Next
Jacob Chernow was in a well-padded chair in the windowless Situation Room adjoining the Prime Minister's office. During a crisis, the Prime Minister always found it reassuring to know Chernow was next door. Much of the first day --- twenty-two hours --- had passed since Raza's demands.
An outsize desk and chair were the room's only furniture. The rest was state-of-the-art communications and audio-visual equipment. The girl was leaning back against an empty piece of wall, her arms crossed over the slow rise and fall of her chest, her eyes closed as if in sleep. Neither of them had gotten much sleep in the past few days.
An outsize desk and the chair were the room's only furniture. The room was a scaled-down duplicate of the War Room on the other side of the Prime Minister's office. Since the bombings, the War Room had been manned by a team of strategists. While Chernow could monitor their work through closed-circuit television, he worked in this cramped room.
On one wall was a bank of monitors. They enabled Chernow to follow developments in London, Paris, and Washington, and at the United Nations in New York. Other screens relayed information from Interpol and police force in Europe engaged in the hunt for the bombers.
A couple of IRA cells had been unearthed in Holland, along with a bomb-making factory serving Turkish terrorists in Germany. But there had been no trace of the hotel bombers.
At the UN, the Permanent Council had agreed after a short discussion to reject the demands that Israel should give up its territorial rights and destroy its nuclear weapons. The decision had then been put before all member states for ratification. The debate had lasted ten hours. An overwhelming majority had supported the Permanent Council; eight Arab nations had abstained.
In Washington, Paris, and London, cabinets remained in closed sessions after issuing similar communiqués that the perpetrators of the bombing would be hunted down and brought to justice.
The oil- and mineral-mining multinationals had jointly refused to meet the demand made of them.
Bitburg had appeared on one of the closed-circuit screens to say this was the first time since the Gulf War that the world was standing up to terrorism. It was the closest he had come to admitting he was wrong about Raza being finished.
Since then, the hands on the 24-hour wall clock above Chernow's desk had moved forward another hour. Beneath the clock, he had taped a card bearing two scrawled words: First Deadline. It was a constant reminder of the time remaining before Raza's threatened second attack. There were now less than two hours left.
Minutes ago, the text of a statement from Ayatollah Muzwaz had appeared on the monitor labeled Arab Reactions. The statement called for the Islamic world to be vigilant in the face of provocation by the infidels. Muzwaz went on to repeat his familiar attacks on Israel, the West, capitalism, and imperialism.
Bitburg's face was back on the screen. His eyes were steady, his manner composed. "Pure bluster, Jacob! Muzwaz knows Raza made a huge miscalculation in blowing those hotels. If he was backing Raza before, he most certainly won't want to do so now!"
"I'm not so sure, Walter," replied Chernow. "That business about being vigilant in the face of provocation could be Muzwaz preparing his people for the next stage. It's the old Saddam trick of telling them they are going to be hit. When Raza does something else, Muzwaz can present it as a necessary preemptive self-defense."
"You're wrong, Jacob! Muzwaz will huff and puff for a few more days because he has to. But now that everyone's standing firm, he will know that whatever Raza tries, he is not going to succeed. Therefore, he'll want to keep his powder dry for another day. And Raza couldn't have expected the reaction he's generated by the bombings. There's been nothing like it. Look at your monitors! The whole world's up in arms! The best that Raza can hope for is to be able to disappear back into the woodwork!"
The sound of movement behind him caused Chernow to turn his head. The girl had pushed herself away from the wall and was walking toward him. The look on her face seemed to mirror his own thoughts --- How could a man like this have risen so high?
Tyreen moved up behind Chernow. Putting a hand on his shoulder and steeling her face, she turned to the camera and spoke. "Sir, he's still got the anthrax."
"So you two keep saying. So why didn't he use it? That would have made more sense than all these crazy demands!"
"I told you what The Syrian said."
Bitburg shook his head slowly. His eyes moved more rapidly, as if they were seeking a way to leave his face. "He wasn't able to pinpoint those hotels. It's the same with this threat of Raza's to do something further. It's very vague. And whatever else he might have been cooking up, he will most certainly now have given up."
"Let's wait and see, Walter."
Bitburg sighed loudly. "Jacob, Jacob, why are you so stubborn?"
"Call it my gut reaction, Walter."
Bitburg was still shaking his head when his face vanished from the screen.
For a moment, Chernow remained staring at the blank monitor. Feeling the pressure on his shoulder, he laid his hand atop Tyreen's and turned his head to see her slowly shaking her head. Then he turned to the Honeywell and tapped in a summary of the call.
The computer had made it that much easier to confirm what had happened to Steve and Dolly. It said to call Fuller.
Harry Fuller was Assistant Commissioner, Crime, at New Scotland Yard. He'd been in the job so long people simply called him "ACC." Both Chernow and Tyreen had worked with him on a dozen operations.
The ACC had answered his car phone from the chaos around the Connaught. He'd listened without interruption and said if it was any consolation, Steve and Dolly would have felt nothing. None of the thirty-three victims would have done so.
Chernow had called Hannah. She had wept uncontrollably. When he'd told Karshov, the Prime Minister had cursed long and hard in Polish. Tyreen recalled Chernow telling her that the Vaughans and the Prime Minister had prayed for years at the same synagogue and kept the festivals together. Karshov had said he'd send Israel's only Concorde to bring home the bodies.
Then it had been business as usual.
He had Matti Talim transmit a copy of the tape AP had received, and told Lou Panchez to return to Washington to liaise with the CIA and FBI.
Chernow had then ordered Lester Finel, in charge of Mossad's computers, to get his programmers working on the identity of the bombers. Chantal Bouquet, Head of the Foreign Intelligence Desk, had been set to probe as only she knew how the wider ramifications of the bombings. Why had British, French, and American intelligence failed to pick up even a whisper? Bad fieldcraft? Or something else? Before Lockerbie, the Germans had suppressed vital information about the bombers because it compromised their own covert operations.
Psychological Assessment had been told to prepare a briefing paper on the options open to all radical Arab leaders. Would they support Muzwaz --- and would the cabal feel the time had come to launch a holy war?
Meanwhile, the ACC had called three more times, to report on the explosions at the Savoy, Claridge's, and the Berkeley. It was the worst devastation London had experienced since the Blitz.
Pierre Lacouste, the Deputy Director of French Intelligence, had filled in details of the destruction in Paris. Five floors of the Maurice had collapsed, and there were already fifty known deaths. At the Georges V, over forty bodies had been recovered. The Grand's frontage had fallen on two coachloads of guests returning from a tour of the city. A hundred were feared killed. The number of dead at the Crillon had reached seventy and was certain to increase.
