by Pat Mullan
The team, control groups, and players received their assignments. The game commenced. At 1830 hours on Day 1, the first two hostages are executed and thrown from the plane at Baghdad airport. Saddam Hussein's government, given the aftermath of the Gulf War, refused to cooperate with the Western governments. At 1900 hours the United States had agreed to pay the 10 million dollars to the Patriots and France has agreed to release, to a neutral country, the two people awaiting trial in Paris. The terrorists had also agreed to suspend any further actions until 10:00 a.m. the next day and to meet with a delegation from sympathetic mediators. In the meantime, all diplomatic efforts were underway to exert pressure on every nation and organization that would be supportive of the Patriots. At 2100 hours on Day 1, working behind the scenes, the RAT Busters, using intelligence gathered on the passengers of TWA Flight 17, had identified two of the hijackers. Feeding the data to STOP they were able to ascertain the Patriots command structure, their training sites, and the probable domicile of their leaders. At 0800 hours on Day 2 the negotiating team met the hijackers in Baghdad. In a sealed envelope they carried the ring finger of the second in command of the Patriots who had been executed by the RAT Force in Tripoli the previous evening. It also contained a statement from the Patriots' Commander stating that he was being held captive and would be executed if any further hostages were killed.
By Day 3, the game had ended. All remaining passengers were set free. The Saddam Hussein administration guaranteed safe passage to the hijackers and they were secreted away. The remaining bomb in the Port Authority terminal in New York had been disclosed by the terrorists. It was rendered safe. The disbursal of the $10 million from the designated Swiss account was blocked. And the RAT Force surrendered the Patriot's Commander for trial before an international court at the Hague. The game ended.
This game had differed from prior games in one major aspect. The RAT Force had mounted a successful counteroffensive. The last real offensive had ended in failure. The Delta Force had suffered eight dead and five wounded on April 24, 1980 in the unsuccessful attempt to rescue the hostages being held at the American Embassy in Teheran. It was obvious that gaming strategies against terrorism had changed. Had events in the real world also changed? Shields looked forward to Sanderson's Artificial Intelligence system. He'd feed all the variables of this game into it and see if STOP arrived at a similar resolution.
SEVEN
Miami, Florida
Liz Russo was naked. Every December Liz took the kids down to their condo in Florida. Jay always promised to join them. A promise seldom kept. These days the excuse was the Connecticut contract. Even when he did join them he'd rather spend his time golfing at the Doral. She was fed up listening to war stories about the Blue Course.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the floor to ceiling doors that opened on to the patio, Liz thought that, at thirty-three, she could still pass for her mid-twenties. The workouts at the health club kept her body trim, her legs looked like Angie Dickinson's used to, and her breasts were still firm with big, prominent nipples. She was conscious that her nipples jutted out through the sheer bras that she wore. But Liz believed that her face was the best part of her. Fair skinned, almost milky, gray-green mysterious eyes, with a sensuous mouth, Liz's face invited. Invited friends, enemies, and trouble.
Jay had called that morning. Problems with the fabrication of crucial kitchen equipment. Had to straighten the matter out. Couldn't be down for two more days. She didn't believe him anymore. Clemencia, her Colombian baby-sitter, was due to stay with the kids that weekend. Well, Liz reckoned, she was going out anyway.
She saw him sitting there. At the bar in JohnMartins He didn't fit. It wasn't just the navy Brooks Brothers suit. It was the sense of certitude that he exuded.
JohnMartins was an upmarket Irish pub on Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. It was beyond lace curtain A good place for a draught Guinness. Or just to hang out. Or have a cocktail before or after. Even dinner in their Waterford Crystal dining room, with the ever-so-proper harpist in attendance, could be excellent. Miami didn't have a pub culture like New York or Chicago and JohnMartins was one of the few to fill that void. Liz felt comfortable there.
"The next drink is on him, Liz." It was the voice of the proprietor. Liz hadn't noticed him amble up beside her. He pointed to the bar and the Brooks Brothers suit raised his glass in acknowledgement.
