Extraordinary Powers

by Joseph Finder

  Toby smiled almost wistfully. “Oh, we are. Better not to take chances. I don’t much trust technology. Do you?”

  But I was in no mood for banter, having been through more than an hour of Dr. Mehta’s testing. “If I’d managed to escape…” I began.

  “We’d have stopped at nothing to find you, Ben. You’re much too valuable. Actually, our psychological profile of you indicated, unequivocally, that you would attempt an escape. So I’m not altogether surprised. You have to remember, Ben, that with your retirement from the Agency, you no longer have the colony odor.”

  “The colony odor?”

  “Entomology. Ants. You remember my interest in ants.”

  Toby had in fact studied to become an entomologist before World War II moved him very far afield, to military intelligence, the OSS, and later the CIA. But he’d kept up his interest in ants, reading voraciously in the professional journals, staying in contact with an old friend of his from Harvard, E. O. Wilson, who was one of the world’s great scholars of ants. Just about the only use for ants Toby had managed to find in his life, however, was in metaphors.

  “I certainly do, Toby. The colony odor?”

  “When one ant greets another, she runs her antennae over the other’s body. If the other is an intruder from another species, she will be attacked. But if she’s from the same species, and just, say, a different colony, she will be accepted. Yet she’ll be offered less food until she acquires the same odor—the same pheromone—that the others in the colony have. Then she’s one of them.”

  “So, am I from a different colony?” I asked impatiently.

  “Have you ever seen an ant offer its food? It’s very intimate, very touching. The attack is of course very unpleasant. One, or both, dies.”

  I ran my fingers over the brown fake-wood-grain-Formica-topped conference table at which I had been placed. “All right,” I said. “Now, tell me this: Who came after me the other night?”

  “In Boston?”

  “Correct. And ‘we don’t know’ isn’t satisfactory.”

  “But accurate. We really don’t know. We do know that there’s been a leak—”

  “Goddammit, Toby,” I exploded. “We have to level with each other.”

  He raised his voice to a shout, which surprised me. “I am leveling with you, Ben! As I told you, since my accident in Paris, I have been in charge of this project. They call it the Oracle Project—you know how the Covert-Op boys are so damned attached to their melodramatic code names—from the original Latin oraculum, from orare, to speak. The mind speaks, doesn’t it?”

  I shrugged.

  “The Oracle Project is the Manhattan Project of telepathy—expensive, intensive, ultrasecret, and considered a hopeless cause by just about everyone who knows of its existence. Since the Dutch gentleman’s several months of ESP—to be precise, 133 days, before he committed suicide—we have gone through more than eight thousand experimental subjects.”

  “Eight thousand?” I exclaimed.

  “The vast majority of these individuals, of course, knew only that they were undergoing medical experiments, for which they were reimbursed handsomely. Of all of them, two subjects emerged with some small manifestation of ESP, but the ability faded after a day or two. With you—”

  “It’s two days, and nothing has changed.”

  “Excellent. Excellent.”

  “But what the hell is this for? The Cold War is over, Toby, the damned—”

  “Ah,” he said. “Precisely wrong. Yes, the world has changed, but it’s just as dangerous a place. The Russian threat is still there, waiting for another coup d’état or a total crash of the system, the way Weimar Germany was lying in wait for a Hitler to restore its ruined empire. The Middle East remains a caldron. Terrorism is rampant—we’re entering the age of terrorism like we’ve never seen before. We need to cultivate this ability you now have—desperately. We need agents who can divine intentions. There will always be Saddam Husseins or Muammar Qadhafis or whoever the hell else.”

  “So tell me this: Why the gunfire in Boston? The Oracle Project has been under way for—what?—five years?”

  “Approximately.”

  “And suddenly people are shooting at me. There’s an urgency, obviously. Some people want something very badly, and very quickly. It makes no sense.”

  Toby sighed, touched his fingers to the glass separating us. “There’s no more Soviet threat,” he said slowly. “Thank God. But now we’re facing a much more difficult, more diffuse threat: hundreds of thousands of unemployed East Bloc spies—watchers, wet workers—a real nasty bunch, many of them.”