Lacouste had said it was the price for allowing France to become a haven for terrorists. Chernow and Tyreen had understood his cold fury.
Successive French governments had paid huge sums to the Beirut hostage takers to free its nationals, and struck deals with the PLO and Saddam Hussein. France's once vaunted security forces were hamstrung and demoralized. Only men like Lacouste had the will to continue and wage war against terrorism.
The anger was still there when the Paris monitor once more displayed Lacouste's gaunt, patricianlike face. "We have limited descriptions of the bombers who remember well-dressed Arabs checking in with expensive luggage," he said.
"Can you fax them to Finel? We'll match them with what we have. One thing, for sure, Raza's terrorists always know how to blend with the background."
Lacouste grunted. "We have a doorman who recalls an Arab leaving several hours before the explosion. A floor maid says she remembers the Do Not Disturb sign on the Arab's door. She says there was nothing unusual in that."
"Same story from the other hotels, Pierre. The bombers checked in, wired their rooms to blow at preset times, then slipped away. Every hotelier's nightmare come true. The wonder is that it hasn't happened before now."
Lacouste gave another grunt. "The tape any help?"
He and the ACC had each transmitted a copy of the tapes received in Paris by Agence France Presse and in London by the Press Association. They were identical to the one sent to the Associated Press in New York. Chernow had played them several times. He'd then sent them to Voice Analysis. Its technicians were among the best in the field; even Tyreen didn't think her mother could do any better. And she knew Chirren Mackenzie was working on the problem with the British specialists.
"No news yet. The moment it comes, I'll make sure you know," said Chernow.
"Thank you, Jacob." Lacouste's pinched face grew pensive. "Do you think Raza will strike again?"
"Yes," said Chernow. Behind him, Tyreen nodded her head in agreement.
"Me, too. But where?"
"Where indeed?"
The two men laughed softly and without any pleasure.
Moments later, the monitor that fed the satellite link from Washington bleeped. Chernow punched a key on the console and the face of Lou Panchez filled the screen.
Panchez glanced down to check his notes. "The FBI is satisfied the tone pulse of the call to the AP places it outside the continental United States. Anywhere from between five to eight thousand miles."
Chernow turned and studied a map on the wall behind him. Then he turned back to the screen. "That gives us maybe between the Philippines in the Pacific and the whole of Southern Europe and into Asia. Can't they do better than that, Lou?"
"I'll keep pushing."
"Tell them that the French and British believe their calls came from within Europe," Tyreen said from behind Chernow.
Panchez looked up at his screen, frowned, then nodded at the unfamiliar face. "Will do."
"Any whisper from the White House, Lou?" Chernow asked.
"Nothing concrete. But there seems to be a consensus that Raza will hold off now that he's stirred up this hornet's nest."
"They're wrong, Lou," Chernow said, before ending the conversation.
Damn Bitburg. He'd been casting his reassurances on waters only too eager to be calmed.
Chernow turned back to the Honeywell. He had already commanded it to produce lists of potential targets for Raza. The computer had identified over fifteen thousand in Europe, North America, Africa, Asia, and Australia. He and Tyreen had eliminated them as either too obvious or not sufficiently important or spectacular to provide a follow-up to the hotel bombings.
He tapped on the keyboard the instructions for the Honeywell to search for targets that were both unusual and yet in themselves sufficiently high profile, then went to see the Prime Minister. This time, he went alone, leaving Tyreen to speak with her own people in London.
Karshov was also alone, riffling through the growing number of messages on his desk. From an outer office came the voices of his aides politely fending off calls.
The Prime Minister looked up. "Suddenly, the whole world wants me to assure them that everything is going to be fine. And Walter, too. How about you, Jacob? You want to make an old man very happy?"
Chernow looked into the scarred face. "I wish I could, Prime Minister."
Karshov's face took on a haunted look.
"You know what they're beginning to say? That things would be even finer if we would be reasonable. They're beginning to murmur, how about a little land? The Gaza Strip, maybe? Or the West Bank, better even. Hand over one, or both, to the Arabs. Do that, they say, and we'll make sure Raza will never cause you a problem. No matter that it's treating with terrorism through the back door. No matter that we didn't cause these bombings. Forget all that, they say. We've still got to show willingness. It's always us, Jacob. Always."
Chernow had forgotten how many times he'd stood here and shared the Prime Minister's anger over the world's readiness to blame Israel.
"What about London and Washington?"
"They want a conference call in two hours. Time for the President to rehearse what to say. At least the British Prime Minister doesn't need to do that," growled Karshov.
The hookup would be from the studio adjoining the Prime Minister's office.
Karshov walked to the window and stared out into the night. Stars streamed across the heavens, tiny and glistening, remote and inaccessible.
"Did you know, Jacob, that at the UN debate one of the Africans said the simple solution would be to send the Jews to outer space?" He turned and looked at Chernow. "This is the only real home I've ever had. I've fought in three wars to keep it. I've seen good people die for the same reason. The one thing I know is that no matter what Raza does, Israel stays."
"I'm glad to hear that, Prime Minister. But the pressure will increase. You've said so yourself. Everybody will want you to make concessions."
The anger broke through in Karshov's voice. "We give nothing! All our lives, we've been giving. Our people. Our blood. Our land. But no more!" He began to pace, each stride fueling his fury. "Raza and his kind have been threatening us for over forty years. In that time, we've lost more of our people to terrorism than the rest of the world put together. In one year, more Jews were murdered than in ten years in Northern Ireland. Munich, Vienna, Rome, Paris --- there's hardly a city where our people's blood has not been spilled. And each time, we've said we will never be driven from here. This is the land of our God, our religion, our people. And no one takes it. No one!"
Chernow stood in silence. Not only did he understand and agree with what had been said, but he was now totally sure Karshov would support what he was going to say next. "Prime Minister," he began cautiously, "we must encourage Raza to believe that. That will tempt him into the open. And next time, we must make sure it will be his last."
Karshov stared at him for a long moment. "How can you be so certain?"
"Everything I know about Raza shows his one weakness is overconfidence. He showed that in Berlin and London. Other terrorists would never have tried that. Raza had to --- because he's driven by a need to prove himself. These hotel bombings show that. Now, he'll want to do something even more spectacular."
"Like what? Blow up the Vatican? Buckingham Palace? Bring down the Golden Gate Bridge?"
"Possibly. But I think not. More likely, he'll go for something more unusual. And something that just might win him a little sneaking sympathy in some circles."
