The Chimera Sanction (15 page)

‘He’s been lucky, Monsignor. Mark my words, we will catch him.’

‘Ah, yes, you mean like Pablo Escobar?’ said Sforza, a sarcastic, smug smile on his face. Dulac felt the blow below the belt and cringed. It was common knowledge that Interpol had let the infamous head
of the Medellin drug cartel slip through its hands at least twice. The Colombian army had had to finish the job.

‘Monsignori, come,’ interrupted Legnano, ‘we achieve nothing by casting recrimination on Mr Dulac. May I remind you we have a more pressing issue? Surely the kidnappers will grandstand again this
afternoon
, and they will want more money. What is the consensus here?’

‘Pay,’ said Fouquet. ‘We have no choice.’ The other cardinals nodded in agreement.

‘Cardinal Sforza, please prepare the payment arrangements,’ said Legnano.

The assembly in the Segnatura room waited silently. 10.30 a.m. passed, as the members of the Curia and the police inspectors sat with growing anxiety before the inert TV monitors. Then 10.45, then 11 a.m. Still nothing.

‘They’ve changed plans,’ said Legnano.

‘Or they are trying a new method to block the source of the
transmission
,’ said Dulac.

At 11.15, the two monitors flashed on, and the image flickered then focused on the all too familiar scene: hooded figures standing on the platform, above a solitary wooden chair, empty. The monotonous,
electronically
altered voice of the lanky man broke the short silence.

‘Monsignori, you have learned that we do not negotiate. Unless we receive $600 million American dollars in our accounts today at 2 p.m. Rome time, your Pope will be executed, and delivered to you in small packages. The money shall be hot wire transferred per our instructions in the DVD on its way to you. In case you doubt we can keep our part of the bargain….’

The screens flickered again. The man signaled to the two hooded figures and they left the platform. Moments later, they returned,
shouldering
between them a man dressed in white, his head bandaged.

‘It’s the Holy Father!’ exclaimed Legnano.

Dulac saw the camera focus on the Pope, who held up a copy of the
Herald Tribune
. It was dated the same day.

‘$600 million?’ said Fouquet. ‘That’s almost double—’

‘Cardinal, de Ségur knows you can’t negotiate,’ said Dulac. ‘He could have asked for the moon and gotten it.’

‘What do we do now?’ asked Sforza to the cardinals.

‘You prepare the payment and await their instructions,’ said Dulac.

‘What about Interpol?’ said Sforza.

‘I’m sure we’re trying to trace that transmission as we speak. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something,’ said Dulac.

‘We will meet in the Segnatura room at 1 p.m. this afternoon,’ said Legnano.

After a speedy gnocchi lunch at Cantabile’s, Dulac, in his taxi on the way back to the Vatican, had just gotten off the phone with Harris when his cell rang again. It was Guadagni.

‘We have confirmation that the ear’s DNA matches the Pope’s.’

‘Great,’ said Dulac, not overly enthused to hear what he already knew.

‘Also, de Ségur is starting to slip. We decoded their encryptions and went through their firewalls and have a fix on the transmission: it came from a small town outside of Benghazi.’

‘Just a minute.’ Dulac got out of the taxi and headed for the Sant’Anna entrance, phone in hand. ‘Yes. I’ve gotten the same info from our Lyon office. I’ve just finished talking to Harris.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘We don’t know what de Ségur intends to do. If, of course, the Vatican pays him.’

‘They have no choice. What does Harris think?’ said Guadagni.

‘In anticipation that the Vatican will pay the $600 million before 2 p.m. today and de Ségur delivers his side of the bargain and leaves the Pope and Bruscetti in Libya, Harris has spoken with the French and German foreign affairs ministers. He says we have a problem. If Ali al Kargali Kargali gets wind that the Pope is in Libya, you can be sure the crafty Colonel won’t just let us walk in and rescue the Pope. That bastard de Ségur knows this.’

‘So by going to Benghazi, he’s bought himself time and protection.’

‘Exactly. That’s probably why the second transmission was easy to break into.’ ‘But what about the French interests there?’ said Guadagni.

‘Not enough. Nor are the German,’ said Dulac.

‘Kargali would look like a hero to the Western world if he were to save the Pope.’

