Second sight, p.48
Second Sight, page 48
Yeho produced a plastic bag containing a tiny amount of white powder shaken down into one corner. “We also found this,” he said. “We had no secure laboratory facilities, so we couldn’t test it scientifically, but one of my friends gave a small dose to his poodle, and judging by the way the dog behaved, I think it may be the stuff you’ve been looking for. If you can have it analyzed, David, presumably we can come up with an antidote.”
Yeho himself was too old a dog to suggest by word or gesture that there was anything out of the ordinary in the work his team had done. He distributed more photographs: many shots of Marcel Balmont/Hassan Abdallah and his mistress, a scrawny blonde with the hostile face of a political zealot; several candid views of his wife, also a dehydrated Nordic type, and a number of contact prints showing exteriors of the target’s office and apartment in Geneva, his mistress’s country house, and the cheap hotel used by the lovers in Aix-les-Bains.
“One question,” Patchen said. “If his habits are so regular, how does he account for the absences necessitated by the kidnappings?”
Clearly Yeho had been waiting for this question. “Under the law, and because of his seniority,” he said, “good burgher Balmont is entitled to seven weeks’ vacation a year. For sentimental reasons, presumably, he and his wife take a week at Megève for skiing in February and four weeks in Yugoslavia on the beach in August. Madame is entitled to only five weeks. As a good Swiss, however, she insists that he take all the time he is entitled to. That leaves him with two weeks’, or ten days’, extra vacation time all to himself. When he wants to snatch somebody from the Outfit, he takes off a Friday and a Monday, which gives him four days in which to operate. Does that fit with what you know?”
“The Beautiful Dreamers have all disappeared for four days—back on the morning of the fifth, which was always a Tuesday. How do you know this?”
“Luckily there was someone inside the laboratory,” Yeho said, “who was willing to help us.” There was always someone inside any given target in any city in the world who was willing to help Yeho when called upon for the right reasons; that was why he and Patchen had run such amazing operations in Russia without the traitors embedded in the British intelligence service finding out about them; that was why the Ibal Iden were in Virginia. “This person inside looked up our man’s leave records,” Yeho said. “His short holidays coincide exactly with the dates on which the Beautiful Dreamers were taken.”
“He is a good Swiss,” the O. G. said.
Yeho said, “Speak, David. How many has he kidnapped so far?”
“Three.”
“So he’s only got six days’ vacation left this year and it’s November already. If you want him to kidnap the person you have in mind, you’d better dangle the bait pretty soon.”
“What person do you have in mind?” Zarah said.
“The Big Cheese,” Yeho said, pointing at Patchen. “Who else?”
The
O. G. smiled at Zarah. “That’s where we hope you will be able to help us, my dear.”
10
CHRISTOPHER ARRIVED AT CAMP PANCHAEA AT TWILIGHT, AFTER A flight from London and a drive from the airport in a rented car. Zarah awaited him on the veranda of the lodge. As she walked toward him across the gravel, the muffled POP-POP-POP of small arms fire sounded in the woods, and the pet waterfowl on the lake took wing half-heartedly before settling back onto its still surface.
“The Ibal Iden,” she explained. “Yeho is showing them how to use a new kind of pistol on the firing range.”
“The Ibal Iden are here?”
“Yes. We all arrived the day before yesterday—Ja’wab and Kbira and Dimya besides Ibrahim, Yussef, and Tammuz. And myself, of course. Yeho arranged everything after you left Tifawt.”
“For what purpose?”
“To go after the Eye of Gaza, to capture this man Hassan Abdallah.”
“Are you going after him, too?”
“Where they go, I go.” She pointed a thumb in the direction of the gunfire. “They hope to go soon. Except for testing the weapons they don’t like it here very much. It’s the trees; they’re used to seeing for miles, so they feel hemmed in.”
“What made them agree to Yeho’s arrangements?”
