This dissection of the grave.
Finally, two standing desks—both facing the Council—one on each side. At one was Franco, leaning casually, speaking confidently to some of the Union heads as he waited. At the other, Valerie. She concentrated on the notes she’d made in the last week, tried to remember the protocols that had been explained to her by Franco.
Distractedly accepting yet another bizarre twist in her nightmare existence.
The room hushed as five old men entered from the rear. They made their way silently to the front, arranged themselves in the chairs, then each, when settled, nodded to Franco.
“Fratelli; genitori; coluiche che è senza genitori giurerà lealtà al fratello,” he began in the centuries-old way. “Non c’è maggior dolore che ricordarsi la felicità nel dolore.”
All sixteen men in the room nodded somberly as Valerie remembered the invocation as Franco had explained it to her: “There is no greater ache than to remember the happy times in misery.”
“O, Fratello,” the old man in the center chair responded in the traditional way, “quanto tormento è quello che v’offende?” Although he knew well what torment was afflicting Franco at this moment. As did the rest, for it was the reason for the first full gathering of Brotherhood leaders in nine years.
But form—tradition—must be adhered to.
“Fratelli, posso parlare in inglese?”
The room nodded as one.
“Grazie per la vostra indulgenza.” He sighed deeply. “A grave injustice has been done to my family. A brother’s murder.” He raised his hands in a gesture of futility. “I would not inflict this on my brothers within, except… this injustice is also a slap in the face of every man here. And of all the men that they represent.”
“My brother Paolo—known to most of you in the past twenty years—was entrusted by the Council with a sacred trust. Six hundred thousand francs. He was to go to America, become a lawyer of merit and note, then return to us and serve the Brotherhood with honor and faith.”
Another deep breath. His head lowered, his hand trembled the very slightest bit. “But, amici, my friends and brothers, he was murdered before he could fulfill this sacred task. Crushed like an insect. Obliterated from this world, his body lost in some unmarked, unhonored place in America.”
The men looked appropriately impressed and sorrowful. But they still had not heard any reason for them to have been called together. The loss was a substantial one—but tolerable. And the death of his brother on only peripherally related Brotherhood business was Franco’s concern, not all the Brotherhood’s.
But they continued to listen.
“Brothers,” he continued after what he considered to be an adequate pause for effect, “hear now the reason for Paolo’s murder. The foul acts that bred such contempt and venom as I could heap upon the doers.”
He looked over at Valerie. “I present to the Council the Honorable Valerie Alvarez, a member of the United States House of Representatives and a witness to these crimes against us all.”
Valerie smiled (seriously), then began. “It is an honor to—”
“Un momento,” the man in the center chair interrupted. “Lei ha accettato Gesé Cristo come il suo salva-tore?”
Franco immediately translated. “Are you a Christian?”
Valerie looked surprised. “Uh, yes. A Catholic.”
The man in the center chair nodded. “Sappi questo. Se stai mentendo, sarai ucciso lentalmente ed in un periodo di settimane. Ti bestemmio nel nome di Gesé Cristo.” He looked over at Franco, then nodded.
“He says,” Franco began slowly, “that you should know this one thing. If you lie to the Council, or are later found to be lying on any matter of import, you will be killed. Slowly, and over a period of weeks. This is his curse to your lies, in the name of God.” Franco shrugged. “And I assure you he means it.”
Valerie straightened, looking angrily into the eyes of the calm little old man in the center chair. “Does he understand English?”
“Si.”
“Good.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “Sir, in coming to you I am not only risking my career, my life, the security of my country, but the lives of my son and daughter. I have no reason not to tell you the full truth. Another pause, this one briefer and followed by a withering stare at all of the five men in the Council.”
“And if anything that you may do—any leak or gossip, carelessness or malignancy—threatens or endangers my children in any way”—she fixed the man in the center chair with a gunmetal look—“then I assure you, you’ll pray that I kill you over several weeks. That, sir, is my curse. By God.”
The old man regarded her for five silent, thoughtful minutes.
“Bene,” he finally said. “You may begin.”
Three hours later, three hours of uninterrupted talking, explaining, clarifying, and praying, Valerie sat down and waited. It had been explained to her that there would be no questions directly to her. That the procedure was for the assemblage to write down their questions, submit them to the Council, then to have Franco ask only those questions that the Council ruled were critical to the decision to be reached.
After forty minutes of silent discussion amongst themselves, the Council members handed the questions over to Franco. He seemed stunned by how few there were.
“Uh, Congresswoman, we have five questions for you. Are you prepared to answer them freely and truthfully?”
“I am,” Valerie said as confidently as she could.
“First, this Pei, Source 24601. What was his exact position in this LRSO and what was his exact assignment?”
Simple enough beginning.
“Pei was the deputy director of the LRSO’s Office of Planning Review. It was his job to supervise analyses and critiques of ongoing Chinese intelligence operations. In order to determine if the best methods had been used, if there were possible improvements that could be implemented in the future; to ascertain whether or not the operations had been or still were being run as efficiently and profitably as they could be.”
