by Tom Clancy
And the driver of that blue Fiat was a “face.” He couldn’t remember if it had a name attached to it, but he remembered seeing the face somewhere. The “Unknown” file, probably, one of the hundreds of photographs in the files that came in from Interpol and the military-intelligence people whose lust for the blood of terrorists was even more frustrated by their government’s policy. This was the country of Leonidas and Xenophon, Odysseus and Achilles. Greece—Hellas to the sergeant—was the home of epic warriors and the very birthplace of freedom and democracy, not a place for foreign scum to kill with impunity ...
Who’s the other one? Papanicolaou wondered. Dresses like an American ... odd features, though. He raised the camera in one smooth motion, zoomed the lens to full magnification, and got off three rapid frames before putting it back down. The Fiat was moving ... well, he’d see where it was going. The sergeant switched off his on-call light and headed out of the cab rank.
Russell settled back in the seat. He didn’t bother with the seat belt. If he had to escape the car, he didn’t want to be bothered. The driver was a good one, maneuvering in and out of traffic, which was lively here. He didn’t say a word. That was fine with Russell, too. The American moved his head to the side and scanned forward, looking for a trap. His eyes flickered around the inside of the car. No obvious places to hide a weapon. No visible microphones or radio equipment. That didn’t mean anything, but he looked anyway. Finally he pretended to relax and cocked his head in a direction from which he could look ahead and also behind by eyeing the right-side mirror. His hunter’s instincts were taut and alert this morning. There was potential danger everywhere.
The driver took what seemed to be an aimless path. It was hard for Russell to be sure, of course. The streets of this city had predated chariots, much less automobiles, and later concessions made to wheeled vehicles had fallen short of making Athens a Los Angeles. Though the autos on the street were tiny ones, traffic seemed to be a constant, moving, anarchic logjam. He wanted to know where they were going, but there was no sense in asking. He would be unable to distinguish between a truthful answer and a lie—and even if he got a straight answer, it probably would not have meant anything to him. He was for better or worse committed to this course of action, Russell knew. It didn’t make him feel any more comfortable, but to deny the truth of it was to lie to himself, and Russell was not that sort. The best he could do was to stay alert. That he did.
The airport, Papanicolaou thought. That was certainly convenient. In addition to his squadmates, there were at least twenty other officers there, armed with pistols and sub-machine guns. That should be easy. Just move a few of the plainclothes people in close while two heavily armed people in uniform strolled by, and take them down—he liked that American euphemism—quickly and cleanly. Off into a side room to see if they were what he thought, and if not—well, then his captain would fuss over them. Sorry, he’d say, but you fit a description we got from—whomever he might conveniently blame; maybe the French or Italians—and one cannot be too careful with international air travel. They would automatically upgrade whatever tickets the two people had to first-class ones. It almost always worked.
On the other hand, if that face was what Papanicolaou thought it was, well, then he’d have gotten his third terrorist of the year. Maybe even the fourth. Just because the other one dressed like an American didn’t mean he had to be one. Four in just eight months—no, only seven months, the sergeant corrected himself. Not bad for one somewhat eccentric cop who liked to work alone. Papanicolaou allowed his car to close in slightly. He didn’t want to lose these fish in traffic.
Russell counted a bunch of cabs. They had to cater to tourists mainly, or other people who didn’t care to drive in the local traffic ... that’s odd. It took him a moment to figure why. Oh, sure, he thought, its dome light wasn’t on. Only the driver. Most of the others had passengers, but even those without had their dome lights on. It must have been the on-duty light, he judged. But that one’s was out. Russell’s driver had it easy, taking the next right turn to head down toward what appeared to be something akin to a real highway. Most of the cabs failed to take the turn. Though Russell didn’t know it, they were heading either toward museums or shopping areas. But the one with the light out followed them around the corner, fifty yards back.
“We’re being followed,” Marvin announced quietly. “You have a friend watching our back?”
“No.” The driver’s eyes immediately went up to the mirror. “Which one do you think it is?”
