Exile Endgame (Kamas Trilogy Book 4), page 30
By way of contrast, these League men seemed petrified of how others might view them. A moment later, several voices spoke out at once, with Hayward’s rising above the others.
“But it would ruin the League’s reputation if word ever got out! We are not museum robbers!”
Linder brushed off the objection.
“When money is needed, one’s reputation must sometimes suffer,” he replied with a shrug. “But, in this case, the risk of discovery is small, as only a few of your colleagues need to know about the plan. And, in any case, after you seize power, you can justify it any way you please. Or say nothing.”
“But that’s not the point,” Quist dissented. “What you propose is just plain wrong.”
“Oh, please. Be realistic,” Linder responded. “The Unionist nomenklatura have been siphoning off state assets for years to pad their offshore bank accounts. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Except, in your case, the money would be going toward a worthy cause.”
This was a deliberate taunt intended to expose anyone inclined to defend the Unionist leadership. But nobody spoke up to deny what all knew was true. So Linder decided to push them harder.
“All right, then,” he went on. “If you don’t want to sell off surplus artwork, you could also raise cash by partnering with a truly serious foreign intelligence organization, like the Brazilians or the Russians. Either one would be prepared to pay handsomely for hard intelligence about the DSS and the Progintern. They’d also pay very well for well-sourced intel from inside the FBI, CIA, DHS, or the Pentagon.”
“We’ve talked to the Russians. It went nowhere,” Popovic answered with a scowl and a vigorous shake of his oversized head. “They asked for the moon and offered peanuts in return. Besides, what you’re describing entails significant risk.”
“Oh, so it’s risky, is it?” Linder taunted. “Of course it is! But, never mind, what can’t be stolen can often be fabricated. I’ll give you an example. In Britain, the Zuckerman Letter was a forgery, but it gave the Tories a huge electoral win. Why not try your hand at peddling some high-quality forgeries of your own?”
Linder looked around the table and was met with stony silence.
“And while you ponder that,” he went on with a cavalier smile, “allow me to mention that I have some modest influence with members of London’s tabloid press. I expect they’d be delighted to run a series on the secret lives of your Unionist elites. Surely you must know of some juicy scandals involving the Gang of Three. Not only do the tabloids pay very well, but dragging the reputations of men like Twitchell through the mud would be a terrific way to tarnish Unionist prestige. Of course, this would require genuine evidence, like photos, sound recordings, bank statements, and the like. But surely, with a network like yours, you should be able to manage it, no?”
“I daresay we could,” Bracken sniffed. “But such behavior would lower us to the level of our oppressors. We are a shadow government, for God’s sake, not a gang of paparazzi!”
As if Linder had not yet provoked his hosts enough, he let out a deep laugh. Whoever these men were, they were clearly not revolutionaries. He decided to rile them further.
“It seems to me, Mr. Bracken, that you and your colleagues are altogether too scrupulous. You’ll never succeed in overthrowing the Unionists if you hold yourself to the rules of conventional morality. Take terrorism, for instance,” he said, turning his smile into a leer. “Leonard Fury once told me that an agent of his failed to detonate a bomb in a crowded subway car because children were seen riding in it. Leonard would say that, if you insist on upholding such lofty principles in a life-or-death struggle, you will never achieve your goals.”
“So you would have let the bomb explode?” Popovic protested.
“Not I, but a true revolutionary would. Because once you adopt violence as your method, you must make every target count. For example, why not assassinate Zuckerman or Kanchuk, or even the tyrant Twitchell himself, to destroy the regime’s aura of invincibility? Killing any one of them would unleash utter chaos, creating the very opening you need. It’s exactly what Leonard would have done in your place.”
“But that would bring a new round of Blue Terror down on our heads!” Hayward burst out, his eyes bulging and face flushed.
“So what?” Linder asserted. “Imagine how strongly the people would rally to the League’s cause! The resulting loss of life would be a mere fraction of the carnage that the Unionists will inflict on the people so long as they remain in power.”
“But why even talk of terrorism, Warren?” Poirier spoke up in an agitated voice, having remained silent through most of dinner. “You renounced violence years ago and turned instead to information warfare. Isn’t what you’re proposing a complete about-face for you?”
“Not really,” Linder replied after taking the last sip of his lukewarm coffee. “Besides, when has the League ever renounced violence? It seems to me that assassination remains completely open to you. As well it might, since you don’t seem to be very effective at non-violent tactics. After all, where are your strikes and demonstrations?”
At this, Quist bristled visibly.
“Oh, you’re offended, Owen?” Linder went on. “Then tell me, where are those strikes? And where are your boycotts, your sit-ins, and your candlelight vigils? Every day I check the posts of local dissident networks on the Dark Web. Nowhere do I read about the League organizing mass actions. Have you forgotten your Alinsky? How does one go about overthrowing a regime without first organizing mass protest?”
But the question went unanswered. Linder’s audience seemed at a loss for words. The only one who even met Linder’s gaze was Jack Poirier, and his face was white with alarm.
