by John Denis
Before Stein could call out to Jagger, Smith shouted, ‘Colonel McCafferty. Visitors.’
The wheelchair swung about, and Jagger, in what even at that early stage was a passable imitation of McCafferty’s voice, said, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?’
‘Good, Jagger, good,’ Smith exulted. ‘I have not had the honour of Colonel McCafferty’s acquaintance, and it’s my intention to keep it that way. You’ve done well. Already, you’ve exceeded my expectations.’
He turned to Stein and pressed congratulations on him, too, which the little doctor was compelled modestly to accept. The transformation had, in all truth, been a miracle of plastic surgery.
Stein then mentioned that Jagger was curious about the nature of the assignment he was to carry out as McCafferty, but Smith advised Jagger not to worry; he would be told all in a few weeks. Meanwhile, he was to immerse himself in the role, for he would periodically be examined in his mastery of it by Dunkels. ‘I need hardly have to explain,’ Smith purred, ‘that I shall be most displeased if all the hard work and expense I have gone to proves to be wasted. If you are found ultimately incapable of performing this task, I assure you that you will not survive long enough to ponder your failure.’
Jagger flushed as far as the stretched pink tissue of McCafferty’s face would permit, and made as if to rise from the wheelchair, but Stein and the nurse eased him back down. Stein protested that Smith was being unfair, and could unsettle Jagger’s psychological acceptance of the permanent loss of his identity.
Smith dismissed the possibility with an airy wave of his hand, and reassured Jagger of his confidence in the ringer’s powers. He repeated that Jagger would learn everything he needed to know before long. ‘You, on the other hand, my dear Doctor,’ Smith said to Stein, ‘will not be told the details of the plan. When it becomes a fait accompli, the whole world will know. In the meantime, I am paying as much for your silence as for your undoubted medical skill.’
Stein smiled and inclined his head. Smith need have no fears for his discretion, Stein promised, nor would he seek information from Jagger when the ringer was in full possession of the facts. ‘Then we understand each other, Doctor,’ Smith replied, a satisfied smile on his face.
Stein beamed back at him. Probably no other man alive, he reflected, had ever double-crossed Mister Smith and collected a large fee from him at the same time.
No other man, true. But a woman had …
* * *
… and her name was Sabrina Carver.
She had been a member of Smith’s Eiffel Tower commando team, but in reality (and undetected by Smith) had helped bring about his destruction there, for she was also a valued agent of UNACO. Sabrina knew the identity of only one other UNACO field operative — and it was not Joe McCafferty.
Philpott had made it a corner of UNACO’s game-plan to keep his agents anonymous and apart. It protected the agents, and it shielded UNACO, since a captured operative could denounce only himself or herself, or the headquarters staff. And everyone knew who the headquarters staff were; their names were published in official UN documents. Philpott’s only truly secret weapons were his agents, which he employed in every UN member state. A full roster of their names would make a priceless intelligence weapon, and surprising reading, especially to the agents themselves.
When circumstances absolutely required it, Philpott paired agents into a team for a ‘need to know’ one-to-one relationship. Sometimes, teams stayed together — if both members survived. Certain operatives were never twinned, either from disinclination, or because they were politically or strategically sensitive. McCafferty was in the strategically sensitive category.
Philpott drew his field staff from all classes, colours and creeds, and if he had to pair an agent, he took what sometimes seemed to Sonya Kolchinsky to be an almost perverse delight in matching polar opposites.
For example, Joe McCafferty, who now had to be twinned, was an honest and straightforward career airman, a fiercely patriotic American and a high-ranking officer with an outstanding reputation, both in the Pentagon and in the American Secret Service.
Whereas Sabrina Carver, whom Philpott had selected as McCafferty’s partner, was an international jewel thief.
Her fee for the Eiffel Tower job (reluctantly agreed by Philpott) had been the proceeds of an astonishing raid on the Amsterdam Diamond Exchange, which she had carried out to impress Smith into hiring her for his team. Philpott’s ruthless efficiency, and proven success with UNACO, frequently collided head-on with his conscience when the delicate question arose of the head of an anti-crime squad actually aiding and abetting his own pet criminals. Luckily, his conscience invariably fell at the first fence.
