"Oh yes, Mr. Duffield, you're to go right in," she said. "Mr. Ollinger is expecting you. Do you care for coffee or something cool to drink?"
"No, thank you."
She ushered him into the office. Ollinger was a man in his early forties, with the baby-skin face and soft hands of the easy life. His soft brown eyes stared bleakly from behind lightly tinted, gold-rimmed spectacles. He was tall and erect and in good physical shape, clean-shaven with short-cropped blond hair, and he was in his shirt sleeves. The city stretched out behind him, a panorama framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. His walnut desk was a study in Spartan organization: "in" boxes and "out" boxes and not a sheet of paper out of place. On the credenza behind him was a single photograph of a woman and two children, and beside it a small brass plaque with "Thank you for not smoking" printed on it. There was not one other personal effect in the room. It was as if Ollinger had just moved in and had not unpacked yet. His manner was cordial but distant. Some might have thought him intimidating, but to Duffield, he was just another executive with a problem.
"Thanks for getting up here so fast," Ollinger said after the introductions.
"You indicated there is some urgency to the matter."
"You might say that," Ollinger replied with a touch of sarcasm. He sighed, and straightening his arms, placed both hands on his desk, palms down. "Before we start," he said, "I would like it understood that this conversation never happened."
Duffield smiled. "Of course," he said. Ollinger was new at this, and uncomfortable in a situation that was totally out of his control.
"Good," Ollinger said, with a sense of relief. He opened the desk drawer and took out a yellow legal pad with notes scrawled all over the top page. "I hope I can decipher all this," he said. "I was scribbling notes as fast as I could."
"Why not just tell me the basic problem," Duffield said.
"The basic problem is that one of our people has been kidnapped by terrorists in Venezuela," Ollinger said, still studying his notes and not looking up.
"I see."
"Actually, he's a consultant attached to our office in Caracas. It was a mistake. They meant to take the manager of the plant and got the wrong man."
"You know that for sure?"
Ollinger nodded. "Our manager's name is Domignon. He was going to take Lavander on a tour of the facilities but something came up at the last minute. He let Lavander use his car and driver and it was raining, so he loaned Lavander his slicker. They jumped the car less than a mile from the main gate."
"Lavander's the one got lifted, then?"
"Yes."
"Is he the oil consultant?"
Ollinger nodded. "Yes. You know him?"
"Only by reputation. When did this happen?"
"Eight-twenty this morning."
"Have you heard from the bastards?"
"Yes."
"What do they want?"
"Two million dollars."
"What's the time frame?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"How much time do you have?"
"Forty-eight hours." He looked at his watch. "Make that forty-five."
"So we have until approximately eight-thirty the day after tomorrow. Are they aware of their error?"
"They don't care. It's put up or shut up."
"How badly do you want him back?"
"Well, I ... uh, we have to treat him as if-"
"Mr. Ollinger, is he worth two million dollars to your company?"
Ollinger seemed shocked by Duffield's candor. "There's a man's life at stake here."
"Yes, yes, but that's not what I asked you. Is the man worth two million dollars to Sunset?"
The weight of events seemed to press down on Ollinger. His shoulders sagged and he looked at his hands. "I don't know anybody that is," he said forlornly.
"Is this political?"
"Political?"
"You know, do they want anything else? Do they have prisoners they want released? Is there a union problem in the plant? Are these people revolutionary types? Do they want to nationalize your operation? Is it political?"
"No. All ... all they want's two million dollars."
"Or what?"
"Or they'll kill him, take another hostage and raise the ante to four million."
"Typical. Do you know these people? Is it a group? A solo with a few hired hands? Some employee with a hard-on?"
"They call themselves the .. , uh, Raf ..." He looked at his notes.
"Rafsaludi?" Duffield filled in.
"That's it. You know them?"
"We've dealt with them once or twice before. It's a loose-knit, terror-for-profit group trained by Qaddafi's people in Libya. They're not politically motivated."
