"You're probably right. Still, you can't do the job unless I give the order."
"I strongly urge you not to resort to assassination," said Oates.
"Doug Oates is right," said Julius Schiller. "It could boomerang. If word leaked out, you'd be considered fair game by middle East terrorist leaders."
"Not to mention the uproar from Congress," added Dale Nichols, who sat midway down the table. "And the press would murder you."
The President thoughtfully weighed the consequences. Then he finally nodded. "All right, so long as Yazid hates Soviet Premier Antonov as much as he does me, we'll put his demise on the back burner for now. But bear this in mind, gentlemen,
I'm not about to take half the crap from this nut that Khomeini dished out to my predecessors."
Brogan scowled, but an expression of relief was exchanged between Oates and Schiller. Nichols merely puffed contentedly on his pipe.
The actors in the drama were strong men with definite and often conflicting viewpoints. Victory came easy, but defeat smoldered.
The President shifted the agenda. "any late word on Mexico?"
"The situation is uncomfortably quiet," answered Brogan. "No demonstrations, no rioting. Topiltzin appears to be playing the same waiting game as his brother."
The President looked up, puzzled. "Did I hear you correctly? You said
'brother'?"
Brogan tilted his head toward Nichols. "Dale made a good call. Yazid and Topiltzin are brothers who are neither Egyptian nor Mexican by birth."
"You've definitely proven a family connection?" Schiller interrupted in astonishment. "You have proof?"
"Our operatives obtained and matched their genetic codes."
"This is the first I've heard about it," said a stunned President. "You should have informed me sooner."
"The final documentation is still being evaluated and will be sent over from Langley shortly. I'm sorry, Mr. President. At the risk of sounding overly cautious, I didn't want to throw out such a shocking discovery until we had gathered solid evidence."
"How in hell did you get their genetic codes?" asked Nichols.
"Both those guys are vain promoters," explained Brogan. "Our forgery department sent a Koran to Yazid, and a photograph to Topiltzin showing him in full Aztec regalia, along with requests begging them in each to inscribe a short prayer on both items and return them. Actually, it was a bit more complicated, writing the requests in the handwriting of known adoring followers-influential followers with financial and political clout, I might add. Both fell for it. The tricky part was intercepting the return mail before it reached the correct addresses. The next problem was sifting out the several sets of fingerprints which accompanied each object. Aides, secret agents, whoever. One thumbprint on the Koran matched with a known set of Yazid's prints that were on file with Egyptian police when he was arrested several years ago. We then traced his DNA from his fingerprint oils.
"Topiltzin was not so easy. He had no record in Mexico, but the lab matched his code to his brother's from prints pulled from the photo.
Then a chance find in the international criminal records at Interpol's Pahs headquarters dealt us a straight flush. It all came together. What we'd stumbled on was a family organization, a crime dynasty that arose after World War Two. A billion-dollar empire ruled by a mother and father, five brothers and a sister, who spearhead the operations, and run by a network of uncles, aunts, cousins, or whoever is related by blood or marriage. This tight association has made it nearly impossible for international investigators to penetrate. "
Except for the click of the teletype machines and the hushed murmur of aides, a stunned silence settled over the table. Brogan looked from Nichols to Schiller to Oates to the President.
"Their name?" the President asked softly.
"Capesterre," answered Brogan. "Roland and Josephine Capesterre are the father and mother. Their eldest son is Robert, or, as we know him, Topiltzin. The next brother in line is Paul. "
"He's Yazid?"
"Yes."
"I think we'd be interested in hearing all you know," said the President.
"As I've stated," said Brogan, "I don't have all the facts at my fingertips, such as the whereabouts of Karl and Marie, the younger brother and sister, or the names of associate relatives. We've only scratched the surface. from what I recall, the Capesterres are a tradition-bound criminal family that began almost eighty years ago when the grandfather emigrated from France to the Caribbean and launched a smuggling business, moving stolen goods and bootleg booze to the U.S.
during Prohibition. At first he operated out of Port of Spain, Trinidad, but as he prospered he bought a small nearby island and set up business there. Roland took over when the old man died, and along with his wife, Josephine-some claim she's the brain behind the throne-lost no time in expanding into drug traffic-First they built their island into a legitimate banana plantation, making a nice, honest profit. Next they turned inventive and made a real killing by harvesting two crops. The second, marijuana, was cultivated under the banana trees, to avoid detection. They also set up a refining lab on the island. Have I painted a clear picture?"
"Yes . . ." the President said slowly. "We all see it clearly. Thank you, Martin."
"They had it all worked out," murmured Schiller. "The Capesterres produced, manufactured and smuggled in one efficient operation."
"And distributed," Brogan continued. "But interestingly, not in the U.S. They sold the dnigs only in Europe and the Far East."
"Are they still into narcotics?" asked Nichols.
"No." Brogan shook his head. ' enough contacts, they received a tip their private island was about to be raided by the joint West Indies security forces. The family burned the marijuana crop, kept the banana plantation and began buying controlling interests in financially shaky corporations. They became extremely successful in turning businesses around and showing staggering profits. Of course, their unusual method of management might have had something to do with it."