UNACO’s finances, never more than grudgingly yielded by the UN member countries, depended on results, and there was very little that Malcolm Philpott would not do to obtain those results. Particularly when he was forced to deal with criminal monsters like Smith.
Philpott gave Swann his instructions on Sabrina’s role of shadow to Joe McCafferty. ‘There’s to be only a one-way “need to know” this time,’ he emphasised. ‘Sabrina must know about McCafferty, but he is not to know about her, unless I expressly order it. Clear?’
Swann left to bring in Sabrina for briefing, and Sonya complained that the situation was still far from clear to her, even if Swann understood it. ‘He doesn’t,’ Philpott declared, ‘but he’ll do as he’s told. The point is that Joe will be a front-line target and won’t want to be bothered with looking after a “twin”. At the same time, he won’t appreciate feeling that we’ve set someone to watch him.
‘But I reckon that if Smith does have designs on Air Force One, then Joe will be able to use all the help he can get, and I’ll deal with his outraged manhood when the whole thing’s over.’
Philpott looked gravely at Sonya, and ventured a weary smile. ‘It could be bad,’ he said slowly. ‘The worst we’ve ever had to face. If Smith launches an action against Air Force One and half a dozen oil sheikhs, I don’t have to tell you that there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, anyone except our people aboard that Boeing can do about it.’
* * *
As the long-serving and respected correspondent of the Soviet newspaper Isvestia in Central Europe, Axel Karilian enjoyed an enviably high standard of living in a luxury apartment block near the centre of Geneva. He had resisted all attempts by the Swiss to plant domestic staff in his flat to spy on him, so it was Karilian himself who answered the imperious ring at his doorbell in the early hours of the morning. He recognised his visitor as medium- to top-ranking in the KGB.
‘They did not tell me you were coming,’ Karilian said in greeting.
‘I did not tell them I was going,’ his visitor said coldly. Karilian revised his estimate; there had clearly been a purge in the Gorski Prospekt, and his uninvited caller, code-named Myshkin, was now indisputably top-rank. Karilian produced whisky and cigars, vodka and cigarettes being reserved strictly for lower-order guests.
‘This man Smith,’ the KGB high-flier said, ‘interests us. So does his project, whatever it may turn out to be. We will refer to it in vague terms, please, since —’ he pantomimed a listening device ‘— we cannot be too careful.’
Karilian protested, in suitably oblique language, that the apartment was ‘clean’, but Myshkin waved him to silence. ‘It will be as I say,’ he ordered. Karilian shrugged and nodded.
‘We consider the project,’ Myshkin went on, ‘to be of the utmost significance to us.’ Karilian suddenly felt a thrill of unease steal over him; despite Myshkin’s denial, Moscow had obviously penetrated Smith’s security; they knew his target.
‘An international incident of extreme gravity can be created from the Smith project,’ Myshkin was saying, ‘one which will cause maximum embarrassment to a certain person who is not precisely our closest friend.’
Karilian inclined his head at the blatant clue, while excitement gripped his innards. The reference must be to Warren G. Wheeler, Pr
esident of the United States of America — and Karilian had found out sufficient details of Air Force One’s future schedule to be certain now that Smith’s target was the OPEC ministers. Nothing else fitted the facts. Only by maximising an incident involving the oil sheikhs could Moscow conceivably create an international situation of ‘extreme gravity’ for the USA and UNACO, and cause the American President supreme embarrassment.
‘You are with me?’ Myshkin inquired. Karilian gravely nodded his head.
‘Good. The plan will succeed. It will not be permitted to fail. The doppelgänger will be everything he purports to be. Do I make myself clear?’
Without waiting for a reply, Myshkin remarked that if all went well, Moscow would be under a deep obligation to Karilian for involving the KGB in Smith’s project. Karilian swallowed, with difficulty.
Not too pleased with me, he prayed silently; not pleased enough to bring me back to Moscow.
As if reading his innermost thoughts, Myshkin grinned slyly and sat forward in his chair. The light from the anglepoise lamp illuminated his sharp, knowing features, from the sheen on his dark hair to the point of his pomaded chin.
He made Karilian feel gross. And afraid. ‘What I mean is that you could be promoted to a posting of your own choice … outside Russia.’
Karilian tried desperately hard not to show his relief.
