Mustafa understood.
“Did you see to the reservation?”
“There were no seats available on the two o’clock flight.”
“As it works out, that’s just as well. We haven’t yet covered everything.”
Bayumi saw through all this, but reacted to it as politeness rather than deceit. He settled back, relaxed.
Pinchon got up and went to a nearby bookcase. He removed several volumes from a shoulder-high shelf and quickly opened a small wall safe. He had a thick sheaf of new five-hundred franc notes in his hand when he returned to his place. “Your expenses,” he told Bayumi. “You should have reminded me.” He placed the money on the desk, close to the front edge.
Bayumi estimated that there were at least five hundred five hundreds in the stack. He did not say thank you as he put them in his attaché case.
Pinchon reached under the desk and withdrew a leather-covered portfolio. A large portfolio with flaps that he opened left and right. It contained an elaborate map of the Middle East. There were circles and arrows, numbers and notations scribbled on it. “I thought we might use the time to go over the details,” he said.
Colonel Bayumi went around to the other side of the desk to share Pinchon’s point of view.
The plan.
An intricate, audacious scheme from the mind of a resourceful fanatic. Over the past two years Pinchon had spent most of his time and a great deal of money piecing it together, covertly recruiting those he felt were essential to its success.
Several pieces had already moved nicely into place.
That the United States had developed the nerve gas vx–10 was a fact readily found in numerous recent books on the subject of chemical-biological warfare. It was also public knowledge that the United States had reduced its C–W stockpile by dumping some of it in the Atlantic Ocean. At first Pinchon tried to acquire the formula for vx–10. He found that impossible. It was too highly guarded a secret. He then considered using a common G-type nerve gas known as Sarin. Though Sarin was easily obtainable it lacked the swift, lethal efficiency of vx–10—for example, it evaporated too quickly in the air and could not be distributed with nearly as much accuracy. Only vx–10 would do. However, there was no way of getting any of it except from the floor of the Atlantic. Pinchon held little optimism for that prospect, until he learned of the special underwater recovery ship, the Sea Finder. Fortunately, the Sea Finder was planning an expedition to the Mediterranean. Pinchon set about through contacts to influence its itinerary, and shortly thereafter the Egyptian Ministry of Culture courteously invited the Sea Finder’s archeological team to examine its archives in Alexandria. Still to be determined was exactly where in the Atlantic the United States had dumped the vx–10. That knowledge was not so hard to come by. The crews of various U.S. Navy cargo ships knew the location. A mere hundred dollars or an ounce of hashish would have been an adequate price. But, for personal reasons, Pinchon had preferred to deal with Carl.
So, two canisters of vx–10 were now at Pinchon’s disposal. They had been stripped of their concrete encasements in Alexandria and taken to a hiding place in Cairo. As soon as the special valve key was made, the gas would be transferred into six aerial atomizing pods. The pods would be transported by truck at Al Burumbul, then east over a remote, seldom used road to Ras Za’ Faranah and down the Red Sea coast to a destination twenty miles northwest of Al-Qusayr. A perfect, isolated area.
There the pods would be fitted onto three MIG–21 jet fighters. The planes were already there, waiting. Over the past six months each of these Egyptian Air Force planes had been reported lost while on routine patrol. Brigadier-General Fahmi had seen to that. The three pilots he’d chosen were more than willing to cooperate and had no difficulty putting their planes down on the open, hard-baked edge of the Eastern Desert.
In the dark early-morning hours of the appointed day the three MIGS would take off and proceed in formation on a northeasterly course across the Red Sea to Saudi Arabia and continue north over Jordan. This was the normal air corridor used by Arab planes bound for various bases in Syria.
Just prior to reaching the Syrian border the planes would alter course and head due east. At a speed of fifteen hundred miles per hour they would reach the Jordan-Israel border in less than two minutes. They would approach the border at an altitude of only one hundred feet, thereby avoiding detection by the Israeli radar screen. Maintaining that low level flight, they would pass over the River Jordan and enter Israeli air space at Al Ghwar (32 degrees 15 minutes north).