"Like what?" repeated Karshov.
Chernow shook his head. "Right now, I don't know. But I've asked the Honeywell to search."
"And what do you want me to do in the meantime?"
"Be as firm as you always are. Stay at Condition Olive. Make it clear to everybody that Israel will not be cowed. That could just be enough to drive Raza into the open. A man on the rampage is always that much easier to bring down."
There was silence in the room that lasted from the time Karshov returned to stare out the window and finally turned to face Chernow. "Very well. I'll do what you say. Walter won't like it. But I'll deal with Walter. A lot of people won't like it. But I'll handle them as well."
"Thank you, Prime Minister."
Karshov paused briefly. Chernow was still listening. "I'm also going to order our laboratories to start mass-producing that PEG-enzyme. But we'll keep that quiet to avoid panic." Karshov ran a hand over his face. "And I'll want you here for that conference call."
"I'll be there, for sure."
Chernow walked back to the Situation Room. Tyreen had a phone to her ear, no doubt talking with someone in MI6. She finished her conversation and rejoined him.
The Honeywell was still searching. Sitting down at the console, Chernow programmed the computer to alert his beeper once it had completed its task, and then once more left the room, this time taking Tyreen with him.
Lila stood on the shore of the reservoir and watched the perfume bottle she had tied to a piece of driftwood moving slowly with the current that would carry it to the sluice gate. When she could no longer see the bottle, she climbed back into the rental car and drove across the veldt toward Johannesburg.
It was late afternoon and she was in ample time to reach the airport and catch the eight o'clock flight to Nairobi. From there, she would pick up a Lufthansa connection for Athens. The change from the Olympic nonstop the hotel manager had suggested was merely a routine precaution.
Not, in this case, that it would matter. In a few hours' time, there would be nobody left alive in Trekfontein who would be able to describe her.
Twenty minutes after leaving the Prime Minister's compound, Jacob Chernow and Tyreen Mackenzie passed through three separate security checks to enter Mossad headquarters, a dun-colored high-rise overlooking the road to Jerusalem. Chernow inserted his color-coded plastic card into the slot and the elevator doors opened and closed behind them. Moments later, a taped voice announced this was the seventh floor. The elevator silently opened.
Facing them was a solid steel door. Chernow spoke into a squawk box set into the wall. The box was linked to a computer, which identified the password as current. Chernow had the password changed daily, at one minute to midnight, a symbolic reminder Israel had survived another day.
Immediately beyond the door was the large open-plan Operations Room. Its sepulcherlike calm was enhanced by the glow from scores of VDU screens. Round the clock, specialists worked here planning, activating, and assessing.
Chernow's eyes immediately went to one of the two bas-relief maps on opposite walls. Light systems identified key installations. Red bulbs pinpointed every Arab airfield from Morocco to Iran. Yellow indicated missile sites. Blue, supply dumps. None of the lights were on. Israel's enemies had not gone to war readiness.
The other map showed Israel was at Condition Olive. Every base was on alert from northern Galilee to the Ghor. Where Sodom and Gomorrah had stood, missile sites waited, primed. Other rockets were at launch readiness along the Dead Sea. Dotted among them were the batteries of Patriots, which had dealt devastating blows to Saddam's Scud missiles. Close to Jerusalem, poised in the silos, stood the Peacemakers, the most powerful of Israel's rockets.
In the Negev, a bright pink light glowed steadily. Israel's nuclear weapons manufacturing complex was at full alert.
Chernow turned away and pushed open the heavily padded door marked Voice Analysis. He held it open for Tyreen, and then followed her.
Beyond was a room with sound booths against the walls and a large central workbench covered with tape decks, oscilloscopes, editing machines, and other equipment Tyreen did not recognize, except for the flickering dials and colored lights. Her mother would love this place.
Every booth was occupied with a man or woman listening through a headset to versions of the tape of the woman's voice. It was being played at various speeds and voice pitches.
The unit's director, his huge bald dome of a head nodding as he worked, sat at the bench. Tyreen immediately dubbed him Humpty Dumpty. She was not the first to do so; he was already known throughout Mossad by that name.
He waved the two newcomers over and continued to spin the woman's voice from one spool of tape to another. Beside him was a stoop-shouldered older man, the unit's behaviorist.
"So, how's it going?" Chernow asked.
"Going good," replied Humpty Dumpty. "We've identified the tape as a brand made by Sony only for the Middle East." He used a fleshy hand to indicate the equipment around him. "So far, we know the woman's of Greek extraction, but has lived in Beirut long enough to get a spread to her vowels. The tonal quality puts her age somewhere between twenty-five and forty. There's a lot of anger she's managing to hold down."
Chernow turned to the behaviorist. He had recruited him on his last head-hunting trip.
The behaviorist assumed the authoritative manner he had once used in a senior teaching post at Harvard University. "The level of tension in her voice indicates her guilt anxiety --- what we call conscience. It only surfaces with certain words: 'Zionist,' 'Israel,' 'brutal,' fascist society.' She's clearly driven by deep hatred. To exist, she will have to virtually eliminate any capacity for normal human feelings --- except for those associated with her religion. There, she would be fanatical. None of the usual conflicts and doubts. She totally believes that what she does is not only not wrong, but absolutely right."
"I've seen a thousand like her in Beirut," said Chernow quietly. "They're more frightening than the men."
A technician emerged from a booth and walked over to Humpty Dumpty. "She's got a lisp. When I bring her right down, it's clear. She has trouble with her 'a's and 'ch's." The technician had been a speech therapist in Montreal for twenty years before he joined Mossad.
Humpty Dumpty made a note on the pad before him and turned back to the behaviorist. "Where'd she fit into Post's framework?" When he'd been Director of the CIA's Psychological Division, Dr. Jerrold Post had shown that many terrorists had led failed lives before joining a group.
The behaviorist considered for a few seconds before answering. "She fits very well. Her voice patterns strongly suggest that in joining this terrorist group, she's experienced perhaps the first real sense of belonging. It's clear from the way she speaks that she believes the group will literally protect her against danger. She needs the sense of security to exist in the hostile outside world. Consequently, she may very well react with unusual ferocity if she thinks the group's survival is threatened. That way, of course, the group maintains it cohesion."
Chernow nodded. He'd made the same discovery interrogating captured terrorists. They'd endure anything to protect their peers, he remembered as he walked to the office of the Director of Psychological Assessment.
He led the way through the outer door, then the baize divider, and finally the inner door. The room beyond was lit only by a single spot. Its light was focused to fall precisely across the clasped hands of the reclining figure on an old-fashioned consulting couch against one wall.