‘Correct.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Guadagni.

‘I suggest to you that his Muslim friends wouldn’t appreciate him going that far. As a serious candidate for the directorship of the Arab League, he won’t want to alienate half of Islam. Once Kargali becomes aware that the Pope is sitting in his backyard, he’ll have the hottest
diplomatic
potato under the Arab sun. There is no way of knowing what Kargali will do. He’s about as predictable as tomorrow’s stock market.’

‘We could go in sub rosa, and when—’

‘—when we screw up, we’ll have a dead pope, de Ségur will be gone and to top it off we’ll have a diplomatic row with the Libyans.’

Dulac nodded to the Swiss Guards, standing at the entrance to the Segnatura room.

‘Hmm. Any ideas?’ Guadagni continued.

‘I have to ring off.’ Dulac flipped his phone shut.

The prelates were talking excitedly when Dulac entered the Segnatura and sat down. ‘Your Eminences, we have their position. They’re twenty miles south-east of Benghazi, near a small town called Suluq. The General Secretary is awaiting your instructions.’

‘Our instructions?’ said Legnano, looking perplexed.

‘Harris wants to know if you want to risk alerting the Libyans.’

‘Why not?’

‘Your Eminences, if we contact the Libyans, consider that the Libyans might move in, the kidnappers could panic and kill the Pope. Or, the Libyans could botch the job and in a skirmish, the Pope gets killed, or the Libyans secure the perimeter and save the Pope. Fine, but now you have to bargain with Kargali for the return of the Pope.’

‘I see. And what are the alternatives, Mr Dulac?’ asked Legnano, his confidence visibly shaken.

‘Better a devil you know than one you don’t.’

‘What makes you so sure de Ségur isn’t, how you say, in bed with Kargali?’ asked Legnano.

‘De Ségur informing the unpredictable, grandstanding colonel and risk losing control over his precious asset? I doubt it,’ said Dulac.

‘I see,’ said Legnano, shooting occasional glances at the prelates. ‘But what guarantees do we have they won’t kill him anyway?’

‘Other than de Ségur being labeled a stupid, senseless, psychopathic killer, none.’

‘Not very reassuring, Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano.

‘I’ve been wrong before.’ Dulac felt the painful memory resurfacing. He wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. No suggestions this time.

At that moment, a prelate dressed in a black cassock rushed in and handed an envelope to Fouquet. He tore open the envelope and read the letter. ‘Your Eminences, we have just received their payment instructions.’

‘Are the wire transfers ready?’ asked Legnano to Sforza.

‘Yes. I will give final directions to the Treasury,’ said Sforza. ‘For those amounts, I need the written confirmation of two members of the Curia. Please sign here, Cardinal Signorelli, Cardinal Legnano.’

‘Your Eminences, we are all in agreement to pay?’ said Legnano, eyeing the prelates one by one. They nodded.

‘Fine.’ Legnano and Signorelli approached the table and Sforza offered them a pen. ‘Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano as he signed the
document
, ‘tell the General Secretary not to inform the Libyans.’

‘Yes, your Eminence,’ said Dulac. He had a sickening feeling that somehow the Libyans knew already. He rose, walked to the far end of the room and phoned Harris.

‘They want us to stay silent. Don’t inform the Libyans.’

‘They’ll have a hell of a mess if Kargali finds out,’ said Harris.

‘They have one now anyway,’ said Dulac.

‘How do they think they’ll get the Pope out?’

‘We haven’t discussed that issue yet. Surely the Italian SWAT team needs a bit of exercise,’ said Dulac.

‘SISMI? Ha! They couldn’t rescue a dozing cat off a low-lying tree branch. Anyway, there’s nothing more you can do. Get back to Lyon. I want a complete update tomorrow morning,’ Harris said, his tone peremptory.

‘But we’re waiting for word from de Ségur. He’s about to receive the money.’

‘If that’s the case and de Ségur keeps his end of the bargain, you’ll have plenty of time for the rest of the investigation.’

‘I still have some—’

‘Here, Dulac. Tomorrow morning.’ The line went dead.

Dulac grabbed a cab back to the hotel and went to the front desk. He had a message from Karen. ‘Staying in room 347. Call me if you dare.’

