Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  Just over the top of a ridge, they came eye to eye with a white stucco villa. Its rounded turrets stood out against a thin stand of trees and emerald meadows. The arched Moorish windows gaped down at the sunny valley and across to the steel-blue glaciers of the Pennine Alps.

  The pilot hovered over a painted red “H.” Waves of grass and yellow wildflowers billowed in the wash. Brown cows stared from a distance.

  Then the chopper made contact with the ground.

  A delegation of three men with thick necks trotted out of the villa, pinning their ties to their suit jackets.

  “Here’s Trevor,” the pilot said.

  Zafina released Mick’s shoulder harness and stood him up.

  The small man in the co-pilot’s seat popped his door open and jumped out. Then Zafina squeezed Mick’s shoulders through the opening.

  His hands still bound behind his back, Mick couldn’t keep his balance when he was pushed.

  Ugh.

  He hit the asphalt hard and rolled to deflect the impact, but his arms were crushed in the process.

  He ended up on his stomach.

  He tensed his back and raised his chin off the ground. The group approached cautiously.

  The three pinstripe suits clashed with the alpine setting. Shiny wingtip shoes picked their way through the cow dung.

  A tall man in a red cardigan and trim white beard stood back and watched. With his swank ease, he was clearly the man in charge.

  Mick struggled to his knees and feet, but ducked to avoid the rotors.

  The group of men split up once they reached the chopper. One conferred with the pilot and the other two climbed aboard. Soon, the engine began again.

  Zafina shoved Mick off the landing pad and into the grass.

  They staggered in the whipping wind toward the man in the sweater. On closer inspection, the man seemed old and pale. What first appeared to be a healthy old gentleman with a casual demeanor seemed more like a sick person, his legs supporting him like thin struts under wind-slapped pants.

  The man’s hand waved in irritation as the helicopter blew horse flies off the dung and into his face.

  His bird-like eyes turned to Mick. “Welcome to Saas Fee. I’m Sir Trevor O’Smythe.”

  “He brings good information,” Zafina said with a triumphant smile.

  “He can speak for himself,” Trevor said.

  “No need,” she said. “It’s in his pocket.”

  She pried Mick’s hip pocket open.

  Utter dismay erased all expression from her face as she withdrew Mick’s hotel key attached to a flat plastic card with the room number.

  “You brought him all this way to show me a key?” Trevor asked, his white goatee trembling.

  “He told me it was a transcript of his brother’s dying words.”

  “Ha.” Trevor whirled away and smacked his forehead. “How could such a lovely head be so empty?”

  Mick, too, was surprised. He recalled folding the transcript and putting it in his back pocket. Had he ever taken it out?

  Now he remembered. He was just leaning toward the lamp in the hotel to read it when Natalie launched her attack. So he tossed it in the drawer beside the bed.

  He let out a laugh.

  The others stared at him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe this concludes our demonstration,” Mick said. “I can find my way home from here, thank you.”

  “I’m most certain you can.” Trevor’s dry voice cracked and blew away in the breeze. “Unfortunately, I can’t let you leave without attending to some business.”

  The old guy turned to the highest turret in the villa.

  “Do you mind showing our guest to his quarters? It’s too much of a climb for an old cat like me.”

  As Zafina led Mick away, Sir Trevor O’Smythe extended a hand to the stranger who had sat in the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Welcome back, Yashito,” he said. “Have you played golf lately?”

  Chapter 11

  Yashito Konishi entered his room at Sir Trevor O’Smythe’s mansion with a sense of familiarity. He had stayed in the Spanish-style manor before, setting up his deal with O’Smythe.

  Today, however, his agenda had changed.

  A slight Japanese businessman in his fifties, with a full head of jet-black hair and an immaculate suit, he stood looking out the window of his assigned room high above the town of Saas Fee. The height reminded him of the previous day, high above Japan, where a critical meeting had sent him on his journey.

  Summer heat had permeated the top floor of ancient Nagoya-jo Castle 150 miles southwest of Tokyo. In the confined space, illuminated by open windows, he had faced an elite group of international business executives.

  He had spent twenty-five years as a salary man, rising quickly to the top of his electronics firm. The transition from player to team manager had been rockier as he forged liaisons with former rivals.

  He still had much to learn about the game, but he trusted his instincts and drive. After all, he was batting a thousand so far.

  “Gentlemen,” he had begun. “Our ten companies represent the major semiconductor chip manufacturers of Europe and Asia.”

  He pumped up their pride. Then he let out the air.

  “Today, we face a threat that could wipe out our markets and ruin our economies.”

  He heard some scoffing.

  They were the world’s newest cartel and met in secret each year to set the international price and quota of computer chips. They weren’t accustomed to bad news.

  “Our enemy is clear,” he had said. “The United States.”

  The well-heeled manufacturers from Taiwan and England jumped to their feet in vociferous defense of America. Others sat back and waved their silk fans.

  “My information is based on a highly placed American informant,” he explained. “Listen carefully.”

  He had held up a slate-gray semiconductor chip.

