Using the thumb and forefinger of each hand he pinched at the edge of the substance just beneath his jawline, got it started there and peeled the facial mask up and off in one filmy piece. He enjoyed the transformation, lifted his chin and turned his head slowly from side to side to appreciate his features from various angles, magnified. Closer to the mirror he scrutinized the texture of his complexion. Fine, he thought.
There were a few tiny remnants of the facial substance on his brows and hairline. He picked them off, pausing several times to rediscover his reflection. From the table he took up a fluffy ball of cotton that he dipped into a Lalique cut-crystal bowl filled with a pale pink lotion, a mild astringent. Ever so lightly, he patted his face with the saturated cotton, taking care not to rub, as though that would be irreverently harsh.
A single brow hair, he noticed, was a bit long and defiantly out of place. He isolated it with a pair of silver tweezers and plucked it. The minor sting he felt was a sacrifice. He soothed that brow with his finger, smoothed both brows with a delicate outward motion. Flicked at his lashes. Examined his teeth. Wet his lips. Then, after another long, approving look into the mirror he got up and went inside.
That entire upper wing of the villa was his private quarters. It consisted of a large bedroom, sitting room, dressing room, and bath. The bedroom and sitting room were furnished with authentic eighteenth-century French pieces, somehow miraculously saved from the burning rage of the Revolution. Especially splendid were a pair of perfectly matched Boule commodes that the Louvre would have been proud to display. The carpets were antique Aubusson, and the silk-damask covered walls were hung with such treasures as two Bonnards, a Velasquez, a good-sized Renoir, a Goya, and a Monet. One painting was particularly prized by Pinchon—a rare Fragonard that had been originally done for Madame Du Barry’s salon. Pinchon valued it not so much for its beauty or worth, but because he had outbid Wildenstein for it at a Drouot sale several years back. Each time Pinchon looked at that painting he never really saw Fragonard’s delicate use of color or the graceful arrangement of three nude female figures; rather he saw the disappointment on Wildenstein’s face.
The adjoining dressing room was completely organized, everything built in and concealed. All surfaces, including the ceiling, were covered with mirror, and the lighting there had a flattering tint of pink. When Pinchon felt depressed, a need to be consoled, he would come here, where the opposing mirrored surfaces multiplied his image. It never failed to reassure him that all men were not created equal.
Now he slid aside part of a long wall and from fifty suits selected one made for him by Valentino. A double-breasted lightweight beige flannel. He inspected it. A speck of lint would be unpardonable, a wrinkle a catastrophe, a loose button cause for a tirade.
The beige received his sanction. He put it on, along with a pale yellow shirt of voile, monogrammed on the right cuff, and a blue figured-silk tie that he ceremoniously looped around with precise tension to slide up into a perfect knot. A shallow velvet-lined drawer held a dozen Piaget watches. He decided on one not so formal, platinum with a blue, numberless face.
Finally he stood straight and presented himself to himself from every point of view. His smile was a benediction.
Only one door connected this part of the villa with the rest. Apparently a regular wooden door. Actually a steel door covered with walnut veneer. It was fitted with four electric bolts. Pinchon pressed a small button inset on the inside door frame and the bolts retracted consecutively.
He went out to a long gallery-hallway that was lined on both sides with portraits of his male ancestors. Centuries of Pinchons sharing such a remarkable resemblance that they almost seemed to be a separate species. Their similar faces were not entirely the result of dominant male genes. Pinchons down through the ages had chosen their wives according to a physical standard that would help preserve the Pinchon look. No matter how attractive a woman might be, if she had a single strong feature, such as a slightly long noble nose or a mouth a bit too voluptuous, she was considered desirable, perhaps, but not a serious candidate for marriage and mating. For a Pinchon, a woman had to possess a pristine sort of beauty, fine, symmetrical features that would contribute rather than impose.