  “That’s not an explanation,” I replied. “Those are assets. Who the hell do they work for? And why?”

  “Damn it,” Toby thundered. “Who do you think took out Edmund Moore?”

  I stared at him. Toby’s eyes were wide, frightened, teary. “You tell me,” I said very quietly. “Who killed him?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, the public version is that he swallowed the barrel of his gun, a 1957 Agency-issue Smith & Wesson Model 39.”

  “And?”

  “The Model 39 is chambered for the 9mm Parabellum, right? It’s the first 9mm made by an American manufacturer.”

  “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “The bullet that penetrated Ed Moore’s brain came from the special 9mm × 18 cartridge. The cartridge used in the 9mm Makarov pistol. Follow me?”

  “Soviet,” I said. “Vintage late 1950s. Or—”

  “Or East German. The cartridge was manufactured for the Pistole M. East German. I don’t think Ed Moore would have used ammunition issued by the East German secret police in his old Agency pistol. Do you?”

  “But the goddamned Stasi doesn’t exist anymore, Toby!”

  “East Germany doesn’t exist. The Stasi doesn’t exist. But Stasi assets exist. And someone is hiring them. Someone is using them. We need you, Ben.”

  “Yes,” I said, raising my voice. “Obviously. But to do what, dammit?”

  He went through his ritual of extracting a pack of Rothmans, tapping it against the side of his wheelchair until one protruded, lighting it, then speaking fuzzily through the smoke.

  “We want you to locate the last head of the KGB.”

  “Vladimir Orlov.”

  He nodded.

  “But surely you know his location? With all the Agency’s resources…?”

  “We know only that he’s somewhere in northern Italy. Tuscany. That’s it.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I never divulge sources and methods,” he said with a crooked smile. “Actually, Orlov is a sick man. He’s been seeing a cardiologist in Rome. That much we know. He’s seen this fellow for years, since he first visited Rome in the late 1970s. This doctor treats a number of world leaders, with great discretion. Orlov trusts him.

  “Also, we know that after his consultations with this cardiologist, he is driven back to some undisclosed location in Tuscany. His drivers so far have been admirably skilled at shaking the tail.”

  “So do a black-bag job.”

  “On the Italian cardiologist? We tried his office in Rome. No success; he must keep the files on Orlov well hidden.”

  “And if I find Orlov?”

  “You’re Harrison Sinclair’s son-in-law. Married to Hal’s daughter. It’s not entirely implausible for you to have business with him. He will be suspicious, but you can work it. Once you’re in his presence, we want you to find out everything about whatever it was that he and Hal Sinclair discussed. Everything. Did Hal really steal a fortune? What did Orlov have to do with it? You speak Russian, and with your ‘talent’—”

  “He doesn’t have to say a word.”

  “In one fell swoop you may be able to locate the missing fortune and clear Hal Sinclair’s name. Now, it’s entirely possible that what you learn about Hal will not please you.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “No, Ben. You do not want to believe that Ha
rrison Sinclair was a crook, nor does Alex Truslow, nor do I. But prepare yourself for the possibility that this is what you’ll discover, repugnant though it may be. This assignment will not be without risks.”

  “From whom?”

  He leaned back in his wheelchair. “The most treacherous people in the intelligence business are one’s own. You know, there was a great nineteenth-century entomologist named Auguste Forel who once observed that the greatest enemies of ants are—other ants. The greatest enemies of spies are other spies.”

  He laced his fingers into a church steeple. “Whatever deal Vladimir Orlov struck with Hal Sinclair, I’m sure he does not want it revealed.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Toby,” I said. “You don’t believe Hal was innocent.”

  He exhaled almost soulfully. “No,” he admitted, “I don’t. I wish I could believe otherwise. But at the very least you might be able to find out what Hal was up to before he died. And why.”

  “What Hal was up to?” I thundered. “Hal is dead!”