Linder could see now that he had vexed the group quite enough. And he had gathered more than enough evidence to show the League wasn’t serious about crushing Unionism. The question now was, what would they do with their troublesome émigré visitor? Did they dare let him go home after having laid bare their weak spots and demanded action?
“All right,” Linder added at last, fixing his gaze on Quist. “I think I’ve made clear where the League needs to improve if it wants to attract more émigré support. And I’m happy to help you move forward in those areas if that’s what you want. So why don’t we call it a night?”
Quist let out a deep breath and his face took on the look of someone who has survived a close brush with disaster but can’t quite understand why.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of time. Unless anyone objects, the meeting is adjourned.”
The men from the League rose from their places without comment, pasted on fake smiles, and proceeded to thank one another for their contributions to the meeting, while not deigning to look at Linder. It was as if his provocations were already forgotten.
But Linder, far from being dismayed at their outrage, felt deeply satisfied. He had thrown the League’s top people into confusion and no longer harbored any doubt that the organization was all hat and no horses. While they hadn’t liked being confronted with their weakness, they had little reason to fear his return to London. That was because the League had the louder voice now and could shout him down at any time. Or silence him by violent means, if it came to that.
On the other hand, if Linder disappeared in the Unionist State while under their care, his followers would hold the League responsible. After what had happened to Leonard Fury, nobody who knew Linder would believe that he had defected to the enemy. And that would certainly be true once Dwight Calder released the letter that Linder had left with him for such an eventuality. Checkmate? No. Perhaps only stalemate. But, either way, the League would never be the same.
The sun hung low on the horizon when the private diners stepped outdoors into a chill wind blowing off Boston Harbor. The three Political Council members huddled together and spoke to one another in low tones as they waited for their rides to draw to the curb. Were they fretting over what might happen to them if a tape or a transcript of the meeting fell into the wrong hands? Or were they plotting how to dispose of their nettlesome guest?
Linder scanned the crowded street and spotted the very same suspicious characters he had seen outside the restaurant when he entered hours before. Now that the meeting was over, would they swoop in and bundle him off in an unmarked van? He checked his watch and saw that the meeting had lasted longer than planned. If the League were to let him catch his return flight to London the following day, he and Quist and Poirier would need to begin the long drive back to Vermont very soon.
But before Linder had time to ponder what ill might happen to him, Jerry Jacobs’s shiny black town car pulled to the curb. A moment later, Jacobs stepped out with a welcoming smile to open the car doors while Linder and Poirier climbed in.
“Man, I’ve never seen so much security for a League event,” Jacobs observed once they were on the move. “Must have been a pretty important meeting, eh?”
“I should say so,” Poirier replied. “Still, the security presence seems a bit over the top. I reckon the leadership doesn’t want to take any chances, given what’s been happening all day.”
“What do you mean?” Linder asked, startled by Poirier’s comment. “Is something going on that I don’t know about?”
“It’s not in the news yet, Warren, but Hayward told me during the break that Ted Terzian has fled the country and just surfaced in Brazil. Apparently, he was plotting some sort of coup. The DSS has been rounding up his minions all afternoon.”
Linder drew a sharp breath and felt his pulse racing. “Have they hauled in anyone connected to the League?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Poirier replied, without alarm. “But I doubt they’ll catch any of our kind playing footsie with that scoundrel. There’s not a dime’s worth of difference between Terzian and Twitchell, if you ask me.”
“So you don’t think any of the League’s people would have backed Terzian against the Gang of Three?”
“Not bloody likely,” Jacobs echoed with a bitter laugh as he eyed Linder in his rear view mirror. “We want to get rid of the whole lot of them.”
So where did that leave Kreutzer, Linder asked himself. Under arrest? In hiding? Or might he have been collaborating with the DSS all along? His heart sank. What did Quist know about Kreutzer’s fate? And where was Quist now?
CHAPTER THIRTY: ARREST
“We’ll ask the man, where do you stand on the question of the revolution? If he’s against it, we’ll stand him up against a wall.”
—Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
SATURDAY, 25 MARCH 2034
Owen Quist watched Jacobs’s town car pull away from the curb with Linder and Poirier inside. As soon as it was out of sight, Quist made his way back to the private dining room where the Political Council members had met. There he found his case officer, James Jenkins, alias Darrell Otis, also alias Roy Scovill, seated at the table while speaking with someone on his mobile phone.
“Okay, I’ll wait for your call,” Otis said as he ended the conversation.
Quist took a seat beside the DSS officer and made a quick look around before speaking.
“Who in God’s name ordered such heavy security around the meeting site?” Quist demanded. “Linder’s no fool. He must have spotted it right away. The Political Council wouldn’t have done something like that on its own. Someone else up must have ordered it.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Otis replied, shaking his head in dismay. “It seems there was a snafu at headquarters. Someone there ordered Linder’s arrest and I didn’t find out in time to stop it.”
“Arrest Linder?” Quist sputtered. “That’s nuts! If Linder doesn’t show up in London, the exiles will immediately blame the League, especially after the mess with Fury. We’ll never be able to show our faces again!”
“I understand, Owen. But tell me this,” Otis countered. “Hayward claims that Linder said some pretty shocking things in there. Like urging the League to assassinate the General Secretary. Did he really say that?”
