeting to con-sider the invasion and occupation of Iran, Khalkhali was hated by the population of Iran, who had finally had enough of Holy Terror, and by the West. “I think,” resumed the GRU man, “that if we hanged Khalkhali, the American public would donate the rope. Washington might be outraged if we went in, but the con-gressmen and senators would hear the word from back home and advise the President to back off. And don’t forget we’re supposed to be buddy-buddies with the Yankees these days.” There was a rumble of amusem*nt from around the ta-ble, in which Kozlov joined. “Then where’sthe opposition going to come from?” he asked. “I believe,” said the general of the GRU, “that it wouldn’t come from Washington, if we presented America witha fait accompli. But I think it will come from Novaya Ploshchad; the man from Stavropol will turn it down flat.” Novaya Ploshchad, or New Square, is the Moscow home of the Central Committee building, and the mention of Stavropol was a not-too-flattering reference to the General Secretary, Mikhail Gorbachev, who came from there. The five soldiers nodded gloomily. The GRU man pressed his point. “We all know that ever since that damned Cormack be-came the great Russian pop star at Vnukovo twelve months ago, teams from both Defense Ministries have been working out details for a big arms cutback treaty. Gorbachev flies to America in two weeks to try and clinch it, so he can liberate enough resources to develop our domestic oil industry. So long as he believes he can get our oil by that route, why should he shaft his beloved treaty with Cormack by giving us the green light to invade Iran?” “And if he gets his treaty, will the Central Committee ratify it?” asked the general from Baku. “He owns the Central Committee now,” said Kozlov. “These last two years, almost all the opposition has been pruned away.” It was on that pessimistic but resigned note that the con-ference ended. The copies of Plan Suvorov were collected and locked in the marshal’s safe, and the generals returned to their postings, prepared to stay silent, to watch and to wait.
Two weeks later Cyrus Miller also found himself in confer-ence, although with a single man, a friend and colleague of many years. He and Melville Scanlon went back to the Ko-rean War, when the young Scanlon was a feisty entrepreneur out of Galveston with his meager assets sunk in a few small tankers. Miller had had a contract to supply and deliver his new jet fuel to the U.S. Air Force, delivery to be
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effected to the dockside in Japan where the Navy tankers would take it over and run it to beleaguered South Korea. He gave Scanlon the contract and the man had done wonders, running his rust-buckets around through the Panama Canal, picking up the AVTUR in California, and shipping it across the Pacific. By using the same ships to bring in crude and feedstock from Texas before changing cargoes and heading for Japan, Scanlon had kept his ships in freight all the way and Miller had got ample feedstock to convert into AVTUR. Three tanker crews had gone down in the Pacific but no questions were asked, and both men had made a great deal of money before Miller was eventually obliged to license his know-how to the majors. Scanlon had gone on to become a bulk petroleum com-modity broker and shipper, buying and transporting consign-ments of crude all over the world, mainly out of the Persian Gulf to America. After 1981, Scanlon had taken a pasting when the Saudis insisted that all their cargoes out of the Gulf should be carried in Arab-flag ships, a policy they were really able to enforce only in the movement of participation crude—i.e., that bit which belonged to the producing coun-try rather than the producing oil company. But it had been precisely the participation crude that Scanlon had been carrying across to America for the Saudis, and he had been squeezed out, forced to sell or lease his tankers to the Saudis and Kuwaitis at unattractive prices. He had survived, but he had no love for Saudi Arabia. Still, he had some tankers left which plied the route from the Gulf to the United States, mainly carrying Aramco crude, which managed to escape the Arab-flag-only demand. Miller was standing at his favorite window staring down at the sprawl of Houston beneath him. It gave him a godlike feeling to be so high above the rest of humanity. On the other side of the room Scanlon leaned back in his leather club chair and tapped the Dixon oil report, which he had just finished. Like Miller, he knew that Gulf crude had just hit $20 a bar-rel. “I agree with you, old friend. There is no way the U.S. of A. should ever become dependent for its very life on these bastards. What the hell does Washington think it’s up to? They blind up there?” “There’ll be no help from Washington, Mel,” said Miller calmly. “You want to change things in this life, you better do it yourself. We’ve all learned that the hard way.” Mel Scanlon produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. Despite the air conditioning in the office, he always had a tendency to sweat. Unlike Miller he favored the tradi-tional Texan rig—Stetson hat,bolo tie,Navajo tie clasp and belt buckle, and high-heeled boots. The pity was he hardly had the figure of a cattleman, being short and portly; but behind his good-ole-boy image he concealed an astute brain. “Don’t see how you can change the location of these vast reserves,” he huffed. “The Hasa oil fields are in Saudi Arabia, and that’s a fact.” “No, not their geographic location. But the political control of them,” said Miller, “and therefore the ability to dictate the price of Saudi and thus world oil.” “ Politicalcontrol? You mean to another bunch of Ay-rabs?” “No, to us,” said Miller. “To the United States of America. If we’re to survive, we have to control the price of world oil, pegging it at a price we can afford, and that means controlling the government in Riyadh. This nightmare of be-ing at the beck and call of a bunch of goatherds has gone on long enough. It’s got to be changed and Washington won’t do it. But this might.”
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He picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk, neatly bound between stiff paper covers that bore no label. Scanlon’s face puckered. “Not another report, Cy,” he protested. “Read it,” urged Miller. “Improve your mind.” Scanlon sighed and flicked open the file. The title page read simply:
THE DESTRUCTION AND FALL OF THE HOUSE OF SA’UD
“Holy sh*t,” said Scanlon. “No,” said Miller calmly. “Holy Terror. Read on.”
Islam:The religion of Islam was established through the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed around A.D. 622 and today encompasses between 800 million and 1 billion people. Unlike Christianity it has no consecrated priests; its religious leaders are laymen respected for their moral or intellectual qualities. The doctrines of Mohammed are laid down in the Koran. Sects:Ninety percent of Moslems are of the Sunni (orthodox) branch. The most important minority is the Shi’ah (partisan) sect. The crucial difference is that the Sunnis follow the recorded statements of the Prophet, known as the Hadith (traditions), while the Shi’ites fol-low and accord divine infallibility to whoever is their current leader, or Imam. The strongholds of Shi’ism are Iran (93 percent) and Iraq (55 percent). Six percent of Saudi Arabians are Shi’ites, a persecuted, hate-filled minority whose leader is in hiding and who work mainly around the Hasa oil fields. Fundamentalism:While Sunni fundamentalists do exist, the true home of fundamentalism is within the Shi’ah sect. This sect-within-a-sect predicates absolute adherence to the Koran as interpreted by the late Ayatollah Khomeini, who has not been replaced. Hezb Allah:Within Iran, the true and ultimate fundamentalist creed is contained within the army of fanatics who style themselves the Party of God, or Hezb Allah. Elsewhere, fundamentalists operate under different names, but for the purposes of this report, Hezb Allah will do. Aims and Creeds:The basic philosophy is that all of Islam should be brought back to, and eventually all the world brought to, the submission to the will of Al-lah interpreted by and demanded by Khomeini. On that road there are a number of prerequisites, three of which are of interest: All existing Moslem govern-ments are illegitimate because they are not founded on unconditional submission to Allah—i.e., Khomeini; any coexistence between Hezb Allah and a secular Moslem government is inconceivable; it is the divine duty of Hezb Allah to punish with death all wrong-doers against Islam throughout the world, but espe-cially heretics within Islam. Methods:The Hezb Allah has long decreed that in accomplishing this last aim there shall be no mercy, no compassion, no pity, no restraint, and no flinching—even to the point of self-martyrdom. They call this
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Holy Terror. Proposal:To inspire, rally, activate, organize, and assist the Shi’ah zealots to massacre the six hun-dred leading and controlling members of the House of Sa’ud, thus destroying the dynasty and with it the gov-ernment in Riyadh, which would then be replaced by a princeling prepared to accept an ongoing American military occupation of the Hasa fields and peg the price of crude at a level “suggested” by the U.S.A.
“Who the hell wrote this?” asked Scanlon as he put down the report, of which he had read only the first half. “A man I’ve been using as a consultant these past twelve months,” said Miller. “Do you want to meet him?” “He’s here?” “Outside. He arrived ten minutes ago.” “Sure,” said Scanlon. “Let’s take a look at this ma-niac.” “In a moment,” said Miller.
The Cormack family, long before Professor John Cormack left academe to enter politics as a congressman from the state of Connecticut, had always had a summer vacation home on the island of Nantucket. He had come there first as a young teacher with his new bride thirty years earlier, before Nantucket became fashionable like Martha’s Vineyard and Cape Cod, and had been entranced by the clean-air simplicity of life there. Lying due east of Martha’s Vineyard, off the Massachu-setts coast, Nantucket then had its traditional fishing village, its Indian burial ground, its bracing winds and golden beaches, a few vacation homes, and not much else. Land was available and the young couple had scrimped and saved to purchase a four-acre plot at Shawkemo, along the strand from Children’s Beach and on the edge of the near-landlocked lagoon called simply the Harbor. There John Cormack had built his frame house, clad in overlapping weathered-gray boards, with wooden shingles on the roof and rough-hewn furniture, hooked rugs, and patchwork quilts inside. Later there was more money, and improvements were made and some extensions added. When he first came to the White House and said he wished to spend his vacations at Nantucket, a minor hurricane descended on the old home. Experts arrived from Washington, looked in horror at the lack of space, the lack of security, of communications. ... They came back and said yes, Mr. President, that would be fine; they would just have to build quarters for a hundred Secret Service men, fix a helicopter pad, several cottages for visitors, secretaries, and household staff—there was no way Myra Cormack could continue to make the beds herself—oh, and maybe a satellite dish or two for the communications people. ... President Cormack had called the whole thing off. Then, that November, he had taken a gamble with the man from Moscow, inviting Mikhail Gorbachev up to Nantucket for a long weekend. And the Russian had loved it.
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His KGB heavies had been as distraught as the Secret Service men, but both leaders were adamant. The two men, wrapped against the knifing wind off Nantucket Sound (the Russian had brought a sable fur shapka for the American), took long walks along the beaches while KGB and Secret Service men plodded after them, others hid in the sere grass and muttered into communicators, a helicopter clawed its way through the winds above them, and a Coast Guard cutter pitched and plunged offshore. No one tried to kill anybody. The two men strolled into Nantucket town unannounced and the fishermen at Straight Wharf showed them their fresh-caught lobsters and scallops. Gorbachev admired the catch and twinkled and beamed, and then they had a beer together at a dockside bar and walked back to Shawkemo, looking side by side like a bulldog and a stork. At night, after steamed lobsters in the frame house, the defense experts from each side joined them and the inter-preters, and they worked out the last points of principle and drafted theircommuniqué. On Tuesday the press was allowed in—there had always been a token force pooling pictures and words, for after all this was America, but on Tuesday the massed battalions ar-rived. At noon the two men emerged onto the wooden ve-randa and the President read thecommuniqué. It announced the firm intention to put before the Central Committee and the Senate a wide-ranging and radical agreement to cut back conventional forces across the board and across the world. There were still some verification problems to be ironed out, a job for the technicians, and the specific details of what types of weaponry and how much were to be decommis-sioned, mothballed, scrapped, or aborted would be an-nounced later. President Cormack spoke of peace with honor, peace with security, and peace with good will. Secre-tary Gorbachev nodded vigorously as the translation came through. No one mentioned then, though the press did later and at great length, that with the U.S. budget deficit, the Soviet economic chaos, and a looming oil crisis, neither su-perpower could finally afford a continuing arms race.
Two thousand miles away in Houston, Cyrus V. Miller switched off the television and stared at Scanlon. “That man is going to strip us naked,” he said with quiet venom. “That man is dangerous. That man is a traitor.” He recovered himself and strode to the desk intercom. “Louise, would you send in Colonel Easterhouse now, please.” Someone once said: All men dream, but they are most dangerous who dream with their eyes open. Colonel Robert Easterhouse sat in the elegant reception room atop the Pan-Global Building and stared at the window and the panoramic view of Houston. But his pale-blue eyes saw the vaulted sky and ocher sands of the Nejd and he dreamed of controlling the income from the Hasa oil fields for the benefit of Amer-ica and all mankind. Born in 1945, he was three when his father accepted a teaching job at the American University in Beirut. The Leba-nese capital had been a paradise in those days, elegant, cos-mopolitan, rich, and safe. He had attended an Arab school for a while, had French and Arab playmates; by the time the family returned to Idaho he was thirteen and trilingual in English, French, and Arabic. Back in America the youth had found his schoolmates shallow, frivolous, and stunningly ignorant, obsessed by rock ‘n’ roll and a young singer called Presley. They mocked his tales of swaying cedars,
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Crusader forts, and the plumes of the Druse campfires drifting through the Chouf mountain passes. So he was driven to books, and none more than The Seven Pillars of Wisdom by Lawrence of Arabia. At eigh-teen, forsaking college and the girls back home, he volun-teered for the 82nd Airborne. He was still at boot camp when Kennedy died. For ten years he had been a paratrooper, with three tours in Vietnam, coming out with the last forces in 1973. Men can acquire fast promotion when casualties are high and he was the 82nd’s youngest colonel when he was crippled, not in war but in a stupid accident. It had been a training drop in the desert; the DZ was supposed to be flat and sandy, the winds a breeze at five knots. As usual the brass had got it wrong. The wind was thirty-plus at ground level; the men were smashed into rocks and gullies. Three dead, twenty-seven injured. The X-ray plates later showed the bones in Easterhouse’s left leg like a box of matches scattered on black velvet. He watched the embarrassing scuttle of the last U.S. forces out of the embassy in Saigon—Bunker’s bunker, as he knew it from the Tet offensive—on a hospital TV in 1975. While in the hospital he chanced on a book about computers and realized that these machines were the road to power: a way to correct the madnesses of the world and bring order and sanity to chaos and anarchy, if properly used. Quitting the military, he went to college and majored in computer science, joined Honeywell for three years, and moved to IBM. It was 1981, the petrodollar power of the Saudis was at its peak, Aramco had hired IBM to construct for them foolproof computer systems to monitor production, flow, exportation, and above all royalty dues throughout their monopoly operation in Saudi Arabia. With fluent Arabic and a genius for computers, Easterhouse was a natural. He spent five years protecting Aramco’s interests in Saudi, coming to specialize in computer-monitored security systems against fraud and theft. In 1986, with the collapse of the OPEC car-tel, the power shifted back to the consumers; and the Saudis felt exposed. They head-hunted the limping computer genius who spoke their language and knew their customs, paying him a fortune to go free-lance and work for them instead of IBM and Aramco. He knew the country and its history like a native. Even as a boy he had thrilled to the written tales of the Founder, the dispossessed nomadic Sheikh Abdal Aziz al Sa’ud, sweeping out of the desert to storm the Musmak Fortress at Riyadh and begin his march to power. He had marveled at the astuteness of Abdal Aziz as he spent thirty years con-quering the thirty-seven tribes of the interior, uniting the Nejd to the Hejaz to the Hadhramaut, marrying the daugh-ters of his vanquished enemies and binding the tribes into a nation—or the semblance of one. Then Easterhouse saw the reality, and admiration turned to disillusion, contempt, and loathing. His job with IBM had involved preventing and detecting computer fraud in systems devised by unworldly whiz kids from the States, monitoring the translation of operational oil production into accounting language and ultimately bank balances, creating foolproof systems that could also be integrated with the Saudi treasury setup. It was the profligacy and the dizzying corruption that turned his basically puritan spirit to a convic-tion that one day he would become the instrument that would sweep away the result of a freak accident of fate which had given such huge wealth and power to such a people; it would be he who would restore order and correct the mad im-balances of the Middle East, so that this God-given gift of oil would be used first for the service of the Free World and then for all the peoples of the world. He could have used his skills to skim a vast fortune for himself from the oil revenues, as the princes did, but his morality forbade him. So to fulfill his dream he would need the support of powerful men, backup, funding. And then he had been summoned by Cyrus Miller to bring down the cor-rupt edifice and deliver it to America. Now, all he had to do was persuade these barbarianTexans that he was their man.
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“Colonel Easterhouse?” He was interrupted by the honeyed tones of Louise. “Mr. Miller will see you now, sir.” He rose, leaned on his cane for a few seconds till the pain eased, then followed her into Miller’s office. He greeted Miller respectfully and was introduced to Scanlon. Miller came straight to the point. “Colonel, I would like my friend and colleague here to be convinced, as I am, of the feasibility of your concept. I respect his judgment and would like him to be involved with us.” Scanlon appreciated the compliment. Easterhouse spot-ted that it was a lie. Miller did not respect Scanlon’s judg-ment, but they would both need Scanlon’s ships, covertly used to import the needed weaponry for thecoup d’état. “You read my report, sir?” Easterhouse asked Scanlon. “That bit about the Hez-Boll-Ah guys, yes. Heavy stuff, lot of funny names. How do you think you can use them to bring down the monarchy? And more important, de-liver the Hasa oil fields to America?” “Mr. Scanlon, you cannot control the Hasa oil fields and direct their product to America unless you first control the government in Riyadh, hundreds of miles away. That government must be changed into a puppet regime, wholly, ruled by its American advisers. America cannot topple the House of Sa’ud openly—Arab reaction would be impossible. My plan is to provoke a small group of Shi’ah Fundamental-ists, dedicated to Holy Terror, to carry out the act. The idea that Khomeinists have come to control the Saudi peninsula would send waves of panic throughout the entire Arab world. From Oman in the south, up through the Emirates to Ku-wait, from Syria, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Egypt, and Israel would come immediately overt or covert pleas to America to intervene to save them all from Holy Terror. “Because I have been setting up a computerized Saudi internal security system for two years, I am aware that such a group of Holy Terror fanatics exists, headed by an Imam who regards the King, his group of brothers—the inner Ma-fia known as the Al-Fahd—and the entire family of three thousand princelings who make up the dynasty, with patho-logical loathing. The Imam has publicly denounced them all as the whor*s of Islam,Defilers of the Holy Places of Mecca and Medina. He has had to go into hiding, but I can keep him safe until we need him by erasing all news of his whereabouts from the central computer. Also, I have a contact with him—a disenchanted member of the Mutawain, the ubiquitous and hated Religious Police.” “But what’s the point in handing over Saudi Arabia to these yo-yos?” demanded Scanlon. “With Saudi’s pending income of three hundred million U.S. dollars a day—hell, they’d wreak absolute havoc.” “Precisely. Which the Arab world itself could not toler-ate. Every state in the area excepting Iran would appeal to America to intervene. Washington would be under massive pressure to fly the Rapid Deployment Force into its prepared base in Oman, on the Musandam Peninsula, and thence into Riyadh, the capital, and Dhahran and Bahrein, to secure the oil fields before they could be destroyed forever. Then we’d have to stay to prevent its ever happening again.” “And this Imam guy,” asked Scanlon. “What happens to him?” “He dies,” said Easterhouse calmly, “to be replaced by the one princeling of the House who was not present at the massacre, because he was abducted to my house in time to avoid it. I know him well—he’s Western educated, pro-American, weak, vacillating, and a drunk. But he will legiti-mize the
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other Arab appeals by one of his own, by radio from our embassy in Riyadh. As the sole surviving member of the dynasty, he can appeal for America to intervene to restore legitimacy. Then he’ll be our man forever.” Scanlon thought it over. He reverted to type. “What’s in it for us? I don’t mean the U.S.A. I mean us!” Miller intervened. He knew Scanlon and how he would react. “Mel, if this prince rules in Riyadh and is advised every waking moment of the day by the colonel here, we are look-ing at the breaking of the Aramco monopoly. We are looking at new contracts, shipping, importing, refining. And guess who’s at the head of the line?” Scanlon nodded his assent. “When do you plan to schedule this ... event?” “You may know that the storming of the Musmak For-tress was in January 1902; the declaration of the new king-dom was in 1932,” said Easterhouse. “Fifteen months from now, in the spring of 1992, the King and his court will cele-brate the ninetieth anniversary of the first and the diamond jubilee of the kingdom. They are planning a vast billion-dollar jamboree before a world audience. The new covered stadium is being built. I am in charge of all its computer-governed security systems—gates, doors, windows, air con-ditioning. A week before the great night there will be a full dress rehearsal attended by the leading six hundred members of the House of Sa’ud, drawn from every corner of the world. That is when I will arrange for the Holy Terrorists to strike. The doors will be computer-locked with them inside; the five hundred soldiers of the Royal Guard will be issued defective ammunition, imported, along with the submachine carbines needed by the Hezb’Allah to do the job, in your ships.” “And when it’s over?” asked Scanlon. “When it’s over, Mr. Scanlon, there will be no House of Sa’ud left. Nor of the terrorists. The stadium will catch fire and the cameras will continue rolling until meltdown. Then the newayatollah, the self-styled Living Imam, inheritor of the spirit and soul of Khomeini, will go on television and announce his plans to the world, which has just seen what happened in the stadium. That, I’m certain, will start the appeals to Washington.” “Colonel,” said Cyrus Miller, “how much funding will you need?” “To begin advance planning immediately, one million dollars. Later, two million for foreign purchases and hard-currency bribes. Inside Saudi Arabia—nothing. I can obtain a fund of local riyals amounting to several billion to cover all internal purchasing and palm-greasing.” Miller nodded. The strange visionary was asking pea-nuts for what he intended to do. “I will see that you get it, Colonel. Now, would you mind waiting outside for a little while? I’d like you to come and have dinner at my house when I’m done.” As Colonel Easterhouse turned to go he paused in the doorway. “There is, or might be, one problem. The only ungov-ernable factor I can perceive. President Cormack seems to be a man dedicated to peace and, from what I observed at Nantucket, now dedicated to a new treaty with the Kremlin. That treaty would probably not survive our takeover of the Saudi peninsula.
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Such a man might even refuseto send in the Rapid Deployment Force.” When he had gone, Scanlon swore, drawing a frown from Miller. “He could be right, you know, Cy. God, if only Odell were in the White House.” Although personally chosen by Cormack as his running mate, Vice President Michael Odell was also a Texan, a busi-nessman, a self-made millionaire, and much farther to the right than Cormack. Miller, possessed by unusual passion, turned and gripped Scanlon by the shoulders. “Mel, I have prayed to the Lord over that man—many, many times. And I asked for a sign. And with this colonel and what he just said, He has given me that sign. Cormack has got to go.”
Just north of the gambling capital of Las Vegas in Nevada lies the huge sprawl of Nellis Air Force Range, where gambling is definitely not on the agenda. For the 11,274-acre base broods over the United States’ most secret weapons-testing range, the Tonopah Test Range, where any stray private air-craft penetrating its 3,012,770 acres of test-ground during a test is likely to be given one warning and then shot down. It was here, on a bright crisp morning in December 1990, that two groups of men disembarked from a convoy of limousines to witness the first testing and demonstration of a revolutionary new weapon. The first group comprised the manufacturers of the multi-launch rocket vehicle, which was the base of the system, and they were accompanied by men from the two associated corporations who had built the rock-ets and the electronics/avionics programs incorporated in the weapon. Like most modern hardware, Despot, the ultimate tank-destroyer, was not a simple device but involved a net of complex systems that in this case had come from three sepa-rate corporations. Peter Cobb was chief executive officer and major share-holder in Zodiac AFV, Inc., a company specializing in ar-mored fighting vehicles—hence the initials in its name. For him personally, and for his company, which had developed Despot at their own expense over seven years, everything hung on the weapon’s being accepted and bought by the Pen-tagon. He had little doubt; Despot was years ahead of Boe-ing’s Pave Tiger system and the newer Tacit Rainbow. He knew it responded completely to an abiding concern of NATO planners—isolating the first wave of any Soviet tank attack across the central German plain from the second wave. His colleagues were Lionel Moir of Pasadena Avionics in California, who had built the Kestrel and Goshawk com-ponents, and Ben Salkind of*ck Industries, Inc., in the Silicon Valley near Palo Alto, California. These men also had crucial personal as well as corporate stakes in the adop-tion of Despot by the Pentagon.ECK Industries had a slice of the prototype-stage B2 Stealth bomber for the Air Force, but this was an assured project. The Pentagon team arrived two hours later, when everything was set up. There were twelve of them, including two generals, and they comprised the technical group whose recommendation would be vital to the Pentagon decision. When they were all seated under the awning in front of the battery of TV screens, the test began. Moir started with a surprise. He invited the audience to swivel in their seats and survey the nearby desert. It was flat, empty. They were puzzled. Moir pressed a button on his con-sole. Barely yards away the desert began to erupt. A great metal claw emerged, reached forward, and pulled. Out of the sand
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where it had buried itself, immune to hunting fighter planes and downward-looking radar, came the Despot. A great block of gray steel on wheels and tracks, windowless, independent, self-contained, proof against direct hit by all but a heavy artillery shell or large bomb, proof against nu-clear, gas, and germ attack, it hauled itself out of its self-dug grave and went to work. The four men inside started the engines that powered the systems, drew back the steel screens that covered the reinforced glass portholes, and pushed out their radar dish to warn them of incoming attack, and their sensor antennae to help them guide their missiles. The Pentagon team was im-pressed. “We will assume,” said Cobb, “that the first wave of Soviet tanks has crossed the Elbe River into West Germany by several existing bridges and a variety of military bridges thrown up during the night. NATO forces are engaging the first wave. We have enough to cope. But the much bigger second wave of Russian tanks is emerging from their cover in the East German forests and heading for the Elbe. These will make the breakthrough and head for the French border. The Despots, deployed and buried in a north-south line through Germany, have their orders. Find, identify, and destroy.” He pressed another button and a hatch opened at the top of the AFV. From it, on a ramp, emerged a pencil-slim rocket. Twenty inches in diameter, an eight-foot tube. It ig-nited its tiny rocket motor and soared away into the pale-blue sky where, being pale blue itself, it disappeared from view. The men returned to their screens, where a high-definition TV camera was tracking the Kestrel. At 150 feet its high-bypass turbofan jet engine ignited, the rocket died and dropped away, short stubby wings sprouted from its sides, and tail fins gave it guidance. The miniature rocket began to fly like an airplane, and still it climbed away down the range. Moir pointed to a large radar screen. The sweep arm circled the disk but no responding image glowed into light. “The Kestrel is made entirely ofFiberglas, ”intoned Moir proudly. “Its engine is made of ceramic derivatives, heat-resistant but nonreflective to radar. With a little ‘stealth’ technology thrown in, you will see it is totally invisible—to eye or machine. It has the radar signature of a strawberry finch. Less. A bird can be radar-detected by the flapping of its wings. Kestrel doesn’t flap, and this radar is far more sophisticated than anything the Soviets have got.” In war the Kestrel, a deep-penetration vehicle, would penetrate two hundred to five hundred miles behind enemy lines. In this test it reached operating altitude at fifteen thou-sand feet, hauled in at one hundred miles downrange, and began to circle slowly, giving it ten hours of endurance at one hundred knots. It also began to look down electronically. Its range of sensors came into play. Like a hunting bird it scanned the terrain beneath, covering a circle of land seventy miles in diameter. Its infrared scanners did the hunting; then it interro-gated with millimeter-band radar. “It is programmed to strike only if the target is emitting heat, is made of steel, and is moving,” said Moir. “Target must emit enough heat to be a tank, not a car, a truck, or a train. It won’t hit a bonfire, a heated house, or a parked vehicle, because they aren’t moving. It won’t hit angle-reflectors for the same reason, or brick, timber, or rubber, because they are not steel. Now look at the target area on this screen, gentlemen.” They turned to the giant screen whose image was being piped to them from the TV camera a hundred miles away. A large area had been fitted out like a Hollywood set. There were artificial trees, wooden shacks, parked vans, trucks, and cars. There were rubber tanks, which now began to crawl, pulled by unseen wires. There were bonfires, gasoline-ignited, which blazed into flame. Then a single real tank began to move, radio-controlled. At fifteen thousand feet the Kestrel spotted it at once and reacted.
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“Gentlemen, here is the new revolution, of which we are justly proud. In former systems the hunter threw itself downward on the target, destroying itself and all that expen-sive technology. Very cost-inefficient. Kestrel doesn’t do that; it calls up a Goshawk. Watch the Despot.” The audience swiveled again, in time to catch the flicker of the rocket of the yard-long Goshawk missile that now obeyed the Kestrel’s call and headed for the target on command. Salkind took up the commentary. “The Goshawk will scream up to one hundred thousand feet, keel over, and head back down. As it passes the Kestrel, the remotely piloted vehicle will pass on final target infor-mation to the Goshawk. Kestrel’s onboard computer will give the target’s position when the Goshawk hits zero feet, to the nearest eighteen inches. Goshawk will hit within that cir-cle. It’s coming down now.” Amid all the houses, shacks, trucks, vans, cars, bon-fires, angle-reflectors dug into the sand of the target area; amid the decoy rubber tanks, the steel tank (an old Abrams Mark One) rumbled forward as to war. There was a sudden flicker and the Abrams seemed to have been punched by a massive fist. Almost in slow motion it flattened out, its sides burst outward, its gun jerked upward to point accusingly at the sky, and it burst into a fireball. Under the awning there was a collective letting-out of breath. “How much ordnance do you have in the nose of that Goshawk?” asked one of the generals. “None, General,” said Salkind. “Goshawk is like a smart rock. It’s coming down at close to ten thousand miles per hour. Apart from its receiver for getting information from Kestrel and its tiny radar for following instructions to the target for the last fifteen thousand feet, it has no technol-ogy. That’s why it’s so cheap. But the effect often kilograms of tungsten-tipped steel at that speed hitting a tank is like ... well, like firing an air-gun pellet onto the back of a co*ck-roach at point-blank range. That tank just stopped the equiv-alent of two Amtrak locomotives at a hundred miles per hour. It was just flattened.” The test continued for another two hours. The manufac-turers proved they could reprogram the Kestrel in flight; if they told it to go for steel structures with water on each side and land at each end, it would take out bridges. If they changed the hunting profile, it would strike at trains, barges, or moving columns of trucks. So long as they were moving. Stationary, except for bridges Kestrel did not know if an ob-ject was a steel truck or a small steel shed. But its sensors could penetrate rain, cloud, snow, hail, sleet, fog, and dark-ness. The groups broke up in mid-afternoon, and the Penta-gon committee prepared to board its limousines for Nellis and the flight to Washington. One of the generals held out his hand to the manufactur-ers. “As a tank man,” he said, “I have never seen anything so frightening in my life. It has my vote. It will worry Frunze Street sick. To be hunted by men is bad enough; to be hunted like that by a goddam robot—hell, what a night-mare!” It was one of the civilians who had the last word. “Gentlemen, it’s brilliant. The best RPV deep-strike tank-buster system in the world. But I have to say, if this new Nantucket Treaty goes through, it looks like we’ll never or-der it.” Cobb, Moir, and Salkind realized as they shared a car back to Las Vegas that Nantucket was facing them, along with thousands of others in the military-industrial complex, with utter corporate and personal
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ruin. *** On the eve of Christmas there was no work inAlcántara del Rio but much drinking was done and it went on until late. When Antonio finally closed his little bar it was past mid-night. Some of his customers lived right there in the village; others drove or walked back to their scattered cottages spread across the hillsides around the villages. Which was whyJosé Francisco, called Pablo, was lurching happily along the track past the house of the tall foreigner, feeling no pain save a slight bursting of the bladder. Finding he could go no farther without relief, he turned to the rubble wall of the yard in which was parked the battered SEAT Terra mini-jeep, unzipped his fly, and devoted himself to enjoyment of man’s second greatest single pleasure. Above his head the tall man slept, and again he dreamed the awful dream that had brought him to these parts. He was drenched in sweat as he went through it all for the hundredth time. Still asleep, he opened his mouth and screamed,“ No ... o... o... o!” Down below, Pablo leaped a foot clear in the air and fell back in the road, soaking his Sunday-best trousers. Then he was up and running, his urine sloshing down his legs, his zipper still undone, his organ receiving an unaccustomed breath of fresh air. If the big, rangy foreigner was going to get violent, then he, José FranciscoEchevarría, by the grace of God, was not going to stick around. He was polite, all right, and spoke good Spanish, but there was something strange about that man.
