“I like it when she heels!” he said, shouting over the wind.
Michael looked over the boat and saw water breaking over the bow gunwales.
“Don’t you think we should heel just a little less?”
“No, this is perfect. She’s running at top efficiency right now.”
“True, but if the wind gusts, we’re going to turn turtle and end up in the drink.”
“This boat is incapable of capsizing.”
“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”
“But in this case it’s true.”
“So how does that explain your little disaster at sea last year?”
The Athena had capsized in a sudden squall off Montauk Light the previous October. Cannon was rescued by the Coast Guard, and it cost him ten thousand dollars to salvage the boat. After that Elizabeth begged him never to sail alone.
“Defective marine forecast,” Cannon said. “I called the head of the National Weather Service and gave him a piece of my mind.”
Michael blew into his frozen hands. “Christ, the wind chill must be close to zero.”
“Five degrees, actually. I checked.”
“You’re insane. If the voters knew you had a death wish, they would have never sent you to the Senate.”
“Quit your bellyaching, Michael. There’s a thermos of coffee below. Be useful and pour us both a mug.”
Michael struggled down the companionway. The senator had been on virtually every ship in the navy, and the galley contained a collection of heavy sea mugs emblazoned with the insignia of several different vessels. Michael selected two from the West Virginia, a nuclear submarine, and filled them with steaming coffee.
When Michael came back up top, Cannon was smoking one of his cigarettes. “Don’t tell Elizabeth,” he said, accepting the coffee. “If she knew I sneaked a cigarette every now and again, she’d tell every shop on the island not to sell to me.”
Cannon took a long drink of coffee and adjusted his heading.
“So what did you think about the election?”
“Beckwith made quite a turnaround.”
“Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. He played politics with Flight Double-oh-two all the way, and the American people were too bored and too distracted to notice. I supported him on the retaliation, but as for the missile defense system, I think that’s payback to a lot of old friends who’ve backed him over the years.”
“You can’t deny the threat exists.”
“Oh, I suppose there’s some level of threat, but if you ask me, it’s negligible. The supporters of missile defense say that political instability in Russia or China might lead to an accidental attack on the United States. But the Chinese went through the Cultural Revolution and the Soviets lost their empire, and no one fired anything at us by accident. And as for the so-called rogue states, I worry about them even less. The North Koreans can’t even feed their own people, let alone build an ICBM capable of reaching the United States. The regional bullies like Iran and Iraq want to threaten their neighbors, not the United States, so they’re investing in shorter-range weapons. And there’s something else to keep in mind: We still have the largest nuclear arsenal on earth. Deterrence worked during the Cold War, and I think it will work now. Do we really think the leaders of these nations are willing to commit national suicide? I don’t think so, Michael.”
“Why do you think it’s payback?”
“Because a company called Alatron Defense Systems stands to make billions if a system is built and deployed. Alatron Defense Systems is owned by—”
“—Mitchell Elliott,” Michael said.
“That’s right, and Mitchell Elliott has spread more money around Washington than any other man in America. He gives as much as he can legally, and if he wants to give more, he finds a way to do it under the table. The largest benefactor of Elliott’s largess has been James Beckwith. Hell, he’s practically bankrolled the man’s political career.”
Michael thought of Susanna Dayton and the story she was working on for the Post.
“And remember one other thing,” Cannon continued. “The White House chief of staff, Paul Vandenberg, used to work for Elliott at Alatron. Elliott sent him to work for Beckwith when he was attorney general in California. He knew how to spot talent, and he knew Beckwith had the potential to go all the way. He wanted his own man on the inside, and he got it.” Cannon drew on his cigarette. The wind tore the smoke from his mouth. “Vandenberg also worked for your crowd.”
Michael was stunned. “When?”
“During Vietnam.”
“I thought he was in the army.”
Cannon shook his head. “Nope, Agency through and through. In fact, he worked on a wonderful program known as Operation Phoenix. You remember the Phoenix program, don’t you, Michael? Not one of your company’s finer moments.”
The goal of the Phoenix program had been to identify and eliminate communist influence in South Vietnam. Operation Phoenix was credited with capturing 28,000 suspected communists and killing 20,000 more.
“You know what they say. Once a company man, always a company man, right, Michael? Why don’t you run Vandenberg’s name through that fancy computer you have at Langley and see if anything comes up?”
“You think the missile defense deal is somehow corrupt?”
“I’ve seen the test data. The kinetic kill vehicles produced by Alatron were far superior to those built by the other major defense contractors. Elliott won the contract fair and square. But the program had only lukewarm support from the GOP and none from the Democrats. It wasn’t going to be built. It took a dramatic appeal, set against a dramatic backdrop, to win the support of Congress.”
Michael hesitated before uttering his next words. Finally, he said, “What if I were to tell you that I don’t think the Sword of Gaza shot down that airliner?”
“I’d say you were probably onto something. Although I wouldn’t say it too loudly, Michael. If the wrong person hears it, you might find yourself in a bit of hot water.”
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and it grew suddenly colder. Cannon glanced at the sky and frowned. “Looks like rain,” he said. “All right, Michael, you win. Prepare to come about.”
