THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  'Copy that, Base One. Out.' Great, the sandy-haired man thought with little joy. Turner's coming. He re-clipped the microphone and lit a cigarette. Though he'd never met the man, Turner's reputation as a hard-nosed sonofabitch preceded him.

  As Belize Cheraz parked outside Goldman's apartment, General Turner overtook a sputtering VW Micro-bus on Interstate 95. The VW's long-haired driver looked as if he'd seen better days, such as when 450,000 people had gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in Woodstock.

  Driving his 4WD International Scout at just under the speed limit, the general expected to be in Towson in another fifteen minutes. He gripped the wheel with liver-spotted hands, his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Earlier on he'd excused himself from a dinner engagement with Harold and Mary Olsen, much to the chagrin of his wife. Betty always enjoyed the Olsens' dinner parties, as well as the tipsy game of Rummy that usually ensued. So much so she'd taken the Volvo wagon to keep her end of the invitation.

  General Turner had declined the dinner date because too much was at stake to have tonight's operation run by anyone less competent than himself. He wanted to listen in on Goldman's dinner party so he could make on-the-spot decisions should the need arise. Moreover, he wanted to be in close proximity of Goldman's apartment so he could verify his orders were being properly executed. The potential downside of the situation warranted that nothing be left to chance.

  After Goldman's outburst in the corridor of the administration building, Kaplan had taken General Turner up to the new computer room. Turner paled and the ground shifted under his feet when he read the message on the room's live terminal: THE FINAL SECTOR OF TAPE 64 HAS FINISHED.

  Turner's private computer directory had been left wide open. After checking the tape's subject matter, the three-star general knew his worst fear had come true: Goldman had learned the truth behind his father's murder. Goldman must have heard the tape, possibly all of it. But how had the chemist listened to the tape without knowing Turner's compartmentalized password? Quite likely with the help of a Datacheck employee, the irate general concluded. A matter he would look into.

  After dismissing General Kaplan with a gruff tone, Turner logged off his password-protected directory. He then logged back on to make sure the directory was again protected by his specialized password. Only then was he able to devote himself to this unexpected development that had the potential to wrench apart his carefully crafted world.

  Like many of his military colleagues, Turner had succumbed to the flashy new world of computer programmers and systems analysts. He was led to believe that the encrypted firewall encircling AUDNET 501 would withstand the attack of any passing hacker. Turner promised himself that after cleaning up this mess with Goldman he'd get AUDNET 501 taken off-line. He would secure the incriminating recordings as he saw fit. So much for the smart new world of computers. He would employ conventional methods of containment that had served him well in the past.

  The general used a secure telephone line at Silverwood Centre to get a DIA update on the audio-surveillance of Goldman's apartment. After learning about Goldman's dinner party, Turner poured himself a strong black coffee and put together a covert operation in what had to be, even for a seasoned strategist like himself, record time.

  Now, the silver-haired general drove along the busy Interstate, his mind sharpened by the hectic pace of recent events. Light rain played across the Scout's windshield, mottling the bluish-white headlamps of oncoming vehicles. He wanted a cigarette, badly, even though he hadn't smoked one for several years. Equally, he needed a stiff drink. Something to keep his nerves at bay as he mulled over the hastily prepared operation. His mouth was dry and sour. A soft drink came to mind. The fizz of carbonated bubbles would perk him considerably. But tonight he wouldn't be stopping for any kind of refreshment. Time was too precious a commodity.

  Turner looked ahead at the Towson exit sign. He squinted from the blinding headlights of an oncoming semitrailer. 'Jesus Christ, man!' Just as quickly the lights returned to normal brilliance. Before long he was off the Interstate and merging with light traffic on a four-lane street. The rain lessened as he pulled up at a red light and inched down the window. The influx of chill night air revitalized him. Tapping the Scout's wheel, he reflected on his place in the military landscape.