In the middle of the following January a young freshman came cycling down St. Giles Street in the ancient British city of Oxford, bent upon meeting his new tutor and enjoying his first full day at Balliol College. He wore thick corduroy trou-sers and a down parka against the cold, but over it he had insisted on wearing the black academic gown of an under-graduate at Oxford University. It flapped in the wind. Later he would learn that most undergraduates did not wear them unless eating in hall, but as a newcomer he was very proud of it. He would have preferred to live in college, but his family had rented him a large house just off the Woodstock Road. He passed the Martyrs’ Memorial and entered Magdalen Street. Behind him, unperceived, a plain sedan came to a halt. There were three men in it, two in the front and one in the back. The third man leaned forward. “Magdalen Street is restricted access. Not for cars. You’ll have to continue on foot.” The man in the front passenger seat swore softly and slipped to the pavement. At a fast walk he glided through the crowd, intent on the cycling figure ahead of him. Directed by the man in the back, the car swerved right into Beaumont Street, then left into Gloucester Street and another left down George Street. It stopped, having reached the bottom end of Magdalen, just as the cyclist emerged. The freshman dis-mounted a few yards into Broad Street, across the junction, so the car did not move. The third man came out of Magda-len, flushed from the icy wind, glanced around, spotted the car, and rejoined them. “Damn city,” he remarked. “All one-way streets and no-entry areas.” The man in the back chuckled. “That’s why the students use bicycles. Maybe we should.”
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“Just keep watching,” said the driver without humor. The man beside him fell silent and adjusted the gun under his left arm. The student had dismounted and was staring down at a cross made of cobblestones in the middle of Broad Street. He had learned from his guidebook that on this spot in 1555 two bishops, Latimer and Ridley, had been burned alive on the orders of Catholic Queen Mary. As the flames took hold, Bishop Latimer called across to his fellow martyr: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in England as I trust shall never be put out.” He meant the candle of the Protestant faith, but what Bishop Ridley replied is not recorded, since he was burning brightly at the time. A year later, on the same spot in 1556, Archbishop Cranmer followed them to death. The flames from the pyre had scorched the door of Balliol College a few yards away. Later that door was taken down and rehung at the entrance to the Inner Quadrangle, where the scorch marks are plainly visible today. “Hello,” said a voice by the student’s side and he glanced down. He was tall and gangly; she, short with dark bright eyes and plump as a partridge. “I’m Jenny. I think we’re sharing the same tutor.” The twenty-one-year-old freshman, attending Oxford on a junior-year-abroad program after two years at Yale, grinned. “Hi. I’m Simon.” They walked across to the arched entrance to the col-lege, the young man pushing his bicycle. He had been there the day before to meet the master, but that had been by car. Halfway through the arch they were confronted by the amia-ble but implacable figure of Tim Ward-Barber. “New to the college, are we, sir?” he asked. “Er,yes,” said Simon. “First day, I guess.” “Very well then, let us learn the first rule of life here. Never, under any circ*mstances, drunk, drugged, or half-asleep, do we ever push, carry, or ride our bicycles through the arch into the quadrangle. Sir. Prop it against the wall with the others, if you please.” In universities there are chancellors, principals, mas-ters, wardens, deans, bursars, professors, readers, fellows, and others in a variety of pecking orders. But a college’s head porter is definitely Senior League. As a former NCO in the 16/5th Lancers, Tim had coped with a few squaddies in his time. When Simon and Jenny came back he nodded benignly and told them: “You’re with Dr. Keen, I believe. Corner of the quadrangle, up the stairs to the top.” When they reached the cluttered room at the top of the stairs of their tutor in medieval history and introduced them-selves, Jenny called him “Professor” and Simon called him “Sir.” Dr. Keen beamed at them over his glasses. “Now,” he said merrily, “there are two things and only two that I do not allow. One is wasting your time and mine; the other is calling me ‘sir.’ ‘Dr. Keen’ will do nicely. Then we’ll graduate to ‘Maurice.’ By the way, Jenny, I’m not a professor either. Professors have chairs, and as you see I do not; at least not one in good repair.”
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He gestured happily at the collection of semi-collapsed upholstery and bade his students be comfortable. Simon sank his frame into a legless Queen Anne chair that left him three inches off the floor, and together they began to consider Jan Hus and the Hussite revolution in medieval Bohemia. Simon grinned. He knew he was going to enjoy Oxford.
It was purely coincidence that Cyrus Miller found himself a fortnight later sitting next to Peter Cobb at a fund-raising dinner in Austin, Texas. He loathed such dinners and nor-mally avoided them; this one was for a local politician, and Miller knew the value of leaving markers around the political world, to be called in later when he needed a favor. He was prepared to ignore the man next to him, who was not in the oil business, until Cobb let slip the name of his corporation and therefore his visceral opposition to the Nantucket Treaty and the man behind it, John Cormack. “That goddam treaty has got to be stopped,” said Cobb. “Somehow the Senate has got to be persuaded to refuse to ratify it.” The news of the day had been that the treaty was in the last stages of drafting, would be signed by the respective am-bassadors in Washington and Moscow in April, ratified by the Central Committee in Moscow in October after the sum-mer recess, and put before the Senate before year’s end. “Do you think the Senate will turn it down?” asked Miller carefully. The defense contractor looked gloomily into his fifth glass. “Nope,” he said. “Fact is, arms cutbacks are always popular among the voters, and despite the odds, Cormack has the charisma and the popularity to push it through by his own personality. I can’t stand the guy, but that’s a fact.” Miller admired the defeated man’s realism. “Do you know the terms of the treaty yet?” he asked. “Enough,” said Cobb. “They’re fixing to slice tens of billions off the defense appropriations. Both sides of the Iron Curtain. There’s talk of forty percent—bilateral, of course.” “Are there many more who think like you?” asked Miller. Cobb was too drunk to follow the line of the question-ing. “Just about the whole defense industry,” he snarled. “We’re looking at wholesale closings and total personal and corporate losses here.” “Mmmm. It’s too bad Michael Odell is not our Presi-dent,” mused Miller. The man from Zodiac, Inc., gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, what a dream. Yes, he’ll be opposed to cutbacks. But that won’t help us much. He’ll stay Veep and Cormack will stay President.” “Will he now?” asked Miller quietly.
In the last week of the month, Cobb, Moir, and Salkind met Scanlon and Miller for a private dinner at
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Miller’s invitation in a suite of cloistered luxury at the Remington Hotel in Houston. Over brandy and coffee Miller guided their thoughts to the notion of John Cormack’scontinued occupa-tion of the Oval Office. “He has to go,” Miller intoned. The others nodded agreement. “I’ll have no truck with assassination,” said Salkind hurriedly. “In any case, remember Kennedy. The effect of his death was to push through Congress every piece of civil rights legislation he couldn’t get through himself. Totally counterproductive, if that was the point of the hit. And it was Johnson, of all people, who got it all into law.” “I agree,” said Miller. “That course of action is incon-ceivable. But there must be a way of forcing his resignation.” “Name one,” challenged Moir. “How the hell can any-one bring that about? The man’s fireproof. There are no scandals in back of him. The caucus assured themselves of that before they asked him to step in.” “There must be something,” said Miller. “Some Achil-les’ heel. We have the determination; we have the contacts; we have the financing. We need a planner.” “What about your man, the colonel?” asked Scanlon. Miller shook his head. “He would still regard any U.S. President as his Commander in Chief. No, another man ... out there somewhere ...” What he was thinking of, and what he intended to hunt down, was a renegade, subtle, ruthless, intelligent, and loyal only to money.
Chapter 3 March 1991 Thirtymiles west of Oklahoma City lies the federal penitentiary called El Reno, more officially known as a “federal corrections institution.” Less formally, it is one of the toughest prisons in America—in criminal slang, a hard pen. At dawn on a chill morning in the middle of March a small door opened in the frame of its forbidding main gate and a man emerged. He was of medium height, overweight, prison-pale, broke, and very bitter. He stared about him, saw little (there was little to see), turned toward the city, and began to walk. Above his head, unseen eyes in the guard towers watched him with small interest, then looked away. Other eyes from a parked car watched him far more intently. The stretch limou-sine was parked a discreet distance from the main gate, far enough for its license plate to be out of vision. The man star-ing through the rear window of the car put down his binocu-lars and muttered, “He’s heading this way.” Ten minutes later the fat man passed the car, glanced at it, and walked on. But he was a pro, and already his alarm antennae were activated. He was a hundred yards beyond the car when its engine purred into life and it drew up beside him. A young man got out, clean-cut, athletic, pleasant-looking.
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“Mr. Moss?” “Who wants to know?” “My employer, sir. He wishes to offer you an inter-view.” “No name, I suppose,” said the fat man. The other smiled. “Not yet. But we do have a warm car, a private airplane, and mean you no harm. Let’s face it, Mr. Moss, do you have any place else to go?” Moss thought. The car and the man did not smell of the Company—the CIA—or of the Bureau—the FBI—his sworn enemies. And no, he had no place else to go. He climbed into the backseat of the car, the young man got in beside him, and thelimo headed not toward Oklahoma City but to Wiley Post Airport to the northwest. In 1966, at the age of twenty-five, Irving Moss had been a junior provincial officer (a GS 12) with the CIA, fresh out of the States and working in Vietnam with the CIA-run Phoe-nix program. Those were the years when the Special Forces, the Green Berets, had been steadily handing over their hith-erto rather successful hearts-and-minds program in the Me-kong Delta to the South Vietnamese Army, who proceeded to handle the notion of actually persuading the peasants not to cooperate with the Viet Cong with considerably less skill and humanity. The Phoenix people had to liaise with the ARVN, while the Green Berets switched more and more to search-and-destroy missions, often bringing back Viet Cong prisoners or suspects for interrogation by the ARVN under the aegis of the Phoenix people. That was when Moss dis-covered both his secret taste and his true talent. As a youth he had been puzzled and depressed by his own lack of sexuality, and recalled with unappeased bitter-ness the mockery he had suffered in his teenage years. He had also been bemused—the fifties were an age of relative innocence among teenagers—to observe that he could be-come immediately aroused by the sound of a human scream. For such a man the discreet and unquestioning jungles of Vietnam were an Aladdin’s cave of pleasure. Alone with his rear-echelon Vietnamese unit, he had been able to appoint himself the chief interrogator of suspects, aided by a couple of like-minded South Vietnamese corporals. It had been, for him, a beautiful three years, which ended one day in 1969 when a tall, craggy young Green Beret sergeant had unexpectedly walked out of the jungle, his left arm dripping blood, sent back by his officer to get medication. The young warrior had gazed for a few seconds upon Moss’s work, turned without a word, and crashed a haymaker of a right-hand punch onto the bridge of his nose. The medics at Danang had done their best, but the bones of the septum were so shattered that Moss had to go to Japan for treatment. Even then, remedial surgery had left the bridge of his nose broadened and flattened, and the passages were so damaged that he still whistled and snuffled as he breathed, especially when excited. He never saw the sergeant again, there had been no offi-cial report, and he had managed to cover his tracks and stay with the Agency. Until 1983. In that year, much promoted, he had been with the CIA buildup of the contra movement in Honduras, supervising a series of jungle camps along the border with Nicaragua from which the contras, many of them former servants of the ousted and unlovable dictator Somoza, had run sporadic missions across the border into the land they had once ruled. One day such a group had re-turned with a thirteen-year-old boy, not a Sandinista, just a peasant kid. The interrogation had taken place in a clearing in the bush a quarter of a mile from the contra camp, but
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on the still tropical air the demented shrieks could be clearly heard in the camp. No one slept. In the small hours the sounds finally ceased. Moss walked back into the camp as if drugged, threw himself on his cot, and fell into a deep sleep. Two of the Nicaraguan section commanders quietly left camp, walked into the bush, and returned after twenty min-utes to demand an interview with the commander. ColonelRivas saw them in his tent, where he was writing up reports by the light of his hissing Petromax. The two guerrillas talked to him for several minutes. “We can’t work with this one,” concluded the first. “We have talked to the boys. They agree, Coronel.” “ Es malsano,”added the other.“ Unanimal.” ColonelRivas sighed. He had once been a member of Somoza’s death squads, had dragged a few trade unionists and malcontents from their beds in his time. He had seen a few executions, even taken part. But children ... He reached for his radio. A mutiny or mass defection he did not need. Just after dawn an American military helicopter clat-tered into his camp and disgorged a stocky, dark man who happened to be the newly appointed CIA Deputy Chief of Latin American Section, on a familiarization tour of his new bailiwick.Rivas escorted the American into the bush and they, too, came back after a few minutes. When Irving Moss awoke it was because someone was kicking the legs of his frame cot. He looked up Wearily to see a man in green fatigues looking down at him. “Moss, you’re out,” said the man. “Who the hell are you?” asked Moss. He was told. “One of them,” he sneered. “Yep, one of them. And you’re out. Out of Honduras and out of the Agency.” He showed Moss a piece of paper. “This doesn’t come from Langley,” Moss protested. “No,” said the man, “this comes from me. I come from Langley. Get your gear into that chopper.” Thirty minutes later Agent David Weintraub watched the helicopter lift away into the morning sky. At Teguci-galpa, Moss was met by the Chief of Station, who was coldly formal and personally saw him on a flight to Miami and Washington. He never even went back to Langley. He was met at Washington National, given his papers, and told to get lost. For five years, much in demand, he worked for a vari-ety of less and less palatable Middle Eastern and Central American dictators, and then organized drug-runs for No-riega of Panama. A mistake. The U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency put him on a Top Target list. He was passing through London’s Heathrow Airport in 1988 when the deceptively courteous guardians of British law stepped in front of him and wondered if they might have a quiet word. The word concerned a concealed handgun in his suitcase. Normal extradition procedures went through at record speed and he was landed back on U.S. soil three weeks later. At his trial he drew three years. As a first of-fender he might well have drawn a soft penitentiary. But while he was awaiting sentence two men had a discreet lunch at Washington’s exclusive Metropolitan Club. One was the stocky man called Weintraub, now risen to the post of Assistant Deputy Director (Operations) of the CIA. The other was Oliver “Buck”Revell, a big former Ma-rine flier and Executive Assistant Director (Investigations) with the FBI. He had also been a football player in his youth, but had
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not played long enough to get his brain mashed. There were some at the Hoover Building who suggested it still worked quite well. Waiting untilRevell had finished his steak, Weintraub showed him a file and some pictures.Revell closed the file and said simply, “I see.” Unaccountably, Moss served his time in El Reno, also housing some of the most vicious murderers, rapists, and extortionists currently under lock and key in America. When he came out he had a pathological loathing of the Agency, the Bureau, the British ... and that was just for starters. At Wiley Post Airport the limousine swept through the main gate on a nod and pulled up beside a waiting Learjet. Apart from its license plate number, which Moss at once memorized, it bore no logo. Within five minutes it was air-borne, heading a whisker west of due south. Moss could tell the approximate direction from the morning sun. The direc-tion, he knew, was toward Texas. Just outside Austin is the beginning of whatTexans call the hill country and it was here that the owner of Pan-Global had his country home, a twenty-thousand-acre spread in the foothills. The mansion faced southeast, with panoramic views across the great Texan plain toward faraway Galveston and the Gulf. Apart from a sufficiency of servants’ quarters, guest bungalows, swimming pool, and shooting range, the estate also contained its own landing strip, and it was here the Learjet landed shortly before noon. Moss was conducted to a jacaranda-framed bungalow, given half an hour to bathe and shave, then led to the man-sion and into a cool, leather-upholstered study. Two minutes later he was confronted by a tall, white-haired old man. “Mr. Moss?” said the man. “Mr. Irving Moss?” “Yes, sir,” said Moss. He smelt money, a lot of it. “My name is Miller,” said the man. “Cyrus V. Miller.”
April The meeting was in the Cabinet Room, down the hall and past the private secretary’s room from the Oval Office. Like most people, President John Cormack had been sur-prised by the comparative smallness of the Oval Office when he had first seen it. The Cabinet Room, with its great eight-sided table beneath Stuart’s portrait of George Washington, gave more room to spread papers and lean on elbows. That morning John Cormack had invited his inner Cabi-net of close and trusted friends and advisers to consider the final draft of the Nantucket Treaty. The details were worked out, the verification procedures checked through; the experts had given their grudging concurrence—or not, in the case of two senior generals who retired and three Pentagon staffers who had chosen to resign—but Cormack wanted last com-ments from his special team. He was sixty years old, at the peak of his intellectual and political powers, unashamedly enjoying the popularity and authority of an office he had never expected to hold. When the crisis had enveloped the Republican party in the summer of ’88, the party caucus had looked around wildly for someone to step in and take over the candidacy. Their collective eye had fallen on this congressman from Connecti-cut, scion of a wealthy and patrician New England family who had chosen to leave his family wealth in a series of trust funds and become a professor at Cornell until turning to Connecticut politics in his late thirties.
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On the liberal wing of his party, John Cormack had been a virtual unknown to the country at large. Intimates knew him as decisive, honest, and humane, and had assured the caucus he was clean as the driven snow. He was not known as a television personality—now an indispensable attribute of a candidate—but they picked him nevertheless. To the media he was a bore. And then in four months of barn-storming campaigning, the unknown had turned things around. Forsaking tradition, he looked into the camera’s eye and gave straight answers to every question, supposedly a recipe for disaster. He offended some, but mainly on the right, and they had nowhere else to go with their votes any-way. And he had pleased many more. A Protestant with an Ulster name, he had insisted as a condition of his coming that he pick his own Vice President, and had chosen Michael Odell, a confirmed Irish American and a Catholic from Texas. They were quite unalike. Odell was much farther to the right than Cormack and had been governor of his state. Cormack just happened to like and trust the gum-chewing man from Waco. Somehow the ticket had worked; the voters went, by a narrow margin, for the man the press (wrongly) liked to compare with Woodrow Wilson, America’s last professor-President, and the running mate who bluntly told Dan Rather: “Ah don’t always agree with mah friend John Cormack but, hell, this is America and I’ll flatten any man who says he doesn’t have the right to speak his mind.” And it worked. The combination of the arrow-straight NewEnglander, with his powerful and persuasive delivery, and the deceptively folksy Southwesterner took the vital black, Hispanic, and Irish votes and won. Since taking office Cormack had deliberately involved Odell in decision-making at the highest level. Now they sat opposite each other to discuss a treaty Cormack knew Odell disliked profoundly. Flanking the President were four other intimates: Jim Donaldson, Secretary of State; Bill Walters, the Attorney General; Hubert Reed of the Treasury; and Morton Stannard of Defense. On either side of Odell were Brad Johnson, a brilliant black man from Missouri who had lectured in defense stud-ies at Cornell and was now National Security Adviser, and Lee Alexander, Director of the CIA, who had replaced Judge William Webster a few months into Cormack’s incumbency. Alexander was there because, if the Soviets intended to breach the treaty terms, America would need rapid knowl-edge through her satellites and intelligence community with their in-place assets on the ground. As the eight men read the final terms, none was in any doubt that this was one of the most controversial agreements the United States would ever sign. Already there was vigor-ous opposition on the right and from the defense-oriented industries. Back in 1988, under Reagan, the Pentagon had agreed to cut $33 billion in planned expenditures to produce a defense budget total of $299 billion. For the fiscal years 1990 through 1994, the services were told to cut planned expenditures by $37.1 billion, $41.3 billion, $45.3 billion, and $50.7 billion respectively. But that would only have lim-ited spending growth. The Nantucket Treaty foresaw big de-creases in defense expenditures, and if the growth cuts had caused problems, Nantucket was going to cause a furor. The difference was, as Cormack stressed repeatedly, that the previous growth cuts had not been planned against actual cuts by the U.S.S.R. In Nantucket, Moscow had agreed to slash its own forces to an unheard-of degree. Moreover, Cormack knew the superpowers had little choice. Ever since he came to power he and Secretary of the Trea-sury Reed had wrestled with America’s spiraling budget and trade deficits. They were heading out of control, threatening to shatter the prosperity not just of the United States but of the entire West. He had latched onto his own experts’ analy-ses that the U.S.S.R. was in the same position for different reasons, and put it to Mikhail Gorbachev straight: I need to cut back and you need to redivert. The Russian had taken care of the rest of the Warsaw Pact countries;
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Cormack had won over NATO—first the Germans, then the Italians, the smaller members, and finally the British. These, broadly, were the terms: In land forces, the U.S.S.R. agreed to cut her standing army in East Germany—the potential invasion force west-ward across the central German plain—by half of her twenty-one combat divisions in all categories. They would be not disbanded but withdrawn back beyond the Polish-Soviet frontier and not brought west again. Over and above this, theU.S.S.R. would reduce the manpower of the entire Soviet Army by 40 percent. “Comments?” asked the President. Stannard of De-fense, who not unnaturally had the gravest reservations about the treaty—the press had already speculated about his resignation—looked up. “For the Soviets this is the meat of the treaty, because their army is their senior service,” he said, quoting directly from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff but not admit-ting it. “For the man in the street it looks fantastic; the West Germans already think so. But it’s not as good as it looks. “For one thing, the U.S.S.R. cannot maintain one hun-dred and seventy-seven line divisions as at present without extensive use of her southern ethnic groups—I mean the Moslems—and we know they’d dearly love to disband the lot. For another, what really frightens our planners is not a rambling Soviet Army; it’s an army half that size but profes-sionalized. A small professional army is much more use than a large oafish one, which is what they’ve got.” “But if they’re back inside the U.S.S.R.,” countered Johnson, “they can’t invade West Germany. Lee, if they shifted them back via Poland into East Germany, would we fail to spot it?” “Nope,” said the CIA chief with finality. “Apart from satellites, which can be fooled by covered trucks and trains, I believe we and the British have too many assets in Poland not to spot it. Hell, the East Germans don’t want to become a war zone either. They’d probably tell us themselves.” “Okay, what do we give up?” asked Odell. “Some troops, not a lot,” Johnson replied. “The Sovi-ets withdraw ten divisions at fifteen thousand men each. We have three hundred and twenty-six thousand personnel in Western Europe. We cut to below three hundred thousand for the first time since 1945. At twenty-five thousand of us against a hundred and fifty thousand of them, it’s still good: six to one, and we were looking at four to one.” “Yes,” objected Stannard, “but we also have to agree not to activate our two new heavy divisions, one armored and one mechanized infantry.” “Cost savings, Hubert?” asked the President mildly. He tended to let others talk, listen carefully, make a few suc-cinct and usually penetrating comments, and then decide. The Treasury Secretary supported Nantucket. It would make balancing his books a lot easier. “Three-point-five billion the armored division, three-point-four billion the infantry,” he said. “But these are just start-up costs. After that, we save three hundred million dol-lars a year in running costs by not having them. And now that Despot is canceled, another seventeen billion dollars for the projected three hundred units of Despot.” “But Despot is the best tank-busting system in the world,” protested Stannard. “Hell, we need it.” “To kill tanks that have been withdrawn east of Brest-Litovsk?” asked Johnson. “If they halve their
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tanks in East Germany, we can cope with what we’ve got, the A-ten air-craft and the ground-based tank-buster units. Plus, we can build more static defenses with part of the savings. That’s allowed under the treaty.” “The Europeans like it,” said Donaldson of State mildly. “They don’t have to reduce manpower, but they do see ten to eleven Soviet divisions disappearing in front of their eyes. It seems to me we win on the ground.” “Let’s consider the sea battle,” suggested Cormack. The Soviet Union had agreed to destroy, under supervi-sion, half its submarine fleet; all its nuclear-powered subs in classes Hotel, Echo, and November, and all the diesel-electric Juliets, Foxtrots, Whiskeys,Romeos, and Zulus. But as Stannard was quick to point out, its old nuclear subs were already archaic and unsafe, constantly leaking neutrons and gamma rays, and the others scheduled to go were of old de-signs. After that the Russians could concentrate their re-sources and best men in the Sierra, Mike, and Akula classes, much better technically and therefore more dangerous. Still, he conceded, 158 submarines were a lot of metal, and America’sAnti-Submarine Warfare targets would be drastically reduced, simplifying the job of getting the con-voys to Europe if the balloon ever did go up. Finally, Moscow had agreed to scrap the first of its four Kiev-class aircraft carriers, and build no more—a minor concession, as they were already proving too expensive to support. The United States was allowed to keep the newly com-missioned carriers Abraham Lincoln and George Washing-ton, but would scrap the Midway and the Coral Sea (destined to go anyway, but delayed to be included in the treaty) plus the next-oldest, the Forrestal and the Saratoga, plus their air wings. These air wings, once deactivated, would take three to four years to bring back to combat readiness. “The Russians will say they’ve eliminated eighteen percent of our ability to strike at the Motherland,” groused Stannard, “and all they’ve given up are a hundred and fifty-eight subs that were bitches to maintain anyway.” But the Cabinet, seeing savings of a minimum $20 bil-lion a year, half in personnel and half in hardware, approved the navy side of the treaty, Odell and Stannard opposing. The key came in the air. Cormack knew that for Gorbachev it was the clincher. On balance, America won out on land and wa-ter, since she did not intend to be the aggressor; she just wanted to make sure the U.S.S.R. could not be. But unlike Stannard and Odell, Cormack and Donaldson knew that many Soviet citizens genuinely believed the West would one day hurl itself at the Rodina, and that included their leaders. Under Nantucket, the West would discontinue the American TFX fighter, or F-18, and the European multi-role combat fighter for Italy, West Germany, Spain, and Britain, a joint project; Moscow would stop further work on the MiG-37. She would also scrap the Blackjack, the Tupolev version of the American B-1 bomber, and 50 percent of her air-tanker assets, massively reducing the strategic air threat to the West. “How do we know they won’t build the Backfire some-where else?” asked Odell. “We’ll have official inspectors stationed in the Tupolev factory,” Cormack pointed out. “They can hardly start up a new Tupolev factory somewhere else. Right, Lee?”
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“Right, Mr. President,” said the Director of Central In-telligence. He paused. “Also, we have assets in the key staff at Tupolev.” “Ah,” said Donaldson, impressed. “As a diplomat, I don’t want to know.” There were several grins. Donaldson was known to be very straitlaced. The stinger for America in the air section of the Nantucket Treaty was that she had to abandon the B-2 Stealth bomber, an airplane of revolutionary potential, since it was constructed to pass unnoticed through any radar detection screen and deliver its nuclear bombs as and where it wished. It frightened the Russians very badly. For Mikhail Gorbachev it was the one concession from the States that would get Nantucket through ratification. It would also obviate the need to spend a minimum 300 billion rubles rebuilding from the ground up the Air Defense of the Homeland system, the vaunted Voiska PVO that was supposed to detect any im-pending attack on the Motherland. That was the money he wanted to divert to new factories, technology, and oil. For America, Stealth was a $40 billion project, so can-cellation would mean a big saving, but at the cost of fifty thousand defense-industry jobs. “Maybe we should just go on as we are and bankrupt the bastards,” suggested Odell. “Michael,” said Cormack gently, “then they’d have to go to war.” After twelve hours the Cabinet approved Nantucket and the wearisome business started of trying to convince the Sen-ate, industry, finance, the media, and the people that it was right. A hundred billion dollars had been cut from the De-fense budget.