12
ST. MAARTEN, THE CARIBBEAN
Red dust rose from the narrow pitted track as the caravan of Range Rovers climbed the mountainside. The trucks were identical: black with reflective smoked windows to shield the identity of the occupants. Each man had come to the island from a different embarkation point: Latin America, the United States, the Middle East, Europe. Each would leave the following morning when the conference ended. It was the beginning of the high tourist season, and the island was jammed with Americans and rich Europeans. The men in the Range Rovers liked it that way. They liked crowds, anonymity. The caravan roared through a poor village. Barefoot children stood at the edge of the track and waved excitedly to the passing vehicles. No one waved back.
The villa was extravagant even by the standards of St. Maarten: twelve master bedrooms, two large living rooms, a media room, a billiards room, a large swimming pool, two tennis courts, and a helipad. It had been commissioned just six months earlier by an unnamed European, who paid an exorbitant price to have the work completed on time.
Construction had been a nightmare, for the villa was in the middle of the island, atop a mountain, with sweeping views down to the sea on all sides. Except for the electrified fence, the forty acres of grounds were left in their natural state, covered by thick undergrowth and trees.
A security team arrived a week ahead and installed video cameras, laser trip wires, and radio-jamming devices. For their command center they appropriated the billiards room.
The Society for International Development and Cooperation was a completely private organization that accepted no outside donations and no new members, except those it selected. Nominally, it was headquartered in Geneva, in a small office with a tasteful gold plaque over the austere door, though a visitor would find the office unoc
cupied, and a telephone call to the unlisted number would go unanswered.
To those who knew of the group’s existence it was known simply as the Society. Despite its name, the Society was not interested in making the world a more peaceful place. Its membership included rogue intelligence officers, politicians, arms merchants, mercenaries, drug lords, international crime organizations, and powerful business moguls.
The executive director was a former senior officer in the British intelligence service, MI6. He was known simply as “the Director” and never referred to by his real name. He oversaw the Society’s administration and operations but had no additional decision-making power. That was in the hands of the group’s executive council, where each member had one vote. The Society practiced democracy internally, even though most of its members believed it was a rather cumbersome concept in the real world.
The Society’s founding creed declared peace was dangerous. Its members believed constant controlled global tension served the interests of all. It prevented complacency. It maintained vigilance. It built national identity. And most of all it made them money, a good deal of money.
Some arrived alone, some in pairs. Some came without protection, some had a personal bodyguard. Ari Shamron came in the midafternoon and played three sets of tennis against the head of a Colombian cocaine cartel. The drug lord’s black-suited, heavily armed security detail scampered after the loose balls in the scorching Caribbean sun. Constantin Kalnikov arrived an hour later. He lay by the pool for two hours, until his pale Slavic skin turned crimson with the sun, and then retired to his room for an afternoon of sex with one of the girls. The Director had flown them in from Brazil. Each had been carefully screened. Each was well schooled in the art of physical pleasure. Each had undergone extensive blood testing to make certain they carried no sexually transmitted disease.
Mitchell Elliott had no time and no taste for such activities. He detested the members of the Society. He would deal with them professionally in order to achieve his ends, but he would not frolic and whore with them on a Caribbean island.
The conference was scheduled for nine o’clock. Elliott’s Gulfstream touched down at the airport at 8:30 p.m. A helicopter was waiting. He boarded it immediately with Mark Calahan and two other security men and flew up the mountainside to the villa.
For the first hour the executive council dealt with routine housekeeping matters. Finally, the Director came to the first real item of business on the agenda. He peered at Mitchell Elliott over his gold half-moon reading glasses. “You have the floor, sir.”
Elliott remained seated. “First of all, gentlemen, I wish to thank you for your assistance. The operation went very smoothly, and it has had its intended results. President Beckwith was reelected, and the United States is going to build its missile defense project, a development that will prove beneficial to all of us gathered here.”
Elliott paused until the polite boardroom applause died away.
“Needless to say, if a leak occurred and the Society’s involvement in this matter ever came to light, the results would be disastrous. Therefore, I come before you tonight to request your permission to eliminate any operative outside this room who knows the truth.”
The Director looked up, face vaguely irritated, as though disappointed by a plate of Dover sole. “By my count, that’s four men.”
“Precisely.”
“And how do you recommend we carry out this assignment?”
“I propose using the asset who took part in the operation off New York.”
“The one who’s still alive, I take it?”
Elliott permitted himself a rare smile. “Yes, Director.”
“Obviously, this man knows at least part of the truth—that the Sword of Gaza is not responsible for the attack.”
“I agree, but he is one of the best assassins in the world, and an assignment such as this requires someone of his abilities.”
“And when the job is done?”
“He will be liquidated, just like the others.”
The Director nodded. He appreciated clarity and decisiveness over all else. “How do you propose to finance the liquidation? An operation such as the one you’ve described will be costly. You’ve just experienced a substantial windfall. Perhaps the expense should be borne by you.”
“I agree, Director. I ask for no financial support from the Society, only its blessing.”
