“I can handle myself,” Canning said, not boasting at all, just stating a fact.
“I know you can. But can you handle a bomb explosion aboard your airplane while it's over the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles from land? Remember Berlinson?”
“Your informer?”
Jagged lightning, like a dynamite blast in a bus-terminal locker, slammed across the purplish sky. The stroboscopic effect pierced the window and filled the kitchen with leaping shadows and knife-blade light. The crack of thunder followed an instant later — and there was an electric power failure. The refrigerator stopped humming and rattling. The fluorescent tubes above the kitchen counter blinked out.
The meager, penumbral light of the early-afternoon storm sky, further filtered by the misted window, left them dressed in shadows.
“Do you have any candles?” McAlister asked.
“Let's give them a few minutes to fix it. You were explaining why you think these Committeemen would go to any lengths to kill me. It has something to do with Berlinson…”
McAlister sighed. “Once he had whetted my appetite by telling me a bit about Dragonfly, I promised Roger Berlinson three things in return for the rest of his information: exemption from criminal prosecution for anything he did as a CIA operative; a rather large cash payment; and last of all, a new name and a whole new life for him and his family. So… After he told me what he knew, I went to Ryder, the new FBI director, and I asked him for the use of an FBI safe house. I told him I needed it for a man whose name and circumstances I could not divulge. I explained that Ryder himself was the only man in the Bureau who could know the safe house was harboring someone I wanted to protect. Ryder was great: no questions, complete cooperation. The Berlinsons were spirited out of Washington and, by devious route, ended up in Carpinteria, California. So far as the FBI agents knew, Berlinson was a Mafia figure who had ratted on his bosses. Meanwhile, I went to various non-agency sources to obtain new birth certificates, passports, credit cards, and other documents for Roger, his wife, and his son. But I was wasting my time.”
“They killed Berlinson.”
His voice leaden, McAlister said, “The house in Carpinteria was protected by an infrared alarm system. It seemed as safe as a Swiss bank. What I didn't know, what the FBI didn't know, was that the Army has recently perfected a 'thermal isolation' suit that is one hundred percent effective in containing heat. It can be used by commandos to slip past infrared equipment. Two of these suits were stolen from an Army-CIA experimental lab in MacLean, Virginia.” He stopped for a moment as thunder rattled the windowpanes. It was convenient thunder, Canning thought, for McAlister needed to compose himself and clear his phlegm-filled throat. Then: “You can spend only twenty minutes inside the suit, because your body heat builds and builds in there until it can roast you alive. But twenty minutes is sufficient. We believe two men, wearing these suits, entered the Carpinteria house through a living-room window. Inside, they quietly stripped down to their street clothes before they broiled in their own juices. Then they went out to the kitchen and murdered the FBI agent who was monitoring the infrared repeater screens. When he was out of the way, they went upstairs and shot Berlinson, his wife, and his son.”
The only sounds were those of the storm. The heavy dark air could not hold the words McAlister had spoken, but it did retain the anguish with which they'd been freighted.
Canning said, “Families are never hit.”
“We're dealing with fanatics.”
“But what did they have to gain by killing the wife and son?”
“They probably wanted to set an example for anyone else who might be thinking of informing on The Committee.”
Recalling Duncan, Tyler, and Bixby, Canning decided that such a thing was not only possible but likely. “Lunatics!”
“The point is, if they would do a thing like this, then they wouldn't hesitate to blow up a government aircraft, passengers and crew, just to get you. We must keep your involvement a secret until you're safely inside China. If they kill you, I've got no one else I can send. I'll have to go myself. And they'll kill me.”
“But why don't they just trigger Dragonfly? Why don't they get it over with before we can stop them?”
“That's the one thing that doesn't make sense,” McAlister said. “I just don't know the answer.”
It was a paranoid nightmare.
Yet Canning believed every word of it.
Orange-red numerals suddenly glowed in the shadows. McAlister checked his electronic read-out watch and said, “We don't have much time left.”
“If we're taking all these precautions,” Canning said, “then I assume I'll be traveling under another identity.”
Reaching into an inside pocket of his suit coat, McAlister produced a passport, birth certificate, and other identification. He passed the lot to Canning, who didn't bother to try to examine it in the poor light. “Your name's Theodore Otley. You're a diplomatic courier for the State Department.”
Canning was surprised. “Wouldn't it be better for me to go as an ordinary citizen? Less conspicuous that way.”
“Probably,” McAlister agreed. “But an ordinary citizen has to pass through anti-hijacking X-ray machines and later through customs. He can't carry a gun. A diplomatic courier, however, is exempt from all inspections. And this one time you don't want to be without a gun.”
Like a blind man reading Braille, Canning paged through the passport. “Where did you get this stuff? Any chance The Committee will learn about old Ted Otley?”
“In the last few months I've learned a few things. I know that only three intelligence agencies in the world have kept the CIA from planting a double agent. The Israelis run a tight outfit. So do the French. The British are the best, most efficient, most impenetrable intelligence specialists anywhere, period. I went to my opposite in Britain's SIS, what used to be called M.I.6. I asked for and was granted a favor: one full set of papers in the Otley name. There is no way The Committee can crack it.”