"Jacob," whispered a voice from the couch. "Come in, come in, and bring your friend with you."
Chernow quickly shut the door behind Tyreen and made the brief introductions. There was a movement from the couch, then a light clicked on, bathing the room in a sudden warm pink glow.
Whenever he came here, Chernow always felt only Steve could have crammed more books into a room this size. They filled every inch of shelf space and stood on the floor in piles as tall as their owner.
"How are you, Professor?" asked Chernow, coming forward.
"Fine, Isaac, just fine," murmured the Director. For thirty years, he had held the Chair of Middle East Studies at Yale. Chernow had persuaded him to come here to see his theories put into practice.
With a sudden, effortless movement that would not have disgraced a man half his sixty years, the professor rose from the couch. Vigor seemed to flow into his face. "Meditation always helps," he explained, his voice suddenly vibrant. He strode unerringly between the maze of book to a table piled with more volumes and paperwork. He picked up several sheets and canned them. His back was turned to his visitors. "First drafts shouldn't be seen by anybody." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair as he read.
"Just give us an idea, Professor."
"Yes, yes, yes." The professor had a habit of repeating a word. Chernow wasn't fooled. Behind the cultivated eccentricity was a razor-sharp mind.
The professor suddenly turned. "The hotel bombings demonstrate perfectly the adage that the greater the ruthlessness, the greater the helplessness. In the face of what's happened, there will again be this general feeling that terrorism is winning. So the mood will be to go for some sort of deal. Nothing overt, of course not. But behind the scenes. Nod-and-wink stuff."
"Led by the French?"
The professor nodded equably. "They justify it by saying that terrorism can be susceptible to political solutions. Very French."
"Given that, what will the mullahs do?"
"The mullahs know the danger of pushing us too far too quickly. Many will still be cautious. Even Muzwaz won't want to raise the stakes until he is certain of a real chance of winning. He'll go along with the others and wait to see how the hotel bombings will be seen in the Islamic world, whether they will be accepted as legitimate action in their war of liberation."
"You think they will?"
"That depends on Raza, Jacob. My bet is that the cabal's still divided over him. What passes for moderates among them, those who don't actually dream of washing in our blood, will still be worried that one day Raza will turn on them."
"He will, Professor, for sure. But what do you think he's going to do next? Given that he's threatened to do something even more awful?"
"Ah." The professor pulled each of his long, delicate fingers. A pianist's fingers, Tyreen thought. "Raza is the most complex of our enemies. Nidal, Arafat, all the others are comparatively straightforward. Their motto is strike successfully, then strike again at once. But that's not Raza. And he's been off the scene a long time. Now he's back with a vengeance, he may well have overextended himself. The simplest way to keep us guessing is to say he's going to do something else very soon. That ties up a lot of resources. Meantime, he can take his time."
"I hope you're wrong, Professor," said Chernow. "I really hope you're wrong."
The professor squinted at him. "You want him to attack?"
"I want him to make a mistake," corrected Chernow gently.
"My God, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if things don't work out, Jacob. Not at all, not at all."
"Keep thinking," Chernow said softly, ushering Tyreen outside, closing the door behind them, and leaving the professor alone with his thoughts in the silence.
Back in the Operations Room, the lights on the maps remained unchanged.
They went to the computer room. Its sudden coolness enveloped them as soon as he opened the door.
Lester Finel kept the temperature at a constant fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. He insisted that was the correct reading for the computers. He'd also chosen a team of deaf mutes as his programmers. Finel had said he wanted no idle chatter.
That had impressed Chernow as much as Finel's background --- IBM, Ampex, and Honeywell. Over twenty years, he'd taken all three companies along the road of commercial success, before he'd decided he'd run out of challenges.
Chernow had sat with Finel one afternoon in San Francisco and talked about what being a Jew really meant. Finel had decided it was running Mossad's computers.
Now he rose from his desk at the far end of the room and hustled over. A sinewy man in his early forties and prematurely gray, he wore a bold-check sports jacket and golfer's plaid trousers.
Finel's left hand maintained a curious motion. Tyreen decided that it mimicked a revolving spool of magnetic tape.
"Hi, Jacob. We've begun a search. To find anyone who fits what Humpty Dumpty's come up with. Problem. She fits too well."
Chernow had decided Finel's staccato way of speaking was either from listening to computer-speak or communicating by sign language with his staff.
"The lisp is a help. But not much. Problem. We've got ten thousand lispers on tape. We're looking for a certain personality type. Streetwise. Beirut-Greek. But try Cypriot-Greek. Problem. Still fits several thousand."
"Lacouste's IDs help?" asked Chernow.
"Working on them, Jacob. Problem. No telltale marks. Even a scar would help. A funny eye, better yet. We've got listings for five thousand funny left eyes, almost as many right ones. Problem. All we have is Arab faces. Even hotel staff trained to remember see one Arab as another."
As they walked back through the room, Finel's eyes continued to sweep from one computer to another.
He stopped beside a mute. There was a flurry of finger movements between them. The mute turned back to his console.
"He's checking airline passenger manifests out of Britain, Europe, and North America. Against every known living terrorist we have on tape. Problem. Over forty-five thousand names, Jacob."
Finel pointed to other mutes. One was working through lists Pierre Lacouste had faxed of registered guests at the four Paris hotels. Another was doing the same with those from the ACC. At the bottom of the Connaught listings, Chernow saw Steve and Dolly's names.
He turned away. "Anything from New York?"
"Talim's got an FBI guest listing. Not complete. But a start." Finel squinted. "Hits you when you see all those names."
"For sure."
Finel stopped at another computer station. A further rapid exchange of finger movements ensued before Finel turned to Chernow. "He's searching for aliases. Surprising how many terrorists use the same one. Guess the professor could come up with a reason."
Chernow smiled quickly. He'd already told Tyreen about the rivalry between Psychological Assessment and Computers. He'd encourage anything that helped.
"Lester, your people are doing a fine job."
Chernow led Tyreen on to Foreign Intelligence, to that corner of the seventh floor Chantal Bouquet had made her own. As they came through the door of her office, she waved them to a couch.
Chantal didn't wait for her visitors to be seated before opening. "To answer your question, nothing sinister is going on. Not even bad fieldcraft. It just happened."
Chernow stared at her. "You mean twelve of Raza's bombers can come and go, and the best in the West doesn't even get a whisper?"
Chantal had been put in charge of Foreign Intelligence three years ago, after she'd served in London, Paris, Bonn, and Washington. She adjusted her turquoise-framed glasses. "I mean just that."