May By the middle of May the five men who had dined at the Remington Hotel the previous January had constituted themselves the Alamo Group at Miller’s suggestion, in mem-ory of those who in 1836 had fought for the independence of Texas at the Alamo against the Mexican forces of General Santa Anna. The project to topple the Kingdom of Sa’ud they had named Plan Bowie, after Colonel Jim Bowie, who had died at the Alamo. The destabilization of President Cor-mack by a paid-for whispering campaign through lobbies, the media, the people, and the Congress, bore the name Plan Crockett, after Davy Crockett, the pioneer and Indian fighter who also died there. Now they met to consider the report of Irving Moss to wound John Cormack to the point where he would be susceptible to calls for him to step down and depart. Plan Travis, for the man who had commanded at the Alamo. “There are parts of this that make me squirm,” said Moir, tapping his copy. “Me too,” said Salkind. “The last four pages. Do we have to go that far?” “Gentlemen, friends,” rumbled Miller. “I fully appre-ciate your concern, your aversion even. I ask you only to consider the stakes. Not only we but all America stands in mortal peril. You have seen the terms proposed by the Judas in the White House to strip our land of its defenses and to propitiate the Antichrist in Moscow. That man must go be-fore he destroys this our beloved country and brings us all to ruin. You especially, who now face bankruptcy. And I am assured by Mr. Moss here that, regarding the last few
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pages, it will never come to that. Cormack will go before that is necessary.” Irving Moss sat in a white suit at the end of the table, silent. There were parts of his plan that he had not put in the report, things he could mention only in privacy to Miller. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the low whistling caused by his damaged nose. Miller suddenly startled them all. “Friends, let us seek the guidance of Him who understands all things. Let us pray together.” Ben Salkind shot a rapid glance at Peter Cobb, who raised his eyebrows. Melville Scanlon’s face was expression-less. Cyrus Miller placed both hands flat on the table, closed his eyes, and raised his face to the ceiling. He was not a man for bowing his head, even when addressing the Almighty. They were, after all, close confidants. “Lord,” intoned the oil tycoon, “hear us, we pray You. Hear us true and loyal sons of this glorious land, which is of Your creation and which You have vouchsafed to our safekeeping. Guide our hands. Uphold our hearts. Teach us to have the courage to go through with the task that lies before us and which, we are sure, has Your blessing. Help us to save this, Your chosen country, and these, Your chosen people.” He went on in this vein for several minutes, then was silent for several more. When he lowered his face and sur-veyed the five men with him, his eyes burned with the con-viction of those who truly have no doubt. “Gentlemen, He has spoken. He is with us in our en-deavors. We must go forward, not back, for our country and our God.” The other five had little choice but to nod their assent. An hour later Irving Moss talked privately with Miller in his study. There were, he made plain, two components that were vital but which he, Moss, could not arrange. One was a piece of high-complexity Soviet technology; the other was a secret source within the innermost councils of the White House. He explained why. Miller nodded thoughtfully. “I will see to both,” he said. “You have your budget and the down payment on your fee. Proceed with the plan with-out delay.”
June Colonel Easterhouse was received by Miller in the first week of June. He had been busy in Saudi Arabia but the summons was unequivocal, so he flew from Jiddah to New York via London and connected straight to Houston. A car met him on schedule, drove him to the private William P. Hobby Airport southeast of the city, and the Learjet brought him to the ranch, which he had not seen before. His progress report was optimistic and well received. He was able to say that his go-between in the Religious Police had been enthusiastic when approached with the no-tion of a change of government in Riyadh, and had made contact with the fugitive Imam of the Shi’ah Fundamentalists when the man’s secret hiding place had been revealed to him by Easterhouse. The fact that the Imam had not been be-trayed proved that the Religious Police zealot was trustwor-thy. The Imam had heard out the proposal—made to him on a no-name basis, since he would never have
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accepted that a Christian like Easterhouse should become an instrument of Allah’s will—and was reported to be equally enthusiastic. “The point is, Mr. Miller, the Hezb’Allah fanatics have so far not attempted to seize the obvious plum of Saudi Ara-bia, preferring to try to defeat and annex Iraq first, in which they have failed. The reason for their patience is that they feared, rightly, that seeking to topple the House of Sa’ud would provoke a fierce reaction from the hitherto vacillating U.S.A. They have always believed Saudi Arabia would fall to them at the right moment. The Imam appears to accept that next spring—the Diamond Jubilee jamboree is now defi-nitely slated for April—will be Allah’s choice of the right moment.” During the jamboree, huge delegations from all the thirty-seven major tribes of the country would converge on Riyadh to pay homage to the royal house. Among these would be the tribes from the Hasa region, the oil-field work-ers who were mainly of the Shi’ah sect. Hidden in their midst would be the two hundred chosen assassins of the Imam, unarmed until their submachine carbines and ammu-nition, covertly imported in one of Scanlon’s tankers, had been distributed among them. Easterhouse was finally able to report that a senior Egyptian officer—the Egyptian Military Adviser Group played a crucial role at all technical levels of the Saudi Army—had agreed that if his country, with its teeming mil-lions and shortage of money, was given access to Saudi oil after the coup, he would ensure the reissue of defective am-munition to the Royal Guard, who would then be helpless to defend their masters. Miller nodded thoughtfully. “You have done well, Colonel,” he said, then changed the subject. “Tell me, what would Soviet reaction be to this American takeover of Saudi Arabia?” “Extreme perturbation, I would imagine,” said the colonel. “Enough to put an end to the Nantucket Treaty, of which we now know the full terms?” asked Miller. “I would have thought so,” said Easterhouse. “Which group inside the Soviet Union would have most reason to dislike the treaty and all its terms, and wish to see it destroyed?” “The General Staff,” said the colonel without hesita-tion. “Their position in the U.S.S.R. is like that of our Joint Chiefs of Staff and the defense industry rolled into one. The treaty will cut their power, their prestige, their budget, and their numbers by forty percent. I can’t see them welcoming that.” “Strange allies,” mused Miller. “Is there any way of getting in discreet contact?” “I ... have certain acquaintances,” said Easterhouse carefully. “I want you to use them,” said Miller. “Just say there are powerful interests in the U.S. A. who view the Nantucket Treaty with as little favor as they, and believe it might be aborted from the American end, and would like to confer.”
The kingdom of Jordan is not particularly pro-Soviet, but King Hussein has long had to tread a delicate path to stay on his throne in Amman, and has occasionally bought Soviet weaponry, though his Hashemite Arab Legion is mainly Western-armed. Still, there exists a thirty-man Soviet Mili-tary
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Advisory Team in Amman, headed by the defenseat-taché at the Russian embassy. Easterhouse, once attending the desert testing of some Soviet hardware east of Aqaba on behalf of his Saudi patrons, had met the man. Passing through Amman on his way back, Easterhouse stopped over. The defenseattaché, Colonel Kutuzov, whom Eas-terhouse was convinced was from the GRU, was still in place and they had a private dinner. The American was stunned by the speed of the reaction. Two weeks later he was contacted in Riyadh to be told that certain gentlemen would be happy to meet his “friends” in circ*mstances of great discretion. A fat package of travel instructions was given to him, which he couriered unopened to Houston.
July Of all the Communist countries, Yugoslavia is the most relaxed in the matter of tourism, so much so that entry visas may be acquired with little formality right on arrival at Bel-grade airport. In mid-July five men flew into Belgrade on the same day but from different directions and on different flights. They came by scheduled airlines out of Amsterdam, Rome, Vienna, London, and Frankfurt. As all were Ameri-can passport holders, none had needed visas for any of those cities either. All applied for and received visas at Belgrade for a week’s harmless tourism—one in the mid-morning, two in the lunch hour and two in the afternoon. All told the inter-viewing visa officers they had come to hunt boar and stag from the famous Karadjordjevo hunting lodge, a converted fortress on the Danube much favored by wealthy Westerners. Each of the five claimed, as he was issued his visa, that en route to the hunting lodge he would be spending one night at the super-luxury Hotel Petrovaradin at Novi Sad, eighty kilo-meters northwest of Belgrade. And each took a taxi to that hotel. The visa officers’ shift changed in the lunch hour, so only one came under the eye of Officer Pavlic, who hap-pened to be a covert asset in the pay of the Soviet KGB. Two hours after Pavlic checked off duty, a routine report from him arrived on the desk of the Soviet rezident in his office at the embassy in central Belgrade. Pavel Kerkorian was not at his best; he had had a late night—not entirely in the course of duty but his wife was fat and constantly complaining, while he found some of these flaxen Bosnian girls irresistible—and a heavy lunch, defi-nitely in the course of duty, with a hard-drinking member of the Yugoslav Central Committee whom he hoped to recruit. He almost put Pavlic’sreport on one side. Americans were pouring into Yugoslavia nowadays—to check them all out would be impossible. But there was something about the name. Not the surname—that was common enough—but where had he seen the first name Cyrus before? He found it again an hour later right in his office; a back number of Forbes magazine had carried an article on Cyrus V. Miller. By such flukes are destinies sometimes decided. It did not make sense, and the wiry Armenian KGB major liked things to make sense. Why would a man of nearly eighty, known to be pathologically anti-Communist, come hunting boar in Yugoslavia by scheduled airlines when he was rich enough to hunt anything he wanted in North Amer-ica and travel by private jet? He summoned two of his staff, youngsters fresh in from Moscow, and hoped they wouldn’t make a mess of it. (As he had remarked to his CIA opposite number at a co*cktail party recently, you just can’t get good help nowadays. The CIA man had agreed completely.) Kerkorian’s young agents spoke Serbo-Croatian, but he still advised them to rely on their driver, a Yugoslav who knew his way around. They checked back that evening from a phone booth in the
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Petrovaradin Hotel, which made the major spit because the Yugoslavs certainly had it tapped. He told them to go somewhere else. He was just about to go home when they checked in again, this time from a humble inn a few miles from Novi Sad. There was not one American, but five, they said. They might have met at the hotel, but seemed to know each other. Money had changed hands at the reception desk and they had copies of the first three pages of each American’s passport. The five were due to be picked up in the morning in a mini-bus and taken to some hunting lodge, said the gumshoes, and what should we do now? “Stay there,” said Kerkorian. “Yes, all night. I want to know where they go and whom they see.” Serve them right, he thought as he went home. These youngsters have it too easy nowadays. It was probably noth-ing, but it would give the sprogs a bit of experience. At noon the next day they were back, tired, unshaven, but triumphant. What they had to say left Kerkorian stunned. A mini-van had duly arrived and taken the five Americans on board. The guide was in plain clothes but looked decidedly military—and Russian. Instead of heading for the hunting lodge, the bus had taken the five Americans back toward Bel-grade, then ducked straight into Batajnica Air Base. They had not shown their passports at the main gate—the guide had produced five passes from his own inside pocket and got them through the barrier. Kerkorian knew Batajnica; it was a big Yugoslav air base twenty kilometers northwest of Belgrade, definitely not on the sightseeing schedule of American tourists. Among other things it hosted a constant stream of Soviet military transports bringing inresupplies for the enormous Soviet Military Adviser Group in Yugoslavia. That meant there was a team of Russian engineers inside the base, and one of them worked for him. The man was in cargo control. Ten hours later Kerkorian sent a “blitz” report to Yazenevo, headquar-ters of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, the external espio-nage arm. It went directly to the desk of the Deputy Head of the FCD, General Vadim Kirpichenko, who made a number of inquiries internal to the U.S.S.R. and sent an expanded report right up to his chairman, General Kryuchkov. What Kerkorian had reported was that the five Ameri-cans had all been escorted straight from the minibus into an Antonov 42 jet transport which had just arrived with cargo from Odessa and at once headed back there. A later report from the Belgrade rezident announced that the Americans had returned the same way twenty-four hours later, spent a second night at the Petrovaradin Hotel, and then left Yugo-slavia altogether, without hunting a single boar. Kerkorian was commended for his vigilance.
August The heat hung over the Costa del Sol like a blanket. Down on the beaches the million tourists were turning themselves over and over like steaks on a griddle, oiling and basting cou-rageously as they tried to acquire a deep mahogany tan in their two precious weeks and too often simply achieving lobster-red. The sky was such a pale blue it was almost white, and even the usual breeze off the sea had sagged to a zephyr. To the west the great molar of the Rock of Gibraltar jutted into the heat haze, shimmering at its range of fifteen miles; the pale slopes of the concrete rain-catchment system built by the Royal Engineers to feed the underground cisterns stuck out like a leprous scar on the flank of the rock.
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In the hills behindCasares beach the air was a mite cooler but not much; relief really came only at dawn and just before sunset, so the vineyard workers ofAlcántara del Rio were rising at four in the morning to put in six hours before the sun drove them into the shade. After lunch they would snooze through the traditional Spanish siesta behind their thick, cool, lime-washed walls until five, then put in more labor till the light faded around eight. Under the sun the grapes ripened and became fat. The harvest would not come yet, but it would be good this year. In his bar Antonio brought the carafe of wine to the foreigner as usual and beamed. “¿ Sera bien, la cosecha?”he asked. “Yes,” said the tall man with a smile. “This year the harvest will be very good. We shall all be able to pay our bar bills.” Antonio roared with laughter. Everyone knew the for-eigner owned his own land outright and always paid cash on the spot.
Two weeks later Mikhail Sergeevich Gorbachev was in no mood to joke. Though often a genial man, with a reputation for a good sense of humor and a light touch with subordi-nates, he could also show a hair-trigger temper, as when preached at by Westerners over civil rights issues or when he felt badly let down by a subordinate. He sat at his desk on the seventh and top floor of the Central Committee Building in Novaya Ploshchad and stared angrily at the reports spread all over the table. It’s a long narrow room, sixty feet by twenty, with the General Secretary’s desk at the end opposite the door. He sits with his back to the wall, all the windows onto the square being ranged to his left behind their net curtains and buff velour drapes. Running down the center of the room is the habitual conference table, of which the desk formed the head of the letter T. Unlike many of his predecessors, he had preferred a light and airy decor; the table is of pale beech, like his desk, and surrounded by upright but comfortable chairs, eight on each side. It was on this table he had spread the reports col-lected by his friend and colleague, the Foreign MinisterEduard Shevardnadze, whose plea had brought him unwillingly back from his seaside holiday at Yalta in the Cri-mea. He would, he thought savagely, have preferred to be splashing in the sea with his granddaughter Aksaina than sit-ting in Moscow reading this sort of trash. It had been more than six years since that freezing March day in 1985 when Chernenko had finally dropped off his perch and he had been raised with almost bewildering speed—even though he had schemed and prepared for it—into the top slot. Six years he had sought to take the country he loved by the scruff of the neck and hurl it into the last decade of the twentieth century in a state fit to face, match, and triumph on equal terms over the capitalist West. Like all devoted Russians he was half admiring and wholly resentful of the West; of her prosperity, her financial power, her almost contemptuous self-assurance. Unlike most Russians he had for years not been prepared to accept that things could never change in his homeland, that corruption, laziness, bureaucracy, and lethargy were part of the system, always had been and always would be. Even as a young man he had known he had the energy and the dynamism to change things, given the chance. That had been his mainspring, his driving force, through all those years of study and party work in Stavropol, the conviction that one day he would get his chance.
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For six years he had had the chance, and realized even he had underestimated the opposition and the inertia. The first years had been touch-and-go; he had walked a very fine tightrope indeed, almost come to grief a dozen times. The cleansing of the Party had come first, cutting out the die-hards and the deadwood—well, almost all of them. Now he knew he ruled the Politburo and the Central Com-mittee; knew his appointees controlled the scattered Party secretaryships throughout the republics of the Union, shared his conviction that the U.S.S.R. could really compete with the West only if she was economically strong. That was why most of his reforms dealt with economic and not moral mat-ters. As a dedicated Communist he already believed his country had moral superiority—there was for him no need to prove it. But he was not fool enough to deceive himself over the economic strengths of the two camps. Now with the oil crisis, of which he was perfectly well aware, he needed mas-sive resources to pump into Siberia and the Arctic, and that meant cutting back somewhere else. Which led to Nantucket and his unavoidable head-to-head with his own military es-tablishment. The three pillars of power were the Party, the Army, and the KGB, and he knew no one could take on two at the same time. It was bad enough to be at loggerheads with his generals; to be back-stabbed by the KGB was intolerable. The reports on his table, culled by the Foreign Minister from the Western media and translated, he did not need, least of all when American public opinion might still cause the Senate to reject the Nantucket Treaty and insist on the building and deployment of the (for Russia) disastrous Stealth bomber. Personally he had no particular sympathy with Jews who wanted to quit the Motherland that had given them everything. There was nothing un-Russian in Mikhail Gor-bachev so far as turds and dissidents were concerned. But what angered him was that what had been done was deliber-ate, no accident, and he knew who was behind it. He still resented the vicious video tape attacking his wife’s London spending spree years before and circulated on the Moscow circuit. He knew who had been behind that too. The same people. The predecessor of the one who had been summoned and whom he now awaited. There was a knock on the door to the right of the book-case at the far end of the room. His private secretary popped his head in and simply nodded. Gorbachev raised a hand to indicate “wait a minute.” He returned to his desk and sat down behind the spare, clear top with its three telephones and cream onyx pen set. Then he nodded. The secretary swung the door wide open. “The Comrade Chairman, Comrade General Secre-tary,” the young man announced, then withdrew. He was in full uniform—he would be, of course—and Gorbachev let him walk the full length of the room without salutation. Then he rose and gestured at the spread-out pa-pers. General Vladimir Kryuchkov, Chairman of the KGB, had been a close friend,protégé, and like-thinker of his own predecessor, the die-hard ultraconservative Viktor Chebrikov. The General Secretary had secured the ouster of Chebrikov in the great purge he had conducted in the fall of 1988, thus ridding himself of his last powerful opponent on the Politburo. But he had had no choice but to appoint the First Deputy Chairman, Kryuchkov, as successor. One ouster was enough; two would have been a massacre. There are limits, even in Moscow. Kryuchkov glanced at the papers and raised an eye-brow. Bastard, thought Gorbachev.
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“There was no need to beat the sh*t out of them on cam-era,” said Gorbachev, as usual coming to the nub without preamble. “Six Western TV camera units, eight radio re-porters, and twenty newspaper and magazine hacks, half of them American. We got less coverage for the Olympics in ’80.” Kryuchkov raised an eyebrow. “The Jews were con-ducting an illegal demonstration, my dear Mikhail Sergeevich. Personally, I was on vacation at the time. But my officers in the Second Chief Directorate acted properly, I be-lieve. These people refused to disperse when commanded and my men used the usual methods.” “It was on the street. That’s a Militia matter.” “These people are subversives. They were spreading anti-Soviet propaganda. Look at the placards. That’s a KGB matter.” “And the full turnout of foreign press?” The KGB chief shrugged. “These weasels get every-where.” Yes, if they are rung up and tipped off, thought Gorba-chev. He wondered whether this might be the issue over which he could secure the ouster of Kryuchkov, and dis-missed it. It would take the full Politburo to fire the Chair-man of the KGB, and never for beating up a bunch of Jews. Still, he was angry and prepared to speak his mind. He did so for five minutes. Kryuchkov’smouth tightened in silence. He did not appreciate being ticked off by the younger but senior man. Gorbachev had come around the desk; the two men were of the same height, short and stocky. Gorbachev’s eye contact was, as usual, unflinching. That was when Kryuchkov made a mistake. He had in his pocket a report from the KGB’s man in Belgrade, amplified with some stunning information gleaned by Kirpichenko at the First Chief Directorate. It was cer-tainly important enough to bring to the General Secretary himself. Screw it, thought the bitter KGB chief; he can wait. And so the Belgrade report was suppressed.
September Irving Moss had established himself in London, but be-fore leaving Houston he had agreed on a personal code with Cyrus Miller. He knew that the monitors of the National Se-curity Agency at Fort Meade constantly scanned the ether, intercepting billions of words in foreign telephone calls, and that banks of computers sifted them for nuggets of interest. Not to mention the British GCHQ people, the Russians, and just about anyone else nowadays who could rustle up a listen-ing post. But the volume of commercial traffic is so vast that unless something sticks out as suspicious, it will probably pass. Moss’s code was based on lists of salad produce prices, passing between sunny Texas and gloomy London. He took down the list of prices off the telephone, cut out the words, retained the numbers, and according to the date of the calen-dar, deciphered them from a one-time pad of which only he and Cyrus Miller had copies. That month he learned three things: that the piece of Soviet technology he needed was in the last stages of prepara-tion and would be delivered within a fortnight; that the source he had asked for in the White House was in place, bought and paid for; and that he should now go ahead with Plan Travis on schedule. He burned the sheets and grinned. His fee was based on planning, activation, and success. Now he could
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claim the second installment.
October There are eight weeks in the autumn term at Oxford Uni-versity, and since scholars seek to abide by the precepts of logic, they are called First Week, Second Week, Third Week, and so on. A number of activities take place after the end of term—mainly athletic, theatrical, and debating events—in Ninth Week. And quite a few students appear be-fore the start of term, either to prepare their studies, get set-tled in, or start training, in the period called Nought Week. On October 2, the first day of Nought Week, there was a scattering of early birds in Vincent’s Club, a bar and haunt of undergraduate athletes, among them the tall thin student called Simon, preparing for his third and last term at Oxford under the year-abroad program. He was hailed by a cheerful voice from behind. “Hallo, young Simon. Back early?” It was Air Commodore John De’Ath, Bursar of Jesus College and senior treasurer of the Athletics Club, which included the cross-country team. Simon grinned. “Yes, sir.” “Going to get the fat of the summer vacation off, are we?” The retired Air Force officer smiled. He tapped the student’s nonexistent stomach. “Good man. You’re our main hope to knock seven bells out of Cambridge in Decem-ber in London.” Everyone knew that Oxford’s great sporting rival was Cambridge University, the needle match in any sporting con-test. “I’m looking to start a series of morning runs and get back in shape, sir,” said Simon. He did indeed begin a series of punishing early-morning runs, starting at five miles and pushing up to twelve as the week progressed. On the morning of Wednesday the 9thhe set off as usual by bicycle from his house off the Woodstock Road in the southern part of Summertown in north Oxford, and pedaled for the town center. He skirted the Martyrs’ Memorial and Saint Mary Magdalen Church, turned left into Broad Street, past the doors of his own col-lege, Balliol, and on down Holywell andLongwall to join the High Street. A final left turn brought him to the railings out-side Magdalen College. Here he dismounted, chained his bike to the railing for safety, and began to run. Over Magdalen Bridge across the Cherwell and down St. Clement’s at the Plain. Now he was heading due east. At six-thirty in the morning the sun would soon rise ahead of him and he had a straight four-mile run to get clear of the last suburbs of Oxford. He pounded through New Headington to cross the dual-carriageway Ring Road on the steel bridge leading to Shotover Hill. There were no other runners to join him. He was almost alone. At the end of Old Road he hit the incline of the hill and felt the pain of the long-distance runner. His sinewy legs drove him on up the hill and out into Shotover Plain. Here the paved road ran out and he was on the track, deeply potholed and with water from the overnight rain lying in the ruts. He swerved to the grass verge,
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delighting in the springy comfort of the grass underfoot, through the pain barrier, ex-ulting in the freedom of the run. Behind him the unmarked sedan emerged from the trees of the hill, ran out of pavement, and began to jolt through the potholes. The men inside knew the route and were sick of it. Five hundred yards of track, lined with gray boulders, to the reservoir, then back to blacktop road for the downhill glide to Wheatley village via the hamlet of Littleworth. A hundred yards short of the reservoir the track nar-rowed and a giant ash tree overhung the lane. It was here the van was parked, drawn well onto the verge. It was a well-used green Ford Transit bearing on its side the logoBAR-LOW’SORCHARDPRODUCE. Nothing unusual about it. In early October, Barlow vans were all over the county deliver-ing the sweet apples of Oxfordshire to the greengrocers. Anyone looking at the back of the van—invisible to the men in the car, for the van was facing them—would have seen stacked apple crates. That same person would not have real-ized the crates were really two cunning paintings stuck to the inside of the twin windows. The van had had a puncture, front offside tire. A man crouched beside it with a wrench, seeking to free the wheel which was raised on a jack. He bowed over his work. The youth called Simon was on the verge across the rutted track from the van and he kept running. As he passed the front end of the van two things happened with bewildering speed. The rear doors flew open and two men, identical in black track suits and ski masks, leaped out, hurled themselves on the startled runner, and bore him to the ground. The man with the wrench turned and straight-ened up. Beneath his slouch hat he, too, was masked, and the wrench was not a wrench but a CzechSkorpion sub-machine gun. Without a pause he opened fire and raked the windshield of the sedan sixty feet away. The man behind the wheel died instantly, hit in the face. The car swerved and stalled as he died. The man in the back-seat reacted like a cat, opening his door, bailing out, rolling twice, and coming up in the “fire” position. He got off two shots with his short-nosed Smith & Wesson 9mm. The first was wide by a foot, the second ten feet short, for as he fired it the continuing burst from theSkorpion hit him in the chest. He never stood a chance. The man in the passenger seat got free of the car a sec-ond after the man in the back. The passenger door was wide open and he was trying to fire through the open window at the machine gunner when three slugs punched straight through the fabric and hit him in the stomach, bowling him backwards. In five more seconds the gunman was back be-side the driver of the van; the other two had hurled the stu-dent into the rear of the Transit and slammed the doors, the van had rolled off its jack, done a fast-reverse into the en-trance of the reservoir, hauled a three-point turn, and was headed back down the lane toward Wheatley. The Secret Service agent was dying, but he had a lot of courage. Inch by agonizing inch he pulled himself back to the open car door, scrabbled for the microphone beneath the dash, and croaked out his last message. He did not bother with call signs or codes or radio procedure; he was too far gone. By the time help came five minutes later, he was dead. What he said was: “Help ... we need help here. Someone has just kidnapped Simon Cormack.”
Chapter 4 Inthe wake of the dying American Secret Service man’s ra-dio call many things began to happen
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exceedingly fast and at a rising tempo. The snatch of the President’s only son had taken place at 7:05 A.M . The radio call was logged at 7:07. Although the caller was using a dedicated waveband, he was speaking in clear. It was fortunate no unauthorized person was listening to police frequencies at that hour. The call was heard in three places. At the rented house off the Woodstock Road were the other ten men of the Secret Service team tasked to guard the President’s son during his year at Oxford. Eight were still abed, but two were up, including the night-watch officer, who was listening on the dedicated frequency. The Director of the Secret Service, CreightonBurbank, had from the outset protested that the President’s son should not be studying abroad at all during the incumbency. He had been overruled by President Cormack, who saw no good rea-son to deprive his son of his longed-for chance to spend a year at Oxford. Swallowing his objections,Burbank had asked for a fifty-man team at Oxford. Again, John Cormack had yielded to his son’s pleading—“Give me a break, Dad, I’ll look like an exhibit at a cattle show with fifty goons all around me”—and they had settled on a team of twelve. The American embassy in Lon-don had rented a large detached villa in north Oxford, col-laborated for months with the British authorities, and engaged three thoroughly vetted British staff: a male gar-dener, a cook, and a woman for the cleaning and laundry. The aim had been to give Simon Cormack a chance at a per-fectly normal enjoyment of his student days. The team had always had a minimum of eight men on duty, four on weekend furlough. The duty men had made four pairs: three shifts to cover the twenty-four-hour day at the house, and two men to escort Simon everywhere when away from Woodstock Road. The men had threatened to re-sign if they were not allowed their weapons, and the British had a standing rule that no foreigners carried sidearms on British soil. A typical compromise was evolved: Out of the house, an armed British sergeant of the Special Branch would be in the car. Technically the Americans would be operating under his auspices and could have guns. It was a fiction, but the Special Branch men, being local to Oxford-shire, were useful guides, and relations had become very friendly. It was the British sergeant who had come out of the rear seat of the ambushed car and tried to use his two-inch Smith & Wesson before being gunned down on Shotover Plain. Within seconds of receiving the dying man’s call at the Woodstock Road house, the rest of the team threw them-selves into two other cars and raced toward Shotover Plain. The route of the run was clearly marked and they all knew it. The night-watch officer remained behind in the house with one other man, and he made two fast telephone calls. One was to CreightonBurbank in Washington, fast asleep at that hour of the morning, five hours behind London; the other was to the legal counselor at the U.S. embassy in London, caught shaving at his St. John’s Wood home. The legal counselor at an American embassy is always the FBI representative, and in London that is an important post. The liaison between the law enforcement agencies of the two countries is constant. Patrick Seymour had taken over from Darrell Mills two years earlier, got on well with the British, and enjoyed the job. His immediate reaction was to go very pale and put in a scrambled call to Donald Ed-monds, Director of the FBI, catching him fast asleep at his Chevy Chase residence. The second listener to the radio call was a patrol car of the Thames Valley Police, the force covering the old counties of Oxfordshire, Berkshire, and Buckinghamshire. Although the American team with their Special Branch escort were always in close on Simon Cormack, the TVP made a policy of having one of their cars no more than a mile away on a “first call” basis. The patrol car was tuned to the dedicated frequency, was cruising through Headington at the time, and covered the missing mile in fifty seconds. Some would later say the sergeant and driver in it should have passed the am-bush site and tried to
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overtake the escaping van. Hindsight; with three bodies on the Shotover track, they stopped to see if they could render assistance and/or get some kind of a description. It was too late for either. The third listening post was the Thames Valley Police headquarters in the village of Kidlington. Woman Police Constable Janet Wren was due to go off duty after the night shift at 7:30 and was yawning when the croaking voice with the American accent crackled into her headset. She was so stunned she thought for a fleeting second it might be a joke. Then she consulted a checklist and hit a series of keys on the computer to her left. At once her screen flashed up a series of instructions, which the badly frightened woman began to follow to the letter. After lengthy collaboration a year earlier between the Thames Valley Police Authority, Scotland Yard, the British Home Office, the U.S. embassy, and the Secret Service, the joint protection operation around Simon Cormack had been tagged Operation Yankee Doodle. The routines had been computerized, as had the procedures to be followed in any of a variety of contingencies—such as the President’s son being in a bar brawl, a street fight, a road accident, a politicaldemonstration , being taken ill, or wishing to spend time away from Oxford in another country. WPC Wren had activated the Kidnap code and the computer was answering back. Within minutes the duty officer of the watch was by her side, pale with worry and starting a series of phone calls. One was to the Chief Superintendent of the Criminal Investi-gation Department(CID) who took it on himself to bring in his colleague, the Superintendent heading TVP’s Special Branch (SB). The man at Kidlington also called the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), who was attacking two boiled eggs when the call came to his home. He listened in-tently and rapped out a series of orders and questions. “Where, exactly?” “Shotover Plain, sir,” said Kidlington. “Delta Bravo is at the scene. They’ve turned back a private car coming from Wheatley, two other runners, and a lady with a dog from the Oxford end. Both the Americans are dead; so is Sergeant Dunn.” “Jesus,” breathed the ACC Ops. This was going to be the biggest flap of his career, and as head of Operations, the sharp end of police work, it was up to him to get it right. No near misses. Not acceptable. He went into overdrive. “Get a minimum fifty uniformed men there fast. Posts, mallets, and ribbons. I want it sealed off—now. EverySOCO we’ve got. And roadblocks. That’sa two-ended track, isn’t it? Did they get away through the Oxford end?” “Delta Bravo says not,” replied the man at headquar-ters. “We don’t know the time lapse between the attack and the American’s call. But if it was short, Delta Bravo was on the road at Headington and says no one passed them coming from Shotover. The tire tracks will tell us—it’s muddy there.” “Concentrate the roadblocks north through south on the eastern side,” said the ACC. “Leave the Chief Constable to me. My car’s on its way?” “Should be outside now,” said Kidlington. It was. The ACC glanced through his sitting-room win-dow and saw his car, normally due forty minutes later, pull-ing up. “Who’s already on their way?” he asked.
