Haven, page 25
TWENTY FOUR
The men in dark suits had gathered again in the soundproofed room at Fort Meade. The chairman pointed a remote control at a screen that lit up with a face and biography. "Meet Martin Kessler," he said.
“It was Peter's wife, Lauren, who picked him out of the files. You'll recall that he made an impression on her. She was fascinated because she had always assumed that Kessler was a fictional character.”
The man who was Peter nodded and smiled. "You'll also recall I said much the same thing...about him being not quite real, I mean. It's because they had made him a comic book hero well before they sent him on a two-year tour with the GDR Embassy in Washington. We have a few examples of those comics in his file.”
The chairman found the button marked Scroll and advanced to a frame that showed a montage of comic book covers. The covers were titled "Reineke Fuchs" in type that resembled a lightning display. Underneath, translated from bold Germanic script, was "The heroic true adventures of Martin Kessler in defense of his Socialist motherland." Each cover showed Kessler in an action pose, considerably more handsome, his scar more pronounced, each cover more lurid than the last. In one he's hurtling down a mountain on skis while firing a pistol at those trying to stop him. Two of his attackers lie face down in the snow. So there's no mistaking who the attackers might be, all their jackets say CIA on the back. But Kessler is wearing his Olympics Team uniform, complete with the medal that he in fact almost won.
“This is ten years ago?" asked one man at the table.
“His Washington tour? More like twelve or thirteen.”
“Well, how can you know that it's Kessler's voice on that call to Lawrence Tarrant and his wife?”
“Because we kept Kessler's voice print. We kept all of their voice prints. Kessler's is a positive match.”
“Do we know where he is now?”
“Well, we think that we might. At least we know where to look.”
The chairman clicked his remote several times until Cyril Pratt's face appeared on the screen. He clicked it again to show a new montage, this one concerning reports of three bodies that were found a few miles from Hilton Head Island.
“I leap to the assumption," said one of the suits, "that you think the blond one among them was Pratt.”
“Oh, it's definitely Pratt. We showed that photo to the real estate agent from whom he rented a cabin, and also to a dealer who rented him a minibus. For now, however, we'll keep that to ourselves. We don't know who the other two are but they're not Hispanic, I promise you. Pending a report from our own pathologists, they are probably the Muslims Kessler mentioned to Tarrant. He also mentioned a girl and an Algerian. The girl, we assume, is Bandari's niece but I'm afraid we don't have a photo.”
“Why would you think it's his niece?" someone asked.
A shrug. "If it's true that Bandari killed his brother and his wife, their daughter is all there is left. Pratt hunted female Muslims, remember.”
“The Algerian," asked another. "Who would that be?”
“No idea. But Kessler's inference seemed to be that the girl and the Algerian are in the same place...which brings us to Hilton Head Island.”
The chairman winced slightly when Peter got to this part. His expression told the others that what followed was guesswork but probably worth hearing with an open mind.
“You'll recall," Peter told them, "that Bandari said a woman had called him. A woman who frightened him out of his wits. I think that woman was Elizabeth Stride.”
A few smiles appeared on the faces at the table. The man named Charles rolled his eyes to his aide and muttered, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Peter." Peter glanced at the chairman who said, "Never mind him. Continue.”
“We know that Kessler was involved with Stride during that Martin Ceausescu business. After that they both disappeared from the scene although Martin resurfaced a year ago. In Boulder, Colorado of all places." The screen showed a newspaper photo of Kessler. He had broken the fingers of a local securities salesman. "We know that he was traveling with a woman at the time. That woman answers Stride's description.”
“What description? Dark hair and dark eyes?" asked Charles.
“And slender. Mid-thirties, which is what she'd be now.”
This brought a smirk from the aide Charles brought with him and a pained expression from Charles. He said, "Peter, for God's sake, she doesn't exist. There is no Elizabeth Stride.”
“An open mind, Charles," the chairman reminded him.
“I can keep one on Kessler, the comic book Marxist, because at least we know that Kessler exists. Elizabeth Stride is pure invention. She's an Israeli practical joke.”
“A rather deadly one then, by all accounts.”
“Her toll is what...thirty? How can anyone believe that?”
“Maybe now thirty-three. Charles, why do you doubt it?”
“Because Mossad credits her with at least two reprisal killings that were done on the same night three countries apart. That argues for two Elizabeth Strides but we've run across at least ten, all nut cases. The Black Angel legend says she's an American from Houston but no one by that name was born in that city within five years of the age she's supposed to have been. Do you know where they got the name, Elizabeth Stride?”
“Um...off hand, I don't. Where did they?”
“It's the name of one of the five London prostitutes who were murdered by Jack the Ripper. Don't you see? This is Mossad's sense of humor at work. We now have a modern day Elizabeth Stride slashing victims all over the Middle East and becoming an Israeli folk hero. She has died, by the way, at least six times that we know of. She was shot to death in Bucharest, beheaded in Ryadh and knifed in Paris...in fact that time I think she was scalped. Oh, and then having run out of colorful ways to die she expired last year somewhere in Kansas while pedaling an exercise bike.”
