“Including the oil refineries at Ibadan from which we obtained the carbon black.”
“But they can’t have penetrated the pharmaceutical laboratory where we manufactured the anthrax bacillus,” said Levi Ben-Zvi, the plant geneticist. “A picked team of Jews performed that phase of the operation.”
“And a Jew could not be in the service of the Russians, I suppose?” said Davi sarcastically.
“I hope that you are not suggesting,” Ben-Zvi began angrily, “that–”
“That’s exactly what I’m–”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Shitrit plaintively, “I want to hear the rest of Moshe’s hypotheses about how the planes could have been lost.”
“A waste of time,” said ex-bank director Solomon Molcho in exasperation. “I say let us bury our dead, double our security precautions, and get on with the next phase of Project Titanic.”
Shitrit didn’t take a vote. His colleagues’ faces told him that agreement was general. “Very well. Haim,” he said, turning to the chemical engineer, “as project manager on phase two, perhaps you will be good enough to review for us the–”
The printer next to the word processor began to beep. Shitrit punched in the day’s key sequence. The printer began to stutter. “Explosion which wiped out ammunition dump at Swedru yesterday was not rpt not accident as reported in national media. Reliable sources say that force of commandos in company strength infiltrated camp Wednesday night 20th, stole weapons including recoilless rifles, mortars, heavy machine guns, SAMs, and RPGs, and made their escape overland. Immediate counterattack by squadron of MiGs which strafed and pursued enemy into bush to the north. Force said to consist of black dissidents seeking to destabilize Russian puppet government. Recommend we make contact with dissidents and lend all possible support. End message.”
“If I may speak,” said Davi, when they were again seated around the table.
“Of course,” replied Shitrit.
“Isn’t it an amazing coincidence,” said Davi thoughtfully, “that this raid, which among other items of armament included SAMs, was carried out hours before our planes were shot down? That the raid occurred within easy range of the liaison aircraft aboard the Alamo? Isn’t it interesting that ex-Marine Forte has all manner of ex-soldiers, ex-sailors, and ex-Marines among his personnel?”
“You think it is Forte and his men who have, as our agent puts it, ‘disappeared into the jungle to overthrow the Ghanian puppet government’?”
“I’m convinced of it.”
“The important fact is that our planes were shot down within hours of the theft of SAMs from Swedru. That means that Forte must have been informed only a few hours earlier.”
“How so?”
“Because if he’d have known as little as a day in advance, he would have had time to get SAMs from Texas.”
“Granted. But where does all this get us?”
“It tells us that we’ve been penetrated–not by the Americans, certainly not by the Nigerians. The Russians are the best bet. And if the Russians knew about phase one, they may know about phase two. They can’t know about phase three because we haven’t finalized it yet. They knew, also, about the timing of phase one. So they will know about the timing of phase two, won’t they?”
“Yes.”
“But they won’t know if only I–or another one, and I stress one–of us is put in charge, to determine both the time and the place of phase two.”
“You’re assuming that one of us in this room is a traitor.”
“That is an assumption which, I’m grieved to say, must be entertained.”
Some of the men at the table met Davi’s eye as he looked at them one after another; some didn’t. An amateur psychologist, he suspected those who did more than those who didn’t.
Shitrit spoke. “Moshe has made a grave, a very grave, charge. It is not one, however, we can safely ignore. Therefore, until we can investigate this charge, I move that we adopt his suggestion that he alone be made responsible for the timing and site of phase two. All in favor?”
All hands were raised.
“Phase two is now your total responsibility, Moshe,” said Shitrit. “I sincerely hope it succeeds. But if it fails, at least we will know that eleven of us can be eliminated from the list of possible traitors.”
Five chairs were ranged in a semicircle before the desk in the Oval Office that afternoon at two o’clock. They were occupied by Presidential Scientific Adviser Dr. Sidney Bussek, National Affairs Adviser Pat Benson, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency John Broadman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Moe Sill, and Secretary of Water Resources David D. Castle. As President Horatio Francis Turnbull entered, lighting a fragrant cigar, all stood.
