McCall: “Peno Rus’s catalogue is a war maker’s dream. Here in gorgeous full color is an endless supply of bombs, detonators, binary explosives, poisons, silencers, assassin’s tools, surveillance and sophisticated electronics equipment, tanks, weapons carriers, rockets, small artillery, uniforms, field kitchens, and on and on and on.”
Slide: panorama of lush mountains in Africa.
McCall: “Unlike most merchants, Mr. Rus has a peculiar sales problem. Most of his customers cannot afford what he’s selling. So in his wake he often leaves poverty, famine, and crowded cemeteries. This is Dadhwai, Central Africa.”
Slide: photograph of capital city, blue mountains in the background.
McCall: “Rich with natural beauty. Poor in resources and capital. The World Bank gave Dadhwai money—partly to build its tourist business and partly to do some rudimentary processing of the raw materials it sells on the world market, but mostly to implement a full-scale agricultural improvements program.”
Slide: Rus with Dadhwai’s president.
McCall: “Mr. Rus persuaded the country’s leader to spend that money on an army. And the poor man quickly got one. But then with a massive crop failure, Dadhwai soon found itself confronted by an adversary it couldn’t defeat with Mr. Rus’s shiny new rifles—famine.”
Slide: photo of emaciated corpses in roadway.
McCall: “It took the combined efforts of six U.N. agencies and huge additional sums of money from the World Bank to put this nation on its feet again, but not until nearly one third of its population starved. And just in time for the Communists to take over—with Mr. Rus’s arms.”
Slide: close-up of Peno Rus on the deck of his yacht, a very beautiful girl sitting beside him in a deck chair.
McCall: “From his poop deck in the Bahamas, Mr. Rus expressed his great dismay for Dadhwai’s plight. He contributed a thousand dollars to the relief fund.”
Slide: photograph of Rus with another man seated inside a limousine.
McCall: “Mr. Rus with a Soviet agent in Ankara, Turkey. The Soviet Union is notorious for using independent arms dealers as covers for its cynical arming of terrorists. On occasion, to get things started in a static situation, Russia has armed both the native Communists and the native rightists simultaneously. Mr. Rus has been the obliging middleman.”
Slide: Peno Rus smiling.
McCall: “Mr. Rus has become a very important supplier to Iran. Why? Because in a world where shoddy merchandise and unprincipled practices abound, Mr. Rus has a reputation for unassailable integrity. He has never sold a bomb that failed to go off.”
Slide: photograph of Mr. Rus in the casino at Monaco with another man.
McCall: “Mr. Rus, however, is most comfortable in the company of wealthy men of good education and breeding. He maintains friendships with some of the world’s wealthiest men. These men contribute staggering sums of money anonymously to their favorite guerrilla wars. Rich men like Berthe and Golpin, Landish and Fogarty, and this man—R. Thomas Dutter.
“Dutter? You must be mistaken, McCall. I went to school with him.”
“R. Thomas Dutter,” McCall repeated.
Wainwright studied Dutter’s face. “He’s aged.”
McCall continued: “A handful of armed terrorists can easily take over a small government in a few hours. Witness the nearcoup in Africa recently. Terrorists can also disrupt production of raw materials and oil in whole regions of the world—with consequences rich men love.”
“Some rich men love,” Wainwright said.
“Political power is going for bargain rates these days. And R. Thomas Dutter is shopping hard in the marketplace … with the sedulous Mr. Rus providing the party favors.”
“I never would have believed that of him.” Wainwright shrugged. “Dutter. Imagine.”
Slide: photograph of Rus examining the mutilated U.S. Embassy building in Tehran.
McCall: “Naturally Mr. Rus is one of the first independent arms dealers that Iran would turn to for a supply of military parts.”
Slide: photograph of Eric Rock.
McCall: “Here is another arms dealer who could do the job for Iran—a really knowledgeable smuggler who has the technical background to understand state-of-the-art electronics. He would be an admirable choice—especially since he’s very cunning, extraordinarily charming, and a compunctionless sociopath. Meet Eric Rock.”
Slide: photograph of Rock with two Arabs.
