by Gil Hogg
“All right, then. We also make distrust of me a planning assumption. How does that play out?”
“Doesn’t it mean that although you have the task of killing Madison, the Disciples will do it if you don’t, and blame you?”
I supposed that was what it did mean. “If I succeed in killing Madison, well and good for them. They kill me, and blame me. If I don’t succeed with Madison, they kill him, kill me and blame me. Either way, Madison dies, and I’m one dead terrorist. And possibly you too.”
“Thank you for including me, sir. This approach is very helpful.”
“It is?”
“You don’t have to make any plans to kill Madison yourself – bombs, guns, etc. Think of the equipment and planning. It’s going to save a lot of effort.”
“I’m glad about saving effort, man. I wouldn’t want to work too hard on this. It’s not my way. So we just turn up at the ceremony, and dodge the bullets?”
“Perhaps. But if there’s no shooting, merely an explosion, the whole event may go down as an accident. It’ll be easier for us than Campismo Mercados or Mariel.” Yarham affected a serious look, but there was a wild shine in his eyes.
I was nevertheless very unhappy. “But what about my reputation as a faultless operator, Yarham?”
I had a call from Otto Reich for a rendezvous on the Georgetown Campus, and we wandered together across the lawns for a time in a gusting wind, which swirled the falling leaves in arcs. Using my anorak as a ground sheet, we finally settled under the same plane tree that we had used before, although it was nearly bare now. How easy it was even for two senior spies to develop a bad habit about a meeting place. And I had the recorder in my pocket, another habit I was developing for these meetings. I had determined that if anything happened to me, the tapes should go to the Washington Post, but it was no consolation.
Reich had no books on this occasion, but it would not have surprised me to see a copy of The Prince protruding from the pocket of his tweed jacket.
“It’ll be New Mexico. Fort Gaines, in late November, Roger.”
“That’s the trial of the new R40 missile?”
“Ah, you know of it. Demonstration is probably the word. Show the generals and a few select politicians what they’ve bought with their money.”
“How many people?”
“Perhaps a hundred. It’s ideal. A remote army base. Small audience. We control the news media. Unfortunate accident or terrorist incident. You’ll be appointed to head security, so you’ll have the opportunity to make whatever arrangements you want…”
“And take responsibility for the outcome.”
“With your skills, the outcome need not concern you.”
“That’s very flattering. I’ll need full details of every proposed step in the ceremony, and details of all those attending. I’ll have to go to Fort Gaines, and have an engineer show me over the site.”
“That can all be arranged.”
“And, in addition, I want to be specifically appointed as Madison’s chief of security. I want it to be understood by Madison and his staff that on site in New Mexico, my word about what Madison should do, or not do, from a safety point of view, is final.”
“Certainly, and a very understandable proposal.” Reich chortled deep in his chest, the first time I had seen him show any humour. “Especially since you are going to… ah… administer the coup de grace. I’ll make sure Madison and his people are briefed on this. You’re not sticking your neck out personally, are you, assuming so much responsibility for Madison? Afterwards there’ll be a thicket of enquiries, and you’ll be at the centre of them.”
“It’s good of you to be solicitous about me, but no, I need to control my man.”
“You’re the expert.”
“I’m not an expert executioner, Otto.”
Reich swung his cavernous eye-sockets around to regard me closely. “That quaint sense of humour of yours again, Roger.”
“Will you be there?”
Reich gave me his bland look, the tolerant professor. “I’m afraid I don’t get to go to the party. But Schmiesser, naturally, will be there, and Rachel. We’ll all be rooting for you.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Does Gerry Clark know?”
“Nobody knows except us and you. Clark will be ordered to facilitate your requirements.”
“What did you think of the President’s statement?”
Reich jerked around toward me again, pursing his lips, disturbed. “Crap. Yellow-bellied crap, like I’d expect from him.”
