"No, two things more. She added a final note, and, mind you, a child of ten wrote it. "Shirharr Baj. "
"What the h.e.l.l is that?"
"Roughly, a young woman soon to be ready for conception but who will never bring a child into this world."
"Certainly macabre, yet quite understandable, I suppose."
"The mountain legends talk of a child-woman who led the other village children out of the hills, avoiding scores of patrols, who even killed soldiers with their own bayonets by luring them into traps all by herself."
"A girl of ten ... its incredible!" Geoffrey Cooke frowned. "You said there were two things more. Whats the other?"
"The last piece of evidence that for us confirmed her ident.i.ty. Among the buried records were family histories-certain more isolated branches of the Basques live in fear of inbreeding, which is why so many young men and women are sent away. At any rate, there was the family "Aquirre, first child a female baptized Amaya, a common name. The surname Aquirre was scratched out-furiously scratched out as if by an angry child, the name Bajaratt replacing it."
"Good heavens, why? Or did you ever find out?"
"We did, and it was a nasty business. Without going into the messier parts, our lads leaned hard on our counterparts in Madrid, going so far as to threaten them with our total withdrawal where they needed us most unless they opened certain sealed records pertaining to the Basque raids. You used the word macabre; you dont know how apt that is. We found the name Bajaratt, a sergeant-mother Spanish, father border French, accounting for the name-who had been part of the outrageous, buried a.s.sault on that mountain village. In short words, he was the soldier who cut off the head of Amaya Aquirres mother. She took that name for all it represented to her in horror, certainly not in honor, but for a dedicated purpose-she would never forget for a moment as long as she lived. She would become a killer as loathsome as the man she watched pulling the bayonet through her mothers neck."
"Its warped in the extreme," said Cooke, barely audible, "but so very understandable. A child a.s.sumes the mantle of a monster, fantasizing vengeance through identification. Its not unlike the Stockholm syndrome, when prisoners of war in brutal circ.u.mstances identify with their captors. How much more so with a child.... So Amaya Aquirre is Amaya Bajaratt. Yet, although denying her true surname, she never spelled out the Bajaratt."
"We brought in a psychiatrist who specializes in childrens disorders," added the chairman of MI-6. "He told us that a young female of ten is somewhat more advanced than her male counterpart-and since I have numerous grandchildren, I must reluctantly agree. He said that a girl of that age whod gone through such ultimate stress and pain would have a tendency to reveal only part of herself, not all."
"Im not sure I follow you."
"He put it this way, the testosterone syndrome, he called it. A male child in like circ.u.mstances might easily write "Death to all authority and sign his full name, a mark of vengeance for everyone to see, whereas the young female will behave differently, withholding complete information, for she must think ahead to the real vengeance. She must outsmart, not out-muscle her enemies.... Still, she cant help but put part of herself into the ledger."
"I suppose that makes sense," said Cooke, nodding. "But good G.o.d-records buried in the ground, cypress trees and backwoods rites of pa.s.sage through bloodshed ... ma.s.s executions, beheadings with bayonets, and a child of ten living through it all! Christ, youre dealing with a totally committed psychopath! She wants only to see heads severed from their bodies and plummeting to the ground, as happened to her parents."
"Muerte a toda autoridad," said the chief of MI-6. "The heads of authority-everywhere."
"Yes, I understood the phrase-"
"Im afraid you cant possibly understand the gravity of its relevance."
"I beg your pardon?"
"For the past several years Bajaratt has lived in the Baaka Valley with the leader of a particularly violent Palestinian faction whose cause she fanatically identified with. Apparently she and her lover were married sometime last spring in one of those under-the-fruit-tree ceremonies. He was killed nine weeks ago in a raid on the beaches of Ashkelon, south of Tel Aviv."
"Oh, yes, I remember reading about that," said Cooke. "Killed to a man, no prisoners."
"Do you remember the statement issued worldwide by the remaining members of the faction, namely its new leader?"
"Something about weapons, I believe."
