Behold a Pale Horse

by Franklin Allen Leib

  “There was a lot of money that originated in Asia, Daddy. Mostly Korea and Taiwan.”

  “North Korea gets blown up and China intimidated. Are you suggesting—”

  “Who benefits from disruption of trade, especially movement of crude oil?”

  “The question there may be who loses.” J J scratched the gray stubble on his chin. “People getting oil from the Persian Gulf lose, people producing in the Western Hemisphere win. In the long run, Iran, Iraq, and the Central Asian Republics lose; Saudi Arabia wins because they can pipe crude to the Red Sea.” He refilled their coffee cups. “But that don’t make up a conspiracy, Julia May.”

  “There are other losers, Daddy. The powerful men around the world who can’t trade in commodities and merchandise because markets are disrupted.”

  “President Tolliver was never a favorite of the business community.”

  “They hate him. They backed Donahue and then Vice President Sandman, even though his enthusiasm for environmental protection was viewed as antibusiness. They did everything they could to block Tolliver’s election.”

  J J got up and began to pace. “I worked for the man for years. Can’t say I knew his heart, but I always thought he tried to do right.”

  “But only as he saw it, Daddy. I worked for him too. But he’s not down here in cozy, ‘you take care of me and I’ll take care of you’ Texas. He’s making wars and ruining markets. He’s causing powerful people to lose money. And all that crazy preachiness in his speeches. He’s all but said ‘repent, the end is near.’”

  J J sat on the corner of his desk. “You know, honey, the boys in Wall Street and London and Singapore might not like what he’s done, but it plays pretty good out here where the idea of kicking the asses of some of these pesky little countries that don’t do as they’re told sounds like old-time religion.”

  “Remember where the money came from, especially the Miami money and the money from Colombia and from crime families.”

  “He’s done nothing for them, except perhaps lighten up on drug enforcement.”

  “What will the world say when he invades Cuba?”

  J J snorted. “Now why in the hell would he do that?”

  “Think of all the money from Miami, and from organized crime. They all want Cuba back the way it was before Castro; with gambling and tourism back the island could boom.”

  J J stood up again, shaking his head. How did his little girl get such ideas? he wondered. Washington afflicted anyone who spent time there with paranoia or delusions of grandeur. “Get a good rest. We’ll have breakfast and drive on out there in the morning. I’m bettin’ we find a bunch of overpriced houses people bought to help the candidate out, then we can go to the courthouse and see who really owns them.”

  17

  ALFRED THAYER’S SECRET group met again in early October at his estate in the Shenandoah Valley. The group had expanded to include, among others, an Assistant Secretary of the Air Force and the Deputy Director of the FBI, but many of the original participants had declined further participation, including all the politicians. Thayer thought this was best. “Be seated, ladies and gentlemen,” Alfred Thayer whispered. He had lost much weight and looked haggard; it was rumored that he had been diagnosed with stomach cancer. The other attendees took seats around the long dining room table, glancing at each other nervously. “The time has come for drastic actions. I regret that this is so, but it is. I would ask the representatives of the air force and FBI to speak first. Madame Secretary?”

  The Assistant Secretary of the Air Force, Madeleine Allen, was a petite, pretty woman who, despite her silvery hair, looked far younger than her fifty years. “The Air Force has been ordered to bomb Iran in retaliation to the sinking of the Kuwaiti tanker. The targets, selected by the president, are the refinery and storage facilities at Bandar Khomeni.”

  “Seems reasonable,” grunted Grant Telfer, chairman of Lockheed-Martin.

  “We have also been ordered to bomb the holy city of Qom,” the assistant secretary continued. “To Shiites, the equivalent of the Vatican.”

  “What says the air force?” Thayer rasped.

  “The secretary says it is an unlawful order, and won’t carry it out unless it is confirmed by the Secretary of Defense.”

  “What says she?” Thayer pressed.

  “She’s in seclusion. Her son is dying of AIDS.”

  “The Chairman? General Austin?”

  “Is all for it, but legally, he is not in the chain of command.”