The Director peered over his reading glasses at the other men gathered around the table.
“Any objections?”
There was silence.
“Very well, you have the support of the executive council to carry out this assignment.” The Director looked down at his papers, as though slightly confused. “All right, gentlemen, item number two. Mr. Hussein of Iraq is interested in acquiring some additional real estate, and once again he’d like our assistance.”
The conference ended at four that morning. Mitchell Elliott left the villa immediately, flew down the mountain in the helicopter, and boarded the Gulfstream at the airport. The rest of the executive committee stayed and caught a few hours of sleep. Constantin Kalnikov, desperate for a few hours of sun before his return to dreary Moscow, napped in a chaise by the pool. Shamron and the drug lord adjourned to the tennis court for a grudge match, for Shamron had beaten him handily the first time, and the drug lord, as was his habit, wanted revenge. When it was time to leave, they made the journey down the mountain in the Range Rovers. The Director left with the security team at noon. A half hour later, as he was boarding his private jet, a series of explosions ripped through the building, and the grand villa on the St. Maarten mountainside burned rapidly to the ground.
13
BRÉLÉS, FRANCE
He had taken the name Jean-Paul Delaroche, but in the village they called him Le Solitaire. No one could quite remember exactly when he had arrived and settled himself in the stubby stone bunker of a cottage, clinging to a rocky point overlooking the English Channel. Monsieur Didier, the crimson-faced owner of the general store, believed it was the wind that had driven him mad. On the loner’s isolated point, the wind was as powerful as it was incessant. It rattled the heavy windows of the cottage day and night and methodically ripped tiles from the roof. After big storms, passersby would glimpse Le Solitaire restlessly contemplating the damage. “Like Rommel inspecting his precious Atlantic Wall,” Didier would whisper with a contemptuous smirk over cognac at the café.
Was he a writer? Was he a revolutionary? Was he an art thief or a fallen priest? Mademoiselle Plauché from the charcuterie believed him to be the last surviving member of the megalithic race of people who lived in Brittany thousands of years before the Celts. Why else would he spend his days in communion with the ancient stones? Why else would he sit for hours and stare at the sea beating itself against the rocks? Why else would he call himself Delaroche? He has been here before, she would conclude, knife hovering above a wheel of Camembert. He is thinking about how things used to be.
The men were jealous of him. The older ones were jealous of the beautiful women who came to the cottage one by one, stayed for a time, and then quietly left. The boys were jealous of the custom-built Italian racing bike that he rode like a demon each morning along the narrow back roads of the Finistère. The women, even the young girls and the old women, thought he was beautiful—the short-cropped hair flecked with gray, the white skin, the eyes of brilliant blue, the straight nose that might have been chiseled by Michelangelo.
He was not a tall man, well under six feet, but he carried himself like one as he moved about the village each afternoon, doing his marketing. At the boulangerie, Mademoiselle Trevaunce sought vainly to engage him in conversation each time he came into the shop, but he would just smile and politely select his bread and croissants. At the wineshop he was regarded as a knowledgeable but frugal customer. When Monsieur Rodin would suggest a more expensive bottle, he would raise his eyebrows to show it was beyond his reach and carefully hand it back.
At t
he outdoor market he would choose his vegetables, meat, and seafood with the fussiness of the chefs from the restaurants and resorts. Some days he would bring his current woman—always an outsider, never a local Breton girl—some days he would come alone. Some days he would be invited to join the men who passed the afternoon with red wine, goat cheese, and cards. But the loner would always gesture helplessly toward his watch—as if he had pressing matters elsewhere—and pile his things into his battered tan Mercedes station wagon for the journey back to his bunker by the sea.
As if time matters in Brélés, Didier would say, lips pulled down in his customary smirk. It is the wind, he would add. The wind has made him mad.
The November morning was clear and bright, wind gusting from the sea, as Delaroche cycled along the narrow coast road. He was riding west from Brest toward the Pointe-de-Saint-Mathieu. He wore snug fleece pants over his cycling britches and a turtleneck sweater beneath a neon green anorak—tight enough to avoid flapping in the wind, loose enough to conceal the bulky Glock 9mm automatic beneath his left armpit. Despite the layers of clothing, the salt-scented air cut through him like a knife. Delaroche put his head down and pedaled hard down to the point.
The road flattened out for a time as he passed the crumbled, wind-battered ruins of a sixth-century Benedictine monastery. Then he rode north for several miles into a stiff wind from the sea, the road rising and falling rhythmically beneath him. The lightweight Italian bike handled the challenging terrain and conditions well. A steep hill stood before him. He changed gears and pedaled faster. He breasted the hill and entered the fishing village of Lanildut.
In a café he purchased two croissants and filled his bottles, one with orange juice and the second with steaming café au lait. Delaroche devoured the croissants as he cycled. He passed the Presqu’Ile de Sainte-Marguerite, a rocky finger of land jutting into the sea, blessed with some of the most magnificent seascapes in all Europe. Next came the Côte des Abers, the coast of estuaries—a long flat run over a series of rivers running from the highland of the Finistère down to the sea.