by Pat Mullan
The Sunday after he returned from Baton Rouge, Bob Travers was leading twenty-seven of his congregation in prayer at the home of his nearest parishioner. At that same time, Owen MacDara was breaking into the Colonel's apartment. Flashes of Nixon and the Watergate 'plumbers' entered his head. He imagined himself getting caught and being put on trial. It would be a show trial. Of himself. Of General Shields. Of the President. One of Bart Shields' operatives had disabled the alarm system and picked the locks of the french windows that opened onto Travers first floor balcony. It was ten a.m. and, at this time on a Sunday, MacDara had the neighborhood to himself. Most people were still in bed. There were no dead bolts or bars and he entered the apartment with ease. He knew what he was looking for. Evidence. Anything that would tie Travers to those responsible for the murder of Murph' and the Major. It was a one bedroom apartment. The balcony opened into the master bedroom. Minimalist, observed MacDara. Wooden floor, scatter rugs, large bed, no headboard, simple pine chest of drawers, old style military campaign chest at foot of the bed, walk-in closet, a Larry Rivers print of the dying confederate and a Remington bronze sitting beside an exercise bicycle in the corner. MacDara searched the chest of drawers and found socks and underwear. Nothing but blankets in the campaign chest and the walk-in closet revealed only clothes and uniforms. The living room was minimalist too and the furniture looked uncomfortable and unused. There was a stereo but no sign of a television.
A door leading off the entrance hallway was closed but unlocked. MacDara opened it. The room was small. Maybe ten feet by ten. But lived in, unlike the rest of the apartment. Nothing minimalist here. A plain pine-topped table desk and a grey filing cabinet sat in one corner. A PC, an IBM clone, filled the adjacent corner. Bookshelves, stuffed to the ceiling, cushioned one wall while directly opposite a few photographs and awards hung almost as an afterthought. A single bed, made up army style, lined the remaining wall. Bedspread drawn taut, like his days in basic training at Fort Dix. MacDara was tempted to drop a coin on it just to see it bounce. Korea had been different. His houseboy did all that. Even prepared his foot locker for field inspections. MacDara realized that his mind had wandered. He needed to focus. He had to assume that Travers could return at any time. He wanted to be long gone when that happened.
His eyes scanned the photos and awards, mostly military. Nothing unusual until he looked again at one of the photos. There was something familiar about it. He moved closer till he was only a few inches away. He had been right. Two men in combat fatigues and parkas standing in the snow outside a large army field tent. One of the men was Colonel Robert Travers and the other was Colonel George McNab.
The filing cabinet was unlocked and, after a ten minute perusal of the contents, it was easy to see why. It held nothing more sinister than phone bills, electrical bills, medical records, insurance claims, and normal housekeeping items. The Colonel was certainly a meticulous record keeper. The book shelves yielded nothing either. MacDara decided that it would not be his choice of literature if he were stranded on a desert island. That only left the computer. He sat down in front of it, taking note that it was a 486 model with floppy disk and CD ROM drives and an HP inkjet printer. The system was plugged into a surge protector and looked ready to use. He sat down and blew on his fingertips, feeling as though he were about to crack a safe. So far so good, he thought, as the system booted, the printer came on-line and the Windows 3.11 screens appeared. He moused his way through various accessory and utilities screens until he reached the Microsoft Works screen and clicked his way inside. Half an hour later he had thoroughly convinced himself that Travers only used his computer to type letters and reports, all of them filed with the same meticulousness that he had evidenced earlier in the filing cabinet. He had scanned his way through all of the files, finding nothing of any significance. The letters were administrative formalities and the military reports dealing with everything from procurement and logistics to military and civilian preparedness weren't classified or secret. Most of the same information could be acquired by reading the local papers. MacDara was about to give up when he decided to give the files one last scan. That's when he found it. It had been staring him in the face all along; couldn't see the forest for the trees. At first it just looked like another political memorandum on behalf of the Committee to Elect Senator Sumner Hardy for President. Except that it was marked 'confidential'. He had only scanned it the first time. Now he read all four pages and it was the second last paragraph on the fourth and final page that aroused his interest: in the unlikely event that the contingency plan must be executed in the interest of selfpreservation and the defense of our manifest destiny all of those on the 'strategic list' will assemble at the chosen location. An awkward statement, almost fundamentalist polemic in its undertone. MacDara had seen various lists of people throughout the files but had attached no particular significance to them. Now he went searching for a 'strategic list'. It wasn't filed under any of the obvious categories. But persistence paid off and he finally found what he was looking for. The memorandum was titled ' National Preparedness in a Crisis; Contingency Plan: the 'strategic list'.' He started to read the names. Names of great power and authority in Congress, FBI, CIA, the Military and even the Supreme Court.