Pinchon knew his responsibility. Since he was twenty-one he’d been on the lookout for such a woman. He’d come on several possibilities but for various reasons had disqualified them. All except one. The one he’d met while skiing during the 1970 season at Gstaad. Perfect, he’d thought at first sight, and had her investigated.
What he learned made her all the more ideal. Her ancestry was British all the way back to William the Conqueror. Both her patrilineal and matrilineal sides had settled in Northumberland. There were strong indications her earlier forebears had been Scandinavian. Not a gap nor even a questionable link in her line, which, of course, precluded the possibility of any Jewish blood. Yes, she was physically and genealogically ideal and also, not unimportant, she was wealthy in her own right.
There was, however, a problem. She was already married. Normally that would have canceled Pinchon’s interest, and for a while he did try to eliminate her from his thoughts. Trying to forget her only made him remember her more. Logic told him to find someone else, but his desire said it preferred not to look any further, and he gave way to the fixation.
Marbella, Venice, Deauville, the Algarve.
Chance meetings. Or so they seemed. Actually Pinchon had arranged always to know her whereabouts. Each morning he was presented with a blue vellum envelope containing that information—exactly where she was, who she was with. No details about her behavior. He spared himself that.
From the start it was apparent she spent her time as she pleased, hardly any at all with her husband. Pinchon wondered about this marriage. Deteriorating? Reduced to a mere arrangement? He gathered a divorce was surely imminent.
But a year passed and her situation remained unchanged. This husband of hers, this shadowy obstacle, obviously he had some unnatural hold on her.
Another so-called chance meeting. At a soirée in Paris.
She introduced: “This is my husband, Carl.”
“Enchanté, monsieur.” An understatement. Pinchon was elated to find Carl was even less than he’d expected. In appearance and style the American couldn’t compare, couldn’t possibly compete. Of course, Pinchon already had ordered and received a preliminary rundown on Carl’s social, financial and business status. It revealed nothing to explain why she should be married to this man. There was one thing, however, that Pinchon did find interesting about Carl. His assignment for the American State Department, the fact that he was involved with disarmament.
Now, descending the wide, gracefully curving main stairs, Pinchon’s attention went automatically to a console in the foyer. There on its marble surface, as expected, was the blue envelope. He opened it and read:
She arrived in Eze
at 2:00 this morning.
With the American,
Edmund Stevens.
He was pleased. With her husband dead he’d wanted to press the advantage but more immediate business demands had prevented it. Now she was making it convenient for him by being in Eze, only five kilometers away. Evidently she’d taken the suggestion he’d made when he’d last seen her (again not by chance) at the gambling club in London. As for her being with this Edmund Stevens, that was really nothing to worry about. No doubt Stevens was only another of her temporary amusements. Pinchon decided that as soon as he’d completed his business with Colonel Bayumi he’d call and invite her to dinner for that evening. If she insisted on bringing Stevens along, well … he could see to it that the American was suitably distracted.
Pinchon started to put the envelope into his jacket pocket but thought better of it. It might cause an unsightly bulge. He tore it in half and left it there.
He crossed the foyer and went into the study. Colonel Bayumi was seated in a deep chair opposite Mustafa. Hatum and Gabil were also there, but standing. Colonel Bayumi
was in civilian clothes. He had a brandy and soda in hand and from the look of its color it was a strong one. Perhaps the drink was responsible for Bayumi’s face being flushed, or it could have been his collar and tie cutting into the corpulent folds of his neck. He was speaking in Arabic but stopped, got up quickly, and stood military straight when Pinchon entered. Bayumi was ready with his right hand but Pinchon extended only a verbal greeting and immediately took his place behind a large Régence table that served as a desk.
“You had no difficulty getting away?”
“None at all,” replied the Colonel. “At this moment I am appreciating the splendors of the Sistine Chapel.”
“And your return flight?”
“Four o’clock.”
“What we have to do here should take no more than an hour. The two o’clock flight will put you back in Rome by three-thirty.”
