Soft Targets

by Dean Ing

  Dolby started scribbling. Now and then he grunted into the mouthpiece. At last he blew out a mighty breath. "What I think, Canfield, is we don't have enough forms in the Pee Dee. We only got an Unusual Occurrence Report, when we also need a Can You Top This report. Hey, are you sure it ain't some fucking movie crew that staged a wreck in that alley?" His jaw throbbed as he heard the next response. "No, I guess not—for sure they wouldn't leave it with a stiff in it. You sure it's a real live corpse?"

  Dolby closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Canfield, it's just been a very long Monday for a very short temper. And before you file a report, would you kindly tell me how the Camaro driver could've been dead as long as you say, when he was in another wreck half an hour ago with the same Volkswagen. . . . Never mind, I just know. But you got no lab experience, how come—" He closed his eyes again, very gently. "I see. Not just stiff, you mean cold stiff. How cold? Well shit, take his temperature, I guess . . . For all I care you can shove it up his—wait a minute. You said there was some ID on him?"

  Dolby scribbled again. "Ahboudi; courier? Hold it. If the deader had Algerian diplomatic courier status it changes a few things; like, I can dump this in the lap of a Special Services officer, thank God."

  Dolby took down more details, then laid down the receiver. After a few minutes he said to Someone beyond his ceiling light fixture: "Let me make You a little bet. I bet You my gold badge if there's a deep-frozen ayrab courier up front, Meyer Cohane's JDL boys are in back of it."

  It was a wager even God could not have won.

  The New York Police Department found its decision above Dolby, below the Mayor. In return for certain immediate information, the PD elected not to press charges against members of the Jewish Defense League who, all in fun, had removed two vehicles after the collision only to place them elsewhere. The driver of the Camaro, they insisted, had been dead when they arrived at the scene.

  This was a luminous understatement inas­much as Moh'med Ahboudi, an Algerian na­tional with loose consular connections, had been missing from his duties for several weeks. He had been in a freezer for most of that time, after expiring in a brief contest for his freedom. Ahboudi's wounds were frontal skull frac­ture, broken knuckles, and a ruptured spleen, all of which might possibly be consistent with a very unusual automobile accident. But it also explained why Meyer Cohane, though a full-fledged Rabbi, was persona non grata in Israel. Police records of his enemies tended to be short and untidy.

  In the spirit of good fellowship, the JDL fingered the man who had perforated the Camaro—oddly enough, with no bullet holes in the driver—because they had been tailing the gunman. They were virtually certain of his iden­tity: the Iraqi, Hakim Arif.

  The JDL was terribly sorry that it could offer no reason why Arif should also be followed by Moh'med Ahboudi, but there it was: Ahboudi was a sloppy tail and had paid the price. Finally, the JDL was sorry they could not lay hands on Arif.

  This latter sorrow was genuine enough; after tailing Hakim from the bank in hopes of follow­ing him home, JDL men were contrite at their failure. They were even sorrier for young Sammy Greenspan, the original driver of the Camaro. Sammy had died instantly in Arif's ambush. The one bright spot was in the speed with which they managed, in one gruesome practical joke, to get Sammy's body away and to replace it with the cold remains of Moh'med Ahboudi. Now, if the NYPD was willing to take its simplest course, Algerian terrorists and the Iraqi terrorist would find a reason to loathe each other. It was richly Cohanesque. Sammy Greenspan would have loved it.

  * * *

  Chaim and Talith failed to hide their relief at the sight of the money, stacks of twenties and fifties, which Hakim revealed in due time. Dur­ing supper their eyes kept wandering to the cash until Hakim wordlessly arose and dumped it all back into the briefcase. "Now we will have sweet coffee," he sighed, Talith rising to obey, "and contemplate sweeter revenges. Even today I struck a small blow; the late news may bear fruit." He was gratified to see curiosity in their silent responses.

  Hakim did not expect to occupy the ABC lead story, but grew restive as national, then local news passed. Had his escape gone unnoticed, then? It had not, for, "There was an evident postscript, today, to the blundering attempt on the Statue of Liberty," said the anchorlady. "If anyone can make sense of it, perhaps Richard can. Richard?"