“I don’t ‘think,’ sport. It’s the taxi fifty yards back, right side, dirty-white, without the dome light on, I don’t know the make of the car. He’s made two turns with us. You should pay better attention,” Russell added, wondering if this was the trap he feared. He figured he could kill the driver easily enough. A little guy with a skinny neck that he could wring as easily as he killed a mourning dove, yeah, it wouldn’t be hard.
“Thank you. Yes, I should,” the driver replied after identifying the cab. And who might you be ... ? We’ll see. He made another random turn. It followed.
“You are correct, my friend,” the driver said thoughtfully. “How did you know?”
“I pay attention to things.”
“So I see ... this changes our plans somewhat.” The driver’s mind was racing. Unlike Russell, he knew that he hadn’t been set up. Though he had been unable to establish his guest’s bonafides, no intelligence or police officer would have given him that warning. Well, probably not, he corrected himself. But there was one way to check that. He was also angry at the Greeks. One of his comrades had disappeared off the streets of Piraeus in April, to turn up in Britain a few days later. That friend was now in Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight. They’d once been able to operate in relative impunity in Greece, most often using the country as a safe transit point. He knew that doing actual operations here had been a mistake— just having the country as a sally-port had been quite valuable enough, an advantage not to be squandered—but that didn’t mitigate his anger at the Greek police.
“It may be necessary to do something about this.” Russell’s eyes went back to the driver. “I don’t have a weapon.”
“I do. I would prefer not to use it. How strong are you?” By way of answering, Russell reached out his left hand and squeezed the driver’s right knee.
“You have made your point,” the driver said with a level voice. “If you cripple me, I cannot drive.” Now, how do we do this ... ? “Have you killed before?”
“Yes,” Russell lied. He hadn’t ever personally killed a man, but he’d killed enough other things. “I can do that.”
The driver nodded and increased speed on his way out of town. He had to find ...
Papanicolaou frowned. They were not heading to the airport. Too bad. Good thing he hadn’t called it in. Well. He allowed himself to lay back, shielding himself with other vehicles. The paint job on the Fiat made it easy to spot, and as traffic thinned out, he could take it a little more casually. Maybe they were going to a safe house. If so, he’d have to be very careful, but also if so, he’d have a valuable piece of information. Identifying a safe house was about the best thing he could accomplish. Then the muscle boys could move in, or the intelligence squad could stake it out, identifying more and more faces, then assaulting the place in such a way as to arrest three or even more of the bastards. There could be a decoration and promotion at the end of this surveillance. Again he thought of making a radio call, but—but what did he really know? He was letting his excitement get away with him, wasn’t he? He had a probable identification on a face without a name. Might his eyes have deceived him? Might the face be something other than what he thought? A common criminal, perhaps?
Spiridon Papanicolaou grumbled a curse at fate and luck, his trained eyes locked on the car. They were entering an old part of Athens, with narrow streets. Not a fashionable area, it was a working-class neighborhood with narrow streets, mainly empty. Those with jobs were at them.
Housewives were at the local shops. Children played in parks. Quite a few people were taking their holidays on the islands, and the streets were emptier than one might have expected. The Fiat slowed suddenly and turned right into one of many anonymous sidestreets.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The car stopped briefly. Russell had already removed his jacket and tie, still wondering if this could be the final act of the trap, but he didn’t really care anymore. What would happen would happen. He flexed his hands as he walked back up the street.
Sergeant Spiridon Papanicolaou increased speed to approach the corner. If they were heading into this rabbit warren of narrow lanes, he could not maintain visual contact without getting closer. Well, if they identified him, he’d call for help. Police work was unpredictable, after all. As he approached the corner, he saw a man standing on the sidestreet, looking at a paper. Not either of the men he was shadowing. This one wasn’t wearing a jacket, though his face was turned away, and the way he was standing there was like something in a movie. The sergeant smiled wryly at that—but the smile stopped at once.