They got the corner table in the dining room and they both chose the Irish smoked salmon with crumbling slices of freshly baked Irish soda bread. Liz was hungry. It hadn't taken much persuasion to join him for dinner. His eyes were the most compelling blue she had ever seen. She felt hypnotized by them. As he spoke, she couldn't help thinking how much his voice reminded her of Richard Burton. English with Welsh undertones. A voice that was cultivated, theatrical. And earthy. Sensuous. That's what she felt. Sensuous. He was talking:
"I'd like to see more of you, Liz."
"But, Tony - we've just met. And I don't even know your last name."
"All my best decisions have been made on impulse... and it's Thackeray, Tony Thackeray."
"What brings you to Miami, Tony?"
"I'll be in the States for about two months this time. We have a number of important clients on both the east and west coasts. I like to see each of them personally when I'm here. Good business."
"What's your business?"
"The Thackeray Institute. We're what you'd call in the States, a "think tank". We help you think about the future. Right now everybody wants to know what the Millennium will bring. Everybody's excited and apprehensive about the twenty-first century. That's good for us. We're needed."
"Where's your home, Tony?"
"I don't know anymore, Liz . I divide my time between Europe, the States, and Asia. I suppose Europe is home base but I'm seldom there."
"You're a nomad, a gypsy," said Liz, who was more interested in Tony's body than his mind tonight. The gin and tonics and the Chateauneuf du Pape had given her a feeling of well-being. She had kicked off her shoes and stretched her right leg under the table to meet his. Her toes had ventured under his pants and were gently caressing his leg. The harpist played on...
They didn't linger over coffee.
He was staying at the Fountainbleau Hilton on Miami Beach. The taxi swung off Collins Avenue and dropped them at the steps to the main entrance. It didn't take them long to cross the crowded foyer, grab an elevator and reach the 29th floor. Liz was in his arms as the door closed behind them. He carried her into the room, kicking his shoes off on the way. She moved her tongue around the inside of his mouth as her hands removed his belt. It was hot and she wore a backless dress with no bra. Her breasts were in his hands. Gently fondling each, he sank his face into them. Her nipples were hard under his tongue and she slowly eased them out of his mouth as she slipped to her knees in front of him.
It was eleven a.m. and they were lounging by the pool with the Fountainbleau Hilton tower forming a semicircle behind them and the boardwalk separating them from Miami Beach and the blue green Atlantic. Liz's strawberry daiquiri was both delicious and decadent.
"So, why don't you leave him?" ventured Tony.
"I've often wanted to do just that. But Jay would charge me with abandonment. I wouldn't get a penny. And he could make a serious claim for custody of the children," said Liz.
"What about all his liaisons and affairs? Don't you have grounds for suing him for divorce?"
"Yes, that's true. But we'd be splashed all over the front pages. And I don't want the kids to be subjected to that."
"So, if you won't sue for divorce and you won't leave him, what do you do, Liz?"
"Go on living separate lives, I guess. God, I just hate Jay now. I wish he were dead. That would solve everything."
"You're serious . I believe you mean that."
"Yeah, there's nothing any more. Even the kids are growing up without him. A heart attack would save us. God, there were days when I wished that something would fall on him on that cons
truction site. But he's so bloody careful. Always wears his hard hat on the site."
Tony raised his glass and told Liz she deserved a run of good luck. He looked into her eyes and said that he wished he could make her dreams come true. Liz would be back in New York in a couple of days. Tony said that he'd be there the following week. Staying at the Plaza. Liked to be close to Central Park. Enjoyed jogging there in the morning. He promised to call her when he arrived.
Liz watched him as he strode purposefully to the diving board, stood on the edge for maybe ten seconds, stretched out his arms and dived. Almost theatrical. But something else, thought Liz. Power. That's it. She'd never met anyone who personified power like Tony Thackeray.
