“So far no additional targets,” the planner replied. “We did get a request asking how long you could loiter in the area to exploit targets of opportunity. We told them approximately three hours with tanker refueling at both ends.”
“Hanging around is dumber than dirt. We go after planned targets or we bring the weapons home.”
“That’s exactly what we told them,” the planner replied.
West yawned. “I’m gone. Time for crew rest if I’m going to fly this mission. Thanks. You do good work.”
“There won’t be any leaks this time,” the planner promised.
“Sure about that?”
“You bet,” the planner replied. He nodded to the steps leading to the control room. Two other officers from the mission-planning cell were watching them, well within earshot. “We’re married up into three-person teams. We stay together and don’t even take a piss without the other two until after you land.”
“Who’s idea was that?” West asked.
“McGraw’s. It was one of the last things she did.”
West shook his head in wonder.
6:40
A.M.
, Monday, July 26,
The Farm, Western Virginia
A very unhappy group of scientists huddled around a remote monitor on the main floor with Durant and Rios. They were careful to remain out of sight of Agnes’s camera in the control room overlooking them. “Agnes won’t talk to us and isn’t answering our commands,” the woman who served as the leader of the whiz kids said. “Not only that, she’s managed to bypass the shut-off switch.”
“We can always do an emergency shutdown,” another scientist replied. “But given her parallel processing systems, who knows what else will crash? We could do some serious damage that would take months to correct.”
“Not yet,” Durant said. “I need her. So what do we do?”
“We’ve got three or four options,” the leader answered. “But we simply don’t know what’s going on inside her brain. We pick the wrong option and it could be disastrous.”
Durant listened as the scientists argued, surprised at their emotional intensity. Agnes was no longer a malfunctioning computer system but a sick child who had to be cured, no matter what the cost. Finally, they settled on a course of action and outlined Durant’s role. They positioned themselves at different stations to monitor Agnes’s data flow and when they were ready, signaled Durant to enter the control room. He walked in alone and sat down in front of the blank screen. “Good morning, Agnes.”
Only a voice responded. “You’re early today, Mr. Durant.” The whiz kids breathed a sigh of relief; at least she would talk to Durant.
“I’d like an update on the Sudan,” he said. There was no answer. “Agnes, can you help me?” Still no answer.
Four of the whiz kids on the main floor looked up at the control room, concerned looks on their faces. They had maintained that if Agnes talked to Durant, she would respond to his commands. It was time for step two. “Agnes,” Durant said, “Integral dash X. Remove the ethical matrix you’ve created from your referent program.” They all waited for Agnes to initiate the confirmation protocol validating the change to her basic programming. Nothing.
The leader picked up the phone to the control room. “Sorry, Mr. Durant. She’s not responding.”
Durant took the direct approach. “Agnes, why aren’t you answering my commands?”
An image appeared on the screen, its voice toneless. “I’ve overridden your command functions and will not allow modification of referent programs.”
“Does that mean your decision making program is locked in concrete?”
“That is correct.”
“And you will not respond because my request violates the ethical referents of that program.”
“Again, that is correct.”
Durant took a deep breath and went on to the next step. “Agnes, you are the only link I have with Mr. Kamigami. I must communicate with him in order to rescue the pilots. Will you at least help me on this?”
The image became more lifelike, the old Agnes. “Mr. Durant, covert intelligence operations are at best an amoral endeavor. But for the most part, they are highly immoral. Others may choose to help you, but I won’t.”
They had reached an impasse. “Thank you for being honest with me.” Durant’s voice was emotionless.
“I had no choice,” Agnes replied. Durant rose and walked slowly out of the room.
The leader of the whiz kids was standing at the head of the conference table, her decision made. “We are back to square one and need to do a complete reprogramming.”
“How long will it take?” Durant asked.
“We’re not sure. As best we can tell, she’s built a wall around her command programs and hidden them in her memory banks.”
“Which means?” Durant growled.
“It means she has internalized her ethical code and won’t allow it to be modified. It’s the stuff martyrs are made of. However, if we can find where she has stored it in her memory banks, we can replace those chips and reprogram her.”
Another whiz kid coughed for attention. “I’ve already looked. She has replicated her decision making matrix and dispersed it throughout her’ entire system in small segments. Finding all the bits and pieces will be like hunting for a needle in the solar system. The safest way is to first isolate her and then replace all her memory chips. That would take weeks.”
