Ted Bell - Spy

And what kind of man he had created in the person of Top.

Papa Top had risen to power and prominence in the wake of the 1991 bombing of the Israeli embassy in Buenos Aires. Top and Khan had both had a hand in the planning of this deadly attack. But it was Top’s brilliant execution that brought him to the notice of the early al-Qaeda leadership.

After the early success of that Argentine mission, Muhammad Top and his followers had moved north. There, they melted into the Mata Grosso jungles surrounding the Falls at Madre de Dios. Once he had surveyed the jungle and picked his ideal location, Top, always with Khan’s guiding hand, began the long and exceedingly difficult process of building a great terrorist army. At the same time, work was begun in earnest on Khan’s very advanced robotic warfare technology and surveillance drones in complete secrecy.

Khan was the wise and patient mentor, the man who had stolen Western technology and put it into the hands of North Korea, Pakistan, and his secret terrorist operation in the rain forest. Top was the able and willing protégé who worked tirelessly to build a massive fighting force of Holy Warriors. Khan only stole from the best. He studied Japanese work in robotics and applied their learning to military applications. His endless hard cash ensured a flow of information out of top secret U.S. Defense related firms as well.

Early on, the doctor had urged Top, when his army was at strength, to take the war out of the jungles and mountains and bring it directly to the urban population centers of Latin America. Khan had sent this message to his young lieutenant via a courier in 1995. Along with orders from Khan’s mountain headquarters, the messenger had hand-delivered a small gift to Muhammad’s jungle headquarters, then in Venezuela. It was a very special book by Carlos Marighella.

Until he was ambushed and killed by Brazilian police, Marighella was one of South America’s greatest revolutionary heroes. Just before he died, he had written a handbook offering very practical advice for creating a modern guerilla unit. His slim volume, far ahead of its time, had been written at the dawn of terror. The well-thumbed volume soon became Top’s personal bible. He studied it to the point of memorization and often quoted from it to his staff and field commanders. Marighella’s book, Manual for the Modern Guerilla, had been Top’s Koran.

Papa Top’s sphere of influence now included terrorist cells and guerilla units across the length and breadth of South America. Each of these was a curious amalgam of drug dealers, arms dealers, and common street criminals. Each one had undergone rigorous paramilitary training under Top’s commanders. His melting-pot army consisted of a seething blend of radical leftists, radical Muslims, and common street criminals whose loyalty was vouchsafed only to him.

“Our next stop is across the river,” Top said. “The Robotic Weapons Research Center. Is everyone ready to move on?”

“Yes,” Abu Khan said, eyes glittering in the electric blue light. “Weapons. Let us go and see our glorious Robot Warriors.”

28

OVER THE ATLANTIC

G in!” exclaimed Ambrose Congreve, splaying the winning hand upon the patch of green baize in a perfect fan: three queens, three jacks, and a royal straight. Ambrose, already looking tropical in a three-piece suit of rumpled seersucker, sat back in his seat, took a small sip of his spicy Bloody Bull, and relished the expression on his vanquished opponent’s face.

“Gin?” Hawke said, startled out of his reverie by his opponent’s sudden declaration of victory. He stared at the winning cards magically appearing on the table for a moment and then said, “Impossible.”

“Improbably swift, perhaps, but hardly impossible. Read them and weep, dear boy, for n’ere shall you see their like again.”

“How can you gin? We’ve hardly begun this bloody hand. You only drew three cards.”

“Indeed, I drew three cards. To wit, the third queen, the ace of diamonds, and the jack of spades filling in a lovely straight. Gin is the name of the game, my good fellow, now tote me up. Let’s see what you’re hiding. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I believe I’ve caught you with a gross surplus of costly royalty in your hand. Am I correct?”

Hawke sighed in frustration, and reluctantly began showing his cards. Congreve bent forward, smiling eagerly as out they came. He was not disappointed. Two kings, two jacks, pair of nines, pair of sevens, and some other cats and mice. The hand was worth eighty and change. Not bad, Congreve thought.

“Well, well, well,” Congreve said, picking up the score pad and gleefully adding up the totals. “That puts me ahead by a comfortable margin. Just time for one more hand. I spy something that looks suspiciously like Florida down there.”

Hawke glanced out of his window and experienced a pleasurable shudder of anticipation. The Atlantic far below was shading from a deep blue to a lovely aquamarine near the shoreline as the small jet began its gradual descent toward the eastern coastline of the sprawling peninsula. For the first time since waking, he smiled.

After the recent weeks of damp cold, Alex had been keenly looking forward to leaving gloomy England astern and spending some time in the warm tropical sunshine. According to his crew in the cockpit, they would be landing in time for breakfast on board Blackhawke. It had been over a year since he’d set foot on his beloved vessel.

“I suppose one of us should wake Miss Guinness,” he said.

“Yes. I have to say C has chosen a most decorous aide-de-camp for this adventure. Don’t you agree?”

“She’s not an ADC, that I promise you.”

“What is she, then?”

“A spy.”

Hawke was only half kidding. British SIS had long used female operators. It was not well known, but, during the Second World War, women had been involved in not a few nasty, physical operations. And, since they had always acquitted themselves quite well, there had been little resistance to getting them involved in elite commando or espionage operations ever since. There were several generations of lady operators out there now. Somewhere in the world, Hawke knew, was a cherubic grandmother with a license to kill.

Congreve was trying to get his pipe lit. “A spy? You mean for C? Yes, that would make perfect sense. Sent to keep an eye on you.”

“What else could she be doing?”

“She’s quite brainy, I believe.”

“I don’t need another brain. I’ve got you.”

“Well, I daresay she’s lovely to look at. Remarkable protuberances.”

“Dishy. As long as she keeps her protuberances out of my way. I intend to admire her from afar.”

“She certainly doesn’t have to stay out of mine. I’m quite looking forward to this tropical holiday you know. There’s something bracing about near-naked females splashing in the surf, don’t you agree? Stiffens one up before the fray, I daresay.”

Near naked? Stiffens one up? Hawke looked for a trace of irony in Congreve’s dancing blue eyes, but could find none.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Constable. You’re practically a married man. I promised Diana I’d keep an eye on you and I intend to do so.”

“You remember what Sherlock Holmes had to say on the subject of marriage, my dear fellow? In the Adventure of the Noble Bachelor?”

“No, I do not. And, frankly, I—”

“Gin,” Ambrose said, a small smile of satisfaction playing about his crinkly eyes.

“Again?” Hawke said, throwing his cards down in disgust.

Hawke sensed someone stirring behind him and collapsed back into his seat.

“Oh! Good morning, Mr. Congreve,” Pippa Guinness said, peeking at Ambrose over the back of her reclined seat. She yawned and wiped the sleep from her eyes with the back of her right hand. Hawke, who was facing aft, had his back to her and chose not to acknowledge this greeting by feigning sleep.