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“CID,SB, SOCOs, and now uniformed,” said Kidlington. “Get every detective off every case and put them on the knocker,” said the ACC. “I’ll go straight to Shotover.” “Range of roadblocks?” queried the watch officer at headquarters. The ACC thought. Roadblocks are easier said than done. The Home Counties, all very historic and heavily populated, have a maze of country lanes, secondary roads, and tracks running between the towns, villages, and hamlets that make up the countryside. Cast the net too wide and the number of minor roads would multiply to hundreds; cast it too narrow and the distance the kidnappers had to cover to escape the net would shrink. “Edge of Oxfordshire,” snapped the ACC. He hung up, then called his ultimate superior, the Chief Constable. In any British county force the day-to-day anti-crime policing goes to the ACC Ops. The Chief Constable may or may not have a background in police work, but his task concerns policy, mo-rale, the public image, and liaison with London. The ACC glanced at his watch as he made the call: 7:31A.M . The Chief Constable of the Thames Valley lived in a handsome converted rectory in the village of Bletchingdon. He strode from his breakfast room to the study, wiping mar-malade from his mouth, to take the call. When he heard the news he forgot about breakfast. There were going to be many disturbed mornings that ninth day of October. “I see,” he said as the details so far sank in. “Yes, carry on. I’ll ... call London.” On his study desk were several telephones. One was a designated and very private line to the office of the Assistant Secretary of the F.4 Division in the Home Office, Britain’s Interior Ministry, which rules the Metropolitan and County Police forces. At that hour the civil servant was not at his office, but the call was patched through to his home in Fulham, London. The bureaucrat let out an unwonted oath, made two phone calls, and headed straight for the big white building in Queen Anne’s Gate, running off Victoria Street, that housed his ministry. One of his calls was to the duty officer at F.4 Division, requiring his desk to be cleared of all other matters and his entire staff to be brought in from their homes at once. He did not say why. He still did not know how many people were aware of the Shotover Plain massacre, but as a good civil servant he was not about to add to that number if he could help it. The other call he could not help. It was to the Perma-nent Undersecretary, senior civil servant for the entire Home Office. Fortunately both men lived inside London, rather than miles away in the outer suburbs, and met at the ministry building at 7:51. Sir Harry Marriott, the Conservative gov-ernment’s Home Secretary and their Minister, joined them at 8:04 and was briefed. His immediate reaction was to put in a call to 10 Downing Street and insist on speaking to Mrs. Thatcher herself. The call was taken by her private secretary—there are innumerable “secretaries” in Whitehall, the seat of the Brit-ish administration: Some are really Ministers; some, senior civil servants; some, personal aides; and a few do secretarial work. Charles Powell was in the second-last group. He knew that his Prime Minister, in her adjacent private study, had been working for an hour already, polishing off reams of pa-perwork before most of her colleagues were out of pajamas. It was her custom. Powell also knew that Sir Harry was one of her closest colleagues and intimates. He checked with her briefly and she took the call without delay. “Prime Minister, I have to see you. Now. I have to come ’round without delay.”
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Margaret Thatcher frowned. The hour and the tone were unusual. “Then come, Harry,” she said. “Three minutes,” said the voice on the phone. Sir Harry Marriott replaced the receiver. Down below, his car was waiting for the five-hundred-yard drive. It was 8:11A.M .
The kidnappers were four in number. The gunman, who now sat in the passenger seat, stuffed the Skorpion down between his feet and pulled off his woolen ski mask. Beneath it he still wore a wig and a moustache. He pulled on a pair of heavy-framed spectacles with no glass in them. Beside him was the driver, the leader of the team; he, too, had a wig, and a false beard as well. Both disguises were temporary, because they had to drive several miles looking natural. In the rear the other two subdued a violently fighting Simon Cormack. Not a problem. One of the men was huge and simply smothered the young American in a bear hug while the lean and wiry one applied an ether pad. The van bounced off the track from the reservoir and settled down as it found the blacktop lane toward Wheatley, and the sounds from the rear ceased as the U.S. President’s son slumped un-conscious. It was downhill through Littleworth, with its scattering of cottages, and then straight into Wheatley. They passed an electric milk van delivering the traditional breakfast pint of fresh milk, and a hundred yards later the van driver had a brief image of a newspaper delivery boy glancing at them. Out of Wheatley they joined the main A.40 highway into Oxford, turned back toward the city for five hundred yards, then turned right onto the B.4027 minor road through the villages of Forest Hill and Stanton St. John. The van drove at normal speed through both villages, over the crossroads by New Inn Farm, and on toward Islip. But a mile after New Inn, just beyond Fox Covert, it pulled toward a farm gate on the left. The man beside the driver leaped out, used a key to undo the padlock on the gate—they had replaced the farmer’s padlock with their own ten hours earlier—and the van rolled into the track. Within ten yards it had reached the semi-ruined timber barn behind its stand of trees which the kidnappers had reconnoitered two weeks ear-lier. It was 7:16A.M . The daylight was brightening and the four men worked fast. The gunman hauled open the barn doors and drove out the big Volvo sedan that had been parked there only since midnight. The green van drove in and the driver descended, bringing with him theSkorpion and two woolen masks. He checked the front of the van to make sure nothing was left, then slammed the door. The other two men bailed out of the rear doors, hefted the form of Simon Cormack, and placed it in the Volvo’s capacious trunk, already fitted with ample air holes. All four men stripped off their oversized black track suits to reveal respectable business suits, shirts, and ties. They retained their wigs, moustaches, and glasses. The bun-dled clothing went into the trunk with Simon, theSkorpion on the floor of the Volvo’s backseat under a blanket. The van driver and team leader took the wheel of the Volvo and waited. The lean man from the back placed the charges in the van and the giant closed the barn doors. Both got into the back of the Volvo, which now cruised to the gate leading to the road. The gunman closed it behind the car, recovered the padlock, and replaced the farmer’s rusted chain. It had been cut through but now hung realistically enough. The Volvo had left tracks in the mud, but that could not be helped. They were standard tires and would soon be changed. The gunman climbed in beside the driver, and the Volvo headed north. It was 7:22A.M . The ACC Ops was just saying “Jesus.”
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The kidnappers drove northwest straight through Islip village and cut into the arrow-straight A.421, taking a ninety-degree right turn toward Bicester. They drove through this pleasant market town in northeast Oxfordshire at a steady pace and along the A.421 toward the county town of Buckingham. Just outside Bicester a big police Range Rover loomed up behind them. One of the men in the back muttered a warning and reached down for theSkorpion. The driver snapped at him to sit still and continued at a legal speed. A hundred yards on, a sign saidWELCOME TO BUCKINGHAM-SHIRE . The county line. At the sign the Range Rover slowed, slewed across the road, and began unloading steel barriers. The Volvo kept motoring and soon disappeared. It was 8:05. In London, Sir Harry Marriott was picking up the phone to Downing Street.
The British Prime Minister happens to be an extremely hu-mane person, much more so than her five immediate male predecessors. Although able to stay cooler than any of them under extreme pressure, she is far from immune to tears. Sir Harry would later tell his wife that when he broke the news her eyes filled; she covered her face with her hands and whis-pered, “Oh, dear God. Poor man.” “Here we were,” Sir Harry would tell Debbie, “facing the biggest bloody crisis with the Yanks since Suez, and her first thought was for the father. Not the son, mind you—the father.” Sir Harry had no children and had not been in office in January 1982, so, unlike the retired Cabinet Secretary Rob-ert Armstrong, who would not have been surprised, he had not witnessed Margaret Thatcher’s anguish when her son Mark had gone missing on the Dakar Rally in the Algerian desert. Then, in the privacy of the night, she had cried from that pure and very special pain felt by a parent whose child is in danger. Mark Thatcher had been found alive by a patrol after six days. When she raised her head she had recovered; she pressed a button on her intercom. “Charlie, I want you to put through a personal call to President Cormack. From me. Tell the White House it is urgent and cannot wait. Yes,of course I know what time it is in Washington.” “There is the American ambassador, via the Foreign Secretary,” ventured Sir Harry Marriott. “He could ... per-haps ...” “No, I will do it myself,” insisted the Prime Minister. “You will please form the COBRA, Harry. Reports every hour on the hour, please.” There is nothing particularly hot about the so-called hotline between Downing Street and the White House. It is in fact a dedicated telephone link, via satellite, but with un-breakable scramblers fitted at both ends to ensure privacy. A hotline link normally takes about five minutes to set up. Margaret Thatcher pushed her papers to one side, stared out of the bulletproof windows of her private office, and waited.
Shotover Plain was crawling, literally, with activity. The two men of the patrol car Delta Bravo knew enough to keep everyone else off the area and to walk extremely carefully even as they examined the three bodies for signs of life. When they saw none, they left the bodies alone. Investiga-tions can all too easily be ruined at the outset because some-one walked all over evidence that would have been treasures to the forensic people, or a big foot pushed a spent cartridge into the mud, wiping off any fingerprints it
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might still have contained. The uniformed men had cordoned off the area, the whole track from Littleworth down the hill to the east along to the steel bridge crossing the Ring Road between Shotover and Oxford City. Within this area the SOCOs, scene-of-crime officers, looked for anything and everything. They found that the British SB sergeant had fired twice; a metal detector got one slug out of the mud in front of him—he had slumped forward on his knees, firing as he went down. They could not find the other slug. It might have hit one of the kidnappers, they would report. (It hadn’t, but they did not know that.) There were the spent cases from theSkorpion, twenty-eight of them, all in the same pool; each was photographed where it lay, picked up with tweezers, and bagged for the lab boys. One American was still slumped behind the wheel of the car; the other lay where he had died beside the passenger door, his bloodied hands over the three holes in his belly, the hand mike swinging free. Everything was photographed from every angle before anything was moved. The bodies went to the Radcliffe Infirmary while a Home Office pathol-ogist sped down from London. The tracks in the mud were of special interest: the smear where Simon Cormack had crashed down with two men on top of him, the prints of the kidnappers’ shoes—they would turn out to be from ultracommon running shoes and untraceable—and the tire tracks from the getaway vehicle, quickly identified as some kind of van. And there was the jack, brand-new and purchasable from any of the Unipart chain of stores. Like theSkorpion 9mm cartridges, it would turn out to bear no prints. There were thirty detectives seeking witnesses— wearisome but vital work that yielded some first descriptions. Two hundred yards east of the reservoir on the lane into Littleworth were two cottages. The lady in one, brewing up tea, had heard “some popping noises” down the lane about seven o’clock but had seen nothing. A man in Littleworth had seen a green van go by just after seven, heading toward Wheatley. The detectives would find the newspaper delivery boy and the milk-van driver just before nine, the boy at school, the milkman having breakfast. He was the best witness. Medium-green, battered Ford Transit with the Barlow’s logo on the side. The marketing manager at Barlow confirmed they had had no vans in that area at that hour. All were accounted for. The police had their getaway vehicle; an all-points alert went out. No rea-son; just find it. No one connected it with a burning barn on the Islip road—yet. Other detectives were around the house in Summer-town, knocking on doors in Woodstock Road and its vicinity. Had anyone seen parked cars, vans, other vehicles? Anyone seen observing the house down the street? They followed the route of Simon’s run right into the center of Oxford and out the other side. About twenty people reported they had seen the young runner being tailed by men in a car, but it always turned out to be the Secret Service car. By nine o’clock the ACC Ops was getting the familiar feeling: There would be no rapid windup now, no lucky breaks, no quick catch. They were away, whoever they were. The Chief Constable, in full uniform, joined him at Shotover Plain and watched the teams at work. “London seems to want to take over,” said the Chief Constable. The ACC grunted. It was a snub, but also the removal of a hellish responsibility. The inquiry into the past would be tough enough, but to fail in the future ... “Whitehall seems to feel they may have quit our patch, don’t you see. The powers might want the Met. to be in charge. Any press?”
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The ACC shook his head. “Not yet, sir. But it won’t stay quiet for long. Too big.” He did not know that the lady walking her dog who had been shooed away from the scene by the men of Delta Bravo at 7:16 had seen two of the three bodies, had run home badly frightened, and told her husband. Or that he was a printer on the Oxford Mail. Although a technician, he thought he ought to mention it to the duty editor when he arrived.
The call from Downing Street was taken by the senior duty officer in the Communications Center of the White House, situated in the subground level of the West Wing, right next to the Situation Room. It was logged at 3:34A.M . Washing-ton time. Hearing who it was, the SDO bravely agreed to call the senior ranking Secret Service agent of the shift, at his post over in the Mansion. The Secret Service man was patrolling the Center Hall at the time, quite close to the family quarters on the second floor. He responded when the phone at his desk opposite the First Family’s gilded elevator trilled discreetly. “She wants what?” he whispered into the receiver. “Do those Brits know what time it is over here?” He listened a while longer. He could not recall when last someone had awakened a President at that hour. Must have happened, he thought, in case of war, say. Maybe that was what this was about. He could be in for one bad time fromBurbank if he got it wrong. On the other hand ... the British Prime Minister herself ... “I’ll hang up now, call you back,” he told the Commu-nications Room. London was told the President was being roused; they should hang on. They did. The Secret Service guard, whose name was Lepinsky, went through the double doors into the West Sitting Hall and faced the door to the Cormacks’ bedroom on his left. He paused, took a deep breath, and knocked gently. No reply. He tried the handle. Unlocked. With, as he saw it, his career up for grabs, he entered. In the large double bed he could make out two sleeping forms, guessed the President would be nearer the window. He tiptoed around the bed, identified the maroon cotton pajama top, and shook the President’s shoulder. “Mr. President, sir. Would you wake up, sir, please?” John Cormack came awake, identified the man standing timorously over him, glanced at his wife, and did not put on the light. “What time is it, Mr. Lepinsky?” “Just after half past three, sir. I’m sorry about this ...Er, Mr. President, the British Prime Minister is on the line. She says it cannot wait. I’m sorry about this, sir.” John Cormack thought for a moment, then swung his legs out of the bed—gently, so as not to wake Myra. Le-pinsky handed him a nearby robe. After nearly three years in power Cormack knew the British Prime Minister well enough. He had twice seen her in England—the second time on a two-hour stopover on his return from Vnukovo—and she had been twice to the States. They were both decisive people; they got on well. If it was she, it had to be important. He would catch up on sleep later.
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“Return to the Center Hall, Mr. Lepinsky,” he whis-pered. “Don’t worry. You have done well. I’ll take the call in my study.” The President’s study is sandwiched between the master bedroom and the Yellow Oval Room, which is under the cen-tral rotunda. Like the bedroom, its windows look out over the lawn toward Pennsylvania Avenue. He closed the com-municating door, put on the light, blinked several times, seated himself at his desk, and lifted the phone. She was on the line in ten seconds. “Has anyone else been in touch with you yet?” Something seemed to punch him in the stomach. “No ... no one. Why?” “I believe Mr. Edmonds and Mr.Burbank must know by now,” she said. “I’m sorry to have to be the first ...” Then she told him. He held the phone very tightly and stared at the curtains, not seeing them. His mouth went dry and he could not swallow. He heard the phrases: everything, but everything being done ... Scotland Yard’s best teams ... no escape ... He said yes, and thank you, and put the phone down. It was like being punched hard in the chest. He thought of Myra, still asleep. He would have to tell her. It would hit her very hard. “Oh, Simon,” he whispered. “Simon, my boy.” He knew he could not handle this himself. He needed a friend who could step in while he looked after Myra. After several minutes he called the operator, kept his voice very steady. “Get me Vice President Odell, please. Yes, now.” In his residence at the Naval Observatory, Michael Odell was roused the same way, by a Secret Service man. The telephoned summons was unequivocal and unexplained. Please come straight to the Executive Mansion. Second floor. The study. Now, Michael, now, please. Odell heard the phone go dead, replaced his own, scratched his head, and peeled the wrapper off a stick of spearmint gum. It helped him concentrate. He called for his car and went to the closet for his clothes. A widower, Odell slept alone, so there was no one to disturb. Ten minutes later, in slacks, shoes, and a sweater over his shirt, he was in the back of the stretch limousine, staring at the clipped back of the Navy driver’s head or the lights of nighttime Washington until the illuminated mass of the White House came into view. He avoided the South Portico and the South Entrance and entered the ground-floor corridor by the door at its west-ern end. He told his driver to wait; he would not be long. He was wrong. The time was 4:07A.M .
Crisis management at the top level in Britain falls to a hastily convened committee whose membership varies according to the nature of the crisis. But its place of meeting rarely changes. The chosen conference hall is almost always the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, a quiet air-conditioned cham-ber two floors below ground level, under the Cabinet Office adjacent to Downing Street. From the initials these commit-tees are known as COBRA.
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It had taken Sir Harry Marriott and his staff just over an hour to get the “bodies,” as he called his cast list, out of their homes, off their commuter trains, or from their scattered offices and into the Cabinet Office. He took the chair at 9:56A.M . The kidnapping was clearly a crime and a matter for the police, which came under the Home Office. But in this case there were many further ramifications. Apart from the Home Office, there was a Minister of State from the Foreign Office, which would try to maintain relationships with the State Department in Washington and thus the White House. Furthermore, if Simon Cormack had been spirited to Eu-rope, their involvement would be vital at a political level. Answering to the Foreign Office was the Secret Intelligence Service, MI-6—“the Firm”—and their input would concern the possibility of foreign terrorist groups being involved. Their man had come across the river from Century House and would report back to the Chief. Also coming under the Home Office, separate from the police, was the Security Service, MI-5, the counterintelligence arm with more than a passing interest in terrorism as it affected Britain internally. Their man had come from Curzon Street in Mayfair, where files on likely candidates were already being vetted by the score and a number of “sleepers” contacted to answer a particularly burning question: who? There was a senior civil servant from the Defense Min-istry, in charge of the Special Air Service regiment at Here-ford. In the event that Simon Cormack and his abductors were located quickly and a siege situation developed, theSAS might well be needed for hostage recovery, one of their arcane specialties. No one needed to be told that already the troop on permanent half-hour standby—in this case, accord-ing to the rotation, Seven Troop, the free-fall men ofB Squadron—had quietly moved up to Amber Alert, ten min-utes, and their backup moved from two-hour standby to sixty minutes. There was a man from the Ministry of Transport, con-trolling Britain’s ports and airports. Liaising with the Coastguards and Customs, his department would operate a blanket port-watch, for a prime concern now was to keep Simon Cormack inside the country in case the kidnappers had other ideas. He had already spoken to the Department of Trade and Industry, who had made plain that to examine every single sealed and bonded freight container heading out of the country was quite literally impossible. Still, any privateairplane, yacht or cruiser, fishing smack, camper, or motor home heading out with a large crate on board, or someone on a stretcher or simply drugged and insensible, would find a Customs officer or Coastguard taking more than a passing interest. The key man, however, sat at Sir Harry’s right: Nigel Cramer. Unlike Britain’s provincial county constabularies and police authorities, London’s police force—the Metropolitan Police, known as “the Met.”—is headed not by a chief con-stable but by a commissioner and is the largest force in the country. The commissioner, in this case Sir Peter Imbert, is assisted in his task by four assistant commissioners, each in charge of one of the four departments. Second of these is Specialist Operations, or S.O. S.O. Department has thirteen branches, One through Fourteen, excluding Five, which, for no known reason, does not exist. Among the thirteen are the Covert Squad, Serious Crimes Squad, Flying Squad, Fraud Squad, and Regional Crimes Squad. And the Special Branch (counterintelligence), the Criminal Intelligence Branch (S.O. 11), and the Anti-Terrorist Branch (S.O. 13). The man designated by Sir Peter Imbert to represent the Met. on the COBRA committee was the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, S.O. Department, Nigel Cramer. Cramer would report in two directions: upward, to his Assistant Commissioner and the Commissioner himself; sideways, to the
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COBRA committee. Toward him would flow the input from the official investigating officer, the I.O., who in turn would be using all the branches and squads of the depart-ment, as appropriate. It takes a political decision to superimpose the Met. on a provincial force, but the Prime Minister had already taken that decision, justified by the suspicion that Simon Cormack might well by now be out of the Thames Valley area; and Sir Harry Marriott had just informed the Chief Constableof that decision. Cramer’s men were already on the outskirts of Ox-ford. There were two non-British invited to sit with the COBRA. One was Patrick Seymour, the FBI man at the Ameri-can embassy; the other was Lou Collins, the London-based liaison officer of the CIA. Their inclusion was more than just courtesy; they were there so they could keep their own orga-nizations aware of the level of effort being put in at London to solve the outrage, and maybe to contribute any nuggets their own people might unearth. Sir Harry opened the meeting with a brief report of what was known so far. The abduction was just three hours old. At this point he felt it necessary to make two assump-tions. One was that Simon Cormack had been driven away from Shotover Plain and was by now sequestered in a secret place; the second was that the perpetrators were terrorists of some kind who had not yet made any form of contact with the authorities. The man from Secret Intelligence volunteered that his people were trying to contact a variety of penetration agents inside known European terrorist groups in an attempt to identify the group behind the snatch. It would take some days. “These penetration agents lead very dangerous lives,” he added. “We can’t just ring them up and ask for Jimmy. Covert meetings will take place in various places over the next week to see if we can get a lead.” The Security Service man added that his department was doing the same with home-grown groups who might be involved, or know something. He doubted that the perpetra-tors were local. Apart from the I.R.A. and the INLA—both Irish—the British Isles had its fair share of weirdos, but the level of ruthless professionalism shown at Shotover Plain seemed to exclude the usual noisy malcontents. Still, his own penetration agents would also be activated. Nigel Cramer reported that the first clues were likely to come from forensic examination or a chance witness not yet interviewed. “We know the van used,” he said. “A green-painted, far-from-new Ford Transit, bearing on both sides the famil-iar logo—in Oxfordshire—of the Barlow fruit company. It was seen heading east through Wheatley, away from the scene of the crime, about five minutes after the attack. And it was not a Barlow van—that is confirmed. The witness did not note the registration number. Obviously, a major search is on for anyone else who saw that van, its direction of travel, or the men in the front seat. Apparently there were two—just vague shadows behind the glass—but the milkman believes one had a beard. “On forensics, we have a car jack, perfect tire prints from the van—the Thames Valley people established exactly where it stood—and a collection of spent brass casings, ap-parently from a submachine carbine. They are going to the Army experts at Fort Halstead. Ditto the slugs when they come out of the bodies of the two Secret Service men and Sergeant Dunn of the Oxford Special Branch. Fort Halstead will tell us exactly, but at first glance they look like Warsaw Pact ordnance. Almost every European terrorist group ex-cept the I.R.A. uses East Bloc weaponry. “The forensic people at Oxford are good, but I’m still bringing every piece of evidence back to our own
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labs at Fulham. Thames Valley will continue to look for witnesses. “So, gentlemen, we have four lines of enquiry. The get-away van, witnesses at or near the scene, the evidence they left behind, and—another for the Thames Valley people—a search for anyone seen observing the house off the Wood-stock Road. Apparently”—he glanced at the two Americans—“Simon Cormack made the same run over the same ground each morning at the same hour for several days.” At that point the phone rang. It was for Cramer. He took the call, asked several questions, listened for some minutes, then came back to the table. “I’ve appointed Commander Peter Williams, head of S.O. 13, the Anti-Terrorist Branch, the official investigating officer. That was he. We think we have the van.” The owner of Whitehill Farm, close to Fox Covert on the Islip road, had called the fire brigade at 8:10 after seeing smoke and flames rising from a near-derelict timber barn he owned. It was situated in a meadow close to the road but five hundred yards from his farmhouse and he seldom visited it. The Oxford Fire Brigade had responded, but too late to save the barn. The farmer had been standing helplessly by and had watched the flames consume the timber structure, bring-ing down first the roof and then the walls. As the firemen were damping down the debris, they ob-served what appeared to be the gutted wreck of a van under-neath the charred timbers. That was at 8:41. The farmer was adamant there had not been a vehicle stored in the barn. Fearing there might have been people—gypsies, tinkers, even campers—inside the van, the firemen stayed on to pull the timbers away. They peered inside the van when they could get near to it, but saw no evidence of bodies. But it was definitely the wreck of a Ford Transit. On returning to the Brigade headquarters, a smart lead-ing officer heard on the radio that the Thames Valley Police were looking for a Transit, believed to have participated in “an offense involving firearms” earlier that morning. He had rung Kidlington. “I’m afraid it’s gutted,” said Cramer. “Tires probably burnt out, fingerprints erased. Still, engine block and chassis numbers will not be affected. My Vehicles Section people are on their way. If there’s anything—and I do mean anything—left, we’ll get it.” Vehicles Section at Scotland Yard comes under the Seri-ous Crimes Squad, part of S.O. Department. The COBRA stayed in session, but some of its leading participants left to get on with other matters, handing over to subordinates who would report if there was a break. The chair was taken by a junior Minister from the Home Office. In a perfect world, which it never is, Nigel Cramer would have preferred to keep the press out of things, for a while at least. By 11:00A.M .Clive Empson of the Oxford Mail was at Kidlington asking about reports of a shooting and killing on Shotover Plain just about sunrise. Three things then surprised him. One was that he was soon taken to a detective chief superintendent, who asked him where he had got this report. He refused to say. The second was that there was an air of genuine fear among the junior officers at the Thames Valley Police headquarters. The third was that he was given no help at all. For a double shooting—the print technician’s wife had seen only two bodies—the police would normally be asking for press cooperation and issuing a statement, not to mention holding a press conference.
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Driving back to Oxford, Empson mulled things over. A “natural causes” would go to the city morgue. But a shoot-ing would mean the more sophisticated facilities of the Radcliffe Infirmary. By chance he was having a rather agreeable affair with a nurse at the Radcliffe; she was not in the “bodies” section, but she might know someone who was. By the lunch hour he had been told there was a big flap going on at the Radcliffe. There were three bodies in the morgue; two were apparently American and one was a Brit-ish policeman. There was a forensic pathologist all the way from London, and someone from the American embassy. That puzzled him. Servicemen from nearby Upper Heyford base would bring uniformed USAF to the Infirmary; American tourists on a slab might bring someone from the embassy; but why would Kidlington not say so? He thought of Simon Cormack, widely known to be a student these past nine months, and went to Balliol College. Here he met a pretty Welsh student called Jenny. She confirmed that Simon Cormack had not come to tutorials that day but took it lightly. He was probably knock-ing himself out with all that cross-country running. Run-ning? “Yes, he’s the main hope to beat Cambridge in December. Goes for brutal training runs every morning. Usually on Shotover Plain.” CliveEmpson thought he had been kicked in the belly. Accustomed to the idea of spending his life covering affairs for the Oxford Mail, he suddenly saw the bright lights of Fleet Street, London, beckoning. He almost got it right, but he assumed Simon Cormack had been shot. That was the report he filed to a major London newspaper in the late after-noon. It had the effect of forcing the government to make a statement. Washington insiders will sometimes, in complete pri-vacy, admit to British friends that they would give their right arms for the British governmental system. The British system is fairly simple. The Queen is the head of state and she stays in place. The head of government is the Prime Minister, who is always the leader of the party that wins the general election. This has two advantages. The nation’s chief executive cannot be at loggerheads with a ma-jority from the opposing political party in Parliament (which facilitates necessary, though not always popular, legislation) and the incoming Prime Minister after an election victory is almost always a skilled and experienced politician at the na-tional level, and probably a former Cabinet Minister in a previous administration. The experience, the know-how, the awareness of how things happen and how to make them hap-pen, are always there. In London there is a third advantage. Behind the politi-cians stands an array of senior civil servants who probably served the previous administration, the one before that, and the one before that. With a hundred years of experience at the top between a dozen of them, these “mandarins” are of vital help to the new winners. They know what happened last time and why; they keep the records; they know where the land mines are situated. In Washington the outgoing incumbent takes almost everything with him—the experience, the advisers, and the records—or, at any rate, those that some congenial colonel has not shredded. The incoming man starts cold, often with experience in government only at the state level, bringing his own team of advisers, who may come in “cold turkey,” just as he does, not quite sure which are the footballs and which the land mines. It accounts for quite a few Washington repu-tations soon walking around with a permanent limp. Thus when a stunned Vice President Odell left the Man-sion and crossed to the West Wing at 5:05 that October morning, he realized that he was not entirely certain what to do or whom to ask.
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“I cannot handle this thing alone, Michael,” the Presi-dent had told him. “I will try to carry on the duties of the President. I retain the Oval Office. But I cannot chair the Crisis Management Committee. I am too involved, in any case. ... Get him back for me, Michael. Get my son back for me.” Odell was a much more emotional man than John Cormack. He had never seen his wry, dry, academic friend so distraught, nor ever thought to. He had embraced his Presi-dent and sworn it would be done. Cormack had returned to the bedroom where the White House physician was adminis-tering sedation to a weeping First Lady. Odell now sat in the center chair at the Cabinet Room table, ordered coffee, and started to make phone calls him-self. The snatch had taken place in Britain; that was abroad; he would need the Secretary of State. He called Jim Donald-son and woke him up. He did not tell him why, just to come straight to the Cabinet Room. Donaldson protested. He would be there at nine. “Jim, get your butt in here now. It’s an emergency. And don’t call the President to check. He can’t take your call, and he’s asked me to handle it.” While he had been governor of Texas, Michael Odell had always considered foreign affairs a closed book. But he had been in Washington, and Vice President, long enough to have had numberless briefings on foreign affairs issues and to have learned a lot. Those who fell for the deliberately folksy image he liked to cultivate did Odell an injustice, of-ten to their later regret. Michael Odell had not gained the trust and respect of a man like John Cormack because he was a fool. In fact, he was very smart indeed. He called Bill Walters, the Attorney General, political chief of the FBI. Walters was up and dressed, having taken a call from Don Edmonds, Director of the Bureau. Walters knew already. “I’m on my way, Michael,” he said. “I want Don Ed-monds on hand as well. We’re going to need the Bureau’s expertise here. Also, Don’s man in London is keeping him posted on an hourly basis. We need up-to-date reports. Okay?” “That’s great,” said Odell with relief. “Bring Ed-monds.” When the full group was present by 6:00A.M ., it also included Hubert Reed of Treasury (responsible for the Secret Service); Morton Stannard of Defense; Brad Johnson, the National Security Adviser; and Lee Alexander, Director of Central Intelligence. Waiting and available in addition to Don Edmonds were CreightonBurbank of the Secret Ser-vice, and the Deputy Director for Operations of the CIA. Lee Alexander was aware that although he was DCI, he was a political appointee, not a career intelligence officer. The man who headed up the entire operational area of the Agency was the DDO, David Weintraub. He waited outside with the others. Don Edmonds had also brought one of his top men. Un-der the Director of the FBI come three executive assistant directors, heading respectively Law Enforcement Services, Administration, and Investigations. Within Investigations were three divisions—Intelligence, International Liaison (from which came Patrick Seymour in London), and Crimi-nal Investigations Division. The EAD for Investigations, BuckRevell, was away sick, so Edmonds had brought the assistant director in charge of theCID, Philip Kelly. “We’d better have them all in,” suggested Brad John-son. “As of now, they know more than we do.”
