Catacombs (14 page)

"Politically the Soviets are as conservative as they've ever been," Gibby replied. "The Politburo doesn't take risks with the motherland. But when they see something developing that looks like a sure thing, they'll bet heavily. Afghanistan, for instance."

"If they can't steal FIREKILL," Boomer said, "I'm reasonably sure that on twenty-nine May they'll pay the asking price just to take a hard look at the concept of an electromagnetic umbrella over their heads. And they'll absorb the moral indignation of the rest of the world with their customary indifference."

"But they're not going to steal the FIREKILL stones from the Catacombs. I am."

"Aside from the fact that you're a better man than anyone the KGB has in Cobra Dance, we have another advantage. We have Raun Hardie."

Jade took another long look at the bloodstone.

He had never been particularly enamored of gems, even expensive ones, but the bloodstone exerted an attraction that went beyond the venal. It was, perhaps, many millions of years old, exposed to the artistry of man only in the last ten thousand years or so. The discovery of even one red diamond was a freak of chance. It was difficult for him to conceive of others, of nearly uniform size and excellence. They could have been collected only through arduous effort, by people who had a vast knowledge of the interior of the earth, and who were skilled in advanced deep-mining techniques.

He wanted to know more about these exceptional people of Zan, despite the barrier of a hundred centuries. How they had lived, why they had perished. He held in his hand a fraction of their history, which he couldn't interpret. The bloodstone seemed infinite in its depths. Observing it, he felt observed himself: with skepticism and, perhaps, defiance.

Come if you dare.

Jade looked up.

"The twenty-ninth of May," he said to Boomer. "It isn't a hell of a lot of time. And I don't know who I'll be up against, if the Russians decide to play it the way we will."

"We're working on that," Gibby told him. "Even at the risk of compromising one of our assets within the KGB."

"And they're working on us," Jade said, thinking of the submarine that had been prowling in the vicinity of the Hondo all day. But Gibby chose to interpret his statement as a rap against the internal security procedures of The Company. His face darkened almost enough to eclipse the hot gel of birthmark.

Boomer got up, forestalling a scene.

"Gentlemen, if you don't mind, Matt and I have some personal matters to discuss before he leaves."

When they were alone, Boomer said with his bitter smile, "How's your tummy?"

"I'll live."

"Do you want a drink now?"

"A little brandy and water."

Boomer took a couple of bottles from the bar cabinet.

"What kind of shape are you in? Do you still have the body of a thirty-year-old?"

"Twenty-nine," Jade said. "I'll never turn thirty."

"One day you'll just go quietly from the peak of your youth to advanced old age," Boomer said admiringly, handing Jade his brandy. He fixed another gin and lime for himself; they clinked glasses together. "From my mouth, et cetera. The exceptional thing about you is that you don't look exceptional. When I tell people you once ran three hundred fifty miles in three and a half days to win a five-dollar bet, they think I'm a blowhard. You're what, five ten, a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet?"

"One fifty-two."

"No visible muscles. Just that rawhide cowpoke look. You up to this one, Matt? It's a tough proposition."

"You wouldn't have bothered me if it wasn't."

"The usual business arrangements, then," Boomer said. "You'll be under contract to the Windward Corporation. Special consultant, twenty years at seventyfive thousand a year–or a lump-sum insurance payment to your estate, if it comes to that. Windward will provide all necessary services, and you have a blank-check expense account. Gibby has the contract with him–sign it on your way out. You report directly to me.

"Fine," Jade said, nodding, thinking of other things. "Does Gibby have you spooked about me?"

"Nothing new. He brought out that psychoanalytic profile they did before you . . . chose to retire. Goddam thing runs to a hundred and twenty pages. But it didn't tell me anything I haven't known about you since you were ten years old. Of course there's a lot of shrink-tank jargon abstracted from your basic Freud: stress models, predictability factors, and so on. Conclusion: Nothing can ever equal the risk you took to get out of Lefortovo prison. Now you can't be trusted under game conditions because you may have become so infatuated with overcoming risks that subconsciously you continue to pile them on, just to find out what it takes to break you. According to the shrinkers, either you think you can't die, or you're afraid you won't."

