The Mirror Maze

by James P. Hogan

  Then she returned to the den, but instead of closing the safe, she took out another envelope, which had arrived by courier the previous day. She had studied the contents several times, but there were still some parts to be memorized. She carried the envelope out to the kitchen, where she collected her coffee, then proceeded back into the bathroom, set the items down beside the jacuzzi, and turned a knob to inject a bubble mixture into the swirling water. She slipped off the ukata, looked approvingly at her nakedness in one of the mirrors, and then stepped down and stretched herself back amid the warm, pulsing currents.

  She sipped her coffee and reached for the envelope. “Ah yes,” she said, settling into a comfortable position to read the first assignment for the new year. It would be a good time to get away from New York’s frozen, windswept canyons for a sunnier clime. This time her plane ticket had come with the instructions. A winter vacation and sight-seeing tour in Greece. Very pleasant. To avoid leaving a trail that would point all the way to her final destination, she was to purchase an onward ticket to Cairo herself, after she arrived in Athens.

  Somebody had decreed that to contribute to earning his keep, Brett should join a work detail in digging a trench for a pipe from a new water tank recently erected in the camp. On the second day, Hamashad was supervising. “Time for a break,” he announced when it had reached the middle of the morning. He sat down on a mound of excavated sand and rocks and proffered a water bottle toward Brett. “Getting thirsty, Blondie?”

  Brett sat down next to him and took a long swig. “Thanks.” It tasted cool and sweet. They were some distance from the others, who were talking heatedly among themselves over something. Hamashad’s voice dropped to a murmur.

  “A way also has been suggested for satisfying you that we have a channel to the Constitutional party.”

  “What?”

  “You are aware that the vice president, McCormick, will be visiting Egypt and Israel this month?”

  “I saw it on the news, yes.”

  “Before returning to the U.S. for the inauguration, he is scheduled to appear on television with the Israeli prime minister. You will be able to watch it live in your rooms. If you tell me a phrase, a quotation, anything, consisting of any words you choose, and it is inserted into McCormick s speech, would that convince you?”

  It sounded foolproof. In any case, Brett had no choice but to go for it—two of the guards were approaching, looking at Hamashad. Brett thought for a second. “Tell them… ‘Wherever else you wander, there’s no place like home,’ ” he said.

  • • •

  In the Moscow headquarters of the KGB, Lieutenant Colonel Chelenko stubbed out his cigarette and gestured at the folder lying in front of him. Its contents summarized the most recent reports from the field operatives working the U.S. end of the investigation. “There’s simply too much for all this to be coincidental,” he said to General Goryanin, on the far side of the table. “After his return from the nuclear facility in Colorado, the lawyer was visited by the girl Carne, who flew to Boston from Washington after meeting with the agent Fenner two days previously. You see, there’s a pattern of constant communication between them.”

  “What about the lines of inquiry nearer home, concerning the missiles themselves?” Goryanin asked Chelenko. “Where are we on that?”

  “We’ve eliminated all of them except Glinka,” Chelenko said, referring to the PALP base in Syria. “Everything points there. In fact, that was why I asked to talk to you. The center of gravity of the whole operation seems to be shifting rapidly into that region, which makes me think that something is going to happen there soon.”

  “How do you mean?” Goryanin asked.

  “The latest surveillance reports are that contact with Fenner has been lost. We suspect he’s left for the Middle East, probably Israel. Carne will depart in eight days time, on January nine, with McCormick’s party.”

  “You really think that this political visit could be tied in with the missiles somehow?”

  “We have to allow for the possibility.”

  “Very well… And what are you proposing?”

  “That we move our investigation closer to the spot, also.” Chelenko inclined his head to indicate the young, smartly-turned-out major who was also sitting at the table. “Specifically, I’d like to send Major Brazhnikov and a support group to the embassy in Damascus, to continue his work from there. He’d be close to where we think the action will be, and in a position to elicit prompt action from the Syrians if we require their intervention.”

  Goryanin considered the proposal. “How do you feel about it?” he asked Brazhnikov.

  “I’m anxious to go, sir.”

  “Hmm. I don’t blame you. Who in Moscow wouldn’t be at this time of year? I’d go there myself if I could find an excuse.” He looked back at Chelenko. “Yes, I agree. Get the necessary papers prepared, and I’ll sign them right away. Let’s get them on their way as soon as possible. Was there anything else?”

  “That’s it for the moment,” Chelenko said.

  “Very well. Let me have those papers. Good day, gentlemen.”

  When Chelenko and Brazhnikov had left, Goryanin leaned back and gazed somberly at the window. The previous evening his uncle had confided that he was to become Supreme Commander of the HQ, or Stavka, of the Chief Military Council, which directed the Soviet military apparatus as a subordinate body to the Defense Council, the inner core of the Politburo. Androliev was pleased and took it as a token honor prior to his retirement, which couldn’t be far away now. But Goryanin, more acquainted with the patterns of intrigue and misdirection from his position within the KGB, saw things in a different light.