  “The U.S. is weeks away from replacing this silicon chip. They are developing a chip that’s a thousand times smaller and a million times faster than today’s semiconductors.”

  That got their attention.

  Then he zinged in low and fast for the clincher. “Today, they’re muscling into CERN to create the world’s first post-photolithography, room-temperature, superconducting computer chip.”

  A collective gasp swept through the room.

  It was difficult to imagine: Circuitry smaller than what a microscope could detect. Calculation speeds that outpaced electricity. An affordable price for every consumer in the world.

  He kept the bad news coming. “If America isn’t stopped, our economies will go out of business. Our defenses will crumble. Our Silicon Age will be obsolete.”

  The eyes watched him intently. Sweat glistened on everyone’s cheeks.

  “While we’re gearing up our eight and twelve-inch wafer plants, the world’s consumers will turn in droves to the American chip.”

  Then, he had waved a coin before the room.

  “A chip the size of this yen will hold more information than all the telephone books in the world.”

  The silence was palpable.

  “It will compute more quickly than a hundred Cray computers running in parallel.”

  As he spelled it out, it sounded incredible even to him.

  Then he drove home the worst news of all. “And we can’t build the chip ourselves. We’ll be locked out of the market.”

  “Where do we turn for help?” a wiry old manufacturer from Singapore had demanded.

  Yashito leaned back and took a deep breath. He had a game plan.

  “We have a man named O’Smythe,” he had explained. “He is already working this problem for us. His task: to sabotage America’s chances of joining CERN. He has hired a ring called the Proteus Jihad to infiltrate CERN and destroy America’s chances of membership. This is the only way to kill development of the chip.”

  The room angrily spewed the words “infiltrate” and “jihad.” />
  “Gentlemen,” he had said. “We have no choice. The American Government is already sponsoring top-secret research at CERN. They’ve excluded all member states from participating in their experiments and from reviewing their results. The Proteus Jihad is our only hope. This is all-out war.”

  The room fell silent. Rising from the courtyard below was the drumbeat of a shogun battle reenactment.

  A seasoned German industrialist, gold-plated teeth clicking in his mouth, had said, “I understand that the Americans are days away from joining CERN. Let’s put the fire to Proteus’ feet.”

  An overweight, sweating French tycoon added, “If we don’t turn America back, I’ll have another heart attack.”

  The executives had studied each other under the castle’s creaking rafters and examined their personal fates.

  The decision was unanimous. The Proteus Jihad could do whatever it took to kick the U.S. out of CERN.

  Yashito had hit a grand slam.

  “I’ll report to you when we reconvene in five days.”

  That night, he had left for Switzerland, his spirits buoyed.

  Now, ten hours later, he was prepared to do whatever it took to see it through.

  Natalie stared at Barbara, who had completely dissolved into tears after confessing her love for Alec.

  That did it. Barbara was definitely not her SATO contact.

  Natalie’s eyes fell on a telephone in the outer room. “I’ll give you some time for yourself.”

  “No,” Barbara said. She stood up, sniveling. “I need to shop for food.”

  When the young woman finally pulled herself together and left, Natalie pounced on the phone. Her fingers trembled as she punched in a number by heart. Then she unfolded the transcript.

  There was a familiar hiss, then a clunk. Finally, a ringing tone.

  The electronically disguised voice came on the line, beginning a familiar sequence of phrases. “Since it’s nice outside, why are you calling?”

  The robotic voice gave her a creepy feeling, even though she had talked with it just the night before from the hospital.

  She had no clue as to who it was. She couldn’t tell from the accent, vocabulary or what was revealed. But duty required that she make the call.

  She composed a response in her mind, and then said, “As always, there’s some more information.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “One has to be quick,” she said.

  She heard a pause. The code was verified. The first letter of each sentence spelled out SATO.

  The voice resumed. “Fine. What have you found out?”

  “Several things. First bit of news is that they took Mick. Someone seduced him out of our hotel, and he has disappeared.”

  “Why Mick?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not part of our group.” She hesitated, remembering how Mick was chained to his desk in Bern. “Is he?”

  “We don’t discuss such matters, do we?”

  “No, you’re right.” SATO was compartmentalized for a reason. “But they took him and then chased me all over creation, apparently to get to the transcript of Alec’s last words.”

  “Did they get it?”

  “No, but I’ve run into someone new. Her name is Barbara.” She waited for some sign of recognition. “Do you know her?”

  Of course, there would be no answer.

  Finally, the voice said, “Tell me about her.”

  “Apparently she was Alec’s lover in Geneva. I’m at her apartment now. She’s some sort of agent for a man named Sir Trevor O’Smythe who’s collecting information on Alec.”

  Another pause. Then, “Does she know where Alec is?”

  “No,” she said. “She seems miserable without him.”

  Another pause. “What’s your next move?”

  “I’m worried that our project might fall through with Alec missing. I’ll keep looking for him, but I don’t know where to start. I’m not even sure he’s alive. With Mick gone, I’m out of my element.”