Canning knew that was true. “Theodore Otley it is.”
“When you get to Tokyo you will check into the Imperial Hotel, where reservations have been made.”
“The Imperial?” Canning asked, amazed. “Since when does a lowly op rate that kind of luxury?”
“Since never. That's why you're getting it. In other Tokyo hotels — the Grand Palace, Takanawa Prince, Fairmont, just about anywhere — you might run into an agent who knows you. There's not much chance of that if you stay at the Imperial.”
“What about the French jet? How do I connect with it?”
“That will be taken care of by your assistant.”
Canning blinked. “Assistant?”
“You don't speak Chinese. You'll need an interpreter.”
“General Lin speaks no English?”
“He does. But you don't want to be completely cut out of a conversation when he uses Chinese with his subordinates.”
“I don't like it,” Canning said sourly.
“The interpreter isn't an agency rep. I'm not tying you to a possible Committeeman.”
“A tenderfoot is just as bad.”
“Hardly. Once you're inside China, there won't be any guns or knives or rough stuff. A tenderfoot can handle it.”
“Who is he?”
“This is strictly a need-to-know operation, and you don't need to know the name. I'm especially concerned that no harm should come to the interpreter. They can't torture a name from you if you haven't got it.”
Resigned to it, Canning said, “How do I contact him?”
McAlister smiled, obviously amused. “He'll contact you.”
“What's so funny?”
“You'll find out.'
“What I don't need is surprises.”
“This one's pleasant. And remember: 'need-to-know.' ”
The electric power came back into service. The refrigerator rumbled to life, and the living-room lights popped on like flash bulbs. Canning got up, went to the kitchen co
unter, worked the light switch until the fluorescent tubes fired up. He and McAlister squinted at each other for a few seconds.
McAlister stood up and stretched. If he had been all lion when he had come through the front door, Canning thought, he was now at least ten percent tired old house cat. “That's everything. You have any questions?”
“Are you going to be working on the case from this end?”
“I've built up a rather large, youngish, go-getting legal staff since I took over at the agency. I'm going to turn those lawyers into detectives.”
“You could get them killed.”
“Not if I send them out in teams of two and three, and not if there's an armed United States marshal with each team.”
“You can swing that?”
Adjusting his cuffs, McAlister said, “The President has promised me anything I need.”
“Where will you start?”
“We'll try to find Wilson's laboratory. If we can get our hands on the files or on a scientist who worked with Wilson, we ought to be able to learn Dragonfly's identity.” He led the way into the living room and waited while Canning got his raincoat from the foyer closet. “There's another angle we'll cover. Berlinson managed to kill one of the men sent to get him. The corpse wasn't in the house in Carpinteria, but our forensic experts swear there was a fifth killing. There was a great deal of blood near the bedroom closet, and it doesn't match types with any of the Berlinsons or with the FBI agent who was killed in the kitchen. So… Somewhere there's a dead CIA operative, a dead Committeeman. I'm going to try to pin down the whereabouts of every agent who is supposed to be in Mexico or North America, any agent who might have slipped into Carpinteria, California. If one of them isn't where he's supposed to be, if his absence is unexplained, if I can't get a line on him one way or another, then we can be pretty certain that he's the one Berlinson killed. We'll find out which agency employees were most friendly with him. They'll probably be Committeemen. With luck, we might get hold of one of these fanatics before he knows what's happening.”
Canning held the hooded raincoat, waited until the other man had his arms in the sleeves, let go of the collar, and said, “Then what?”
McAlister turned around to face him. Buttoning his coat, he said, “We interrogate him.”
“Oh?”
“We learn who runs The Committee.”
“If he knows.”
“Or we see if he can tell us where Wilson had his lab. Or who Dragonfly is.”
“If he knows.”
“He'll know something.”
Putting one hand on the doorknob but making no effort to turn it, Canning said, “Like you said earlier, these are all tough boys, hard cases. They won't break unless you hit them with a combination of extreme torture and drugs.”
“That's right.”
“You aren't the kind of man who could use those techniques.”
McAlister frowned. “Maybe I could.”
“I hope you don't have to. But I hope you can if it comes to that.”
“I can. If it gets down to the wire.”
“If it gets down to the wire,” Canning said, “it's already too late.”
FIVE
The White House
At one-twenty that afternoon McAlister entrusted his Mercedes to a federal security officer and hurried toward a side entrance of the White House. The enormous old building, streaming with rain, looked like a piece of elegantly sculptured alabaster. All over the spacious grounds, the trees of many nations shared a common autumn: the leaves had begun to turn a hundred different shades of red and gold. McAlister was not aware of this beauty. His mind was on the Dragonfly crisis. He went straight to the door, exchanged hellos with the guard, and stepped into a small marbled foyer, where he left puddles of rain on the polished floor.
Beau Jackson, the sixty-year-old tuxedoed black man who was on duty at the cloakroom, gave McAlister a toothy smile. Jackson was an anachronism that never failed to intrigue McAlister. His look and his manner seemed pre-Lincolnian. “Nasty out there, Mr. McAlister?”