  Traditionally the Supreme Commander of the Stavka was either the General Secretary of the Party, in which case the position of First Deputy was held by the Defense Minister—as had been the case until now—or the Defense Minister himself. The moving of Androliev would leave the position of First Deputy open, and it didn’t need a lot of imagination to guess that Kordorosky was in line for it, which would consolidate power between the Party and the KGB, leaving Androliev as the focal point of the military command structure. All that would be necessary then would be to replace him with someone of their own choosing—on his retirement, or prematurely if circumstances so warranted—and their control over the Army would be complete. And what the consequences of that might be, Goryanin didn’t like to think about.

  CHAPTER 49

  Carlowe-Merton Consultants, Inc., occupied the eighteenth and nineteenth floors of the Sherbrooke office tower in the Kansas side of Kansas City. Built integrally with one of the largest downtown hotels and an adjacent enclosed shopping mall, the site was one of the city center’s prestigious business locations. Sheldon Quintz had been away for the first few days of the year, and Mel was unable to get an appointment to see him until the end of the first week in January.

  There was no particular reason to expect that Quintz would be agreeable to answering questions about his activities of years ago to somebody he didn’t know, from a law firm he’d never heard of—and since they were somewhat sensitive questions, every reason to suppose he wouldn’t be. William Evron had been doing some research that had involved, among other things, a couple of visits to old associates of his in New York, in the course of which he had uncovered some interesting information on what went on behind the scenes with some of the agency’s more select clients. Winthrarm suggested that Evron might want to accompany Mel to Kansas—in case a little pressure should be called for as a supplement to friendly persuasion.

  They emerged from an elevator on the nineteenth floor and were greeted by a professional-looking receptionist. She took their coats and informed them smilingly that Mr. Quintz was taking a call. They waited, taking in the setting of deep carpeting, sleek furniture, and modernistic tiled murals.

  Quintz appeared less than two minutes later. He-was tall and lean, with fair, neatly groomed hair, affable and easygoing, wearing a dark suit with a hint of s
tripe, and carrying a notepad and folder. They exchanged formalities, and Quintz ushered them through to a small conference room looking out over the city on two sides from a corner of the building. They sat down, Quintz at the end of the table, the others on each side. He placed his hands flat on the table, relaxed back into his chair, and smiled disarmingly from one to the other. “Gentlemen?” Mel guessed that he had already sensed trouble and was offering no targets for ranging shots.

  “Quite a pad here,” Evron said, casting an eye around to indicate the whole two floors, not just the conference room.

  Quintz spread his hands briefly. “ ‘Trust in him at all times… he quoted.”

  “Psalms,” Evron supplied.

  “Sixty-two, eight. I see you are versed in more than just secular law, Mr. Evron.”

  “But some of the electronic churches put a lot of their trust in the agency, isn’t that right?”

  “Who are we to question the ways of Providence? Do I take it that it is a potential interest in our professional services that brings you here?”

  “I’m interested in investing money,” Evron said.

  “Ah, then perhaps you’ve come to the wrong place. We are not a brokerage.”

  Unperturbed, Evron returned a smile every bit as broad as Quintz’s. “Speaking hypothetically, suppose I had, oh, say, a hundred million dollars that I wanted to dispose of,” he said. “But for various reasons, I wasn’t too anxious for questions to be asked about where it had come from. What do you think I should do?”

  A look of mild reproach crossed Quintz’s face, little more than a narrowing of the eyebrows, but his smile didn’t slacken. “What a strange question, Mr. Evron. Our business is promotion and fund-raising, as I’m sure you’re aware. I may have misunderstood, but I’m not even sure that what you’re referring to would be legal.”

  “My information is that you do quite a commendable job for your clients, Mr. Quintz,” Evron said, tacking from a different direction.

  “We are paid not ungenerously, so naturally we try to please. I’m gratified to learn that our reputation is a favorable one.”

  “Take the New World Gospel Brotherhood of the Reverend Jessias Greaves, for example,” Evron went on evenly. “His receipts last year were put at over five hundred million dollars, according to my figures.”

  “You are very well informed, Mr. Evron.”

  “How much of that sum, would you estimate, is attributable to the agency’s efforts?”

  Quintz made an empty-handed gesture. “How could one estimate? The ways of the Lord are subtle and complex. We simply take a modest pride in acting as one of his instruments among many.”

  “A more tangible figure, then, which I’m sure is known precisely. What percentage of it flows into here as the agency’s fees?”

  “That, of course, is confidential.”

  The fencing continued behind the smiles. Evron was being outrageous, and Quintz’s equanimity in accepting it was tantamount to an admission of skeletons behind doors, which Evron was telling him just as tacitly he didn’t want to open. To Mel, listening, it was an education in double-talk.

  What Evron had discovered, but wasn’t saying because it wasn’t necessary, was that the New World Gospel Brotherhood was in fact largely camouflage for an operation to process into legal money a part of the four billion dollars that flowed annually from the U.S. heroin and cocaine traffic. Some of the revenues were from true believers and penitents seeking salvation, certainly—and this helped maintain the cover—but the bulk of what poured in came from sources far beyond the Bible Belt.