McCall: “It is said that peace negotiations don’t begin until the last bullet is fired. Mr. Rock agrees with that. He made a handsome sum of money last year by fracturing a cease-fire in North Africa between two Bedouin tribes that had originally been armed by Libya.”
Slide: photograph of Rock with Arab leader.
McCall: “This is Mr. Rock with an Arab fanatic who was absolutely powerless until Rock armed him. Free. This Arab and a band of followers then went on an indiscriminate shooting spree against both tribes and thereby brought about the collapse of a very fragile cease-fire. Both tribes immediately ordered large quantities of arms. From Mr. Rock of course.”
Slide: photograph of dead Arab girl in doorway. She is about seven and is holding a doll’s cradle in her limp hand. Behind her, through the doorway, are seen several other dead bodies.
McCall: “Before another cease-fire could be arranged hundreds of people died from gunshot wounds, and a like amount died from cholera. The most important point here is: Mr. Rock was the only smuggler brilliant enough to get arms into that area at that time. He has a great gift for smuggling.”
Slide: photo of the skeletal remains of a bombed-out hotel building.
McCall: “But that was slumming for Mr. Rock. His real specialty is explosives. As an electronics expert, he has devised some ingenious ways of detonating bombs. It is a virtual certainty that Rock sold the binary explosives that killed those two hundred people in this Damascus hotel last month.”
Slide: T. Slane.
“Number three in our trilogy, Mr. Chairman. His name is Slane. An Australian from the Great Outback. Rancher’s son. Mercenary, soldier of fortune. Got his early training in Vietnam in the U.S. Army. He was fifteen at the time and very big for his age.
Slide: Slane with Richard Mann.
“He learned his trade from this man, Richard Mann, the Swiss arms trader who specializes in Oriental markets. He’s done more mischief there than all the Communists in the last ten years.
“A few years ago Slane went in for himself, practically without capital, by trading in U.S. arms that were left on the Vietnam battlefield. Most of these have found their way into Central America, primarily through Slane’s efforts. Slane is a man on the make, looking for his first big package that will give him the capital he needs for inventory and storage. He’s very smart, ruthless, and thinks big. He’ll probably be a major trader one of these days.”
McCall turned on the room lights. “I doubt if there is one person on this entire planet who would shed a tear for these three men—except maybe Rus’s tailor.”
He opened his case and pitched a spiral-bound report onto Wainwright’s Duncan Phyfe desk. “Rus’s history. Compliments of Intercrime. And here’s another on Rock. And a third—on Slane. Instructive reading, Mr. Chairman.”
Wainwright nodded at the reports without speaking.
“And here, Martin, is a White Paper from State on the Iranian situation.”
“Who wrote it?” Wainwright asked.
“Harry Hollis.”
“Oh.” Wainwright took it and flipped the pages quickly. “Any news on what’s-his-name?”
“Attashah? He hasn’t been seen in public for several weeks. An informant in Tehran claims he is already in the U.S.”
“Thanks, McCall, for coming over with this stuff. I’ll let you know.”
He was dismissed. Not by so much as a narrowed eyelid had Wainwright indicated a reaction. He barely said goodnight when McCall, projector case in hand, left the study.
He followed the house
man down the stairs, past the dining room filled with murmuring voices and scraping silverware, and out through the front door.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
McCall waited three days before he got a reaction from Wainwright. And when he got it, he got it in the middle of the night.
His phone woke him at 1:00 A.M. With his usual brusqueness, Wainwright said, “McCall? Meet me at the Skyport Lounge as quick as you can get there.”
Wainwright was right where he’d said he would be. In an upholstered chair in the Skyport Cocktail Lounge at Dulles Airport.
The man sat slumped back, legs spraddled, thoughtfully spinning his whiskey glass on the table. When he saw McCall approaching, he sat up and pointed at the other chair. McCall seated himself.
“Sorry I woke you up, McCall.” Wainwright rubbed a craggy hand over his face and bald pate.
The night crews were cleaning the airport, washing glass doors and windows, mopping, running electric floor buffers. There were few passengers about, and most of them napped fitfully in uncomfortable plastic chairs. At the end of the corridor a company of marines was shaping up at an airline check-in counter.
