“Part of me does, another part isn’t quite sure.”
“You’re weak! You were always weak and filled with sickening self-pity! You’re pathetic! Go on, do it! Haven’t you the courage?”
“I don’t think courage has anything to do with it. It doesn’t take bravery to kill a quartered mad dog. But maybe it takes a little more courage to capture it, dissect it, and learn what makes it diseased. Also, to learn what other mad dogs travel in the pack.”
“Never!” shrieked Bajaratt, flicking the gold bracelet on her wrist and lunging at Hawthorne. His thigh crippling him, Tyrell fell back under her attack, his strength sapped; he was almost no match for the maniacal strength of the fanatic. Then, as the gold bracelet came nearer his throat, blocked only by his grip on her wrist, he saw the open hole of a jagged gold point. It was dripping fluid meant for him. He fired. Into her chest.
Bajaratt gasped and rolled over, trembling in the rattle of death. “Muerte a toda—” The head of Amaya Aquirre fell to the right, into the comfort of her shoulder. Somehow, her face became younger, the lines of hatred diminished, a ten-year-old child at peace.
EPILOGUE
The International Herald Tribune
Paris Edition—(Page 3)
ESTEPONA, Spain, Aug. 31—It was reported yesterday that police, accompanied by the American ambassador, sealed off the villa belonging to retired former justice of the United States Supreme Court Richard A. Ingersol, who suffered a fatal heart attack while attending his son’s funeral in Virginia. Justice Ingersol was a prominent member of the exclusive community Playa Cervantes, on the Costa del Sol. The American ambassador’s presence was deemed proper pursuant to instructions from Ingersol’s survivors that his personal papers be removed and returned to the United States, including those that contained confidential information and advice sought by U.S. government officials.
The Washington Post
(Front page, lower right)
General Meyers Found Dead; Termed a Suicide
WASHINGTON, D.C, Sept. 5—The body of Gen. Michael Meyers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was discovered early this morning in the bushes several hundred yards from the Vietnam Memorial. His death was attributed to a massive bullet wound to his neck, the weapon fired at close range, said weapon found gripped in the general’s hand. The motive for suicide is best described in Meyers’s own words delivered in a speech last May to the Forever America convention. “Should the time come when my infirmities determine that I cannot fulfill my commitments to the best of my ability, I shall quietly take my own life rather than become a burden to the country I love. If I had my wishes, it would be among the troops who served me and the nation so magnificently.” The general, a former prisoner of war, sustained multiple wounds in the Vietnam action.
Highlights of Meyers’s life and military career appear in the obituary section of this paper. A Pentagon spokesman said its flags would be lowered to half mast for a week, and that there would be a minute of silent prayer at noon today.
The New York Times
(Page 2)
Is There a Purge?
WASHINGTON, D.C., Sept. 7—Sources close to the CIA, Naval Intelligence, and the Immigration Service say that a massive reevaluation of numerous employees, as well as stringer personnel under loose contracts to the three departments, is under way. No one will go on record as to what prompted this action, but it has been confirmed that several dozen arrests have been made.
The Los Angeles Times
(Page 47)
MEXICO CITY—Two American pilots, Ezekiel and Benjamin Jones, appeared at the offices of La Ciudad, a Mexican tabloid, claiming to have information about the “disappearance” of Nils Van Nostrand, the multimillionaire international financier and adviser to the past three administrations, as well as select committees of the Congress. A spokesman for Mr. Van Nostrand said he had never heard of the two brothers and was amused to learn that Van Nostrand had “disappeared,” as he was merely taking a three-month world cruise, a trip he had promised himself for years. The charter service in Nashville, Tennessee, where the pilots claimed to have been hired, said it had no record of their employment. This morning it was reported that two men fitting the description of the Joneses stole a Rockwell jet, and under false aircraft identification flew south, presumably to Latin America.