Dulac grabbed the hotel’s intercom. ‘Bonjour, it’s me.’

‘Who?’

‘All right, I know. I should’ve called before.’

‘Before what? It’s been barely a week.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been rather busy.’

‘And I haven’t? You’re damn lucky I have an appointment with my doctoral student here tomorrow.’

‘How about a drink downstairs?’

‘Now?’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t give a girl much notice.’

Karen preceded Dulac towards the discreet corner table, her square shoulders accentuated by her loose-fitting blue blouse. Dulac walked closely behind her, mesmerized by the alternate swinging of each of her firm, rounded buttocks, separately encased in her custom fitting beige pants. They sat down in the uncomfortable, art-déco chairs.

‘So how did the meeting with the cardinals go?’ she said.

‘Disastrously well,’ said Dulac, looking pensive.

‘I’m sure they didn’t teach you that at Oxford,’ she said, replacing the wayward strand of auburn hair behind her right ear.

Dulac looked at his watch. ‘That bastard de Ségur is now $600 million richer.’

‘So they had no other choice.’

‘Not really,’ said Dulac.

The waiter came over to their table. ‘Dry martini,’ said Karen.

‘Glenlivet on the rocks,’ said Dulac. The waiter left with their order and Dulac eyed Karen. ‘I won’t go into details, but there’s something
else about the Pope’s past that’s related to his kidnapping.’

‘Other than the ransom?’

‘Yes. I’ll have to see Legnano again. I’m sure he knows a lot more than he’s telling me.’

‘Why would Legnano hide anything?’ said Karen, looking perplexed.

‘You are blissfully unaware of Vatican politics, my dear. Politics and their sacred code of silence. Getting information from a cardinal is like trying to pry open a safe with a screwdriver.’

As head of the intelligence section of the People’s Security Force in Libya, Ali El Gazzar el Kadaffa rarely had to face any moral dilemmas before making the decisions required by his office. Arguably the most powerful man in Libya after Kargali, Gazzar had worked hard to secure the trust of the wary colonel, and up till now, Gazzar’s loyalty to him had been unwavering, unquestionable.

However, that loyalty would now be put to the test: one of his
intelligence
officers had informed Gazzar that he’d deciphered the codes and broken through the firewalls disguising an astounding video conference. According to the officer, the provenance and content of the video showed that the Pope was being held in Suluq, a small town outside of Benghazi. Any man other than Gazzar would have been ecstatic. Bringing such news to the colonel would result in praise and financial reward.

But Ali El Gazzar had recently acquired a higher allegiance than the one he owed Kargali. Five years prior, Gazzar had married a Catholic woman and six months later had himself secretly converted to Catholicism, something he couldn’t afford to broadcast within Libya’s predominantly Islamic power structure. Gazzar hid his new religious allegiance meticulously. From all appearances, he was a devout Muslim, performing his daily incantations at the mosque as required by the Quran, yet all the while praying fervently for the repenting of his sins to his newly found savior, Jesus Christ.

Gazzar had to choose. If he failed to report the Pope’s presence in Libya and the colonel found out, Gazzar was a dead man. But if the Pope was whisked out of Libya and escaped before Gazzar had had a
reasonable opportunity to determine his presence on Libyan soil, Gazzar would at worst be reprimanded, while saving the Pope from Kargali’s unpredictable clutches. Gazzar thought hard and fast. Two conditions were necessary for his plan to work: he had to get the Pope out of Libya within hours, and swear his young intelligence officer to secrecy. In meeting the second condition, he had an inbuilt guarantee. The young officer was his son.

He went to work on the first.

Dulac had just finished ordering their second round of drinks when his encrypted cellphone rang.

‘Dulac.’

‘Is this inspector Thierry Dulac of Interpol?’

Dulac didn’t recognize the voice, or the caller’s ID number. ‘Who is this?’

‘My name is El Gazzar. I’m chief of intelligence of the Libyan People’s Security Force.’

Dulac interrupted, angry and surprised. ‘Really? And I’m Colonel Gaddaffi—’

‘Mr Dulac, don’t be upset. How we broke through your encryption is really not important.’

Voice sounds middle-eastern enough, thought Dulac.