  The general no longer cared for military-intelligence gathering and reporting. The main role the DIA played for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His heart was simply no longer in it. He was restless to move up the ladder. As a result of shrewd and incessant politicking, he would soon serve as the Director of Operations (J-5), Joint Staff, Washington D C. Turner's J-5 Directorate would “critically examine future trends and provide a broad range of responsive assessments and recommendations to the Joint Chiefs of Staff”.

  Turner would be firmly active in strategic plans and policy other than mere intelligence gathering. Furthermore, his new position would be enhanced from another posting. From long-standing association with influential Republican hardliners, Turner had been promised a permanent seat on Ronald Reagan's new vision for an active, anti-communist National Security Council. An NSC that would end “the passive acceptance of Soviet expansionism”.

  After attaining these appointments, General Turner would be well placed to realize his dream of serving on the Joint Chiefs. As Chief of Staff of the Army, then not impossibly as chairman, the highest military office in the land. He was confident he could outplay other, younger contenders. After all he wasn't a new kid on the block. With his tireless drive and long-standing influence he would prove a formidable opponent.

  In short Turner was over the moon from the political vistas opening up to him. All the pieces were falling in place, and none too soon. Accordingly he couldn't allow his life's work to be jeopardized by someone like Goldman going public over what he'd learned about his father's murder. Such a threat had to be crushed. Turner had fought in all kinds of wars, legal and otherwise. He'd killed enemy combatants, ordered assassinations. He'd had all manner of men at his disposal, and wasn't averse to using lethal force in covert operations.

  The general was displaced from his meditations as a frizzy-haired woman pulled a young boy and girl onto a pedestrian crossing. Turner cursed and braked his 4WD, the flustered mother and the children illumined in his headlamps. An iridescent black Mustang with mag wheels and a throaty exhaust pulled up alongside the general's Scout. A hard-looking man with a Chinese dragon tattooed on his forearm glowered drunkenly at Turner. The obtuse driver blew cigarette smoke through his nostrils and looked back to the road. No sooner had the children reached the midway-point of the crossing than the Mustang leaped forward with a loud roar of its V8 engine.

  Turner pulled away from the crossing in a more sedate manner. He glanced over his shoulder at the mother and her children and was filled with custodial sentiment. The little ones seemed like an embryonic promise of his country's bigger tomorrow. As such they inspired him to make full use of the governmental powers coming his way.

  He braked at another traffic light, gazed at a nearby Pizza Hut restaurant. Inside the softly lit building families and couples chatted and dined, enjoying themselves at the well-earned end of another week. Turner sat in his idling Scout and imbibed the plenitude about him. God knew he was ready to fight for his country (for the whole western sphere) should generals from that cold dark forest on the other side of the globe expand their totalitarian influence on the free world.

  He looked across the street at an elevated billboard for the new Atari 800 personal computer. The stylish advertisement reminded him of the time Joseph Goldman had worked at DARPA. While working on innovative missile systems, Joseph Goldman's lateral avenues of research had helped pioneer some of the electronic gadgetry the Department of Defense had released onto America's industrial and consumer markets. Gadgetry like the packet switching networks that became popular in telecommunication data networks. Also desktop computer graphics currently revolutionizing video gaming and personal computers.

  Turner gunne
d his Scout through the green-lit intersection. It was a shame a man like Joseph Goldman had been caught up in the unfortunate business at Tech Dynamics. Sometimes, though, the individual had to be sacrificed for the greater good. It was a cold-hearted act that men of Turner's calibre and vision were forced to make.

  He pulled over to the curb and rechecked a Murray The Map Man map of Baltimore. After getting his bearings, he pulled back onto the road. A minute later he turned right and drove along a winding street that ended in close proximity of Scott Goldman's apartment. Drizzle patted lazily against the Scout's windshield. The general looked through the low-speed arc of the wipers with the stern expression of a man prepared to achieve his objectives at any cost.