At that point the three planes would diverge. Plane one would go southwest to Tel Aviv. Plane three would head northwest to Haifa. Plane two would continue straight on to Nabulus. Planes one and three would each have only fifty miles to cover. Within two minutes they would be over their objectives. By half that time, plane two would have surprised the Israeli military base near Nabulus, releasing vx–10 over that area. In one pass it would wipe out an entire Israeli infantry division and three armored brigades, approximately fifteen thousand men. That would serve as an object lesson to the Israeli high command, demonstrating the inescapable, terrible death that would fall upon the seven hundred thousand people of Tel Aviv and Haifa, if the military refused to cooperate.
Timed to precede this phase of the operation, a group of Palestinian infiltrators, who had already established themselves in Tel Aviv as nonbelligerents would seize the Israeli Government radio service, Kol Yisrael. They would broadcast a general-surrender ultimatum, and simultaneously an official written ultimatum would be hand-delivered to Israeli high command headquarters and all key political leaders.
Any attempt to shoot down the planes over Tel Aviv and Haifa, even if successful, would be suicidal, bringing a mist of death down on those cities. The two Arab pilots would be honored to exchange their lives for those of seven hundred thousand Israelis.
While the planes continued to hover above Tel Aviv and Haifa (they would have fuel enough to maintain a holding pattern for five hours), Brigadier-General Fahmi would order his forces into action from the Egyptian military bases of Al-Kabrit, Al-Shallufa, and Deversoir. Motorized units of the Fourth and Sixth Infantry would cross the Suez and take over Israeli positions in Sinai. Within two hours all of Sinai would be retaken. Meanwhile, from the bases at Faid, Abu-Suwayr, and Kasfareet, Fahmi would dispatch his airborne battalions and paratroop brigades. Their objectives would be strategic military installations within Israel itself, particularly those of the Israeli Air Force. The relatively short distances to these objectives (only 200 miles to Tel Aviv) was an important tactical advantage. With no resistance, Brigadier-General Fahmi’s troops would, within three hours or at most four have control of Beersheba, Gaza, Al-Khalil, Elat, and, of course, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.
During this time the word of liberation would have spread quickly to all Palestinians within and around Israel’s borders. They would overrun and reclaim their homeland. Eight hundred thousand would pour across the Jordan from Judea and Samaria. From Gaza would come four hundred thousand. From Lebanon and Syria three hundred thousand more. Altogether about a million and a half Palestinians. Armed with surrendered Israeli weapons, they would serve rightfully as the army of occupation, easily capable of dominating two and a half million Jews. Among the Palestinians would be the various guerrilla factions, especially in the north. Naturally, they would be merciless.
A six-day war? This one would be over in six hours. Over before Sadat could prepare a statement taking credit. Over long before any major power such as the United States could intervene. (The United States Sixth Fleet would probably be vacationing in Cannes, the superstructures of its warships all strung with festive lights.)
World reaction?
The United States would no doubt rush its Sixth Fleet and missile-bearing submarines to the eastern Mediterranean. War would seem imminent. The President of the United States would issue a strong, threatening protest and follow that up with a public statement condemning inhuman Arab aggressio
n. The thirty million Jews in America would press for swift action. Russia would also deplore the attack, but warn the United States against making any overt move. Russia would not tolerate the possibility of the United States taking over the Middle East and gaining control of three-quarters of the world’s supply of oil. It would be a stand-off. Neither superpower would risk a direct confrontation. They would flex military muscles, keep an eye on one another, hedge, buy time. A special emergency session of the United Nations Security Council would be called. Each member would express appropriate indignation. Talk.
Meanwhile, the Arab kingdom would be reunited, Arab pride would be restored. There would be blood on the Wailing Wall.
Pinchon flipped the left and right flaps of the portfolio, closing it.
Bayumi’s stubby fingers held up a crystal cordial glass filled with Chartreuse. “You, sir, are a genius,” said Bayumi.
Pinchon saw no reason to deny that.
13
THE STERLING-SILVER dart flashed through the air.
It struck the forehead of the girl, solidly, all of its inch-and-a-half point going in.
For a moment it seemed incredible to Hazard that the girl did not flinch or cry out or bleed.