“Wet enough to drown ducks, Mr. Jackson.”
The black man laughed as he took McAlister's coat. Hanging it up, he said, “You just hold on a minute, and I'll wipe the rain off your attaché case.”
“Oh, I'll get it,” McAlister said, putting the briefcase on a small mahogany stand and reaching for the display handkerchief that was folded to a perfect double point in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“No, no!” Jackson said urgently. “You mustn't mess up your nice hanky, Mr. McAlister.”
“Really, I—”
“Why, you have it folded so nice…” He tilted his graying head to admire the handkerchief. “Look at them folds. Would you look at them folds? Sharp enough to cut bread.”
McAlister smiled and shook his head. “Okay. I'll use the bathroom.” He went into the visitors' lavatory, splashed cold water on his face, combed his hair, and straightened his tie. When he returned to the cloakroom, he found Jackson folding the dustcloth he had used to wipe off the attaché case. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
“You're welcome, I'm sure.”
He picked up the case. “How's that son of yours getting along? The one who was trying to buy a McDonald's franchise.”
Jackson smiled, “He got the store all right. He's deep in debt, but he's working sixteen hours a day and selling hamburgers faster than they can kill the cows to make them.”
McAlister laughed. “Good for him.”
“Have a nice visit with the boss,” Jackson said.
“That's up to him.”
Five minutes later, passed along by the appointments secretary, McAlister stood outside the door to the Oval Office. He hesitated, trying to relax, trying to get a smile on his face.
On his left, three feet away, the ever-present warrant officer sat on a chair in the hallway. On his lap lay a black metal case, The Bag, the file of war codes that the President needed if he were to start — or finish — a nuclear war. Thirtyish, clean-cut and lean, the warrant officer was reading a paperback suspense novel. It had a colorful cover: two people running from an unseen enemy. Above the title was a line of copy: “Unarmed in the desert — with hired killers on their trail.” Without looking up, thoroughly hooked, the Bag Man turned a page. McAlister wondered how a man who might one day help to cause mega-deaths could possibly be enthralled by a fiction in which only two lives hung in the balance.
He knocked on the door, opened it, and went in to see the President.
The Oval Office was quintessentially American. It was clearly a room where business was transacted and not merely a place set aside for ceremonial purposes. The furniture was expensive, often antique, but also sturdy and functional. A United States flag hung from a brass stand at the right and behind the chief executive's desk, as if everyone had to be reminded this was not Lithuania or Argentina. Every corner and glossy surface was squeaky clean. The room held a vaguely medicinal odor composed of furniture polish, carpet shampoo, and chemically purified, dehumidified air. The ubiquitous blue-and-silver Great Seal of the President of the United States officialized the carpet, the desk, the penholder that stood on the desk, the pens in the holder, the stationery, the stapler, the blotter, each of the many telephones, the sterling-silver pitcher full of ice water, and a dozen other things. Only American chiefs of staff, McAlister thought, could wield so much power and yet cling to such simple-minded status symbols as these.
The focal point of the office was, of course, the President. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who managed to look austere and approachable, sophisticated and of simple tastes, fatherly and quite sensual all at the same time. In spite of his London-tailored suit and hand-stitched Italian shoes, he had the rugged, rangy image of a cowboy actor. His hair was thick, salt-and-pepper, artfully mussed; and his eyebrows were dark and bushy. And he had the best collection of vintage 1960, white-white, porcelain-capped, steel-pin, jaw-sunk, permanently implanted, artificial teeth extant.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” McAlister said as they shook hands. The elaborate, long-time-no-see greeting made McAlister ill-at-ease, for he'd spent an hour with the President just last evening.
“Nasty out there, Bob?”
“Wet enough to drown ducks, Mr. President,” McAlister said, listening to the other man laugh, remembering Beau Jackson, wondering if there was actually all that much difference between a cloakroom attendant and a chief of state.
The only other person present was Andrew Rice, the President's number-one man. To his credit, he didn't laugh at the duck joke; and Ms handshake was softer than the President's; and he had imperfect teeth. McAlister didn't particularly like the man, but he respected him. Which was exactly how he felt about the President, too.
“You look as exhausted as I feel,” Rice said.
“When this is over,” McAlister said, “I'm for the Caribbean.”
As Rice groaned and shifted and tried to get comfortable in his chair, McAlister wondered what David Canning, compulsively neat as he was, would think of the senior advisor. Rice's gray suit looked as if it had been put through a series of endurance tests by the idealists at the Consumer's Union. His white shirt was yellow-gray, his collar frayed. His striped tie was stained, and the knot had been tied haphazardly. Standing five ten, weighing two-eighty, he was easily a hundred pounds too heavy. The chair creaked under him, and just the effort of getting settled down had made him breathe like a runner.
Of course, Rice's mind was quick, spare, and ordered. He was one of the country's sharpest liberal thinkers. He had been twenty-six when Harvard University Press published his first book, Balancing the Budget in a Welfare State, and he had been electrifying political and economic circles ever since.
“I received your brief report of this morning's tragedy in Carpinteria,” the President said. “I called Bill Ryder at the Bureau to find out how in hell his security was breached. He didn't know.”
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