“You’re not its biggest fan, I gather,” Tyrell interrupted.
“I give you Jonathan Pollard, currently in your prison system for an indeterminate number of years. Need you ask more?”
“Again, I’m not concerned with your interdepartmental rivalries, sir, I’m interested only in Secretary Palisser’s visit to your embassy. Did he reach Colonel Abrams, and if he did, what did he say? And since I’m on a red line, you can assume I’m entitled to privileged information—we’re working together, for God’s sake! If you want confirmation, press whatever your code numbers are and get it!”
“You’re very excitable, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“I’m sick of your bullshit”
“That makes sense to me. An intelligent man’s outrage reveals truth.”
“I don’t need a fucking Talmudic parable! What happened when Palisser reached Abrams?”
“In fact, he didn’t. The elusive Mossad colonel was unavailable, but when he returns to his office, he has an emergency message to reach your secretary of state, for which we have six telephone numbers, half secure, half not. Does that answer your question?”
In disgust, Tyrell slammed down the phone and walked back into the Stevenses’ living room. Phyllis greeted him just beyond the French doors. “A Lieutenant Poole called on the regular line, I took it in the kitchen—”
“Cathy? A Major Neilsen? Was it about her?”
“No, it concerned General Michael Meyers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He phoned you. He wants to meet with you right away. He said it’s urgent.”
“I’ll bet it is. He’s looking for ducks in his own personal shooting gallery.”
6:47 P.M.
The limousine with the license plate DOS1 sped along Route 50, heading south on the eastern shore of Maryland toward the village of St. Michaels. In the back seat, the secretary of state kept pressing the burtons on his secure mobile telephone with increasing irritation. Finally, in exasperation, he lowered the glass partition and spoke to his driver.
“Nicholas, what the hell is wrong with this phone? I can’t get anything on it!”
“I don’t know, Mr. Secretary,” replied the chauffeur provided by the Secret Service. “I’ve been having trouble with my base radio too. I haven’t been able to raise dispatch.”
“Wait a minute. You’re not Nicholas. Where is he?”
“He had to be replaced, sir.”
“Replaced? What for? Where did he go? He was in that seat when we reached the Israeli embassy.”
“Perhaps a family emergency. I was called to replace him, that’s all I know, sir.”
“That’s also highly irregular. My office should have informed me, that’s absolutely standard.”
“Your office didn’t know where you were, sir.”
“They have this number.”
“The phone isn’t working, Mr. Secretary.”
“Hold it, mister! If my office didn’t know where I was, how did you know?”
“We have our ways, sir. We’re behind-the-lines oriented.”
“Answer me!”
“I’m only required to give my name, rank, and serial number. That’s what we do with the enemy.”
“What did you say?”
“You set up the general last night, set him up so high the White House put him under surveillance. That’s a disgraceful thing to do to a great man like General Meyers.”
“Your name, soldier?”
“ ‘Johnny’ will do, sir.” The driver suddenly swerved to the left, entering a barely discernible dirt road. He instantly accelerated, racing over the rough, bumpy surface to a small clearing where the first object that struck the eye was a Cobra helicopter. “You can get out now, Mr. Secretary.”
The shaken Palisser fumbled for the handle; the door swung open and he lurched outside into the harsh, leveled grass. Ten feet away stood the uniformed chairman of the Joint Chiefs, his right sleeve creased and folded neatly into his shoulder.
“You were a pretty fair soldier in World War Two, Bruce, but you forgot the lessons of combat incursion,” said the general. “When you walk into hostile territory, make damn sure which of the occupied can be trusted. You missed one in the White House. If he had interrupted the Security meeting to bring you your messages, he would have been shot.”
“Good Lord,” Palisser spoke quietly. “You’re everything Hawthorne said you were. You’re not only willing to stand by and permit the President to be assassinated, you’re actually helping the assassin.”