  Her co-anchor gazed out at millions, his backdrop logo a leering idiot that was becoming familiar on several channels. The newsman dropped a piece of typescript as if it were defiled and related little more, factually, than the locale and the killing of Hakim's pursuer. He went on: "What places this below the usual level of crime in the Big Apple, according to one source, is that the gunman's description matches that of a Fat'ah charlie; and his victim was an Algerian Daoudist, from another terrorist group."

  Mugging a faint blend of confusion and in­souciance into the camera, he continued: "The best current guess is that the victim was trying to make friendly contact, and the gunman mistook him for someone who knew too much." A frosty smile. "Or perhaps that's a charlie's way of hail­ing a taxi."

  Injected by his co-anchor lady: "About the little girl he grazed at point-blank range?"

  "Maybe he thought she knew too much, too. And compared to these charlies, maybe she does. She's almost five years old."

  Hakim employed vast restraint and continued his televiewing. At his side, Talith said, "But you told us—" until Hakim's hand sliced the air for silence.

  The weather news endorsed the frigid gusts that scrabbled at the windows, and Hakim's mood was like the wind. He could not have missed the urchin—and his daring coup was against domestic security forces, he was certain.

  Well, almost certain. Was it even remotely possible that the coxcomb Daoudists had intended—? On the other hand, government sources could have deliberately lied to the newsmen, with a release designed to confuse Fat'ah.

  Talith ghosted to the kitchenette to prepare fresh sweet coffee which Hakim craved, and subsequently ignored, as he lounged before blank television screens. The art of disinformation was but recently borrowed by the Ameri­cans from the Middle East, but the west was learning. But if they know I know that Daoudists could not know where I am, his thought began, and balked with, where am I ?

  He released a high-pitched giggle and the girl dropped her cup. Hakim angrily erased the ric­tus from his face and pursued another notion. Daoudists could be behind this, seeking to share the media coverage in its bungling fashion. He, Fat'ah, would need to arrange more talks with his television friends.

  Not exactly friends, he amended, so much as co-opportunists who could always be relied upon to give accurate and detailed coverage if it were available. Except in wartime, whispered a wisp from a forgotten text. It was unthinkable that American television networks could perceive themselves to be at war with Fat'ah.

  Unthinkable, therefore Hakim thought about it.

  The same grinning salacious fool was becom­ing the prominent image behind every news item on terrorism. On competing networks! He thought about it some more. While Fat'ah planned the attack that was to cost Rashid his life, Ukranian dissenters had made news by murdering three enemies in the Soviet Secre­tariat. A scrap of dialogoue haunted Hakim from a subsequent skit on the Charlie George Show.

  INT. SQUALID BASEMENT NIGHT

  CHARLIE wears a Rasputin cloak and villainous mustache, leaning over a rickety table lit by a bent candle.

  He scowls at CRETINOV, who cleans a blunderbuss with a sagging barrel.

  TWO-SHOT CHARLIE AND CRETINOV

  CHARLIE Comrade leader, I say we must kidnap everyone who calls us fools!

  CRETINOV (bored) Nyet; where would we keep five billion people?

  This established the general tenor of a five-minute lampoon, redolent of fools and of impo­tence, on terrorism against the Kremlin. The Ukrainians had enjoyed the sympathy of the United States Government. Perhaps they still did, but obviously American television moguls thought along differen
t lines.

  When had Hakim last heard a sympathetic rendering of the justice, the demands, the motivations, of a terrorist group? For that matter, he persisted, any factual rendering at all? A harrowing suspicion fostered a pattern that coalesced in Hakim's mind as he absently reached for his coffee. Every datum he applied seemed to fit the undeclared war that he should have expected from this medium, sooner or later. A medium upon which Fat'ah was all too dependent: newspapers brought details, but TV brought showers of cash from Fat'ah well-wishers. Had the Americans at last conspired to rob him of his forum, his voice, his cash?

  Hakim retrieved his mental images of smoke and media, this time imagining a greasy black roil erupting from a picture tube. It should be simple enough to test this suspicion. If the sus­picion proved to be accurate, Hakim vowed, he would bring war to this monster medium.