‘But of course, should Mister Smith’s little venture end in failure, there will nonetheless be a welcome awaiting you in Moscow. On the whole, though, I would advise against failure,’ Myshkin said sympathetically. ‘You know how — eh — warm our welcomes can sometimes be, my dear Axel, don’t you?’
FOUR
Hawley Hemmingsway III stretched his big, well-covered frame in the Sheikh of Bahrain’s bath and paddled the foaming water to make the scents rise. The bath had been prepared for him by a maid, but Hemmingsway guessed that at least three exotic oils had been used to perfume his ablutions, one of them attar of roses. ‘Something about me that even my best Arabian friends won’t confide?’ he mused.
Hemmingsway chuckled in his deep and melodious voice. Only one aspect of an American Energy Secretary could conceivably get up an Arab’s nose, and Hawley had no trouble in that direction. He chortled again as he recalled Warren Wheeler’s acute embarrassment at the White House luncheon party where Hemmingsway was offered the job.
‘You’re absolutely certain, now, Hawley,’ the President had persisted, the anxiety showing in the fork of frown-lines etched into the fingertip of flesh between his eyes. ‘Even three, four generations back — you’re sure, are you? Not a single drop of Hebrew blood anywhere? God knows — and I’m sure you do — that I’m no racist,’ Wheeler had interjected quickly, ‘but I simply cannot afford to annoy these OPEC guys, and one way to get them foaming at the mouth and biting their Persian carpets would be to appoint even a quarter-Jewish Energy Secretary.’
Hemmingsway had assured the President that he was New England WASP clear back to the Pilgrim Fathers. With a sly grin he added, ‘As a matter of fact, the Hemmingsways were playing croquet with the Cabots and the Adamses and the Lodges while the Wheelers were still skinning beaver and raccoon to make a dress for Pocahontas.’
The jibe had gone unremarked but for a slight lift of the President’s eyebrows; Hemmingsway knew his man, however, and had walked away from the West Wing with the Energy portfolio safely in his pocket. His credentials duly passed the scrutiny of the Arabs, and when the OPEC ministers met in Bahrain for talks on a possible East — West oil accord, Hemmingsway had been invited to join them as the house guest of the Ruler. One of the Sheikh’s fleet of Cadillacs was put at his disposal, and Hemmingsway derived satisfaction from roaring unnoticed around the island at the sort of gas-gulping speeds that were firmly outlawed in the States by his own energy conservation programme.
The talks were going well, too, justifying President Wheeler’s decision not only to send Hemmingsway to Bahrain, but also to lay on his personal aeroplane, Air Force One, for the journey via Geneva to Washington, where the second stage of the negotiations would take place.
Hemmingsway drew himself out of the huge round bath, walked to the shower where he sluiced off the oily water, and from there straight into a towelling robe held aloft by the maid, teeth gleaming beneath her yashmak, eyes decorously averted. Hawley grinned and thanked her in Arabic. He was an extremely conscientious Energy Secretary.
* * *
Strictly speaking, Air Force One is not Air Force One at all unless the President of the United States is on board. Ferrying the Secretary of State, for example, it becomes Air Force Two, but it is still the same plane — what the USAF called a VC-137C stratoliner, which is their term for a Boeing 707 commercial long-distance airliner. And if the President chose to loan it out as Air Force One, that was his prerogative. The plane was his, together with the name, current since 1962 but now universally known.
The Boeing was converted to include an office and living-suite for the President between the forward and centre passenger compartments. Visitors were not invited to occupy the ‘apartment’, but there was plenty of comfortable and roomy seating in the three passenger areas, flanked by front and rear galleys and rest rooms. Externally, Air Force One carried the streaming legend ‘United States of America’, and the Presidential insignia. She was crewed, always, by personnel of the USAF’s 89th Military Wing at Andrews Air Force Base, Washington DC.
The sun winked blindingly on her fuselage and gleaming wings as the liner turned on to the heading for Muharraq Airport, Bahrain. Major Patrick Latimer brought the big plane down to skim over the threshold; then he ran it to the taxi-way leading to the hardstand. Latimer, though officially designated the pilot, sat in the co-pilot’s seat to the right of the controls. On his left, in the pilot’s seat, was the Commander of Air Force One, Colonel Tom Fairman. Behind them sat the navigator, Lieutenant Colonel Paul Kowalski, and next to him crouched one of the flight’s two engineers, Master Sergeant Chuck Allen. They completed the closing-down procedures, and Sergeant Allen operated the Boeing’s hatch.