“Merde,” said Pinchon. He had two more tries. With the second, he hit the girl on the nose. “Voilà!” he exclaimed.
The girl suddenly receded, became a full figure in a white silk dress that she slowly peeled off, exposing her breasts and on down. When she was entirely nude she pivoted to present an all-around view, assumed a final flaunting pose, and abruptly disappeared.
Hazard thought at least she deserved some applause.
“She wasn’t very good,” said Pinchon. “The next is much better.”
Catherine retrieved the darts. It was her turn and there for her aim was the face of another girl. Catherine appraised the girl a bit competitively and then made a smooth skillful throw. The dart went into the girl’s cheek, just slightly off mark.
They were in Pinchon’s game room. At the moment they were playing what he called Voyeur, an advanced version of darts, involving a film projector connected to an electronic target board. The object of the game was to hit the nose of a girl who was projected. This in turn automatically started the film, presenting the visual reward. Pavlov, Freud, and Hefner all in one.
Catherine’s next two throws were also near misses. She went to the board, pulled out one of the darts and jabbed it point blank into the activating area. The girl on the film began undressing.
“Not fair,” said Hazard.
“All’s fair,” said Catherine.
Pinchon agreed with her. He’d taken the liberty of pouring Catherine a cognac. He held it out and she refused by ignoring it, choosing instead to be close beside Hazard, who reached and took the snifter from Pinchon’s hand.
That was more or less how the evening had gone for Pinchon up to then. Not at all as he’d expected. To distract this Edmund Stevens he had provided Contessa Pilar Falconetti, a beautiful, young Italian socialite accustomed to getting on her terms whatever and whomever she happened to want. Pinchon had explained the circumstances to Pilar in advance, and they had agreed her favor was worth five thousand francs. Not that Pilar needed the money, really. She had wealth enough to go along with her authentic title. Five thousand would hardly cover what she spent each month on shoes alone. However, as Pinchon knew from past experience, she preferred being paid. Somehow it always enhanced her performance and increased her pleasure.
Over drinks before dinner Pilar had indicated to Pinchon that she approved of the arrangement. The American introduced as Edmund Stevens aroused a most favorable first impression, and she began at once to keep her part of the bargain, putting a little simmer in her eyes whenever her glance met Hazard’s. When her attention was elsewhere but she knew his was on her, she embraced her own bare shoulder or ran her fingers over the inner bend of her arm, suggesting how pleasant she was to touch. Hopefully his hands would identify with hers.
During dinner Pilar was more direct. She flattered Hazard with her laughter and gestures, and in between her contributions to the conversation her eyes said other things to him. Frequently she made sure he noticed the wet pink pillow of her tongue.
Pinchon soon realized his strategy was backfiring. He had counted on Catherine being blasé, as usual. He’d thought she’d be amused and join him in observing Pilar perform her specialty. Instead Catherine showed she cared, reacted possessively toward Hazard and tried to outdo Pilar. Pinchon was not receiving even his fair share of the attention. He had to go on the offensive.
“What do you do, Stevens?” he asked.
“Ed,” corrected Hazard. “I’m a surgeon.” He’d been prepared for the question but the answer he’d had in mind was advertising executive. He hadn’t even considered surgeon. It had just come out.
Pinchon glanced distrustfully at Hazard’s hands. “You’re good with a knife?”
Hazard was reminded of the one tucked inside his right boot. “Actually,” he told Pinchon, “I’m better with a saw.” Having fun with it, Hazard went on, “Of course, I never use an axe. Never.”
Catherine wondered what the hell Hazard was up to now.
“I assume you specialize in amputations,” Pinchon said.
Hazard shrugged. “More often than not it’s all that can be done. Though I do manage to save a limb now and then.”
“Admirable,” Pinchon commented.
Catherine smiled, catching on.
Pilar clutched her arms, cringing at the thought that she’d been well on the way to intimacy with this butcher.
“Just last month,” Hazard continued, “I was called in on a very interesting case in Boston. The patient was over two hundred years old and—”
Pinchon’s eyes went up.