  Five tons of heroin were estimated as being consumed in the U.S. every year, of which 60 percent was refined from opium produced in the world’s largest growing region, the “Golden Crescent,” extending from the Khyber Pass and Hindu Kush, through Afghanistan to northern Pakistan. Ninety percent of the heroin entering Europe—three quarters of which did so through the communist bloc via Bulgaria—came from the same source. The cocaine conduit into the U. S., handling almost a hundred tons a year, was primarily from Peru through a complicated web of connections that followed three broad routes: via water through the islands and into the southeast U.S.; over and through the Central American states and across the Mexican border; and by air at a quarter of a million dollars per flight into Canada, and then south.

  Twenty percent of the forty billion dollars held in Swiss banks was thought to be drug money; their deposits from Caribbean nations amounted to four times that from West Germany, which was supposed to be incomparably wealthier. There was a pressing demand from the initiators of those accounts for methods that would transform it into clean money that could be reinvested legitimately in enterprises throughout the world. A commonly managed string of fund-raising enterprises each operating in the hundred-million-dollar-and-up region met all the requirements.

  “Just imagine,” Evron went on dreamily, “five hundred million dollars. Who’d have thought that all that could come from little old ladies buying themselves a patch in heaven, hippies who’ve found Jesus, and anonymous millionaires cured of cancer and thanking the Lord? Amazing, when you think about it, isn’t it? … Just out of curiosity, does much of it come from anonymous donations, I wonder—untraceable, tax exempt, immune from scrutiny by the government?” He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips silently, and after a few seconds began drumming his fingertips nonchalantly on the tabletop. It was blackmail, pure and simple.

  “It’s astonishing how these things can add up,” Quintz agreed. His smile was still there, but it had taken on a frozen quality.

  “A situation that some people could find it tempting to abuse,” Evron remarked.

  Quintz stared down at the table and considered his options. Finally he said pleasantly, “I don’t think this conversation should go any further until our attorneys are present. Now, if you’ll excu—”

  “Come on, you’re dead and you know it,” Evron said. “Let’s get real. You’re no holy roller. You’re just here for pure private enterprise, right?”

  Quintz dropped the pretense. “Okay, you’ve got me by the balls. But look, whatever you want, you’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t own this outfit. I don’t decide policy. I just plan campaigns and design letters. Where the money comes from and where it goes isn’t my department.”

  “That’s okay,” Evron said. “We haven’t come on official business that concerns the firm. We’re here on a private matter.” He glanced at Mel for him to take it.

  Mel sat forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “What we’ve come about concerns you personally, Mr. Quintz. Specifically, it relates to a period some years ago, when you were at the University of West Florida.”

  Quintz leaned back and looked at Mel curiously with narrowed eyes. “Were you there then, too?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  Quintz nodded. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere, as soon as I saw you out there. You had a buddy… big guy, fair hair, had a beard.”

  “Brett Vorland.”

  “I think that was his name. I only really met him once… But anyway, what do you want to know?”

  “Do you recall the time that the defense adviser, Dr. Hermann Oberwald, came down to Pensacola as a guest speaker for the Chamber of Commerce one year?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “The next day, Oberwald had lunch with the university Socratic society. He gave a speech there, and afterward talked to some of the members.”

  Quintz nodded. “Yes. That was when I met your pal. It was the only time I ever talked to him.”

  “The only time?”

  “Yes. I introduced him to Oberwald.”

  “Whom you already knew.”

  “No. It was the first time I met Oberwald, too.”

  Mel bit his lip. Something wasn’t quite right here. He reset his sights. “Okay, let’s talk about Oberwald, which is what this is all about. I submit that you not only knew Oberwald, but that you had dealings with him that went back a
long time.”

  Quintz shook his head. “You’ve got something wrong somewhere. I just told you, that was the first time I ever met him.”

  “Let me be more general, then,” Mel said. “You were working in conjunction with people associated with Oberwald. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that you knew what kind of work they were in, or even exactly who they were. And if it helps, I don’t want to know now. But it is important for us to know the kind of work you did for them, and particularly as far as Brett Vorland was concerned.”

  Quintz stared at the table, sighed, sat back in his chair again, and looked at them. But not in the manner of somebody who had been cornered; it was more the natural, exasperated look of somebody who was genuinely bemused. Evron caught it too and glanced at Mel uneasily. Quintz smiled uncertainly and then said in a steady voice, “Look, I would really like nothing better than to be able to tell you whatever you want to hear to get you out of here. Now would you believe me if I told you frankly that I just don’t have the faintest idea what in hell you’re talking about?” He opened his palms, looked helplessly at them, and shook his head.

  “Do you remember a Joan Flassner there?” Mel asked him.

  “Joan Flassner? Sure, I remember Joan. The organizer. She was always writing letters and doing stuff for the Socratics. I was on the committee, too, for a while.”

  “It was she who contacted the Chamber of Commerce and suggested that they might be able to get Oberwald down as a guest.”

  “Was it? Okay, if you say so.”

  “That is, it didn’t begin as the Chamber’s idea. Somebody at the university came up with it. We think it was somebody who was already connected with him, maybe indirectly.”

  Quintz shrugged. “Maybe. So what?”