Another man — a member of the crew, but with no aeronautical purpose to fulfil — waited for the airport staff to position the moving steps just below the hatch. He was always the first man to leave the plane, the last to board it. He stood by the open hatch, revolver drawn, peering out into the strong, clear sunlight.
Just as it was Colonel Thomas D. Fairman’s task to supervise the flight of Air Force One, so the job of guaranteeing the safety of the Boeing, its crew and occupants, was ultimately the responsibility of only one man: the Head of Security, Colonel Joe McCafferty.
The entire crew filed to the hatch and waited patiently while McCafferty completed his surveillance. Then Mac holstered his gun and walked down the stairway, followed by Fairman, Latimer and the other airmen. Last out of the plane was Bert Cooligan, agent of the US Secret Service, and the only other armed man on the flight.
Fairman increased his stride and came abreast of McCafferty. ‘Seeing the Manama sights before we leave, Mac?’ he inquired. McCafferty treated him to a flinty grin. ‘Your job may be over, Tom,’ he returned, ‘but mine’s just beginning. Not that the vibrant and sinful capital of Bahrain doesn’t hold its attractions for me, but I think I’ll check around a bit and then retire to the hotel with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a good security schedule.’
Fairman grinned. ‘Not even a Gideon Bible?’
‘Here? No, it’s either the Koran or my smuggled copy of Playboy — not to be left laying around for the natives to read. Gives them a bad impression of the flower of American womanhood.’
Both men laughed, and the Arab watching them from the terminal building’s balcony through binoculars minutely adjusted the focus.
* * *
Since the age of seven in her native town of Fort Dodge, Iowa, Sabrina Carver had been a thief. She started with a tiny brooch stolen from a fellow passenger on a trip down the Des Moines River. She got two dollars for it, which was a
rip-off, for the brooch had three diamonds set into a silver clasp. Sabrina failed to recognise the stones as diamonds; it was a mistake she would not make again.
Ten years later she left her home and Fort Dodge and, as far as she could see, would never need to return to either. She had seventy thousand dollars in a bank account kept for her by an admiring professional fence, and on her eighteenth birthday doubled her nest-egg with a hotel raid that the police said could only have been committed by a squad of acrobatic commandos.
For that was Sabrina Carver’s forte: she channelled her astonishing physical fitness, her sporting prowess, even her beauty and considerable intellect, into becoming one of the greatest cat-burglars ever known. And she used her skill to equip herself, perhaps uniquely, for her ruling passion: not just stealing, but stealing diamonds.
Philpott, who had his finger clamped firmly on the pulse of international crime, became aware of the swiftly rising star (she was still only twenty-seven) and watched her subsequent career with interest and not a little pleasure. He waited for her first mistake, and when she made it in Gstaad, trusting a greedy lover, Philpott had snatched her from the Swiss police and enrolled her as a part-time agent of UNACO.
Philpott paid her lavishly enough for her not to have to steal again, but, as he freely acknowledged, a girl with Sabrina’s brains and stunning beauty had never actually needed to be a thief; she simply enjoyed it. Stealing was what she did best, and neither Philpott nor her position as a UNACO field operative would prevent her from doing it. That was why she was a part-time agent.
She sat in the foyer of Manama’s most splendid hotel and quickly adjusted to the idea that most of the diamonds in Bahrain would be worn by men. She was idly sketching in her mind a plan to penetrate the Sheikh’s palace when she was forced to relinquish pleasure and get back to reality — Joe McCafferty strode in through the ornate revolving doors.
McCafferty spotted her immediately, for she was wearing the uniform of Airman First Class in the USAF. He had been heading for the reception desk, but changed direction when he saw Sabrina. As he got closer his stride faltered and he blinked. Sabrina Carver had that effect on men; she was breathcatchingly lovely, with a cascade of dark brown hair falling to her shoulders, framing a face elliptical in its contours, from the central hair parting high on her forehead to the dimple in her chin. Her brow was deep, her eyes wide-spaced and large, and her nose and mouth were set in exquisite classical proportion.