  Startled, Toby looked up. He seemed frightened, though by my outburst or by something else I couldn’t tell.

  “Who killed him?” I demanded. “Who killed Hal?”

  “Former Stasi employees, I would guess.”

  “I don’t mean the wet work. Who ordered his death?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “These CIA renegades—the ‘Wise Men’ Alex told me about?”

  “Possible. Although perhaps—I know you hate to hear this, but consider it anyway—perhaps Sinclair was one of them. One of the so-called Wise Men. And perhaps there was a falling out.”

  “That’s one theory,” I said coldly. “There must be others.”

  “Yes. Perhaps Sinclair made some sort of deal with Orlov, something involving a great deal of money. And Orlov—out of greed or out of fear—had Sinclair killed. After all, wouldn’t it be logical that some of these former East German and Romanian thugs would do some freelance work for the man who used to be their boss?”

  “I need to talk to Alex Truslow.”

  “He’s unreachable.”

  “No,” I said. “He’s at Camp David. He’s reachable.”

  “He’s in transit, Ben. If you must speak to him, try tomorrow. But there is no time to lose. This is a matter of the gravest urgency.”

  “You plan to keep Molly, is that it? Until I deliver the goods?”

  “Ben, we’re desperate. Things are too vital.” He inhaled deeply. “It wasn’t my idea, by the way. I argued against it with Charles Rossi until I was blue in the face.”

  “But you went along with it.”

  “She’s being treated exceptionally well, I promise you. She’ll confirm that. The hospital has been told she’s been called away on an urgent family matter. She’ll have a peaceful rest for a few days, which she badly needs.”

  I felt the adrenaline surge, and struggled mightily to keep my composure. “Toby, I believe it was you who once told me that when an ant nest is under attack, the ants don’t send out the young-men ants as guards, as soldiers. They send out the old-lady ants, you told me. Because it’s okay if the old ladies get killed off. That’s called altruism—it’s better for the colony. Right?”

  “We will do everything we can to protect you.”

  “Two conditions,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “First, this is the only assignment I will undertake for anyone. I will not be made a guinea pig, or an errand boy, or anything else for that matter. Is that understood?”

  “Understood,” Toby said equably. “Although I should hope at some point we could induce you to change your mind.”

  I ignored him and went on. “And second, you receive the information only after Molly is released. I’ll work out the exact terms and arrangements. But it’s going to be my game, with my rules.”

  “You’re being unreasonable,” Toby said more loudly.

  “Perhaps. But it’s a deal breaker.”

  “I can’t allow it. It’s against all accepted procedure.”

  “Accept it, Toby.”

  Another long, long pause. “Dammit, Ben. All right.”

  “All right, then,” I said. “We have a deal.”

  He put both palms flat on the table before him. “We’ll fly you to Rome in a few hours,” he said. “There’s not a minute to lose.”

  PART

  IV

  TUSCANY

  International Herald-Tribune

  * * *

  Leader of Germany’s National Socialist Party Assassinated

  * * *

  BY ISAAC WOOD

  NEW YORK TIMES SERVICE

  BONN—Jurgen Krauss, the fiery chairman of the reborn Nazi Party, who was the leading contender in the race for Chancellor, was shot and killed this morning in a rally here.

  No one has yet claimed responsibility.

  That leaves only two men in the contest to lead Germany, both of them considered centrists. While voicing sorrow at the violent end of Mr. Krauss, diplomats expressed relief.…

  THIRTY

  I had been to Rome several times before, and never much liked it. Italy is without a doubt one of my favorite countries in the world, perhaps my single favorite, but I’ve always found Rome grimy, congested, and despondent. Beautiful, yes—Michelangelo’s Campidoglio, St. Peter’s, the Villa Borghese, the Via Veneto, are all striking in different ways, ancient, luxuriant, opulent—but overwhelming, threatening. And virtually everywhere you go in the city you somehow always end up at the monument to Victor Emmanuel II, a horrific typewriter-shaped structure of white Brescian marble, on the Piazza Venezia, shrouded in malign traffic fumes. Mussolini delivered his harangues here; I preferred to avoid it whenever possible.