As soon as Papanicolaou was fully onto the sidestreet, he saw the Fiat, no more than twenty meters away, and backing up rapidly toward him. The police officer stood on the brakes to stop his taxi, and started to think about reversing himself when an arm reached across his face. His hands came off the wheel to grab it, but the powerful hand gripped his chin, and another seized the back of his neck. His instinct to turn and see what was happening was answered by the way one hand wrenched his head to the left, and he saw the face of the American—but then he felt his vertebrae strain for a brief instant and snap with an audible sound that announced his death to Papanicolaou as surely and irrevocably as a bullet. Then he knew. The man did have odd features, like something else from a movie, like something ...
Russell jumped out of the way and waved. The Fiat pulled forward again, then went into reverse and slammed hard into the taxi. The driver’s head lolled forward atop its broken neck. Probably the man was dead already, Russell knew, but that wasn’t a matter of concern. Yes, it was. He felt for a pulse, then made sure the neck was well and truly snapped—he worked it around to make sure the spine was severed, too—before moving to the Fiat. Russell smiled to himself as he got in. Gee, that wasn’t so hard ...
“He’s dead. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Are you sure?”
“I broke his neck like a toothpick. Yeah, he’s dead, man. It was easy. Little pencil-neck of a guy.”
“Like me, you mean?” The driver turned and grinned. He’d have to dump the car, of course, but the joy of their escape and the satisfaction of the killing was sufficient to the moment. And he had found a comrade, a worthy one. “Your name is?”
“Marvin.”
“I am Ibrahim.”
The President’s speech was a triumph. The man did know how to deliver a good performance, Ryan told himself as the applause rippled across the General Assembly auditorium in New York. His gracious if rather cold smile thanked the assembled representatives of a hundred sixty or so countries. The cameras panned to the Israeli delegation, whose clapping was rather more perfunctory than that of the Arab states—there evidently hadn’t been time to brief them. The Soviets outdid themselves, joining those who stood. Jack lifted the remote control and switched off the set before the ABC commentator could summarize what the President had said. Ryan had a draft of the speech on his desk, and had made notes of his own. Moments earlier the invitations had been telexed by the Vatican to all of the concerned foreign ministries. All would come to Rome in ten days. The draft treaty was ready for them. Quiet, rapid moves by a handful of ambassadors and deputy-assistant-secretaries of state had informed other governments of what was in the offing, and uniform approval had come back. The Israelis knew about that. The proper back-channel leaks had been allowed to percolate in the desired direction. If they stonewalled—well, Bunker had put a hold on that shipment of aircraft parts, and the Israelis had been too shocked to react yet. More accurately, they’d been told not to react if they ever wanted to see the new radar systems. There were already rumbles from the Israeli lobby, which had its own sources throughout the U.S. government, and was making discreet calls to key members of Congress. But Fowler had briefed the congressional leadership two days earlier, and the initial read on the Fowler Plan was highly favorable. The chairman and ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee had promised passage of both draft treaties in under a week. It was going to happen, Jack thought to himself. It might really work. Certainly it wouldn’t hurt anything. All the goodwill America had generated in its own adventure in the Persian Gulf was on the line. The Arabs would see this as a fundamental change in U.S. policy—which it was—America was slapping Israel down. Israel would see it the same way, but that wasn’t really true. The peace would be guaranteed the only way that was possible, by American military and political power. The demise of East-West confrontation had made it possible for America, acting in accord with the other major powers, to dictate a just peace. What we think a just peace is, Ryan corrected himself. God, I hope this works out.
It was too late for that, of course. It had, after all, been his idea, the Fowler Plan. They had to break the cycle, to find a way out of the trap. America was the only country trusted by both sides, a fact won with American blood on the one hand and vast amounts of money on the other. America had to guarantee the peace, and the peace had to be founded on something looking recognizably like justice to all concerned. The equation was both simple and complex. The principles could be expressed in a single short paragraph. The details of execution would take a small book. The monetary cost—well, the enabling legislation would sail through Congress despite the size of it. Saudi Arabia was actually underwriting a quarter of the cost, a concession won only four days earlier by Secretary Talbot. In return, the Saudis would be buying yet another installment of high-tech arms, which had been handled by Dennis Bunker. Those two had really handled their end superbly, Ryan knew. Whatever the President’s faults, his two most important cabinet members—two close friends—were the best such team he’d ever seen in government service. And they’d served their President and their country well in the past week.