Bayumi was on a short leave from Cairo, had brought his wife and daughter with him to Rome to help make it appear an ordinary holiday. Its true purpose was this clandestine meeting with Pinchon. Bayumi was not pleased with the prospect of an earlier return flight. He’d anticipated a longer meeting, including a large, leisurely lunch. As a member of the Egyptian officer class he was not accustomed to being hurried.
Pinchon was anxious to get down to business. He dismissed Hatum and Gabil and instructed Mustafa to arrange for a seat on the two o’clock flight from Nice.
When they were alone Bayumi asked, “You don’t trust those three?”
“Mustafa.”
“Not the other two?”
“Hatum is limited, does what he is told and pretends he is a devout Muslim. He knows little and asks nothing except to be paid. The big, unsightly one, Gabil, has been with us only a month. Mustafa brought him in.”
“A Palestinian?”
“His family was killed when the Israelis bombed Es-Salt. He served with Arafat in Jordan and after that was on his own around Mount Hermon.”
“What happened to his face?”
“The Israelis, trying to get information from him when he was a prisoner in Ramleh. He revealed nothing, killed three guards, and escaped.”
“I’ve never known anyone escaping from Ramleh.”
“We verified it,” Pinchon said. “What impresses me most about Gabil is his hatred. He has it here, here, and here.” Pinchon indicated his head, heart and groin.
“It is in our blood,” Bayumi said.
Pinchon’s nod included himself.
“I can well understand why you trust Mustafa,” Bayumi said. “He’s a Bedouin with the old look in his eyes. When offended no man is more dangerous.”
Pinchon agreed. Mustafa would go to any extreme to preserve what he considered his honor. On the wedding night of his younger, only sister, when her husband did not publicly declare her to be a virgin, Mustafa had slashed the girl’s throat. According to the old way, that was the only honorable way of settling the matter. “For Mustafa,” Pinchon said, “the Jewish occupation of Arab lands is a personal disgrace.”
“It is unfortunate we did not have more men of his sort,” Bayumi said, implying past defeats by Israel might then have been avoided.
Pinchon held back his opinion that that would not have made a difference. No need to offend those he needed.
Bayumi took up his attaché case, snapped it open, and took out the most recent issue of Réalités. Almost ceremoniously he placed the magazine on the desk before Pinchon.
Enclosed within the magazine’s pages, Pinchon found several eight-by-ten glossy photographs printed on lightweight paper. They were in a meaningful sequence. The first was a view of an oblong block of concrete. Others showed the concrete progressively chipped away to reveal a long, cylindricalshaped object. Then a view of the object entirely free of concrete.
It was a metal canister resembling a regular oxygen or acetylene tank, twice as large around and three times longer. Stenciled lengthwise on its metal surface was a series of numbers and letters.
The final three photographs were closer views of the outlet end of the canister. Showing a fitted cap sealed in place over the neck. Showing the cap removed and a valve inside the throat of the canister. Showing details of that valve.
Pinchon was pleased as he went through the photographs. “The other is the same?”
“Identical.”
Pinchon gave more attention to the last photograph, trying to comprehend the various components of the valve. He didn’t understand how it functioned but he didn’t want the colonel to know that.
Bayumi pointed out an arrangement of irregular metal protrusions that were part of the valve. “This is the problem,” he said.
“Why?”
“It is a unique kind of locking device. To remove the gas from the canister requires a special piece of equipment that serves both as a key and a transfer unit. It threads into the throat here.” Bayumi pointed again. “When tightened down, it exerts the exact combination of pressures on the lock to release the gas.”
It sounded very complicated to Pinchon. He sighed his impatience and shifted nervously.
“That is how the Americans designed it,” said Bayumi.
“Can’t we break the lock or by-pass it in some way?”
“The gas could escape.”
“Perhaps not.”
“We must assume the Americans devised this elaborate locking system as a precautionary measure. I personally shouldn’t want to tamper with it.”