“That and more,” Quist replied with a pained look. “The only positive spin I can put on it is that Linder wanted to test our resolve and provoke the League into taking more aggressive action. But I’d hate to see a transcript of the meeting find its way to the White House.”
“Me too. Unfortunately, right now I can’t rule that out.”
Quist recoiled. He could only imagine the firestorm that would ensue if General Secretary Twitchell knew everything that Linder had proposed during the meeting. It wouldn’t matter that the League leaders were operating under instructions from the DSS or that they had rejected Linder’s proposals out of hand. Twitchell was paranoid. Everyone connected with the meeting would be accused of treason. Quist imagined himself being hauled off in chains and thrown into a dark cell down the hall from Linder’s. He imagined his wife losing her job and being jailed for conspiring along with him. None of what he’d done for the DSS over the past two years would save him now. All his sacrifices would be for nothing.
Before Quist could speak again, Otis’s phone rang. He stepped away from Quist and answered the call but said little in response. When Otis hung up, his expression was grim.
“That was Barbosa. He said the arrest order came straight from the deputy director’s office. He’s trying to get it rescinded but doesn’t hold out much hope. He wants us to go back to the safehouse and await further instructions. And in the event the arrest older stands, you and I will be the ones assigned to take him down.”
Quist’s heart sank. A moment later, he heard a knock on the door and a swarthy young man with a lean and wiry physique appeared.
“You wanted me, boss?” he asked, sticking his head and shoulders inside.
“Yes, Ali,” Otis told him. “Would you mind bringing the car around back? I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Quist gave Otis a questioning look as the man turned to leave.
“Oh, that’s Ali Jafari,” Otis explained. “Ali was on the team that picked up Leonard Fury and is also one of the men assigned to arrest Linder. If the order gets lifted, we’ll hear about it first from Ali.”
A few minutes later, Jafari pulled up at the restaurant’s rear door in the SUV that had made the drive from Canada and drove Otis and Quist to the South Boston safehouse. While en route, Otis took another phone call, which Quist guessed was likely from Victor Barbosa. As before, Otis listened carefully but spoke few words. When the call was finished, a determined look came into his eyes.
“Okay, Owen, here’s the plan,” he announced. “The arrest is back on, but it’s to occur as Linder is leaving the city. I want you to go in and take Poirier aside. Tell him you’ve agreed to give Ali and me a ride to North Station on your way out of town with Linder. Ali and I will wait for you here. When we’re all ready to go, I want you to take the wheel and have Poirier ride shotgun. Ali and I will sit in back with Linder so we can cuff him as we approach the station. From there, we’ll take Linder to the DSS prison annex, where they’ll book him into a cell. Is all that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Quist replied, though he wished it weren’t.
“And you, Ali?” Otis demanded.
“I’m on it, boss,” Jafari replied with a sinister hardness in his dark eyes.
“Okay, then, let’s go. And just so you know, a backup vehicle will be right behind us. Popovic and Hayward will bring up the rear in their own car. We’ll meet them all afterward at the safehouse for a quick debrief.”
When Quist arrived at the safehouse apartment, Linder was drinking coffee in the kitchen with Poirier and Jacobs. Linder noted with interest that, as soon as Quist entered the room, Poirier and Jacobs put down their coffee cups and glanced pointedly at the wall clock.
What was their hurry, Linder wondered? Could they know about his secret meeting with Kreutzer, or was there another reason for their haste? If only he could get Quist alone to ask him what he knew about Kreutzer’s current situation and why he hadn’t shown up to meet them. But there were too many people around.
“Sorry I’m late,” Quist told them, showing no signs of urgency. “I ran into Roy Scovill and a friend of his outside the restaurant. They needed a ride to North Station, so I said we could give them a lift. It’s only a couple of minutes out of our way. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” Linder offered with a magnanimous smile while hiding his rising angst. “We’ve still got plenty of time.” The others nodded but said nothing.
They rose together and Quist led Linder and Poirier out to the SUV, taking the driver’s seat for himself. Linder sat in the back seat, sandwiched between Scovill and Jafari.
Soon they were on their way north toward Summer Street, crossing the Fort Point Channel and heading toward Boston’s commercial center. No sooner were they past the channel than Linder spoke up.
“Do you mind if we stop just ahead so I can buy a postcard?” he asked. “I’d like to send it to my wife as a souvenir.”
Poirier looked across to Quist, who gave a quick nod before responding.
“Not a problem,” Quist told Linder. “In fact, it might be a good opportunity to pick up a few bottles of water for the trip.”
So Quist stopped the car outside the nearest bodega while Poirier escorted Linder inside. When the latter two returned with their purchases, Linder sat alone in the back seat to fill out his postcard while the others lingered outside to drink the bottled water Poirier had brought. To Linder’s relief, no one watched when he put down his pen, removed his gold wedding band, and used it to scrawl an invisible message across what he had already written on the card.
Once the SUV was on the move again, they stopped one last time for Linder to drop his postcard in a letterbox, with Scovill standing a few steps away. Linder heaved a secret sigh of relief when he saw the card disappear. Then he and Scovill returned to the car.
