LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

The somber gray press was a hybrid industrial stamper with multiple dials and settings, a masterpiece of German precision tool making from the pre-computer days. It could flawlessly reproduce the manufacturer’s serial number on any of the 322 modified parts his operation had assembled over its 30-year life span.

  The counterfeiter had been built in the early 1960s, but it was designed to accommodate new print faces, characters and number-letter combinations so that it would not become obsolete with the introduction of new aircraft models.

  Volkov had sent Dr. Stahlwetter, the man who conceived the device, to Seattle every year until 1990. Working with Stein, he had checked and serviced the machine, then used the tool and die shop to make any new plates needed to keep up with changes in the industry.

  Since Stahlwetter’s last visit, there had been no changes in Boeing’s numbering practices. The counterfeiter was thus able to deal with parts for all of the company’s commercial aircraft now in service except the 777, introduced after the collapse of the USSR. Volkov had never activated the sabotage capabilities of Operation Litvyak, so the stamper, while maintained in perfect condition, had not been used until the Atlanta demonstration. Nor would it ever be used again after tonight. What they were doing right now had historical significance. It showed conclusively what might have been if the United States and Soviet Union had ever fought a land war in Europe. For Claussen, this made it an experience worth savoring.

  “Ready,” Stein said. “Give me the serial number, then the date code, in that order. We’ll triple check before we imprint.”

  Claussen read from the computer screen, jotting down the long numbers as he spoke. He passed the paper to Stein and stood up briskly. “I’ll find the corresponding part.”

  The bolts were on the shelf where they had been stored undisturbed for the past 12 years, packaged in groups of four. Claussen carried one package to the workbench. He watched Stein finish up with the settings, check the numbers against those he had jotted down on his sheet of paper and place the first bolt onto the stamping platform. The muscles in his forearms rippled with effort, his veins stood out, the skin over his cheeks drew taut as drum leather.

  He aligned the bolt, clamped it in position, then ran a trial by inking the plate and applying feather light pressure to the arm. He rechecked the accuracy of his numbers yet another time against those on the paper and on the computer screen, then pulled down the long handle of the press for the permanent imprint.

  Stein removed the bolt, blew on it and examined his handiwork. He inhaled deeply and let out a long breath. “Well, Walter?”

  Claussen bent over and studied the serial number. “I would say, Karl, that it is flawless.”

  Stein chuckled. “The investigators will be on a wild goose chase for years trying to find out who fucked the metallurgy. If you come across the reports I’d like to see them.”

  “Of course, Karl.”

  “By the way, you haven’t explained warped Volkov’s reasoning. Why is he doing this now? Operation Litvyak is obviously dead. What’s in it for him?”

  “I didn’t come to here to chat, Karl. He has his reasons. As usual, they are convoluted and complex. Something to do with Russia wanting better relations with the US.”

  Stein said, “I guess I’m not interested, Walter. When the DDR was involved, that was one thing. I don’t give a damn about Russia. That’s Volkov’s domain. What about you? Do you really care what happens to those bastards?”

  “I work for myself now, just as you do. Get going, please.”

  Stein stamped the remaining bolts, then began work on the more sophisticated electrical and hydraulic items. Last came the modified GE, Pratt & Whitney and Bendix components that Claussen planned to slip into the parts stream on his drive east.

  At two a.m. they were finished. Upstairs, Stein poured them each a double shot of clear schnapps and downed his, as always, without holding it in his mouth.

  ***

  Stein asked about the agenda for tomorrow. Claussen again spelled out Stein’s tasks: the stencils he would have to make for the lettering on the van, the disguises he would put together, the driving he would do.

  It was going to be a busy day for both of them, Claussen said. Stein could expect him to be in and out. There were three former collaborators at Boeing Claussen had to interview. There were security systems to research, documents to forge. And there was the apartment of an Iraqi student, Hassan Aziz, to visit.

  A busy day, Claussen repeated, and he hadn’t told Stein the half of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicole awoke before dawn, put on her running clothes and went downstairs to make coffee. She was heating milk when Françoise, the housekeeper, stormed into the kitchen. “Here, let me do that,” she said, pushing Nicole aside. “Why, young lady, are you up so early?”

  Nicole shrugged her shoulders and sat down.

  Françoise, a severe, humorless woman in her sixties, had come to the Michelet household a year before Nicole’s birth. Like her boss, she was a stickler for tradition and a firm believer in the value of a strict religious upbringing. She equated laughter with frivolity, and joy with sin.

  Nicole’s mother had died of a sudden illness when Nicole was seven. Michelet shipped Nicole off to Sainte Geneviève, a convent school, shortly after the funeral. Each night the nuns made her pray herself to sleep; each night she wept and asked God why He had allowed her gentle mother to die, why He had not come for her cruel housekeeper instead.