  He sipped the tepid coffee, then realized that he had forbidden it to himself. Rage flung the cup for him, shattering it against a television set that squatted unharmed. The girl's gasp paced Guerrero's reaction, a sidelong roll from his chair from which the latino emerged crouching, his Browning sidearm drawn. Guerrero was not particularly quick, but his hand was steady. In the soundless staring match with the latino, Hakim told himself, he dropped his own eyes first to atone for his rashness.

  Hakim stood erect and exhaled deeply from his nose. "We need rest," he said.

  "Yes, you do," Guerrero agreed, tucking the automatic away.

  Hakim did not pause in his march to the far bedroom. Talith knew that he would not ask her to follow, knew with equal certainty that he ex­pected her to do so within minutes. She col­lected the debris that lay before the television set, unaware of its symbolic content, then stood before Guerrero, who was slicing excerpts from newspapers.

  He glanced up. "I will take sentry duty until four A.M.," he said.

  "That is not my topic," she replied quietly, too quietly to be heard down the hallway. "You came very near disrespect, a moment ago."

  "I meant no disrespect." Guerrero seemed to think the matter was closed.

  She chose her words carefully: "You left room for an inference that Hakim's stamina is less than your own."

  Guerrero frowned; it was something she rarely saw. "He had a brush with disaster; anyone would be exhausted," he explained, watching carefully to assess her response. "Under the circumstances—"

  "Under any circumstances, Hakim is your superior. In every way. Believe what you like, Bernal, but pay service to that idea in his pres­ence. Always."

  From a camp chair near the window, Chaim: "More than with your training instructors in El-Hamma, Guerrero. I know him: before he would accept your insolence, he would accept your resignation." Chaim Mardor flicked the safety back and forth on the weapon across his knees. Guerrero heard, not taking his gaze from Talith. He nodded. It was unnecessary to state that no one resigned from Fat'ah while he was still breathing.

  "I must go. I want to go," she corrected herself quickly, and disappeared into the gloom. Guer­rero stared after her, then began to detach another clipping for Hakim. He was smiling.

  Hakim lay in his bed awaiting the girl. He had read the latino's implied criticism, but would absorb it for now. He could not afford to waste Guerrero. Yet.

  MONDAY, 10 NOVEMBER, 1980:

  As Hakim awaited the girl, Maurice Everett's evening had hardly begun in Colorado Springs. He selected a fresh log from the bin and thrust it into his fireplace, holding it with two fingers like a rolled newspaper.

  "It'll catch," David Engels grinned from his chair, waving the mug lazily. "Sit down, Maury, you're nervous as a bridegroom. Forget she's coming."

  "I'd like to," Everett said, dusting his hands. He reached for a poker, then realized it was more makework, more fuel for Engels whose amuse­ment was beginning to grate on the nerves. "Some more rum in your toddy?"

  "I'm fine." Engels placed a hand over the bev­erage. At times of stress, he knew, Everett drank sparingly but wanted everybody else drunk as lords. "It's Vercours you should be plying with booze. I'd rather you did it tonight, out of your own pocket, than later with contingency funds."

  "That raises a nice question, Dave. I'm grate­ful, and I won't ask what contingency funds those are—"

  "Wouldn't tell you anyhow."

  "—But who decides when I need Vercours? Let's assume my intuition's screwed up, and it works out so well I use her for every public appearance. That's twenty times a year."

  "Fifty thou? Pretty steep," Engels replied. "I'd probably palm you off on a bureau man; maybe switch 'em around."

  "So you do decide." He saw the Engels fea­tures become opaque and knew that he was right. "Well then, why didn't you suggest that to begin with?"

  "I told you on the phone, and I told you today, and for the last time I'm telling you: if a female can handle this work, she's better. She raises fewer suspicions. The Secret Service used to make bodyguards obvious on the theory that it'd put a case of the shakes on the assassin. But for some of these fanatics it just shows 'em in which direction to start the spray of lead."

  "Or at least that's the current theory."

  "All God's chillun got theories," said Engels, and sipped. "If you don't like ours, pick another one."

  "And fund it myself."

  Engels winked: "You got it. Look, Maury, I can't locate any bureau women who'd be as available. Besides," he went on, ticking off details on his fingers, "Vercours takes it seriously. She's been taking lessons in defensive driving at Riverside. And Wally Conklin likes the ENG coverage she does on him. She even tapes his speeches. What more could you ask? I'll tell you one thing sure, Wally Conklin isn't going to be singing any hosannas over your hiring her away."