“It wasn’t a matter of agreeing. They cast the dice and got thummim.”
“I see.” Except for the noise of firing there was no sign of life in the camp. Christopher said, “Where are the others?”
“The O. G. is taking a nap; he was up all night. Patchen went back to Washington right after breakfast. I want to talk to you about him. But not now. What did you find out in England?”
“Let’s go out on the lake.”
They put one of the canoes into the calm water. Christopher paddled to the center of the lake, then let the canoe drift. It hardly moved; there was no wind at all. The surface of the water, silvered by the twilight, reflected unrippled images of oaks and maples in autumn foliage. In his muted voice, he told her what Sir Richard Shaw-Condon had told him at Rossenarra Hall. Zarah listened in silence, and even after the story was over, remained very still. Finally she said, “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
“As much as he’s capable of doing so after the life he’s led. I think he did the things he said he did and heard the things he said he heard, more or less. What your grandmother was thinking and doing only she, and maybe Meryem, knew.”
“She did die?”
“Dickie Shaw-Condon seems to think so. That doesn’t make it a fact. He wasn’t there himself and none of his people got out.”
“But how could the Nazis have let her live after what she did?”
“I don’t know. I’ve spent my whole life keeping the question open. It’s hard to change.”
Zarah was sitting backward in the canoe, facing Christopher, so that she was only a foot or two away. He closed his eyes. It was startling, after only a few days of separation, to see how much like Lori she looked.
“Father.”
Zarah had never called him by that name before. Christopher opened his eyes.
Zarah said, “She is dead.” Another string of muffled detonations sounded in the woods. “Lla Kahina has always said so.”
“She has? How does she know?”
‘ “She knows,” Zarah said. “Didn’t she tell you? She thinks that’s the reason I’m on earth.”
11
AT SIX O’CLOCK EVERYONE SAT DOWN AT THE ROUND CLUB TABLE to a meal consisting of the Ibal Iden’s barbecued lamb, served with heaping platters of raw-fried potatoes and onions doused with vinegar and black pepper, the O. G.’s specialty. The Americans drank pewter tankards of ale. For dessert the O. G. served peach ice cream with fresh peaches, in soup bowls. “Can’t eat like this in the city,” the O. G. said. “Your heart would stop.”
The O. G. offered inky coffee—”destroyer coffee,” he called it. Zarah and the Ibal Iden declined and left for the firing range. Yeho gestured to Christopher. “Come with me while the Directors do the dishes,” he said. “Bring your coffee.” In the billiards room, he delivered a condensed version of the briefing he had given the others at breakfast.
“You’re absolutely sure this is the same man?” Christopher said.
“If you believe in fingerprints and voiceprints, yes,” Yeho said. “We’ve compared everything but blood. It all matches. Why do you ask?”
“The profiles are very different. As I understand it, the Hassan Abdallah you knew twelve years ago was a psychopath.”
“He thought he was the reincarnation of Hitler.”
Christopher said, “Yet this man Balmont seems to be in perfect control of himself. How can that be?”
“He’s older and wiser. As you go along you learn.”
“Even if you’re crazy to begin with? There has to be another element, something new in his life.”
“You think so? All right. We’ll consider the idea. What is the new element?”
“The obvious answer is drugs. He works with drugs, invents new ones. Maybe he’s concocted something to control his insanity.”
Yeho nodded admiringly. Patchen and the O. G. were right. This fellow was a thinker. “That’s possible. You’re right—he could have invented some kind of tranquilizer for himself. Nobody would know he was taking it. I like it. It explains a lot—if true. Of course he’d have to know that he was crazy, and crazy people usually don’t. And he still goes crazy on long weekends.”
“Then what is the explanation? David thinks he’s dealing with some kind of mastermind. Would Hassan Abdallah have been able to design an operation like Beautiful Dreamers? According to David it’s so subtle nobody can figure out its purpose.”
