Brazilian coffee, her waterline higher now that she no longer carried plastic explosives, fragmentation grenades, antipersonnel mines, automatic pistols, assault rifles, machine guns, portable rocket launchers, and heat-seeking missiles. Under usual circumstances, these weapons would have been smuggled out of Belgium, the principal European supplier of black-market arms, and transported under various disguises to Marseilles. There, Medusa would have picked up "medical supplies"
and distributed them to various terrorist groups along the southern
European coast. But recent antiterrorist surveillance, the result of increased terrorist bombings, made Marseilles and other European ports too dangerous for arms smuggling. The alternative was to bring the arms from South America, where various civil wars had resulted in ample stockpiles of Soviet and American munitions, most of which were readily for sale. Thus Medusa had brought Brazilian coffee piled on top of
Contra weapons supplied by the CIA across the Atlantic to meet a Libyan freighter in the Mediterranean thirty-six hours from now. Whatever
Libya chose to do with the arms was not Transoceanic's concern. The hundred-million-dollar fee was all Rosenberg and Halloway cared about.
Tel Aviv, Israel. The instant the helicopter touched down, Misha Pletz scrambled out. He ran toward the smallest of several corrugated-metal buildings at the south corner of the airport. A burly man in a short-sleeved white shirt waited for him. "Did you bring it with you?"
Misha shouted. The burly man gestured toward a briefcase in his hand.
"Do you want to read it in the car or--?"
"No right here," Misha said.
They entered the air-conditioned building. "We received the message forty minutes ago," the man said, pulling a document from his briefcase.
"When I saw the code name, I contacted you at once." Misha took the paper. He'd been at a kibbutz twenty miles outside the city, fulfilling his promise to Erika and Saul to ensure that their son was protected.
Leaving Christopher with Mossad-affiliated guardians had been one of the most difficult things he'd ever been required to do. "Your parents love you, and they'll be back soon," Misha had said. "I love you, too." He'd kissed the boy, and unsure if Erika and Saul were even alive, afraid his emotion would distress their son, he'd hurried toward the waiting helicopter. Flying back toward Tel Aviv, the pilot had told Misha to put on his earphones--headquarters wanted him. Though the helicopter's radio was equipped with a scrambler, Misha's assistant had refused to reveal the nature of the urgent message they'd received, but he had revealed its source. The Coat of Many Colors. The code name had the force of a blow. It belonged to Erika's missing father, Joseph Bernstein. His eyes accustomed to the shadows of the building, Misha studied the document.
"How did this come in? Which station, which country?"
"Our embassy in Washington," the assistant said. "One of our people there was trained by Joseph ten years ago. So our man's in a coffee shop this morning. He looks next to him at the counter and guess who's sitting there?" Misha tingled. "Is our man positive? There's no possibility of doubt?"
"None. It was Joseph for sure. That's probably why Joseph chose him for a relay--because they knew each other well. Apparently Joseph wanted to guarantee that the source of the message wasn't suspicious to us.
Contact lasted no longer than a minute. Joseph told our man we weren't to worry about him. He was taking care of unfinished business, he said.
The end was near."
"And what was that supposed to mean?"
"Our man asked. Joseph refused to elaborate. Instead he passed a note to our man. It was solid information, he said. He wanted you to know about it. He expected you to act upon it. The next thing, he was gone."
"Just like that? Didn't our man try to follow him?"
" Try' is the word. Joseph knows every trick there is. He lost our man within two blocks."
"Did he say how Joseph looked?" 'Terrible. Pale. Thin. Shaky hands.
The eyes were the worst, he said."
"What about them?"
"They seemed--and I quote--our man lapsed into subjectivity here--tormented."
"By what?"
The assistant shrugged. Misha shook his head. "We've been searching for
Joseph everywhere, and all of a sudden he shows up in a coffee shop in
Washington."
"At least we know he's still alive."
"For that I'm grateful, believe me. But what's he been doing all this time? Why was he in Washington?" He tapped on the document. "How did he get this information?"
"You always said he was one of the best. I emphasize he told our man in
Washington it was solid information." Misha reread the message. "A cargo ship, the Medusa, will rendezvous tomorrow night with a Libyan freighter for the transfer of munitions intended for terrorist attacks against Israel." The message provided the scheduled time of delivery, the coordinates for the rendezvous in the Mediterranean Sea, and the codes each ship would use to identify itself to the other. "How did he get this information?" Misha asked again.
"The more important question is, what do you intend to do about it?"
