The Monkey Handlers

by G Gordon Liddy

  Instruct the soldiers of God as follows: For the Glory of God and revenge upon the Satanic infidels, you are to be given the privilege of martyrdom and immediate admission into paradise, by releasing that which has been entrusted to you, upon the towers that are his pride. Give the soldiers of God the holy writings, and they shall obey your every command.

  Saul Rosen looked stunned. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  Stone nodded soberly. “It’s a triple-cross. Sullivan, or Al Rajul, or whoever the fuck he is has got some suicidal fanatics, most probably Iranian, who’re gonna release that gas as the ship passes Manhattan. They’ve got a good hundred pounds of lingering binary Sarin under pressure. At one two hundred-fifty-millionths of an ounce per death, JESUS! And who knows when it will disperse! Call your attaché friend. Tell him what the stakes are now.”

  “I don’t know,” said Saul, his face contorted with concern. “Before, we were talking about stopping the ship before she got out of international waters. Now she’s gotta be stopped before she reaches Manhattan! What with the bureaucratic bullshit … I don’t know, Mike. I just don’t know.”

  “Well, we can’t just throw up our hands, for Christ’s sake! Look, you stay here and work the phone. I’ll take Wings, Pappy, and Arno and see what we can do.”

  * * *

  “I would put Metz on if I could find him, sir. Unfortunately, he and most of his men are not to be found.” Georg Kramer’s voice was anxious and defensive as he spoke on the LPC-10 telephone Metz had brought with him from Germany. “I’ve spoken to two uniformed guards, and they were most forthcoming. What few of Metz’s men remain are not. They keep telling me to talk to him. Not only that, I can’t find Letzger. All I know is that Metz and Letzger were holding that woman who took the photographs originally and the leader of the animal-protest mob. They had them in the primate lab. There was a rescue attempt by what appears to have been mercenaries. It was successful. The twelfth floor was shot up, and there was an explosion. The fire department was called and told that a severely injured man was trapped on the B-2 level in an elevator. They insisted on entry and found an experimental subject. We denied knowledge and asserted it was a plant by the protesters who got in and sent a false alarm. But the others are talking to police and—”

  “Did the ship sail?” Hoess asked. Even over the scrambler, Kramer could detect the anxiety in his voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Sir, I can see the dock from my window. The ship is gone.”

  Hoess sighed with relief. “Very good, Kramer. Find Metz and Letzger. I want to speak to them both. Call our law firm in New York. Get someone up there right away and fill him in. Then have him call me also.” Hoess hung up. No matter what the degree of trouble at the American plant, he had kept his bargain with Al Rajul. He waited by his regular telephone for the call that would instruct him as to how to retrieve his son.

  * * *

  In the wardroom of Aka Maru, Stephanie Hannigan took a piece of whole-wheat toast and, wiping from her gleaming white plate a last bit of yellow from eggs “fried, over easy,” popped it daintily into her mouth.

  “And was breakfast to yer complete satisfaction, Miss Hannigan?” Brian Sullivan asked.

  “Yempf,” said Stephanie, her mouth still full, “it wampf.”

  “Well, then,” said Sullivan, rising, “if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit more business to attend to. Why don’t you return to the bridge and enjoy the glorious view, and I’ll rejoin you shortly.”

  “Can I take my coffee?”

  “Certainly, miss,” said van Loon. He poured more hot coffee into Stephanie’s mug as Sullivan left. “And you might find a bit of old sailor’s lore helpful. Even though we’re not at sea yet and there’s no true roll to her, we’re steering to follow the channel and there are the currents. But even in a heaving sea, if you carry your mug before you without looking at it, you’ll find you won’t spill a drop.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Hanged if I know, miss, but it’s been passed down from sailor to sailor for generations. And it works.”

  Stephanie smiled her thanks, rose, and, not looking at her mug, made her way from the wardroom to the bridge. There, the bright June sun streamed through the glass and illuminated the verdant hills on either side of the sparkling surface of the Hudson. Stephanie basked in the radiant warmth of the sun, drank in the beauty, and turned to the pilot: “Where are we now?”

  “Be coming up on the Beacon-Newburgh bridge soon. Then there’s Storm King Mountain … the Palisades … it’s gorgeous.”