“I don’t know if he could. He pulled off some pretty good ones twelve years ago.”
“And got caught.”
“The Russian who was running him got caught. Some of the others got themselves killed. Not him. He was smart enough to get away from us, change identities, and fool the Swiss police for ten years.”
“Maybe he had good advice.”
“A new case officer? No. The Russians dropped the whole operation after Butterfly disappeared.”
“Why does it have to be a Russian who’s running him?”
“Why should anybody be running him?” Yeho said. “Why can’t he be doing this on his own?”
“Because his behavior is not consistent with what Stephanie would call his personality disorder. Someone has made him listen to reason—cured him. Who? Why?”
All his life Yeho had realized that he was smarter than taller and handsomer people, but he had been forced to suppress this knowledge in order to get what he wanted from them. As a result, exasperation was never far below the surface of his outward manner, and now he raised his hands in mock surrender and looked heavenward. He said, “We’re checking, we’re checking. Believe me.”
Christopher persisted. “Are you checking Yugoslavia? There must be some reason besides sentiment why he goes there every year.”
“Paul, my friend, yes. Believe me, we’re checking Yugoslavia.” He uttered an exaggerated sigh.
Christopher said, “Are you offended by my questions?”
“No. Why should I be offended? All questions are welcome. That’s why you’re here, to question. According to the O. G. and David, nobody’s better at it than you. I’m beginning to see what they mean. You want to know about Yugoslavia? I’ll tell you something about Yugoslavia. The beach the good Swiss couple goes to on the Dalmatian coast every August? It’s a nudist beach.”
Christopher said, “Germans.”
“Yes, Germans. Lots of Germans with no clothes on. They go into the shops stark naked, they walk down the street eating ice cream cones that way.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Speak.”
“Find out which photographers covered this resort last summer. Then look at all the pictures they took, good and bad. They shoot thousands to get a dozen good enough to sell.”
Yeho nodded. “It shall be done. We’ll invent a nudist magazine. If we see a familiar face, or whatever, you’ll be the first to know.”
He made a gesture closing the discussion. “Now I want to show you the equipment.”
He pulled the cover off the billiards table. Arranged on a clear plastic sheet laid over the green felt surface were six identical sets of equipment: six nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistols with silencers; six stun guns; six small aerosol tubes of Mace; six blackjacks; six hanks of insulated electrical wire; six bricks of plastic explosive, each about the size of a pound of butter, with electronic detonators; six short-bladed Buck sheath knives; six small but powerful flashlights, six hand-held radios. There were also, unaccountably, six toy wooden noisemakers.
Yeho picked up one of the noisemakers and twirled it on its handle so that the wooden gears fluttered a thin strip of wood, creating a subdued but unmistakable sound. “This is a grager, used by the children at Purim—a modified model to make it less noisy,” he said. “It’s better for signaling than a radio—even fancy Outfit-type encrypted radios like these. The Ja’wabi don’t know about Purim, which is the festival of the Jews escaping from Persia in the time of Xerxes, because they’d already left the Land of Israel four hundred years before then. You know what purim means in He brew?” Christopher shook his head no. Yeho said, “It means ‘lots’ or ‘dice’ because the King of Persia cast lots to see whether or not he should massacre the Jews. We did the same in the old days. That’s how the Ja’wabi make up their minds about everything to this day—did Zarah tell you about that?”
“Yes.”
He wagged a finger. “ ‘Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard.’ That means ‘a throw of the dice will never eliminate the unexpected.’ “
Christopher said, “What does Mallarmé have to do with it?”
“Mallarmé! You’re very well read. You remember the poem?”
“Not really. I used to know someone in Vietnam who read that book day and night. Or pretended to.”
“Did he take the title seriously?”
“He didn’t take anything seriously.”
“He must have been a happy man.”
Christopher looked at the display of equipment. “This seems like a lot of stuff,” he said.