Nichols took the hook. "What was their system?"
Brogan grinned. "The Capesterres relied on blackmail, extortion and murder. any time a competing company got in the way, the corporate executive officers, for some strange reason, initiated merger negotiations with the Capesteffe interests, losing their collective asses on the deal, naturally. Developers who hindered projects, opposing lawyers with lawsuits, unfriendly politicians, they all came to know and love the Capesterres, or one sunny day their wives and kids had accidents, their houses burned to the ground or they just up and vanished."
"Kind of like the Mafia managing General Motors or Gulf and Western,"
said the President sardonically.
"A fair comparison." Brogan nodded politely and continued. "Now the family controls a vast worldwide conglomeration of financial and industrial enterprises worth an estimated twelve billion dollars."
"Billion, as spelled with a 'b'?" Oates mumbled incredulously. "I may never attend church services again."
Schiller shrugged wonderingly. "Who said crime doesn't pay?"
"No wonder they're pulling the strings in Egypt and Mexico," said Oates.
"They must have bought, blackmailed or strong-armed their way into every department of the government and military. "
"I begin to see how their scheme is coming together," said the President. "But what I can't understand is how can the sons pass themselves off as native-born Egyptians or Mexicans? No one can fool millions of people without somebody getting wise."
"Their mother was descended from black slaves, which accounts for their dark skin," Brogan said in a patiently explaining tone. "We can only speculate about their past. Roland and Josephine must have laid the groundwork forty or more years ago. As their children were born, they began a vigorous program of making over the boys into foreign nationals.
Paul was no doubt tutored in Arabic before he could walk, while Robert learned to speak in ancient Aztec. When the boys became older they probably attend
ed private schools in both Mexico and Egypt under assumed names."
"A grand plan," muttered Oates admiringly. "Nothing so mundane as burying intelligence moles, but infiltration at the very highest levels, and with the image of a messiah thrown in for good measure."
"Sounds pretty diabolical to me," said Nichols.
"I agree with Doug," said the President, nodding at Oates. "A grand plan. Training children from birth, using untold wealth and power to set up a national takeover. What we're really looking at here is an incredible display of unbending doggedness and patience."
"You have to give the bastards credit," Schiller admitted. "They stuck to their script until events swung in their favor. Now they're within centimeters of ruling two of the Third World's leading countries."
"We can't allow it to happen," the President said bluntly. "If the brother in Mexico becomes head of state and makes good his threat by driving two million of his countrymen across our borders, I see no choice but to send in our armed forces."
"I must caution against aggressive action," said Oates, speaking like a Secretary of State. "Recent history has shown that invaders do not fare well. Assassinating Yazid and Topiltzin, or whatever their names, and launching an assault on Mexico won't solve the long-range problem."
"Maybe not," grunted the President, "but it will dam well give us time to ease the situation."
"There may be another solution," said Nichols. "Use the Capesterres against themselves."
"I'm ," listening," said the President, stress showing in the lines around his eyes. "Please skip the riddles."
Nichols looked at Brogan for support. "These men were drug ckers. They must be wanted criminals. Is that right?"
"Yes on the first, no on the second," answered Brogan. "They're no petty street crooks. The entire family has been under investigation for years. No arrests. No convictions. They've got a staff of corporate and criminal lawyers that would put Washington's biggest law office to shame. They've got friends and connections that go straight to the top of ten major governments-You want to pick up this bunch and put them on trial? You'd do better tearing down the pyramids with an ice pick."
"Then expose them to the world for the scum they are," pursued Nichols.
"NO good," said the President. "any attempt will surely backlash as a lie and propaganda ploy."
"Nichols might have a direction," said Schiller quietly. He was a man who listened more than he spoke. "All we need is a base that can't be cracked or shattered."
The President looked speculatively at Schiller. "Where are You leading, Julius?"
"The Lady Flamborough," replied Schiller, his face carefully pensive.
"Come up with indisputable proof that Yazid is behind the ship's hijacking and we can crack the Capesterre wall. "
Brogan nodded heavily. "The ensuing scandal would certainly be a step in stripping away Yazid's and Topfltzin's mystiques and opening the door to the family's countless criminal activities. "
"Don't forget the world news media. They'd have a shark feeding frenzy once they bit into the Capesten-es' bloody past." Nichols belatedly winced at his unthinking pun.
"You're all overlooking one important fact," Schiller said with a long sigh. "At the moment, any tie between the ship's disappearance and the Capesterres is strictly circumstantial."
Nichols frowned. "Who else has motives for getting rid of Presidents De Lorenzo and Hasan, and Hala Kamil?"
"No one!" Brogan said heatedly.
"Wait up," the President said patiently. "Julius has a sound point. The hijackers are not acting like typical Middle East terrorists. They have yet to identify themselves. They've made no demands or threats. Nor have they used the crew and passengers as hostages for international blackmail. I'm not ashamed to admit I find the silence nightmarish."
"We're faced with a different breed this time," admitted Brogan. "The Capesten-es are playing a waiting game, hoping De Lorenzo's and Hasan's governments will fall in their absence."
"any word on the cruise ship since George Pitts son discovered the switch?" asked Oates, coolly steering the discussion clear of an impending confrontation.