“Ah...would you believe there's a woman whose name is E. Stride now living on Hilton Head Island?”
“Who says so?”
“She's in the telephone book.”
“Why on earth would you look in a telephone book to see if there's a listing for Elizabeth Stride?”
“Actually I was looking for a listing for Kessler. On an impulse I looked under Stride.”
Charles threw up his hands. "Do you want to know something? Our critics are right. Why do we need these Intelligence Services when all we need do to locate foreign agents is consult a Hilton Head telephone book?”
“In fact you'd be surprised at who else is on that island.”
“The Ripper's four other victims, no doubt.”
“Do you remember Roy Willis, the DEA Agent-in-Charge from New York?”
“That's the one who resigned to become a Black Muslim?”
“He converted to Islam. It's not the same thing.”
“Has he taken to wearing bow ties and short hair and calling the white man the devil?”
Peter hooded his eyes. He said nothing.
“Very well," Charles sniffed. "He's a brown Muslim, then. What's he doing on Hilton Head Island?'
“I'm not sure I know. Perhaps finding himself. He's been there for several months now at some tennis academy. I'd been thinking of asking him to take a look at this Stride and find out if she happens to hang out with a German, a German with a scar by one eye.”
“What the hell for? Why Willis, I mean?”
“Because I know him and I trust him and he's there.”
“You'd trust a man who turned his back on his agency just to join a bunch of damned...”
“That is not what he did," Peter said through his teeth. "And for your information...”
“Let's move on," said the chairman with a tapping of his pen. The chairman, named Roger, looked oddly at Peter. "If you trust him, then ask him. Why haven't you done so?”
“He'd have told me that this is none of his business. I think now I can persuade him that it is.”
Charles snorted. "Persuade him of what? That his oath of allegiance is still binding on him? Don't waste your time on religious fanatics. We've no shortage of men who will do as they're told.”
The man named Peter paused to measure his words lest the first ones he uttered tell Charles he's an ass.
“We've a shortage of men who know and understand Muslims. Roy Willis, who is no more a fanatic than I am, would detest a Pratt or a Tarrant.”
The chairman raised his pen. "Let's wrap this up, please.”
He looked over his glasses at the man named Charles. "For the record," he said, "what Willis does with his life and his conscience is nobody's business but his own." He waved the pen to avert further comment. "We need to find Kessler because we need to ask him what he meant about Tarrant wiping out cities. I don't really care about Elizabeth Stride except to the extent that she can lead us to Kessler. You can laugh at Kessler's comics but the man is no clown. He's resourceful, he's clever, he's elusive as hell. If he spots our people before they spot him, he's gone and we're back to square one. Roy Willis has been working at a tennis club, you say?”
“As a maintenance man," Peter answered and then shrugged. "Don't ask me why. I don't know.”
“After New York City, I'm not terribly surprised. Perhaps laboring in the vineyards brings him peace.”
“We need him, if he'll help us, because he knows the island and because being black there, he's largely invisible. Put a rake in his hand and even Kessler won't see him.”
The remark struck the chairman as faintly racist itself although no less perceptive for that. He nodded agreement. A flick of his finger told Peter to see to it at once.
“There's also the matter of Bandari," said the chairman. "His boat, the yacht Alhambra, stopped to refuel in the Canaries. This was yesterday noon. One refuels in the Canaries if one is crossing the Atlantic. We expect that he intends some sort of rendezvous with Tarrant. We've lost him but we'll find him when the yacht nears our coast.”
“Sir?" The young aide to Charles raised his hand. "Any luck in unscrambling that call Tarrant made?”
“Almost none but it's clear that they argued. Tarrant tried a later call but Bandari's not answering.”
“Thank you, sir," said the young man. His question had drawn a raised eyebrow from Charles. Charles made a mental note to remind his young aide to speak only when asked in these meetings. The young man, however, was glowing inside.
“This meeting is adjourned." The chairman said, rising. "Peter, please stay. I'd like a word with you, please.”
Peter took his seat as the others left the room and the last of the aides closed the door. He felt sure that he knew what was coming. The chairman drummed his fingers as he often did when about to say, "Enough of this nonsense. What's really on your mind?”
But instead he cocked his head toward the door. "Charles...has his good qualities," he said.
“One supposes he must.”
“He cares about his country. You'll at least give him that.”
“He cares only about his part of it, Roger. The part that's white and has money.”
“Well...Charles is Charles," The chairman answered. "All the same, I don't think he wants anyone destroying our cities.”
“Charles couldn't give damn about any of our cities, give or take a few restaurants he likes.”
“Peter..." The chairman was sorry he mentioned him. "Roy Willis is the reason I asked you to stay.”
“Would you like to know what Charles thinks about cities? He considers them a relic of the pre-computer era. He would not give five cents to revitalize a city.”
“That may be but let's talk about Willis.”
“This is about Willis but know this about Charles. He sees most major cities as vast welfare ghettos that, as such, long term, are financially and culturally unsustainable. Inner cities, to Charles, have but one useful purpose. They give us a place where we can quarantine our poor against the day when the welfare spigot turns off.”
The chairman began to see a flicker of relevance. "Peter, why did Roy Willis resign?”