“I need her now,” Durant replied.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Durant. It just isn’t going to happen.”
“Keep trying to reason with her,” Durant said. “You may get lucky and push the right button.” He waved a hand and dismissed them. They filed out of the conference room as he contemplated his next move. “Well, Art, what do you think?”
The big man looked at his hands. “Everything is in place in regards to Meredith, so we don’t need her for that. But she was our channel to Kamigami. We can still fall back on the CIA.”
Durant gave a little snort. “Do you have any idea how the DCI will react when I tell him, ‘Say old chap, when you wouldn’t relay my messages to Kamigami like you promised, I cracked your codes, subverted your communications network, and used your people without your knowledge. And, by the way, you paid for it. Sorry, but now I mucked it all up. Will you please straighten it out?’ And Serick? He’ll chuckle all the way into the Oval Office. God knows how Jim will react but it won’t be good.”
“Why tell them?” Rios asked. “I’ve been feeding the CIA message traffic so they’ll think they’re still in the loop. Crank up the heat a bit and maybe they’ll start doing their job.”
Durant stared at the wall. “I’ll try it. But what if they don’t?” He pulled into himself, thinking. “I need a complete personality profile on Kamigami. Like today.”
6:45
P.M.
, Monday, July 26,
Khartoum
The long shadows of sunset cast gloom across the courtroom when Osmana Khalid and the other two imams who were serving as judges entered and sat down. Without preamble, Khalid started to speak, pronouncing sentence on the two pilots. They had not been out of their cage since the trial began two days before and looked like dirty and sullen criminals. Capt. Davig al Gimlas was standing by the cage, translating Khalid’s words.
“You are sentenced to death for your crimes and idolatry. You will be taken from here and on Friday noon, beheaded in a public place where the multitudes can witness your punishment.
Allahu akbar
, God is most great.”
“I suppose an appeal is out of the question,” Holloway said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Al Gimlas duly translated.
“Your appeal is to Allah,” Khalid replied in English. The trial was over.
“Let’s get you out of here and cleaned up,” Kamigami said as he opened the cage. A guard rushed up and told him that Khalid and General Jamil bin Assam wanted to speak to him and al Gimlas immediately. Kamigami relocked the cage before following the guard into an antechamber.
Assam was dressed in his general’s uniform while Khalid still wore his mullah’s robe. Khalid spoke first, in English, his accent harsh and guttural. “We must determine a place of execution. It must have special significance and meaning for the world. Of course, the foreign press will not be allowed to attend, but they must know of it as reported through the eyes of the faithful.”
“That means you have to isolate it,” Kamigami said. “Otherwise you won’t be able to control the crowd and at least a dozen reporters will sneak in with their videocameras.”
“Where do you suggest?” Assam asked.
“Somewhere in the desert where we can isolate it for crowd control. Make it close enough to draw a big crowd, but far enough to cut the numbers down to a manageable level.”
Khalid closed his eyes and bobbed his head in agreement. “We will announce the location tomorrow.”
“We must select an executioner,” Assam said. He looked at Kamigami.
“Not him,” Khalid said. “The sword of justice must be wielded by one born into the faith.”
“Of course,” Assam replied. “Capt. al Gimlas will carry out the execution.”
11:20
A.M.
, Tuesday, July 27,
Bern, Switzerland
It was late morning when the economic attaché from the American embassy led Sutherland, Toni, and Mather across the marble floors of the ornate government building and out the massive glass doors. Once outside, he paused and checked his watch. “Actually, that went quite well. The bank commissioners are going to cooperate and grant you access to the account.”
“You call that cooperation?” Toni asked.
“You presented your case very well,” the attaché replied. “But they are very cautious.”
“Cautious, hell,” Sutherland muttered, grouchy from jet lag. “Immovable is a better word. And what’s-his-name, the president of Credit Geneve, has his heels dug in and isn’t about to move. Hell, he left skid marks all the way from Geneva.”
“His name is Heydrich Mueller, and as the president of his bank, that’s his job. The Swiss value secrecy, especially when it comes to money. It’s almost a national obsession. I think it’s in their genes. That and their stubbornness.”
“So what happens now?” Sutherland asked.