"So it has something to do with oil, then ..."
"Not necessarily. They prey on big American companies. Our last experience with them involved a soft-drink company in Argentina. The Rafsaludi is motived by greed, not social reform. That's a help."
"A help?"
"Well, there's an attitude of fanaticism among political revolutionaries. Tends to make them a bit unpredictable. A greedy terrorist is always easier to deal with."
"Oh," Ollinger said. It was obvious that he was uneasy dealing with the problem. "Can it be done without, you know, a lot of—uh, unnecessary, uh ..."
"You're new at this," Duffield said. It was not a question.
"Yes. I was in the legal department until they made me veepee in charge of international operations two months ago."
"You'd better get used to this kind of thing," Duffield said. "These are cretins. Unless the situation is dealt with harshly, it will happen again."
Ollinger rubbed his forehead. He was growing more uncomfortable by the minute.
"I assume you want the man back," Duffield said briskly, changing the subject.
Ollinger looked at him with arched eyebrows. "Of course," he said.
"Mr. Ollinger, let's be candid. Of course you want this Lavander back. What I mean is, you want him back, but you don't want to pay two million dollars for him, right?"
"That's why I called you. Derek Frazer recommended—"
"Yes, yes, I talked to Derek. My point is, this man is only a consultant, he's not a salaried executive with the company."
"We have to think of him as an employee," Ollinger said. "If word got out that we let terrorists kill a contract consultant ..." He let the sentence trail off.
"Yes, it would be regarded as a moral responsibility."
"You don't have to remind us ..."
"Excuse me," Duffield said quietly, "that wasn't meant to sound like a moral judgment. I am merely trying to get a proper fix on the situation."
Ollinger cleared his throat and then nodded. "Yes, uh ... your analysis is quite correct. If possible, we'd like to do this without any media coverage. Lavander himself is a bit reclusive. Very private. I doubt that he would talk about it—that is, if we can get him out and—"
"It's not an 'if' situation. We'll bring him in, if that's what you want."
"We can't afford to lose him."
"So, I repeat, you want him back, but you don't want to spend two million dollars doing it. Is that a proper appraisal of the situation?"
Ollinger began to fidget. He flexed his shoulders as though he had a stiff neck. Drops of perspiration appeared along his hairline. The armpits of his shirt were black with sweat. Finally he said, "Yes, that's accurate. Also, we'd like to, uh, think it won't ... you know, happen again."
"Perfectly understandable. How many people know about this?"
"No more than seven or eight. The executives at the plant, the driver of the car, who was released after they grabbed Lavander, and the head of plant security."
"No Venezuelan cops?"
"No."
"State department? CIA, FBI..."
"No, none of that."
"Excellent. Well, Mr. Ollinger, I'd like to suggest you leave this matter in our hands. Inform Señor Domignon that he'll be getting a call sometime wit
hin the next hour. I'll need some basic information, names of executives, phone numbers, location of plant ... uh, we may need to slip some equipment into the country without having to deal with customs. But, basically, all you need to do is call Domignon and tell him I'll be in touch. Then you can forget about it."
Ollinger smiled hesitantly. "That's wonderful, really. Now, about the price ..."
"The price will be three hundred thousand dollars. I'll need it in cash before I leave. My briefcase is empty, you can put the money in there."
Ollinger seemed shocked. "Three hundred thousand!"
Duffield smiled. "Look at it this way, Mr. Ollinger: you're investing three hundred thousand and saving one million seven. If there should be a repeat of the situation, we'll handle it at no additional cost. Oh, and by the way, if the operation should fail for any reason, your money will be cheerfully refunded."
"Quill."
"Duffield here."
"What's the situation?"
"First of all, this Ollinger is a wimp. New on the job and very unhappy he has to handle this. Doesn't want to get his hands dirty. Actually, he was so relieved when I told him to forget it and let us handle the thing, I thought he was going to jump across the desk and kiss me."