The voice continued. ‘Do not think of tracing the call to verify its authenticity, Mr Dulac. You’d be wasting time. I will authenticate this call to you later. I have information that you are coordinating the efforts to get a certain package back to the Vatican. Is that correct?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Dulac, getting up from the table and signaling Karen with his upturned right-hand of his sudden need for privacy.

‘We do not have time for games, Mr Dulac. We know that the recent
transmission came from Suluq. I suppose you know this also?’

Dulac was silent as he turned and took a few steps away. He looked around. A few empty tables separated him from the other patrons, busy finishing their meals.

‘Mr Dulac, are you there?’

‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’ Dulac said, feeling a knot form in his stomach. Disclosure of the Pope being held in Libya and its disastrous consequences raced through his mind.

‘Listen to me carefully, Mr Dulac. I will be transferring my photo and copy of my security number to your offices at Interpol, so that you can verify my identity. The password to my personal file will be given to Interpol though a secure channel. It will be valid for one entry only. I’m giving you forty-eight hours to get him out of Libya, starting now.’ The man’s tone was firm, yet not threatening, almost casual. ‘In exchange, you will deposit $5 million American dollars into the account given through that channel to the Bank Julius Baer in Zurich. You can check the legitimacy of the account. You have two hours to make the deposit. Do we understand each other, Mr Dulac?’

Dulac stood in utter amazement, too stunned to speak.

‘Mr Dulac?’

Dulac gathered his wits. ‘If I understand you correctly, you are selling your non-interference in the delivery. That’s all. Am I right?’

‘Correct.’

‘We have no proof the package is even available for delivery.’

‘Not my problem. After forty-eight hours, we move in. Is that clear, Mr Dulac?’

Dulac didn’t need to answer. He thought he should hang up. Every professional instinct told him that he should not ask the question pressing foremost on his mind, but he couldn’t resist. ‘I presume the colonel doesn’t know?’

The line went dead.

Dulac flipped his cell shut, walked back and whispered to Karen’s ear. ‘We have to leave. I have a—’

‘Can’t we finish our drinks?’

‘Now.’

‘Fine. Fine.’

‘We’ll go to the room. I have to make some calls.’ He straightened
and signaled the waiter to close the bill.

‘What’s this all about?’ Karen said as they neared the elevators.

Dulac pressed the button and they waited alone for the lift. ‘If this guy is who he says he is, Libyan intelligence knows the Pope is being held near Benghazi. He’s saying we have forty-eight hours to get him out, before he informs Kargali.’

‘Holy shit!’ said Karen.

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘But how on earth did he know to contact you?’

‘Search me. If he did, maybe others know also.’

‘Wow. This could blow sky high,’ said Karen as they entered the elevator.

‘I have to make a quick check on this guy.’ He opened his phone. ‘Shit. I can’t use this, it’s corrupt. I’ll have to use yours.’

‘And how do you propose to check at this time of night?’

‘I happen to have a contact at Julius Baer, the bank where Gazzar wants us to deposit the money. Tonio is an old friend from Montpelier University. I have his home phone number somewhere in my databank.’

‘Surely he can’t divulge the name of his clients.’

‘He owes me. I saved his ass in law school years ago.’

‘Wow. What if this Gazzar guy is in with Kargali? And they’ve set us up?’

‘Exactly. If I understand correctly, he’d get the glory and the money. With no risk.’

‘I agree, but they’d be asking for a whole lot more money than $5 million.’

‘I suppose. Unless….’

‘What?’ said Dulac, a trace of impatience in his voice. ‘Unless it’s only a down payment.’

Dulac felt his face flush red. As they entered Dulac’s room, he said, ‘I’ll need your cell. I can’t use mine until we secure the line.’ He sat down at the small desk and called Legnano, then Harris.

‘Jesus! Now we have two extortionists to deal with,’ Harris exclaimed.

‘God knows why, but Gazzar is doing us a favor,’ said Dulac. ‘The price would be a hundred times that if we were dealing with the colonel.’

‘Some favor. We have absolutely no guarantee de Ségur will deliver, nor this Gazzar or whatever his name is. And we don’t dare call Kargali.
What a fucking, shit-house whore of a mess.’

‘I’ve informed Legnano. He’s willing to take the risk with Gazzar, once we’ve checked out his credentials and the bank,’ said Dulac. ‘Now that they’ve paid de Ségur, they want to protect their investment, so to speak.’