Misha felt paralyzed. Despite Joseph's assurances about the validity of the message, there was still a chance he'd made a mistake. Standard procedure required other sources to corroborate the information before countermeasures could be considered. But there wasn't sufficient time to confirm what Joseph claimed. If the weapons existed and if something wasn't done by tomorrow night, the transfer would occur. The munitions would be distributed. The attacks against Israel would take place. On the other hand, if the weapons did not exist and Israeli planes destroyed the ship... Misha didn't want to imagine the international consequences. "What do you want to do?" his assistant asked. "Drive me back to headquarters."
"And?"
"I'll tell you when we get there." The truth was, Misha still didn't know. As they left the building, he distracted himself with the wish that he could contact Erika and Saul. Erika, your father's alive, Misha wanted to tell her. He was seen in Washington. I'm not sure what he's up to, but from what I've learned, it's important and I can't decide what to do about it. Find him. Help me. I need to know what's going on. Saul, you're not in this alone now. Your former network can't stop you from getting our help. We insist on helping. We're invoking professional protocol. Our national security's at stake. Your search is our search in a way we never imagined We'll back you up. Misha got into his assistant's car. He registered almost nothing of the drive toward Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. But just before they arrived, he made his decision. Do you trust Joseph? Yes. Do you believe his message is true?
On balance? Yes. Are you going to order an air strike? No. Not an air strike. I've got a better idea. It solves a lot of problems. It avoids an international incident Besides, what's the point of blowing up those weapons? We've got better uses for them than the Libyans do.
He must have been speaking out loud. His assistant turned to him, frowning. "What did you say?"
"I always wanted to be a pirate."
With growing dislike for the son of his father's enemy. Icicle sat in a
Rome hotel room, watching Seth read what he called his reviews. The red-haired assassin had bought a copy of every major European, English, and American newspaper he could find. His versatility in languages was considerable, and for the few in which he wasn't fluent he'd asked
Icicle's help. "I knew we'd make the Italian papers," Seth said. "Paris and London, I expected. Athens and West Berlin. But Madrid even picked it up. So did New York and Washington." Icicle didn't bother hiding his mixture of boredom and disgust.
"I admit it isn't front page," Seth said. "I didn't expect it to be."
The newspaper stories were basically similar. The body of an Italian underworld figure known as Medici had been discovered outside Rome, floating in the Tiber River. Medici, who reputedly had ties to international terrorist organizations, had been killed with what authorities susp
ected was a lethal drug overdose. The results of an autopsy were not yet available. Rome police theorized that Medici's criminal associates had turned against him for reasons still to be determined.
As such, the story would not have had sufficient scope to merit being reported on an international scale. But investigators had raised the question of whether the discovery of Medici's corpse was related to the much more sensational discovery of nine bodies in a villa outside Rome.
Eight of the victims, all shot to death, had been identified as security personnel. The ninth victim, an Italian underworld figure known as
Gatto, had been tortured prior to having his throat slit Gatto, reputed to have ties with international terrorism, had recently retired from criminal activities for reasons of poor health. Reliable but unnamed sources alleged that Medici had taken Gatto's place as a black-market arms dealer. The murders of both men caused authorities to speculate that a gang war was in progress, with obvious international implications.
"As far as the police are concerned, we did them a favor," Seth said.
"Better than that, they suspect the wrong people. We can't complain."
"But what happens when the blood tests on Medici show he died from an overdose of Sodium Amytal?" Icicle asked. "The police will compare that to the knife marks on Gatto and decide both men were interrogated."
"So what? They'll never guess it was us or what kind of information we wanted." Icicle was amazed at how much color his companion's face now had. It was almost as if Seth gained life by administering death, and that made Icicle nervous. For him assassination was a profession, while for Seth it seemed a need. Icicle had never killed anyone he didn't feel morally certain deserved to be eliminated--dictators, drug lords, communist double agents. Seth, on the other hand, gave the impression of not caring who it was he killed as long as the fee was sufficient. If
Seth's father had been anything like his son. Icicle didn't wonder why his own father had hated the man. Granted, both fathers had been
Hitler's primary assassins. But Seth's father had specialized in stalking leaders of underground organizations that protected Jews, while
Icicle's father had gone after Allied intelligence infiltrators and on more than one occasion had begged for the chance to try for Churchill.
The difference was important. Racial extermination was heinous under any circumstances. Political assassination was justifiable if your country's survival depended upon it. But what if your country was wrong?
Icicle asked himself. What if your nation's policy was based on racial hatred? Did patriotism require you to defend an immoral country? Or was national defense merely understandable self-defense? Was my father self-deluded?
Icicle continued to watch the man he loathed. His eyes, Icicle thought.
The more Seth killed, the brighter they became.
"Something troubles you?" Seth asked. "We've got a great body count.
Otherwise we haven't accomplished a thing."
"Not true." Seth lowered a newspaper. "We've narrowed possibilities.