“And what did he conclude with Apple Blossom?” one of the eleven interrupted, as she’d been told they might.
“He told me that Apple Blossom was as well run a plot as he’d ever come across. But that the operative was as unstable a lead element as he’d ever experienced. He even suggested that there might’ve been a flaw in the screening process that allowed this person to get through an otherwise tight net.”
Franco looked over the room; no follow-ups were forthcoming, so he turned to the next question. “Why were you chosen to have such close access to Pei? Including but not limited to individual debriefings that were—by your own account—unsupervised and unrecorded.”
Valerie exhaled deeply. “Pei had, at one time, been in charge of maintaining the LRSO’s profiles of members of Congress. The CIA seemed to think that he had become, well, enamored of me at that time. They wanted me to encourage that in him. He was scared, timid at first, kinda sweet really.” She pulled herself back from the memory. “He was raised to fear the CIA, so they thought I could get him past that.”
“Did you become his lover?” someone asked.
“No, she responded too quickly, forcing down the memories of the slight brushings and touchings she’d allowed the basically naive defector.
Praying that the CIA had—as promised—destroyed the covert videos that she would never admit to. Pei had been a find—a man with virtually unlimited access to the inner circles of ChiCom intelligence. The benefits of his testimony in front of her committee—to national security and to her career—had been worth allowing the socially innocent man his fantasies.
There had been one other thing besides.
In the dark, sleep-deprived eyes of the man, she recognized something painfully familiar. A soul alone in the world. A person beneath the spy, who had risked everything to try to save himself. A person who needed someone to tell him that everything would be all right; that the myriad decisions he’d made
that left him essentially alone and a traitor to his birth were the right ones.
As no one had ever consoled Valerie.
“The next question,” Franco said immediately. “You said that you were contacted by the Canvas Group before Pei was killed, along with the three agents guarding him. Did you give the Canvas Group the information on where Pei was being hidden and with what security?”
All eyes in the room turned to her.
“No! I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
The seventeen men sat quietly, calmly, their eyes locked with her soul.
“Yes,” she whispered. “They took my kids, my…”
“So you are responsible for their deaths?”
In her role as chair of the investigating subcommittee, Valerie had been walked through the scene, even before the bodies were removed. The look of surprise in the dead eyes of one of the agents, the look of betrayal in another’s, were seared into her brain.
She’d rationalized that her interrogators—the bastard traitor and his two Chinese assistants—would use the information to carry out surveillance of the defector. To try to listen to his interrogations, maybe to sneak a message of warning to him.
All bullshit, she thought as she faced this almost primordial tribunal who demanded instant truths with no exception.
As she faced her soul.
Were the seven children left without their fathers worth the lives of her two?
Mercifully Franco interrupted before she could find an answer.
“The next question,” he said as he looked away. “This Canvas person, or any of the Chinese, or the men who worked for them, did they ever tell you specifically that they murdered Paolo?”
He whirled on the Council. “Fratelli, questo è un oltraggio! Pensa quello …”
“Silenzio!” the man in the center chair called out. “You will answer the question, Congresswoman.”
Valerie took a deep breath. “No. No one ever expressly said that they’d killed Paul, Paolo.” She sighed. “But I have no doubts in my mind. They would’ve killed anyone that they even suspected might compromise their operations. No question.”
“Ultima domanda,” the old man said to Franco.
Franco briefly bowed his head.
“Congresswoman Alvarez,” he began slowly as he read the question over. “What, in your opinion, is the long-term goal of this Apple Blossom operation?” He looked up. “And please be specific.”
For a full minute Valerie shuffled papers on her table—a meaningless act, since she was far more concentrating on the answer that was still forming in her head. The dark gooey thing that had never quite found its voice.
Until now.
“Pei said that they had spent decades working on the idea. Their top psychiatrists, behaviorists, theorists, had created profiles and tests to identify an individual that could be completely controlled merely by the manipulation of this individual’s lusts, desires, wants, needs, inclinations. They no longer believed in brainwashing. Instead they believed that they could exploit an already existing amoral individual’s weakness. They called it the, uh, doctrine of sociopathy.
“Their economists, political scientists, psychologists, and behaviorists had reasoned and evaluated; planned and projected until they were certain of the costs and procedures. Apple Blossom was the result.”
She checked some notes, then put them away and looked each man in the room directly in the eyes.
“The Chinese reasoned that they would never develop an industrial base that could compete with the West s. They understood that technological proficiency and inspiration was not their forte, so they could never hope to win a technical arms race. But there was one area where they had an advantage over all other societies.
“People and time.
“The Chinese believe they must, as a matter of historical perspective, triumph over the Western democracies. And to that end, Apple Blossom was created.
