Джозеф Файндер - Extraordinary Powers

“He doesn’t have to say a word.”

“In one fell swoop you may be able to locate the missing fortune and clear Hal Sinclair’s name. Now, it’s entirely possible that what you learn about Hal will not please you.”

“Unlikely.”

“No, Ben. You do not want to believe that Harrison Sinclair was a crook, nor does Alex Truslow, nor do I. But prepare yourself for the possibility that this is what you’ll discover, repugnant though it may be. This assignment will not be without risks.”

“From whom?”

He leaned back in his wheelchair. “The most treacherous people in the intelligence business are one’s own. You know, there was a great nineteenth-century entomologist named Auguste Forel who once observed that the greatest enemies of ants are — other ants. The greatest enemies of spies are other spies.”

He laced his fingers into a church steeple. “Whatever deal Vladimir Orlov struck with Hal Sinclair, I’m sure he does not want it revealed.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Toby,” I said. “You don’t believe Hal was innocent.”

He exhaled almost soulfully. “No,” he admitted, “I don’t. I wish I could believe otherwise. But at the very least you might be able to find out what Hal was up to before he died. And why.”

“What Hal was up to?” I thundered. “Hal is dead !”

Startled, Toby looked up. He seemed frightened, though by my outburst or by something else I couldn’t tell.

“Who killed him?” I demanded. “Who killed Hal?”

“Former Stasi employees, I would guess.”

“I don’t mean the wet work. Who ordered his death?”

“We don’t know.”

“These CIA renegades — the ‘Wise Men’ Alex told me about?”

“Possible. Although perhaps — I know you hate to hear this, but consider it anyway — perhaps Sinclair was one of them. One of the so-called Wise Men. And perhaps there was a falling out.”

“That’s one theory,” I said coldly. “There must be others.”

“Yes. Perhaps Sinclair made some sort of deal with Orlov, something involving a great deal of money. And Orlov — out of greed or out of fear — had Sinclair killed. After all, wouldn’t it be logical that some of these former East German and Romanian thugs would do some freelance work for the man who used to be their boss?”

“I need to talk to Alex Truslow.”

“He’s unreachable.”

“No,” I said. “He’s at Camp David. He’s reachable.”

“He’s in transit, Ben. If you must speak to him, try tomorrow. But there is no time to lose. This is a matter of the gravest urgency.”

“You plan to keep Molly, is that it? Until I deliver the goods?”

“Ben, we’re desperate. Things are too vital.” He inhaled deeply. “It wasn’t my idea, by the way. I argued against it with Charles Rossi until I was blue in the face.”

“But you went along with it.”

“She’s being treated exceptionally well, I promise you. She’ll confirm that. The hospital has been told she’s been called away on an urgent family matter. She’ll have a peaceful rest for a few days, which she badly needs.”

I felt the adrenaline surge, and struggled mightily to keep my composure. “Toby, I believe it was you who once told me that when an ant nest is under attack, the ants don’t send out the young-men ants as guards, as soldiers. They send out the old-lady ants, you told me. Because it’s okay if the old ladies get killed off. That’s called altruism — it’s better for the colony. Right?”

“We will do everything we can to protect you.”

“Two conditions,” I said.

“Yes?”

“First, this is the only assignment I will undertake for anyone. I will not be made a guinea pig, or an errand boy, or anything else for that matter. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” Toby said equably. “Although I should hope at some point we could induce you to change your mind.”

I ignored him and went on. “And second, you receive the information only after Molly is released. I’ll work out the exact terms and arrangements. But it’s going to be my game, with my rules.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Toby said more loudly.

“Perhaps. But it’s a deal breaker.”

“I can’t allow it. It’s against all accepted procedure.”

“Accept it, Toby.”

Another long, long pause. “Dammit, Ben. All right.”

“All right, then,” I said. “We have a deal.”

He put both palms flat on the table before him. “We’ll fly you to Rome in a few hours,” he said. “There’s not a minute to lose.”

BONN — Jurgen Krauss, the fiery chairman of the reborn Nazi Party, who was the leading contender in the race for Chancellor, was shot and killed this morning in a rally here.

No one has yet claimed responsibility.

That leaves only two men in the contest to lead Germany, both of them considered centrists. While voicing sorrow at the violent end of Mr. Krauss, diplomats expressed relief...

I had been to Rome several times before, and never much liked it. Italy is without a doubt one of my favorite countries in the world, perhaps my single favorite, but I’ve always found Rome grimy, congested, and despondent. Beautiful, yes — Michelangelo’s Campidoglio, St. Peter’s, the Villa Borghese, the Via Veneto, are all striking in different ways, ancient, luxuriant, opulent — but overwhelming, threatening. And virtually everywhere you go in the city you somehow always end up at the monument to Victor Emmanuel II, a horrific typewriter-shaped structure of white Brescian marble, on the Piazza Venezia, shrouded in malign traffic fumes. Mussolini delivered his harangues here; I preferred to avoid it whenever possible.

The day I arrived was rain-swept and unpleasantly chilly. In the driving rain, the taxi stand in front of the international terminal at Fiumicino seemed a bit too forlorn to brave right away.

So I found a bar and ordered a cafe lungo , savored it for a long while, feeling the caffeine do battle with my jet lag. I had entered the country on a false passport, provided for me by those wizards of forgery in CIA’s Technical Services section (in cooperation, let it be said, with the U.S. State Department).

My cover was Bernard Mason, an American businessman here to make some arcane arrangements with my corporation’s Italian subsidiary. The passport they’d supplied me was admirably dog-eared; if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought it had indeed been used on many international trips before, and by a slob. But of course it had been dummied up just for the occasion.

I polished off a second cafe lungo and a cornetto and made my way toward the restroom. The facility was simple, black and white, and clean. Against one wall, below a large mirror, was a row of sinks; facing them on the other side of the small room were four toilet stalls, the doors to which were painted a glossy black and went from floor to ceiling without a gap. The leftmost stall was occupied, and although the center one was vacant, I stood at the sink for a while, washed my hands, my face, and combed my hair, until the door to the left stall opened. A pudgy middle-aged Arab emerged, tightening his belt against his ample gut. He left without washing his hands, and I immediately entered the stall he had just vacated and locked it.

I lowered the toilet seat, climbed up on it, and reached up to the molded-plastic compartment near the ceiling. It lifted open easily, as promised, and there it was, a fat bundle. A padded manila envelope that contained, swaddled in clean cotton rags, a box of fifty .45 ACP shells and a sleek, matte black .45 semiautomatic pistol, a Sig Sauer 220, brand-new and still oily from the manufacturer. The Sig is, I believe, the best pistol made. It has tritium night-sights, a four-inch barrel, six rifling grooves, and weighs around twenty-six ounces. I hoped I’d have no use for it.