“Just enough,” Yeho said. “Watch.” He thrust one of the pistols into the waistband of his shorts and stowed everything else in the pockets of his oversize hunting jacket in a matter of seconds. “Everything can easily be carried on the person,” Yeho said. “There is also a collapsible sniper’s rifle with a laser sight and a silencer, but right now the boys and girls are trying it out on the range at night. That’s where they were going. Ja’wab had the rifle broken down inside his shirt and pants legs during dinner. Did you suspect?”
“No.”
“They’re all very good shots, you might even say amazing. Their hands absolutely do not shake because they don’t drink or smoke or use coffee.” He lifted his eyebrows. “And, most of all, because they trust the purim.”
He handed Christopher one of the pistols. “You know this gun?”
“No.”
“It’s something new called a Glock—Austrian. The whole thing, almost, is made of plastic. The safety is tricky, so if you’re not careful you can shoot yourself in the foot. But it has a special thirty-three round magazine and it takes a very good metal detector to find the gun itself. There are two types of special ammunition. Have a look.”
He thumbed two cartridges out of extra-long clips and handed them to Christopher. “The one that looks something like a regular round fires a pure copper bullet weighing ninety grains at just over half a kilometer a second. Copper is a very soft metal, so the bullet has a nylon tip to help it penetrate the target. When this round gets inside the human body the nylon tip peels off and the copper bullet expands to nine times its original caliber, making an internal wound in the shape of an eggplant three inches in diameter and six inches long.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“Very simple. After this soft copper bullet makes the eggplant, it stops, still inside the body, instead of going right on through and killing a couple of bystanders like a normal Parabellum round.”
“Always?”
“Always, unless you’re shooting a very skinny person. The copper bullet stays inside, like the stem on the eggplant. This other round—see it?—looks like a brass shotgun shell because that’s what it is. It’s filled with number eight birdshot. Very small pellets, you’d shoot larks with this shot. When fired from a distance of three meters or more it will lacerate, stun, and shock, but probably not kill.”
“What happens if the target is closer than that?”
“Then the shot stays bunched like a bullet with its molecules very far apart, and a direct hit in the heart or a big artery may kill the target. But if you’re too close you can aim at the point of the shoulder and usually the target will lose the use of his arm and get a face full of pellets—but survive, if what you want is a disabled enemy instead of a dead one. I hear that used to be your preference.”
“It still is, if the idea is to capture these people alive and question them.”
“That’s the idea. We hope we won’t have to use these things. But the other side is armed, and the Ibal Iden are in this to kill their enemies so they themselves can go on living. Hassan is the only one they need to bring back alive.”
“And David, presumably.”
“They’ve been told not to shoot at David.”
Yeho started to cover up the equipment. Christopher said, “Wait. There’s gear for six people here. I count seven Ibal Iden.”
Yeho looked up. “You’re counting Zarah?”
“Yes.”
“Zarah’s not part of the assault team,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“She wasn’t. Neither were the Ibal Iden. They wanted her with them, and I sympathize. Did she tell you what happened in the desert after her mother and the others were massacred?”
“No.”
“She and Ja’wab, just the two of them, tracked the terrorists’ vehicles on horseback. They killed the sentries, cut off their heads, threw them into the tent where the others were sleeping, and shot them with the sentries’ Kalashnikovs when they came out screaming. Nine altogether. That’s how Ja’wab got his name.”
While Yeho spoke, the O. G. came into the billiards room.
“This time she’s got another job,” Yeho said. “Your friend will explain.”
12
AFTER LISTENING TO THE O. G., CHRISTOPHER WOKE ZARAH AND asked her a question.
“Yes, that’s what they want me to do,” she said. “Go to France with David Patchen. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about him,” Christopher said. “If I know it myself. But I want you to say no to the O. G. and Yeho about this.”
“I’ve already said yes. They’re right. No one but me can do it.”
“Then it can be left undone. It’s too dangerous.”