Owen MacDara recollected the President's words: "We're certain that there are people belonging to the movement right here on Capitol Hill. In our own government. Maybe even in my cabinet. We could have a mole or fifth column anywhere."
Owen wondered if he had found the President's "fifth column".
TWENTY-FIVE
Tennessee
The Millennium Covenant
Tight security greeted Owen MacDara when he reached the gate to the compound of the Millennium Covenant. He had driven at least three miles on a one-track dusty road in the Tennessee hills and was almost convinced that he'd taken a wrong turn when he saw him. Dressed in camoflage fatigues with a forty-five strapped low on his hip, he held a semi-automatic rifle at the ready across his chest. As MacDara drew closer he could see that there were two of them, manning a wooden guard post standing in the center of a chain-link fence blocking the entrance to the compound. MacDara pulled up, identified himself and one of them spoke for a few minutes into a hand-held phone. Then he nodded to his buddy, saying, "I'll take him up," and pulled out a US army issue jeep, repainted in the blue and red colours of the Covenant. MacDara pulled in behind the jeep and followed for about half a mile through dense trees till they reached a clearing that breasted onto a hill commanding a view of the land that stretched out into the near distance. Buildings stood in a semicircle around a parade ground and assembly area. The stars and stripes fluttered from the top of a flag pole in the middle. A few jeeps and other four-wheel drive vehicles stood nearby. The guard pulled his jeep in beside them and directed MacDara to do likewise. Jumping out, he approached MacDara and said :
"Colonel George asked me to take you to the firing range. He wants you to join him there."
The fourth building in the semicircle was built like a bunker from the Third Reich. The windows were barred and an armed guard manned the front entrance. Two satellite dishes distinguished the roof. Only one thing that could be, thought MacDara. Their top secret computer center. The guard entered the last building in the semicircle and MacDara followed through a series of doors leading to a connecting corridor that joined onto another much larger building to the rear. The guard led him through two sets of double doors, accessed only by a security card.
MacDara could see that they had entered an indoor firing range. At least twenty firing positions stretched to his left and another twenty to his right. The guard pointed to the end position on the right :
"Colonel George is right there. He's expecting you," and then he did an about-face and left.
MacDara observed that all twenty positions on his left seemed to be occupied by contestants armed with handguns, the nearest using .45-caliber automatic pistols. They were firing at target silhouettes about twenty-five yards away
. An instructor stood to the rear armed only with a hand-held mike. The firing had ceased just as MacDara entered and they were counting their scores. The instructor's voice sounded loud and clear :
"Shoot 'em in the head! Shoot 'em in the head! Don't forget. These people are wearing vests."
"Owen MacDara," the voice had parade ground strength, "George McNab."
The Colonel was dressed like everyone else, in combat fatigues. He wasn't wearing any insignia to distinguish his rank but there was no mistake about his identity. He exuded an aura of command. His grey crew cut hair and the weather-beaten face gave him the stamp of the professional soldier.
"Glad you could see me, Colonel."
"You may change your mind about that. I'm only seeing you, MacDara, because I'm curious. I wanted to look at you. Wanted to see what makes you tick."