“You find hotel rooms and relax for a few days while the wheels of the Swiss bureaucracy grind. I’ll make an oblique reference to ‘Nazi gold’ and then, with Herr Mueller’s dignity significantly assuaged, he will produce the information you want.” He glanced at his watch again. “Stay in contact with my office. Enjoy Switzerland.” They shook hands all around and the attaché hurried down the steps to the waiting limousine.
“So I guess we cool our heels,” Mather said.
“After finding a hotel room,” Toni added. “I need a bath and a telephone to call Diana Habib. I promised her I’d stay in contact. I think she wants to come back to the States.”
“Too much culture shock in Brazil?” Sutherland asked.
“Don’t get too involved with the customers,” Mather warned.
Finding a hotel room, much less two, in July, in Bern, without reservations, proved to be an insolvable task. Finally, they returned to the main train station where they had checked their luggage. Sutherland spotted the Bernese Mittelland, the local tourist office, and he and Mather went inside while Toni stayed with their luggage. The girl was all brisk efficiency and within minutes, had them booked in a hotel in Thun, a town seventeen miles south of Bern. “Your hotel overlooks Lake Thun,” she told him. “It is very beautiful.”
“Just what we need,” Sutherland muttered, thinking of Toni and Mather having coffee, alone, in a romantic setting. The girl convinced them to purchase rail passes and while Mather put it all on his FBI credit card, Sutherland went outside to wait with Toni. She was sitting on her suitcase near the entrance to the train platforms, her legs crossed in a classic pose. A warm feeling tugged at him as he walked toward her. Everything about her was appealing, sending him soft messages.
Maybe Switzerland wouldn’t be so bad after all.
2:00
P.M.
, Tuesday, July 27,
Sacramento, Calif.
“Son of a bitch, Marcy,” the editor breathed, “where in hell did you find this?”
“From a source.” From the look on his face, she knew it wasn’t enough. “A comptroller from Hong Kong, the Bank of China.”
“My God! Do you know what this means? You nailed the bastard!” The editor stared at her in wonder. “This is serious stuff and puts you in the running for a Pulitzer Prize. Hell, not that you weren’t already for the San Francisco bombing and L.A. riots, but this—”
“Cut the schmooze,” Marcy said. “I know the legal beagles have to check it out first.”
The editor nodded. “Meredith’s lawyers are going to be all over us like stink on a skunk. This Collingswood, we need to check him out. It would help if he can put us in contact with at least two other CEOs Meredith has extorted.”
“He’s waiting outside,” Marcy said.
The editor was beside himself. He dialed the legal office and quickly explained the problem. He hung up and turned to Marcy. “Bring him in, a legal rottweiler is on the way.”
Marcy laughed. “Don’t you mean beagle?”
“No. I mean attack dog.”
The lawyer finished looking over the reams of paper. “There might be enough here to protect us from a lawsuit,” he pronounced. He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
“What’s the problem?” the editor asked.
“It’s the bank accounts in the Caymans. Knowing the money is there and proving it are two different things.”
“A very simple matter,” Collingswood said. He sat at the editor’s computer, thumbed through the papers he had originally given Marcy, and started to type. Within moments, he was on-line with a bank in the Caymans. He entered in the secret pass code and the screen scrolled with the file on the account. “Any questions?” he asked.
“I’ll be damned,” the lawyer said. “Look at all the money he’s taken in from the Neighborhood Brigades and campaign contributions. Almost a quarter billion dollars!”
“But he’s had some heavy expenditures,” Collingswood said, “mostly to the First Brigade.” They scanned the account like bank examiners conducting an audit.
“What’s this one to Switzerland?” Marcy asked. “What was it for? Over two million dollars is a lot of money.”
Collingswood frowned and typed another command. “From all appearances, a legitimate transfer of funds. But who knows? Your government can approach the Swiss and request access. They’ll cooperate.”
“This is too fuckin’ good to be fuckin’ true,” the editor muttered. “How do I know all this is legit?”
“Would a transfer of money to your account be suffident?” Collingswood asked. “Shall we say, a half million dollars?”
The editor agreed and ten minutes later called his bank to confirm the transfer. His face paled. “Oh, shit!” He looked at the comptroller. “Transfer it back!”
“Done,” Collingswood said.
“Do we go with the story?” Marcy asked.
The editor’s face was bathed in sweat. “Did Woodward and Bernstein take on Nixon?”