The President had appeared on national television the previous evening, and admitted in low key that US Special Forces had undertaken a mission in Cuba for the purposes of self-defence. He said that our intelligence services had discovered that missiles were being prepared for firing into the US by terrorists. The US had to defend itself, and would continue to defend itself against such threats. Seven US personnel lost their lives for their country. The mission had been directed strictly against the aggressors, who were not Cubans, and no civilians had been involved.
The statement was the bare truth as far as it went.
“I thought he did rather well,” I said, to bait Reich.
Reich had reddened. “As I’ve said to you before, Roger, you’re off limits.”
“But the President has quietly claimed Cuban Missile Crisis II as his. Don’t you see that?”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s claimed, because you are going to put an end to all that at Fort Gaines,” Reich said angrily, getting up to go.
With the information from Reich, I was able to plan. I flew with Yarham in an army Gulfstream jet to Fort Gaines. It was a VIP plane for generals, and had a steward, and a bar which we sampled en route. On arrival, I met Colonel Stanley, the adjutant, who gave us a quick tour. As far as Stanley was concerned, I was General Madison’s security adviser. I saw enough of the R40 silo and underground control room to appreciate that these were ideal confined spaces to have an explosion. Colonel Stanley gave me a plan of the underground.
“One grenade would do it,” Yarham whispered.
Assuming the close-out team doubted my ability to perform, and were going to do my job for me, this was very likely where they would do it. The usual army ceremonial would be held on the tarmac above ground, where it was planned to erect a small covered grandstand and dais. This was too open to be a very favourable area for the would-be assassin.
“The problem, Captain, is to stop Madison going underground,” Yarham said when we had an opportunity to talk alone on the tarmac, in the sun, under a white, windless sky.
“Not if he was accompanied by Schmiesser, the one person who can’t be sacrificed. If Madison stays close to Schmiesser, the darling of the Disciples, and heir apparent to head the Chiefs of Staff, he ought to be safe.”
By cocktail time, I had seen enough, and felt sufficiently relaxed to enjoy the quality of the Californian Cabernet Sauvignon which Colonel Stanley provided with the dinner hosted with one or two of his military colleagues at their club. We had an amusing evening swapping yarns, before Yarham and I, somewhat inebriated, were piled on to our aircraft. But I flew back from New Mexico with the germ of an idea.
What was before us now was to identify the close-out team, the killers who were being recruited to act against us. Yarham diligently searched the NSA intranets to which he had access, and although it was possible for him to observe the top secret official preparations for the Fort Gaines ceremony, it was impossible to discern beneath the guest lists and transport minutiae any clue about the identity of the close-out team.
I therefore adopted a different tactic. I pressed for a complete biography of every person, including Fort Gaines personnel, who would be anywhere near the ceremony – a stipulation I had made to Reich when we first spoke. When Gerry Clark questioned why I needed it – not knowing my real task, I told him Reich had already agreed. Clark knew I had been appointed as Madison’s personal security chief for the ceremony and could hardly refuse, alt
hough he snorted at what he described as my bureaucratic approach. Eventually I received the information. Then I set Yarham to verify the bona fides of each person in detail. Many, of course, were patently in the clear, and he eventually narrowed the list down to three CIA agents, who were additional to the security detail provided by the 101st Artillery stationed at Fort Gaines. The rest of the guests were high officers of state, elected representatives, scientists, engineers under contract, and service personnel, all of whom had careers which Yarham had scrutinised from national records. These people were not sensibly open to question.
“Good work. There’s a high probability it is one or more of these three,” I said to Yarham.
“It could still be one of the big bugs, if one’s going to think laterally.”
“Which one?”
“Rachel, Gerry Clark, Schmiesser himself.”
I dismissed this. “They get others to clean the latrines. They don’t want the faintest smell on their fingers.”
A check on the backgrounds of the three CIA men showed they were all seasoned field agents with experience in Colombia, Guatemala and Afghanistan. The leader was Scott Maxell, a heavy like the late Kershaw, and not to be trifled with.