“They screened hundreds, maybe more, until they found the one they needed. With an almost open-ended budget and the finest analysis and planning possible, they intend to manipulate their man—this Apple Blossom—into a senior decision-making position in the United States government. A position where this Apple Blossom could influence events in the ChiCom’s favor. A position where—over time—he could, well, cede control over our government to the Chinese… with no one being any the wiser.
“A simple, bloodless, invisible coup d’état.”
“Do you know who this Apple Blossom is? asked one of the assembled.”
“No, beyond Pei’s contention that he was already ‘deeply integrated into the government’s fabric,’ his phrase.”
“Do you have any suspicions?” from another.
Valerie did—a great many. But none that would answer the specific question being asked. And Franco had warned her to be as specific as possible.
“I can only refer back,” she began carefully, “to what I said in my statement. To the man who led the interrogation sessions.” She took a deep breath, trying to control her evident anger. “That he is a traitor there is no doubt. But I don’t know if even that bastard knows the real answer to your question.”
The room was silent, nonreactive, uncaring. It startled Valerie to the core.
“Franco,” the old man in the center chair said casually, “finiscila.”
“Sono il tuo schiavo.” He turned to the group, bowed his head to them, then straightened. “My brothers, the picture is clear. One of our own has been murdered. Savagely killed while carrying out the duties assigned him by our most precious Brotherhood, our Union. That he is blood to me is of no import. That he is kith to all of you is. This Canvas, these Cinesi behind him, they have robbed us of Paolo’s counsel and brotherhood forever. I ask you to help me take my due revenge. And that as an instrument for that vendetta we use Congresswoman Alvarez, as she has offered.”
He hesitated, fighting back his emotions. “For Paolo, for our honor, in order to live with ourselves as freemen of the island of Corsica, we can do no less. Non ho pié niente da dichiarare.”
It was early evening when the Council came to see Xenos. With his father and Valerie sitting nearby, they gathered around his bed, dutifully crossing themselves and offering him their prayers for recovery. Then they waited silently.
“Valerie,” Xenos said after studying the men, “would you mind waiting outside with my father?”
Reluctantly they left.
“Dureté,” Franco began simply, “the Council wishes to ask you about Canvas.”
“I thought they might.”
“You are well enough for this? the man from the center chair asked cautiously.”
With Franco’s help, Xenos sat up, a stern expression covering the pain of the movement.
“I owe much to the Brotherhood.”
The old man smiled. “As I knew would be your answer.” He hesitated, though. “Dureté, we are troubled by the situation surrounding our lost brother, Paolo. Is it your belief that he was killed by this Canvas?”
“By him, or at his order, yes. His voice was strong, firm, committed.”
“And that it is the Cinesi, the communists, that are behind him?”
“Ab solutely.”
“You believe this woman’s story, then?”
Xenos nodded solemnly. “What I know of it, yes. Everything I saw was consistent with her tale.”
The old man seemed to hesitate, as if something in what he would next say was personally painful. “Dureté, there is no bullshit between us, yes?”
“Yes.”
The old man looked out the window as he continued. “Franco has told us about this Canvas. About the kind of man he is, what he has behind his balls.”
“He has the Chinese military establishment behind those balls, old man.”
The man nodded. “Si, lo so.” He took a deep breath. “Dureté, could the Brotherhood stand against such a man?”
Xenos considered the question. The organization, loyalty,
and savage fury of the Corsicans butting up against Canvas—an unemotional, calculating planner/killer with the resources of a malevolent continent behind him.
“He’s a man, and dies from a bullet in the brain like any man,” he said after five minutes’ consideration. “You could get lucky.”
Franco flinched, but recognized the truth behind the flat statement of fact.
“And if we are not lucky?” The old man needed to hear the answer.
Xenos shrugged. “Then many more Paolos will die. Along with the Alvarez children.”
“Could you take him?” Franco’s voice reflected the near panic and fury that threatened to erupt from just beneath the surface.
“Maybe,” Xenos said matter-of-factly. “With help, the right breaks, the right … luck.”
The old man studied the man in the bed. “And the dead?”
Xenos merely returned his gaze.
“Will you take him?” the old man finally asked.
An hour later Valerie and Avidol were allowed back in the room.
“What happened?” she asked when she saw the expressions on the Council members’ faces.
Franco spoke … carefully. “The Brotherhood has had dealings with the Chinese before. In Macao, in India.”
Valerie looked from one face to another. “What does that mean?”
The man from the center chair nodded at Franco.
“It has been decided,” the younger man said, “that any attempt by us—alone,” he added, drawing a look of reproval from the older man, “would only result in more deaths, including those of your children. So we are sending an envoy to the Chinese to demand the following.”
“One: the immediate return of your children, unharmed. Two: a guarantee that your treasons in the Pei affair will never be revealed. Three: a payment of six hundred thousand francs, our investment in Paolo’s education, along with a five-million-dollar penalty. Four: a payment of five million dollars as an indemnity to Paolo’s family for his death. Five: the turning over to us of the man known as Canvas.
The 4 Phase Man Page 16