  "Your hiring her away!"

  One eye closed in an outre horsewink: "If you won't tell, I won't tell."

  Everett's laugh rattled crockery in the next room. "Okay, you bastard: so you foot the bills and I take the heat. And what'd you say about Vercours and defensive driving? What doesn't she do?"

  "She doesn't do-wacka-doo, if that's what you mean," Engels said archly. "Not with our likes, at least. Think of Gina Vercours as one of the boys."

  "But she might run off with my secretary?"

  "Doubtful. Wouldn't be good business, and Vercours sounds like all business on the phone. She picked the time tonight—"

  The door chime echoed. Everett stood up too quickly, then forced himself to move toward the door as though relaxed. He told himself that it was not lack of self-confidence. It was simply that he did not know how to behave with most women, never had, which was why his early marriage had failed early. He was ill at ease because—all right, then, it was lack of self-confidence with women. While traversing his carpet, Maurice Everett had made a valuable dis­covery.

  He made another as he swung the door open. Gina Vercours, in heels, was taller than most men. Her "Hi," the smile on the wide mouth, and the handshake were greetings to an equal. He ushered her in, saw her drape the suede coat and a bag that was half purse, half equipment satch­el, on his closet doorknob. Everett's crockery rattled again.

  David Engels hurried toward them. "What'd I miss?"

  "That's what I do," Everett said, pointing to the coat and bag. "But I put my coat in the closet tonight to—to—you know," he said feebly.

  Gina nodded, then studied the closet door. "If you'd put a dozen doorknobs on that wall, you wouldn't need a closet. I'll bill you later," she said, shaking hands with Engels. "Or you can buy me off now with whatever I smell in the air."

  In five minutes, Everett had forgot his fidgets over Gina Vercours. She sipped the steaming toddy and asked for more rum, then knelt to warm her hands at the fire. She meddled with the antique kettle that swung on its bracket over the hearth. "God, this iron kettle must weigh ten pounds."

  "Five kilos," Everett corrected.

  "I'm old-fashioned," she said, grinning.

  "Sure you are. I don't think it's polite to fly false colors."

 
Still grinning, she said, "Then I don't think you should ever do it," and he laughed again. It was his own stance, here I am, take it or leave it; but she wore it more gracefully.

  Engels, an expert interviewer, drew Gina out with ease, dropping asides on Everett now and then. A service brat, Gina had attended schools in Texas, Virginia, Texas, California, Massachusetts, and Texas before parlaying a tennis scholarship into a business degree at Arizona State.

  "Funny," Engels frowned in faked concern, "you don't look like a jock."

  "The hell I don't," she countered, pinching her browned forearm. "I'll have skin like an alligator when I'm forty."

  "Which will be—?"

  "In four years, Mr. Engels, don't be coy. I'm not." Everett inwardly seconded her observation. She had no reluctance to list her strengths or her weaknesses. Health, lack of attachments, and media training were her perceived strengths. "But I'm not really a people person, if you follow me," she admitted. "I like to live well, and I'm pretty selfish."

  "That's laying it on the line," said Everett. "Why are you interested in this escort, bodyguard, iffy kind of work? It isn't exactly steady employment, Gina. As you must know, I may not need you at all."

  For the first time, the smile she turned on him was wily, secretive, somehow very female, the wide-set hazel eyes steady on his. "You'll need me," she insisted softly. "Maybe not tomorrow or next month, but if you have heavy clout in media, sooner or later you're going to need somebody." She smiled to herself. "I still keep ENG contacts in Phoenix, and of course I mix around when I'm on duty with Conklin. If you never before saw reporters looking over their shoulders, you can see it now. It's a feeling you can reach out and touch," she finished.

  Everett persisted. "So why do you like it?"

  "I don't like it, Mr. Everett. I like the money. Let's say you use me twice a year and Wally does the same. Added to my fees in tennis, that's a new 'vette every year." She arched an eyebrow. "You could use some work on the courts, Com­missioner. Work off some of that, ah, good liv­ing."

  Engels laughed at Everett's discomfort. "He thinks he's a bear, Gina. Fattens up every autumn, snores all winter, runs up mountains every spring. Catch him early in the morning and you'll think he's a sure-nough grizzly."