“Right or wrong, they look like the men for the job. Killing is what they do,” I said.
“Where do you suppose they get their orders, sir?”
“I’d like to know the answer to that myself. Not from the CIA Director. The CIA is the Disciples’ enemy. That’s where we started, Yarham, in Pennsylvania Avenue. But the Disciples have their way of subverting people. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have some agents scattered through the CIA.”
Yarham’s jaw hung down lugubriously as he slowly agreed.
Our reasoning was all a bit creaky. “Maxell & Co as the close-out team will be our working hypothesis. We’ll just have to see how it turns out in practice,” I said.
“Oh, one final point, Captain. You realise that Sally Greengloss is on the list, the only C3 person apart from Clark.”
“Yes. I don’t know what to make of that, but I can’t see the Disciples or whoever is managing the close-out giving the killing job to her. We could have maximum violence at Fort Gaines. She could have to kill Madison as well as me. No, the Disciples will field a heavy team.”
“When a slight girl has a gun, it’s the gun that kills, Captain.”
32
I was well aware that although I had made suppositions about what might happen at Fort Gaines, the possibility was that events would turn out differently. It was an uncomfortable time, because I could not relax and declare the problem too confusing to worry about, when my life – not merely my career or reputation was in issue. However, I did manage to divert myself to a small degree, in Laurie’s sometimes long absences, with the beautiful brown Marie, whose steamy desire kindled and rekindled my own.
I found out that she was twenty years old, and a violinist in a chamber music quartet. What attractive skills for a young woman! She had reached concert standard on the violin, was a delightful cook, and a sensual lover. I attended two of the quartet’s concerts – and had interesting suppers with Marie afterwards. It was her ambition to join one of the city orchestras, and she was tutored by a virtuoso twice a week. Marie was charming, freshly earthy, and I liked her very much.
Unfortunately, Carol Clark discovered our liaison, or possibly assumed it, and began to make risky telephone calls to me demanding that we meet. I tried to reduce her obsession by seeing her for coffee occasionally. Cutting Carol off without a word wasn’t an option. If I did, I knew there would be an emotional explosion, the consequences of which I couldn’t foretell. It may have been that Gerry Clark would be outwardly complacent if he knew about us, but I calculated that under the milk pudding expression, he was a good hater – he was, after all, an expert in a ruthless business. And so I spent a couple of hours, on odd afternoons, trying to persuade this intense and I thought rather bored blonde housewife that I was too busy for a twosome or a threesome with her – she hadn’t fired Marie, but certainly, Marie was an irreplaceable cook, a social asset, and Gerry’s belly was a large part of him.
After the last of our fleeting meetings, Carol persuaded me to walk her to the parking building in the wintry half-dark, and then, when we reached her car and I was holding the door open for her – probably in sight of the video cameras – she hitched her skirt, pulled down her pants, and unzipped my trousers. I didn’t have any sexual thoughts in my mind in the moments before this, but her actions, in the shadowed and cramped space between the vehicles had a volcanic effect on me. I pushed her on to the back seat, and I have to say, because it was unexpected, had a thoroughly exciting experience. But I vowed to stay in a crowd and out of the dark with her henceforth.
My interest in the sensual life began to diminish in the October days before the Fort Gaines ceremony. To persuade my superiors that I was proactively pursuing my role, I indented for a small quantity of a new type of high explosive grenade, plastic explosive, fuses and timers. These were locked in a steel trunk and under Yarham’s care, flown out to Gaines and stowed in the R40 silo. I told Colonel Stanley that they were for counter-terrorist measures. I planned that we would carry at least one grenade each, but otherwise I did not actually intend to use the items.
I had photo-identification cards printed for everybody who would be present, including the 101st unit’s perimeter guards. An army detail was appointed who would check the identification of all guests, and identify any irregularity to me, or the presence of any stranger. Colonel Stanley remarked that he had never known such tight security. I was as ready as I could be.