“He’s only a man, Bruce, a misguided politician on whose watch the armed might of the United States is being decimated. All that will change tonight, the world will change tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“In a little more than an hour.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“That’s right, you wouldn’t have any way of knowing, would you? The messengers from the Mossad never reached you, did they?”
“Abrams,” said Palisser. “Colonel Abrams!”
“A dangerous man.” Meyers nodded. “Because of his warped morality, he can’t see the advantages. Incidentally, he rightly trusted no one, so he sent his two people to give you a name, the name of a nondescript little senator who’s going to make everything possible—in an hour or so.”
“How do you know this?”
“Through someone I’m sure you never noticed—a small, again nondescript, aide to the Security Council, the same man who intercepted the messages for you this morning from that turncoat Hawthorne. Our White House mole’s a true yes-man; the President likes him a lot and they talk together. He’s also a former adjutant of mine, a lieutenant colonel—I got him the job. We talk too.” The general looked at his watch in the light of the descending summer sun. “In a little over an hour, the President, to accommodate this innocuous little senator, will hold a private, off-the-books audience with—guess who, Bruce? I see you just figured it out, and you’re right. Little Girl Blood.… Then poof! The explosion that’ll be heard around the world.”
“You sick son of a bitch!” roared Palisser, stiffening his aged body and rushing forward, his hands outstretched.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs swung his left arm behind his tunic and whipped a carbine bayonet out of his belt. As the elderly secretary of state grasped the general’s throat, Meyers plunged the heavy knife into Palisser’s stomach, and with a furious motion yanked the blade up through his chest cavity.
“Dispatch the body,” he ordered his master sergeant, “and deep-six the limo off the barge out of Taylor’s Island.”
“Right on, Maximum.”
“Where’s the driver?”
“Where no one’ll ever find him. Guaranteed.”
“Good. This is one of those blanks in history, that’s all it is. In an hour it won’t matter, nothing will matter. I’m chopping to the White House. I’ll be in the second-floor courtesy lounge.”
“Hell, you’d better. Someone’s got to take charge.”
On a dark back street in Jerusalem, in the pounding rain, a figure lay in an alley, his clothes drenched, the blood from his body mingling with the water from the sky and flowing down the cobblestones to the curb. Colonel Daniel Abrams, leader of the Bajaratt enterprise, had been shot six times by a silenced pistol. And an old, heavyset man walked down the Sharafat, secure in the knowledge that he had done the right thing.
37
6:55 P.M.
Bajaratt checked her dress for the most important moment of her life, the justification for a lifetime. As she studied herself in the full-length mirror, she saw the image of a ten-year-old child, looking up at her in wonderment and adoration.
We have done it, you dearest thing to me who was myself! No one can stop us now, for we will change history. The pain from the mountains will vanish as the blood flows across the world, and you and I will be fulfilled, avenged for the horror that was inflicted on us.… Do you remember when the heads of Mama and Papa rolled into the rocks, severed
from their bodies, their eyes wide open, pleading with their obscene God who would permit such a thing to happen—pleading perhaps for you and me, who would live with that memory for the rest of our lives? Muerte a toda autoridad!… We will do it, you and I, for we are one, and we are invincible!
The image faded as the Baj drew closer to the mirror, now examining the silver streaks in her hair and the coordinated lighter makeup with hints of shadow below her eyes, all designed to produce a face older than her own, but only subtly so. Her outfit was as expensively chic as it was tastefully subdued: a below-the-knees navy blue silk dress with sewn-in padding that filled the space between her breasts and her hips, again subtly, gracefully tailored to create the appearance of a woman in her middle years, doing battle against a fuller figure. A double strand of costly, matching pearls, the pale blue hose, and dark blue Ferragamo shoes completed the look. The total picture was that of a wealthy Italian aristocrat whose presence was a familiar sight on the Via Condotti, Rome’s answer to Paris’s Saint-Honoré. And to perfectly accessorize the final product, there was a small slate-blue evening purse with a pearl clasp; no one could doubt that these two pearls were as genuine as those above.