  The day I arrived was rain-swept and unpleasantly chilly. In the driving rain, the taxi stand in front of the international terminal at Fiumicino seemed a bit too forlorn to brave right away.

  So I found a bar and ordered a cafe lungo, savored it for a long while, feeling the caffeine do battle with my jet lag. I had entered the country on a false passport, provided for me by those wizards of forgery in CIA’s Technical Services section (in cooperation, let it be said, with the U.S. State Department).

  My cover was Bernard Mason, an American businessman here to make some arcane arrangements with my corporation’s Italian subsidiary. The passport they’d supplied me was admirably dog-eared; if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought it had indeed been used on many international trips before, and by a slob. But of course it had been dummied up just for the occasion.

  I polished off a second cafe lungo and a cornetto and made my way toward the restroom. The facility was simple, black and white, and clean. Against one wall, below a large mirror, was a row of sinks; facing them on the other side of the small room were four toilet stalls, the doors to which were painted a glossy black and went from floor to ceiling without a gap. The leftmost stall was occupied, and although the center one was vacant, I stood at the sink for a while, washed my hands, my face, and combed my hair, until the door to the left stall opened. A pudgy middle-aged Arab emerged, tightening his belt against his ample gut. He left without washing his hands, and I immediately entered the stall he had just vacated and locked it.

  I lowered the toilet seat, climbed up on it, and reached up to the molded-plastic compartment near the ceiling. It lifted open easily, as promised, and there it was, a fat bundle. A padded manila envelope that contained, swaddled in clean cotton rags, a box of fifty .45 ACP shells and a sleek, matte black .45 semiautomatic pistol, a Sig Sauer 220, brand-new and still oily from the manufacturer. The Sig is, I believe, the best pistol made. It has tritium night-sights, a four-inch barrel, six rifling grooves, and weighs around twenty-six ounces. I hoped I’d have no use for it.

  I was in a foul mood. I had sworn I’d never return to this terrible game, and now I was back. And once again I would have to draw upon my dark, violent side, which I thought I had buried once and for all.

  I wrappe
d it back up, slipped it into my carry-on bag, and left the envelope in the compartment, which I pressed closed.

  As soon as I left the restroom and headed for the taxi stand, however, I felt something wrong. A presence, a person, a stirring. Airports are chaotic, hectic, bustling places, and so they are perfect for surveillance. I was being observed. I felt it. I can’t say I heard or read anything—far too many people in too many little throngs, a Babel of foreign languages, and my Italian was only serviceable. But I sensed it. My instincts, once so finely tuned, then so long out of use, were slowly returning.

  There was someone.

  A compact, swarthy man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, wearing a green-gray sports jacket, lounging near the farmacia, his face mostly hidden behind a copy of the Corriere della sera.

  I hastened my pace somewhat until I was outside. He followed me out: very unsubtle. Which concerned me. He didn’t seem to worry about being noticed, which probably meant there were others. Probably also meant that they wanted me to notice.

  I got into the next available cab, a white Mercedes, and said, “Grand Hotel, per favore.”

  The watcher was in a cab immediately behind mine, I saw at once. Probably by now there was another vehicle involved, perhaps two or three. After about forty minutes of crawling through the morning rush-hour traffic, the cab pulled up the narrow Via Vittorio Emanuele Orlando and in front of the Grand Hotel. At once, four liveried bellmen descended upon the cab to remove my luggage, load it onto a cart, help me out of the car, and escort me into the hotel’s subdued, elegant lobby.

  I tipped each one of them more than generously and gave my cover name at the reception desk.

  The clerk smiled, said, “Buon giorno, signore,” and quickly inspected his reservation sheets. A troubled expression crossed his face. “Signore … ah, Mr. Mason?” he said, looking up apologetically.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “There appears to be, sir. We have no record—”