Wainwright watched the cleaners like a choreographer planning new steps. He chewed on a knuckle. Then he glanced at McCall.
“What are you drinking?”
McCall shrugged. Anything. Nothing. He was waiting.
Wainwright spoke with an alcoholic slur. “I’ve been chewing over things ever since your picture show the other night. That report from Hollis made me wet my pants. And the profiles on those three gun sellers turned my stomach.” He looked at McCall with haggard eyes. “This thing has me chased around the table. You know what I’m saying?”
The bartender brought drinks and a bowl of peanuts.
Wainwright rubbed his eyes. “Crazy goddam thing. I know it’s wrong. We just can’t do it. Kill three-four men. Yet, we can’t not do it. You see what I’m saying? There are a lot of men in Washington who would grab at this thing as the opportunity of a lifetime. Meaningful appropriate action, they’d say. In a country that’s dangerously drifting, they’d say. Dead in the water. Yet—well, goddammit, McCall, say something. I haven’t slept in three nights.”
“I think we should drop the whole thing.”
Wainwright clawed a fistful of peanuts and fired them into his mouth one at a time with his thumb. He squirmed in his chair, chewing urgently.
He seized another fistful of peanuts as though he’d suddenly realized he was hungry. Many of them cascaded down his shirt-front. “I think so too, McCall.” He went silent. Then he sat up. “But we can’t. And do you know why we can’t? We can’t because there’s no other action we can take.”
He pointed a finger at McCall. “In fact, this is exactly the same action we should take with those goddam Russian agents over here trying to buy our military computers right from under our noses. Here we are letting these Red bastards arm themselves with our military hardware. It’s the only way they can keep up with us. Shut those agents down with a couple of hits one night and we’d reduce the Russian army to a hoard of spear throwers. You see where I’m coming from, McCall?”
But Wainwright needed no answers. He was a monologist, and he would have declaimed to the walls if he’d been alone. “How can we justify murder?”
McCall turned his chair and leaned forward, touching Wainwright’s arm to get his attention. “It’s not the same as it was,” he enunciated, as though talking to a senile old man. “It’s not. The answers from your ethics course don’t apply anymore. We have different imperatives now.”
Wainwright writhed at that. “McCall, I think you’re wrong as hell. There is absolutely no difference between me and Isaac holding a knife over his son. Things haven’t changed. Not a goddam bit. And someday, out on a faraway planet, some spacemen are going to be sitting around, eating peanuts, fighting little green men, and saying: ‘We have different imperatives now.’ And they’ll be just as wrong as you are.”
“I don’t believe that, Martin. Take a look around you. Just scan the daily paper. You’ll see—”
Wainwright waved a hand at him. “Enough. You and I belong to a different generation. What’s wrong to me is routine to you. You see what I’m saying? I wonder what the greater danger to this country is—Iran or you.”
Wainwright seized another clutch of peanuts, spilling more down his front. He brushed at them irritably and chewed in a fury. “Okay. It’s crazy, I know. But you listen.” He pointed a finger. “I raised it. All three million. So go do it. Get all three. Four if necessary. Do it quick. Do it clean. Do it soon.”
He stood up. “You handle it. Don’t tell me anything. Just make sure nothing can be traced back to the committee or to Washington or to the U.S. Or to me. I curse the day you gave me this idea, McCall. May God forgive me.”
He threw his handful of peanuts on the table and walked away, spilling more peanuts from the folds of his clothes with each step.
He didn’t look back.
In glorious autumn sunlight, Mr. Peno Rus strolled along Great Western Road in London, accompanied by his Master of the Arsenal, Major Archbold Mudd. They had just come from the printer, and both carried proof copies of the latest Rus four-color arms catalogue, fresh from the press.
Mr. Rus walked with the catalogue held against his nostrils so he could sensually inhale the odor of printer’s ink. That was the modern smell of money to him. Mail-order sales.
