The Hamlet Warning

by Leonard Sanders

  Loomis waited patiently while Johnson handled the questions, giving them time to grasp the problem, allowing them a few minutes to consider the possibilities. He still sensed their resentment toward him but, as yet, resistance was unformed. He brought the questioning to a close.

  “We’ve got a lot to do in the next twenty-four hours,” he told them. “Each of you has a room or suite on this floor. You can set up shop here, have your staffs and assistants bring in whatever you need. For the most part, we can allow your staffs and the press to assume our work is connected in some way with the revolution. I see no reason to tell anyone otherwise, except on a need-to-know basis. Obviously, secrecy is mandatory. If this Hamlet organization learns we’re onto them, they’ll probably put another plan into operation.”

  “What about our families?” Dr. Limantour asked.

  “Presumably, we will find the material,” Loomis told him. “If we don’t — if it comes to that — we’ll map out some plan of evacuation. But at this point, it hasn’t been discussed.”

  “What right, under international law, do we have to seize the ship?” Captain Martínez asked.

  “None,” Loomis said. “So we’ve taken the trouble to manufacture a reason.” He turned to Dr. Limantour. “Have you ever treated a case of bubonic plague?”

  Dr. Limantour smiled slightly. “No. And if that was a polite way of asking how much I know about it, I’ll answer that question, too. I know about as much as you could expect of any outstanding chief of diagnostic studies — just the bare basics.”

  “We’re planting a case of bubonic plague in a Lisbon hospital,” Loomis explained. “Naturally, the patient will have had extensive contact with someone aboard the tanker. We’ll quarantine the ship for a thorough medical study of the crew, fumigation of the holds for carrier rats, whatever we’re allowed to do under international law. This will, of course, give us the opportunity to conduct a thorough search of the ship. I hope that you, and Captain Martínez, will explore the medical and legal aspects and determine our limitations.”

  The two men nodded agreement. Loomis turned to the foreign affairs director.

  “Señor Camacho, seizure of a ship naturally involves our foreign politics to some extent. El Jefe would like for you to monitor — and of course to participate in — our discussions and to offer your opinions on any potential hazards you might foresee.”

  “With a clear-cut case of a communicable disease, I do not believe there will be complications,” Camacho said.

  Loomis went to the next item on his list.

  “Dr. Espinosa, I’ve been advised by the U.S. Government that the materials aboard the tanker probably will be hidden in oil drums identical to thousands of others on board. They say we probably wouldn’t be able to find it by radiation. Do you agree?”

  Dr. Espinosa toyed with his pen a moment before answering. “Not necessarily,” he said. “The United States has achieved considerable sophistication in this field. Their shipping methods have been evolved over a long period, utilizing much experience. If this is a homemade container, the techniques are perhaps far less accomplished. I would presume that there might be a fair chance of a measurable degree of radiation — enough to merit the effort. But we will need equipment more precise than any we possess in the Dominican Republic.”

  “All right,” Loomis said. “Give Johnson a list of everything you need. It will be flown in on orders from Washington. Also, perhaps you can confer by phone with Mr. Johnson’s experts, and advise us on what we’ll be hunting.”

  Loomis went rapidly to the next item. “Admiral, the United States has the tanker under aerial surveillance. Its position now is two hundred miles or so northeast of the entrance to the Mona Passage, moving at fifteen knots. How soon can we put the ship under surface surveillance?”

  The admiral figured briefly on a scratch pad. “The Duarte is in harbor,” he said. “She could put to sea within the hour. At thirty-three knots — that would be forty-eight knots closing — she would be able to make rendezvous about daylight tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. It would be best if the Duarte approached the tanker from the west, as if entering the passage from another direction. It would then be natural for the Duarte to fall in astern and follow the tanker on into Santo Domingo.”

  “The Duarte’s radar is probably superior to that on the tanker,” the admiral pointed out. “She could keep watch on the tanker’s movements without revealing her presence, if so desired.”