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Everyone concurred. Later the experts would form the Crisis Management Group, meeting in the Situation Room downstairs, next to the Communications Center, for conve-nience and privacy. Later still, the Cabinet men would join them there, when the telephoto lenses on the press cameras began to peer through the windows of the Cabinet Room and across the Rose Garden. First they heard from CreightonBurbank, an angry man who blamed the British squarely for the disaster. He gave them everything he had learned from his own team in Summertown, a report that covered everything up to the run-ner’s departure from Woodstock Road that morning, and what his men had later seen and learned at Shotover Plain. “I’ve got two men dead,” he snapped, “two widows and three orphans to see. And all because those bastards can’t run a security operation. Iwish it to go on record, gentlemen, that my service repeatedly asked that Simon Cormack not spend a year abroad, and that we needed fifty men in there, not a dozen.” “Okay, you were right,” said Odell placatingly. Don Edmonds had just taken a long call from the FBI man in London, Patrick Seymour. He filled them in on everything else he had learned right up to the close of the first COBRA meeting under the Cabinet Office, which had just ended. “Just what happens in a kidnap case?” asked Hubert Reed mildly. Of all President Cormack’s senior advisers in the room, Reed was the one generally deemed to be least likely to cope with the tough political infighting habitually associated with power in Washington. He was a short man whose air of diffidence, even defenselessness, was accentuated by owllike eyeglasses. He had inherited wealth, and had started on Wall Street as a pension-fund manager with a major brokerage house. A sound nose for investments had made him a leading financier by his early fifties, and he had in previous years managed the Cormack family trusts—which was how the two men met and became friends. It was Reed’s genius for finance that had caused John Cormack to invite him to Washington, where, at Treasury, he had managed to hold America’s spiraling budget deficit within some limits. So long as the matter at hand was fi-nance, Hubert Reed was at home; only when he was made privy to some of the “hard” operations of the Drug Enforce-ment Agency or the Secret Service, both subagencies of the Treasury Department, did he become thoroughly uncomfor-table. Don Edmonds glanced at Philip Kelly for an answer to Reed’s question. Kelly was the crime expert in the room. “Normally, unless the abductors and their hideout can be quickly established, you wait until they make contact and demand a ransom. After that, you try to negotiate the return of the victim. Investigations continue, of course, to try to locate the whereabouts of the criminals. If that fails, it’s down to negotiation.” “In this case, by whom?” asked Stannard. There was silence. America has some of the most sophisticated alarm systems in the world. Her scientists have developed infrared sensors that can detect body heat from several miles above the earth’s surface; there are noise sen-sors that can hear a mouse breathe at a mile; there are move-ment and light
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sensors to pick up a cigarette stub from inner space. But no system in the entire arsenal can match the CYA sensor system that operates in Washington. It had al-ready been in action for two hours and now was headed for peak performance. “We need a presence over there,” urged Walters. “We can’t just leave this entirely to the British. We have to be seen to be doing something, something positive, something to get that boy back.” “Hell, yes,” exploded Odell. “We can say they lost the boy, even though the Secret Service insisted that the British police take a backseat.”Burbank glared at him. “We have the leverage. We can insist we participate in their investiga-tion.” “We can hardly send a Washington Police Department team in to take over from Scotland Yard on their real estate,” Attorney General Walters pointed out. “Well, what about the negotiation, then?” asked Brad Johnson. There was still silence from the professionals. By his insistence, Johnson was blatantly infringing the rules of Cover Your Ass. Odell spoke, to mask the hesitation of them all. “If it comes to negotiation,” he asked, “who is the best hostage-recovery negotiator in the world?” “Out at Quantico,” ventured Kelly, “we have the Bu-reau’s Behavioral Science Group. They handle our kidnap negotiations here in America. They’re the best we have over here.” “I said, who’s the best in the world?” repeated the Vice President. “The most consistently successful hostage-recovery ne-gotiator in the world,” remarked Weintraub quietly, “is a man called Quinn. I know him—knew him once, at any rate.” Ten pairs of eyes swiveled toward the CIA man. “Background him,” commanded Odell. “He’s American,” said Weintraub. “After leaving the Army he joined an insurance company in Hartford. After two years they sent him to head their Paris operation, cover-ing all their clients in Europe. He married, had a daughter. His French wife and child were killed in an expressway acci-dent outside Orléans. He hit the bottle, Hartford fired him, he pulled himself back together, and he went to work for a firm of Lloyd’s underwriters in London, a firm specializing in personal security and, thus, hostage negotiation. “So far as I recall, he spent ten years with them—1978 through ’88. Then he retired. Till then he had handled personally—or, where there was a language problem, ad-vised on—over a dozen successful hostage recoveries all over Europe. As you know, Europe is the kidnap capital of the developed world. I believe he speaks three languages outside of English, and he knows Britain and Europe like the back of his hand.” “Is he the man for us?” asked Odell. “Could he handle this for the U.S.?” Weintraub shrugged. “You asked who was the best in the world, Mr. Vice President,” he pointed out. There were nods of relief around the table. “Where is he now?” asked Odell.
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“I believe he retired to the South of Spain, sir. We’ll have it all on file back at Langley.” “Go get him, Mr. Weintraub,” said Odell. “Get him back here, this Mr. Quinn. No matter what it takes.”
At 7:00P.M. that evening the first news hit the TV screens like an exploding bomb. OnTVE a gabbling newscaster told a stunned Spanish public of the events of that morning out-side the city of Oxford. The men around the bar at Antonio’s inAlcántara del Rio watched in silence. Antonio brought the tall man a complimentary glass of the house wine. “ Mala cosa,”he said sympathetically. The tall man did not take his eyes from the screen. “ No es mi asunto,”he said, puzzlingly. It is not my af-fair. *** David Weintraub took off from Andrews Air Force Base out-side Washington at 10:00A.M . Washington time in a USAF VC20A, the military version of the Gulfstream Three. She crossed the Atlantic direct, cruising at 43,000 feet and mak-ing 483 mph, in seven and a half hours, with a helpful tail wind. With six hours’ time difference, it was 11:30P.M. when the DDO, CIA, landed at Rota, the U.S. Navy air base across the bay fromCádiz, Andalusia. He transferred at once to a waiting Navy SH2F Sea Sprite helicopter, which lifted away toward the east before he was even seated. The rendezvous was the wide, flat beach calledCasares, and here the young staffer who had driven down from Madrid was waiting for him with a car from the Madrid Station. Sneed was a brash, bright young man fresh out of CIA training school at Camp Peary, Virginia, and seeking to impress the DDO. Weintraub sighed. They drove carefully through Manilva, operative Sneed twice asking directions, and foundAlcántara del Rio just after midnight. The whitewashed casita out of town was harder, but a helpful peasant pointed the way. The limousine eased to a halt and Sneed killed the en-gine. They got out, surveyed the darkened cottage, and Sneed tried the door. It was on the latch. They walked straight into the wide, cool ground-floor sitting area. By the moonlight Weintraub could make out a man’s room: cowhide rugs over quarry tiles, easy chairs, an old refectory table of Spanish oak, a wall of books. Sneed began poking about looking for a light switch. Weintraub noticed the three oil lamps and knew he was wast-ing his time. There would bea diesel generator out back to give electricity for cooking and bathing, probably shut off at sundown. Sneed was still clattering about. Weintraub took a step forward. He felt the needle tip of the knife just below the lobe of his right ear, and froze. The man had come down the tiled stair from the bedroom without a sound. “Been a long time since Son Tay, Quinn,” said Wein-traub in a low voice. The knife point moved away from his jugular. “What’s that, sir?” asked Sneed cheerfully from the other end of the room. A shadow moved over the tiles, a match flared, and the oil lamp on the table gave a warm glow to the room. Sneed jumped a foot. Major Kerkorian in Bel-grade would have loved him.
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“Tiring journey,” said Weintraub. “Mind if I sit?” Quinn was in a cotton wraparound from the waist down, like a sarong from the Orient. Bare to the waist, lean, work-hardened. Sneed’smouth fell open at the scars. “I’m out of it, David,” said Quinn. He seated himself at the refectory table, at the opposite end from the DDO. “I’m retired.” He pushed a tumbler and the earthenware pitcher of red wine toward Weintraub, who poured a glass, drank, and nodded with appreciation. A rough red wine. It would never see the tables of the rich. A peasant’s and a soldier’s wine. “Please, Quinn.” Sneed was amazed. DDOs did not say “please.” They gave orders. “I’m not coming,” said Quinn. Sneed came into the light glow, his jacket hanging free. He allowed it to swing to show the butt of the piece he carried in a hip holster. Quinn did not even look at him. He stared at Weintraub. “Who is this asshole?” he inquired mildly. “Sneed,” said Weintraub firmly, “go check the tires.” Sneed went outside. Weintraub sighed. “Quinn, the business at Taormina. The little girl. We know. It wasn’t your fault.” “Can’t you understand? I’m out. It’s over. No more. You’ve wasted your journey. Get someone else.” “There is no one else. The Brits have people, good peo-ple. Washington says we need an American. In-house, we don’t have anyone to match you when it comes to Europe.” “Washington wants to protect its ass,” snapped Quinn. “They always do. They need a fall guy in case it goes wrong.” “Yeah, maybe,” admitted Weintraub. “But one last time, Quinn. Not for Washington, not for the Establishment, not even for the boy. For the parents. They need the best. I told the committee you’re it.” Quinn stared around the room, studying his few but treasured possessions as if he might not see them again. “I have a price,” he said at last. “Name it,” said the DDO simply. “Bring my grapes in. Bring in the harvest.”
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They walked outside ten minutes later, Quinn hefting a gunnysack, dressed in dark trousers, sneakers on bare feet, a shirt. Sneed held open the car door. Quinn took the front passenger seat; Weintraub, the wheel. “You stay here,” he said to Sneed. “Bring in his grapes.” “Do what ?” Sneed gasped. “You heard. Go down to the village in the morning, rent some labor, and bring in the man’s grape harvest. I’ll tell Madrid Head of Station it’s okay.” He used a hand communicator to summon the Sea Sprite, which was hovering overCasares beach when they arrived. They climbed aboard and wheeled away through the velvety darkness toward Rota and Washington.
Chapter 5 David Weintraub wasaway fromWashington for just twenty hours. On the eight-hour flight from Rota to An-drews, he gained six hours in time zones, landing at the Maryland headquarters of the 89th Military Airlift Wing at 4:00A.M. In the intervening period two governments, in Washington and London, had been virtually under siege. There are few more awesome sights than the combined forces of the world’s media when they have completely lost any last vestige of restraint. The appetite is insatiable; the methodology, brutal. Airplanes bound out of the United States for London, or any British airport, were choked from the flight-deck doors to the toilets, as every American news outlet worth the name sent a team to the British capital. On arrival they went ber-serk; there were minute-by-minute deadlines to meet and nothing to say. London had agreed with the White House to stick with the original terse statement. Of course it was no-where near enough. Reporters and TV teams staked out the detached house off the Woodstock Road as if its doors might open to reveal the missing youth. The doors remained firmly closed as the Secret Service team, on orders from CreightonBurbank, packed every last item and prepared to leave. The Oxford city coroner, using his powers under Sec-tion Twenty of the Coroners Amendment Act, released the bodies of the two dead Secret Service agents as soon as the Home Office pathologist had finished with them. Techni-cally they were released to AmbassadorAloysius Fairweather on behalf of next of kin; in fact they were escorted by a senior member of the embassy staff to the USAF base at nearby Upper Heyford, where an honor guard saw the cas-kets aboard a transport for Andrews Air Force Base, accom-panied by the other ten agents, who had nearly been mobbed for statements when they left the house in Summertown. They returned to the States, to be met by CreightonBurbank and to begin the long inquiry into what had gone wrong. There was nothing left for them to do in England. Even when the Oxford house had been closed down, a small and forlorn group of reporters waited outside it lest something, anything, happen there. Others pursued, throughout the university city, anyone who had ever known Simon Cormack—tutors, fellow students, college staff, bar-men, athletes. Two
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other American students at Oxford, al-beit at different colleges, had to go into hiding. The mother of one, traced in America, was kind enough to say she was bringing her boy home at once to the safety of downtown Miami. It made a paragraph and got her a spot on a local quiz show. The body of Sergeant Dunn was released to his family, and the Thames Valley Police prepared for a funeral with full honors. All the forensic evidence was brought east to London. The military hardware went to the Royal Armoured Re-search and Development Establishment at Fort Halstead, outside Sevenoaks in Kent, where the ammunition from theSkorpion was quickly identified, underlining the chance of European terrorists’ being involved. This was not made pub-lic. The other evidence went to the Metropolitan Police lab-oratory in Fulham, London. That meant blades of crumpled grass with blood smears on them, pieces of mud, casts of tire tracks, the jack, footprints, the slugs taken from the three dead bodies, and the fragments of glass from the shattered windshield of the shadowing car. Before nightfall of the first day, Shotover Plain looked as if it had been vacuum-cleaned. The car itself went on a flatbed truck to the Vehicles Section of the Serious Crimes Squad, but of much more in-terest was the Ford Transit van recovered from the torched barn. Experts crawled all over the charred timbers of the barn until they emerged as black as the soot. The farmer’s rusted and severed chain was removed from the gate as if it were made of eggshell, but the only outcome was a report that it had been sheared by a standard bolt-cutter. A bigger clue was the track of the sedan that had driven out of the field after the switch-over. The gutted Transit van came to London in a crate and was slowly taken to pieces. Its license plates were false but the criminals had taken pains; the plates would have be-longed to a van of that year of manufacture. The van had been worked on—serviced and tuned by a skilled mechanic; that at least they could tell. Someone had tried to abrade the chassis and engine numbers, using a tungsten-carbide angle-grinder, obtainable from tool stores anywhere and slotted into a power drill. Not good enough. These numbers are die-stamped into the metal, so spectroscopic examination brought out the numbers from the deeper imprint inside the metal. The central vehicle computer at Swansea came up with the original registration number and the last known owner. The computer said he lived in Nottingham. The address was visited; he had moved. No forwarding address. An all-points went out for the man—very quietly. Nigel Cramer reported to the COBRA committee every hour on the hour and his listeners reported back to their vari-ous departments. Langley authorized Lou Collins, their man in London, to admit they, too, were raising all and any pene-tration agents they might have inside the European terrorist groups. There were quite a few. Counterintelligence and antiterrorist services in each of the countries hosting such groups were also offering any help they could. The hunt was becoming very heavy indeed, but there was no big break—yet. And the abductors had not been in contact. From the time of the first news break, phone lines had been jammed; to Kidlington, to Scotland Yard, the American embassy in Grosvenor Square, any government office. Extra telephone staff had to be drafted. One had to say that for them—the British public was really trying to help. Every call was checked out; almost all other criminal investigations went on the back burner. Among the thousands of calls came the freaks, the weirdos, the hoaxers, the optimists, the hopeful, the helpful, and the simply certifiable.
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The first filter was the line of switchboard operators; then the thousands of police constables who listened care-fully and agreed the cigar-shaped object in the sky might be very important and would be drawn to the attention of the Prime Minister herself. The final cull came from the senior police officers who interviewed the real “possibles.” These included two more early morning drivers who had seen the green van between Wheatley and Stanton St. John. But it all ran out at the barn. Nigel Cramer had cracked a few cases in his time; he had come up from beat constable, switched to detective work, and been in it thirty years. He knew that criminals left tracks; every time you touch something, you leave a tiny trace behind. A good copper could find that trace, especially with modern technology, if he looked hard enough. It just took time, which was what he did not have. He had known some high-pressure cases, but nothing like this. He also knew that despite all the technology in the world the successful detective was usually the lucky detec-tive. There was almost always one break in a case that was due to luck—good luck for the detective, bad for the crimi-nal. If it went the other way, the criminal could still get away. Still, you could make your own luck, and he told his scat-tered teams to overlook nothing, absolutely nothing, however crazy or futile it might seem. But after twenty-four hours hebegan to think, like his Thames Valley colleague, that this was not going to be a quickie. They had got away clean, and to find them would be just plain slog. And there was the other factor—the hostage. That he was the President’s son was a political matter, not a police one. The gardener’s boy was still a human life. Hunting men with a sack of stolen money, or a murder behind them, you just went for the target. In a hostage case the chase had to be very quiet. Spook the kidnappers badly enough, and despite their investment of time and money in the crime, they could still cut and run, leaving a dead hostage behind them. This he reported to a somber committee just before midnight, Lon-don time. An hour later in Spain, David Weintraub was tak-ing a glass of wine with Quinn. Cramer, the British cop, knew nothing of this. Yet. Scotland Yard will admit in private that it has betterrelations with Britain’s press than sometimes appears. On small matters they often irritate each other, but when the issue is really serious the editors and proprietors, in the face of a serious plea, usually accede and use restraint. Serious means where human life or national security is in jeopardy. That is why some kidnap cases have been handled with no publicity at all, even though the editors have known most of the details. In this case, because of a sharp-nosed young reporter in Oxford, the fox was already out and running; there was little the British press could do to exercise restraint. But Sir Peter Imbert, the Commissioner, personally met eight proprietors, twenty editors, and the chiefs of the two television networks and twelve radio stations. He argued that whatever the for-eign press might print or say, there was a good chance the kidnappers, holed up somewhere in Britain, would be listen-ing to British radio, watching British TV, and reading British newspapers. He asked for no crazy stories to the effect that the police were closing in on them and that a storming of their fortress was imminent. That was exactly the sort of story to panic them into killing their hostage and fleeing. He got his agreement. *** It was the small hours of the morning in London. Far to the south a VC20A was gliding over the darkened Azores, desti-nation Washington. In fact the kidnappers were holed up. Passing through Buckingham the previous morning, the Volvo had intersected the M.1 motorway east of Milton Keynes and turned south toward London, joining at that
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hour the great torrent of steel rolling toward the capital, becoming lost among the jugger-naut trucks and the commuters heading south from their Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire, and Hertfordshire homes. North of London the Volvo had pulled onto the M.25, the great orbital motorway that rings the capital at a range of about twenty-five miles from the city center. From the M.25 the arterial routes linking the provinces to London spread out like the spokes of a wheel. The Volvo had eventually taken one of these spokes and, before 10:00A.M., slid into the garage of a detached house on a tree-lined avenue a mile from the center of a small town not forty miles in a direct line from Scotland Yard. The house was well chosen; not so isolated as to excite interest in its purchase, not too close to prying neighbors. Two miles before the Volvo reached it, the team leader ordered the other three to slide down and crouch out of sight below win-dow level. The two in the back, one on top of the other, pulled a blanket over themselves. Anyone watching would have seen a single man in a business suit and a beard driving through his gate and into his garage. The garage opened with an automatic garage-door opener operated from the car and closed the same way. Only when it was closed did the leader allow his henchmen to sur-face and climb out. The garage was joined to the house, reached through a communicating door. All four men changed back to their black track suits and black woolen ski masks before they opened the trunk. Simon Cormack was groggy, with unfocused vision, and he screwed his eyes tight against the flashlight that blinded him. Before he could adjust, a hood of black serge was thrown over his head. He saw nothing of his abductors. He was led through the door into the house and down the stairs to the basem*nt. It had been prepared; clean, white, concrete floor, recessed ceiling light behind shatter-proof glass, a steel-frame bed screwed to the floor, toilet bucket with plastic lid. There was a peephole in the door; the shutter was on the outside, as were two steel bolts. The men were not brutal; they just hefted the youth onto the bed and the giant held him still while one of the others slipped a steel handcuff around one ankle, not tight enough to cause gangrene but so as to ensure that no foot would ever slip through it. The other cuff was locked tight. Through it went a ten-foot steel chain, which was then padlocked to it-self. The other end of the chain was already padlocked around one leg of the bed. Then they left him. They never said a word to him and never would. He waited half an hour before he dared take the hood off. He did not know if they were still there, though he had heard a door close and the rasp of sliding bolts. His hands were free, but he took the hood off very slowly. There were no blows, no shouts. At last it was off. He blinked against the light, then adjusted and stared around. His memory was hazy. He recalled running on soft springy grass, a green van, a man changing a tire; two black-clad figures coming at him, a searing roar of gunfire, the impact, the feeling of weight on top of him, and grass in his mouth. He remembered the open van doors, trying to shout, flailing limbs, the mattresses inside the van, the big man holding him down, something sweet and aromatic across his mouth, and then nothing. Until now. Until this. Then it hit him. With the realization came the fear. And the loneliness, the utter isolation. He tried to be brave, but tears of fear welled up and trickled down. “Oh, Dad,” he whispered. “Dad, I’m sorry. Help me.”
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If Whitehall was having problems from the tidal wave of tele-phone calls and press inquiries, the pressure on the White House was trebled. The first statement on the affair out of London had been issued at 7:00P.M. London time and the White House had been warned an hour before that it would have to come. But that was only 2:00P.M. Washington time, and the American media reaction had been frenzied. Craig Lipton; the White House press secretary, had spent an hour in the Cabinet Room with the committee, be-ing briefed on what to say. The trouble was, there was so little. The fact of the abduction could be confirmed, along with the death of two accompanying Secret Service men. Plus the fact that the President’s son was a fine athlete, spe-cializing in cross-country running, and had been on a train-ing run at the time. It would not help, of course. There is no hindsight as brilliantly perceptive as that of an outraged journalist. CreightonBurbank, while agreeing he would not actually criticize the President nor blame Simon himself, made plain he was not having his Secret Service crucified for falling down on protection when he had specifically asked for more men. A compromise was worked out that would fool no one. Jim Donaldson pointed out that, as Secretary of State, he still had to maintain relations with London and in any case angry friction between the two capitals would not help and might do real harm; he insisted Lipton stress that a British police sergeant had been murdered as well. This was agreed, though the White House press corps eventually took little notice. Lipton faced a baying press just after 4:00P.M. and made his statement. He was on live TV and radio. The mo-ment he finished, the uproar started. He pleaded he could answer no further questions. A victim in the Roman Coliseum might as well have told the lions he was really only a very thin Christian. The uproar increased. Many questions were drowned out but some came through to 100 million Americans, sowing the seeds. Did the White House blame the British?Er, well, no ... Why not? Were they not in charge of security over there? Well, yes, but ... Did the White House blame the Secret Service then? Not exactly ... Why were there only two men guarding the son of the Presi-dent? What was he doing running almost alone in an isolated area? Was it true CreightonBurbank had offered his resigna-tion? Had the kidnappers communicated yet? To that one he could gratefully answer no, but he was already being goaded into exceeding his brief. That was the point. Reporters can smell a spokesman-on-the-run like a Limburger cheese. Lipton finally retreated behind the scene, bathed in sweat and determined to go back to Grand Rapids. The glamour of work in the White House was wearing off fast. The newscasters and editorial writers would say what they wanted, regardless of his answers to questions. By nightfall the press tone was becoming markedly hostile to Britain. Up at the British embassy on Massachusetts Avenue the pressattaché, who had also heard of CYA, made a statement. While expressing his country’s dismay and shock at what had happened, he slipped in two points. That the Thames Valley Police had taken a very low-profile role specifi-cally at American request, and that Sergeant Dunn was the only one who had got off two shots at the abductors, giving his life in doing so. It was not what was wanted, but it made a paragraph. It also made a watching Creighton Burbank snarl with anger. Both men knew that the low-profile request, in-deed insistence, had come from Simon Cormack via his father, but could not say so. The Crisis Management Group, the professionals, met through the day in the basem*nt Situation Room, monitoring the information flow out of COBRA in London and report-ing upstairs as and when necessary. The National Security Agency had stepped up its monitoring of all telephone com-munications into and out of Britain in case the kidnappers made a call via satellite. The FBI’s behavioral scientists at
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Quantico had come up with a list of psycho-portraits of pre-vious kidnappers and a menu of things the Cormack kidnap-pers might or might not do, along with lists of do’s and don’ts for the Anglo-American authorities. Quantico firmly expected to be called in and flown to London en masse, and were perplexed at the delay, although none of them had ever operated in Europe. In the Cabinet Room the committee was living on nerves, coffee, and antacid tablets. This was the first major crisis of the incumbency and the middle-aged politicians were learning the hard way the first rule of crisis manage-ment: It is going to cost a lot of sleep, so get what you can while you can. Having risen at 4:00A.M ., the Cabinet mem-bers were still awake at midnight. At that hour the VC20A was over the Atlantic, well west of the Azores, three and a half hours short of landfall and four hours short of touchdown. In the spacious rear compartment the two veterans, Weintraub and Quinn, were catching some sleep. Also sleeping, farther back, was the three-man crew who had flown the jet to Spain; the “slip” crew brought her home. The men in the Cabinet Room browsed over the dossier on the man called Quinn, gouged out of the files at Langley, with additions from the Pentagon. Born on a farm in Dela-ware, it said; lost his mother at age ten; now aged forty-six. Joined the infantry at age eighteen in 1963, transferred two years later to the Special Forces and went to Vietnam four months after. Spent five years there. “He never seems to use his first name,” complained Hubert Reed. “Says here even his intimates call him Quinn. Just Quinn. Odd.” “He is odd,” observed Bill Walters, who had read fur-ther along. “It also says here he hates violence.” “Nothing odd about that,” replied Jim Donaldson. “ Ihate violence.” Unlike his predecessor at State, George Shultz, who had occasionally been known to give vent to a four-letter word, Jim Donaldson was a man of unrelieved primness, a characteristic that had often made him the unappreciative butt of Michael Odell’s leg-pulling jokes. Thin and angular, even taller than John Cormack, he resembled a flamingo en route to a funeral, and was never seen without his three-piece charcoal-gray suit, gold-fob watch chain, and stiff white collar. Odell deliberately made mention of bodily functions whenever he wished to twit the astringent New Hampshire lawyer, and at each mention Donaldson’s narrow nose would wrinkle in distaste. His atti-tude to violence was similar to his distaste for crudeness. “Yes,” rejoined Walters, “but you haven’t read page eighteen.” Donaldson did so, as did Michael Odell. The Vice Pres-ident whistled. “He did that?”he queried. “They should have giventhe guy the Congressional Medal.” “You need witnesses for the Congressional Medal,” Walters pointed out. “As you see, only two men survivedthat encounter on the Mekong, and Quinn brought the other one forty miles on his back. Then the man died of wounds at Danang USMC Military Hospital.” “Still,” said Hubert Reed cheerfully, “he managed aSilver Star, two Bronze, and five Purple Hearts.” As if get-ting wounded was fun if they gave you more ribbons. “With the campaign medals, that guy must have four rows,” mused Odell. “It doesn’t say how he and
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Weintraub met.” It didn’t. Weintraub was now fifty-four, eight years older than Quinn. He had joined the CIA at age twenty-four, just out of college in 1961, gone through his training at the Farm—the nickname for Camp Peary on the York River in Virginia—and gone to Vietnam as a GS-12 provincial officer in 1965, about the time the young Green Beret called Quinn arrived from Fort Bragg. Through 1961 and 1962 ten A-teams of the U.S. Special Forces had been deployed in Darlac Province, building stra-tegic and fortified villages with the peasants, using the “oil-spot” theory developed by the British in beating the Communist guerrillas in Malaya: to deny the terrorists local support, supplies, food, safe-houses, information, and money. The Americans called it the hearts-and-minds policy. Under the Special Forces guidance, it was working. In 1963, Lyndon Johnson came to power. The Army argued that Special Forces should be returned from CIA control to theirs. They won. It marked the end of hearts-and-minds, though it took another two years to collapse. Wein-traub and Quinn met in those two years. The CIA man was concerned with gathering information on the Viet Cong, which he did by skill and cunning, abhorring the methods of men like Irving Moss (whom he did not encounter, since they were in different parts of Vietnam), even though he knew such methods were sometimes used in the Phoenix program, of which he was a part. The Special Forces were increasingly taken away from their village program to be sent on search-and-destroy mis-sions in the deepest jungle. The two men met in a bar over a beer; Quinn was twenty-one and had been out there a year; Weintraub was twenty-nine and also had a year in ’Nam be-hind him. They found common cause in a shared belief that the Army High Command was not going to win that kind of war just by throwing ordnance at it. Weintraub found he very much liked the fearless young soldier. Self-educated he might be; he had a first-rate brain and had taught himself fluent Vietnamese, a rarity among the military. They stayed in touch. The last time Weintraub had seen Quinn was during the run up to Son Tay. “Says here the guy was at Son Tay,” said Michael Odell. “Son of a gun.” “With a record like that, I wonder why he never made officer,” said Morton Stannard. “The Pentagon has some people with the same kind of decorations out of ’Nam, but they got themselves commissioned at the first opportunity.” David Weintraub could have told them, but he was still sixty minutes short of touchdown. After taking back control of the Special Forces, the orthodox military—who hated S.F. because they could not understand it—slowly ran down the S.F. role over the six years to 1970, handing over more and more of the hearts-and-minds program, as well as the search-and-destroy missions, to the South Vietnamese ARVN—with dire results. Still, the Green Berets kept going, trying to bring the fight to the Viet Cong through stealth and guile rather than mass bombing and defoliation, which simply fed the VC with recruits. There were projects like Omega, Sigma, Delta, and Blackjack. Quinn was in Delta, commanded by “Charging Charlie” Beckwith who would later, in 1977, set up the Delta Force at Fort Bragg and plead with Quinn to return from Paris to the Army. The trouble with Quinn was that he thought orders were requests. Sometimes he did not agree with them. And he pre-ferred to operate alone. Neither behavior constituted a good recommendation for a commission. He made corporal after six months, sergeant after ten. Then back to private, then sergeant, then private ... His career was like a yo-yo.