“This is going to work,” Jack said quietly to himself in the privacy of his office. “Maybe, maybe, maybe.” He checked his watch. He’d have a read on that in about three hours.
Qati faced his television with a frown. Was it possible? History said no, but—
But the Saudis had broken off their supply of money, seduced by the help America had given them against Iraq. And his organization had bet on the wrong horse in that one. Already his people were feeling the financial pinch, though they’d been careful to invest what funds they had received over the previous generation. Their Swiss and other European bankers had ensured a steady flow of money, and the pinch was more psychological than real, but to the Arab mind the psychological was real, just as it was to any politically astute mind.
The key to it, Qati knew, was whether or not the Americans would put real pressure on the Zionists. They’d never done so. They’d allowed the Israelis to attack an American warship and kill American sailors—and forgiven them before the bleeding had stopped, before the last victim had died. When American military forces had to fight for every dollar of funds from their own Congress, that same spineless body of political whores fell over itself giving arms to the Jews. America had never pressured Israel in any meaningful way. That was the key to his existence, wasn’t it? So long as there was no peace in the Middle East, he had a mission: the destruction of the Jewish State. Without that—
But the problems in the Middle East predated his birth. They might go away, but only when—
But it was a time for truth, Qati told himself, stretching tired and sore limbs. What prospects for destroying Israel did he have? Not from without. So long as America supported the Jews, and so long as the Arab states failed to unite...
.
And the Russians? The cursed Russians had stood like begging dogs at the end of Fowler’s speech.
It was possible. The thought was no less threatening to Qati than the first diagnosis of his cancer. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. What if the Americans did pressure the Jews? What if the Russians did support this absurd new plan? What if the Israelis gave in to the pressure? What if the Palestinians found the concessions demanded of Israel to their taste? It could work. The Zionist state might continue to exist. The Palestinians might find contentment in their new land. A modus vivendi might evolve into being.
It would mean that his life had been to no purpose. It would mean that all the things he had worked for, all the sacrifice and self-denial had gone for nothing. His freedom fighters had fought and died for a generation ... for a cause that might be forever lost.
Betrayed by his fellow Arabs, whose money and political support had sustained his men.
Betrayed by the Russians, whose support and arms had sustained his movement from its birth.
Betrayed by the Americans—the most perversely of all. For taking away their enemy.
Betrayed by Israel—for making something akin to a fair peace. It wasn’t fair at all, of course. So long as a single Zionist lived on Arab lands, there would be no fairness.
Might he be betrayed by the Palestinians also? What if they came to accept this? Where would his dedicated fighters come from?
Betrayed by everyone?
No, God could not let that be. God was merciful, and gave his light to the faithful.
No, this could not really happen. It wasn’t possible. Too many things had to fall into place for this hellish vision to become real. Had not there been so many peace plans for this region? So many visions. And where had they led? Even the Carter-Sadat-Begin talks in America, where the Americans had browbeaten their putative allies into serious concessions, had choked and died when Israel had utterly failed to consider an equitable settlement for the Palestinians. No, Qati was sure of that. Perhaps he could not depend on the Russians. Perhaps he could not depend on the Saudis. Certainly he could not depend on the Americans. But he could depend on Israel. The Jews were far too stupid, far too arrogant, far too shortsighted to see that their best hope for long-term security could only lie in an equitable peace. The irony struck him very hard, hard enough to garner a smile. It had to be God’s plan, that his movement would be safeguarded by his bitterest enemies. Their obstinacy, their stiff Jewish necks would never bow to this. And if that was what was required for the war to continue, then the fact of it, and the irony of it, could only be a sign from God Himself that the cause guiding Qati and his men was indeed the Holy Cause they believed it to be.
