Edge of Eternity (117 page)

He had visited the district once before, with a CIA guide, and he quickly found the street where Ayatollah Fadlallah lived. Cam drove slowly past the high-rise apartment building, then went all around the block and parked a hundred yards before the building on the opposite side of the road.

On the same street were several more apartment buildings, a cinema, and, most importantly, a mosque. Every afternoon at the same time, Fadlallah walked from his apartment building to the mosque for prayers.

That was when they would kill him.

No foul-ups, please, God, Cam prayed.

Along the short stretch of street Fadlallah would have to follow, cars were parked nose to tail at the curb. One of those cars contained a bomb. Cam did not know which.

Somewhere nearby the trigger man was concealed, watching the street like Cam, waiting for the ayatollah. Cam scanned the cars and the overlooking windows. He did not spot the trigger man. That was good. The assassin was well concealed, as he should be.

Cam had been assured by the Saudis that no innocent bystanders would be hurt. Fadlallah was always surrounded by bodyguards: some of them would undoubtedly suffer injury, but they always kept the general public well away from their leader.

Cam worried whether the bomb's effects could be predicted so accurately. But civilians were sometimes hurt in a war. Look at all the Japanese women and children killed at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Of course, the United States had been at war with Japan, which it was not with Lebanon; but Cam told himself that the same principle applied. If a few passersby suffered cuts and bruises, the end surely justified the means.

Still, he was alarmed by the number of pedestrians. A car bomb was more suited to a lonely location. Here, a marksman with a high-powered rifle would have been a better choice.

Too late now.

He looked at his watch. Fadlallah was behind schedule. That was unnerving. Cam wished he would hurry.

There seemed to be a lot of women and girls on the street, and Cam wondered why. A minute later he figured out that they were coming out of the mosque. There must have been some special event for females, the Muslim equivalent of a mothers' meeting. Unfortunately they were crowding the damn street. The squad might have to abort the explosion.

Now Cam hoped that Fadlallah would be even later.

He scanned the cityscape again, looking for an alert man concealing some kind of radio-operated triggering mechanism. This time he thought he spotted the man. Three hundred yards away, opposite the mosque, a first-floor window stood open in the side wall of a tenement. Cam would not have noticed the man but that the afternoon sun, moving down the western sky, had shifted the shadows to reveal the figure. Cam could not make out the man's features but recognized his body language: tense, poised, waiting, scared, two hands grasping something that might have been a transistor radio with a long retractable aerial, except that no one held on to a transistor radio for dear life.

More and more women came out of the mosque, some wearing only the hijab head scarf, others in the all-concealing burqa. They thronged the sidewalks in both directions. Soon, Cam hoped, the rush would be over.

He looked toward Fadlallah's building and saw, to his horror, that the ayatollah was coming out, surrounded by six or seven other men.

Fadlallah was a small old man with a long white beard. He wore a round black hat and white robes. His face had an alert, intelligent expression, and he was smiling slightly at something a companion was saying as they left the building and turned into the street.

“No,” said Cam aloud. “Not now. Not now!”

He looked along the street. The sidewalks were still crowded with women and girls, talking, laughing, showing in their smiles and gestures the relief felt by people on leaving a holy place after a solemn service. Their duty was done, their souls were refreshed, and they were ready to resume the worldly life, looking forward to the evening ahead, to supper, conversation, amusement, family, and friends.

Except that some of them were going to die.

Cam jumped out of his car.

He waved frantically toward the tenement widow where the trigger
man lurked, but there was no response. It was hardly surprising: Cam was too far away, and the man was concentrating on Fadlallah.

Cam looked across the street. Fadlallah was walking away from Cam, toward the mosque and the assassin's lair, at a brisk pace. The explosion had to be seconds away.

Cam ran along the street toward the tenement building, but his progress was slow because of the crowds of women. He drew curious and hostile looks, an obvious American running through a throng of Muslim women. He drew level with Fadlallah and saw one of the bodyguards point him out to another. Before many more seconds passed, someone would accost him.

He ran on, throwing caution to the winds. Fifty feet from the tenement he stopped, shouted, and waved at the assassin in the window. He could see the man clearly now, a young Arab with a wispy beard and a terrified expression. “Don't do it!” Cam yelled, knowing he was now hazarding his own life. “Abort, abort! For the love of God, abort!”

From behind, someone seized him by the shoulder and said something aggressive in harsh Arabic.

Then there was a tremendous bang.

Cam was thrown flat.

He was breathless, as if someone had hit him on the back with a plank. His head hurt. He could hear screams, men cursing, and the sliding sound of falling rubble. He rolled over, gasping, and struggled to his feet. He was alive, and as far as he could tell not seriously hurt. An Arab man lay motionless at his feet, probably the person who had grabbed him by the shoulder. The man had taken the full force of the blast, his body shielding Cam, it seemed.