“Now you know the truth, famiglia Capelli,” said Nicolo, sitting nervously forward in a chair, his chest strapped under his jacket, his left arm in a sling. They were in the spacious living quarters above the delicatessen-restaurant. “I am only a dock boy from Portici, although I’m told there is a great family in Ravello who will accept me as their own, for they lost a son not unlike myself.… I cannot do that, for I have been false to myself long enough, lied to people long enough.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Paolo—Nico,” said Angel Capell from a chair across the room, a tactic devised by her doubting father. “My attorney spoke with the government people—”
“Her ‘attorney,’ Papa!” cried the actress’s younger brother, laughing. “Angelina has an attorney!”
“Basta!” said the father. “Perhaps if you work hard enough, you may be your sister’s avvocato.… What did this lawyer say, Angelina?”
“It’s a government thing, Papa, everything is silenzio. Nicolo has spent the last four days in isolation, being questioned by dozens of officials, telling them everything he knew. There were those who wanted to put him in prison for years, but our laws require a trial. Everyone accused of a crime is guaranteed an attorney for his defense—and frankly, Papa, I guaranteed the best lawyers my attorney could find to defend him.” Angel Ca-pell, née Angelina Capelli, paused, blushing slightly as she smiled at Nico. “Naturally, there’d be a lot of publicity and, I’m told, a great deal of embarrassment for lots of people all over the place, in and out of the government, helped that terrorist because they thought they could get money from her.”
“So?” thundered Capelli. “This is all incredibile!”
“No, Papa. Among the classified statements made by the marines and the naval officer in charge, each clearly heard the woman order Nicolo killed—killed. Papa!”
“Madre di Dio,” whispered Mrs. Capelli, staring at Nico. “He’s such a good boy, maybe not so perfect, but not cattivo.”
“No, he’s not, Mama. He comes from the streets, as so many of our young people do who roam in gangs and act stupidly, but he wants to better himself. How many dock boys in Italy have gone to high school? Nico has.”
“Then he won’t go to prison?” asked the Capelli brother.
“No,” replied Angel. “As long as he swears to say nothing, they accept the fact that he was a puppet—un fantoccio, Papa—for that terrible person. The attorney has arranged the papers, and Nico will sign them this afternoon.”
“Scusa,” said the elder Capelli, his eyes wide in bewilderment. “Your friend here—the barone-cadetto… this Paolo, or this Nicolo—spoke of a great deal of money in Napoli, say nothing of the envelope filled with so much denaro I should work six: months to see such a profit—”
“It’s all there, Papa,” answered Angel. “My attorney checked with the bank in Naples.… The instructions are clear. If Nicolo Montavi of Portici, with proper identification, claims it, it is his. In the event of his death, it reverts to the depositor who does business with the bank; and if neither claims it within six months, the funds are to be transferred to a confidential account in Zurich.”
“All that is true, Signor Capelli,” said Nicolo. “I knew nothing about my employment other than that it would be a sciarada, a game for money, which, to be honest, the docks of Portici play many times.”
“And this money is still available to you?”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” acknowledged the dock boy, a flash of anger crossing his face as he briefly closed his eyes. “As Angelina has told you, she ordered me to be killed,” he added in a quiet monotone.
“But now it is,” exclaimed Angel. “
My attorney said that all we have to do is fly to Naples, to the bank, and it’s all Nico’s!”
“We fly …? You both together?”
“He is an innocente, Papa. He’d get on the wrong plane.”
“How much money is there?”
“A million American dollars.”
“Take your avvocato with you, Angelina,” said Angelo Capelli, fanning his face with a menu. “You must have a proper chaperone, but if your attorney is anything like your agente, the worm who changes your name, I put a maledizione on him too!”