MacDara said nothing. He followed the Colonel to a cubicle-like office in the corner that was completely soundproof and had a clear plexiglass front wall that allowed the occupants to observe everything that took place on the firing range. The Colonel continued to speak :
"I'll put my cards on the table. I know that you and Shields are on a witch hunt. My people are defending this nation. Meddlers like you are undermining it. You are the real enemy."
"And was Major Henry Whiteside your enemy too?" MacDara asked, incensed at the Colonel's intimidating belligerence.
"He was a traitor. Ready to inform on his own kind."
"And you and your fellow patriots killed him. Isn't that right, Colonel?"
"No! We executed him. Justice, MacDara "
"Vigilante justice, Colonel. Who are the enemy you're teaching your people to shoot at out there? An enemy wearing bullet-proof vests. Your own Federal Officers? Youre no patriot, McNab. You're just another terrorist!"
Their raised voices reverberated around the cubicle. MacDara knew he was alone in enemy territory. But, in the heat of the exchange, he had little time to take an assessment of his own safety. He pressed ahead.
"Tell me, McNab. Is General Zachary Walker one of 'your own kind'?"
"The General is a true patriot, MacDara . He shares our values. He's a fine soldier and an honorable man. That traitor Whiteside was going to smear him. We couldn't permit that."
"Who are 'we', Colonel? Who are the other 'patriots' who share your twisted values?"
"You meddlers will find that out soon enough. But I'm afraid you won't be around, MacDara ," said Colonel McNab as he levelled a .45 automatic at MacDara and pushed a button on the side of his desk summoning two armed guards to the room.
"Take him. Lock him up."
"You won't get away with this, McNab," blurted MacDara as the guards spreadeagled him against the wall, searched him, and cuffed his hands behind his back.
"But I already have, MacDara" said the Colonel, dismissively, as the guards grabbed MacDara and pulled him from the room.
He was in a six by six foot cell, pitch black, no windows and only an air vent embedded in the concrete walls near the ceiling. An iron bed with a lumpy thin mattress and an aluminum pot to urinate in were the only furnishings. The guards had removed the handcuffs when they threw him in and drew the bolts across on the iron door. Occasionally he could hear someone shuffle or cough outside the door so he knew that they had left at least one guard behind. They had taken away his watch and he had lost track of the time. He was aware of its passing and knew that it must have been about three in the afternoon when they had locked him up. At least an hour must have passed. There was no way to escape and he forced himself to take stock of his position. They planned to kill him. He was dead certain about that. They're protecting General Walker. That's why they killed the Major. That's why they killed Murph'. And that's why they've been trying to kill him. To silence him. But he just couldn't figure it. Why hadn't McNab taken him out behind a tree? Why had he been locked up here? Maybe they wanted to hold him as a bargaining chip. No - these people don't bargain! Owen was sure that McNab meant every word when he said ' I'm afraid you won't be around, MacDara!' Maybe they didn't want his body anywhere in the Millennium Covenant. But that was no reason to lock him up. They could have bumped him off when he arrived and taken his body and dumped it far away from here. That would have been much easier than taking him for a ride and risking an escape. No, it just didn't figure. No matter how much he teased his mind, locking him up didn't make sense. He stopped torturing himself about it. He was certain of two things. They planned to kill him. And he was still alive. He was also certain of a third thing. If he died, he'd go down fighting. He wasn't about to kneel down and let them put a bullet in his brain. He didn't know how long they'd keep him here but he was going to keep his body and mind alert. He reasoned that his mental and physical condition could make the difference between life and death.