EIGHT
Gloucester, Massachussetts
The phone rang repeatedly on MacDara's desk but he didn't pick up the receiver. He had asked Nena, his secretary, not to be disturbed. Then the buzzer sounded to signal that Nena needed to speak to him.
"Yes, Nena, what is it?"
"It's a lady called Ruth Whiteside. Wouldn't leave a message. Sounds urgent. Insists on speaking directly to you. I'm sorry, Owen."
"That's alright, Nena. I'll talk with her."
"Mrs. Whiteside, good morning."
"Oh, Mr. MacDara, I had to reach you. It's something that may be important. I was going through everything in Harry's office and I found a journal he'd been keeping."
"That is important, Mrs.Whiteside. I'd very much like to see it."
The call was brief. Owen thanked Ruth Whiteside and immediately buzzed Nena.
"Nena, please cancel my appointments this afternoon and call a taxi. I want it in ten minutes."
"Yes, Sir. Where shall I tell them you're going."
"To La Guardia. I'm taking the shuttle to Boston. Should be back tonight. If not, I'll let you know where you can reach me."
There was a hourly shuttle service between New York and the east coast cities of Boston and Washington. Traffic was building at mid-morning in the city and he just missed the eleven o'clock shuttle. He had to settle for the noon flight, arriving at Logan airport in Boston about forty-five minutes later. Nena had called ahead and reserved a car for him at the airport. By one fifteen, MacDara was negotiating his way out of Logan and heading north for Gloucester.
Ruth Whiteside was expecting him. Nena had called to tell her. She met him at the door.
"Just in time for afternoon tea, Mr. MacDara. I do hope you like Lapsang Souchong."
As she ushered him into the living room, the strains of a Bach concerto played softly in the background and a most striking young woman rose to be introduced.
"Mr. MacDara, this is Kate, our daughter."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. MacDara."
"Ms. Whiteside, the pleasure is all mine."
"Please call me Kate."
Kate Whiteside must have been five nine. She had a dark complexion and almond shaped eyes. Almost looked Eurasian. Her shining black hair could only have been styled by a top Parisian designer. It was cut short at the back, in layers, and angled at the sides to frame a face more Asian than European. Her mouth was exquisite, perfectly formed and completely sensuous. The blue jeans she wore accentuated her long shapely legs. A casual loose fitting red shirt, open at the neck, could not conceal her figure. But it was the eyes that captured MacDara. Brown and yet not brown. Other colors reflected the light too : green, yellow and gray.
A gentle cough from Ruth Whiteside brought them back. They both realized that they'd been standing there unselfconsciously absorbed in each other's presence.
"Tea, Mr. MacDara," Ruth insisted on addressing him formally.
"Thank you, Mrs. Whiteside, just the remedy after a shuttle flight."
Two comfortable easy chairs and a couch surrounded a driftwood coffee table on which Ruth Whiteside had arranged her best Lennox china. She served tea the way his mother used to when he was a child back in Ireland. Heat the pot first Then add boiling water directly onto the required amount of tea. Let stand for a few minutes only and serve. It had been a while since he'd had Lapsang Souchong. His thoughts were interrupted by Ruth as she reached under the coffee table and produced a dark brown leather bound book.
"Harry always kept a diary. A scheduler and time manager. Part of his army discipline. When he started his memoirs he began to keep a journal," said Ruth.
"Why do you think it is important?" asked Owen.
"Take a look. It starts in April last year, just after Harry began his memoirs. Not every day has an entry. Only those of importance," Ruth answered.
She was animated. She still hadn't let Harry go and the discovery of the journal only reinforced his presence. Owen paged through the journal. It was thorough. Some entries carried notes on research needed, people to see, recollections to confirm and follow-up assignments. One section contained a travel log of dates and destinations. Sometimes the person or place to be visited was noted, sometimes not. Other journal entries memorialized the highlights of a visit or research conducted on a particular day or on one of the planned trips. Some of these entries were a few pages long.
"You're right. This is important. It might help me find the answers I need," said Owen.
"What answers are those, Mr. MacDara.?" said Kate.