  Thayer turned to the CEO of Exxon, Sam Dunlap. “What is the situation in the Persian Gulf?”

  “The Strait is navigable, but navy teams are finding many mines. Commerce has slowed to a trickle.”

  “But it’s manageable?”

  “I would say yes. Most of the Abu Musa has been blown up on the bottom.”

  “So the president has given an order sure to inflame the Islamic world and bring chaos—further chaos—to the oil and commodities markets. So.” Thayer steepled his hands. “When is this attack to be launched?”

  “In late November,” Madeleine Allen said. “On a Saturday morning. Something is special to the president about that day.”

  “We must find out why,” Thayer said. “Now, FBI?”

  The Deputy Director was a chubby, balding man of fifty-six who looked more the rumpled college professor than the top cop he was. His name was Charles Thackery. “The FBI has been ordered to bring in the Little Rock bombers in body bags,” he said simply.

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “We believe we do. Three are in Detroit and one is hiding in Guaymas, Mexico.”

  “How soon could you have them in custody?” Thayer asked.

  The Deputy Director fidgeted. “At any time.”

  “But you haven’t arrested them?”

  “Given the president’s order, the Director is very reluctant to proceed.”

  Thayer sat back, breathing deeply, seemingly in pain. After a long pause, he began speaking, slowly, carefully. “It appears clear, regrettably clear, that the president has become sick, or irrational, or deranged. He must be removed before he can plunge the nation and the world into chaos. The bombing of Qom will inflame half the world and starve the rest of oil. The execution of four black militants will fill the streets of our cities with blood and fire. The international trade upon which the wealth of nations—especially poor and emerging nations—depends has dried up. Financial markets are in disarray; even foreign exchange contracts for commercial transactions are impossible to settle.”

  “And we’re all losing our asses in the stock and bond markets,” Frank Hannon, the CEO of GE remarked.

  “When you say ‘removed,’” a retired admiral and former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said, “of course you mean by constitutional means.”

  “Of course,” Thayer said blandly.

  “Impeachment?” Madeleine Allen asked.

  “Too slow,” Thackery said. “He’ll force our hand, and yours, long before Congress could even begin hearings.”

  “The Twenty-fifth Amendment, then,” the former admiral suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Thayer said.

  “This sounds like conspiracy to me,” Allen said, standing. “I’ll report back to my superior, but she’ll have none of it.”

  “There is no conspiracy,” Thayer said, a bit more force in his voice. “Only a discussion. You’re all reminded that a condition of your attendance at this conference—each of yours—was on condition of secrecy.”

  “Nevertheless,” Thackery began, rising to his feet.

  “Nevertheless, any of you who are not comfortable may leave and no harm done,” Thayer interrupted. “Take a moment and consider: the nation and the world face a clear and present danger.”

  Everyone sat and looked around for about five minutes. In the end, half of the fourteen people in the room got up quietly, gathered their notes, and left.

  Those remaining were the industrialists, the bankers, and two re
tired Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs. Thayer ordered the door locked and drinks were served. Thayer waited until the seven men settled in with their drinks and some canapes brought in by two uniformed butlers who immediately withdrew, relocking the door behind them. When he spoke, he spoke slowly, weighing each word, knowing each was bad news. “There are no constitutional means to do what must be done,” he said sadly. “There simply isn’t time, although if there were, I believe the president would be removed.”

  “Why not use the Twenty-fifth Amendment?” asked Admiral Carter Daniels, a decorated, nearly blind veteran of Vietnam, nearing seventy-five years old. “Have him declared temporarily incompetent. Vice President Donahue is an ass, but he can be controlled by the party.”

  The Chairman of GE, who was also a lawyer, shook his head. “The president may have committed folly, may indeed have placed the nation and world business in peril for no reason, but it is difficult to argue that he’s done anything illegal, beyond his powers, or, legally, insane.”