“As you said, it's a matter of conscience.”
“Yes, but why quit? And why Islam?”
Peter glanced toward the door. "Did you hear Charles' reaction, that country club bigot? He hears that a good man found meaning in his life and all he can see is that Farrakhan crowd preaching hatred of whites...to say nothing of Jews...who, by the way, can't get into his country club either.”
“Your restraint was noted. But what has Roy decided?”
“He was DEA. He'd seen enough drugs.”
“And enough dead young blacks in the cities, I imagine.”
“Enough alcoholism and pregnant teens. Enough fathers who desert their families. Enough lives without purpose or meaning or hope. Shall I tell you something about Muslims, Roger?”
The chairman's only interest was in one at the moment but good manners required that he let Peter speak.
“It isn't just Willis. It's not just all those athletes, those boxers and football and basketball players who have taken names like Mohammed and Kareem. Over two million Americans have converted to Islam and they're not all black people either. They are people who now have a sense of belonging to something that's bigger, more important than themselves. Roger, when was the last time you saw that among whites? You'd have to go back to Pearl Harbor.”
The chairman, sadly, was inclined to agree.
“There are converts to Islam who used to deal drugs. There are women who used to be prostitutes and drunks. Look where they came from and look where they are. They work, they raise children, they don't cheat or steal. They help each other, they trust in each other, and they'll fight if they must to protect each other.”
“Trained to do so, I gather, by men like Roy Willis." The chairman drummed his fingers before Peter could answer. His eyes said that this time he means it. "Then what is he doing in Hilton Head, Peter? And why did you say you don't know?”
“He's...sort of on loan. Roy and one or two others.”
“On loan to do what? To protect? To fight?”
“To protect certain women from creatures like Pratt.”
A grunt from the chairman. It was as he'd suspected. "So Willis is not some convenient acquaintance who might do a little snooping as a favor to you. Why the smoke screen, Peter? You're afraid of what? That it's Willis who murdered Cyril Pratt and the others?”
Peter took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "If he did it, I would not call it murder.”
Now a sigh from the chairman. "Which brings us to Kessler who you - and you alone - have managed to identify. Am I to believe that you've actually done so or is Kessler as much of a fiction as Stride?”
“The voice was Kessler's. Depend on it, Roger.”
The chairman stood up. He paced before speaking. "A Martin Kessler, an Elizabeth Stride. These two would not stand high on any list of people who would flock to the banner of Islam,”
“I wondered myself. I don't know their motive.”
“Kessler seemed to tell Tarrant that he didn't much care what Tarrant did in any part of the country but one. From that we might conclude that Kessler lives of that island. Does Willis know Kessler or not?”
“I don't know.”
“But we care, don't we? And you care especially. You care because the cities Tarrant seems to be threatening are where your Muslims are making their lives. What am I to deduce from that, Peter?”
“That I'm a closet Muslim? I'm not.”
“Would...sympathizer be too strong a word?”
“It's precisely the word. I admire these people. I applaud what they've done.”
“Excluding, I trust, their more extreme measures.”
“Islam, like Christianity has its moderates and its extremists. Their terrorists, like ours, are a deviant minority.”
“Would they turn them in?”
“Not to us. But they'll stop them.”
The chairman drummed his fingers. "Well, I'll give you two days. See Willis, find Kessler, and learn what you can. The problem with electronic surveillance is that we hear a lot of talk that's just talk. We hear crackpots boasting of impossible schemes, taking credit, for example, for planes going down when we know that the real cause was icing or wind-shear. That in mind, let's remember how Tarrant insisted that he didn't know what Kessler was talking about.”
“You're willing to assume there's no substance to the threat?”
“No, I'm not, and that's why you get only two days. After that I'll have our people scour that island for Kessler and question every Muslim and German they find there. They'll also pick up this women, E. Stride, unless she turns out to be eighty years old.”
The DEA man was aghast. "On what charge?”
“Three murders, Peter. Three dead bounty hunters. You'll agree that there's probable cause.”
“And if I find Kessler? If he tells us what he knows?”
“Then those three go back to being drug-related murders. Kessler is left to stay or go as he pleases even though there's that matter of a Colorado warrant. Neither Willis nor his Muslims will be bothered again.”
“Two days, you said.”
“I suggest you don't waste them.”
The man named Charles had rebuked his young aide in the car as they drove through the gates of Fort Meade. The aide was contrite. He said that he had forgotten himself in his zeal to be helpful. In future he would remember his place. But that future, he knew, was looking very bright indeed.
He could now tell Tarrant many things of great value. So many that they ought to be rationed. He had already shown Tarrant how to code his scrambler so that the NSA computers could not translate more than gibberish. He could now confirm it but that wasn't worth much because for that he had already been paid. He could also confirm that they'd sequestered his wife but that she hadn't told them much that could hurt him. Most of what Clarisse knew, she'd heard from the German. Most of what she could tell them of his other activities were things they already knew or suspected. That was, after all, why he was under surveillance in the first place. Tarrant already paid for that knowledge as well but not much because this is Washington D.C. and he would have been surprised if he were not.