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“I figure we have the answer to your question, Mor-ton,” said Odell, “right here. The business after Son Tay.” He chuckled. “The guy busted a general’s jaw.” The 5th Special Forces Group finally pulled out of Viet-nam on December 31, 1970, three years before the full-scale military withdrawal that included Colonel Easterhouse, and five years before the embarrassing evacuation, via the em-bassy roof, of the last Americans in the country. Son Tay was in November 1970. Reports had come in of a number of American pris-oners of war being located at the Son Tay prison, twenty-four miles from Hanoi. It was decided the Special Forces should go in and bring them out. It was an operation of complexity and daring. The fifty-eight volunteers came from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, via Eglin Air Force Base in Florida, for jungle training. All save one: they needed a fluent Viet-namese speaker. Weintraub, who was in the affair on the intelligence side, said he knew one. Quinn joined the rest of the group in Thailand, and they flew in together. The operation was commanded by Colonel Arthur “Bull” Simons, but the spearhead group that went right into the prison compound came under Captain Dick Meadows. Quinn was with them. He established from a stunned North Vietnamese guard within seconds of landing that the Ameri-cans had been moved—two weeks earlier. The S.F. soldiers came out intact, with a few flesh wounds. Back at base, Quinn berated Weintraub for the lousy intelligence. The CIA man protested that the spooks knew the Americans had been taken away, and had told the com-manding general so. Quinn walked into the officers’ club, strode up to the bar, and broke the general’s jaw. It was hushed up, of course. A good defense lawyer can make such a mess of a career over a thing like that. Quinn was busted to private—again—and flew home with the rest. He resigned a week later and went into insurance. “The man’s a rebel,” said the Secretary of State with distaste as he closed the file. “He’s a loner, a maverick, and a violent one at that. I think we may have made a mistake here.” “He also has an unmatched record of hostage negotia-tion,” pointed out the Attorney General. “It says he can use skill and subtlety when dealing with kidnappers. Fourteen successful recoveries in Ireland, France, Holland, Germany, and Italy. Either done by him, or with him advising.” “All we want,” said Odell, “is for him to get Simon Cormack back home in one piece. It doesn’t matter to me if he punches generals or screws sheep.” “Please,” begged Donaldson. “By the way, I’ve forgot-ten. Why did he quit?” “He retired,” said Brad Johnson. “Something about a little girl being killed in Sicily three years back. Took his severance pay, cashed in his life insurance policies, and bought himself a spread in the South of Spain.” An aide from the Communications Center put his head around the door. It was 4:00A.M., twenty-four hours since they had all been roused. “The DDO and his companion have just landed at An-drews,” he said. “Get them in here without delay,” ordered Odell, “and get the DCI, the Director of the FBI, and Mr. Kelly up here as well, by the time they arrive.”
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Quinn still wore the clothes in which he had left Spain. Because of the cold he had pulled on a sweater from his gunnysack. His near-black trousers, part of his only suit, were adequate for attending mass in Alcántara del Rio, for in the villages of Andalusia, people still wear black for mass. But they were badly rumpled. The sweater had seen better days and he wore three days of stubble. Despite their lack of sleep, the committee members looked in better shape. Relays of fresh laundry, pressed shirts, and suits had been ferried in from their distant homes; washroom facilities were right next door. Weintraub had not stopped the car between Andrews and the White House; Quinn looked like a reject from the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Weintraub walked in first, stood aside for Quinn, and closed the door. The Washington officials stared at Quinn in silence. The tall man walked without a word to the chair at the end of the table, sat down without invitation, and said, “I’m Quinn.” Vice President Odell cleared his throat. “Mr. Quinn, we have asked you here because we are considering asking you to take on the task of negotiating the safe return of Simon Cormack.” Quinn nodded. He assumed he had not been brought this distance to discuss football. “You have an update on the situation in London?” he asked. It was a relief to the committee to have a practical mat-ter brought up so early. Brad Johnson pushed a teletype printout down the table to Quinn, who studied it in silence. “Coffee, Mr. Quinn?” asked Hubert Reed. Treasury Secretaries did not normally serve coffee, but he rose and went to the urn that now stood on a table against the wall. A lot of coffee had been drunk. “Black,” said Quinn, reading. “They haven’t been in touch yet?” There was no need to ask who “they” were. “No,” said Odell. “Total silence. Of course there have been hundreds of hoax calls. Some in Britain. We’ve logged seventeen hundred in Washington alone. The crazies are hav-ing a field day.” Quinn went on reading. On the flight, Weintraub had given him the entire background. He was just coming up to date with developments since. There were precious few. “Mr. Quinn, would you have any idea who might have done this?” asked Donaldson. Quinn looked up. “Gentlemen, there are four kinds of kidnapper. Only four. The best from our point of view would be amateurs. They plan badly. If they succeed in the snatch, they leave traces. They can usually be located. They have little nerve, which can be dangerous. Usually the hostage-recovery teams move in, outwit them, and get the hostage back unharmed. But these weren’t amateurs.”
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There was no argument. He had their attention. “Worst of all are the maniacs—people like the Manson gang. Unapproachable, illogical. They want nothing mate-rial; they kill for fun. The good news is, these people don’t smell like maniacs. The preparations were meticulous, the training precise.” “And the other two kinds?” asked Bill Walters. “Of the other two, the worse are the fanatics, political or religious. Their demands are sometimes impossible to meet—literally. They seek glory, publicity—that above all. They have a Cause. Some will die for it; all will kill for it. We may think their Cause is lunatic. They don’t. And they are not stupid—just filled with hate for the Establishment and therefore their victim, who comes from it. They kill as a gesture, not in self-defense.” “Who is the fourth type?” asked Morton Stannard. “The professional criminal,” said Quinn without hesi-tation. “They want money—that’s the easy part. They have made a big investment, now locked up in the hostage. They won’t easily destroy that investment.” “And these people?” asked Odell. “Whoever they are, they suffer from one great disad-vantage, which may work out to be good or bad for us. The guerrillas of Central and South America, the Mafia in Sicily, theCamorra in Calabria, the mountain men of Sardinia, or the Hezb’Allah in South Beirut—all operate within a safe, native environment. They don’t have to kill because they are not in a hurry. They can hold out forever. These people are holed up in Britain of all places; a very hostile environment—for them. So the strain is on them already. They will want to make their deal quickly and get away, which is good. But they may be spooked by the fear of immi-nent discovery, and cut and run. Leaving a body behind them, which is bad.” “Would you negotiate with them?” asked Reed. “If possible. If they get in touch, someone has to.” “It sticks in my craw to pay money to scum like these,” said Philip Kelly of the FBI’s Criminal Investigations Divi-sion. People come to the Bureau from a variety of back-grounds; Kelly’s route was via the New York Police Department. “Do professional criminals show more mercy than fa-natics?” asked Brad Johnson. “No kidnappers show mercy,” said Quinn shortly. “It’s the filthiest crime in the book. Just hope for greed.” Michael Odell looked around at his colleagues. There was a series of slow nods. “Mr. Quinn, will you attempt to negotiate this boy’s release?” “Assuming the abductors get in touch, yes. There are conditions.” “Of course. Name them.”
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“I don’t work for the U.S. government. I have its coop-eration in all things, but I work for the parents. Just them.” “Agreed.” “I operate out of London, not here. It’s too far away. I have no profile at all, no publicity, nothing. I get my own apartment, the phone lines I need. And I get primacy in the negotiation process—that needs clearing with London. I don’t need a feud with Scotland Yard.” Odell glanced at the Secretary of State. “I think we can prevail on the British government to concede that,” said Donaldson. “They have primacy in the criminal investigation, which will continue in parallel with any direct negotiation. Anything else?” “I operate my own way, make my own decisions how to handle these people. There may have to be money ex-changed. It’s made available. My job is to get the boy re-turned. That’s all. After he’s free you can hunt them down to the ends of the earth.” “Oh, we will,” said Kelly with quiet menace. “Money is not the problem,” said Hubert Reed. “You may understand there is no financial limit to what we’ll pay.” Quinn kept silent, though he realized that telling the kidnappers that would be the worst route to go. “I want no crowding, no bird-dogging, no private initia-tives. And before I leave, I want to see President Cormack. In private.” “This is the President of the United States you’re talk-ing about,” said Lee Alexander of the CIA. “He’s also the father of the hostage,” said Quinn. “There are things I need to know about Simon Cormack that only he can tell me.” “He’s terribly distressed,” said Odell. “Can’t you spare him that?” “My experience is that fathers often want to talk to someone, even a stranger. Maybe especially a stranger. Trust me.” Even as he said it, Quinn knew there was no hope of that. Odell sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Jim, would you clear it with London? Tell them Quinn is coming. Tell them this is what we want. Someone has to get him some fresh clothes. Mr. Quinn, would you care to use the washroom down the hall to freshen up? I’ll call the President. What’s the fastest way to London?” “The Concorde out of Dulles in three hours,” said Weintraub without hesitation. “Hold space on it,” said Odell, and rose. They all did.
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Nigel Cramer had news for the COBRA committee under Whitehall at 10:00A.M . The Driver and Vehicle Licensing Center in Swansea had come up with a lead. A man with the same name as the missing former owner of the Transit van had purchased and registered another van,a Sherpa, a month earlier. There was now an address, in Leicester. Commander Williams, the head of S.O. 13 and the official investigating officer, was on his way there by police helicopter. If the man no longer owned it, he must have sold it to somebody. It had never been reported stolen. After the conference Sir Harry Marriott took Cramer to one side. “Washington wants to handle the negotiations, if there are any,” he said. “They’re sending their own man over.” “Home Secretary, I must insist that the Met. has pri-macy in all areas,” said Cramer. “I want to use two men from Criminal Intelligence Branch as negotiators. This is not American territory.” “I’m sorry,” said Sir Harry. “I have to overrule you on this one. I’ve cleared it with Downing Street. If they want it that way, the view is we have to let them have it.” Cramer was affronted, but he had made his protest. The loss of his primacy in negotiation simply made him more determined than ever to end the abduction by finding the kid-nappers through police detective work. “May I ask who their man is, Home Secretary?” “Apparently he’s called Quinn.” “Quinn?” “Yes. Have you heard of him?” “Certainly, Home Secretary. He used to work for a firm in Lloyd’s. I thought he’d retired.” “Well, Washington tells us he’s back. Is he any good?” “Extremely good. Excellent record in five countries, including Ireland years ago. I met him on that one. The vic-tim was a British citizen, a businessman snatched by some renegade I.R.A. men.” Privately, Cramer was relieved. He had feared some be-havioral theorist who would be amazed to find that the Brit-ish drove on the left. “Splendid,” said Sir Harry. “Then I think we should concede the point with good grace. Our complete coopera-tion, all right?” The Home Secretary, who had also heard of CYA—though he would have pronounced and spelled the last word “arse”—was not displeased by Washington’s demand. After all, if anything went wrong ...
Quinn was shown into the private study on the second floor of the Executive Mansion an hour after leaving the Cabinet Room. Odell had led him personally, not via the holly and box hedges of the Rose Garden, but through the basem*nt corridor that emerged to a set of stairs giving onto the Man-sion’s
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ground-floor corridor. Long Tom cameras were now ranged on the garden from half a mile away. President Cormack was fully dressed in a dark suit, but he looked pale and tired, the lines of strain showing around his mouth, smudges of insomnia beneath his eyes. He shook hands and nodded at the Vice President, who withdrew. Gesturing Quinn to a chair, he took his own seat behind his desk. A defense mechanism, creating a barrier, not want-ing to unbend. He was about to speak when Quinn got in first. “How is Mrs. Cormack?” Not “the First Lady.” Just Mrs. Cormack, his wife. He was startled. “Oh, she’s sleeping. It has been a terrible shock. She’s under sedation.” He paused. “You have been through this before, Mr. Quinn.” “Many times, sir.” “Well, as you see, behind the pomp and the circum-stance is just a man, a very worried man.” “Yes, sir. I know. Tell me about Simon, please.” “Simon? What about him?” “What he is like. How he will react to ... to this. Why did you have him so late in life?” There was no one in the White House who would have dared ask that. John Cormack looked across the desk. He was tall himself, but this man matched him at six feet two inches. Neat gray suit, striped tie, white shirt—all borrowed, though he did not know that. Clean-shaven, deeply sun-tanned. A craggy face, calm gray eyes, an impression of strength and patience. “So late? Well, I don’t know. I married when I was thirty; Myra was twenty-one. I was a young professor then. We thought we would start a family in two or three years. But it didn’t happen. We waited. The doctors said there was no reason ... Then, after ten years of marriage, Simon came. I was forty by then, Myra thirty-one. There was only ever the one child ... just Simon.” “You love him very much, don’t you?” President Cormack stared at Quinn in surprise. The question was so unexpected. He knew Odell was completely estranged from his own two grown-up offspring, but it had never occurred to him how much he loved his only son. He rose, came around the desk, and seated himself on the edge of an upright chair, much closer to Quinn. “Mr. Quinn, he is the sun and the moon to me—to us both. Get him back for us.” “Tell me about his childhood, when he was very young.” The President jumped up. “I have a picture,” he said triumphantly. He walked to a cabinet and returned with a framed snapshot. It showed a sturdy toddler of four or five, in swim trunks on a beach, holding a pail and shovel. A proud
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father was crouched be-hind him, grinning. “That was taken at Nantucket in ’75. I had just been elected congressman from New Haven.” “Tell me about Nantucket,” said Quinn gently. President Cormack talked for an hour. It seemed to help him. When Quinn rose to leave, Cormack scribbled a num-ber on a pad and handed it to Quinn. “This is my private number. Very few people have it. It will reach me directly, night or day.” He held out his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Quinn. God go with you.” He was trying to control himself. Quinn nodded and left quickly. He had seen it before, the effect, the dreadful effect.
While Quinn was still in the washroom, Philip Kelly had driven back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building, where he knew his Deputy Assistant Director,CID, would be waiting for him. He and Kevin Brown had a lot in common, which was why he had pressed for Brown’s appointment. When he entered his office his deputy was there, read-ing Quinn’sfile. Kelly nodded toward it as he took his seat. “So, that’s our hotshot. What do you think?” “He was brave enough in combat,” conceded Brown. “Otherwise a smartass. About the only thing I like about the guy is his name.” “Well,” said Kelly, “they’ve put him in there over the Bureau’s head. Don Edmonds didn’t object. Maybe he fig-ures if it all turns out badly ... Still and all, the sleazeballs who did this thing have contravened at least three U.S. stat-utes. The Bureau still has jurisdiction, even though it hap-pened on British territory. And I don’t want this yo-yo operating out on his own with no supervision, no matter who says so.” “Right,” agreed Brown. “The Bureau’s man in London, Patrick Seymour—do you know him?” “Know of him,” grunted Brown. “Hear he’s very pally with the Brits. Maybe too much so.” Kevin Brown had come out of the Boston police force, an Irishman like Kelly, whose admiration for Britain and the British could be written on the back of a postage stamp with room left over. Not that he was soft on the I.R.A.; he had pulled in two arms dealers trading with the I.R.A., who would have gone to jail but for the courts. He was an old-style law-enforcement officer who had no truck with criminals of any ilk. He also remembered as a small boy in the slums of Boston listening wide-eyed to his grandmother’s tales of people dying with mouths green from grass-eating during the famine of 1848, and of the hangings and the shootings of 1916. He thought of Ireland, a place he had never visited, as a land of mists and gentle green hills, enlivened by the fiddle and the chaunter, where poets like Yeats and O’Faolain wandered and composed. He knew Dublin was full of friendly bars where peaceable folk sat over a stout in front of peat fires, immersed in the works of Joyce and O’Casey.
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He had been told that Dublin had the worst teenage drug problem in Europe but knew it was just London’s prop-aganda. He had heard Irish Prime Ministers on American soil pleading for no more money to be sent to the I.R.A. Well, people were entitled to their views. And he had his. Being a crime-buster did not require him to like the people he saw as the timeless persecutors of the land of his forefa-thers. Across the desk, Kelly came to a decision. “Seymour is close to BuckRevell, but Revell’s away sick. The Director has put me in charge of this from the Bureau’s point of view. And I don’t want this Quinn getting out of hand. I want you to get together a good team and take the midday flight and get over there. You’ll be behind the Concorde by a few hours, but no matter. Base yourself at the embassy—I’ll tell Seymour you’re in charge, just for the emergency.” Brown rose, pleased. “One more thing, Kevin. I want one special agent in close on Quinn. All the time, day and night. If that guy burps, we want to know.” “I know just the one,” said Brown grimly. “A good op-erative, tenacious and clever. Also personable. Agent Sam Somerville. I’ll do the briefing myself. Now.”
Out at Langley, David Weintraub was wondering when he would ever sleep again. During his absence the work had piled up in a mountain. Much of it had to do with the files on all the known terrorist groups in Europe—latest updates, penetration agents inside the groups, known locations of the leading members, possible incursions into Britain over the previous forty days ... the list of headings alone was almost endless. So it was the Chief of the European Section who briefed Duncan McCrea. “You’ll meet Lou Collins from our embassy,” he said, “but he’ll be keeping us posted from outside the inner circle. We have to have somebody close in on this man Quinn. We need to identify those abductors and I wouldn’t be displeased if we could do it before the Brits. And especially before the Bureau. Okay, the British are pals, but I’d like this one for the Agency. If the abductors are foreigners, that gives us an edge; we have better files on foreigners than the Bureau, maybe than the Brits. If Quinn gets any smell, any instinct about them, and lets anything slip, you pass it on to us.” Operative McCrea was awestruck. A GS-12 with ten years in the Agency since recruitment abroad—his father had been a businessman in Central America—he had had two foreign postings but never London. The responsibility was enormous, but matched by the opportunity. “You can rely on m—m—me, sir.”
Quinn had insisted that no one known to the media accom-pany him to Dulles International Airport. He had left the White House in a plain compact car, driven by his escort, an officer of the Secret Service in plain clothes. Quinn had ducked into the backseat, down near the floor, as they passed the knot of press grouped at Alexander Hamilton Place at the extreme east end of the White House complex and farthest away from the West Wing. The press glanced at the car, saw nothing of importance, and took no notice. At Dulles, Quinn checked in with his escort, who refused to leave him until he actually walked onto the Con-corde and who raised eyebrows by flashing his White House ID card to get past passport control.
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He did at least serve one purpose; Quinn went to the duty-free shop and bought a number of items: toiletries, shirts, ties, underwear, socks, shoes, a raincoat, a valise, and a small tape recorder with a dozen batteries and spools. When the time came to pay he jerked a thumb at the Secret Service man. “My friend here will pay by credit card,” he said. The limpet detached himself at the door of the Con-corde. The British stewardess showed Quinn to his seat near the front, giving him no more attention than anyone else. He settled into his aisle seat. A few moments later someone took the aisle seat across the way. He glanced across. Blond, short shining hair, about thirty-five, a good, strong face. The heels were a smidgen too flat, the suit a mite too severe for the figure beneath. The Concorde swung into line, paused, trembled, and then hurled herself down the runway. The bird-of-prey nose lifted, the claws of the rear wheels lost contact, the ground below tilted forty-five degrees, and Washington dropped quickly away. There was something else. Two tiny holes in her lapel, the sort of holes that might be made by a safety pin. The sort of safety pin that might hold an ID card. He leaned across. “Which department are you from?” She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?” “The Bureau. Which department in the Bureau are you from?” She had the grace to blush. She bit her lip and thought it over. Well, it had to come sooner or later. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. My name’s Somerville. Agent Sam Somerville. I’ve been told ...” “It’s all right, Miss Sam Somerville. I know what you’ve been told.” The no-smoking lights flicked off. The addicts in the rear lit up. A stewardess approached, dispensing glasses of champagne. The businessman in the window seat to Quinn’sleft took the last one. She turned to go. Quinn stopped her, apologized, took her silver salver, whipped away the doily that covered it, and held up the tray. In the reflection he sur-veyed the rows behind him. It took seven seconds. Then he thanked the puzzled stewardess and gave her back the tray. “When the seat-belt lights go off, you’d better tell that young sprig from Langley in Row Twenty-one to get his butt up here,” he said to Agent Somerville. Five minutes later she returned with the young man from the rear. He was flushed and apologetic, pushing back his floppy blond hair and man-aging a boy-next-door grin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that they told me ...” “Yes, I know. Take a seat.” Quinn gestured to a vacant seat one row forward. “Someone as badly troubled by ciga-rette smoke stands out, sitting back there.” “Oh.” The young man was subdued, did as he was told. Quinn glanced out. The Concorde wheeled over the New England coast, preparing to go supersonic. Not yet out of America and the promises were being broken already. It was 10:15 Eastern Daylight time
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and 3:15P.M. in London, and three hours to Heathrow.
Chapter 6 Simon Cormackspent the first twenty-four hours of his cap-tivity in total isolation. Experts would know this was part of the softening-up process, a long opportunity for the hostage to dwell upon his isolation and his helplessness. Also a chance for hunger and tiredness to set in. A hostage full of pep, prepared to argue and complain, or even plan some kind of escape, simply makes problems for his abductors. A victim reduced to hopelessness and pathetic gratitude for small mercies is much easier to handle. At 10:00A.M. of the second day, about the time Quinn strode into the Cabinet Room in Washington, Simon was in a fitful doze when he heard the click of the peephole in the cellar door. Looking at it, he could make out a single eye watching him; his bed was exactly opposite the door and even when his ten-foot chain was fully extended he could never be out of view from the peephole. After several seconds he heard the rasp of two bolts be-ing drawn back. The door opened three inches and a black-gloved hand came around the edge. It gripped a white card with a message written with a marker pen in block capitals:
YOU HEAR THREE KNOCKS YOU PUT ON THE HOOD. UNDERSTAND? ACKNOWLEDGE.
He waited for several seconds, unsure what to do. The card waggled impatiently. “Yes,” he said, “I understand. Three knocks on that door and I put on the hood.” The card was withdrawn and replaced by another. The second card said:
TWO KNOCKS YOU CAN TAKE THE HOOD OFF AGAIN. ANY TRICKS—YOU DIE.
“I understand that,” he called toward the door. The card was withdrawn. The door closed. After several seconds there were three loud knocks. Obediently the youth reached for the thick black cowl hood, which lay on the end of his bed. He pulled it over his head and even down to his shoul-ders, placed his hands on his knees, and waited, trembling. Through the thickness of the material he heard nothing, just sensed that someone in soft shoes had entered the cellar. In fact the kidnapper who came in was still dressed in black from head to foot, complete with ski mask, only his eyes visible, despite Simon Cormack’s inability to see a thing. These were the leader’s
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instructions. The man placed something near the bed and withdrew. Under his hood Simon heard the door close, the rasp of bolts, then two clear knocks. Slowly he pulled off the hood. On the floor lay a plastic tray. It bore a plastic plate, knife, fork, and tumbler. On the plate were sausages, baked beans, bacon, and a hunk of bread. The tumbler held water. He was ravenous, having eaten nothing since the dinner of the night before his run, and without thinking called “Thank you” at the door. As he said it he could have kicked himself. He should not be thanking these bastards. He did not realize in his innocence that the Stockholm syndrome was beginning to take effect: that strange empathy that builds up from a victim to his persecutors, so that the victim turns his rage against the authorities who allowed it all to happen, rather than against the abductors. He ate every last scrap of food, drank the water slowly and with deep satisfaction, and fell asleep. An hour later the signals were repeated, the process was reversed, and the tray disappeared. Simon used the bucket for the fourth time, then lay back on the bed and thought of home, and what they might be doing for him. As he lay there Commander Williams returned from Leicester to London and reported to Deputy A.C. Cramer at the latter’s office in New Scotland Yard. Conveniently, the Yard, headquarters of the Met., is only four hundred yards from the Cabinet Office. The former owner of the Ford Transit had been in Leicester police station under guard, a frightened and, as it turned out, innocent man. He protested that his Transit van had been neither stolen nor sold; it had been written off in a crash two months earlier. As he was moving to a new home at the time, he had forgotten to inform the Licensing Center at Swansea. Step by step Commander Williams had checked out the story. The man, a jobbing builder, had been picking up two marble fireplaces from a dealer in south London. Swerving around a corner near the demolition site from which the fire-places had been stripped, he had an argument with a steam shovel. The steam shovel won. The Transit van, then still its original blue, had to be written off completely. Although vis-ible damage had been small, and mainly concentrated in the radiator area, the chassis had been twisted out of alignment. He had returned to Nottingham alone. His insurance company had examined the Transit in the yard of a local re-covery firm, pronounced it unmendable, but declined to pay him because his coverage was not comprehensive and he was at fault for hitting the steam shovel. Much aggrieved, he had accepted £20 for the wreck, by telephone from the recovery firm, and had never returned to London. “Someone put it back on the road,” said Williams. “Good,” said Cramer. “That means they’re ‘bent.’ It checks. The lab boys said someone had worked on the chas-sis with a welder. Also the green paint had been laid over the maker’s blue cellulose finish. A rough spray job. Find out who did it and whom they sold it to.” “I’m going down to Balham,” said Williams. “The crash-recovery firm is based there.” Cramer went back to his work. He had a mountain of it, coming in from a dozen different teams. The forensic re-ports were almost all in and were brilliant as far as they went. The trouble was, that was not far enough. The slugs taken from the bodies matched the bullet cases from theSkorpion, not surprisingly. No further witnesses had come forward from the Oxford area. The abductors had left no fingerprints, or any other traces except car tire tracks. The van tracks were useless—they had the van, albeit fire-gutted. No one had seen anyone near the barn. The sedan tire tracks leading from the barn had been identified
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by make and model, but would fit half a million sedans. A dozen county forces were quietly checking with real estate agents for a property leased over the past six months with enough space and privacy to suit the kidnappers. The Met. was doing the same inside London, in case the crimi-nals were holed up right in the capital itself. That meant thousands of house rentals to be checked out. Cash deals were top of the list, and there were still hundreds of those. Already a dozen discreet little love nests, two rented by na-tional celebrities, had come to light. Underworld informants, the “grasses,” were being leaned on to see if they had heard whispers of a team of known villains, preparing a big one, or of “slags” and “faces” (slang for known criminals) suddenly disappearing from their haunts. The underworld was being turned over in a big way but had come up with nothing so far. Cramer had a pile of reports of “sightings” of Simon Cormack which ranged from the plausible through the possi-ble to the lunatic, and they were all being checked out. There was another pile of transcripts of phoned-in messages from people claiming to be holding the U.S. President’s son. Again, some were crazy, and some sounded promising. Each of the latter callers had been treated seriously and begged to stay in touch. But Cramer had a gut feeling that the real kid-nappers were still maintaining silence, allowing the authori-ties to sweat. It would be the skillful thing to do. A special room in the basem*nt was already set aside and a skilled team of men from the Criminal Intelligence Branch, the negotiators used in British kidnappings, sat waiting for the big one, meanwhile talking patiently and calmly to the hoaxers. Several of the latter had already been caught and would be charged in due course. Nigel Cramer walked to the window and looked down. The sidewalk on Victoria Street was awash with reporters— he had to avoid them every time he left for Whitehall by driv-ing straight through, sealed into his car with windows firmly closed. And still they howled through the glass for a tidbit of information. The Met.’spress office was being driven crazy. He checked his watch and sighed. If the kidnappers held on a few more hours, the American, Quinn, would pre-sumably take over. He did not like having been overruled on that one. He had read the Quinn file, loaned to him by Lou Collins of the CIA, and he had had two hours with the Chief Executive Officer of the Lloyd’s underwriting firm that had employed Quinn and his strange but effective talents for ten years. What he had learned left him with mixed feelings. The man was good, but unorthodox. No police force likes to work with a maverick, however talented. He would not be going out to Heathrow to meet Quinn, he decided. He would see him later and introduce him to the two chief inspectors who would sit at his side and advise him throughout the negotiation—if there ever was one. It was time to go back to Whitehall and brief the COBRA—on precious little. No, this was definitely not going to be a “quickie.”
The Concorde had picked up a jetstream at 60,000 feet and rode into London fifteen minutes ahead of schedule at 6:00P.M. Quinn hefted his small valise and headed down the tun-nel toward the arrivals area with Somerville and McCrea in tow. A few yards into the tunnel two quiet gray men in gray suits waited patiently. One stepped forward. “Mr. Quinn?” he said quietly. Quinn nodded. The man did not flash an identity card, American-style; he just as-sumed that his manner and bearing would indicate he repre-sented the authorities. “We were expecting you, sir. If you would just care to come with me ... My colleague will carry your case.”