  When Nicole was 15, she reached the conclusion that nobody, not even God, wanted to deal with Françoise. That was when she decided that God was a coward and she’d better start learning how to live for herself. She wasn’t sure she had made much progress in the last four years, but she was trying.

  Françoise put a café au lait bowl down hard in front of her, poured it half full of strong black coffee and added the hot milk. She put the silver sugar bowl down even harder. Françoise and her father shared the irritating habit of putting things down hard when they were displeased.

  “I asked you a question, young lady. When I ask a question, I expect a courteous answer. Why are you up so early?”

  Nicole sipped her coffee, wishing she had gone directly to the beach. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately, all right? What about you? There’s nothing for you to do around here. You should sleep till noon. Why are you up so early?”

  Françoise glared at her.

  Nicole stretched her legs and wiggled the tips of her running shoes. “Well, Françoise, I asked you a question. I didn’t hear your courteous answer. I guess your manners are as bad as mine.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, mademoiselle. I don’t like the way you’ve been acting lately. I’ve got a good mind to telephone your father in Paris.”

  Nicole got up and started for the door. “Go ahead. You both seem to forget I’m nineteen years old.”

  “I plan to inform him of your doubles games with the new tennis instructor. I don’t think your father realizes he is an American.”

  “What difference does it make where he was born? He’s a human being. Or does God’s love for his children stop at the borders of France? Besides, Françoise, I haven’t been playing with him. It’s been me and Jules against him and Luc.”

  “Madame Hersault called yesterday to report that you’ve been laughing yourself to tears right out there in public.”

  “She called to gossip and start rumors, and you know it. So what if I’ve been laughing? I’m having fun for a change. Steven is a breath of fresh air after the sour reign of King Philippe.” “Philippe Denis du Péage is an upstanding man of noble birth. I would not be surprised if he is on your father’s list of eligible candidates for your hand.”

  “He’s a crétin with political connections. I’d drown myself before I’d married him.”

  “Do you know something, young lady? You’ve taken a wrong turn since you graduated from Sainte Geneviève.”

  “Those godless unwashed radicals at the S
orbonne must have led me astray. Sorry. I’m beyond redemption.”

  “Do you want me to telephone your father?”

  “No, Françoise. I just want you to leave me alone. I’ll be at the beach. Good-bye.”

  ***

  Nicole parked her little Renault above the harbor at St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat. In summers past, Uncle Robert and Aunt Jeanne, her mother’s sister, docked their sailboat here, the space having been provided by a pier owner who treated relatives of Michelet like visiting royalty. This would have been a perfect morning to take the Soleil de Nice out. Too bad the older brother of Jules and Luc, her cousin Gérard, had sailed it to England this summer.

  For a few minutes, she watched the fishing boats leaving the craggy harbor, their lanterns burning dimly against the gray summer dawn. These people who lived by the sea had a tough life, but she admired them. They were proud and free. And when you encountered them in town or at the market, you sensed how spontaneous they were with their joy and anger, how in tune with the gritty emotions of life. They were her brothers and sisters in spirit, she thought, just as her new American friend was. Among people like these, life in all its untidiness was God. If you brought Françoise down here to lecture the people on right and wrong, they’d throw her and her laxatives off the dock.

  The walls of Nicole’s prison were collapsing; she could feel them coming down a little more each day. Her father and Françoise had lost her – to life.

  She took a steep path down to the beach and walked east toward Monte Carlo. The gray water lapped hungrily at the pebble shoreline. Gulls swooped. The horizon where the sun would rise glowed with streaks of orange and gold.

  She picked up the pace, jogged a little until the sun was all the way up, then sat on a rock, hugged her knees and watched the sky and sea to the south slowly turn blue. The waves began to roll up on the beach, the morning’s first breeze felt cool and moist on her skin.

  It was the second week of August. Summer would be over soon, she thought, and they would be returning to their home in Paris. Father would be immersed in politics, Françoise would be condemning her with every breath she took. At the university, she would be pursued by men who wanted something from her: sex, notoriety, a chance to take a slap at her right-wing father by debasing his daughter. And now that the press had discovered how photogenic she was, the paparazzi would be hiding in toilets and bushes. If she mentioned any hint of trouble, her father would add a coterie of secret service agents to her entourage. And Steven, she assumed, would be going back to States. Not that she was disheartened. She had a mission, which was to break the stranglehold of her father and housekeeper on her life. She was looking forward to getting on with it. Once she succeeded, she would find her own way to come to terms with her problems. Still, it wouldn’t be easy. She had better enjoy these last two weeks in the south.

  The tide was rising. She took off her shoes and kicked her feet in the water. She was 19 years old, had kissed only a cousin and had slept with no one. She found herself wondering at the oddest moments what it would be like.