Jade whistled softly, tunelessly, and failed to smile.

He sipped a little of his brandy and water, staring mildly at Boomer.

"What do you think?"

"I don't buy it," Boomer said aggressively. "Our esteemed social scientists always get a little edgy when they're confronted with a throwback. Some men are born mechanics. You're a born adventurer. You like to tinker with situations and make them work, and the more complex the better. I've wanted to put you to work since Nell died, but we haven't had a scram worthy of your talents. As for Gibby. . . we know what's troubling him. He looked pretty bad when Haydeen turned up in that well behind his house with a concrete block wired around his neck. You were the scapegoat. If I'd been in office then, I would have stopped his play."

"Maybe he doesn't count himself out even yet."

"Now you're questioning Gibby's loyalties. I won't have that." Boomer's eyes were hard. He started to pour himself another big splash of gin, thought better of it. He put the bottle down. "The governors of six Western states will be aboard in an hour. Better get yourself home. And stay there, if you're concerned about Gibby failing to cover your ass. On a personal level I don't care for him either, but I can depend on Gibby because his loyalties are easy to define. He loves his country. I wish I knew ten more men just like him. And you."

Jade
 
reached for his hat. "Okay, Boomer."

"Anything you need before you go?"

"A copy of the tape, and everything pertaining to the bloodstones. Landsat and SLAR reconnaissance photos of the area in question. Weather forecasts through twenty-nine May. I'll submit a shopping list in the morning. Tomorrow I want to see Raun Hardie at the prison, ten o'clock my time. You'd better go ahead and have that drink. It's the sea air."

Boomer didn't waste any time. He swallowed the gin straight, without his usual twist.

"You laughing, Matt?" he asked, still looking vexed.

"Not yet."

"I didn't sleep last night, thinking about the possibilities. Because there's no other way, my friend. Disarmament? You can't talk sanely about an insane predicament. Two great nations squander their heritage, too much of their future resources, and an inexcusable amount of raw brainpower to perpetuate the military myths of the past, for the sake of a balance of terror. Nuclear stalemate. The words curdle on the tongue. I hope like hell Jumbe is right. I'm praying FIREKILL exists. The Lords of the Storm. They sound like gods. Think of that, Matthew. They have looked upon mankind and seen that we are assholes. From their infinite wisdom and compassion is distilled a drop of pity. A blood-red drop. Maybe FIREKILL is a gift from the gods."

"On the other hand," Jade said, "they may have a godlike sense of humor we won't appreciate at all."

ZANZIBAR ISLAND,

TANZANIA

May

T
he estate of the merchant Akim Koshar, situated a hundred feet above the Indian Ocean on a coral cliff, looked from the air like the remains of a party cake served at a Polynesian restaurant. The estate had been expanded many times during the century, gaining a labyrinthine border of walls, some of which were broken and crumbling; the outermost wall was ten feet high and six feet thick but it had no hard edges and seemed to be melting down in the brutal sun. The stucco was painted in shades of pastel orange and banana yellow. Koshar's estate was ringed with clove groves, dark conical evergreen trees that grew to heights of fifty feet. Inside there were parasols of coconut palm, which created splash patterns of light and shade, their yellowed fronds intersecting over tile roofs colored in loud mixed purples and reds. A private mosque, with a minaret like an unlit candle, was as blue as the sea.

Koshar, refreshed by his midday prayers, walked out onto the broad terrace that overlooked the water and glanced at the agent Moscow had sent to him. His initial reaction was one of approval. Despite the heat and the island's high humidity, which was not noticeably diminished by a mild offshore breeze, the man known as Ket Lundgren looked like vacationing royalty–penniless, minor royalty, but with the assurance of his bloodlines apparent in every understated gesture as he stood talking to Daniel Mkassu, Koshar's most valued aide.