"Exactly. The statement read in part that the Israeli weapons that killed the "avenging freedom fighters were manufactured in America, England, and France, and that the people whose lands were stolen from them would never forget or forgive the beasts who provided those weapons."
"We hear that rot all the time. So what?"
"So Amaya Bajaratt, adding the nom de guerre The Unforgiving, pa.s.sed a message to the High Councils in the Baaka Valley; your friends or ex-friends in the Mossad picked it up, thank G.o.d. She and her comrades, have dedicated their lives to taking the "heads of the four great beasts. She herself will be the "lightning rod that sends out the signal. "
"What signal?"
"As near as the Mossad can determine, it will be the sign for her hidden killers in London, Paris, and Jerusalem to strike. The Israelis believe its implicit in the part of the message that says "As the vilest of these beasts falls across the great sea, so must the others follow quickly. "
"The vilest ...? Across ...? Good Lord, America?"
"Yes, Officer Cooke, Amaya Bajaratt is on her way to a.s.sa.s.sinate the President of the United States. Thats her signal."
"Thats preposterous!"
"Her record suggests that it may not be. Professionally, shes rarely if ever failed. Shes a pathological genius, and these are her final kills, her revenge against all "brutal authority, but now with the added dimension of a deeply personal motive-the death of her husband. She must be stopped, Geoffrey. Which is why the Foreign Office, with this organizations full compliance, has decided that you should immediately return to your former post in the Caribbean. In your own words, theres no one with more expertise."
"My G.o.d, youre talking to a sixty-four-year-old man whos about to retire!"
"You still have contacts throughout the islands. Where theyve been altered, well provide an entree. Frankly, we believe you can make swifter headway than anyone else we know. Weve got to find her and take her out."
"Has it occurred to you, old boy, that even if I left today, by the time I got there she could have skipped to heaven knows where? Forgive me, but the word balmy comes back to me."
"As to her "skipping, " said the chairman, briefly smiling, "neither the French nor we believe sh.e.l.l be going anywhere for a number of days, perhaps a week, even two."
"Your crystal b.a.l.l.s tell you that?"
"No, our collective common sense. The enormity of her task, as she sees it, will require a fair degree of planning, involving human, financial, and technical resources, including aircraft. She may be a psychopath, but shes no fool; she wont attempt to mount her quest on the U.S. mainland."
"So where better than beyond the immediate scrutiny of the federal authorities," said Cooke grudgingly. "Yet near enough to have access to the offsh.o.r.e banks and onsh.o.r.e personnel."
"Thats the way we read it," agreed the head of MI-6.
"Why did she pa.s.s that message to the Baaka councils, I wonder?"
"Her Gtterdmmerung, perhaps. She wants the glory of her kills. Its psychologically consistent."
"Yes, well, youve presented me with a rather irresistible a.s.signment, havent you?"
"I had hoped to."
"Took me right through the proper stages, didnt you? From a distant enigma with a horrible yet fascinating dossier to an immediate crisis. All the right b.u.t.tons pushed."
"Is there another way to do it?"
"Not if youre a pro, and you wouldnt be sitting in that chair if you werent." Cooke rose to his feet, his eyes locked with those of his superior. "And now that you may a.s.sume my commitment, Id like to make a suggestion."
"Be my guest, old chap."
"I wasnt entirely candid with you a few minutes ago. I said I still stay in touch with old friends, implying a social correspondence. By and large thats true, but its not complete. Actually, Ive spent most of my annual holidays in the islands-they do draw you back, you know. And, naturally," he continued, "former colleagues and new acquaintances of similar backgrounds will get together and reminisce."
"Oh, quite naturally."
"Yes, well, two years ago I met an American fellow who knows more about the islands than I ever did or ever will. He charters his two yachts out of various marinas from Charlotte Amalie to Antigua. He knows every harbor, every cove and inlet throughout the chain; he has to."
"Those are fine credentials, Geoffrey, but hardly the sort-"
"Please," interrupted Cooke. "I havent finished. To antic.i.p.ate your objection, hes a retired officer of U.S. Naval Intelligence. Hes relatively young, early to mid-forties, Id say, and Ive no real knowledge of why he left the service, but I gather the circ.u.mstances werent very pleasant. Still, he could be an a.s.set on this a.s.signment."