Nor would Pinchon, knowing how lethal the gas was. A minuscule drop anywhere on the skin caused death within sixty seconds. The substance affected the nervous system, causing every muscle in the body to go suddenly into an uncontrollable state of activity. The victim would literally be exercised to death. He would die vomiting, sweating, defecating, urinating and, ironically, with his penis erect. The chemical compound involved was O-alkyl (2-dialkylamino ethyl thio) alkyl phosphine oxide, which the United States Chemical Corps had appropriately dubbed with the acronym “O-DETH.” Categorically it was a vx type of nerve gas—colorless, odorless, fifty times more toxic than any other and modified to make it ten times heavier by volume. The latter feature was considered an important advance by military scientists because it allowed the gas to be dispersed from the air with greater accuracy over a limited target area. In the United States arsenal of chemical weapons it had been designated vx–10.
Pinchon inwardly shuddered at the thought of being anywhere near such a deadly substance. He quickly reminded himself he’d never have to be.
Bayumi was saying to him, “We have two alternatives. Either we obtain one of these transfer keys from the United States or we try to produce one ourselves.”
It was up to Pinchon. He looked at the photograph of the valve, indignant that such a small thing should be a major obstacle. Everything had gone so well up to now. He considered the first alternative. It would mean getting a man into one of the United States bases such as Fort Detrick or Edgewood Arsenal, or finding a buyable man who was already in. Either would involve risk and time. Too much of both. “Are you certain there is no other way we can transfer the gas?”
Colonel Bayumi was positive.
“How long would it take to make this piece of equipment?”
“A week,” replied Bayumi, although he believed it would take longer.
“You have already arranged for it?”
“Of course,” said Bayumi, a lie. He would make arrangements as soon as he returned to Cairo. It would be extremely dangerous working on the valve, a matter of trial and no allowance for error, but Bayumi was sure he would find someone dedicated enough to want to do it.
“Any other problems?” Pinchon asked.
“Perhaps one.”
“Perhaps?”
“It appears Sadat has in mind dismissing Brigadier Fahmi.”
That was unexpected and bad news. “Why?”
“He suspects Fahmi may have been involved with the attempted coup last October.”
“Was he?”
“Only to the extent that he knew of it and said nothing. Passive disloyalty, Sadat calls it.”
Pinchon slammed his palm down on the desk. “Damn Sadat!”
“Fahmi may not be the only one to go. Rumors are there will be dismissals all down the line, including several other division commanders … anyone who has failed to show enthusiasm for Sadat’s policies.”
“Sadat may find himself with an army and no officers. When will this purge take place?”
“Only Sadat knows that.”
There was, Pinchon realized, an advantage to these rumors. The high-ranking Egyptian officers who feared dismissal would now be all the more enterprising. Once Fahmi had matters under way the others would take the initiative without waiting for Sadat. They were also disgusted with Sadat’s no-war war, eager to erase the reputation for military incompetence that had come with the Six-Day defeat. In about a week they’d have their chance, if in the interim Sadat didn’t dismiss them and Brigadier-General Fahmi as well.
Pinchon didn’t like thinking about that possibility. Fahmi was vital to the plan. Under his command were the Fourth and Sixth Infantry Divisions. Forty thousand men garrisoned mainly along the Suez. In perfect position. Included were three airborne border battalions and two paratroop brigades. The latter had been trained by the Russians and were reputed to be the sharpest fighting units the Egyptians had.
“If Fahmi should go who do you think will take over his command?”
“I am sure who it will be.” Bayumi beamed.
“You?”
“How else would I know so much about what Sadat has in mind?”
Pinchon did not show his relief, but there was no point in concealing the fact that he now considered Bayumi in a different light. Bayumi expected that, and now was no time to disappoint him.
Pinchon’s foot found a signal button on the floor beneath the desk. Mustafa appeared in the doorway and Pinchon told him, “The colonel and I will have lunch here.”
Hazard Page 20