  “He acts in the name of religion,” Sam Dunlap of Exxon said. “Perhaps a delegation of prominent churchmen—”

  “He never showed the slightest inclination to religion in his youth,” Admiral Daniels said hotly. “His ‘calling’ was nothing more than a ploy to avoid service in Vietnam. He’s not leading a crusade; he’s a simple madman, a Napoleon, a Hitler, a Tamerlane, but with the power to truly destroy the world.”

  “We agree he must be removed,” Thayer said firmly.

  Everyone nodded except Dunlap. “I’m afraid I see where this is leading.” He rose. “Please have the doors unlocked, Alfred. I can’t hear any more.”

  Thayer pressed a button under the table and one of the butlers unlocked the doors and peered in. The Chairman of Exxon picked up his briefcase and walked rapidly from the room without saying anything further. “Anyone else?” Thayer whispered. “No one will think less of you.”

  The five remaining men looked at each other, and Thayer, whose face was a granite mask. The Chairman of Citibank hung his head. “I know you’re right, Alfred. You’ve always been right about this man. But I can’t do this; I remember 1963 all too vividly.”

  “It is precisely because of 1963, and the hard decisions that were made then, that we must act as the patriots of the time acted,” Thayer said with some heat. “But you all have a say. Do you think I’m wrong? Can we afford the risk of not acting?”

  Citibank’s chairman walked to the door and out. No one else moved. Thayer nodded, and the door was again locked by the butler. “Now it’s time to call a spade a spade,” Thayer said. “We’re considering the removal of the President of the United States by executive action. For those of you not up to date on the euphemisms of the intelligence community, executive action means assassination.” He looked at his four remaining conspirators. Hannon of GE thought he saw a spark of madness in the old banker’s eyes, but he kept his seat.

  So did the others, Admiral Daniels, General Smith, who had never spoken, and Baruch Rubin, the retired Chairman of the Federal Reserve, who also had never spoken. Thayer continued. “Remember Macchiavelli, my fellows in this awful necessity. ‘When you strike at a king, you must kill him.’” He pressed the buzzer under the table again. When the door was opened, he called to the butler. “Bring in our guest, please.”

  A man dressed all in black including a silk ski mask with narrow eye slits entered the room and took a seat at the foot of the table, as far as he could from the conspirators who had crowded around Thayer at the head. “This is Ramon, who will find us the instrument we require,” Thayer said.

  “Will he be traceable?” General Arthur Allen asked. He had been Director of Central Intelligence in the early nineties.

  “Not to me,” the man in black said. “To you, only if you screw it up.”

  “Then get him,” Thayer said. “We’ll see that your man has all the information we can supply as to the president’s public schedule.”

  “He’ll get that himself.”

  Thayer looked at each conspirator in turn. No one showed any expression other than sorrow. “Then make it so.”

  The man in black, Ramon Carvahal of the Cuban National Service of Information, got up and left. Beneath his mask, he was smiling.

  ALFRED THAYER ADJOURNED the meeting and left his guests to enjoy the pool, tennis courts, and golf course on the estate, or retire to the well-stocked bar if they wished. He went to his study and closed the door, after telling his personal assistant to hold all calls. He sat and looked out the window at the piece of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley that was his. He brooded on what he had done; what he had set in motion. He alone knew the identity of the man in black; none of the others ever would. He alone had the detailed report of Tolliver’s money connections to enemies of the United States, both within and without the country. The others had condemned the president on evidence that he was dangerous to business, perhaps crazy. Thayer wasn’t sure how crazy Tolliver was, though he was undeniably dangerous. Thayer knew, because of the printout of the financial records of Uvalde County Savings and Loan and Little Cheyenne Development and the money flows into Tolliver’s campaign, that the president was corrupt, bought and sold. He was in thrall of all the people in the world who wanted the United States brought low, who would profit from chaos.

  He could not reveal the money flows to the others without destroying the reputation of the Capital National Bank; indeed destroying the bank itself. Thayer closed his eyes and brooded. Yes, he decided, the needs of the nation and of his beloved bank coincided, exactly.

  If Alfred Thayer hadn’t loved the intricately beautiful Shirazi rug beneath his desk, he would have spat.