“That’s not so old,” said Hazard. “I’ve seen some over four hundred and thriving. Mostly oaks but even a few hardy maples.”
“You’re a …”
“Tree surgeon.”
Pinchon was annoyed, feeling that this bit of fun had been at his expense. He doubted Stevens was telling the truth. More likely, the man was just another indolent American floater living by his wits. Anyway, tree surgeon or not, he was hardly a serious rival.
“Are you over on a vacation?” Pinchon asked.
Hazard nodded. “Pursuing my hobby.”
“Me,” Catherine said.
“Egyptian antiquities,” said Hazard.
“How fascinating,” Pilar said. “Of course you know Jean-Claude has a splendid collection.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Perhaps later,” Pinchon said, and then to Catherine, “Do you still have those Egyptian beads I gave you?”
She didn’t remember. And then she did. “Oh, those. No, I gave them to my secretary, Peter.”
“They were twenty-eighth dynasty, authenticated by the curator of the Cairo Museum.”
“Peter adores them; he wears them all the time.”
Pinchon almost concealed his irritation and told her, “They belonged to Ankhesenamun.” He asked if Hazard knew who that was.
Hazard managed to pull it out of his mental file. “She was the widow of Nebkheprure-Tutankamen. Married three times. Once before and once after the death of Tut. Her last marriage was to her grandfather, Ay, who was also her great-uncle. The intent of that incestuous union was to protect her throne from an ambitious general named Horemheb. But Horemheb got to be Pharaoh anyway. Incidentally,” Hazard added for good measure, “Horemheb married Mutnedjmet, the sister of Nefertiti.”
Pinchon wished he hadn’t asked.
Catherine was impressed, said so, and blew a kiss Hazard’s way.
Which inspired Pilar to share with Hazard some of her apricot mousse via the little silver spoon that had been in her mouth.
Having one’s ego spoonfed by a ravishing contessa was by no means distasteful. However, Hazard reminded himself of his purpose for being there. When he’d killed Badr four d
ays before in London he’d been left with only one connection that might lead him to the whereabouts of Hatum and Mustafa. The last he’d seen of any of them they were at Heathrow catching a flight with Pinchon.
Hazard, pretending mild curiosity, had asked Catherine about the Frenchman. Influenced by her own motives she mistook his interest in Pinchon as a show of jealousy. An encouraging sign, she thought, certainly contrary to the platonic boundaries Hazard had set on their relationship. She couldn’t, of course, come right out and accuse him of jealousy but she playfully hinted it. Hazard got the message.
He also recognized the advantage of it and, playing the part, denied he was jealous. Catherine, predictably, enjoyed revealing what she knew about Pinchon. As it turned out, it wasn’t all that much. Pinchon was very wealthy, terribly attractive, had been madly in love with her for ages, and still was. Hardly what Hazard wanted to hear. He wanted to know why Pinchon was socializing with Arabs, particularly these Arabs. Catherine had only a vague notion about that. She said she thought Pinchon had some business interests in the Mideast. Hazard tactfully pressed for more but she didn’t know.
The only significant fact Hazard got from Catherine was where Pinchon lived.
A day later he was packed and ready to go.
Where? Catherine had wanted to know.
Just somewhere to relax, Hazard had told her—Paris, maybe, for a day or so and then down to the south of France.
Oh? It so happened, she’d told him, she knew an ideal place. She had a charming, small house in Eze.
Eze?
It was a little medieval town set on a coastal peak between Monaco and Cap Ferrat.
Hazard hesitated.
Not to worry, she said with some exasperation; her place in Eze wasn’t all that small. It had several bedrooms.
A quick revision of his plans. Instead of moving conspicuously about on his own or trying to arrange some plausible way of meeting up with Pinchon again, he decided Catherine would provide an immediate direct entrée. He’d previously considered and rejected the idea, preferring not to use or involve her any further, but her house in Eze was a good enough excuse and he could hardly stop her from going there. Catherine didn’t bother to ask if he minded if she went along, nor did she wait for him to accept her Eze invitation. She quickly tossed a few things into a bag and phoned to order the private jet that was always on stand by.
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