"What's the consensus, Chantal?"
"On the surface, it's united-we-stand time. Everybody's pooling and sharing. The CIA have distributed more copies of Raza's psychological profile than they ever did on Nidal or Arafat. The Brits are feeding everybody who matters with their report on the Westminster job." She fixed her gaze on Tyreen. "Only a year ago, they were swearing blind to us that no such report existed."
Tyreen fidgeted in her seat but didn't say a word. She had helped to put that report together.
Chernow looked from one woman to the other, before settling on Chantal. "The one that shows how easy it was for Raza to get his Stinger in place?"
"The very one. It's warts-and-all time in London. Same with the Germans. The BND are suddenly producing stuff on Raza no one knew was there. The French, the Italians, every intelligence agency worth its name is offering up stuff."
"You don't sound exactly thrilled."
Chantal began to doodle on her desk pad. "It's a game, Jacob. A spooky version of pass the buck. They dollop out info like they do sound bites on the evening news. Then sit back."
"For what?" He knew, but he wanted her to tell him. And Tyreen.
"For us. They want us to deal with Raza. That way, if it goes wrong, they're off the hook. They can say, hand on heart, that they gave us everything --- and then we screwed up."
Chernow sat in silence. It wouldn't be the first time Mossad had been asked to ride shotgun.
"Are they setting any limitations, Chantal?"
She shook her head. "The usual. We get covert cooperation and come and go as we like. We keep them posted. And no dumping on their doorsteps."
He nodded. "Any collective wisdom where Raza is?"
Chantal gave the doodle legs. "Depends on who you last listen to. The French say he's operating out of Afghanistan. The Germans place him in the Horn of Africa. The Brits and Americans think he could be in South America."
"Why not North Africa?"
She looked up from her doodling. "Washington says its satellites photographed the whole region. Not a sign."
Chernow grunted. "What did they do about Libya?"
"NSA, the National Security Agency, did a grid search with one of their new multi-camera K-12s. No a thing."
"Anything from our own check?" Twenty hours ago, Israel's own spy satellite had been reorbited to photograph the entire Mediterranean region.
"Nothing. Bitburg's told the air force to send it back on station."
"My gut tells me Raza isn't that far away," said Chernow.
Tyreen was nodding in agreement when the beeper on Chernow's belt began to give off an urgent signal. The Honeywell had completed its search for potential targets.
Chernow and Tyreen got to their feet and took leave of Chantal Bouquet and Foreign Intelligence.
At the Trekfontein reservoir, the piece of driftwood to which Lila had tied the bottle floated toward the sluice gate.
After the overnight rain, other pieces of flotsam dotted the water. Some of the wood was of unusual and striking shapes. It was these pieces that the two youths from the township had positioned themselves on the sluice gate to snag with their net. They carved the wood into animals, which they sold to tourists wanting souvenirs from the Union's most celebrated dorf.
The sluice was slippery; the water flowed faster than usual. The teenagers had constantly to sway and reposition themselves as they darted back and forth across the top of the gate, mindful that a slip could send them plunging thirty feet into the foaming concrete slipway below.
One of the youths spotted the bottle moments before his companion did. Instead of waiting for the driftwood to reach the gate, he extended the net and tried to trap it. Eager to help, the other youth grabbed at the net pole.
For a long moment, they teetered back and forth. Then with terrified screams, they fell from the gate onto the causeway. One broke his back, the other his neck. A shard of broken glass from the shattered bottle penetrated one of the youth's eyes.
By then, the Anthrax-B-C had been emptied into the water and carried to the pumping station that supplied Trekfontein's needs.
The 24-hour clock showed there were thirty minutes left when Jacob Chernow and Tyreen Mackenzie returned to the Situation Room. He keyed the Honeywell, and its screen began to fill with the list of potential targets for Raza to choose.
With Tyreen looking over his shoulder, Chernow scanned his way through Europe. He couldn't see Raza hitting the Passion Playhouse at Oberammergau or the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. Raza would go after blood, not monuments. He worked his way through North America. Any number of unusual and striking targets there. But something told him not for Raza --- at least not this time.
He checked Japan. Again, plenty to tempt any terrorist. But, instinct told him, not what Raza would be looking for.
On the screen came a list of targets in South Africa. Top of the list was the single word Trekfontein. Neither it nor anything else jumped out at him. He was about to go on to Australia when Tyreen stopped him by placing a hand over his.
At that moment, Karshov's voice boomed from the loudspeaker built into the console. "Time for the conference call."
"On my way," acknowledged Chernow.
He looked back at the screen just as she tentatively pressed a key. The screen began to fill with an account of Trekfontein's notoriety. "Could he..." she began.
Reaching over her hand, he pressed another key. Onto the screen came a computer-enhanced display of the town. Clearly visible on one side were the turreted rocks. On the other side was outlined the reservoir.
"One or the other... I think you've found it." All but pushing her aside, he swiftly tapped to the keyboard: "Double flash. Inform authorities Trekfontein potential target for Raza." He keyed the message to the Mossad agent in Cape Town.
They both knew it was instinct, no more.
"Jacob!" Karshov boomed from the speaker.
Chernow and Tyreen were out the door before the echoes died away.
The television studio adjoining Karshov's office was like any other.
There were twenty comfortable chairs set in a semicircle. Each was occupied by a member of the Tribe, as Israel's strategic planners are known. There were air force and army generals and their key staff members, the Foreign Minister and his advisers, the Attorney General and his senior aides, the head of Internal Security.
They reminded Chernow of a woodcut Steve had shown him of the Great Sanhedrin in the Temple of Jerusalem. The Tribe displayed the same haughty demeanor. Something else hadn't changed in two thousand years --- Israel's right to exist still depended on the whim of others.
Chernow sat on one side of Karshov, Bitburg on the other. from time to time, the Director murmured in the Prime Minister's ear the identity of someone on the three large monitor screens positioned before the semicircle, pointing out the Director of the CIA, the head of French Intelligence, the Director of the FBI, the heads of MI5 and MI6. Bitburg knew them all.
Bitburg turned to Karshov. "Full house, Prime Minister. A good sign."
Karshov grunted and continued to watch what was happening in London, Paris, and Washington. His elbows were propped on the armrests of his chair, into one of which a telephone was built.
In the Cabinet Room at Number 10 Downing Street, in the President's Salon in the Elysée Palace, and in the Oval Office, ministers and advisers were carefully grouping themselves around the one vacant chair in each location. The empty seats were for the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the President of France, and the President of the United States.