  18

  COBRA SAT ON the veranda of his house, watching the sun set into the dark shadowed mounds of the Makapi Hills. Venus brightened, then the sliver of the new moon. Cobra liked the early evening best, when the heat of the day gave way suddenly to the cool of the high plateau. He could put his feet up and have a drink and forget for a while the drought, the condition of the land and stock, and the loom of foreclosure.

  The telephone rang, deep within the house. An increasingly rare event as people left the valley as their homesteads failed. Most moved east, looking for farm work where the rains had come. Many of the whites left the country entirely, bound for Australia, New Zealand, or Canada.

  Isaiah, the old houseman who stayed on simply because he had no living family and his home village was too far away to walk, padded softly out of the house carrying the phone on its long cord. He placed it on the table next to Cobra’s wicker rocker, picked up the empty glass, and went back into the house without a word.

  Cobra picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “This is Quentin. I have something for you.”

  “I’m a farmer now,” Cobra said cautiously. The new black-run government in Pretoria had never discontinued the old apartheid government’s monitoring of phone calls, especially calls overseas. The buzz on the line indicated an overseas call, and Quentin, one of Cobra’s contractors from the old days, worked from various places in Europe.

  “We are told your farm is in some difficulty.” Quentin had a strong Afrikaner accent. “Take this and you can either fix it up or simply leave it and retire.”

  Cobra winced. “Well—”

  “Fly to Jo’burg. You’ll be met. Fifty thousand rand just to take a look.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And bring your tools.”

  Cobra paused as Isaiah returned with a fresh Pink Gin. Shooters never carried their own weapons, certainly not across borders. The client always provided the means at or near the site of the act, untraceable throwaways, all too often trash. Isaiah padded away. “That could create difficulties, I’m sure you know.”

  “Not between where you are and Jo’burg. Read the proposal; it will be sealed, you know my seal. If it is unsealed, take the expense money and go home.”

  Fifty thousand rand wasn’t much, but it would quiet the bank. “I’ll go to
Johannesburg; no guarantee I’ll go farther.”

  Quentin chuckled. “You’ll go farther. Take the flight tomorrow that arrives at seventeen-hundred hours; you’ll make your onward connection. Give you a little time to test the gear, and your old formidable skills.” Quentin hung up.

  COBRA SET THE PHONE down and picked up his drink. “Isaiah?” he called.

  “Master,” the old man said from just inside.

  “Get me my old rifle, the Remington 700.”

  “Precious little game, master.”

  “Target practice, for when the game returns with the rain.”

  “God willing,” Isaiah said. He brought the rifle, and the tools and cleaning kit. Cobra set his drink aside and slowly disassembled the old beauty down to its tiniest components.

  COBRA ROSE AT SUNRISE, had his simple breakfast of tea and fruit, and took his old Marine Corps Remington Model 700 sniper rifle with its upgraded variable-power telescopic sight and two boxes of ammunition down the dry wash that had been his river. Isaiah tagged along, curious, carrying a burlap sack full of cans and bottles. Cobra had the cans placed in an irregular line along the sandbar, then paced back three hundred meters. He set himself in the parched grass, calm, remembering. He assumed the prone position, and was immediately greeted with stabs of protest from joints and muscles no longer young. Isaiah trudged up the shallow incline with a pillowcase filled with river sand. Cobra sat up, tied off the open end, and pounded the sand into one end, then tied it again. He kneaded a groove across the sandbag with his thumbs and set it in front of his chosen spot in the grass. He resumed his prone position, letting the aches and pains even out then driving them from his mind. He gauged the wind; light, from right to left, stronger down the river valley. He placed the crosshairs on the leftmost tin and slowed his breathing. He had expected it to be difficult to feel the old oneness with rifle and target, but it wasn’t. He let the tin blur and focus in his eyes, increasing the pressure on the trigger with each shallow exhalation. The shot broke and Cobra immediately swung to the next can as the first jumped in the air. He worked the bolt action so smoothly he never lost the target image in the scope.