Dear Cath:
It was great seeing you yesterday, and even better to know you’re going to be okay after a stretch. You looked terrific, by the way, but then, you always do to me. I’m writing this letter so you won’t have a chance to pull that superior-officer stuff with me, or talk to me like I was your nerd kid brother who always gets lost in a shopping mall, okay? I appreciate this here leave they gave me, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t care to take it. I know I talked some about my daddy, and your saying you didn’t even know he was a big lawyer and all, but I guess I didn’t mention that Daddy retired last year. He wasn’t that young, Cath. You might say my little sister and I were late babies on account of they were both in their forties. As a fact, Daddy claimed that’s how Sis and I got our brains, because his and Momma’s were fully developed, which, of course, wouldn’t stand up in any biological study of heredity. But there isn’t any overpowering reason for me to go home because they’re not there much. They’re traipsing all over Europe like a couple of kids, and when they wear out Europe, they’ll head elsewhere—last time I heard it was someplace called Adelaide in Australia on account of there’s a great casino—Momma loves to gamble, and Daddy likes to have a few bourbons with the foreign folks and has a hell of a time. I thought about going out to see my little sister, she and I pretty much always got along, but she’s heavy dating a guy who’s got his own company and wants to steal her away from where she’s at, like with a senior vice presidency, and when I called her, she said, “Don’t you dare come out now, big brother, because he’ll offer you the job!” I guess she’s got a point, Cath. The kid’s good, very inventive, but I taught her most of what she knows. Gosh, I’m a hell of a prize for anyone in the private sector! Okay, okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but I know enough to stay away.
What’ll I do? I’m going back to the only home I’ve got right now, to the base, and I hope you don’t have a problem with that—my leaving without saying good-bye in person, I mean. Now may I say something as it pertains to you, Major? I believe you’ve got a fair amount of thinking to do, if you’ll pardon me. I know you, Cath, and I’ve watched you for almost five years now, and I don’t have to tell you that I truly love you, sometimes in my thoughts profanely, but I know when not to continue the march. Also, you’re at least maybe seven or eight years older than I am, and I don’t care to take advantage—just kidding. Major! All I’m saying is that you’ve got a couple of options that I don’t have and one of them is with a guy I truly respect, a man who’s a real man because among other things, he doesn’t go around thinking he’s got to prove it. He just is. I first learned that when Charlie was killed, and I was way out of line. But you know what happened then, and, as I recall, he had a talk with you too. Times like that tell you a lot about a guy, you know what I mean? Tye may have jumped ship, as they say, but in my lexicon he’s just about everything that’s implied in the bullshit phrase “an officer and a gentleman.” Like I said, he just is, although he’d probably never talk to me again if I told him to his face.
I know I’ve always said you were born to run the air force and things like that, and you probably could, but that was before Tye told me what you said you might have done if you could have afforded college. Maybe you could do it now, like the commander suggested. I sure hope you think about it, then maybe I’ll run the air force.
The hospital told me you got the uniform. Frankly, I think you look terrific in a dress.
I love you, Cath, I always will. Please think about what I said. Incidentally, I’d make a hell of an uncle for your kids. How many families have a real genius to help with the homework? Just kidding—not!
Jackson
In her blue air force uniform, Major Catherine Neilsen sat in a wheelchair alone at a table in the hospital’s outdoor restaurant lounge overlooking the Potomac. In front of her was a tall glass of iced coffee; across the table in a metal ice bucket a half-bottle of white wine was chilling. It was early evening, the orange sun settling in the western sky, casting long shadows over the rippling waters below. Movement at the glass doors caused her to look over as the figure of Tyrell Hawthorne limped, weaving through the seated visitors and patients, toward their table at the railing. She quickly shoved Poole’s letter into her shoulder bag.
“Hi,” said Tyrell, sitting down. “You soften a uniform considerably.”
“I was sick of the hospital attire, and since I couldn’t go shopping, Jackson had this flown up from the base.… I ordered you some Chardonnay, I hope that’s all right; they don’t serve the hard stuff.”
“It’s probably too good; my stomach may revolt.”
“Speaking of which, or close to it …?”
“The new stitches are holding nicely, thanks, but then, they’re bound in cloth cement. The marine captain’s better off; the bullet went right through his side, messy but clean.”