Chernow stared impassively at the screens. Arabists would be in the wings, briefing their masters, reminding them what was at stake. The Arabists never appeared in public. Only their influence was seen.
In less than a year, both Presidents would be going for a second term, and Britain's Prime Minister would probably go to the polls around the same time.
The nations they led had changed dramatically since they came into office. Following the Gulf War had come global recession with food riots in what remained of the Soviet Empire.
NATO had been virtually dismembered when the United States had withdrawn its forces from Europe. There had been neo-Nazi marches in London and Paris. Anger and anxiety had hardened into the familiar cry of the mob down the ages. The Jews were to blame for the Gulf, inflation, and mass unemployment.
Chernow could see it there in the well-bred faces on the screen of men who had made a virtue of compromise and self-interest.
Low-voiced conversation continued among the Tribe. Then everyone became silent as from the monitors an unseen voice boomed. "The President of the United States of America." Then, "The Prime Minister of Great Britain." Finally, "The President of France."
"Can you hear us in Tel Aviv?" demanded the voice from London.
"Perfectly clear, Prime Minister," replied Karshov, "and we can hear Washington and Paris as well."
"Good to see you, Isaac," said the President of the United States, waving. "I wish it just could have been under different circumstances. And at a more civilized hour."
It was late evening in Washington, the early hours in Europe. In a couple more hours, the false dawn would creep into the sky over Tel Aviv.
"I recall my father saying the only hour that matters is the one we have left on this earth to try and do all the things we have not done," said Karshov.
"Very biblical, Isaac," came the resonant voice from the White House.
From London came a familiar clearing of the throat. "Time is indeed of the essence, so let us begin." The British Prime Minister waited for nods from Washington and Paris, then resumed. "Mr. Karshov, my colleagues have asked me to open these proceedings. But I wish you to clearly understand that what I am about to say is our collective view."
Karshov's eyebrows began to knit.
The voice from London continued to enunciate. "First, we wish you to know that you do not stand alone."
Karshov inclined his head.
"We also wish you to know that in our collective judgement, a military response to what has happened is neither feasible nor desirable. Any military intervention would be seen not as justified retaliation, but as a savage revenge. In the end, all it would achieve would be to bring forward more of these people."
Karshov's eyebrows had joined forces. "Then what are you suggesting?"
The British Prime Minister ignored the interruption. "So far, there is nothing to connect any Arab country with what has happened. There is nothing to show these evil acts are in any way linked to state-sponsored terrorism."
When Karshov spoke, the fury was gone, and in its place was a cold implacable tone. "Let me tell you now that Israel reserves the right to deal with this threat the way we see fit. And that means we will take whatever action we deem necessary." He looked in turn at each of the monitors. "These people wish to destroy you as much as they want to finish us. Please, I beg of you to understand that!"
The voice of the British Prime Minister was even colder and more distant. "We have learned that yesterday's terrorist is often today's statesman. We have discovered that in Cyprus and in Africa. And, of course, from your own predecessor, Menachem Begin. If we'd caught him at the time, we would have hanged him. But when he became Prime Minister of Israel, we sat down with him. That's political reality."
Karshov shook his head. "I will not be goaded. There will be no concessions. We will not give up this land. We shall surrender nothing. And so that you understand why, I want you all, each and every one of you, to know the exact nature of the threat we are facing."
On the monitors, people looked at each other.
Karshov turned to Chernow. "Tell them, Jacob. Tell them about Anthrax-B-C."
The glacial voice from London overrode the hubbub. "Is this really necessary..."
"Yes," said Karshov. "In the name of God, listen. Just shut up and listen!"
Chernow rose to his feet in the electrifying silence. He fished in his pocket and produced a corked vial. It was filled with a colorless liquid. Karshov had given him the vial as they had walked into the studio. Chernow held it up to the camera.
"This much Anthrax-B-C could cause far greater loss of life than all the hotel explosions. Properly distributed, this much could kill several thousand people."
Gasps came from the Tribe and his audience around the world as he uncorked the vial and sprinkled its contents.
Chernow smiled briefly. "Tel Aviv tap water." He recorked the vial. A thousand vials like this would turn this country into a graveyard. But there would be no one to bury our dead because no one would dare to come and do so."
For the next thirty minutes, he told them about the bagman's trip to China, and about Raza. He spoke quietly and calmly. He explained about the need to stockpile PEG-enzyme. He stressed that no one knew if the drug would work, but there was nothing else available. When he had finished, he sat down to a stunned silence.
The British Prime Minister was the first to break it. "Mr. Karshov, my Intelligence people confirm what I understand the CIA have informed your own Director of Mossad. Namely, that they have no evidence to suggest this claim that any Anthrax-B-C has left China. The Intelligence consensus is that his bagman your Mr. Chernow and his assistant have failed to kill would have in any event been apprehended by Chinese security."
Chernow found Tyreen standing in the gloom beside one of the cameras. He couldn't quite make out her expression due to the glare of the studio lights, but was rather certain she was not smiling.
He then glanced at Bitburg. The Director was nodding. The Arabists around the British Prime Minister were nodding. The President of France was trying to nod. The President of the United States looked as if he wanted to, but shouldn't.
"Your people are wrong," said Karshov slowly.
The Prime Minister of Great Britain leaned forward. "Then prove it to us. And who better to do so than your Mr. Chernow, assisted by our Ms. Mackenzie?"
In Washington and Paris, the Presidents nodded.
"Meantime, resumed the voice from London, "we shall wait to see what Mr. Chernow comes up with before we rush to produce vast quantities of what I am told is a very costly drug."
"That makes sense to me," said the President of the United States.
"Agreed," said the President of France.
"In that case, go to it, Mr. Chernow and Ms. Mackenzie," urged the Prime Minister of Great Britain. "You have no time to lose. The deadline this creature has set has already expired!"
"Prime Minister, we do not have to be told..." began Karshov. Then the telephone in the armrest shrilled, and he lifted it with patent relief. As he listened, the blood drained from his face.
"One moment please, sir," Karshov said in a sudden strangled voice.
He held the receiver from his ear and addressed the watchful, frowning faces of the Tribe and those on the screens. "Gentlemen..." His voice quivered a little. "I have the President of South Africa on the line."
There were gasps of astonishment around him and from the screens.
"He informs me that a dreadful calamity has befallen one of his townships, a place many of us know. Trekfontein."
A great buzz of voices almost drowned out Karshov's next words.
"He says that every man, woman, child, and animal has been killed by what sounds very like this anthrax!"
As Karshov turned back to the phone to elicit more details, Chernow and Tyreen were already on their feet and striding from the studio.