He looked across the street.

“Oh, my Jesus,” he said.

There were bodies everywhere, horribly twisted and bloodied and broken. Those not lying still were staggering, stanching wounds, screaming, and looking for their loved ones. Some people's loose Middle Eastern clothing had been blown away, and many of the women were half-naked in the true obscenity of violent death.

Two apartment buildings had their fronts destroyed, and masonry and household objects were still falling into the street, massive chunks
of concrete alongside chairs and TV sets. Several buildings were burning. The road was littered with damaged cars, as if all the vehicles had been dropped from a height and had landed haphazard.

Cam knew immediately that the bomb had been too large, far too large.

On the other side of the street he saw the white beard and black hat of Fadlallah, who was being rushed back toward his building by his bodyguards. He appeared unhurt.

The mission had failed.

Cam stared at the carnage around him. How many had died? He guessed fifty, sixty, even seventy. And hundreds were injured.

He had to get out of there. In not many seconds people would start to think about who had done this. Even though his face was bruised and his suit was ripped, they would know he was American. He had to leave before it occurred to anyone that they had a chance of instant revenge.

He hurried back to his car. All the windows were smashed, but it looked as if it might go. He threw open the door. The seat was covered with broken glass. He pulled off his jacket and used it to sweep the seat free of shards. Then, in case he had missed any, he folded the jacket and placed it on the seat. He got in and turned the key.

The car started.

He pulled out, made a U-turn, and drove away.

He recalled Florence Geary's statement, which at the time he had thought hysterically exaggerated. “By the laws of every civilized country it's
murder,
” she had said.

But it was not just murder. It was mass murder.

President Ronald Reagan was guilty.

And so was Cam Dewar.

•   •   •

On a small table in the living room, Jack was doing a jigsaw puzzle with his godmother, Maria, while his father, George, looked on. It was Sunday afternoon at Jacky Jakes's house in Prince George's County. They had all gone to Bethel Evangelical Church together, then had eaten Jacky's smothered pork chops—in onion gravy—with black-eyed peas. Then Maria had brought out the puzzle, carefully chosen to be neither
too easy nor too hard for a five-year-old. Soon Maria would leave and George would drive Jack back to Verena's house. Then George would sit down at the kitchen table with his files for a couple of hours and prepare for the week ahead in Congress.

But this was a moment of stillness, when no engagements pressed. The afternoon light fell on the two heads bent over the puzzle. Jack was going to be handsome, George thought. He had a high forehead, wide-apart eyes, a cute flat nose, a smiling mouth, a neat chin, all in proportion. Already his expressions showed his character. He was completely absorbed in the intellectual challenge of the puzzle, then when he or Maria placed a piece correctly he would smile with satisfaction, his small face lighting up. George had never known anything as fascinating and moving as this, the growth of his own child's mind, the daily dawning of new understanding, numbers and letters, mechanisms and people and social groups. Seeing Jack run and jump and throw a ball seemed a miracle, but George was even more heart-struck by this look of intense mental concentration. It brought to his eyes tears of pride and gratitude and awe.

He was grateful to Maria, too. She visited about once a month, always bringing a gift, always spending time with her godson, patiently reading with him or talking to him or playing games. Maria and Jacky had given Jack stability through the trauma of his parents' divorce. It was a year now since George had left the marital home. Jack was no longer waking up in the middle of the night and crying. He seemed to be settling into the new way of life—though George could not help feeling apprehensive about possible long-term effects.

They finished the jigsaw. Grandma Jacky was called in to admire the completed work, then she took Jack into the kitchen for a glass of milk and a cookie.

George said to Maria: “Thank you for all you do for Jack. You're the greatest godmother ever.”

“It's no sacrifice,” she said. “It's a joy to know him.”

Maria was going to be fifty next year. She would never have a child of her own. She had nieces and nephews in Chicago, but the main object of her maternal love was Jack.

“I have something to tell you,” Maria said. “Something important.”

She got up and closed the living room door, and George wondered what was coming.

She sat down again and said: “That car bomb in Beirut the day before yesterday.”

“That was awful,” George said. “It killed eighty people and wounded two hundred, mostly women and girls.”

“The bomb was not placed by the Israelis.”

“Who did it, then?”

“We did.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It was a counterterrorism initiative by President Reagan. The perpetrators were Lebanese nationals, but they were trained, financed, and controlled by the CIA.”

“Jesus. But the president is obliged by law to tell my committee about covert actions.”

“I think you'll find he informed the chairman and vice chairman.”

“This is horrible,” George said. “But you sound pretty sure of it.”