  Loomis considered the suggestion. “I would prefer visual contact, as long as we’re not too obvious with it,” he said. “I think we should guard against any rendezvous with a small boat, or possibly a cargo drop by raft, along our northeast or east coast.”

  “And if that occurs?”

  “Then they can intervene, under the assumption that illegal contraband is being handled. We’ll play it by ear.”

  Loomis moved to the next item on his list. “Señor Galíndez, I realize that the Policía Nacional has many problems at the moment. But we have no other facilities to conduct a massive manhunt. And this search will be complicated by the fact that we don’t know who we’re looking for. We only know that he exists.”

  “The man who will construct the bomb?”

  “Yes. With the ship due, there’s a good chance he’ll be arriving within the next day or so. Or, if he’s in the country now, he may move toward a rendezvous. I suggest, Señor Galíndez, that we monitor every passenger that arrives by ship or air and every motorist who crosses the island.”

  “The airports and ports of entry would not be too difficult,” Galíndez said. “But checking out all motorists would be a tremendous undertaking.”

  “You can borrow what personnel you need from the military,” Loomis told him. “I suggest we arrange a well-publicized jailbreak in Santiago or one of the northern cities. Roadblocks on all major highways would then be considered natural. Since we don’t know who we’re hunting, arrests are unlikely. But a license number, a name, a brief notation on all foreigners and of the time and circumstances might be a good thing to have. Our bomb maker probably will be on that list. And his name might set bells to ringing on Octopus.”

  Galíndez again fixed Loomis with his sleepy, blank stare. “Señor Loomis, with your permission. I must say I do not understand all of this. Why go to all this elaborate subterfuge? Why not simply seize the ship under any pretext, find the nuclear materials, and arrest and question the crew?”

  The room fell silent. Loomis felt all eyes on him. Galíndez at last had put the opposition into words. Loomis hesitated, knowing that most of the Dominicans in the room were allied with Galíndez. Loomis felt their strong resistance, and he had to have their cooperation.

  “Señor Galíndez, you have gone to the core of the matter,” Loomis said. “I wish it were that simple. I also like direct action. My first impulse is to seize the ship. I also hate subterfuge. As some of you may know, I once was a member of the CIA.” Loomis saw glances exchanged around the room. He had confirmed some rumors. “I left the agency thoroughly disgusted with the clandestine practices. But in certain instances, I am forced to acknowledge the necessity of their use, and I think this is one such instance. The seizure of the ship without some due legal process would be international piracy per se. It would be condemned throughout the world. If the materials are not aboard, if the Hamlet people have tricked us, then we would have alerted them to our search, and they would take appropriate measures.”

  Loomis paused. The faces were thoughtful, absorbed. He was reaching them.

  “Yet it goes deeper than that,” he added. “These are clandestine, covert people we are dealing with. We have to fight them with their own weapons. Of course, this is nothing new. Intrigue is as old as politics. But now the stakes are higher, and the methods are more sophisticated. I sincerely believe this is the first confrontation of a new era — a dangerous time of free-lance nuclear threats. If the Hamlet people fail, someone else will try. For the first time,
a small group of people has the means to challenge entire governments, whole nations. As long as nuclear materials are available, someone, somewhere, will make the effort. They know our techniques, so they simply circumvent them. We must learn their techniques, if we are to survive.”

  The room was silent. Loomis knew that he had convinced them.

  He glanced at his watch. Noon. Countdown had started on the last forty-eight hours.

  “Anyone have further questions, suggestions, or comment?” he asked.

  There were none.

  “We’ll stand adjourned for the moment, then,” he said. “We’ll meet back here at six tonight to map final details.”

  Chapter 14

  Minus 6 Days, 22:00 Hours

  In mid-afternoon, reports of heavy fighting in the Cibao were confirmed. Government forces were definitely losing ground in both Santiago and San Francisco.

  In the capital, sniping became so prevalent that by late afternoon all stores and offices were closed. The streets were deserted.

  “My back is to the wall,” El Jefe complained to Loomis. “The tourists are gone. Commerce has stopped. The sugar mills are closing down.”