"Any danger he may violate security?"
"No, he's quite aware of the need for silence."
"What are the details?"
"The Rafsaludi grabbed a consultant named Lavander in Caracas by mistake; they were after the manager, a man named Domignon. They want two mil by the day after tomorrow, eight-thirty A.M., or they snuff the hostage, grab another and raise the ante to four mil."
"Fairly routine for them."
"Yes, very little imagination. The hook is that they lifted the wrong man. But it's just a wrinkle, nothing that would affect the overall operation."
"Media? Police?"
"No, so far it's clean. A few executives and the driver of the car Lavander was taken from."
"Excellent. State department isn't involved, or CIA?"
"No, it's under wraps. We have the contract and I've handled the funds in the usual manner. Three hundred thousand less my commission."
"Excellent, I'll take it from here. As usual, you did an excellent job, Mr. Duffield. At the beep tone, please feed Master all names and contacts and any other information we'll need."
"Thanks very much."
"Thank you for moving so quickly. Good day, sir."
"So long."
"This is Master Control."
"Clearance for selection."
"One moment, please." A few seconds later a recorded voice came on the line. "Clearance. Your ID?"
"Quill. Z-1."
"Programming Z-1. Voice check."
"Four score and seven years ago ..."
"Voice check cleared. Your number?"
"730-037-370."
"Your program?"
"Selection."
"Programming selection." There was another pause and then: "This is Selection."
"Antiterrorism."
"Programmed."
"Assassination."
"Programmed."
"Kidnapping."
"Programmed."
"Language, Spanish."
"Programmed."
"Venezuela."
"Programmed."
"Route and intersect."
"Routing ... intersection ... we have twelve candidates."
"File and reselect."
"Filed and reprogrammed."
"Availability."
"Programmed."
"Route and intersect."
"Routing ... intersection ... we have nine candidates."
"File and reselect."
"Filed and reprogrammed."
"Team operation."
"Programmed."
"Previous team."
"Programmed."
"Assassination, nonpolitical."
"Programmed."
"Caracas."
"Programmed."
"Tracking."
"Programmed."
"Route and intersect."
"Routing ... intersection ... we have one candidate."
"Name."
"Hinge."
"Subfile and reselect."
"Subfiled and reprogrammed."
"Delete tracking."
"Tracking deleted."
"Route and intersect."
"Routing ... intersection ... we have four candidates."
"Names."
"Falmouth, Gazinsky, Hinge, Kimoto."
"File and hold."
"Filed ... holding."
A long pause, then Quill said, "Delete Kimoto."
"Kimoto deleted."
"Hold."
"Holding."
Another pause. Then: "Readout ... Falmouth, team ops, A-level."
"Falmouth, Tony ... prefers solo ops ... two previous team ops ... maximum team size: three ... commander: one ops ... command effectiveness rating: A-plus ... overall effectiveness rating: A-plus, A-plus."
"Delete readout."
"Readout deleted."
"Readout ... Gazinsky, team ops, A-level."
"Gazinsky, Rado ... four previous team ops ... commander: one ops ... command effectiveness rating: C ... overall effectiveness rating: C, A-minus, B, B-plus."
"File overall effectiveness rating and delete."
"Information deleted ... holding."
"Readout ... Hinge, team ops, A-level."
"Hinge, Raymond ... four previous team ops ... commander: two ops ... command effectiveness rating: A, B-plus ... overall effectiveness rating: A, B-plus, A, B-plus."
"Intersect overall effectiveness rating and score."
"Intersection ... scoring: Falmouth, A-plus ... Hinge, A-minus ... Gazinsky, B."
Falmouth and Hinge were obviously the best men for the job.