“I was told by a senior CIA person. A lot of Agency veterans were against this whole program. But the president wanted it and Bill Casey forced it through.”

“What on earth got into them?” George wondered. “They committed mass murder!”

“They're desperate to put a stop to the kidnappings. They think Fadlallah is the mastermind. They were trying to take him out.”

“And they fucked it up.”

“But good.”

“This has to come out.”

“That's what I think.”

Jacky came in. “Our young man is ready to go back to his mother.”

“I'm coming.” George stood up. “All right,” he said to Maria. “I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”

George got into the car with Jack and drove slowly through the suburban streets to Verena's house. Jasper Murray's bronze Cadillac was in the driveway beside Verena's red Jaguar. That was opportune, if it meant Jasper was there.

Verena came to the door in a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans. George went inside and Verena took Jack away for his bath. Jasper came out of the kitchen, and George said: “A word with you, if I may.”

Jasper looked wary, but said: “Sure.”

“Shall we go into”—George almost said
my study,
but corrected himself—“the study?”

“Okay.”

He saw with a pang that Jasper's typewriter was on his old desk, along with a stack of reference books a journalist might need:
Who's Who in America, Atlas of the World, Pears' Cyclopaedia, The Almanac of American Politics.

The study was a small room with one armchair. Neither man wanted to take the chair behind the desk. After an awkward hesitation, Jasper pulled out the desk chair and placed it opposite the armchair, and they both sat down.

George told him what Maria had said, without naming her. As he talked, in the back of his mind he wondered why Verena preferred Jasper to him. Jasper had a hard edge of self-interested ruthlessness, in George's opinion. George had put this question to his mother, who had said: “Jasper's a TV star. Verena's father is a movie star. She spent seven years working for Martin Luther King, who was the star of the civil rights movement. Maybe she needs her man to be a star. But what do I know?”

“This is dynamite,” Jasper said when George had told him the whole story. “Are you sure of your source?”

“It's the same as my source for the other stories I've given you. Completely trustworthy.”

“This makes President Reagan a mass murderer.”

“Yes,” said George. “I know.”

O
n that Sunday, while Jacky and George and Maria and little Jack were in church, singing “Shall We Gather at the River,” Konstantin Chernenko died in Moscow.

It happened at twenty minutes past seven in the evening, Moscow time. Dimka and Natalya were at home, eating bean soup for supper with their daughter, Katya, a schoolgirl of fifteen, and Dimka's son, Grisha, a university student of twenty-one. The phone rang at seven thirty. Natalya picked it up. As soon as she said: “Hello, Andrei,” Dimka guessed what had happened.

Chernenko had been dying ever since he became leader, a mere thirteen months ago. Now he was in hospital with cirrhosis and emphysema. All Moscow was waiting impatiently for him to expire. Natalya had bribed Andrei, a nurse at the hospital, to call her as soon as Chernenko breathed his last. Now she hung up the phone and confirmed it. “He's dead,” she said.

This was the moment of hope. For the third time in less than three years, a tired old conservative leader had died. Once again there was a chance for a new young man to step in and change the Soviet Union into the kind of country in which Dimka wanted Grisha and Katya to live and raise his grandchildren. But that hope had been disappointed twice before. Would the same happen again?

Dimka pushed his plate away. “We have to act now,” he said. “The succession will be decided in the next few hours.”

Natalya nodded agreement. “The only thing that matters is who chairs the next meeting of the Politburo,” she said.

Dimka thought she was right. That was how things worked in the Soviet Union. As soon as one contender nosed ahead, no one would bet on any other horse in the race.

Mikhail Gorbachev was second secretary, and therefore officially deputy to the late leader. However, his appointment to that position had been hotly contested by the old guard, who had wanted Moscow party boss Viktor Grishin, seventy years old and no reformer. Gorbachev had won that race by only one vote.

Dimka and Natalya left the dining table and went into the bedroom, not wanting to discuss this in front of the children. Dimka stood at the window, looking out at the lights of Moscow, while Natalya sat on the edge of the bed. They did not have much time.

Dimka said: “With Chernenko dead, there are exactly ten full members of the Politburo, including Gorbachev and Grishin.” The full members were the inner circle of Soviet power. “By my calculation, they divide right down the middle: Gorbachev has four supporters and Grishin has the same.”

“But they aren't all in town,” Natalya pointed out. “Two of Grishin's men are away: Shcherbitsky is in the United States, and Kunayev is at home in Kazakhstan, a five-hour flight away.”

“And one of Gorbachev's men: Vorotnikov is in Yugoslavia.”

“Still, that gives us a majority of three against two—for the next few hours.”