‘You’ve informed Legnano? Don’t you think that’s my responsibility?’ Harris’s voice was loud enough that Karen heard it. She gave Dulac a compassionate glance.

‘Time was pressing. I—’

‘Never mind. How did Legnano take it?’

‘He’s devastated. I think he just realized the mess they’re in.’

‘Dulac, supposing, just supposing de Ségur and Gazzar keep their word. The only way we can get His Holiness out in time is by a covert ’copter operation. I say covert. Now how the hell do the Italians, the SISMI force, or anybody for that matter, pick up the Pope without a dozen Libyan MIGs shooting down their Hueys when they cross into Libyan air space?’

‘Gazzar says he won’t interfere if we get him out within forty-eight hours.’

‘Why the hell should we believe him?’

‘Because he knows that if he double-crosses us, we’ll leak to Kargali that his chief intelligence officer knew of the Pope’s presence in Libya, and didn’t bother to inform him. As proof, we’ll send Kargali a voucher of the bank deposit. Gazzar will be dead within the hour.’

There was silence. ‘Good point. But still, those Hueys aren’t
invisible
.’ Harris’s tone had mellowed somewhat. ‘They’ll show up on their radars in an instant. Gazzar can’t pretend he didn’t see the choppers on any of his screens. There are also the Tunisians.’

Dulac took a deep drag on the nicotine stick, exhaled and said, ‘Maybe we can help.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I happen to know there are three American Army Comanche latest model prototypes, sitting in Stuttgart. It was in the Herald Tribune. The Germans are doing some tests before deciding if they’ll buy.’

‘I read that too. The ones with stealth technology.’

‘Correct.’ Another moment of silence, as Dulac sensed Harris’s brain digesting the possibilities.

After a moment, Harris said, ‘Very interesting. I’ll see you in the morning in Lyon.’ Dulac closed the phone, pensive. Something in the back of Dulac’s mind, or perhaps the bottom of his gut, was telling him he would soon regret his suggestion.

Dulac returned Karen’s inquisitive gaze and continued. ‘That Comanche is one amazing helicopter. It’s got a range of 2000
kilometers
, and a top speed of 450 kilometers an hour; that’s more than twice the speed of a Huey. It’s also practically invisible by radar.’

‘For someone who hates flying, you seem to know a lot about it,’ said Karen, sitting on the sofa, her arms crossed.

‘It was in the Herald Tribune. The article caught my attention.’

Karen kicked off her shoes, rose, and walked to the bathroom. ‘I think I’ll take a shower.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Tell me, those Comanches, can’t they get shot down by a, what do they call it, a SIM missile?’

‘You mean a SAM, a surface-to-air missile.’

‘Whatever.’ Karen started to brush her hair in front of the mirror over the sink.

‘Not if the missile can’t see it.’

She stopped brushing and looked at Dulac. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Comanche apparently has a 97% stealth rating.’

‘All this phallic, anti-phallic weaponry. When will it end? It’s beyond me how anyone can still want to invent this stuff.’ Karen let her dress slip to the ground and unhooked her bra.

‘It’s called survival of the fittest,’ said Dulac.

She removed her panties and stood naked before the mirror, cupping her taut breasts, and bending a knee slightly, one after the other. ‘What do you think?’ she said.

‘Fabulous.’

She laughed, half-closed the bathroom door and stepped into the shower stall.

Dulac went to the minibar and poured himself a scotch. A short while later, Karen, wrapped in a light blue bathrobe joined him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Karen said, drying the ends of her hair with a towel.

‘Harris will pull the usual strings. The Italians have the equivalent of a SWAT team. It’s called SISMI. ‘
Servizio per le informazioni
…
something
or other. They’re surely itching for something like this to redeem themselves.’

‘Redeem?’

He put down his glass on the side table and took off his shoes. ‘You’re probably too young to have heard about the Milano fiasco with the Red Brigades.’

Karen shrugged.

‘Gladio? Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘Not one bit.’

‘Point proven.’

Dulac picked up his glass, leaned back on the bed’s headboard, and took a long sip of his scotch, as the dreaded though of seeing Harris the following morning took a firmer hold of his consciousness.