  “It certainly is,” Stephanie agreed. “It’s a great day to be alive.”

  At that moment, Brian Sullivan, briefcase in hand, was climbing down the ladder from the weather-deck access to the second deck area 1-Alpha. He stopped at the watertight door to the first of three cargo bays on the starboard forward and, using a spoon he’d pocketed in the wardroom, rapped on the heavy metal of the door. It opened a few inches and, in passable Farsi, Sullivan said, “I bear a message.”

  The door opened enough to admit him, and Sullivan entered the gloomy confines of the bare, single bulb-lit cargo bay. An unkempt-looking Iranian man said, “The message?”

  “You have the machine?” Sullivan countered.

  “It is ready.”

  “Summon the others.”

  The Iranian disappeared into the second cargo bay and returned with three companions. They were all young males, scraggly-beareded, in soiled Western-style trousers and shirts. The throbbing of the great diesel engine filled the room. Brian Sullivan opened his briefcase and withdrew a can of white spray paint. He looked about in the gloom, spotted an 8 mm projector set on a box, then moved to the bulkhead opposite it, and, spraying steadily and evenly, painted a large white rectangle on it.

  As the four men watched him intently, Sullivan moved back under the light, picked up a small reel of motion-picture film from his briefcase, and threaded it into the projector. That done, he picked up the projector wire by the plug and led it over to the light. The briefcase yielded a screw-in electrical receptacle that he put into his pocket. Then he gingerly unscrewed the hot light bulb, put it into his briefcase, and replaced the bulb with the electrical receptacle. By feel in the total darkness, Sullivan inserted the plug of the projector into the receptacle, then followed the wire back to the machine, and, after fumbling a moment, turned it on.

  The film was black and white and without sound. It jumped from time to time because it had been played often and the sprocket holes were worn. The focus was good, however, and the image projected was crisp against the still-wet white paint. There was a sharp intake of breath from the four men, followed by a murmer of reverent approval when they saw the image of the late Ayatollah Khomeini waving his hand in blessing at a crowd underneath his window. As the Imam backed through the window, the camera followed him as he went to a desk. There an aide placed before him a small pile of papers bearing printing in Farsi. Slowly and deliberately, the aged leader was shown signing the documents, one after another.

  The camera, obviously hand-held because of its jiggle, moved around and to the rear of Khomeini, zooming in slowly upon the documents and the Ayatollah’s hand holding a pen. It held close on the document long enough for even the barely literate to read it:

  By my signature, I certify that the bearer has died the holy death of a martyr in the course of striking the severest of blows against the Great Satan, and I implore Allah personally to grant him immediate entry to Paradise.

  The leader of the four men read it aloud to the other three, who were illiterate. As soon as they understood what they were watching, excited conversation broke out among them. It was a bit fast and colloquial for Sullivan, but he caught the gist: While it was a tenet of Islamic faith that anyone who died in a jihad would, as a martyr, earn admission to Paradise, to die in possession of one of the documents they had just seen subscribed by the sainted Imam himsel
f, now seated with Muhammad at the throne of God, would guarantee it. Such a treasure would be worth any sacrifice.

  Sullivan snapped off the projector after the brief film ended, followed the wire back to the plug, and replaced the light bulb.

  “You have such a document?” asked the leader, awe in his voice.

  From his briefcase, Sullivan produced four pieces of paper. He held one under the light. The men crowded around, trying to touch it.

  “Look only,” Sullivan said. “Satisfy yourselves as to what they are.”

  The four men studied the paper intently, then three of them looked expectantly at the fourth. “Is it true?” one asked him. “You can read. Is it the same as we saw?”

  “It is the writing of the Holy One,” the fourth man assured the others. Then, to Sullivan, he said, “Your orders?”

  “You have something for me?”