I flew out to New Mexico with Yarham two days before the event, and spent the time pacing the site, walking the underground tunnels, and worrying unnecessarily. On the tarmac above the silo, the stand and dais had been built, and festooned with red, white and blue ribbons. The ribbons fluttered in the wind. Dust and spindrift blew across the tarmac. Under the pale sky the place had an abandoned look, as though the ceremony, and the tragedy, were over. Hidden beneath my feet was the most far-reaching destructive weapon that man had yet produced.
On the first day, when I returned to the officers’ mess in the afternoon, there were three men in starched white shirts with dark ties and short haircuts waiting to meet me. Colonel Stanley named them as Scott Maxell, Barney Coultas and Terry Sneller. I introduced Yarham and we all touched, rather than shook, hands. We settled down in chairs facing each other but the CIA boys were in no hurry to make conversation. They smirked. They obviously felt very much in control.
“So what are you guys doing here? The show isn’t open yet, and there’s nobody on the gate to take your money,” I asked.
Maxell, older than the other pair, with a stained oak face and prominent grey eyebrows, shrugged. “Just dropped in to case the joint.”
“That’s diligent. Any points you want to make, I’ll be glad to hear. I’m looking after security.”
Colonel Stanley, slightly embarrassed at the obvious hostility, offered us all a drink.
“We’ve heard of you, Captain Conway,” Coultas said. “What’re you captain of, anyway, a cruise liner out of Havana?”
“Your guys I fought alongside in Cuba were the bravest of the brave,” I replied gravely in the silence that followed Coultas’s remark.
This got to Maxell. He held up his hand. “Right!” he said, signalling to the others to be more respectful. He asked me about Cuba, as I knew he would, and I played up the role of Carmelli and the CIA. We ended having a drink together, and talking about field experience, although I was an apprentice alongside Maxell. I was reflecting on whether this man had been detailed to kill me, when I got a call on my satphone.
“It’s Otto,” a strained voice said.
“Just a minute.” I went outside the mess on to the parade ground. “Yes?”
“Return to Andrews Air Force Base immediately. We’ll meet you there.”
I looked at my watch. �
�I barely have time. And no plane.”
“A plane is being organised for you now. Do it.”
I left Yarham to keep an eye on Maxell & Co. A Learjet was warming up on the Fort runway. On the flight, I tried to work out what had gone wrong. Why was I required to be seen personally, when a coded message on the satphone would suffice? Reich had sounded very tense.
The only external factor I knew which might trouble the Disciples was the success of the President’s recent national address. Although some media sources had criticised his statement on the Cuban crisis as being too little too late, by far the majority reaction, if the opinion polls were to be believed, was that it was a no-nonsense account of a piece of business well done. The President was getting good marks for avoiding posturing, avoiding scaremongering, and keeping America safe. To a public terrorised by the thought of terror, modest competence was attractive. The President’s poll ratings were as high as they had been at the start of his term, and his re-election was starting to look like a foregone conclusion.
Before we landed, the co-pilot said he would be refuelling, and the ship would be ready to take me back in half an hour. An officer met me as I descended to the tarmac, and escorted me to a room on the base. There were two worried people present, slumped at the plastic-covered conference table – Reich and Rachel. The blinds were drawn. They scarcely greeted me, waved me to a seat, and Reich began looking down at the table.
“We want you to call it off, Roger.”
I appeared to be incredulous, and I was surprised at this late failure of nerve. I rocked back in the chair and exhaled heavily. “Seriously? Just nothing?”
“Yes. Go out there. Be the security boss. Make sure nothing happens, and above all, make sure Madison stays alive.”
Since this was already my intention, I could have acquiesced with ease, but I wasn’t going to let them off the hook so easily. I scowled and made it look like a difficulty. “But the preparations are already made, the events are in train…”