He motioned them to their seats and took his place behind the desk, all business.
“We’ll hear first from Pat.”
Benson cleared his throat and sat up in his chair. “The facts are these: Ripley Forte was warned yesterday morning that an attempt would be made to saturate the Alamo with anthrax spores. He improvised a commando squad from his ex-service employees and raided the Russian ammunition dump at Swedru, retrieving a dozen or so ‘Skidders’ with which he clobbered the attacking planes, all of which were shot down. Thus endeth the reading.”
“Where did those planes come from, John?”
“They could have come from any of several places,” began the CIA director.
“That is to say, you don’t know.”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Did you have any advance information that such an attack would be launched?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who had any reason to launch such an attack?”
“Well, sir, that we do. The Russians–”
“Damn it, John, with you CIA types the Russians are always behind everything. Do you have proof that the Russians did it?”
“As to that, sir, the answer must be, in the present time frame, a qualified–and here I must emphasize the word ‘qualified’–subtrahend. But–”
“Jesus,” said Resident Turnbull. “Moe?” The President turned brusquely to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “What’s your reading, preferably in Anglo-Saxon words of one syllable or less?”
“We don’t have a clue, sir, beyond what Pat here just told you.”
“An honest man. Remind me to ask you sometime how you made general.
“Secretary Castle?”
“I can add nothing, Mr. President, except to express my apprehensions about the fate of Triple Eye. The benefits of iceberg transport are so enormous, so obvious, so universal that I cannot imagine who would want it to
fail. Certainly not the Russians, who stand to gain most.”
“I agree. This project must not fail. The fate of this country rests on its success.” So did Horatio Francis Turnbull’s prospects of reelection, but he didn’t think this was the moment to say so.
He glanced at the clock on the desk. It was 2:17. “I’m sorry that I cannot give more time to this vital matter, gentlemen,” he said, “but the fact is I am already late for an important meeting. Normally I’d appoint a committee to study the situation, but we need action now, not a report in two months. Accordingly, I’m asking General Sill to get to the bottom of this criminal conspiracy. We will meet in forty-eight hours, when he will tell us what we must do to protect the Alamo.”
He stood and nodded dismissal.
The presidential advisers filed out.
A moment later two dozen well-fed citizens filed in, prodding a neatly combed boy of ten or eleven years ahead of them.
President Turnbull glanced down at his appointments calendar, with the names and pictures of three of the leaders of the delegation. Julia Bacon, the Gay Activist Coalition leader, would be the woman with mottled skin and flower-basket hat. State Senator Jacob Friskin had a wart on his nose and had been a minor league baseball player. Fred Johnson, the Teamster vice-president, who could also be identified by his nose, repeatedly broken and ripely veined from fruit of the vine, fancied himself an expert on labor trends.
“Julia!” said President Turnbull, sliding a file folder over the calendar and coming around the desk to grasp her hand warmly, “you must tell me the name of your milliner so I can tell my wife… and Jake–what a pleasure! I was just recalling the other day that home run you hit off of–of–”
He tapped his forehead as if to suggest fast-approaching senility.
“Baker–Stan Baker,” prompted a beaming Jacob Friskin.
The President snapped his fingers.
“Baker, of course.”
He slid an arm around Johnson’s meaty shoulders and whispered confidentially, “Fred, I need your input on a possible reorganization of the Department of Labor. Could you call my secretary so he can set up an appointment?”
Before the flattered Teamster could reply, Turnbull turned and leaned over to shake the hand of the newly elected governor of the Illinois Youth Congress.
“Governor,” he said gravely, “I want to congratulate you on your election–and ask you a favor.”
“Sir?”
“Do you think you could deliver Illinois come November?”
Forte had had a long if fitful night’s sleep, filled with nightmares that fortunately he could not remember upon awakening, but a quick check with the captains of the Sun King and the Alamo assured him that everything was going routinely. Still, with leisure to digest yesterday’s events and assess their significance, he had the uneasy premonition that the new day wasn’t going to be an unalloyed pleasure, either.