De Ségur’s patience was fighting his eagerness to receive news of the Vatican’s payment. He tried to remain calm, knowing that transferring money covertly, untraceably, was an art as delicate as that of diamond cutting: one slip-up and all that work and meticulous planning would be ruined. He reasoned with himself that the only thing he could do for the moment was wait. He’d been informed that if one required an expert in the clandestine world of anonymous bearer shares
corporations
, their complex layering and quick dissolution, Notario Alfredo Lucino was the man to call in Costa Rica. His fee was steep: three per cent of the funds transferred, automatically deducted upon corporate shutdown.

At 4.45 p.m., de Ségur’s satellite phone rang. ‘It went like Swiss clockwork,’ said Lucino.

‘All $600 million?’ said de Ségur, as he peered outside at the
simmering
waves of desert heat off the dunes.

‘$600 million. The money has already been wired out of Costa Rica to the intermediary accounts in Belize. I’m shutting down the Costa Rica accounts. The corporations will be liquidated within the hour.’

‘Good doing business with you, Lucino.’ ‘Anytime, Mr.de Ségur. Anytime.’

De Ségur hung up and phoned his agent in Belize.

‘Santos.’

‘De Ségur. Do you have it?’

‘It’s already distributed.’

‘Excellent.’ Santos had just confirmed that de Ségur’s numbered accounts in the Fortes Bank of Luxembourg, Pictet Bank of Switzerland, Banque Pasche of Monaco, Bank Frick and Co. AG of Lichtenstein respectively, had increased in total value by $600 million American dollars. It is earning tax-free interest as we speak, thought de Ségur.

‘No possibility of a trace?’

‘Impossible. The intermediary accounts in Belize, as far as anybody is concerned, never existed. Anyway the source of that money is presumed bona fide and legal.’

‘Good work, Santos. One more thing. At 10.30 p.m. tomorrow evening Rome time, I want you to contact Cardinal Legnano’s office through the Vatican secretariat. Ask to speak to him personally on my behalf and leave the following message. “Deal closed. Pick up package Suluq, Lat. 31 degrees 40’ N, Long. 20 degrees 15’ E.” But not before tomorrow evening. Understood?’

‘Yes sir.’

De Ségur hung up.

‘We have it!’ said a smiling de Ségur to the Cathars. ‘Now it’s our turn to deliver.’ He turned to one of the Berbers and spoke in Arabic. ‘Our guest is well?’

‘Yes sir,’ replied the swarthy-complexioned man in a dark-blue tunic.

‘Good’, said de Ségur. Turning to the others, he added, ‘We’ll take the vans. I’ve made arrangements for a jet to meet us outside Cairo, at the old military airstrip at Siwa. From there we fly to Belize. Everybody get some rest. Tomorrow will be a tiring day. We leave at 5.15 a.m., sunrise.’

‘Mr de Ségur, why can’t we leave now?’ said one of the Cathars.

‘We can’t see the dunes. They’re like quick-sand. We can’t risk getting caught in them.’

‘We’ll travel in tandem,’ de Ségur said to one of the drivers. ‘Did you find some extra touareg clothing?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. We may need the cover. We’ll stop and refuel at Al Jaghbub, near the Egyptian border.’

De Ségur returned inside the house, where the Cathars were busy making last minute preparations for departure, and entered a small dusty room in the back. The man, dressed in a white jellaba, sat
passively
waiting.

‘It is time to bid you adieu, your Holiness,’ said de Ségur, bowing slightly.

‘So it is.’

‘The Berbers will take care of you until your rescuers arrive.’

‘I will pray for your soul.’

De Ségur emitted a small guffaw. ‘Don’t waste your time.’ De Ségur turned, and walked outside towards the vans.

Dulac made his way down the wide corridor towards Harris’s windowed office on the seventh floor of Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, stopping before the office’s open doorway. The morning sun, unhampered by the open blinds, was blazing through the full length windows. Sitting at his desk, wearing a pink shirt and blue bow tie, Harris was engrossed in some voluminous report. Working on Sunday was not unusual for Harris, a man without hobbies – except alcohol. Enveloped by the disc’s orange hot rays, Lucifer-like, he seemed oblivious to the heat.