  Preoccupied with the Hamlet affair, Loomis hadn’t realized that Ramón had made such inroads. For the first time, he wondered if perhaps Ramón might be moving too fast. If his revolution became overextended, overcommitted, it might be difficult to sustain. However, there was no denying the pressure he was applying on the government.

  “In another two or three days, there will be complete chaos in the streets,” El Jefe said. “The people will become hungry, desperate. I’ve got to do something. But anything I can do is wrong. Colonel Escortia wants to issue new identification cards and to place strong checkpoints all through the distrito. Like in Trujillo’s worst days. I can’t bring myself to do that.”

  Loomis suggested placing troops on the rooftops downtown to discourage sniping. El Jefe said he would pass the suggestion along to Escortia.

  “Are you prepared for the arrival of the tanker?” El Jefe asked.

  “With any luck, we will be,” Loomis said.

  “I keep wondering about this Hamlet thing,” El Jefe said. “There is a thought that bothers me. If the Hamlet people are intelligent enough to acquire the materials, and to arrange for the bomb’s assembly, why would they make it so easy for us to catch them?”

  “That’s the thought that keeps bothering me,” Loomis admitted.

  “I fear this ship may be a diversion,” El Jefe said.

  “I agree, that’s a strong possibility,” Loomis said. “But the fact remains, the ship is all we have to work with.”

  Loomis went to his room, showered, sprawled across his bed naked, and slept for the first time in thirty-six hours. When he awoke, María Elena was beside him, cradling his head in her arms.

  They lay for a time without moving, listening to the occasional faint, far-off chatter of automatic weapons.

  Then, without a word, Loomis pulled her under him. A frantic desperation drove them through steadily building momentum toward a climax that left them both breathless and shattered.

  They rolled apart and lay for a time in the darkness without talking.

  María Elena at last broke the silence. “Loomis, I knew something was wrong the other night when you didn’t come back. Why didn’t you tell me about the atomic bomb?”

  Loomis reached to turn on a lamp beside the bed. “Who told you?” he asked.

  “El Jefe.”

  Loomis was unable to keep his irritation from showing. “He shouldn’t have worried you with it,” he said.

  María Elena’s tone turned defensive, defiant. “Well thanks a lot, Loomis, you male chauvinist pig. As it so happened, my uncle thought I might have enough intelligence to have some idea of who is behind Hamlet.”

  Loomis rolled onto one elbow, facing her. “Do you?”

  “What do you care?” she said with an elaborate shrug. “I’m nothing. My opinions aren’t worth anything.”

  “All right,” he said. “I stand corrected. Tell me. I really want to know. I’m humbly begging.”

  She laughed. “That’s better.” She put a hand on Loomis’s chest and let it roam while she talked. “I don’t think Hamlet is a terrorist group, anyone fighting for causes,” she said. “I feel they’re completely without principle. They’re driven by greed. Their demands will probably be to put them in a position of power.”

  Loomis reached to take her hand. “That takes in most of the human race,” he said.

  “Oh Loomis! How can you say that? Sure, the world’s full of shitty people. But I can’t keep from admiring all those fighting for causes — even the wrong causes.”

  “If you scratch them, you’ll usually find that the cause is number one,” he told her.

  She looked at him, concerned. “I can’t believe you really think that. What about all the grand causes of the past — your American Revolution?”

  “A good case in point,” he agreed. “In the English version, all our heroes come out traitors. It’s all in the viewpoint. Most people alive then had a vested interest, one way or another, that turned them loyalist or revolutionary.”

  She made a helpless gesture with her hand, then bit her lip in thought. “O.K. I suppose this would be the supreme test for a Texan,” she said. “What about the Alamo?”

  “Another example,” he told her. “When I was a kid I was taught that the men in the Alamo died fighting for Texas independence. No one questioned it. More rose-colored glasses. At the time of the Alamo, Texas independence hadn’t even been declared. They died fighting for restoration of the Mexican Constitution of 1824, under which they had land grants.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, maybe some of them just didn’t like Mexicans,” he admitted.

