A Death in Geneva (11 page)

Sweetman was barely asleep at mid-morning when the telephone call came from the executive assistant to the Director of Central Intelligence. Pierce Bromberger received the call one minute later at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where he had just arrived to instruct a six-week course in the political dimensions of terrorism.

Bromberger had scheduled the first class for Memorial Day, a national holiday, to capture their attention and dramatize the urgency of the task. Chalk in hand, he interrupted his talk to take the telephone call slip from the army private who had creaked her way across the wooden barracks floor in her stiff, issue shoes.

“Gentlemen. I will have to take this.” He waved the yellow slip at them. “You have on the board the first halting steps we have taken as nations to provide a legal framework for combatting terrorism. In Civil Aviation:

“The Tokyo Convention, the Hague Convention”—he touched each chalked line as he spoke—“the Montreal Convention, each aimed at the hijacking dimension.

“In parallel, as the diplomatic community came under siege, the OAS Convention, and the UN Convention on Crimes Against International Protected Persons. This all in your textbook; damned dry stuff, but worth the effort—if only in that it is revealing in terms of international laxity, the traditional hesitancy of independent states to work together no matter how vicious the challenge. Study these different convention texts. You'll find there's not so much meat in them. An understanding of the timidity and ineffectiveness of the international community is a basic prologue to the heart of our work
together over the next six weeks. That's it until tomorrow morning.” He gave the chalk a professional flip onto the blackboard tray, surprising himself, strode out of the barracks with the young soldier in his wake, took the call, and before noon was on a CIA Jetstar.

Pierce Bromberger looked older than his late forties. He brushed his thin, graying hair straight back from his face, accentuating the darting eyes, beaked nose, and gaunt physique. Bromberger had grown up in and around prisons, the second son of a Tennessee state trooper who had risen through the ranks to become chief of state prisons. Prison rumor, gossip, information—intelligence—had been dinner-table talk, beer-and-cigars talk between his father and the stream of officers always flowing through the family's homes, for as long as he could remember. When he headed out on his own, it was preordained that he would get into the business in some form or other.

The formal language of Washington's growing breed of terrorism bureaucrats was a tongue he had only recently acquired. The world of the terrorist, however, was in the marrow of his bones. He had built his career in operations, in the field in Asia, then Europe, Asia, Latin America, then Asia again in a grinding existence which had thrown him against assassins, agents, murderers—the dark creatures the world now lumped as terrorists.

The van that met him on the far taxiway on Andrews Air Force Base was new to Bromberger, dented, faded yellow with a brown script “Trade—Marketplace, Inc.” on the side. The route was familiar enough—parkway, across the Anacostia River, then the freeway. But, instead of continuing on across the Potomac to Langley, they swung right at the 7th Street ramp and headed into downtown Washington.

“Hoover Building?”

“No sir”—the young agent driving the van looked to Bromberger like a Cuban, but his voice was straight, flat Ohio—“close enough.” The van turned again, north on 11th Street. Bromberger admired the white marble front of the old Evening Star Building, now an armed forces recruiting center. On the east side, a string of rundown two, three, four, and five-storied buildings ran saw-toothed up the street, some with windows boarded or painted over, a flotsam and jetsam of city retailing—liquor, wigs, donuts, girlie shows, ears pierced, uniforms, breakfast and lunch joints, lofts, maternity wear, costume jewelry, and walk-up hotels.

“I'll keep your bag. Second floor; you're expected, sir.”

“Thanks for the lift, Ohio.” The driver frowned. Bromberger yanked his tan flight bag from the van, glanced at the dilapidated gray-black entryway with its adjoining cellar steps offering Italo-Hungarian cuisine, and crossed the sidewalk. The prominent creases in his thin, lined face deepened as he headed up the stairway. At the eighteenth step, he arrived on an abbreviated landing ending in a gray metal fire door which slid sideways, opening as he approached, revealing a musty, empty corridor ending twenty-five feet beyond at a second fire door.

The first door thudded closed behind him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bromberger. Please come in.” The voice, from a hidden speaker, extended the greeting. The second door slid open.

“Christ, Hanspeter! What the hell are you doing here? What the hell am I doing here?” The two agents bear-hugged.

“Haven't a clue, Pierce. I answered the great man's summons, and I have been cooling my heels with Mr. Fisker, here, I gather awaiting your arrival. How about it, Harold. What are you getting us into in this den of yours, hard porn . . . ?”

Harold Fisker's lips were shut, but working hard, rolling two cough drops around his mouth. A small, flushed chipmunk of a man with tinted orange hair, he ignored Sweetman's question, flicked a switch beneath one of the closed-circuit television monitors at his desk, then pecked briefly at the word processor console.

“Mr. Sweetman, Mr. Bromberger, I have been instructed by the director's office to show you the spaces you have been assigned.” He shuffled to the far side of the reception room, which was cluttered with stacks of publications, newsletters, tabloids, market reports, flyers, and cardboard folders with swatches of cloth and rug samples. “The console keyboard activates the wall switch.” He gave a little whistle as he pushed on a section of the wall which swung on a center pivot, then led them up a single step into a large inner room.

“Lead seal in the entry, false floor, lowered ceiling, double walls. Not bad, Harold; you've got the makings of a good carpenter . . . comm center, eh . . . not bad.”

