“Mr. Bromberger, if I may have your attention. Incoming and outgoing traffic will be slugged ‘Shattered Flag,’ a category five designator chosen and controlled exclusively by the director.”
“‘Shattered Flag,’” Bromberger intoned, his voice resigned to accepting Fisker’s presentation, clearly a pace that had been set personally by the director.
“There is a small apartment, lounge, two beds, mini-kitchen, and a bath through that door. It is not anticipated that your need for these facilities will extend beyond a few weeks. I will be here seven days a week; my quarters are on the next floor. You will find that you have considerable capability here. My instructions are to augment that capability as you may require.”
Fisker paused, ran a pencil up and down the back of his neck, satisfied himself that his mental checklist had been covered. He then keyed the console and led the way back through the wall into the front reception area. “I have a bit of pocket litter for each of you, nothing elaborate, no name changes, just the Trade credentials, a few credit cards, and a smattering of correspondence.” He flipped two switches beneath the first of the TV monitors; the inner steel door rolled open. “On this side of the street, about two hundred feet from the entrance to your left, you will find a blue-and-white cab showing an ‘off duty’ card on the sun visor. The driver is waiting for you, knows you by sight. The Director is expecting you in twenty-five minutes.
Sweetman and Bromberger strode behind their escort, moving swiftly from the director’s private, key-operated elevator, through his outer rooms, to the sprawling wood-paneled office overlooking the spring green of Virginia.
Two large hands formed a triangle cradling the forehead of a larger gray head bent over photo enlargements spread in a fan shape. “Hanspeter, Pierce, welcome.” The director continued his examination without looking up. His hand went to a particular print. He pushed his eyeglasses up on his forehead and took several moments to examine various details of the photograph through a magnifying glass. “A wedding ring by the looks of it. My sympathy to the bride.” He spoke slowly. “A very smart piece of work, Hanspeter.” He put the photograph down and turned his full attention to the two men.
“We delivered a set of your snapshots to the secretary of state one hour ago. Not bad service, wouldn’t you say? He has invited Ambassador Fedoseyev in for a chat this afternoon. He will reveal our evidence. He will review it with the ambassador, and he will throw the book at him! High time!” The voice rose, then relaxed. “I see you have a small trophy on your chin, Hanspeter—a fine job. Congratulations!” The director came around the desk, shook his hand, turned. “Pierce,” shook his hand and returned to the black leather chair.
“Thank you, sir. No damage here; good to hear State’s moving.” There was relief in Sweetman’s voice. With the front office call, he was afraid he had somehow blown the Omsk operation, steeled himself for the bad news, searched his mind, every step, during the drive to Langley . . . now, the director’s approval. If it had gone well, why the hell the summons? He felt totally drained.
“Sit down Hanspeter, Pierce.” The agents moved to the long L-shaped couch which served to frame the glass-topped coffee table exhibiting twenty-eight foreign decorations, each contributing to the professional history of Director of Central Intelligence Ernest Lancaster.
“Pierce; you won’t have followed, I trust”—he pulled his glasses down to the tip of his nose and gazed over them—“Hanspeter’s exploit. Knowledge, planning, initiative, skill, guts, and luck—landed on the Soviets like a great bat last night and sunk his bat’s teeth into their prized spy-running game. Invaluable, absolutely invaluable. You will have to make a point of having Hanspeter tell you about his cruise on the Omsk, Pierce. I do apologize for having lifted you from your students before you had the chance to savor the charms of North Carolina. Do you know the South?” Lancaster’s voice continued without sentiment, but with a familiarity borne of earlier association. “Of course you do. Your grandparents on your father’s side were from the hills of eastern Tennessee, were they not?”
“Parents, grandparents, born there myself, sir.” Bromberger nodded, a slight smile on his lips, the outward sign of his deep admiration for the director and his performances.
“Rock-ribbed conservative stock in the hills of Tennessee. Good people, good bloodlines—which brings us to the purpose of this reunion, gentlemen . . .” Lancaster held his next words, observed the watchfulness and heightened attention his two prized officers gave to him.
“The lexicographers tell us that today’s society has endowed the word ‘cell,’ humble in composition, reserved for the most part to science, broadly, and the biological, medical, and penological sciences more specifically . . . we have endowed this humble word with greatly increased prominence.