  María Elena seemed disturbed. She lay silent for a moment. “If you feel that way, I don’t understand how you can fight other people’s wars for them.”

  “Everybody likes to do what he’s good at,” Loomis said. “I happen to be good at it. It’s an honorable profession — maybe the oldest.”

  “Then you are a cynic,” she said. “But if you don’t trust people, how can you form deep relationships?”

  The question jarred Loomis more than he wanted to admit. He thought his answer out carefully.

  “Nothing is forever,” he told her. “The good times are few and far between. You just hang onto the good times as long as you can and try your damnedest to live through the bad. That’s all you can hope for in this old world.”

  María Elena lay for a time, staring at the ceiling, absorbing the thought. “Well, I guess I’ve discovered the flaw in the big rough diamond,” she said. “Maybe it’s up to me to fix it. I guess I’ll just have to prove to you that there are good things — lasting things.”

  She moved over to him and they began again. He soon had her in good humor, laughing. He thought her small, firm breasts the most perfect creations he’d ever seen, and told her so.

  “Oh Loomis! Don’t tell me you’re another tit man,” she said.

  He pulled her to him, nuzzling. “A tit man, an ass man, a bottom man.” He moved over her, holding her head in his hands. “And,” he added, “a great admirer of feminine intellect.”

  “Oh goody gumdrops,” she said, putting her arms around him. “A Renaissance lover!”

  They made love with a strange, unhurried leisure. Afterward, she snuggled against him. “Hold me, Loomis,” she said. “That’s what I really need.”

  They lay entwined throughout the night, listening to the sounds of the growing revolution.

  Chapter 15

  Minus 5 Days, 23:50 Hours

  Mike Elliott spent the afternoon sailing on Oslo Fjord with the tall Norwegian blonde from Scandinavian Airlines. Elliott normally liked small women, but he liked variety even more. The blonde almost matched his six-foot-two, but she was well proportioned and kept him laughing with her terrific sense of humor. They capped
the sail with four rounds of beer at the open-air Pernille. There they made plans to go dancing that evening at the Rosekjelleren, one of Elliott’s favorite places. The sunken dance floor, the suggestive decor, and the nude floorshow were always a turn-on. And Elliott had learned that the blonde lived alone in her own apartment near Holmenkollen, liked American men, and had an open mind about sex. Elliott was looking forward to a terrific night.

  Then he returned to his room at the Continental and found the cable waiting.

  The first surprise was that the whole cable was a message. Usually, Langley risked only cryptic notes tucked away in long blocks of text. These notes in turn were encoded into five-letter groupings to be decoded against Langley’s twenty-seven-column square, a device tradition claimed had never been broken. The key to the square was hidden in the third of a sequence of numbers buried in the text. The key to the location of the message was indicated by variations in the signature.

  Elliott looked at the signature on the cable. Andrew L. Latham. The full meaning didn’t hit him for several seconds.

  ALL?

  It was a long cable.

  Making certain the door to his room was latched and bolted, Elliott set to work. He unscrewed the back of his watch, lifted out the special bit of glass designed to masquerade as a jewel in the movement, and carefully placed it on the desk. Searching in his bag, he found the penlight — a common tool among world travelers for reading street maps in dim light and counting unfamiliar money in ancient taxis. After screwing the fake jewel into the penlight tip, Elliott projected the twenty-seven-column square onto the wall. Then, with pad and pen, he began the long chore of ferreting out the message.

  Elliott had never been adept at code. The five-letter groupings, designed to prevent educated guesses by outsiders, further confused him. Once he had the full text decoded, he had to study it for several minutes before finding the meaning:

  PROCE EDLIS BONSO ONEST AVAIL ABLEC ARRIE RASSU MEGRO UNDHO GCONT ACTBR OADSW ORDEF BAHID TOEST ABLIS HREND EZVOU SSAFE HOUSE RUAJO SEVIA NAFUT MOSTC AUTIO NADVI SEDDA NGERI MMINE NT.