On the wrist of this doyenne of haute couture was a delicate diamond-encrusted watch, at first glance the finest of the Piagets. It was not; it was a superbly designed counterfeit, capable of withstanding the battering of a hurricane at sea, with a mechanism so simple yet so strong that it could send a powerful electronic impulse to a receiver fifty yards away, penetrating glass, hard wood, and thick plaster by three abrupt presses on its crown. The receiver of that electric impulse was within the silk lining of the slate-blue purse: a tiny circular module attached to a thin wall of plastique that when detonated set off a second wall in the opposite lining. The total destructive potential was equal to that of twenty-six ounces of nitroglycerin, or the power of a two-hundred-pound bomb. Muerte a toda autoridad! Death to the leaders everywhere who ordered death, either by commission or omission.
“Cabi!” Nicolo called from the bedroom, startling Bajaratt, who turned away from the mirror and rushed to the door.
“What is it?”
“These foolish gold things will not go through my sleeve! The left one, yes, not my right—”
“Because you’re right-handed, Nico,” interrupted the Baj, walking inside. “You always have trouble with your right cuff link, don’t you remember?”
“I can remember nothing, I can think only of tomorrow.”
“Not tonight? The President of the United States?”
“Forgive me, signora, but he is a prize for you, not for me. Mine is in New York, and I am so excited! Did you hear her at the airport? Angel said we might spend a ‘week … end’—a fine di settimana—on a lago somewhere with her family.”
“You’ll get to know her better, Nico.” Bajaratt inserted the cuff link and stood back, appraising her creation. “You are magnificent, my beautiful dock boy.”
“But still a dock boy, signora?” Nicolo broke in, his eyes locked with his creator’s. “You never let me forget. You bring me so high, so far, but you never let me forget. Does it give you pleasure?”
“I’ve brought you to the point where you can be whatever God wants you to be.”
“That’s very strange coming from you. You have no God, you’ve made that clear to me. You have a visione that I cannot understand, and I am very sorry for you. I cry for you, for you do so much that I truly believe is wrong in spite of this great cause of yours which you do not explain.”
“Do not weep for me, Nico. I accept my destiny.”
“Destino? Such a full word, signora. It is beyond me.”
“Let it stay there.… Put on your jacket with the brass buttons.” The young man did so, and his creator stepped farther back, enamored of what was, in essence, her work of human art. “You are incomparable. Your height, the breadth of your shoulders, the slim, tapered waist, your perfect face crowned by your dark wavy hair. Splendido!”
“Stop it, you embarrass me. I have a brother taller than me—he is four inches above six feet, I am only three, if that.”
“I met him, of course; he is an animale. His face is flat, and his eyes are dull, and he thinks slowly.”
“He’s a good boy, signora, and far stronger than I! If anyone is improper with our sisters, he throws him into a wall ten feet away—I can manage only four or five.”
“Tell me, Nico, do you look up to him?”
“I must, for he is older and very protective of our family since our papa died.”
“But do you look up to him, respect him?”
“My sisters, all three, adore him. He is now the padrone, and he takes care of us all with his strength.”
“But you, Nico, you? Do you adore him?”
“Oh, stop it, signora, it is non importante.”
“It is for me, my darling boy, for I want you to know why you were chosen!”
“For what?”
“Another question that I will not answer. Tell me! What is your older brother to you?”
“Aaugh,” shrugged Nicolo, shaking his head. “If you must know, he mistakes his strength for his brains. All he cares to do is run the docks with his muscles. He will do that until another lupo comes along and he is replaced with his death. Stupido!”
“So now you see! I looked for perfection, and I found it.”
“And I think you’re pazzo. Can I call Angelina—Angel—in Brooklyn, New York? She must have arrived by now.”
“By all means. Have your loving conversation, but no longer than ten minutes. We’re being picked up by the senator in twenty minutes.”
“I would like to speak with her alone.”
“Naturalmente,” said the Baj, walking out of the bedroom and closing the door.