  “With Mick gone,” the voice interrupted, “you’re free to find Alec, any way you can. You’re unhindered.”

  The line clicked dead.

  She set the phone down and stared at the carpeted floor. It almost sounded as if her contact were pleased to have Mick out of the way so that she could concentrate on finding Alec.

  Then, as she refolded the transcript, another thought hit her like a splash of cold water.

  Her contact didn’t ask what the transcript said.

  He already knew.

  Mick tilted to the left to read the book titles on Sir Trevor O’Smythe’s guestroom shelf. He was used to reading the spines downward, not up.

  They were mostly books written by the original families of the Saas Valley.

  His tidy, well-furnished room would make a comfortable retreat, if he weren’t a hostage.

  He pulled up on a window latch and stuck his head out. Twilight lingered over the valley. A light rain had fallen that afternoon and left behind wet shale roofs, like scattered tiles, to reflect the evening sky.

  The village was quiet, except for the roar of a river as it rushed down from the snowy peaks.

  The church bell let out a single toll. It was a quarter past something.

  Instinctively, he glanced at his wrist. But the watch was gone. He must have left it at the hotel room, along with his wife.

  What could she be thinking? She was probably a wreck. He needed to get back to her, but that depended on O’Smythe’s intentions, whatever they were.

  He looked straight down. But he was too high to jump.

  He wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

  Chapter 12

  In the White House’s state dining room, President Charles Damon toasted his guests of honor: Hollywood producers.

  It was a long overdue tribute, considering their enormous influence on his reelection. Congressmen raised their glasses to the producers, and everybody was happy.

  Charles had mastered the world of politics, and tying his fortune to public opinion was easy.

  Making good decisions once in office was the hard part. There, he always had room for improvement.

  As the evening wound down, he stood by the door to shake hands.

  “Fine economic policy speech,” Senator Fuller told him and pumped his hand.

  Charles made a reception line of one. His was a lonely vigil in the White House, his wife having died during his first term. Their daughters were both grown, married and pursuing their own careers.

  His work had become his life. His family was the men and women he appointed to work for him. They were brainy people with real know-how, but maintained a respectful distance.

  As the room thinned out, he was left with his immediate family, National Security Advisor Vic Padesco, Protocol Secretary Pauline Troutman and Press Secretary Ellie Chen.

  He was acutely aware that the dinner had kept them away from their own families.

  It was Ellie who received the call.

  Senator Fuller was phoning from his limousine, and she passed her mobile phone to Charles.

  “Chuck, I just pulled out of the North Gate and I noticed something that might interest you. There’s a woman in a wheelchair out here with a newborn baby that she has just named Charles Damon Something-or-other. Could make it into a PR coup.”

  “Thanks, Tim. I’ll look into it.”

  He turned to Ellie. “You won’t believe this, but there’s a woman on the sidewalk out front. She just gave birth and named the baby after me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Could be interesting.”

  “Forget it,” Pauline, the head of protocol, said. “We’re not starting to name babies after you.”

  “What a great new form of publicity,” Ellie countered.

  “Let her in that door,” Pauline warned from a protocol perspective, “and half the nation will start naming their babies after you in hopes of getting a photo op.” She studied him. “I know I would.”

  Vic Pade
sco, who was listening in, shook his head with dismay. “The issues you people have to grapple with!”

  “Hey, this is important from a press standpoint,” Ellie said. “I think Charles should go out on that sidewalk and talk to the young mother. It’s the human thing to do.”

  “Out of the question,” Vic said, from his national security vantage point. “It’s too risky.”

  “Not for the polls.”

  “I’m talking about his life. It’s the unexpected, the unthinkable that we must watch out for more than anything else. Do you know how many crazies are out there? People with one beef or another. Entire countries that hate our guts. People that carry bombs under their dresses and blow themselves up.”

  “Listen,” Charles said, finally stepping into the fray. “I’m feeling magnanimous tonight. I won’t go out on that sidewalk, but at least invite the poor woman in. We just threw a party for the all-time greatest behind-the-scenes players in our country. How about some time for the paying public?”

  Vic grunted and dialed the head of the White House Secret Service detail.

  “Is the woman with the baby still out front?” he asked into the phone. “Okay, then frisk her and send her in.”

  As he waited, Charles bounced on his toes, reviewing the collage of faces that he had greeted that evening. Well known faces with proven, media-friendly smiles. But to this son of a lobster fisherman, he didn’t recall having a decent exchange with any of them.

  Time and decorum usually prevented personal exchanges at public functions.

  So he dismissed Vic, Pauline and Ellie and looked forward to meeting Mrs. Something-or-other, in private.

  The kitchen staff was just removing the table linens when a security guard pushed in a wheelchair. A small black woman sat in it carrying a sleeping newborn.

  “Hello, young lady.” He took over pushing the wheelchair and took her to the head table.

  “May I ask your name?” he began.

  “I’m Tiffany McCants,” she said. “And this is my baby. I named him after you.”

  “So I understand. When was he born?”