The chairman of MI-6 leaned forward over his desk, his rigid right hand lagging behind his left. "His name is Tyrell Nathaniel Hawthorne the Third. Hes the son of a professor of American literature at the University of Oregon, and the circ.u.mstances of his separation from naval intelligence were very unpleasant, indeed. And, yes, hed be an enormous a.s.set, but no one in Washingtons intelligence circles can recruit him. Theyve tried strenuously, giving him a lot of background, hoping to change his mind; they cant move him. He has very little regard for such people, believing as he does that they dont know the difference between the truth and a lie. Hes told them all to go to h.e.l.l."
"Good Lord!" cried Geoffrey Cooke. "You knew about my holidays, you knew all along. You even knew Id met him."
"A pleasant three-day sail through the Leewards, along with your friend Ardisonne, code name Richelieu."
"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d."
"Come now, Officer Cooke, how can you? Incidentally, former Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne is on his way to the marina in British Gorda, where I suspect h.e.l.l have trouble with his auxiliary engine. Your plane leaves for Anguilla at five oclock, plenty of time to pack. From there, you and your friend Ardisonne will take a small private aircraft to Virgin Gorda." The chairman of MI-6, Special Branch, flashed a brilliant smile. "It should be a splendid reunion."
DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Seated around the table in the continuously swept conference room were the secretaries of state and defense, the directors of the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the chiefs of Army and Navy Intelligence, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. To the left of each man was his selected aide, a high-level subordinate beyond security reproach. Chairing the meeting was the secretary of state. He spoke.
"Youve all gotten the same information I have, so we can dispense with extraneous introductions. Therell be some of you here who think were overreacting, and until this morning, I must admit I would have been counted among you. A lone female terrorist with an obsession to a.s.sa.s.sinate the President, and thereby trigger the a.s.sa.s.sinations of the political leaders of Great Britain, France, and Israel, seemed just too farfetched. However, at six oclock this morning I received a call from our director of the CIA, and then at eleven he called me again, and I began to change my mind. Would you please clarify, Mr. Gillette?"
"Ill do my best, Mr. Secretary," said the portly DCI. "Yesterday our source in Bahrain who monitors the financial transactions from the Baaka Valley was killed an hour after he alerted our undercover contact that a half million dollars had been transferred to Zurichs Credit Suisse. The amount wasnt startling, but when our a.s.set in Zurich tried to reach his own source at the bank, an off-the-books, highly paid source, he couldnt get anywhere. When later he pressed-anonymously, of course, merely an old friend-he was told that the man had flown to London on business. Later still, our a.s.set returned to his apartment, where there was a message on his answering machine. It was from his source, who certainly wasnt in London, because he asked, apparently rather desperately, that our man meet him at a cafe in Dudendorf, a city twenty-odd miles north of Zurich. Our a.s.set drove there but his source never showed up."
"What do you make of it?" asked the chief of Army G-2.
"He was taken out to eliminate the money trail," answered a burly man with thinning red hair who was seated at the DCIs left. "Thats a projection, not confirmed," he added.
"Based on what?" questioned the secretary of defense.
"On logic," the Agency aide continued curtly. "First Bahrains killed for pa.s.sing the initial information, then Zurich builds a London cover so he can get to our a.s.set in Dudendorf away from his usual environs. The Baaka found him and wants to cut off the trail, which it did."
"Over a six-figure transfer?" asked the chief of naval intelligence. "Thats a lot of trouble over a minor amount, isnt it?"
"Because the amount doesnt mean doodly," said the heavyset aide with the puffed face. "Its whos on the receiving end, and the whereabouts of whoever that person is; thats what theyre covering. Also, once the transfer is established as clean, the money could escalate a hundred times over."