“Our obsession as a people with cancers, the intrusion of malignant cells and the constant, indeed understandable, chatter offers one explanation. The cell as a unit has also metamorphosed. Once the devout monk’s apartment, then the corpus of political action . . . now, the malignant structure of terrorism.” Lancaster reached behind him, retrieved a news release from a tray, pushed his glasses back up on his forehead and read.
“I have a release of sorts here from an organization by the name of ‘Trade,’”—Bromberger and Sweetman continued to wait him out—“advising that you have affiliated. Excellent!” He tossed the release back into the tray. “Pierce”—he looked at Sweetman as he spoke—“has been sharing with a new generation his appreciation of terrorism. Yesterday, while he was doing so, Constance Burdette was cut to shreds in a bloody, premeditated assassination—all the earmarks of an orthodox act of political terrorism—United States ambassador, newly arrived, cut down to demonstrate our weakness, cow their governments, flaunt their freedom of action . . . the anarchistic push against rational order, authority.
“The Swiss”—he looked from one to the other—“have apprehended no one. As ever, they are jealous and protective of their sovereign rights. Across the river, here, as ever, our colleagues at the State Department have established a new interagency task force. . . .” His smile was one of disgust. “My designee—neither of you, is a member of that task force, if you please.
“The regional security team is at the site with nothing to report beyond two shattered human forms and assorted automotive wreckage. These photos arrived this morning about the same time as yours, Hanspeter.” He sailed a manila envelope across the room to Sweetman.
“Not much left . . . plenty of chops, entry into the car metal . . . looks like automatics, AK-47s?” Sweetman and Bromberger shuffled quickly through the prints of the corpses, the riddled limousine, motorcycle, skidmarks, and glass.
“No, not much left”—the director selected a cigar from an embossed leather chest—“and, at the present rate, not much prospect of any more. Have either of you had occasion to reflect on Washington’s won-lost record? We are playing for the World Cup. To win is to allow us to continue, however imperfectly, as human beings. To lose is to yield the field to blind violence—and we are losing. That is not what you would tell your students, Pierce. Yet, we are losing.
“Assassins vanish into the night”—his fist opened with long fingers spread apart—“and we continue along, boarding up buildings already bombed, resigned to battle with local authorities, to likely loss of scent—Like the hell we’re resigned!”
“Neither of you had occasion to know our late ambassador, did you?” He inclined his head first to Sweetman, then to Bromberger . . . silence. He made a note which he folded and slipped into a vest pocket. “The late ambassador will be arriving in the United States in a very few hours. She is to be interred at Arlington. I have arranged for both of you to be there. The ceremony will give you, first hand, the necessary perspective . . . a fuller appreciation of the importance attached to bringing her killers into the net.
“That ceremony will mark the commencement of Shattered Flag. Mr. Fisker has given you that name, yes? Harold Fisker, one of my carefully
guarded treasures. Mr. Fisker has shown you your cell. You will find him a provider, an indefatigable cross between servant and genius. He has his idiosyncrasies, but he is solid, my very best. Count on him.
“You both are extensions of me. We want Constance Burdette’s killers while the scent is still fresh. You have the tools you need. I will not need to see you until you have reported the completion of Shattered Flag.”
The director rose, thrust his hands in his pockets, crossed to the picture window. “One sees a multitude of people from this glassy perch over the years. Between you, there is a brilliant record. You are honest in your work. You take satisfaction from the exercise of your gifts. . . . You trust no one. Good luck.”
The minute hand on the chrome wall clock built into the paneling behind the desk jerked forward to XII in the silence of the meeting’s end. Lancaster’s back was to them, his large hands digging down through a stack of red folders, when Sweetman and Bromberger retraced their steps to his private elevator.
Chapter 6
“Les, I must bite your ass.”
Her bare foot came down hard on his neck. Paul Head howled, flipped backward off the rope ladder into the sea. In a moment, they were both on deck, naked, bodies together, streams of seawater trapped in pools where her breasts pressed into the golden hair of his chest. She yanked the stops from the ketch’s loosely furled mainsail, and the heavy white cloth in folds on the cabin top.