  SIXTEEN

  Belize Cheraz pressed the buzzer and stood back from the door. She glanced critically at her sister. Manuela poked her tongue to counter the uncalled-for scrutiny. The door opened and soft hallway light fell at the women's feet.

  'Scott.' Belize stepped inside and pecked her boyfriend's cheek. She slid an arm about his waist and gestured with a ceremonious air towards her sister. 'You remember Manuela?'

  The older sister stood hesitantly wearing a yellow frock underneath a long wool coat, a handbag dangling from her forearm. She held a cardboard box containing an apricot cheesecake she'd bought at her local bakery. Goldman's stony expression gave way to an awkward smile. 'Of course I remember Manuela.'

  'Well, it's a wonder you do, my love,' Belize scoffed, 'cause you hardly ever visit us any more.'

  Goldman just shrugged, slipped from Belize's embrace and gestured for the women to come inside. 'Please.'

  Belize spun round and shot a mental arrow at her sister: There'll be hell to pay if you don't loosen up and come out of yourself tonight.

  Manuela shook her head and followed the taut, high-heeled step of her sister.

  Haslow braked and saw there was nowhere to park. Especially as some half-wit had abandoned an Impala across two parks at the rear of the cul-de-sac. From the last time he visited Goldman (there'd been nowhere to park then, either), he remembered a lane leading to the courtyard of Goldman's apartment block. He reversed out of the dead-end street and parked in the next street over, several cars back from the lane he'd come to remember. After grabbing a bottle of scotch and a family packet of taco chips, he locked his car and strolled along the narrow thoroughfare, confident a memorable night was at hand.

  “What do you mean, go see what's wrong with him? Just relax, por el amor de Dios.”

  “Well, he's your boyfriend.”

  “Listen, I said relax!”

  “I can't, I'm having my period!”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “I think I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Mierdre. Again?”

  The sandy-haired man in back of the surveillance van listened in on the sisters' conversation with detached professionalism. Even so, he shifted on his stool and fidgeted with the twirling lead of the headphones. For want of something to do he lit a cigarette. He squinted from a hovering nebula of smoke then checked the recording meters on the instrument panel. What was coming through the headphones was hardly inspiring, but his Case Officer training stopped him from succumbing to all out boredom. However the thought of Turner arriving soon made him draw deeper on his cigarette.

  Belize jumped up from the sofa, clicking her fingers and swaying her hips. She was in a partying mood and festive tunes from her home country played evocatively in her head. 'Ah, Manuela, let's play some music, eh?'

  Manuela arched her eyebrows in a gesture of indifference. She pulled herself up from her seat with the gravity of her monthly cycle. Bag in hand, she headed for the bathroom. Belize sighed aloud, knowing she'd been entrusted to do what was socially appropriate for the hour. She bent down and flicked through the records propped against the wall. She was indifferent to most western music, and appreciated even less the zany extremes of rock and roll. She bypassed Kiss and Alice Cooper records, knowing most of the albums belonged to Goldman's late wife. Belize knew little about the woman and all up preferred it that way. In any case Goldman rarely talked about Rachel. Well, not in any great detail. He'd sold their renovated row-house shortly after her death. Apparently he didn't want to live in the house without her, nor with the memories of her the empty house would continually offer. Belize knew her boyfriend's cut-short marriage was best left alone, for the time being anyway. Maybe in the future, if they were still together, Goldman might open up and let Belize in on the part of his life he'd largely kept from her.

  She slipped a record on to the turntable and skipped into the kitchen. She slid her arms about Goldman's waist as he mashed avocado, mayonnaise and lemon juice into a pre-dinner dip. She could see he wasn't his usual self and tried to lift his spirits with tactical charms that had worked on him in the past; but it was clear he was down in the dumps over something or other. About what was anyone's guess. She knew he didn't open up easily if something was wrong. By and large he was a brooder. Well she was in too good a mood to give up on him tonight, and so ran her fingers teasingly over his chest, coating his neck and cheek with whispered words and the tantalizing contact of her eager lips. By hook or by crook she would drag him out of his mood and get this dinner party up and running. It was, after all, Friday night.