"Kate, please call me Owen," said MacDara.
"I have not told Kate much about your last visit or your concerns, Mr. MacDara. I felt that our conversation was privileged and I didn't want to burden her," said Ruth.
"Owen, if it's anything to do with my father, I want to know. My dad was in good health and totally at home on the ocean. I'm not satisfied with any of the explanations given for his disappearance," said Kate.
MacDara decided that Kate should know. He described again the events of twenty years ago at the 53rd MASH in Korea including the strange surgical procedure on the mysterious Colonel.
"Owen, what's so important about all of this? And what's it got to do with my father? You talk about it as though it might be something sinister," said Kate.
"Yes, Kate. It might be sinister. Why did your father swear me to secrecy?" said Owen.
"Maybe he wanted to protect the patient's privacy," responded Kate.
MacDara assured her that that had been his assessment at the time even though he had been mystified himself. He decided to tell her why he now needed to know. He described the role that Murph had played that night at the 53rd and his senseless killing in the Peppermint Stick. Finally he told her that the mysterious patient of her father's was no longer mysterious. He knew he was breaking a confidence to her dad but he felt she and her mother should know why he was concerned. So he told them that General Zachary Walker, the new Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had been that patient.
"Owen, that's crazy. Do you think that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is trying to eliminate anyone remotely involved with his treatment twenty years ago at the 53rd?" said Kate.
"I know it sounds crazy. Maybe it is. Maybe I'm paranoid. That's why I was reluctant to tell you," said Owen.
He got up and walked over to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the redwood deck at the rear of the house. Kate and Ruth followed him. Out on the deck, MacDara turned to face them.
"Suppose, just suppose, that you father uncovered something when he was writing his memoirs. I don't know what. Something dangerous. Something evil," said MacDara.
"And, just suppose that General Walker was part of that evil. And that your father had discovered something sinister behind that procedure he had carried out on the General twenty years ago," Owen continued.
"Are you saying that my father's death, disappearance, was murder?" said Kate.
"I'm sorry, Kate. I know this is hard on you and your mother. But, if I'm not paranoid, then your father's disappearance and Murph's murder are connected," said Owen.
"Then you must be in great danger yourself, Mr. MacDara," said Ruth Whiteside.
"Yes, I'm sure I am. But, if my theory is right, they want these deaths to look no
rmal. Just another statistic. But I'm not waiting to be taken out like a sitting duck. I'm going after them," said Owen.
Kate saw the determination in his face. The danger and his resolve to fight only intensified her attraction to him. Maybe it's because I haven't been with a man for a while, she thought. But she immediately dismissed that thought. She had always acted on impulse. She was an Aries. And her impulse told her that she wanted MacDara.
Kate Whiteside was married. Separated. The divorce would be final any day now. Even while married she had kept her own name. She had not become Mrs. Fuller. They had met at grad school at Harvard. She was in the fine arts program and he was completing a doctorate in nuclear physics. The attraction was cerebral and physical. They both shared a love of classical music. And he was good in bed. The marriage lasted five years. They never became good friends. Instead of growing closer together, they grew further apart. By the second year of marriage, she wanted a baby. He didn't. By their fourth year, he wanted a baby. She didn't. She wanted out.
"Kate, Kate," her mother broke in, "are you daydreaming again?"
"Sorry, Mom, must have been," said Kate.
"Mr. MacDara says he's going back to New York this evening. You're going too. Maybe you'd like to keep each other company," said Ruth.
"I'm taking the shuttle back in about an hour from Logan. If you're packed, I'd be happy to have you accompany me, Kate," said Owen.
"Nothing to pack. Traveling light. Most of my stuff's in New York. Yes, I'd love to, Owen," said Kate.
"Good, that's settled. Mr. MacDara, would you like to borrow Harry's journal? You can always return it to me when you no longer need it. It's no use to me. I've got so much to remind me of Harry," said Ruth.
"Yes, Mrs. Whiteside. I was going to ask you for the journal. I'll keep it safely for you," promised Owen