The first mailing of the catalogue, addressed to Mr. Rus’s A List (Government Buyers) and B List (Individuals With Known Arms Interests), would be completed in three days. There were some 40,000 names of arms buyers and buying influences on Mr. Rus’s combined A and B Lists, embracing every continent and almost every nation.
His computer had already projected the probable percentage of mail response, probable average size of order, and probable total profit. And the profit was considerable. A former Russian citizen, Mr. Rus loved being a capitalist.
As they walked, Mr. Rus said, “Major. I have a fabulous arms deal in mind. It could make us the talk of the arms trade.”
“Oh, yes?” Major Mudd leaned close as they walked in order to understand Mr. Rus’s odd linguistic potpourri: His very correct English was heavily overlaid with a difficult Slavic accent.
“That package deal we sold to the Dadhwai government in Africa,” Mr. Rus said. “It may have a happy outcome for us after all.”
“Happy!” exclaimed the major. “It caused a scandal. I shall never forget the day a question was raised in Parliament. We were certainly the talk of the arms trade then!”
“Now, Major, it is not our fault a famine killed so many. We are arms traders, not ministers of agriculture.”
“Hmmm,” the major said.
“Anyway, it has given us a substantial cash flow that I’ve been planning to take advantage of.”
“I should have thought that money had burned a hole in your pocket by now.”
“Next week,” Mr. Rus said, “I’m going to bid on those Israeli tanks the Franconi government has. All twelve.”
“The Merkavas?”
“Marvelous instruments those,” Rus said with his heavy accent. “There are no other tanks like them in all the world. Did you know that the Merkava completely destroyed Russia’s newest T-72 with just one shot? Marvelous. The whole world is clamoring to buy them from Israel. And I can offer them to Jarrett as a deal sweetener. He’s panting for them. Then—”
“I see,” the major said. “To get the tanks, he’ll sell you the six jets—”
“Yes, yes. You do see it, don’t you, Major?”
“You’ll sell the jets to Chile—”
“And?”
The Major stopped walking. “Dear God. Buy West Arms?”
“Precisely! Their entire inventory of small arms. We’ll become the biggest dealer in small arms anywhere. That ought to warm the cockles of your heart, Major—master of the largest arsenal of small arms in the world.”
Peno Rus said, “But that’s a monumental deal for us, Major. We will be the only arsenal that can offer the Iranians one-source buying for all their small-arms needs. An annual master contract. It would be of enormous proportions. Attashah will snap it up in a minute.”
But the bedazzling aspect of this deal wasn’t just the Iranian contract. It was Iran’s shortage of cash. Iran’s balance of trade was deeply negative, and the Iranian treasury was reluctant to part with money.
What that mad fanatic Attashah wanted was barter, and what an enticing barter it was—small arms in exchange for heroin. Attashah was offering heroin that could be sold on the open market for many times the barter price. Truly an astronomical profit.
This was known in the trade as a Daisy Chain Deal: Israeli Merkava tanks in exchange for jet fighters. Jet fighters to buy small arms. Small arms that garner a one-source dream contract with one of the world’s heaviest small-arms buyers. And crowning it all for Peno Rus was a king’s ransom in heroin. Several millions of cash dollars. Untaxed. Unrecorded. And all his. Perhaps best of all, he could acquire this dominant new marketing capability without a significant infusion of capital. No bank loan, no bank snooping, no interest payments.
All from his skill as a trader. It was the Dadhwai money that did it.
He glanced at his solemn master of the arsenal. “We’ve been somewhat at odds since that Dadhwai deal, Major. Perhaps this new deal will help put things to rights between us.”
Major Mudd nodded. “Perhaps.”
That English way of thinking sometimes baffled Peno Rus. It was a strange code the major had, selling arms that killed people wholesale, yet drawing the line at famine and drug addiction. Oh well. It was a lovely day in London. Sunlight of great clarity touched the old walls and rooftops, showing their marvelous mellow hues. Quite the most satisfactory city in the world: London. And quite the most wonderful time of the year in the city: autumn.
A sense of profound well-being almost filled Mr. Rus’s eyes with tears of joy. In a few weeks he would move to his home in Monaco for the winter.
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