“Clever, bloody clever you are.” He dropped down beside her, caressed her erect nipples with his tongue. Her hands ran along his body, skirting the tape on the bandaged side, resting for a few seconds in the sodden curls at the base of his neck, then pulled his mouth to hers. They rolled and joined, the sail cloth crackling beneath them.
She moved her head back, lips apart, her eyes on his, as their bodies thrusted. He paused, broke the hard rhythm of sex, suspended above, a grin on his face, saying nothing.
“Leer, will you?” She reached up, lips, arms, legs yanking him back, locking her ankles above him, riding with him as the ripples of pleasure filled them, their bodies straining in climax.
“Oh Christ!” A benediction, not a curse. They were on their sides, still together, the ketch Matabele riding easily at anchor, alone in a cove south of Dwejra Point, some twenty-five miles from Valletta.
His lips moved in gentle kisses along her arm, her shoulder, her neck, and pressed against her mouth, a long, slow kiss of passion matched by the renewed thrusting of their bodies. His hands were beneath her hips. They soared in pleasure, then lay side by side beneath the sun.
“How is that wound?” Her eyes followed a sea gull gliding above the cone of shrouds running to the mainmast top.
“Sharp, bloody jolts, severe pain when I screw you. I’ll make it.” He ran his fingers along her spine. She pushed away, onto her knees. He followed cupping his fingers on her breasts.
“I’ll change the dressing. You’d be a lousy lover dead.” She grabbed the curled edges of the tape and ripped off the bandage.
“Bloody hell!” He spun away in pain, peering down at his side at the same time.
“Not so bad.” The raw, red crease carved by the bullet was clean, healing. “Lie on your side; give it some sun. I will put a new patch on as soon as Filippo is awake.” She touched the fuzz of his new beard.
He lay back on the mainsail. “. . . too much of whatever he’s shooting . . . twelve bloody hours, sleeps too long. Did I tell you? I killed another American, pitiful bastard . . . cooking in the boot of his rental at the airport. You fucked up on the passports, took them with you.”
“You made it. The hell with your American.” She slid off the cabin top, stepped down into the cockpit, pulled on a coarse, white sailor’s shirt.
“Where’d he make the hit, Naples? That bloody lot had been cached, hadn’t it? . . . One of your masterpieces, Les?”
“Two months ago, Angelo’s faction with Filippo. I was with them for the planning, the weapons, but it was theirs . . . clean, a victory for the people.” She sat on the deck, her eyes on the sea beyond the cove, her back against the cabin. “A night convoy, Navy, routine, moving munitions from their NATO depot to the Italians. Angelo had tracked them for months, never a change—”
“There for the picking, right? Bloody supermarket.” He grabbed her cut arm. “Where’d you do this?”
“Geneva.” She continued. “They have so many bases, so many commands . . . more than a hundred in Naples. Angelo knew every minute of the convoy’s drill. Two trucks, lead jeep, APC bringing up the rear.” She turned toward Head. “Fourteen miles from the depot, the road narrows as it curves up into the hills, a sharp turn, opening onto an outlook just beyond.
“Angelo’s timing was to the second. The lead jeep was clear of the curve, moving slowly, waiting for the rest. When the lights of the first truck cleared, Angelo hit the armored carrier with the antitank; it was wounded, but still moving. Three seconds . . . they hit the second truck, shot out the tractor tires. The APC had limped closer, and was spraying fire. He gave it another antitank, and then one into the second munitions carrier. The APC was dead. The curve in the road shielded the first trailer from the second, as planned—tremendous explosion. That brought the lead jeep back into the automatic fire.
“In less than a minute, the convoy had been demolished. Angelo’s team, two, were on the lead truck while it was still moving, shot the guard, forced the driver into the pulloff where we had the motor caravans. Angelo knew he would be most vulnerable during the cargo transfer. Even with the electric torches, they could not be sure what they were handling. The munitions trailer was packed. Both caravans had been rigged to accept the roller conveyors. The crates were heavy . . . some too heavy . . .”
“Bloody hydrogen bombs . . .”
“They were sweating out every second.”
“The traffic—you had rigged barriers?”
“Detours, at either end, after the convoy had entered the hills, and on the far side. There was no need for them; it was the middle of the night. Angelo had the caravans in Salerno before dawn. There, they made the second transfer—not that morning. Filippo will tell you the rest.”