The little man shot a quick glance at Bromberger in reply, popped another lozenge into his mouth, and proceeded to a large, multi-screen tan console running the entire length of one wall. “Communications and data terminals here. The entire system switches through headquarters. Your location will not be known to the operators
or those servicing your requests—Washington area, no more. You should reveal no more. Facsimile machines here . . . this for open transmissions, and this, encrypted. There is a small lounge—”

“Cut the crap, Fisker, for Christ's sake.” Sweetman was tired; his words had a sharp edge. Fisker continued on unperturbed.

“Mr. Bromberger, if I may have your attention. Incoming and outgoing traffic will be slugged ‘Shattered Flag,' a category five designator chosen and controlled exclusively by the director.”

“‘Shattered Flag,'” Bromberger intoned, his voice resigned to accepting Fisker's presentation, clearly a pace that had been set personally by the director.

“There is a small apartment, lounge, two beds, mini-kitchen, and a bath through that door. It is not anticipated that your need for these facilities will extend beyond a few weeks. I will be here seven days a week; my quarters are on the next floor. You will find that you have considerable capability here. My instructions are to augment that capability as you may require.”

Fisker paused, ran a pencil up and down the back of his neck, satisfied himself that his mental checklist had been covered. He then keyed the console and led the way back through the wall into the front reception area. “I have a bit of pocket litter for each of you, nothing elaborate, no name changes, just the Trade credentials, a few credit cards, and a smattering of correspondence.” He flipped two switches beneath the first of the TV monitors; the inner steel door rolled open. “On this side of the street, about two hundred feet from the entrance to your left, you will find a blue-and-white cab showing an ‘off duty' card on the sun visor. The driver is waiting for you, knows you by sight. The Director is expecting you in twenty-five minutes.

Sweetman and Bromberger strode behind their escort, moving swiftly from the director's private, key-operated elevator, through his outer rooms, to the sprawling wood-paneled office overlooking the spring green of Virginia.

Two large hands formed a triangle cradling the forehead of a larger gray head bent over photo enlargements spread in a fan shape. “Hanspeter, Pierce, welcome.” The director continued his examination without looking up. His hand went to a particular print. He
pushed his eyeglasses up on his forehead and took several moments to examine various details of the photograph through a magnifying glass. “A wedding ring by the looks of it. My sympathy to the bride.” He spoke slowly. “A very smart piece of work, Hanspeter.” He put the photograph down and turned his full attention to the two men.

“We delivered a set of your snapshots to the secretary of state one hour ago. Not bad service, wouldn't you say? He has invited Ambassador Fedoseyev in for a chat this afternoon. He will reveal our evidence. He will review it with the ambassador, and he will throw the book at him! High time!” The voice rose, then relaxed. “I see you have a small trophy on your chin, Hanspeter—a fine job. Congratulations!” The director came around the desk, shook his hand, turned. “Pierce,” shook his hand and returned to the black leather chair.

“Thank you, sir. No damage here; good to hear State's moving.” There was relief in Sweetman's voice. With the front office call, he was afraid he had somehow blown the
Omsk
operation, steeled himself for the bad news, searched his mind, every step, during the drive to Langley . . . now, the director's approval. If it had gone well, why the hell the summons? He felt totally drained.

“Sit down Hanspeter, Pierce.” The agents moved to the long L-shaped couch which served to frame the glass-topped coffee table exhibiting twenty-eight foreign decorations, each contributing to the professional history of Director of Central Intelligence Ernest Lancaster.

“Pierce; you won't have followed, I trust”—he pulled his glasses down to the tip of his nose and gazed over them—“Hanspeter's exploit. Knowledge, planning, initiative, skill, guts, and luck—landed on the Soviets like a great bat last night and sunk his bat's teeth into their prized spy-running game. Invaluable, absolutely invaluable. You will have to make a point of having Hanspeter tell you about his cruise on the
Omsk,
Pierce. I do apologize for having lifted you from your students before you had the chance to savor the charms of North Carolina. Do you know the South?” Lancaster's voice continued without sentiment, but with a familiarity borne of earlier association. “Of course you do. Your grandparents on your father's side were from the hills of eastern Tennessee, were they not?”

“Parents, grandparents, born there myself, sir.” Bromberger nodded, a slight smile on his lips, the outward sign of his deep admiration for the director and his performances.

“Rock-ribbed conservative stock in the hills of Tennessee. Good people, good bloodlines—which brings us to the purpose of this reunion, gentlemen . . .” Lancaster held his next words, observed the watchfulness and heightened attention his two prized officers gave to him.

“The lexicographers tell us that today's society has endowed the word ‘cell,' humble in composition, reserved for the most part to science, broadly, and the biological, medical, and penological sciences more specifically . . . we have endowed this humble word with greatly increased prominence.

“Our obsession as a people with cancers, the intrusion of malignant cells and the constant, indeed understandable, chatter offers one explanation. The cell as a unit has also metamorphosed. Once the devout monk's apartment, then the corpus of political action . . . now, the malignant structure of terrorism.” Lancaster reached behind him, retrieved a news release from a tray, pushed his glasses back up on his forehead and read.

“I have a release of sorts here from an organization by the name of ‘Trade,'”—Bromberger and Sweetman continued to wait him out—“advising that you have affiliated. Excellent!” He tossed the release back into the tray. “Pierce”—he looked at Sweetman as he spoke—“has been sharing with a new generation his appreciation of terrorism. Yesterday, while he was doing so, Constance Burdette was cut to shreds in a bloody, premeditated assassination—all the earmarks of an orthodox act of political terrorism—United States ambassador, newly arrived, cut down to demonstrate
our
weakness, cow
their
governments, flaunt their freedom of action . . . the anarchistic push against rational order, authority.