  The man pointed to a dark corner of the bay. Sullivan went there and found a canvas container. He opened it and inspected the contents carefully. It was a chemical-warfare suit, Soviet-made, the latest model. Satisfied, Sullivan returned the suit to its container and addressed the man who appeared to be the leader of the Iranians. “When we reach the north end of the island of Manhattan, I shall return to give you the Imam’s writings, one for each of you. You are prepared to do as I instruct you?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Your current instructions are to guard the cylinders with your lives until you can deliver them off Tripoli, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “There is a change of plan. The message is as follows: ‘For the Glory of God and revenge upon the Satanic infidels, you are to be given the privilege of martyrdom and immediate admission into Paradise, by releasing that which has been entrusted to you, upon the towers that are his pride.’ At my signal, you will carry the gas cylinders through the passageways to the aft steering compartment. From there, make your way through the storage cubbyholes and passageways to the emergency ladder that leads upward, between the inner framework and the outer skin of the hull, to the port side of the fantail. There you shall release the gas against the Great Satan’s greatest city and—”

  “Go to Paradise!” came the ecstatic interruption.

  “To Paradise,” said Sullivan, “you will surely go. The middle of the channel is but seven hundred feet from the Manhattan shore at the northern end of the island where the great bridge, named for the father of their country, crosses the river. When we pass under it, I will give you the signal. By the time you are ready, the ship will be in position next to the heart of the city. The prevailing winds are onshore. The blow you strike at the pride of the Great Satan will go down in history.”

  “Yes!” the men agreed excitedly. “Yes! Yes! May we see the Holy Writings again?”

  “Later,” said Sullivan. “When I return, you shall possess them for eternity.”

  * * *

  “This thing amphibious or what?” asked Wings Harper as Michael Stone eased the low-slung Mustang over the bumpy railroad tracks north of the Riegar plant and east to the very edge of the Hudson River.

  “Wish it was,” grumbled Stone. “It’d solve a lot of problems.” He drew up to where two huge barges were tied to the wharf and each other. They had contained sand and gravel that had been unloaded into piles ashore for sale to construction companies, and were awaiting a tug to take them back for another trip. Stone checked the line being used. As he had estimated, it was two-inch nylon hawser—a lot of it. With two passes of the serrated blade of the Gerber, Stone sliced through the rope, then called to Arno Bitt: “You still got my uncle’s Zippo?”

  “Right here, Mike,” Arno answered, tossing the lighter to him. Stone caught it in one hand, flipped the top back and thumbed the spark wheel. The lighter blazed on the first try, and Stone used the flame to melt together the severed end of the nylon rope to keep it from unraveling. Then he lifted the far end of it, a spliced loop securing the line to a heavy iron cleat on the far barge, and, with the aid of Wings, rapidly coiled its approximate hundred-foot length into the back of the trunk. When they were finished, the coil was too high to close the trunk lid.

  “Fuck it!” said Stone. “Lean forward, guys.”

  Pappy Saye and Arno Bitt dutifully leaned forward in the backseat and Stone wrenched the seat’s back from the Mustang and threw it aside on the gravel. He and Wings reached down and shoved the rope into the newly freed space and were able to close the trunk lid.

  “Thanks,” said Arno, leaning back against the hard rope, “that’s much more comfortable.”

  Stone and Wings jumped in the car and Stone drove it beside the railroad tracks south toward the plant. As he came abreast of the maintenance shack, he stopped, slid a tire iron out from under the front seat, and motioned to the others. “Crowd around me, guys, gimme some cover here.” The others got out and, as Stone stood in front of the padlocked shed door, blocked him from view as he slipped the tire iron into the hasp, wrenched it loose, and entered.

  Through the light of the open door, Stone could see that he had guessed correctly. Among the tools were welding equipment—including hoods, aprons, gloves, and an assortment of rods—torch heads, and several tanks of oxygen and acetylene. Stone grabbed four pair of gloves, hopped back in the car, and said to the others, “Well, come on. We’ve got an op going here!”

  “Goddamn!” Pappy Saye said five minutes later. “Look at this traffic. Just what we need—rush hour!” Stone flicked the wheel of the Mustang and used the acceleration to be found only in lower gears, massive torque, and sticky tires to bolt ahead of yet another commuter on the South Road. Pappy Saye, who now sat to his right, muttered uncomplimentary things about the mothers of most of the drivers on the road. Arno Bitt and Wings Harper were jammed into what passes for a rear seat in a Mustang, knees practically under their chins, backs against coils of hawser. Their weapons were on the floor for concealment, and, for insurance, the top was up, making everyone even more uncomfortable.