“Italian! Report to the bloody quarter deck.” Head pounded the cabin top with his fist. “Italian, this is the carabinieri.” He fell back laughing, shielding his eyes from the sun.
The snap as the bullet left the Luger; the powder scorch, the clean double holes, half an inch above his nose, in the sail cradling his head. “Good morning, you bloody addict. Fourteen hours in the fetal position hasn’t done much for your aim.”
Filippo Tonasi came aft from the forward hatch, barechested, barefooted, only the grooved black handle of the pistol showing above his belt. His small hard body had tight clumps of muscle armoring a torso that had absorbed many a beating by prison guards, giving him a deep, vengeful rage against all authority. “You have a big mouth, you Zulu bastard.” He kicked the sail close to Head’s wounded ribs. “You’ll keep us moving even when we have no wind, you bastard; it’s good.” His laugh was flat. “You always have a reason for everything, Les; even this big-mouth scum.” He leaned against the mast, pulled paper, tobacco, and a small leather pouch from his pants. Turning from the light breeze blowing across the deck, he shook out a fine row of the leaf, enriched it with a dusting of white from the pouch, then drew the leather’s drawstring tightly closed with his stained broken front teeth. A forelock of black hair fell forward as he licked the paper, gave it a twist, and lit the cigarette. The first two puffs were short, the third long and deep, with the smoke floating slowly from his nostrils. He closed his darkly shadowed brown eyes. He was tired, his jaw stubbled with black beard.
Leslie Renfro was on the foredeck alone, her mind focused on the name, the words, the use to be made of Oats Tooms.
The noonday sun was harsh. The three sat beneath a canvas awning rigged from the boom of the Matabele’s mizzenmast. A yawl flying the French flag—sixty footer, Toulon registry—approached unde
r sail, reconnoitered the cove, and departed. Aboard the ketch, diving gear was spread across the cockpit. Filippo, a fresh cigarette locked in the vee of two fingers, had picked up the recounting of the NATO munitions robbery. “There was little danger. Les had done the planning. That’s why I am here.” He whacked the tiller with the palm of his hand, his teeth bared in a shattered-glass smile. “Little danger, much work. We kept the caravans in a barn near Salerno for ten days, maybe two weeks, gave the carabinieri gestapo the time they needed to tear up houses, torture another hundred innocents, and move along to newer distractions.
“When we were in Switzerland, they moved again, brought the caravans down to the coast one at a time, transferred the cargo”—he gestured with his black chin toward the unseen crates stowed forward in the Matabele—“to a fishing trawler of a friend, Naples faction. By then, I had left you again, rejoined Angelo—”
“That was no bloody trawler you scuttled last night!”
Tonasi inhaled deeply, flicked the cigarette past Head into the sea and continued. “We transferred to the trawler, headed out to Capri. The cabin cruiser, Paulo”—Tonasi’s words were slow, languid with the dope—“met us the following evening. We transferred again that night at sea—not too rough, no trouble.
“I took the cruiser—you’re right—she was a classy boat. You know about her? Angelo stole her last year—changed her profile, paint—classy, fast, twin V-8s. Only Angelo’s brother was with me now. It was raining heavily that night, the next day. We made the run to the straits, rendezvoused with the Messina faction . . . made the final transfer for storage at Palermo depot.
“I took the cruiser alone now, through the Straits. Off Catania, a patrol looked me over from a distance, lost interest.” He rolled another cigarette. “I continued around Cape Passero to the middle of Malta Channel. The Matabele was blinking, and I was home to your arms, Zulu, home to Faction Malta.”
“That was a fast, capable boat. Bloody nuts to scuttle her. How the hell are we going to operate?” Head slapped at the canvas, his eyes flashing from the Italian to Leslie. “The bloody psychopaths, the oppressors ignore us! We take out one and twenty more butchers take his place; nothing changes! The plundering pigs, the snakes everywhere piss on us fleas, shake some bloody powder, have us hop away and die! Paris, Bonn, Berlin—the Fascist police, the imperialists kill, rob, crush the people—we connect in Geneva. Bloody laugh! Filippo busts his bloody nuts for a handful of firecrackers, and here we rock in this bloody cockleshell sticking patches on bloody rubber suits. When the hell are we going to wake up? We’re playing games. There is no revolution—bloody games! Counts for nothing!
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