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Without waiting for objections he glided down the tun-nel, turned away from the stream of passengers at the en-trance to the main corridor and soon into a small office that bore simply a number on the door. The bigger man, with ex-NCO stamped all over him, nodded amiably at Quinn and took his valise. In the office the quiet man flipped quickly through Quinn’s passport, and those of “your assistants,” produced a stamp from his side pocket, stamped all three, and said, “Welcome to London, Mr. Quinn.” They left the office by another door, down some steps to a waiting car. But if Quinn thought he was going straight into London, he was wrong. They drove to the VIP suite. Quinn stepped inside and stared bleakly about him. Low-profile, he had said. No-profile. There were representatives from the American embassy, the British Home Office, Scotland Yard, the Foreign Office, the CIA, the FBI, and, for all he knew, McDonald’s and Coca-Cola. It took twenty minutes. The motorcade into London was worse. He rode up front in an American limousine half a block long with a pen-nant on the nose. Two motorcycle outriders cleared a path through the early evening traffic. Behind came Lou Collins, giving a ride—and a briefing—to his CIA colleague Duncan McCrea. Two cars back was Patrick Seymour, doing the same for Sam Somerville. The British in their Rovers, Jag-uars, andGranadas tagged along. They swept along the M.4 motorway toward London, pulled onto the North Circular, and down the Finchley Road. Just after Lords roundabout, the lead car swerved into Re-gent’s Park, followed the Outer Circle for a while, and swept into a formal entrance, past two security guards who saluted. Quinn had spent the drive gazing out at the lights of a city he knew as well as any in the world, better than most, and maintained silence until at last even the self-important Minister/counselor lapsed into quiet. As the cars headed toward the illuminated portico of a palatial mansion, Quinn spoke. Snapped, really. He leaned forward—it was a long way—and barked into the driver’s ear. “ Stop the car.” The driver, an American Marine, was so surprised he did exactly that, fast. The car behind was not so smart. There was a tinkling of glass from taillights and headlights. Farther down the line the Home Office driver, to avoid a collision, drove into the rhododendron bushes. The caval-cade made like a concertina and stopped. Quinn stepped out and stared at the mansion. A man was standing on the top step of the portico. “Where are we?” asked Quinn. He knew perfectly well. The diplomat scuttled out of the rear seat behind him. They had warned him about Quinn. He had not believed them. Other figures from down the column were moving up to join them. “Winfield House, Mr. Quinn. That’s Ambassador Fairweather waiting to greet you. It’s all set up: You have a suite of rooms—it’s all been arranged.” “Unarrange it,” said Quinn. He opened the trunk of the limousine, grabbed his valise, and started to walk down the driveway. “Where are you going, Mr. Quinn?” wailed the diplo-mat. “Back to Spain,” called Quinn. Lou Collins was in front of him. He had spoken with David Weintraub on the enciphered link while the Concorde was airborne.
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“He’s a strange bastard,” the DDO had said, “but give him what he wants.” “We have an apartment,” Collins said quietly. “Very private, very discreet. We sometimes use it for first debrief-ing Soviet bloc defectors. Other times for visiting guys from Langley. The DDO stays there.” “Address,” said Quinn. Collins gave it to him. A back street in Kensington. Quinn nodded his thanks and kept walking. On the Outer Circle a taxi was cruising by. Quinn hailed it, gave instructions, and disappeared. It took fifteen minutes to sort out the tangle in the drive-way. Eventually Lou Collins took McCrea and Somerville in his own car and drove them to Kensington. Quinn paid off the cab and surveyed the apartment block. They were going to bug him anyway; at least with a Company flat the hardware would be installed, saving a lot of lame excuses and redecorating. The number he needed was on the third floor. When he rang the bell it was answered by a burly, low-level Company man. The caretaker. “Who are you?” he asked. “I’m in,” said Quinn, walking past him. “You’re out.” He walked through the apartment, checking the sitting room, the master bedroom, and the two smaller ones. The caretaker was frantically on the phone; they patched him through to Lou Collins in his car, and the man subsided. Grumpily he packed his things. Collins and the two bird dogs arrived three minutes after Quinn, who had selected the principal bedroom as his own. Patrick Seymour followed Collins. Quinn surveyed the four of them. “These two have to live with me?” he asked, nodding at Special Agent Somerville and GS-12 McCrea. “Look, be reasonable, Quinn,” said Collins. “This is the President’s son we’re trying to recover. Everyone wants to know what’s going on. They just won’t be satisfied with less. The powers-that-be just aren’t going to let you live here like a monk, telling them nothing.” Quinn thought it over. “All right. What can you two do apart from snooping?” “We could be useful, Mr. Quinn,” said McCrea plead-ingly. “Go and fetch things—help out.” With his floppy hair, constant shy smile, and air of dif-fidence, he seemed much younger than his thirty-four years, more like a college kid than a CIA operative. Sam Somer-ville took up the theme. “I’m a good cook,” she said. “Now that you’ve deep-sixed the Residence and all its staff, you’re going to have to have someone who can cook. Being where we are, it would be a spook anyway.” For the first time since they had met him, Quinn grinned. Somervillethought it transformed his otherwise en-igmatic face. “All right,” he said to Collins and Seymour. “You’re going to bug every room and phone call anyway. You two take the remaining bedrooms.” The young agents went down the hall.
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“But that’s it,” he told Collins and Seymour. “No more guests. I need to speak to the British police. Who’s in charge?” “Deputy Assistant Commissioner Cramer. Nigel Cra-mer. Number two man in Specialist Operations Department. Know him?” “Rings a bell,” said Quinn. At that moment a bell did ring—the telephone. Collins took it, listened, and covered the mouthpiece. “This is Cramer,” he said. “At Winfield House. He went there to liaise with you, just heard the news. Wants to come here. Okay?” Quinn nodded. Collins spoke to Cramer and asked him to come ’round. He arrived in an unmarked police car twenty minutes later. “Mr. Quinn? Nigel Cramer. We met once, briefly.” He stepped into the apartment warily. He had not known about its existence as a Company safe-house, but he did now. He also knew the CIA would vacate it when this affair was over and take another one. Quinn recalled Cramer when he saw the face. “Ireland, years back. The Don Tidey affair. You were head of Anti-Terrorist Branch then.” “S.O. 13, yes. You’ve a good memory, Mr. Quinn. I think we need to talk.” Quinn led Cramer into the sitting room, sat him down, took a chair opposite, and gestured around the room with his hand to indicate it was certainly bugged. Lou Collins might be a nice guy, but no spook is ever that nice. The British policeman nodded gravely. He realized he was effectively on American territory, in the heart of his own capital city, but what he had to say would be fully reported by him to the COBRA. “Let me, as you say in America, level with you, Mr. Quinn. The Metropolitan Police have been granted full pri-macy in the investigation into this crime. Your government has agreed to that. So far we have not had a big break, but it’s early days and we are working flat-out.” Quinn nodded. He had worked in bugged rooms before, many times, and spoken on tapped phone lines. It was always an effort to keep conversation normal. He realized Cramer was speaking for the record, hence the pedantry. “We asked for primacy in the negotiation process and were overruled at Washington’s request. I have to accept that. I don’t have to like it. I have also been instructed to give you every cooperation the Met. and the entire range of our government’s departments can offer. And that you will get. You have my word on it.” “I’m very grateful for that, Mr. Cramer,” said Quinn. He knew it sounded terribly stilted, but somewhere the spools were turning. “What exactly is it you want?”
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“Background first. The last update I read was in Wash-ington ...” Quinn checked his watch—8:00P.M. in London. “Over seven hours ago. Have the kidnappers made contact yet?” “So far as we are aware, no,” said Cramer. “There have been calls, of course. Some obvious hoaxes, some not so obvious, a dozen really plausible. To the last, we asked for some element of proof they were really holding Simon Cormack—” “How?” asked Quinn. “A question to be answered. Something from his nine months at Oxford that it would be hard to discover. No one called back with a right answer.” “Forty-eight hours is not unusual waiting time for the first contact,” said Quinn. “Agreed,” said Cramer. “They may communicate by mail, with a letter or a tape recording, in which case the package may be on its way. Or by phone. If it’s the former, we’ll bring them ’round here, though I will want our forensic people to have first crack at the paper, envelope, wrappings, and letter for any prints, saliva, or other traces. Fair, I think? You have no laboratory facilities here.” “Perfectly fair,” said Quinn. “But if the first contact is by phone, how do you want to handle it, Mr. Quinn?” Quinn spelled out his requirements. A public an-nouncement on the News at Ten program, requiring anyone holding Simon Cormack to contact the American embassy and only the embassy on any of a series of given numbers. A line of switchboard operators in the embassy basem*nt to filter out the obvious phonies and patch the serious possibili-ties through to him at the apartment. Cramer looked up at Collins and Seymour, who nod-ded. They would set up the embassy first-filter multiline switchboard within the next hour and a half, in time for the newscast. Quinn went on. “Your Telecom people can trace every call as it comes into the embassy, maybe make a few arrests of hoaxers stu-pid enough not to use a public phone booth or who stay on the line too long. I don’t think the real kidnappers will be that dumb.” “Agreed,” said Cramer. “So far, they’re smarter than that.” “The patch-through must be without a cutoff, and just to one of the phones in this flat. There are three, right?” Collins nodded. One was a direct line to his office, which was in the embassy building anyway. “Use that one,” said Quinn. “When I’ve established contact with the real kidnappers, assuming I do, I want to give them a new number, a designated line that reaches me and only me.” “I’ll get you a flash line within ninety minutes,” said Cramer, “a number that has never been used before. We’ll have to tap it, of course, but you won’t hear a sound on the line. Finally, I’d like to have two detective chief inspectors living in here with you, Mr. Quinn. They’re good and experi-enced. One man can’t stay awake twenty-four hours a day.”
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“I’m sorry, no,” said Quinn. “They could be of great help,” Cramer persisted. “If the kidnappers are British, there will be the question of re-gional accents, slang words, hints of strain or desperation in the voice at the other end, tiny traces only another Britisher could spot. They wouldn’t say anything, just listen.” “They can listen at the exchange,” said Quinn. “You will be recording everything anyway. Run it past the speech experts, add your own comments on how lousily I’m doing, and come knock on the door here with the results. But I work alone.” Cramer’s mouth tightened slightly. But he had his or-ders. He rose to leave. Quinn rose too. “Let me see you to your car,” he said. They all knew what that meant—the stairs were not bugged. At the door Quinn jerked his head at Seymour and Collins to stay behind. Reluctantly they did so. On the stairs he murmured in Cra-mer’s ear. “I know you don’t like it this way. I’m not very happy about it myself. Try to trust me. I’m not about to lose this boy if I can help it. You’ll hear every damn syllable on the phone. My own people will even hear me on the can. It’s like a Radio Shack in there.” “All right, Mr. Quinn. You’ll get everything I can offer you. That’s a promise.” “One last thing ...” They had reached the pavement; the police car waited. “Don’t spook them. If they phone, or stay on the line a mite too long, no squad cars roaring up to the phone booth ...” “We do know that, Mr. Quinn. But we’ll have to have plainclothes men heading for the source of the phone call. They’ll be very discreet, just about invisible. But if we just spot the car number ... get a physical description ... that could shorten the whole thing to a couple of days.” “Don’t get seen,” warned Quinn. “The man in the phone booth will be under horrendous pressure. Neither of us wants contact to cease. That would probably mean they’ve cut and run for the tall timber, leaving a body behind them.” Cramer nodded, shook hands, and climbed into his car. Thirty minutes later the engineers arrived, none in Telecom uniform, all offering Telecom identification cards. Quinn nodded amiably, knowing they came from MI-5, the Security Service, and they set to work. They were good and they were fast. Most of the work was being done in the Ken-sington exchange, anyway. One of the engineers, with the base off the sitting-room telephone, raised an eyebrow a fraction. Quinn pretended not to notice. Trying to insert a bug, the man had found one in there already. Orders are orders; he slotted his own in beside the American one, establishing a new and miniature Anglo-American relationship. By 9:30P.M. Quinn had his flash line, theultraprivate line to which he would pass the real kidnapper if he ever spoke to the man. The second line was patched through permanently to the embassy switchboard, for incoming “possibles.” The third was left for outgoing calls. More work was going on in the basem*nt at the em-bassy in Grosvenor Square. Ten lines already existed and they were all taken over. Ten young women, some American, some British, sat and waited. The third operation was in the Kensington exchange, where the police set up an office to monitor
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incoming calls heading for Quinn’sflash line. As Kensington was one of the new electronic exchanges, tracing would be fast, eight to ten seconds. On their way out of the exchange, the flash-line calls would have two more taps, one to the MI-5 communica-tions center in Cork Street, Mayfair, the other to the U.S. embassy basem*nt which, after the isolation of the kidnap-pers, would change from a switchboard to a listening post. Thirty seconds after the British group left, Lou Collins’s American engineer arrived to remove all the newly in-stalled British bugs and tune their own. Thus, when Quinn spoke other than on the telephone, only his fellow Americans would be listening. “Nice try,” remarked Seymour to his MI-5 colleague a week later over a drink in Brooks’s Club. At 10:00P.M. ITN newscaster Sandy Gall stared into the camera as the booming chimes of the Big Ben theme died away, and made the announcement to the kidnappers. The numbers to call stayed on the screen throughout the update on the Simon Cormack kidnapping, which had little to say but said it anyway. In the sitting room of a quiet house forty miles from London, four silent and tense men watched the broadcast. The leader rapidly translated into French for two of them. In fact one was Belgian, the other Corsican. The fourth needed no translation. His spoken English was good but heavily ac-cented with the Afrikaner tones of his native South Africa. The two from Europe spoke no English at all, and the leader had forbidden all of them to stray from the house until the affair was over. He alone left and returned, always out of the attached garage, always in the Volvo sedan, which now had new tires and license plates—the original and legitimate plates. He never left without his wig, beard, moustache, and tinted glasses. During his absences the others were in-structed to stay out of sight, not even appearing at the win-dows and certainly not answering the door. As the newscast changed to the Middle East situation, one of the Europeans asked a question. The leader shook his head. “ Demain,”he replied, “tomorrow morning.” More than two hundred calls came to the embassy base-ment that night. Each was handled carefully and courte-ously, but only seven were passed through to Quinn, He took each with a cheerful friendliness, addressing the caller as “friend” or “pal,” explaining that regretfully “his people” simply had to go through the tiresome formality of establish-ing that the caller really had Simon Cormack, and carefully asking them to get the answer to a simple question and call him back. No one called back. In a break between 3:00A.M. and sunrise he catnapped for four hours. Through the night, Sam Somerville and Duncan McCrea stayed with him. Sam commented on his laid-back per-formance on the phone. “It hasn’t even begun yet,” he said quietly. But the strain had. The two younger people were feeling it already. Just after midnight, having caught the noon plane from Washington, Kevin Brown and a picked team of eight FBI agents flew into Heathrow. Forewarned, an exasperated Patrick Seymour was there to greet them. He gave the senior officer an update on the situation to 11:00P.M. , when he had left for the airport. That included the installation of Quinn in his chosen aerie as opposed to Winfield House, and the telephone-intercept situation.
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“Knew he was a smartass,” growled Brown when told of the tangle in the Winfield House driveway. “We’ve got to sit on this bastard or he’ll be into every kind of trick. Let’s get to the embassy. We’ll sleep on cots right there in the basem*nt. If that yo-yo farts, I want to hear it, loud and clear.” Inwardly, Seymour groaned. He had heard of Kevin Brown and could have done without the visit. Now, he thought, it was going to be worse than he had feared. When they reached the embassy at 1:30 A.M ., the 106th phony call was coming in.
Other people were getting little sleep that night. Two of them were Commander Williams of S.O. 13 and a man called Sid-ney Sykes. They spent the hours of darkness confronting each other in the interview room of Wandsworth police sta-tion in south London. A second officer present was the head of the Vehicles Section of the Serious Crimes Squad, whose men had traced Sykes. As far as a small-time crook like Sykes was concerned, the two men across the plain table were very heavy pressure indeed and by the end of the first hour he was a badly fright-ened man. After that things got worse. The Vehicles Section, following a description given by the jobbing builder in Leicester, had traced the recovery firm that had removed the wrecked Transit from its lethal em-brace with the steam shovel. Once it was established that the vehicle had a twisted chassis and was a write-off, the recov-ery company offered it back to its owner. As the charge for bringing it on a flat-bed to Leicester was greater than its value, he had declined. The recovery team had sold it to Sykes as scrap, for he ran a car-wrecking yard in Wandsworth. The Vehicles Section rummage crews had spent the day turning over that yard. They found a barrel three-quarters full of dirty black sump oil, whose murky depths had yielded twenty-four car license plates, twelve perfectly matched pairs, all made up in the Sykes yard and all as genuine as a three-pound note. A recess beneath the floorboards of Sykes’s shabby office had given up a wad of thirty vehicle registration documents, all pertaining to cars and vans that had ceased to exist except on paper. Sykes’s racket was to acquire crash vehicles written off by their insurers, tell the owner that he, Sykes, would inform Swansea the vehicle had ceased to exist except as a mass of scrap, and then inform Swansea of exactly the opposite—that he had bought the vehicle from its previous owner. The Swansea computer would then log that “fact.” If the car really was a write-off, Sykes was simply buying the legiti-mate paperwork, which could then be applied to a working vehicle of similar make and type, the working vehicle having been stolen from some parking lot by one of Sykes’s light-fingered associates. With new plates to match the registra-tion document of the write-off, the stolen car could then be resold. The final touch was to abrade the original chassis and engine block numbers, etch in new ones, and smear on enough grease and dirt to fool the ordinary customer. Of course this would not fool the police, but as all such deals were in cash, Sykes could later deny he had ever seen the offending car, let alone sold it. A variation on the racket was to take a van like the Tran-sit, in good shape apart from its twisted chassis, cut out the distorted section, bridge the gap with a length of girder, and put it back on the road. Illegal and dangerous, but such cars and vans could probably run for several thousand more miles before falling apart. Confronted by the statements of the Leicester builder, the recovery firm that had sold him the Transit as
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scrap for £20, and the imprints of the old, real chassis and engine numbers; and informed what deed the truck had been used for, Sykes realized he was in very deep trouble indeed, and came clean. The man who had bought the Transit, he recalled after racking his memory, had been wandering around the yard one day six weeks back, and on being questioned had said he was looking for a low-priced van. By chance, Sykes had just finished recycling the chassis of the blue Transit and spraying it green. It had left his yard within the hour for £300 cash. He had never seen the man again. The fifteen £20 notes were long gone. “Description?” asked Commander Williams. “I’m trying, I’m trying,” pleaded Sykes. “Do that,” said Williams. “It will make the rest of your life so much easier.” Medium height, medium build. Late forties. Rough face and manner. Not a posh voice, and not a Londoner by birth. Ginger hair—could have been a wig, but a good one. Anyway, he wore a hat, despite the heat of late August. Moustache, darker than the hair—could have been a stick-on, but a good one. And tinted glasses. Not sunglasses, just blue-tinted, with horn frames. The three men spent two more hours with the police artist. Commander Williams brought the picture back to Scotland Yard just before the breakfast hour and showed it to Nigel Cramer. He took it to the COBRA committee at nine that morning. The trouble was, the picture could have been anyone. And there the trail ran out. “We know the van was worked on by another and better mechanic after Sykes,” Cramer told the committee. “And a sign painter created the Barlow fruit company logo on each side. It must have been stored somewhere, a garage with welding facilities. But if we issue a public appeal, the kid-nappers will see it and could lose their nerve, cut and run, and leave Simon Cormack dead.” It was agreed to issue the description to every police station in the country, but not to bring in the press and the public.
Andrew “Andy” Laing spent the night poring over the records of bank transactions, becoming more and more puz-zled, until just before dawn his bemusem*nt gave way to the growing certainty that he was right and there was no other explanation. Andy Laing was the head of the Credit and Marketing team in the Jiddah branch of the Saudi Arabian Investment Bank, an institution established by the Saudi government to handle most of the astronomical sums of money that washed around those parts. Although Saudi-owned and with a mainly Saudi board of directors, the SAIB was principally staffed by foreign contract officers, and the biggest single contributor of staff was New York’s Rockman-Queens Bank, from which Laing had been seconded. He was young, keen, conscientious, and ambitious, ea-ger to make a good career in banking and enjoying his term in Saudi Arabia. The pay was better than in New York, he had an attractive apartment, several girlfriends among the large expatriate community in Jiddah, was not worried by the no-liquor restrictions, and got on with his colleagues.
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Although the Riyadh branch was the head office of SAIB, the busiest branch was in Jiddah, the business and commercial capital of Saudi Arabia. Normally, Laing would have left the crenellated white building—looking more like a Foreign Legion fort than a bank—and walked up the street to the Hyatt Regency for a drink before six o’clock the previous evening. But he had two more files to close, and rather than leave them till the next morning, he stayed on for an extra hour. So he was still at his desk when the old Arab messenger wheeled ’round the cart stacked with printout sheets torn from the bank’s computer, leaving the appropriate sheets in each executive’s office for attention the next day. These sheets bore the records of the day’s transactions undertaken by the bank’s several departments. Patiently the old man placed a sheaf of printouts on Laing’sdesk, bobbed his head, and withdrew. Laing called a cheerful“ Shukran”after him—he prided himself on being courteous to the Saudi menialstaff—and went on working. When he had finished he glanced at the papers by his side and uttered a sound of annoyance. He had been given the wrong papers. The ones beside him were the in-and-out records of deposits and withdrawals from all the major ac-counts lodged with the bank. These were the business of the Operations manager, not Credit and Marketing. He took them and strolled down the corridor to the empty office of the Ops manager, Mr. Amin, his colleague from Pakistan. As he did so he glanced at the sheets and something caught his attention. He stopped, turned back, and began to go through the records page by page. On each the same pat-tern emerged. He switched on his computer and asked it to go back into the records of two client accounts. Always the same pattern. By the small hours of the morning he was certain there could be no doubt. What he was looking at had to be a major fraud. The coincidences were just too bizarre. He replaced the printouts on the desk of Mr. Amin and resolved to fly to Riyadh at the first opportunity for a personal interview with his fellow American, the general manager, Steve Pyle.
As Laing was going home through the darkened streets of Jiddah, eight time zones to the west the White House com-mittee was listening to Dr. Nicholas Armitage, an experi-enced psychiatrist who had just come across to the West Wing from the Executive Mansion. “Gentlemen, so far I have to tell you that the shock has affected the First Lady to a greater degree than the Presi-dent. She is still taking medication under the supervision of her physician. The President has, no doubt, the tougher tem-perament, though I’m afraid the strain is already beginning to become noticeable, and the telltale signs of post-abduction parental trauma are beginning to show in him too.” “What signs, Doctor?” asked Odell without ceremony. The psychiatrist—who did not like to be interrupted, and never was when he lectured students—cleared his throat. “You have to understand that in these cases the mother acceptably has the release of tears, even hysteria. The male parent often suffers in a greater way, experiencing, apart from the normal anxiety for the abducted child, a profound sense of guilt, of self-blame, of conviction that he was re-sponsible in some way, should have done more, should have taken more precautions, should have been more careful.” “That’s not logical,” protested Morton Stannard.
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“We’re not talking about logic here,” said the doctor. “We’re talking about the symptoms of trauma, made worse by the fact the President was— is—extremely close to his son, loves him very deeply indeed. Add to that the feeling of helplessness, the inability to do anything. So far, of course, with no contact from the kidnappers, he does not even know if the boy is alive or dead. It’s still early, of course, but it won’t get better.” “These kidnappings can go on for weeks,” said Jim Donaldson. “This man is our Chief Executive. What changes can we expect?” “The strain will be eased slightly when and if the first contact is made and proof obtained that Simon is still alive,” said Dr. Armitage. “But the relief will not last long. As time drags on, the deterioration will deepen. There will be stress at a very high level, leading to irritability. There will be insomnia—that can be helped with medication. Finally there will be listlessness in matters concerning the father’s profes-sion—” “In this case running the damn country,” said Odell. “... and lack of concentration, loss of memory in mat-ters of government. In a word, gentlemen, half or more of the President’s mind until further notice will be devoted to thinking about his son, and a further part to concern for his wife. In some cases, even after the successful release of a child kidnap victim, it has been the parents who needed months, even years, of post-trauma therapy.” “In other words,” said Attorney General Bill Walters, “we have half a President, maybe less.” “Oh, come now,” Treasury Secretary Reed interjected. “This country has had Presidents on the operating table, wholly incapacitated in the hospital, before now. We must just take over, run things as he would wish, disturb our friend as little as possible.” His optimism evoked little matching response. Brad Johnson rose. “Why the hell won’t those bastards get in touch?” he asked. “It’s been nearly forty-eight hours.” “At least we have our negotiator set up and waiting for their first call,” said Reed. “And we have a strong presence in London,” added Walters. “Mr. Brown and his team from the Bureau arrived two hours ago.” “What the hell are the British police doing?” muttered Stannard. “Why can’t they find those bastards?” “We have to remember it’s been only forty-eight hours—not even,” observed Secretary of State Donaldson. “Britain’s not as big as the U.S., but with fifty-four million people there are a lot of places to hide. You recall how long the Symbionese Liberation Army kept Patty Hearst, with the whole FBI hunting them? Months.” “Let’s face it, gentlemen,” drawled Odell, “the prob-lem is, there’s nothing more we can do.” That was the problem; there was nothing anybody could do.
The boy they were talking about was getting through his sec-ond night of captivity. Though he did not
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know it, there was someone on duty in the corridor outside his cell throughout the night. The cellar of the suburban house might be made of poured concrete, but if he decided to scream and shout, the abductors were quite prepared to subdue him and gag him. He made no such mistake. Resolving to quell his fear and behave with as much dignity as possible, he did two dozen push-ups and toe-touching calisthenics, while a skeptical eye watched through the peephole. He had no wristwatch—he had been running without one on—and was losing track of time. The light burned constantly but at what he judged to be around midnight—he was two hours off—he curled up on the bed, drew the thin blanket over his head to shut out most of the light, and slept. As he did so, the last dozen of the hoax calls were coming in at his country’s embassy forty miles away in Grosvenor Square.
Kevin Brown and his eight-strong team did not feel like sleep. Jet-lagged from the flight across the Atlantic, their body clocks were still on Washington time, five hours ear-lier than London. Brown insisted that Seymour and Collins show him around the basem*nt telephone exchange and listening post at the embassy, where in an office at the end of the complex, American engineers—the British had not been given access—had set up wall speakers to bring in the sounds re-corded by the various bugs in the Kensington apartment. “There are two taps in the sitting room,” explained Col-lins reluctantly. He saw no reason why he should explain Company techniques to the man from the Bureau, but he had his orders, and the Kensington apartment was “burned” from an operational point of view anyway. “If a senior officer from Langley was using the place as a base, they would of course be deactivated. But if we were debriefing a Soviet there, we find invisible bugs less inhibit-ing than having a tape recorder turning away on the table. The sitting room would be the main debriefing area. But there are two more in the master bedroom—Quinn’s sleeping in there, but not at the moment, as you will hear—and others in the remaining two bedrooms and the kitchen. “Out of respect for Miss Somerville and our own man McCrea, we have deactivated the two smaller bedrooms. But if Quinn went into one of them to talk confidentially, we could reactivate them by switching here and here.” Collins indicated two switches on the master console. Brown asked, “In any case, if he talked to either of them out of range of any speakers, we would expect them to report back to us, right?” Collins and Seymour nodded. “That’s what they’re there for,” added Seymour. “Then we have three telephones in there,” Collins went on. “One is the new flash line. Quinn will use that only when he is convinced he is talking to the genuine abductors, and for no other purpose at all. All conversations on that line will be intercepted in the Kensington exchange by the British and piped through on this speaker here. Second, he has a direct patch-through from this room, which he is using now to talk to one of the callers we believe to be a hoaxer, but maybe not. That connection also passes through the Kensing-ton exchange. And there is the third line, an ordinary outgo-ing and incoming line, also on intercept but probably not to be used unless he wants to call out.”
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“You mean the British are listening to all this as well?” asked Brown dourly. “Only the phone lines,” said Seymour. “We have to have their cooperation on telephones—they own the ex-changes. Besides, they could have a good input on voice pat-terns, speech defects, regional accents. And of course the call-tracing has got to be done by them, right out of the Ken-sington exchange. We don’t have an untappable line from the apartment to this basem*nt.” Collins coughed. “Yes, we do,” he said, “but it only works for the room bugs. We have two apartments in that building. All the stuff on all the room bugs is fed on internal wires down to our second and smaller apartment in the basem*nt. I have a man down there now. In the basem*nt the speech is scrambled, transmitted on ultrashort-wave radio up here, received, descrambled, and piped down here.” “You radio it for just a mile?” asked Brown. “Sir, my Agency gets on very well with the British. But no secret service in the world will ever pipe classified infor-mation through the land lines running under a city they do not control.” Brown enjoyed that. “So the Brits can hear the phone conversations but not the room talk.” He was wrong, actually. Once MI-5 knew of the Ken-sington apartment, that the two Metropolitan chief inspec-tors were not being allowed to live in, and that their own bugs had been removed, they calculated there must be a second American apartment in there to relay Soviet debriefings to CIA Control somewhere else. Within an hour the apartment-building records had pinpointed the small bed-sitter in the basem*nt. By midnight a team of plumbers had found the connecter wires running through the central heating system, and did an intercept from a ground-floor apartment, whose tenant was courteously urged to take a brief vacation and thus assist Her Majesty. By sunrise everyone was listening to everyone. Collins’s ELINT—electronic intelligence—man at the console lifted the headset off his ears. “Quinn’s just finished with the caller,” he said. “Now they’ll talk among themselves. You want to hear, sir?” “Sure,” said Brown. The engineer threw the conversation in the sitting room in Kensington from headset to wall mike. Quinn’s voice came through the speaker. “... would be fine. Thanks, Sam. Milk and sugar.” “Do you think he’ll call back, Mr. Quinn?” That was McCrea. “Nope. Plausible, but he didn’t smell right.” Quinn. The men in the embassy basem*nt turned to go. Cots had been set up in a number of nearby offices. Brown in-tended to stay on the job at all times. He designated two of his eight men to take the night watch. It was 2:30A.M.