For three hours, Tyreen Mackenzie and Jacob Chernow had sat in front of the monitors in the Situation Room and followed the response to the call from South Africa's President. The Union had sealed its borders and launched the biggest hunt in it history. Every African township was under armed curfew; there had been hundreds of arrests of suspected activists. Protests at this draconian response had been muted, even from the country's black neighbor states. Like the rest of the world, they were stunned at what had happened.
The first reports from the stricken township had done little to prepare even Tyreen and Chernow for the live pictures that were now being transmitted onto a screen from police cameras on the ground and in the air over Trekfontein.
Wherever the cameras turned, there were bodies, many turned black. Searchlights mounted on hovering helicopters and ground vehicles guided anticontamination teams moving through the streets in their cumbersome NCB suits. All they could do was bag the bodies and load them onto trucks.
"We got here as soon as we'd checked out your warning, Mr. Chernow. We were still too late. Nearly five and a half thousand murdered --- for what? Because of what they believed in?"
The voice came from an adjoining screen. Piet Vorag, the Union's Minister of Defense, was in a command helicopter over Trekfontein. It was equipped with television cameras and directly linked to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit over the equator.
"That came into it for sure, Minister. It was a shrewd move by Raza to choose Trekfontein to show us he will go all the way. I hate to say it, but a lot of people around the world, when they get over the shock will have a sneaking satisfaction that Trekfontein's no longer there."
"You mean they will see this as some sort of heroic act? Something different from blowing those hotels?"
Chernow waited for Vorag to calm himself. He'd met him at several international conferences on fighting terrorism. The Minister had always struck him as the controlled voice of the new white liberal of South Africa.
"People are funny, Minister. They respond to what they last see or hear. Right now, you could be adding to your problems by this roundup."
"Whoever did this didn't act alone. Our people have found traces of ANC slogans all over Trekfontein. That's what they've promised to do --- massacre us in our homes!"
Chernow realized --- and understood --- that a raw nerve had been exposed in the Minister. But he had to tell him the truth. "There's nothing to link Raza with the ANC, Minister. Or any of your other groups. They're all just too soft for him."
"All I know is what my people and I can see, Mr. Chernow," said Vorag, his anger thickening his blunt Afrikaaner accent.
A camera was tracking down a street of barbered lawns leading to house gabled in the attractive style of early settlement homesteads. Bodies were being brought out. Many of the men were naked.
Vorag's harsh voice continued, "A lot of them died having a bath or shower after work. Their wives and daughters succumbed in the kitchen preparing dinner. It's terrible, man, just terrible. Do these people look like the pariahs of the Western world?"
Chernow stared at Vorag. The man was entitled to his rage.
Onto the screen came shots of scores of bodies floating in a swimming pool.
"At least sixty... mostly kids. There's more in the shower rooms... and we've spotted at least another eighty in private pools..."
A camera paused outside a tall colonnaded building and began to move toward its open door.
"... the church. It was filled for a mass baptism. There are five babies in there, plus their parent and relatives. All gone..."
The camera pulled away a one of the recovery team emerged holding a small body in a christening robe. In his astronaut-style suit, the man looked like a corpse-snatcher from a cheap horror film.
Vorag's helicopter drifted down Trekfontein' main street. The searchlight picked out a gushing water pipe. Scattered around it were a number of bodies and several trucks and Land Rovers.
"We're looking at the entire town police force... When this main burst, they must have gone along to supervise traffic... When they started keeling over, other officers went to help," continued Vorag.
Chernow saw the surprise on the faces of a police captain and several constables, as if, in death, they could not believe what was happening.
"Whey did they all die so quickly, Mr. Chernow?" rasped Vorag. "I'd have thought the water would have diluted the stuff."
"Not tap water," Tyreen answered. "It just acted as the perfect vector, spreading it everywhere at once. The effect was like cyanide. A drop would be enough."
"I still say one person couldn't have done all this, Ms. Mackenzie," Vorag said heavily, "not kill all those people."
"I know it's hard to believe, especially from where you are. But this was almost certainly a one-person job, someone who came about his or her business without raising suspicion and then dumped the anthrax in the water supply."
"People come all the time, Ms. Mackenzie. That's the trouble when you become notorious. Everybody wants to look at you."
A new image filled the screen, a sign with the words Trekfontein Junior School. The hand-held camera began to track past the board.
"What's the reservoir capacity, sir?" asked Tyreen.
Vorag glanced behind him and repeated the question. He turned back to the screen. "I'm told it's two-fifty million gallons."
Tyreen nodded. "Our calculations show us that a couple of ounces released in the right place would be enough..."
"The sluice gate where we found those boys. That would be the best place," Vorag interrupted harshly.
"Think those kid spotted someone and were killed for it?"
"We've checked the area. No footprints except theirs..." Vorag broke off with an anguished groan. "Oh my God, look at this..."
The screen was filled with the bodies of small children in the school cloakroom. They were draped across the hand basins and against the urinals. After a moment, the camera began to retreat from the horror.
"There were over three hundred children at the school..." whispered Vorag.
The image changed. The camera settled briefly on a board, bearing the gold-printed words Trekfontein High School. The first of the bodies lay beyond, soaked with water from a hose pipe. Several more pipes snaked across the grass from outlets in the walls of the two-story building.
"Fire drill. Every school has to have one every week after Mandela's people burned down that school in Pretoria. Remember that? Fifty kids."
"How many here, Minister?"
Once more, Vorag spoke to someone behind him. He turned back, his lower lip trembling. "Over seven hundred! Why? In God's name, why?" His voice was close to losing control. "Dammit, man, these are just kids! Boys and girls, none older than sixteen!"
"I understand how you feel," Chernow said quietly.
Vorag took a long deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "It's like a visitation from God..."
"No!" Chernow's voice was suddenly sharp. "Don't ever say anything like that. It's nothing to do with God. It's Raza. Do you understand that, Minister?"
"All I can understand is it's easy to say that when you're six thousand miles away. And you're a soldier..."
"... and if nothing else, being a soldier has taught me how to really hate horror," Chernow finished for him.
He continued to watch the screen showing the ghastly death he had seen so often. There were no marks on these people. Not like the victims of that shop explosion in Paris. He'd got there just as they had been loading the last of the broken bodies into an ambulance. There'd been that other explosion in Amsterdam --- two families wiped out by mistake. He'd seen it a score of times, and each time didn't make it easier. But no point in telling Vorag that.