As was his custom, Falmouth placed a long-distance call to a 404 area code at eleven o'clock. The telephone was in a small efficiency apartment on the Buford Highway in Atlanta. The apartment contained a small desk, a chair and a telephone with a Code-A-Phone 1400 answering machine. Falmouth paid the rent by the year. Since the phone was used only to collect incoming calls, the bill was fixed and was paid each month by money order. It answered on the first ring and the recorded voice said: "Hello, this is the University Magazine Service. At the tone, please leave your name, number and the time you called. Thank you." A beep followed.
Falmouth held a small yellow plastic beeper to the mouthpiece of the phone and pressed the button on the side. A series of musical tones emitted from the beeper. Falmouth could hear the tape in the answering machine rewinding.
"Shit," he said to himself.
The first call was transmitted.
"This is Quill, eleven-ten, Thursday, 730-037-370. Urgent."
The second call was almost the same:
"Quill, eleven fifty-five, Thursday, 730-037-370. Red urgent. One hour."
Deciphered, that meant Quill had a hot one and needed to make contact with Falmouth within an hour. Falmouth looked at his watch. It was twelve-ten. He had forty-five minutes to get back to Quill.
He had to make a decision fast. Time was running out. Howe had three days left to deliver O'Hara. But if Falmouth failed to call Quill, it could blow his whole plan. His back was against the wall. He decided to make the call.
He dialed the number.
"Yes?" the voice answered.
"Reporting."
"Clearance?"
"Spettro."
"Classification?"
"T-1."
"Voice check."
"Jack be nimble, Jack be—"
"ID number?"
"730-037-370."
"Cleared for routing. Contact?"
"Quill."
"Routing."
He was on hold for only a few seconds when the cultured voice answered.
"Quill."
"Falmouth."
"Is your phone clean?"
"Yes, it's a pay phone."
&
nbsp; "Excellent. Glad you got back to me. I have something for you. It's a bit dirty, but the price is good."
"Yes?"
"A consultant has been lifted by the Rafsaludi from Sunset Oil in Caracas. They want two million by day after tomorrow. The subject is Avery Lavander. We want to bring him in whole."
"Have you a play in mind?"
"Yes. A variation on the Algerian switch."
"That would require a preliminary face-to-face confrontation."
"We've had a bit of a break in that respect. The plant manager has arranged a meeting between the Rafsaludi and a company rep tomorrow at two. They're being quite audacious about this, but they're also a bit stupid. It gives us plenty of time to get in there and set up."
"Hmmm."
"Are you familiar with the play?"
"Yes. It requires a team."
"Affirmative. But only two men. I understand you prefer to operate solo, but you happen to be ..."
Quill's voice seemed to fade away. Falmouth was already considering his options. It would be the worst kind of tactic to turn down a red urgent assignment at this point. But a chill coursed through his body into his stomach. He felt as if he had swallowed an ice cube. The timing could not be worse. And a team play into the bargain. He had made his reputation as a solo. Working alone was something he had learned a long time ago ...
On the outskirts of Newtonabbey, six or seven miles northeast of Belfast, the grim rowhouses seem to stretch for miles, as if reflected in mirrors. They crowd the cobblestone streets, these dismal clones, caked a monochrome gray by decades of industrial dust that has long since disguised whatever colors the houses once were. One of Tony Falmouth's earliest memories was that his house and all the houses in this drab infinity seemed constantly to be peeling. The grit-caked paint hung in flakes from window sills and porch railings and door frames, like dead skin peeling from a burned body. In his youthful nightmares, the rains would come and the flakes became soggy and the houses began to melt and soon the gutters of the claustrophobic streets were flooded with a thick gray mass of putty, and Tony ran along the sidewalk trying to find his own house in that molten river of gray slime. Then he woke up.
By the time he was ten, Tony Falmouth had already begun to deal with his identity crisis. He had his Uncle Jerry to thank for that. Uncle Jerry was another persistent memory from his youth, although a much more pleasant one. Uncle Jerry, the wiry, hard-talking little Cheshire Cat of a man, always smiling, always humming some nondescript tune; a man so ugly he was beautiful, with a large warty nose and hands so big he could conceal a pint in his fist.
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