  Wings Harper rubbed his eyes. “Man,” he said, “I could use some shut-eye.”

  “Gettin’ old,” Arno accused. “We all went a week without sleep in BUD/S.”

  “There!” Stone exclaimed. He shot right at Wappingers Falls and cut over to the old road, above the river. It was two-lane, and thus shunned by commuters. He turned south again and the five-liter V-8 howled as the little coupe rocketed ahead under fourth gear, then dropped a note as he shifted into fifth. He took a hand off the steering wheel long enough to turn the gain all the way up on the alarm on his radar detector, moved into the left lane long enough to blow past a pickup truck, and back over again to avoid a head-on collision with a startled woman in an ancient Dodge coming the other way.

  The Hudson River stretched ahead and below them. “Pappy,” said Stone, “there’s a pair of compact ten-power binoculars in the glove compartment. See if you can spot that ship up ahead.”

  “I can see to the next curve in the river, Mike. Nothing.” Nevertheless, Pappy dutifully took out the glasses and peered through them. Stone shot under the approach to the Beacon-Newburgh bridge, the red convertible raising rage in local drivers who were frightened by the fact that he was past them before they noticed him behind them. “We’re okay on this Route Nine-D. With luck, we’ll catch her at the Bear Mountain Bridge. The river’s crooked as a ram’s horn there—near West Point. The main thing’s to get ahead of them.”

  Stone slowed to get through the little town of Cold Spring, then speeded up again and roared down to Garrison. As he slowed to get through town, he said, “Okay, Pappy. That’s West Point across the river. Bear Mountain Bridge coming up. Start scanning.”

  A commuter train buzzed along the old New York Central tracks to their right. Stone pulled rapidly ahead of the train, then blew past an IROC Z-28 Camaro driven by an androgynous-looking youth who was so startled, he dropped the cigarette from between his lips onto his lap. Infuriated, the driver of the Camaro took off after Stone as he streak
ed downhill toward the right-hand turnoff to the bridge.

  “Nothing,” said Pappy. “At least the next bend’s a short distance, could be just around it.”

  “That ship must be cookin’,” Arno offered.

  “So’s the asshole behind me,” said Stone as the Camaro, having swung wide to try to pass, was forced back into line by a delivery van coming the other way.

  “He’s gonna try to beat you to the bridge turnoff,” said Wings. “Once he gets ahead of you on that two-lane bridge, he’s on the Palisades Parkway, and he figures it’s bye-bye.”

  “But I’m not going across the bridge!”

  “Yeah, but he don’t know that, Mike. Most people do.”

  “Well, then,” said Stone, “let’s just make him sure.” Stone put on his right-hand turn signal and accelerated. The Camaro stayed with him, confident he could dart around the Mustang when Stone braked for the turn. Only Stone, who intended to go straight and up the hill in front of him, didn’t brake. Too late, the Camaro driver realized he’d been suckered. He braked hard and tried to turn onto the bridge, spun out, and crashed, rear end first, into the steel of the bridge superstructure. His gas tank ruptured, gasolene hit the hot exhaust pipe, and the car burst into flame. “That,” observed Stone, “ought to draw what few police are around off speed patrol for a while.”

  The river swung sharply southeast, and Stone had to slow up for Peekskill, then, south, Buchanan. “See anything?” he asked any of them urgently.

  “Nope.”

  “Negative.”

  “Nada.”

  “Damn!” said Stone. “We’re not gonna be able to see the river for a bit, and it’ll be slow going.” At Montrose, he picked up a limited access highway and more speed. The river came into view again, then disappeared, reappeared at Ossining, and then, farther south, the road moved inland too far to see the river.

  “Well, the hell with it,” Stone said. “Better to get ahead than fiddle-fuck along like this.” He moved along, blind to the river, as best he could, jumping lights when the other three agreed the way was clear and no police were in sight. At North Tarrytown, he gambled, giving up time for another view of the river, and cut over west on Beekman Avenue. “There she is!” Pappy Saye sang out, looking through the binoculars. “Way over. She’s getting ready to go under a bridge with a long overwater approach.”