A camera had reached the township hospital. The first sign that something was seriously wrong were the two nurses collapsed in the entrance hall beside the water cooler. Beyond, in the dispensary, were more dead nurses. They had been filling beakers with water for patients to swallow with their tablets. Some of the ambulatory patients had been struck down in the day room. Others lay dead in their beds.
In the operating room, an entire surgical team had been killed when they were scrubbing up. Their patient was dead on the table.
"A hundred beds... all full... seventy staff..." came Vorag's whisper.
Tyreen and Chernow continued to watch the unfolding horror on the screen. At the Trekfontein Movie House, bodies were piled several high in the doorway as patrons had tried to escape.
"The building's cooled by an old-fashioned air conditioning system that uses water from the reservoir," Vorag croaked. "There's at least a couple of hundred inside."
"Minister, what about the hotel?"
"All dead. Fifty staff."
"What about guests?"
"Thank God there were none. The last one checked out earlier..."
Chernow tensed, like a dog coming to point. "How do you know?"
Vorag glanced down at a clipboard on his knees. "The hotel chambermaid roster shows one room cleaned after checkout."
"Nothing else? No clue if the guest was a man or woman? Your people check for room refuse? A razor? Tampon? Anything like that?"
"My people say there's nothing."
"How about a registration record?"
Vorag gave a small, humorless smile. "A place like the Grand doesn't bother with that kind of thing. It's all very casual up here."
The command helicopter was pulling away from the cinema. Onto the screen came picture of Trekfontein's pets. Scores of dogs, cats, and cage birds were being dumped on a truck.
"You're going to have to burn them all," said Tyreen. "Douse them in petrol first. And make sure the pit's deep enough. For speed's sake, burn them all together."
"You mean dogs, cats..."
"I mean animals and humans, sir. There's no time for proper funerals. This stuff is lethal for twenty-four hours. just burn them all as quickly as you can. When you fill one pit, close it and seal it with creosote. You'll need at least a six-inch coating."
While Vorag turned and issued instructions, Tyreen continued to look on as the pictures from Trekfontein showed the growing fleet of ambulances and rescue vehicles drawn up beyond the police cordon. Doctors and nurses stood numbed and silent; some wept openly.
"Anything else?" Vorag asked, turning back.
Tyreen looked up and faced the monitor. "Get hold of every petrol tanker you can and pump fuel into the reservoir. Then set it on fire. The same with the town. You're going to have to torch every building."
"Woman, do you know what you're asking?" demanded Vorag hoarsely.
"Yes," she replied quietly, "but it's the only way to make sure this stuff doesn't spread. Better this than have to raze Johannesburg."
Beside her, Chernow wordlessly nodded.
Vorag slowly turned ad gave further orders before once more staring out of the screen.
"Now," continued Chernow, "let's go back to this hotel guest. It could be a coincidence, checking out on the day this happened. But I think not. Raza has often operated with a single terrorist. It makes for better security."
Vorag's anger surfaced once more as the camera revealed a truck piled with corpses driving down the township's main street. He leaned forward to point an accusing finger. "And the world accuses us of genocide! They should be here to see this!"
Chernow intervened smoothly. "Minister, I think we've both seen enough. Let's try and apply our minds to getting a lead on this hotel guest." He settled himself deeper in his padded chair while he collected his thoughts. "Trekfontein's been in the news a lot recently. So the chances are it could have been a reporter, or someone posing as one. Raza's done that before. It's a good cover. It allows for questions to be asked, visits made to places without raising suspicion..."
"Excuse me, Mr. Chernow," broke in Vorag. He turned to listen to somebody behind him, began to nod, then turned back to address Chernow. "One of our team is in the police station. He's gone through the Incident Log. There was a photographer in town. She had her camera bag stolen by some Bantu. He was shot escaping from arrest. There's some question of whether he tried to rape the woman when he took the bag from her room."
"Got a name for her?"
"Not yet."
"Call every news organization and see if they had somebody on assignment there."
"We're already doing that. We're also checking airports and border crossings. But we're still not sure who we are looking for."
Chernow understood clearly the Minister's need for action. Engaging and destroying the enemy would help assuage the bitter anger that consumed him. No point in telling Vorag that she would almost certainly be long gone. Instead, Chernow remembered what Humpty Dumpty and Finel had said and coupled it with his own personal knowledge of Raza's people. "You're looking for a Greek with a lisp. She'll be anywhere between twenty-five and forty. Probably traveling alone. If she's flying, she'll be going first or club class. If she's driving, she'll have something fast and expensive..."
"How do you know all this?" asked the Minister, incredulously.
"It's my business, Minister, to know."
"Anytime you want..."
Chernow cut the sound for Vorag's screen as the monitor at the far end of the bank beeped.
Danny Nagier's face appeared. "We've picked up three intercepts in the last few minutes. A woman. Humpty Dumpty says she's not the same voice as on the demand tape. My people figure the call came from somewhere around the equator. Nairobi probably. She called Raza's Beirut number and..."
"What did she say?"
"Here's the hell of it." 'The water is perfumed.' " He paused. "It made more sense after the second call. It was the woman again, formally claiming credit again for Trekfontein..."
"Give me the exact words."
Nagier began to read: "In the name of Raza the Freedom Fighter, all infidels take careful note. You were warned that if you failed to respond in full to the demands made in the name of all the Oppressed of Islam, further proof of our ability to destroy you would be given. One of our brave commandos has now done so. The racists of Trekfontein were chosen to serve as a just warning. But be assured Raza has enough Anthrax-B-C to destroy any one of your evil cities. This will be done without hesitation unless those demands are met in full in the given time. You now have six days left."
Nagier looked up. "That's it. With the news blackout, this will stay under wraps."
Chernow felt cold and functional. He had always known it would come to this. "What's the third intercept?"
Nagier glanced at another sheet of paper in his hands. "Again, a woman but not the same one. Sounds younger. Humpty Dumpty reckons she's also Greek. My people think the call came from within five hundred miles of Beirut..."
"Give me the text, Danny."
"Sure. 'The Prophet has taken to himself our sister of the Perfumes.' Just that."
"Thanks, Danny. Send me hard copies." Chernow pressed a button and the screen went blank. He stared for a moment at the latest pictures from Trekfontein. Bulldozers were digging the first mass grave.
He turned to address Vorag. "She's safely out and heading for home, Minister. We think she's got as far as Nairobi, which means she must have flown. If your airport people come up with anyone close to the description I gave you, let me know."
Chernow cleared the screen transmitting from South Africa. A moment later, the hard copies of the intercepts arrived by fax. He tore off the papers and began to read.
He reached for a phone and placed a call. "Prime Minister, I have a sudden feeling Raza has a problem."