“How did the meeting go?”
“Try to imagine a cage full of ocelots racing around in the mud.… They really don’t know what hit them, or how it all got through their impenetrable security.”
“Come on, admit it, Tye, the whole strategy was ingenious.”
“That doesn’t wash, Cathy. It was ingenious because we were so flawed internally, a Mack truck could have driven through the gaps. Christ, the kid was all over the papers, the ersatz countess way in the background, I do admit, but still she was there. Where were the super counterintelligence yuppies who employ all those marvelous computers that check and cross-check and triple-check?”
“You didn’t join up early enough and Poole wasn’t operating the computers.”
“I’d like to believe that about me, but, as usual, there were too many accidents … Poole, I’ll buy—you too, lady. You were outstanding.… Anyway, Howell—Sir John Howell—of MI-6, was on the speakers in the White House Situation Room. London’s rounded up four of—Bajaratt’s—accomplices; the rest, if there are any more, they figure have flown back to the Baaka. Paris was really good. The Deuxième sent out a signal that the Baaka Valley unit had to figure was the one it was waiting for. At two o’clock in the morning it was announced over all the radio and television stations that an emergency meeting of the Chamber of Deputies was called into immediate session. Nothing short of a global catastrophe, a terrible event that was temporarily being kept quiet could produce such an action. They caught five terrorists getting the hell out of there through a single exit.”
“What about Jerusalem?”
“They’re beautiful. They won’t say—just that everything is under control. Also, Van Nostrand’s death will be covered. Somewhere down the road, or maybe an ocean, it’ll be announced that he had a heart attack or an accident, and be eulogized in absentia.”
“The White House?”
“They’re holding to the story of Oval Office renovation, which has supposedly been going on at the White House for a couple of weeks, thus eliminating the tours. If they need it, they’ve got a mocked-up schedule from the Army Corps of Engineers as well as one from an outside construction company.”
“Will that wash?”
“Who’s going to contradict it? The timing was right; the President was upstairs with his family, and the explosion was a lot louder inside than outside.”
“People were killed, Tye, and that was all damned messy!”
“The Secret Service moves quickly and they knew exactly what to do.” A waitress approached; amenities were exchanged as the
aproned woman opened the bottle of wine. “Thanks,” said Tyrell. “We’ll order later.”
“So that’s that,” said the major, watching Hawthorne drink most of his wine in several swallows, the lines of weary exhaustion all too apparent on his face.
“That’s that,” agreed Tyrell. “It’s not the end of it, you know, it’s only the beginning. Before long the leaks will begin and the news will spread to the crazies everywhere. ‘How close they came, how she nearly pulled it off!’ The cry of ‘Ashkelon’ will probably be replaced by ‘Bajaratt—remember Bajaratt’… otherwise known as Dominique—Dominique Montaigne.” Hawthorne’s voice trailed off as he refilled his glass. “I hope we’ve learned something,” he added, barely above a whisper.
“What would that be?”
“Know every goddamned link in your secret chain of command, everyone who’s accountable, or throw the whole thing out. Go public.”
“Wouldn’t that create confusion, even hysteria?”
“I don’t think so, and I’ve thought about it. In war, an imminent bombing raid is announced by sirens and searchlights, and by and large the citizens calmly go to the shelters, knowing that those trained for the event will do their best to protect them, protect the interests of the country. It’s not that much different, but it could be a hell of a deterrent.… Suppose the FBI, in conjunction with the CIA, had held a nationally televised press conference—an alert, actually—declaring that a woman and a young man, entering the country illegally, were on a mission from the Baaka Valley … et cetera, et cetera. Do you think Dominique”—Hawthorne paused, breathing deeply while gripping his glass—“Bajaratt could have gotten away with Palm Beach or New York? I doubt it; somewhere an enterprising reporter would have made the connection, at least asked questions that went beyond a carefully constructed background. It’s possible one or two did; a man from The Miami Herald, and a red-headed specialist in dirt named Reilly.”