We've determined that terrorism and the cardinal's disappearance aren't related."
"I never believed they were."
"But the possibility had to be considered. Given Halloway's involvement in black-market arms to terrorists--"
"For Christ's sake, what?"
"You didn't know? That's how Halloway makes his living. Munitions."
"You're telling me this is all about illegal weapons?"
"And the cardinal's insistence on a yearly blackmail payment.
Surely you knew about that."
"I didn't object. I thought of it less as blackmail, more as an extended payment for services rendered."
"Well, some of us thought about killing the priest. Account paid in full."
"He did our fathers a favour."
"Yes, one that was in his own interest.
Or his Church's best interest. After more than forty years, the payments amount to a fortune. Eight million dollars."
"If you want my opinion," Icicle said, "the price was cheap, given the atrocities they committed."
"Including your father?" Seth asked. Icicle stood. "Not my father! He divorced himself from the others!"
"Really? Sorry to disillusion you, but your father killed as many
Jew-savers as my own father did. Their argument wasn't about Jews but about a woman, about your mother! She chose your father over mine! I could have been you!
And you would not have existed!" Icicle realized how deep their hatred was. He raised his hands in surrender. "It's a stupid argument. There are too many problems we have to face." Seth's eyes dulled. "Of course.
And we still haven't found our fathers." With effort, he reverted to professional control. "In that case"--he breathed--"in my opinion"--he breathed again--"the situation is as follows." Icicle waited. "We've eliminated the theory that what Halloway calls the Night and Fog is a terrorist group that discovered what the cardinal knew, abducted him, and wants to take over Halloway's munitions network."
"I agree," Icicle said. "The theory isn't valid."
"But the cardinal's disappearance is related to the disappearance of our fathers," Seth continued. "The Night and Fog couldn't have found our fathers if not for the cardinal."
"Again I agree."
"So if the purpose of abducting them wasn't to hold them hostage for money, that leaves the possibility that the Night and Fog are doing this for personal reasons. That the Night and Fog are Israelis. But to suspect the cardinal, to have discovered what he knew, the Jews would have had to infiltrate the security system of the Catholic Church."
"I doubt that."
"I do as well.
And it makes me wonder."
"Wonder what?"
"Eliminate the possibilities.
Could someone... or some group... within the Church be the Night and
Fog?" black jesuits
Eight blocks to the east of Zurich's Limmat River, Saul and Erika passed an Agency guard in an alley, opened a door, and entered a garage. The room was large, its overhead lights brighter than the morning sunlight they'd just left, its concrete floor immaculate. There was only one car, the Renault the three assassins had used. An Agency team had picked it up where Saul told them he'd left it--at the parking lot near Zurich's train station. Overnight, a crew had been working on it, checking for fingerprints, dismantling and searching it. It was now a mechanical skeleton. "These guys were ready for World War Three,"
a gravelly voice said. It belonged to Gallagher. Saul turned as the burly station chief came over, holding an RPG-7 rocket launcher. He nodded toward the munitions laid out on the floor. Plastic explosives, grenades, Uzis, AK-47s. "Did you find any fingerprints?"
"All kinds,"
Gallagher said. "But this is a rental car--we can't tell which belongs to your friends and which belong to whoever used the car before them."
"You know where we hid the bodies. You could send a team to get their prints."
"I already have. My men should be back by tonight. Aside from the weapons, we didn't find anything unusual in the car. But it was rented in Austria. They wouldn't have risked bringing a trunkful of weapons through Swiss customs. They had to get the stuff in Switzerland."
"Right. And since they were following us, they wouldn't have had much time to pick up the weapons without losing us," Saul said. "Their contacts must be excellent."
"A network we don't know about?" Gallagher said. "Maybe. I can buy that a lot more than I do your suspicion these men were priests. Just because of the rings they wore."
"An intersecting cross and sword."
"That still doesn't make them priests." Gallagher set the rocket launcher down beside the AK-47s. "Religion and violence aren't exactly compatible with the meek inheriting the earth. When I spoke to Langley,
I didn't tell them about the religious angle. I'm waiting on that till
I'm sure. Right now, our people are checking on the French DDs you too
k from the men. The passports and drivers' licenses are probably fake. Our contacts in French intelligence will let us know soon enough."
"But the credit cards," Saul said. "They're the key."
"No question. My guess is we'll find the cards have a perfect rating.
And I'm damned curious about who pays the bills." A phone rang. Saul glanced at Erika as Gallagher went over to answer it. They couldn't hear what he said. Mostly Gallagher listened, and when he came back, he looked excited. "The men whose names are on those passports died years ago. The addresses are rooming houses for transients. But the credit cards are three months old, and the bills were paid as quickly as they were received."