  If only she had the courage, she thought, she would give in to her curiosity. Steven would be the perfect “first man.” He treated her like a human being rather than an object, he didn’t make a lot of rude advances like her compatriots, and he made her laugh. It wouldn’t have to be some heavy, apocalyptic, Sturm und Drang type of thing where lives were destroyed and souls lacerated by guilt. She could simply say, “Why don’t we do it?” They could laugh about it later, whether it worked out or not.

  She kicked the water again. The tide had come in while she was fantasizing. She would have to swim back to shore. No use rushing; she was going to get her running clothes soaked whatever she did. She sat a little longer and wondered if her upbringing would prevent her in some odd unconscious way from experiencing physical ecstasy. Her body seemed to tell her it would not.

  Why was she assuming she did not have the courage? Was it just an old worn-out reflex from her years of mental enslavement? Perhaps.

  She imagined herself naked in his arms, laughing. She began to feel breathless. This was crazy. Françoise was right. She had changed. Something new and exciting was happening to her, and it was happening even faster than Nicole had realized.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I hate Arabs,” Stein said. He kept squeezing and releasing the steering wheel like he was doing isometric exercises. “How did you stand the smell in there?”

  Claussen was beside him in the passenger seat of their Chevy cargo van, reviewing the security codes he had been given by Lou Quinn, a Boeing collaborator of 23 years. He glanced at the speedometer. “Please slow down. You’re four miles an hour over the limit. I don’t want us stopped. We’re behind as it is.”

  “Because you had to wait for that stinkender Arab to leave. What was so important about getting into his place? I don’t get it. He was just some dumb student.”

  Claussen waited until the speedometer dropped to 55. “There was a document I wanted him to have, Karl.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say? What kind of a document? I don’t like it when you just sit there.”

  It was two o’clock in the morning, the traffic was sparse. The freeway dipped beneath an overpass. Claussen saw a police car prowling the shadows above. He glanced at Stein to see if he had noticed it. Light from road signs flickered across his bony face, making it hard to read his expression.

  “Okay, okay,” Stein said. “You don’t have to stare at me. You were right about the speed. It doesn’t make you God. Are you going to tell me about the document or not?”

  “What’s happening to your nerves, Karl?”

  “Fuck you. My nerves are fine. If you don’t want to talk, don’t talk.”

  “I had planned to fill you in. I believe we’re on the same team.”

  “We’d better be. For both our sakes.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So let’s hear about the goddamned document.”

  “Seven years after the Gulf War, Karl, the Iraqis came up with a plan to heist parts from Boeing. The US embargo, by ’98, was starting to cripple their fleet of jumbos. Hussein didn’t intend to take it sitting down. It was a decent plan, considering the limitations of their intelligence network. Decent but not perfect. The Americans, as usual, were in the dark. Unfortunately for the Iraqis, they chose to consult Volkov for his professional opinion.”

  Stein switched on the radio, and Claussen switched it off.

  “Try to relax, Karl. It will be over soon.”

  “It’s not me who’s up tight. Go on. I was listening.”

  “Obviously, any attempted theft of aircraft parts by foreign agents which was discovered would have led to tighter security at Boeing and elsewhere. This would not have served the best interests of Operation Litvyak. Volkov asked me to make certain the Iraqi plan never got off the ground.”

  Stein started to reach for the radio dial, then jerked his hand back as if he had touched hot metal. “Go on, will you? You don’t have to stop talking every time I move.”

  “There were two Iraqi agents involved. When I entered their hotel room in San Diego I found a faxed list of maintenance parts for Iraqi Airways’ 747s. I filed that list away as I would have any intelligence-related document.”

  “Did it stink in the hotel room?”

  “No, Karl, it smelled of expensive cologne.”

  “So what did you do to those guys?”

  “That’s unimportant.”

  “I hope you castrated them.”

  “You’re up to fifty-eight.”

  “Okay, all right. Fill in the blanks, would you?”

  “Of course, Karl. Tonight, in addition to our primary job, we are going to be selecting and loading 747 parts from my copy of that list. The document I planted this evening was the original list. When the FBI finds it buried among Hassan Aziz’s notes on political economy, the criminal investigation of the Atlanta crash and any others occurring in the meantime will move to the tria
l stage. In the minds of the authorities the crimes will be solved, irrespective of whether a conviction is won. I hope this explains the importance of the break-in.”

  Stein gave a hoarse, truncated laugh. “Smart, Walter. It’s comforting to know that you’ve been thinking about my future.”

  Claussen craned his neck and looked at the speedometer again. Stein was driving exactly 55. “Our future, Karl.”

  “What about this van we’re driving? Feel like telling me?”

  “If you’re interested. It belonged to Operation Litvyak. I loaned it to one of our insider friends when I returned to Germany. He put the title in his name for licensing and insurance purposes. He of course had no objection to my using it for a couple of days.”

  “Yeah? I’d like to see his face when he gets it back with COLE DEHUMIDIFICATION SYSTEMS stenciled on the sides.” Stein slapped his thigh and laughed like a Bavarian.