  Manuela returned from the bathroom and cringed her nose at the blaring music coming from the record player. She stopped in front of its amplifier in the hope of finding the volume control amidst the many switches, dials and buttons. No sooner had she peered at the formidable array of controls than she heard the piercing declaration of the front door's electric bell. She straightened, thinking it was most likely her date. Curious, she scampered to the door and peered through its peephole. She was presented with the fish-eye depiction of a middle-aged man holding a bottle of spirits and a bag of crisps, while brushing his hair in place. For some reason he was appealing. Much of her adult life she’d had little interest in the opposite sex. Therefore this instant liking surprised her.

  She padded her stockinged feet on the hallway carpet. She was at a crossroad. She had to let her hair down and come out of herself in this new land; she knew that. She couldn't stay holed up in her room forever. Heaven knew Belize had been in her ear about it, and yet ...

  Manuela took a resolute, but shaky breath and opened the door – and immediately wished she hadn't. Swamped by nerves, she made a hasty retreat to the living room in the pretense of turning down the music. Her astute ears heard Haslow close the door after him. So soon as she saw him proper, in the room's even light, a pleasing feeling flowed through her. She opened her mouth in prelude to some kind of introduction and was stymied in her attempt by the loud music. Bewildered, she looked down at the stereo and then at Haslow. He hunched his shoulders as if party to her bewilderment and a companionable smile spread across his face.

  Manuela telegraphed a beaming smile in return (something she hadn't done in the opening moments of meeting a man). Haslow bent forward and turned down the music. For her part Manuela turned aside and cursed under her breath. An abrupt anger took hold of her mind: Mi Dios! How could you give yourself so openly to this man? To this yanqui stranger? Smiling shamelessly like that. He'll think you're nothing but a puta! Aggrieved as such, she dashed into the kitchen.

  General Turner locked his 4WD Scout. With a furrowed brow, he studied the low-lying cloud overhead. He debated whether to grab his umbrella from the back seat, but decided against it. He glanced up and down the quiet street before marching from his parked vehicle. His hands were buried in the pockets of his parka, a small knapsack slung over his shoulder. Hunched against the night's chill, he no longer entertained memorable thoughts about Joseph Goldman and DARPA. Cold purpose and harsh practicality propelled him along the empty stretch of sidewalk. Again his mind chewed over the hastily prepared plan, probing for any weak link which might bring down the operation like a collapsing house of cards.

  He turned into Goldman's street and stayed i
n the shadows until arriving at the surveillance van. He rapped on its back door and padded his thick-soled boots on the damp street. All the while scanning the upper-floor area of Goldman's apartment. The back of the van opened and Roswell climbed inside, quietly shutting the door after him.

  'Jesus, man.' He plopped his knapsack on the metal floor. 'Open a goddamn window on this smelly tar pit.' He glared at the butt-filled ashtray perched on a shelf below the van's primary recording unit. The sandy-haired youth ripped off his headphones as the general said, 'If you don't mind, private.' The youth bent towards the passenger's side window.

  'Not the window facing the subject's apartment,' Turner growled. 'For Christ's sake, what are they teaching you at The Bunker these days?'

  The twenty-six year old private who was completing the final term of his Case Officer training at Camp White (aka The Bunker) in Virginia inched down the driver's window. He turned back to Turner, hoping to reclaim his status which for the most part had gone out the window with migrating trails of secondhand smoke.

  'Private Duncan Allister, sir.' He saluted. 'I'm completing the final month of my – '

  'At ease, private. Give me a breakdown on the situation inside the subject's apartment.'

  'Well you couldn't have picked a better time to arrive, general,' Allister said in a calm and qualified voice. 'The main meal is under way and the guests are currently voicing their concern about their host's despondent manner. I would say, sir, that your man is about to open up, or failing that – '

  'You're dismissed, private.'

  Allister looked like he hadn't heard right.