"Somewhere off the east coast of Tierra del Fuego," replied Schiller.
"Sailing like hell to the south. We're tracking by satellite and should have her cornered by this time tomorrow."
The President didn't look happy. "The hijackers could have murdered everyone on board by then."
"If they haven't already," said Brogan.
"What forces do we have in the area?"
"Virtually none, Mr. President," answered Nichols. "We have no call to maintain a presence that far south. Except for a few Air Force transport planes ferrying supplies to polar research stations, the only U.S. vessel anywhere near the Lady Flamborough is the Sounder, a NUMA deep-water survey ship. "
"The one carrying Dirk Pitt?"
"Yes, sir."
"What about our Special Forces people?"
"I was on the phone with General Keith at the Pentagon twenty minutes ago," Schiller volunteered. "An elite team, along with their equipment, boarded C-140 cargo jets and took off about an hour ago. They were accompanied by a wing of Osprey as ult aircraft."
The President sat back in the chair and folded his hands. "Where will they set up their command post?"
Brogan called up a map displaying the tip of South America on a giant wall monitor. He used a flashlight arrow to indicate a particular spot.
"Unless we receive new information that will alter the tentative plan,"
he explained, "they'll land at an airport outside the small Chilean city of Punta Arenas on the Brunswick Peninsula and use it as a base for operations."
"A long flight," said the President quietly. "When will they arrive?"
"Inside fifteen hours."
The President looked at Oates. "Doug, I leave it to you to handle any sovereignty issues with the Chilean and Argentine governments."
"I'll see to it."
"The Lady Flamborough will have to be found before the Special Forces can launch a rescue attempt," said Schiller with remorseless logic.
"We're up the creek on this one." There was a curious acceptance in Brogan's voice. "The closest carrier fleet is almost five thousand miles away. No way a full-scale air and sea search can be mounted."
Schiller stared at the table thoughtfully. "any rescue attempt could take weeks if the hijackers slip the Lady Flamborough in among the barren bays and coves along the Antarctic coast line. Fog, mist and low overcast wouldn't help matters either."
"Satellite surveillance is our only tool," said Nichols. "The predicament is that we have no spy satellites eyeballing that region of the earth."
"Dale is right," Schiller agreed. "The far southern seas are not high on the strategic surveillance list. If we were turn northern hemisphere, we could focus a whole array of listening and imagery gear to tune in conversations on board the ship and read a newspaper on deck."
"What's available?" the President asked.
"The Landsat," answered Brogan, "a few Defense meteorological satellites, and a Seasat used by NUMA for Antarctic ice and sea current surveys. But our best bet is the SR-90 Casper.
"Do we have SR-90 reconnaissance aircraft in Latin America?"
"A tight security airfield in Texas is as close as we come."
"How long to fly one down and back?"
"A Casper is capable of reaching mach five, or just under five thousand kilometers per hour. One can fly to the tip of Antarctica, make a photo run and have the film back in five hours."
The President slowly shook his head in dismay. "Will someone please tell me why the United States government is always caught with our pants down? I swear to God, nobody screws up like we do. We build the most sophisticated detection systems the world has ever known, and when we need them, they're all concentrated in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Nobody spoke, nobody moved. The President's men avoided his eyes and stared uncomfortably at the table,
papers, wall, anything but one another's face.
At last Nichols spoke in a quiet, confident voice. "We'll find the ship, Mr. President. If anyone can get them out alive, the Special Forces will."
"Yes," the President drawled softly. "They're highly trained for such a mission. The only question in my mind is whether the crew and passengers will be there to be rescued. Or will the Special Forces find a silent ship filled with corpses?"
Colonel Morton Hollis wasn't overjoyed at leaving his family in the middle of his wife's birthday party. The understanding look in her eyes wrenched his gut. The cost would hit him dearly, he knew. The red coral necklace was about to be enhanced by the five-day cruise to the BAHamas she'd always pestered him about.
He sat at a desk in a specially designed office compartment inside the C-140 transport, flying south over Venezuela. He Puffed away deeply on a large Havana cigar he had purchased at the base store, now that the embargo on Cuban imports had been lifted.
Hollis studied the latest weather reports on the Antarctic peninsula and peered at photographs showing the rugged, icy coastline. He'd already been over the difficulfies in his mind a dozen times since takeoff.
During their brief history the newly formed Special Operations Forces had already achieved a notable record, but they had yet to tackle a major rescue of the magnitude of the Lady Flamborough hijacking.
The orphan child of the Pentagon, the Special Operations Forces were not molded into a single command until the fall of 1989. At that time the Army's Delta Force, whose fighters were drawn from the elite Ranger and Green Beret units and a secret aviation unit known as Task Force 160, merged with the top-of-the-line Navy SEAL Team Six and the Air Force's Special Operations wing.
The unified forces cut across service lines and boundaries and became a separate command, numbering twelve thousand men, headquartered at a tightly restricted base in southeast Virginia. The crack fighters were heavily trained in guerrilla tactics, parachuting, wilderness survival and scuba diving, with special emphasis on storming buildings, ships and aircraft for rescue missions.