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The same conversations, on the phone and in the sitting room, had been heard and logged in the MI-5 communica-tions center in Cork Street. In the Kensington telephone ex-change the police heard only the telephone call, traced it within eight seconds to a phone booth in nearby Paddington, and dispatched a plainclothes officer from Paddington Green police station, two hundred yards from the booth. He ar-rested an old man with a history of mental illness. At 9:00A.M. on the third day, one of the women in Grosvenor Square took another call. The voice was English, rough, curt. “Put me through to the negotiator.” The girl went pale. No one had used that word before. She kept her voice honeyed. “Putting you through, sir.” Quinn had the receiver in his hand at half a ring. The girl’s voice was a rapid whisper. “Someone asking for the negotiator. Just that.” Half a second later the connection was made. Quinn’s deep, reassuring voice came through the speakers. “Hi there, pal. You wanted to speak to me?” “You want Simon Cormack back, it’s going to cost you. A lot. Now listen to me—” “No, friend, you listen to me. I’ve had a dozen hoax calls already today. You can understand how many crazies there are in this world, right? So do me a favor—just a simple question ...” In Kensington the tracers got a “lock” in eight seconds, Hitchin, Hertfordshire ... a public booth in ... the railway station. Cramer got it at the Yard ten seconds later; Hitchin police station was slower to get in gear. Their man set off in a car thirty seconds later, was dropped two corners from the station a minute thereafter, and came ambling around the corner toward the booths 141 seconds after the call began. Too late. The man had spent thirty seconds on the line and was by then three streets away, lost in the morning throng. McCrea stared at Quinn in amazement. “You hung up on him,” he said. “Had to,” said Quinn laconically. “By the time I had finished we were out of time.” “If you’d kept him on the line,” said Sam Somerville, “the police might have caught him.” “If he’s the man, I want to give him confidence, not a bad fright—yet,” said Quinn, and lapsed into silence. He seemed completely relaxed; his two companions were strung out with tension, staring at the phone as if it might ring again. Quinn knew the man could not possibly get back to another phone booth for a couple of hours. He had learned long ago in combat: If you cannot do anything but wait, re-lax. In Grosvenor Square, Kevin Brown had been awakened by one of his men and hustled into the listening
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post in time to hear the end of Quinn’sconversation. “... is the name of that book? You answer me that and call me right back. I’ll be waiting, pal. Bye now.” Collins and Seymour joined him, and all three listened to the playback. Then they switched to wall speaker and heard Sam So-merville make her point. “Right,” growled Brown. They heard Quinn’sreply. “Asshole,” said Brown. “Another couple of minutes and they could have caught that bastard.” “They get one,” pointed out Seymour. “The others still have the boy.” “So get the one and persuade him to reveal the hide-out,” said Brown. He smacked one beefy fist into the palm of his other hand. “They probably have a deadline. It’s something we use if a member of one of our networks gets taken. If he doesn’t show back at the hideout in, say, ninety minutes, allowing for traffic, the others know he’s been taken. They waste the kid and vaporize.” “Look, sir, these men have nothing to lose,” added Sey-mour, to Brown’s irritation. “Even if they walk in and hand Simon back, they’re going to do life anyway. They killed two Secret Service men and a British cop.” “That Quinn just better know what he’s doing,” said Brown as he walked out.
There were three loud knocks on the door of Simon Cormack’s cellar prison at 10:15. He pulled on his hood. When he took it off, a card was propped against the wall by the door.
WHEN YOU WERE A KID ON HOLIDAY AT NANTUCKET, YOUR AUNT EMILY USED TO READ TO YOU FROM HER FAVOURITE BOOK. WHICH BOOK WAS IT?
He stared at the card. A wave of relief swept over him. Someone was in contact. Someone had spoken to his father in Washington. Someone was out there trying to get him back. He tried to fight back the tears, but they kept welling up into his eyes. Someone was watching through the peep-hole. He snuffled; he had no handkerchief. He thought back to Aunt Emily, his father’s elder sister, prim in her high-necked cotton dresses, taking him for walks along the beach, sitting him on a tussock and reading about little animals who talked and acted like humans. He sniffed again and shouted the answer at the peephole. It closed. The door opened a fraction; a black-gloved hand came around the corner and withdrew the
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card. *** The man with the gruff voice came through again at 1:30P.M. The patch-through from the embassy was immediate. The call was traced in eleven seconds—to a booth in a shop-ping mall at Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire. By the time a plainclothes officer from the Milton Keynes force reached the booth and looked around, the caller had been gone for ninety seconds. On the line he had wasted no time. “The book,” he rasped. “Called The Wind in the Wil-lows.” “Okay, friend, you’re the man I’ve been waiting to speak to. Now take this number, get off the line, and call me from a fresh booth. It’s a line that reaches me, and me only. Three-seven-oh; zero-zero-four-zero. Please stay in touch. Bye now.” Again he replaced the receiver. This time he raised his head and addressed the wall. “Collins, you can tell Washington we have our man. Simon is alive. They want to talk. You can dismantle the telephone exchange in the embassy.” They heard it all right. They all heard it. Collins used his encoded flash line to Weintraub in Langley, and he told Odell, who told the President. Within minutes the switch-board operators in Grosvenor Square were being sent away. There was one last call, a plaintive, whining voice. “We are the Proletarian Liberation Army. We are hold-ing Simon Cormack. Unless America destroys all her nu-clear weapons—” The switchboard girl’s voice was like running molas-ses. “Honeychild,” she said, “go screw yourself.” “You did it again,” said McCrea. “You hung up on him.” “He has a point,” said Sam. “These people can be un-balanced. Couldn’t that kind of treatment annoy him to the point of hurting Simon Cormack?” “Possible,” said Quinn. “But I hope I’m right, and I think I am. Doesn’t sound like political terrorists. I’m pray-ing he’s just a professional killer.” They were aghast. “What’s so good about a professional killer?” asked Sam. “Not a lot,” admitted Quinn, who seemed strangely re-lieved. “But a professional only works for money. And so far he doesn’t have any.”
Chapter 7 The kidnapper did not call back until six that evening. In the interim Sam Somerville and Duncan
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McCrea stared at the flash-line telephone almost without cease, praying that whoever he was, the man would call back and not sever com-munication. Quinn alone seemed to have the ability to relax. He lay on the sitting-room sofa, stretched out with his shoes off, reading a book. The Anabasis by Xenophon, Sam reported quietly from the phone in her room. He had brought it from Spain. “Never heard of it,” grumbled Brown in the basem*nt of the embassy. “It’s about military tactics,” volunteered Seymour help-fully, “by a Greek general.” Brown grunted. He knew they were members of NATO but that was about it. The British police were far busier. Two telephone booths, one in Hitchin, a small and pretty provincial town at the northern tip of Hertfordshire, the other in the great new-town sprawl of Milton Keynes, were visited by quiet men from Scotland Yard and dusted for fingerprints. There were dozens, but though they did not know it, none belonged to the kidnapper, who had worn flesh-colored surgical gloves. Discreet inquiries were made in the vicinity of both booths to discover if any witness might have seen the booths being used at the specific moments that the calls were made. No one had noticed, not to a matter of seconds. Both booths were in banks of three or four, all in constant use. Besides, both places had been crowded at the time. Cramer grunted. “He’s using the daily rush hours. Morning and lunch.” The tapes of the caller’s voice were taken to a professor of philology, an expert in speech patterns and the origins of accents, but Quinn had done most of the talking and the aca-demic shook his head. “He’s using several layers of paper tissue or a thin cloth over the mouthpiece of the phone,” he said. “Crude, but fairly effective. It won’t fool the speech-pattern oscillators, but I, like the machines, need more material to discern pat-terns.” Commander Williams promised to bring him more ma-terial when the man phoned again. During the day, six houses went quietly under surveillance. One was in London, the other five in the Home Counties. All were rented proper-ties, all six-month leases. By nightfall two had been cleared: a French bank official in one, married with two children, working quite legitimately for the London branch of theSo-ciété Générale; and in the other, a German professor doing research work at the British Museum. By the end of the week the other four would also be cleared, but the property market was producing more “pos-sibles” in a constant stream. They would all be checked out. “If the criminals have actually bought a property,” Cra-mer told the COBRA committee, “or borrowed one from a bona fide homeowner, I’m afraid it becomes impossible. In the latter case there would be no trace at all; in the former the volume of house purchases in the Southeast in any one year would simply swamp our resources for months on end.” Privately Nigel Cramer favored Quinn’sargument (which he had heard on tape) that the caller sounded more like a professional criminal than a political terrorist. Still, the run-through of both kinds of lawbreaker went on and would do so until the end of the case. Even if the abductors were underworld criminals, they might have acquired their Czech machine pistol from a terrorist group. The two worlds sometimes met and did business.
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If the British police were overwhelmed with work, the problem for the American team in the basem*nt of the em-bassy was idleness. Kevin Brown paced the long room like a caged lion. Four of his men were on their cots, the other four watching the light that would flash on when the single dedi-cated phone in the Kensington apartment, whose number the kidnapper now had, was used. The light flashed at two min-utes after six. To everyone’s amazement, Quinn let it ring four times. Then he answered, getting in the first words. “Hi, there. Glad you called.” “Like I said, you want Simon Cormack back alive, it’s going to cost you.” Same voice, deep, gruff, throaty, and muffled by paper tissues. “Okay, let’s talk,” said Quinn in a friendly tone. “My name’s Quinn. Just Quinn. Can you give me a name?” “Get stuffed.” “Come on, not the real one. We’re not fools, either of us. Any name. Just so I can say ‘Hi there, Smith, or Jones—’ ” “Zack,”said the voice. “Z-A-C-K? You got it. Listen,Zack, you’ve got to keep these calls to twenty seconds, right? I’m not a magi-cian. The spooks are listening and tracing. Call me back in a couple of hours and we’ll talk again. Okay?” “Yeah,” saidZack, and put the phone down. The Kensington exchange wizards had got their “lock” in seven seconds. Another public phone booth, in the town center of Great Dunmow, county of Essex, nine miles west of the M.11 motorway from London to Cambridge. Like the other two towns, north of London. A small town with a small police station. The plainclothes officer reached the bank of three booths eighty seconds after the phone was hung up. Too late. At that hour, with the shops closing and the pubs open, there was a swirl of people but no one looking furtive, or wearing a ginger wig, moustache, and tinted glasses.Zack had chosen the third daily rush hour, early evening, dusk but not yet dark, for in the dark, phone booths are illu-minated inside. In the embassy basem*nt Kevin Brown exploded. “Who the hell’s side does Quinn think he’s on?” he asked. “He’s treating that bastard like the flavor of the month.” His four agents nodded in unison. In Kensington, Sam Somerville and Duncan McCrea asked much the same question. Quinn just lay back on the couch, shrugged, and returned to his book. Unlike the new-comers, he knew he had two things to do: try to get into the mind of the man on the other end of the line, and try to gain his confidence. He suspected already thatZack was no fool. So far, at any rate, he had made few mistakes, or he would have been caught by now. So he must know his calls would be moni-tored and traced. Quinn had told
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him nothing he did not know already. Volunteering the advice that would keepZack safe and at large would teachZack nothing he wouldn’t be doing anyway, without instruction. Quinn was just bridge-building, repugnant though the task was, laying down the first bricks in a relationship with a killer that, he hoped, would cause the man almost involun-tarily to believe that Quinn and he shared a common goal—an exchange—and that the authorities were really the bad guys. From his years in England, Quinn knew that to British ears the American accent can appear the friendliest tone in the world. Something about the drawl. More amiable than the clipped British voice. He had accentuated his drawl a mite beyond its usual level. It was vital not to giveZack the impression he was putting him down or making a mockery of him in any way. Also vital to let nothing slip as to how much he loathed the man who was crucifying a father and a mother three thousand miles away. He was so persuasive he fooled Kevin Brown. But not Cramer. “I wish he’d keep the bastard talking a while longer,” said Commander Williams. “One of our country colleagues might get a look at him, or his car.” Cramer shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Our problem is, these detective constables in the smaller county stations are not trained agents when it comes to shadowing people. Quinn will try to extend the speaking periods later and hopeZack doesn’t no-tice.” Zackdid not call that evening; not until the following morning.
Andy Laing took the day off and flew by an internal Saudia commuter flight to Riyadh, where he sought and was given a meeting with the general manager, Steve Pyle. The office block of SAIB in the Saudi capital was a far cry from the Foreign Legion fort building in Jiddah. The bank had really spent some money here, constructing a tower of buff-colored marble, sandstone, and polished granite. Laing crossed the vast central atrium at ground-floor level, the only sound the clack of his heels on the marble and the splash of the cooling fountains. Even in mid-October it was fiercely hot outside, but the atrium was like a garden in spring. After a thirty-minute wait he was shown into the office of the general manager on the top floor, a suite so lush that even the president of Rockman-Queens, on a stopover visit six months earlier, had found it more luxurious than his own New York penthouse quarters. Steve Pyle was a big, bluff executive who prided him-self on his paternal handling of his younger staff of all nation-alities. His slightly flushed complexion indicated that though the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia might be “dry” down at street level, his own co*cktail cabinet lacked for nothing. He greeted Laing with geniality but some surprise. “Mr. Al-Haroun didn’t warn me you were coming, Andy,” he said. “I’d have had a car meet you at the airport.”
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Mr. Al-Haroun was the manager at Jiddah, Laing’s Saudi boss. “I didn’t tell him, sir. I just took a day’s leave. I think we have a problem down there and I wanted to bring it to your attention.” “Andy, Andy, my name’s Steve, right? Glad you came. So what’s the problem?” Laing had not brought the printouts with him; if anyone at Jiddah was involved in the scam, taking them would have given the game away. But he had copious notes. He spent an hour explaining to Pyle what he had found. “It can’t be coincidence, Steve,” he argued. “There is no way these figures can be explained except as major bank fraud.” Steve Pyle’sgeniality had dropped away as Laing ex-plained his predicament. They had been sitting in the deep club chairs of Spanish leather that were grouped around the low beaten-brass coffee table. Pyle rose and walked to the smoked-glass wall, which gave a spectacular view over the desert for many miles around. Finally he turned and walked back to the table. His broad smile was back, his hand out-stretched. “Andy, you are a very observant young man. Very bright. And loyal. I appreciate that. I appreciate your coming to me with this ... problem.” He escorted Laing to the door. “Now I want you to leave this with me. Think nothing more about it. I’ll handle this one personally. Believe me, you’re going to go a long way.” Andy Laing left the bank building and headed back to Jiddah aglow with self-righteousness. He had done the proper thing. The GM would put a stop to the swindle. When he had left, Steve Pyle drummed his fingers on his desk top for several minutes, then made a single phone call.
Zack’s fourth call, and second on the flash line, was at quar-ter to nine in the morning. It was traced to Royston, on the northern border of Hertfordshire, where that county abuts Cambridge. The police officer who got there two minutes later was ninety seconds adrift. And there were no finger-prints. “Quinn, let’s keep it short. I want five million dollars, and fast. Small denominations, used bills.” “Jeez,Zack, that’s a hell of a lot. You know how much that weighs?” A pause.Zack was bemused by the unexpectedness of the reference to the money’s weight. “That’s it, Quinn. Don’t argue. Any tricks and we can always send you a couple of fingers to straighten you out.” In Kensington, McCrea gagged and skittered away to the bathroom. He hit a coffee table on the way. “Who’s with you?” snarledZack. “A spook,” said Quinn. “You know the way it is. These assholes are not going to leave me alone, now
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are they?” “I meant what I said.” “Come on,Zack, there’s no need for that. We’re both pros. Right? Let’s keep it like that, eh? We do what we have to do, nothing more or less. Now time’s up. Get off the line.” “Just get the money, Quinn.” “I have to deal with the father on this one. Call me back in twenty-four hours. By the way, how is the kid?” “Fine. So far.”Zack cut the call and left the booth. He had been on-line for thirty-one seconds. Quinn replaced the receiver. McCrea came back into the room. “If you ever do that again,” said Quinn softly, “I will have you both out of here instantly, and screw the Agency and the Bureau.” McCrea was so apologetic he looked ready to cry. In the basem*nt of the embassy Brown looked at Col-lins. “Your man fouled up,” he said. “What was that bang on the line anyway?” Without waiting for an answer he picked up the direct line from the basem*nt to the apartment. Sam Somerville took it and explained about the threat of severed fingers, and McCrea’sknee hitting the coffee table. When she put the phone down, Quinn asked, “Who was that?” “Mr. Brown,” she said formally. “Mr. Kevin Brown.” “Who’s he?” asked Quinn. Sam glanced nervously at the walls. “The Deputy Assistant Director of the C.I. Division at the Bureau,” she said formally, knowing Brown was listen-ing. Quinn made a gesture of exasperation. Sam shrugged. There was a conference at noon, in the apartment. The feeling was thatZack would not phone back until the next morning, allowing the Americans to think over his demand. Kevin Brown came, with Collins and Seymour. So did Nigel Cramer, who brought Commander Williams. Quinn had met all but Brown and Williams. “You can tellZack that Washington agrees,” said Brown. “It came through twenty minutes ago. I hate it my-self, but it’s been agreed. Five million dollars.” “But I don’t agree,” said Quinn. Brown stared at him as if unable to believe his ears.
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“Oh, you don’t agree, Quinn. You don’t agree. The government of the U.S.A. agrees, but Mr. Quinn doesn’t agree. May we ask why?” “Because it is highly dangerous to agree to a kidnap-per’s first demand,” said Quinn quietly. “Do that, and he thinks he should have asked for more. A man who thinks that, thinks he has been fooled in some way. If he’s a psycho-path, that makes him angry. He has no one on whom to vent that anger but the hostage.” “You thinkZack is a psychopath?” asked Seymour. “Maybe. Maybe not,” said Quinn. “But one of his side-kicks may be. Even ifZack’s the one in charge—and he may not be—psychos can go out of control.” “Then what do you advise?” asked Collins. Brown snorted. “It’s still early days,” said Quinn. “Simon Cormack’s best chance of surviving unhurt lies in the kidnappers’ believ-ing two things: that they have finally screwed out of the fam-ily the absolute maximum they can pay; and that they will see that money only if they produce Simon alive and un-harmed. They won’t come to those conclusions in a few seconds. On topof that, the police may yet get a break and find them.” “I agree with Mr. Quinn,” said Cramer. “It may take a couple of weeks. It sounds harsh, but it’s better than a rushed and botched case resulting in an error of judgment and a dead boy.” “Any more time you can give me I’d appreciate,” said Commander Williams. “So what do I tell Washington?” demanded Brown. “You tell them,” said Quinn calmly, “that they asked me to negotiate Simon’s return, and I am trying to do that. If they want to pull me off the case, that’s fine. They just have to tell the President that.” Collins coughed. Seymour stared at the floor. The meeting ended. WhenZack phoned again, Quinn was apologetic. “Look, I tried to get through to President Cormack per-sonally. No way. The man’s under sedation much of the time. I mean, he’s going through hell—” “So cut it short and get me the money,” snappedZack. “I tried, I swear to God. Look, five million is over the top. He doesn’t have that kind of cash—it’s all tied up in blind trust funds that will take weeks to unlock. The word is, I can get you nine hundred thousand dollars, and I can get it fast—” “Naff off,” snarled the voice on the phone. “You Yanks can get it from somewhere else. I can wait.” “Yeah, sure, I know,” said Quinn earnestly. “You’re safe. The fuzz are getting nowhere, that’s for sure—so far. If you could just come down a bit ... The boy all right?” “Yeah.”
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Quinn could tellZack was thinking. “I have to ask this,Zack. Those bastards in back of me are leaning real hard. Ask the boy what his pet dog’s name was—the one he had from a toddler up through the age of ten. Just so we know he’s okay. Won’t cost you anything. Helps me a lot.” “Four million,” snappedZack. “And that’s bloody it.” The phone cut off. The call had come from St. Neots, a town in the south of Cambridge, just east of the county line with Bedfordshire. No one was spotted leaving the booth, one of a row outside the main post office. “What are you doing?” asked Sam curiously. “Putting the pressure on,” said Quinn, and would ex-plain no more. What Quinn had realized days before was that in this case he had one good ace not always available to negotiators. Bandits in the mountains of Sardinia or Central America could hold out for months or years if they wished. No army sweep, no police patrol would ever find them in those hills riddled with caves and undergrowth. Their only real hazard might be from helicopters, but that was it. In the densely populated southeast corner of England,Zack and his men were in law-abiding—that is, hostile—territory. The longer they hid, the greater by the law of aver-ages the chance of their being identified and located. So the pressure on them would be to settle and clear out. The trick would be to get them to think they had won, had got the best deal they could, and had no need to kill the hostage as they fled. Quinn was counting on the rest ofZack’s team—the po-lice knew from the ambush site that there were at least four in the gang—being confined to the hideout. They would get im-patient, claustrophobic, eventually urging their leader to set-tle up and be done with it, precisely the same argument Quinn would be using. Assailed from both sides,Zack would be tempted to take what he could get and seek escape. But that would not happen until the pressure on the kidnappers had built up a lot more. Quinn had deliberately sown two seeds inZack’s mind: that Quinn was the good guy, trying to do his best for a fast deal and being obstructed by the Establishment—he recalled the face of Kevin Brown and wondered if that was wholly a lie—and thatZack was quite safe ... so far. Meaning the opposite. The more Zack’s sleep was disturbed by night-mares of a police breakthrough, the better. The professor of linguistics had now decided thatZack was almost certainly in his mid-forties to early fifties, and probably the leader of the gang. There was no hesitation to indicate he would have to consult someone else before agree-ing to terms. He was born of working-class people, did not have a very good formal education, and almost certainly stemmed from the Birmingham area. But his native accent had been muted over the years by long periods away from Birmingham, possibly abroad. A psychiatrist tried to build up a portrait of the man. He was certainly under strain, and it was growing as the conver-sations were prolonged. His animosity toward Quinn was de-creasing with the passage of time. He was accustomed to violence—there had been no hesitation or qualm in his voice when he mentioned the severing of Simon Cormack’s fin-gers. On the other hand he was logical and shrewd, wary but not afraid. A dangerous man but not crazy. Not a psycho and not “political.”
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These reports went to Nigel Cramer, who reported all to the COBRA committee. Copies went at once to Washing-ton, straight to the White House committee. Other copies came to the Kensington apartment. Quinn read them, and when he was finished, so did Sam. “What I don’t understand,” she said as she put down the last page, “is why they picked Simon Cormack. The Presi-dent comes from a wealthy family, but there must be other rich kids walking around England.” Quinn, who had worked that one out while sitting watching a TV screen in a bar in Spain, glanced at her but said nothing. She waited for an answer but got none. That annoyed her. It also intrigued her. She found as the days passed that she was becoming very intrigued by Quinn.
On the seventh day after the kidnap and the fourth sinceZack had made his first call, the CIA and the British SIS took their penetration agents throughout the network of European ter-rorist organizations off the job. There had been no news of the procurement ofa Skorpion machine pistol from these sources, and the view had faded that political terrorists were involved. Among groups investigated had been the I.R.A. and the INLA, both Irish, and in both of which the CIA and SIS each had sleepers whose identity they were not going to reveal to each other; the German Red Army Faction, succes-sor to Baader-Meinhof; the Italian Red Brigades; the French ActionDirecte; the Spanish/Basque ETA; and the Belgian CCC. There were smaller and even weirder groups, but these had been thought too small to have mounted the Cormack operation. The next dayZack was back. The call came from a bank of booths in a service station on the M.11 motorway just south of Cambridge and was locked and identified in eight seconds, but it took seven minutes to get a plainclothes officer there. In the swirling mass of cars and people passing through, it was a false hope thatZack would still be there. “The dog,” he said curtly. “Its name was Mister Spot.” “Thanks,Zack, ”said Quinn. “Just keep the kid okay and we’ll conclude our business sooner than you know. And I have news: Mr. Cormack’s financial people can raise one-point-two million dollars after all, spot cash and fast. Go for it,Zack. ” “Get stuffed,” barked the voice on the phone. But he was in a hurry; time was running out. He dropped his de-mand to $3 million. And the phone went dead. “Why don’t you settle for it, Quinn?” asked Sam. She was sitting on the edge of her chair; Quinn had stood up, ready to go to the bathroom. He always washed, bathed, dressed, used the bathroom, and ate just after a call fromZack. He knew there would be no further contact for a while. “It’s not a question just of money,” said Quinn as he headed out of the room. “Zack’s not ready yet. He’d start raising the demand again, thinking he was being cheated. I want him undermined a bit more yet; I want more pressure on him.” “What about the pressure on Simon Cormack?” Sam called down the corridor. Quinn paused and came back to the door. “Yeah,” he said soberly, “and on his mother and father. I haven’t forgotten. But in these cases the criminals have to believe, truly believe, that the show is over. Otherwise they get angry and hurt the
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hostage. I’ve seen it before. It really is better slow and easy than rushing around like the cavalry. If you can’t crack it in forty-eight hours with a quick arrest, it comes to a war of attrition, the kidnapper’s nerve against the negotiator’s. If he gets nothing, he gets mad; if he gets too much too quickly, he reckons he blew it and his pals will tell him the same. So he gets mad. And that’s bad for the hos-tage.” His words were heard on tape a few minutes later by Nigel Cramer, who nodded in agreement. In two cases he had been involved in, the same experience had been gone through. In one the hostage was recovered alive and well; in the other he had been liquidated by an angry and resentful psychopath. The words were heard live in the basem*nt beneath the American embassy. “Crap,” said Brown. “He has a deal, for God’s sake. He should get the boy back now. Then I want to go after those sleazeballs myself.” “If they get away, leave it to the Met.,” advised Sey-mour. “They’ll find ’em.” “Yeah, and a British court will give them life in a soft pen. You know what life means over here? Fourteen years with time off. Bullsh*t. You hear this, mister: No one, but no one, does this to the son of my President and gets away with it. One day this is going to become a Bureau matter, the way it should have been from the start. And I’m going to handle it—Boston rules.” Nigel Cramer came around to the apartment personally that night. His news was no news. Four hundred people had been quietly interviewed, nearly five hundred “sightings” checked out, one hundred and sixty more houses and apart-ments discreetly surveyed. No breakthrough. BirminghamCID had gone back into their records for fifty years looking for criminals with a known record of vio-lence who might have left the city long ago. Eight possibles had come up and all had been investigated and cleared; ei-ther dead, in prison, or identifiably somewhere else. Among one of Scotland Yard’s resources, little known to the public, is the voice bank. With modern technology, human voices can be broken down to a series of peaks and lows, representing the way a speaker inhales, exhales, uses tone and pitch, forms his words, and delivers them. The trace-pattern on the oscillograph is like a fingerprint; it can be matched and, if there is a sample on file, identified. Often unknown to themselves, many criminals have tapes of their voices in the voice bank: obscene callers, anon-ymous informants, and others who have been arrested and taped in the interview room. Zack’s voice simply did not show up. The forensic leads had also fizzled out. The spent car-tridge cases, lead slugs, footprints, and tire tracks lay dor-mant in the police laboratories and refused to give up any more secrets. “In a radius of fifty miles outside London, including the capital, there are eight million dwelling units,” said Cramer. “Plus dry drains, warehouses, vaults, crypts, tunnels, cata-combs, and abandoned buildings. We once had a murderer and rapist called the Black Panther, who practically lived in a series of abandoned mines under a national park. He took his victims down there. We got him—eventually. Sorry, Mr. Quinn. We just go on looking.” By the eighth day the strain in the Kensington apart-ment was telling. It affected the younger people more; if Quinn was experiencing it, he showed little trace. He lay on his bed a lot, between calls and briefings, staring at the ceil-ing, trying to get inside the mind ofZack and thence to work out how to handle the next call. When should he go for a final step? How to arrange the exchange?
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McCrea remained good-natured but was becoming tired. He had developed an almost doglike devotion to Quinn, always prepared to run an errand, make coffee, or do his share of chores around the flat. On the ninth day Sam asked permission to go out shop-ping. Grudgingly Kevin Brown called up from Grosvenor Square and gave it. She left the apartment, her first time outside for almost a fortnight, took a cab to Knightsbridge, and spent a glorious four hours wandering through Harvey Nichols and Harrods. In Harrods she treated herself to an extravagant and handsome crocodile-skin handbag. When she got back, both men admired it very much. She also had a present for each of them: a rolled-gold pen for McCrea and a cashmere sweater for Quinn. The young CIA operative was touchingly grateful; Quinn put on the sweater and cracked one of his rare but dazzling smiles. It was the only lighthearted moment the three of them spent in that Kensington apartment.
In Washington the same day, the crisis management commit-tee listened grimly to Dr. Armitage. The President had made no public appearances since the kidnapping, which a sympa-thetic populace understood, but his behavior behind the scenes had the committee members very concerned. “I am becoming increasingly worried about the Presi-dent’s health,” Dr. Armitage told the Vice President, Na-tional Security Adviser, four Cabinet Secretaries, and the Directors of the FBI and the CIA. “There have been periods of stress in government before, and always will be. But this is personal and much deeper. The human mind, let alone the body, is not equipped to tolerate these levels of anxiety for very long.” “How is he physically?” asked Bill Walters, the Attor-ney General. “Extremely tired, needing medication to sleep at night if he sleeps at all. Aging visibly.” “And mentally?” asked Morton Stannard. “You have seen him trying to handle the normal affairs of state,” Armitage reminded them. They all nodded soberly. “To be blunt, he is losing his grip. His concentration is ebb-ing; his memory is often faulty.” Stannard nodded sympathetically but his eyes were hooded. A decade younger than Donaldson of State or Reed of Treasury, the Defense Secretary was a former interna-tional banker from New York, a cosmopolitan operator who had developed tastes for fine food, vintage wines, and French Impressionist art. During a stint with the World Bank he had established a reputation as a smooth and efficient negotiator , a hard man to convince—as Third World countries seeking overblown credits with small chance of repayment had discovered when they went away empty-handed. He had made his mark at the Pentagon over the previous two years as a stickler for efficiency, committed to the notion that the American taxpayer should get a dollar’s worth of defense for his tax dollar. He had made his enemies there, among the military brass and the lobbyists. But then came the Nantucket Treaty, which had changed a few allegiances across the Potomac. Stannard found himself siding with the defense contractors and the Joint Chiefs of Staff in opposing the sweeping cuts. While Michael Odell had fought against Nantucket on gut feeling, Stannard’s priorities were also concerned with the brokerage of power, and his opposition to the treaty had not been wholly on
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philosophical grounds. Still, when he had lost his case in the Cabinet, not a flicker of expression had crossed his face; and none did now as he listened to the account of his President’s deterioration. Not so Hubert Reed. “Poor man. God, poor man,” he murmured. “The added problem,” concluded the psychiatrist, “is that he is not a demonstrative, emotional man. Not on the outside. Inside ... of course, we all are. All normal people, anyway. But he bottles things up, won’t scream or shout. The First Lady is different—she does not have the strains of office; she’s more willing to accept medication. Even so, I think her condition is as bad, if not worse. This is her only child. And that’s an added pressure on the President.” He left eight very worried men behind him when he returned to the Executive Mansion.
It was curiosity more than anything else that caused Andy Laing to stay on in his office two nights later, in the Jiddah branch of the Saudi Arabian Investment Bank, and consult his computer. What it showed stunned him. The scam was still going on. There had been four fur-ther transactions since he had spoken to the general manager, who could have stopped it with a phone call. The rogue account was bloated with money, all diverted from Saudi pub-lic funds. Laing knew that peculation