"Bajaratt," said the secretary of state. "So shes begun her journey.... All right, this is the way were going to operate, and maximum security is the key. With the exception of the Agencys radio traffic people, we at this table, and only we, will exchange information as our departments pick it up. Put all your personal office faxes into confidential modes, all telephone calls between ourselves on secure lines. Nothing goes out beyond this circle unless approved by me or the DCI. Even the rumors of such an operation could backfire and create a confusion we dont need." There was a hum; it came from the red telephone in front of the secretary of state. He picked it up. "Yes?... Its for you," he said, looking at the Agencys director. Gillette rose from his chair and went to the head of the table; he took the phone and identified himself.
"I understand," he said after listening for nearly a minute. He replaced the telephone and stared at his heavyset aide with the thinning red hair. "Youve got your confirmation, ORyan. Our man in Zurich was found in the Spitzplatz, shot twice through the head."
"Theyre making sure that b.i.t.c.hs a.s.s is covered," said the CIA a.n.a.lyst named ORyan.
2.
The tall, unshaven man in white sailing shorts and black tank shirt, his skin burned to a deep bronze by the tropic sun, raced across the walkway and up the pier containing slips for the powerboats. He reached the end of the wooden planks and shouted at the two men on an incoming skiff.
"What the h.e.l.l do you mean, Ive got a leak in the auxiliary? I used it in dead air and it was perfectly fine!"
"Look, mate," replied a British mechanic, his voice weary as Tyrell Hawthorne grabbed the rope thrown at him. "I dont give a s.h.i.t if its a newborn babe of a motor. You aint got an ounce of oil in your crankcase; its all soiling our lovely little refuge here. Now, if you want to take that mother out, and you hit some more deaders, go right ahead and blow the engine. But Im sure as h.e.l.l gonna make my report. I aint gonna be responsible for your stupidity."
"All right, all right," said Hawthorne, grabbing the mans hand as he climbed up the ladder to the dock. "What do you figure?"
"Rotted gaskets and two ruined cylinders, Tye." The mechanic turned and secured the second line around a pylon so his companion could climb up on the dock. "How many times have I told you, laddie, youre too good with the clouds and the windies. Youve got to use your metals more; they dry out in this f.u.c.kin sun! Now, havent I told you that a couple of dozen times?"
"Yes, Marty, you have. I cant deny it."
"You couldnt! And with the prices you charge, you sure aint worried about fuel costs, that even I can figure."
"Its not the money," protested the skipper. "Except for prolonged dead spots, the charters like to sail, you know that. When can you have it fixed-a couple of hours?"
"Over your life, Tye-Boy. Try tomorrow noon-if I get the proper bore grinders flown in from Saint T. in the morning."
"d.a.m.n it! Ive got some good repeats on board, and they expect to hit Tortola tonight."
"Get em a few rum-punchies, Gordie style, and get em rooms at the club. Theyll never know the difference."
"I dont have a choice," said Hawthorne, turning and starting down the pier. "A hundred-and-ten-proof Overton coming up." The charter captain hastened his pace past the slips.
"Sorry, mate," Martin the mechanic said to himself as he watched his friend turn left on the walkway. "I hate to do this to you, but Ive got my orders."
Darkness enveloped the Caribbean. The hour was late as Captain Tyrell Hawthorne, sole owner of Olympic Charters, Ltd., U.S. Virgin Islands Registry, led his clients, first one couple and then the other, to their accommodations at the yacht clubs beach hotel. Their rooms were not what either twosome expected to wake up in, but going to sleep was no problem; the bartender had made certain of that. So Tye Hawthorne returned to the deserted open-air bar on the beach and rendered his thanks to the man behind it in more concrete terms. He gave the black bartender fifty American dollars.
"Hey, Tye-Boy, you dont have to do this."
"Then why are you gripping it so tightly in your fist?"
"Instinct, mon. You can have it back."
They both laughed; it was a ritual.
"Hows business, Captain?" asked the bartender, pouring Hawthorne a gla.s.s of his customary white wine.
"Not bad, Roger. Both our boats are chartered, and if my idiot brother can find his way back to Red Hook in Saint T., we could even make a profit this year."
"Hey, mon, I like your brother. Hes a funny guy."