7:09 P.M.
Hawthorne was about to explode! Every contact he and Phyllis Stevens could recall in all the intelligence agencies in Washington were either “gone for the day,” “unavailable,” or “did not care to talk to a commander they never heard of.” The usage of the term Little Girl Blood meant nothing; the security had been so tight, the circle so closed, there was no one who could take responsibility because no one had been given any access to authority. It was the ultimate circus of nonaccountability; nobody was in a position to transmit the emergency, for none had the authority to reach those in higher authority because he—she—they—were not authorized to do so! The White House switchboard was the worst.
“We get these calls a dozen times a day, sir. If you’ve got any substance, call the Secret Service or the Pentagon.”
The Secret Service was succinct. “Your call is duly noted, sir, and we can assure you the President is fully protected. Now we have work to do, Commander, as I’m sure you do. Good-bye.”
Tyrell could not call the Pentagon. Maximum Mike Meyers would be alerted; the head of the Scorpios would cut off all communications.
Bruce Palisser, the secretary of state, was nowhere to be found, nor was his contact in Israel, Colonel Daniel Abrams of the Mossad. What was happening?
A phone rang in the sun porch and Phyllis Stevens, who was nearest, raced to it. “Tye!” she shouted. “It’s Israel. The red telephone!” Breakthrough?
Hawthorne lunged out of his chair and ran through the French doors, grabbing the phone from Phyllis. “I’m your contact,” he said. “Who’s this?”
“Let’s be clear with each other,” said the voice in Jerusalem. “Who are you?”
“Former Lieutenant Commander Tyrell Hawthorne, temporary attaché to Secretary of State Palisser and the runner to Captain Henry Stevens, U.S. Naval Intelligence. If I have to explain the latter, you shouldn’t be on this phone.”
“You don’t, and I am, Commander.”
“What have you got, Jerusalem?”
“Terrible news, but you have to know.… Colonel Abrams was taken out on the Sharafat. The police found his body only minutes ago—”
“I’m sorry, really sorry,
but Abrams was flying over two Mossad agents to reach Palisser!”
“I know, I processed their documents. I am—I was—Colonel Abrams’s personal aide. Your Secretary Palisser left six numbers for the colonel to reach in the United States when he returned. Among them was a red line to you on Captain Stevens’s phone.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
“Yes, I can, and I hope it can help you. The key is a Senator Nesbitt from your state of Michigan, that was the information our agents were carrying to Mr. Palisser.”
“A senator from Michigan? What the hell does it mean?”
“I don’t know, Commander, but it’s what our intelligence officers were to convey to Mr. Palisser. According to Colonel Abrams, it was of such maximum-classified value, he couldn’t trust even diplomatic channels.”
“Thank you, Jerusalem.”
“You’re welcome, Commander, and if you learn what happened to our agents, we’d appreciate your getting in touch as soon as possible.”
“If I find out, you’ll know.” Tyrell hung up the phone; he was a man in total confusion.
7:32 P.M.
Something had gone wrong! Nesbitt’s limousine was late, nearly twenty minutes late! It was not the behavior of an insecure politician who, in one brief appearance at the Oval Office, could bring hundreds of millions into his state, thus guaranteeing his reelection to the Senate.… You’ll be picked up at seven-fifteen sharp. It’s somewhat early, but in case there’s heavy traffic. The words of Nesbitt’s senior staff aide. Seven-fifteen sharp.… Oh, God! Had Nesbitt been struck by one of his seizures? Had he suddenly reverted to a pathetic old man wearing strange clothes and an ill-shapen wig, eluding his keepers and prowling the seedy, sex-ridden streets of the city? Had his demented other self surfaced at this, the most glorious, the most important moment of a life that began in hell in the Pyrenees? She could not accept it, she would not accept it!
“Nicolo, my darling,” said Bajaratt, her frozen monotone denying the endearment. “Stay here and watch for the senator’s car. I’ll be inside at the nearest public telephone.”