The size of his cell limited his movement but it was big enough for exercise. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he remembered a forties movie where a prisoner had played imaginary chess on the square ceiling tiles of his cell to preserve his sanity. MacDara's favorite mental exercise was solving crosswords. He frequently did the New York Times crossword in ink, boldly filling in each answer with total confidence. When he used to do this on his railroad commute into Manhattan, he'd often observe the riveted stare of a fellow commuter waiting for him to make a mistake. But he never did. So he decided to imagine a crossword on the ceiling. In effect, he created one in his mind, constructing it as he solved it; sometimes providing the answer first and then constructing the question.
An hour and a half into his imprisonment MacDara was already busy with his exercise and his crossword.
TWENTY-SIX
Atlanta, Georgia
Hans Vertonen's stomach muscles tightened as the wheels of the KLM plane touched the runway. It had been an uneventful flight across the Atlantic. He opened his seat belt, reached forward and grabbed his Toshiba laptop from under the seat in front. As the plane taxied down the runway he took out his passport and visa for one last look. The photograph looked stern, unsmiling, but it was definitely a good likeness. And the visa was authentic. He was Willy VanMeter, IBM Systems Engineer, on a one month visit to the States to attend a computer conference and meet with professional colleagues. Reassured, he returned the documents to his inside jacket pocket and moved towards the exit at the front of the plane. He grabbed his carryon bag from the rack near the door, smiled a 'thank you' to the stewardess and walked smartly up the ramp into the airport. He had no bags to claim and his confident stride was rewarded with a brief look at his papers, a perfunctory entry stamp and an equally perfunctory 'enjoy your visit'.
Hans Vertonen was in a hurry. His easy entry into the U.S. had given him a boost of adrenalin. Through the window he could see a lone taxi and he rushed to get it. Propelled by the revolving door he raised his right arm to signal the taxi driver and dashed around a waiting bus. He never saw the other taxi bearing down on him until he heard the screech of brakes.
"I swear, Officer. I didn't see him. He stepped straight out from behind the bus."
Beads of perspiration rolled down the ebony temples of Johnny Jackson. He hopped from one foot to the other and his stomach seemed to float on his two hundred pound frame.
"OK, Jackson. You can move your cab around the corner. We've finished taking measurements. But don't leave. I'll need you to sign a formal statement."
"Yes, Officer. Thank you, Officer."
The paramedics were loading the body of the young man into the ambulance for the journey to the morgue. He was dead when they had arrived. The police officer had already stowed the victim's luggage in the patrol car; one carryon bag and a slim black case containing a laptop computer.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hong Kong
The rest of the board members of Taipan Holdings of Hong Kong had been taken unawares. It was entirely out of character for the Chairman to excuse himself and leave in the middle of a board meeting. But that's exactly what James Scott Tsu had done. His executive se
cretary had entered with a message; no-one had ever recalled her interrupting a board meeting before. Chairman Tsu had read the message, remained perfectly still for a minute, then got up and said :
"Gentlemen, I must leave. A personal matter of some urgency. Please continue the meeting. Our Vice-Chairman will be Acting until I return."
One hour later, James Scott Tsu was in his Mercedes limousine on his way to the airport.
Dusseldorf
Karl-Heinz Schell had had a most satisfying lunch. Every Thursday he had lunch with Heidi. There was something exhilarating about an illicit relationship, he thought as he pushed open the double doors leading to his executive offices.
"Any messages, Geisa?"
"Just one, Sir. I left it on your desk."
The sense of exhilaration felt by the President of Dusseldorf Industries disappeared as soon as he read the message Geisa had left on his desk. He pressed the intercom that connected him to his secretary.
"Geisa."
"Yes, Sir."
"Cancel all my appointments next week. Call a taxi. And get Albert for me, please."
London
The RAC Club was a little run-down these days. The membership had changed. Too many noveaux riches with no family pedigree. Not the place of my youth, thought Sir Geoffrey Clutterbuck as the waiter refilled his wine glass. Two tables away an absolutely abhorrent man, expensively tailored with a gold watch chain braided across his ample girth, was laughing loudly and holding forth in a most grating Liverpool street accent. Just at that moment the waiter returned, carrying a telephone :