But the visitor was neither Swedish by birth, nor royalty: His real name, unknown to Koshar, was Michael Belov, and he was a high-ranking officer with the KGB. For seventeen years he had been one of the three or four top operatives for an ultra-clandestine directorate, Department CD, which the CIA and other national intelligence groups referred to as Cobra Dance. Belov, as Lundgren, had impeccable credentials as a journalist, He published a magazine of opinion in Stockholm that was read by influential politicians around the world and which lost a substantial sum of money for the KGB every year. His wife was a prima ballerina with the Royal Ballet; they were an intellectual-artistic couple with a host of powerful friends, in demand for prestigious parties everywhere.

Belov was tall, standing head and shoulders above the diminutive Koshar. He wore faded jeans and sandals without socks and an un-pressed white linen jacket over a half-buttoned blue shirt. He was troubled by thinning hair, which he parted on the left, but otherwise he appeared disconcertingly flawless. He maintained a blazing tan and his durable body looked accustomed to hard knocks.

Koshar noted the amphibious plane tied up at the dock of the mangrove-lined bay below the main house, and the medium-sized, obviously expensive bag Belov kept close to hand, and concluded that he traveled very light or had something irreplaceable in the bag. Koshar wet his lips surreptitiously, wishing he knew more about the sudden keen interest of the U.S.S.R. in certain recent activities by the Tanzanian government. But he accepted their pay and provided information or services as required, and avoided asking even the most harmless-seeming questions. His major flaw, an insatiable curiosity, was well balanced by untiring patience. In good time he would discover why the British scientist and turncoat named Henry Landreth was of critical importance; he might even learn, to his ultimate profit, what the visitor was carrying in the guarded bag. For now, despite the urgency of the business at hand, the courtesies had to be observed: His guest, familiar with Muslim customs, understood.

They were served lunch on another part of the terrace, in a gazebo made of ant-proof mangrove poles with bamboo sunshades; they were closely watched but not disturbed by the red colobus monkeys and motley parrots in a windbreak of mango trees that stood between the house and the sea. Michael Belov spoke English and French with equal facility, and he had a flair for amusing anecdote. . . although, as in the case of some polished public speakers, his humor seemed learned and not native to him. Koshar, who seldom traveled farther than to the mainland of Tanzania and depended on the handful of foreign consuls and their occasional guests for intellectual stimulation, was delighted by Belov's presence.

But gradually his delight was tempered by a chilly feeling of being at bay. Koshar, skilled at intrigue and intimidation, observed that Belov was never off guard, even in this peaceful, isolated setting. Charmed as he was, Koshar felt that he was being studied as if he were potentially an opponent. Even in repose Belov revealed a hint of the predator who would become terrifying and lethal in a moment of crisis. The merchant suspected his visitor was that rarity, a man of intellect and sensibility who could kill another man with passionless objectivity. He was intrigued by the prospect of introducing Belov to an animal of similar stripes, to see how they would respond to each other.

After lunch the two men settled into the back of Koshar's antique, armored Daimler-Benz, a car that had belonged to a Nazi official in Poland during World War Two. In accord with the merchant's love of vivid color, the car had been refurbished with nine coats of hand-rubbed, high-gloss, gold-flake pistachio green. Mr. Mkassu drove, and two cars filled with bodyguards accompanied them.

Koshar handed Belov his Swedish passport, other documents, and letters of reference.

"Your passport has been stamped to show that you entered Tanzania two weeks ago, before the borders were closed. You have been staying at the Oberoi Bwawani on Zanzibar and Kilipamwambu in Chake Chake since your arrival. These letters will secure for you respectful and instant cooperation from our frequently corrupt and inefficient public servants. You may travel without restriction anywhere in the country, even to the so-called war zones."

Belov nodded and filed the papers away.

"Have you located Henry Landreth for me?"