“Gorbachev must call a meeting of full members tonight. I'll suggest he says it's to plan the funeral. Having called the meeting, he can chair it. And once he's chaired that meeting, it will seem automatic that he chairs all subsequent meetings and then becomes leader.”

Natalya frowned. “You're right, but I'd like to nail it down. I don't want the absentees to fly in tomorrow and say everything has to be discussed all over again because they weren't here.”

Dimka thought for a minute. “I don't know what else we can do,” he said.

Dimka called Gorbachev on the bedroom phone. Gorbachev already knew that Chernenko was dead—he, too, had his spies. He agreed with Dimka that he should call the meeting immediately.

Dimka and Natalya put on their heavy winter coats and boots and drove to the Kremlin.

An hour later the most powerful men in the Soviet Union were gathering in the Presidium Room. Dimka was still worrying.
Gorbachev's group needed a masterstroke that would make Gorbachev the leader irrevocably.

Just before the meeting, Gorbachev pulled a rabbit out of the hat. He approached his archrival, Viktor Grishin, and said formally: “Viktor Vasilyevich, would you like to chair this meeting?”

Dimka, standing close enough to hear, was astounded. What the hell was Gorbachev doing—conceding defeat?

But Natalya, right next to Dimka, was smiling triumphantly. “Brilliant!” she said with quiet elation. “If Grishin is proposed as chair the others will vote him down anyway. It's a false offer, an empty gift box.”

Grishin thought for a moment and obviously came to the same conclusion. “No, comrade,” he said. “You should chair this meeting.”

And then Dimka realized, with growing jubilation, that Gorbachev had closed a trap. Now that Grishin had refused, it would be difficult for him to change his mind and demand the chairmanship tomorrow, when his supporters arrived. Any proposal to make Grishin chair would meet the argument that he had already turned down the position. And if he resisted that argument he would look like a ditherer anyway.

So, Dimka concluded, smiling broadly, Gorbachev would become the new leader of the Soviet Union.

And that was exactly what happened.

•   •   •

Tanya came home eager to tell Vasili her plan.

They had been more or less living together, unofficially, for two years. They were not married: once they became a legal couple they would never be allowed to leave the USSR together. And they were determined to get out of the Soviet bloc. Both felt trapped. Tanya continued to write reports for TASS that followed the party line slavishly. Vasili was now lead writer on a television show in which square-jawed KGB heroes outwitted stupid sadistic American spies. And both of them longed to tell the world that Vasili was the acclaimed novelist Ivan Kuznetsov, whose latest book,
The Geriatric Ward
—a savage satire on Brezhnev, Andropov, and Chernenko—was currently a bestseller in the West. Sometimes Vasili said all that mattered was
that he had written the truth about the Soviet Union in stories that were read all over the world. But Tanya knew he wanted to take credit for his work, proudly, instead of fearfully concealing what he had done like a secret perversion.

But even though Tanya was bursting with enthusiasm, she took the trouble to turn on the radio in the kitchen before speaking. She did not really think their apartment was bugged, but it was an old habit, and there was no need to take chances.

A radio commentator was describing a visit by Gorbachev and his wife to a jeans factory in Leningrad. Tanya noted the significance. Previous Soviet leaders had visited steel mills and shipyards. Gorbachev celebrated consumer goods. Soviet manufactures ought to be as good as those of the West, he always said—something that had not even been a pipe dream for his predecessors.

And he took his wife with him. Unlike earlier leaders' wives, Raisa was not just an appendage. She was attractive and well-dressed, like an American first lady. She was intelligent, too: she had worked as a university lecturer until her husband became first secretary.

All this was hopeful but little more than symbolic, Tanya thought. Whether it came to anything would depend on the West. If the Germans and the Americans recognized liberalization in the USSR and worked to encourage change, Gorbachev might achieve something. But if the hawks in Bonn and Washington saw this as weakness, and made threatening or aggressive moves, the Soviet ruling elite would retreat back into its shell of orthodox Communism and military overkill. Then Gorbachev would join Kosygin and Khrushchev in the graveyard of failed Kremlin reformers.

“There's a conference of scriptwriters in Naples,” Tanya said to Vasili, as the radio burbled in the background.

“Ah!” Vasili saw the significance immediately. The city of Naples had an elected Communist government.

They sat together on the couch. Tanya said: “They want to invite writers from the Soviet bloc, to prove that Hollywood is not the only place where television shows are made.”

“Of course.”

“You're the most successful writer of television drama in the USSR. You ought to go.”

“The writers' union will decide who will be the lucky ones.”

“With advice from the KGB, obviously.”

“Do you think I have a chance?”

“Make an application, and I'll ask Dimka to put in a good word.”

“Will you be able to come?”

“I'll ask Daniil to assign me to cover the conference for TASS.”

“And then we'll both be in the free world.”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“I haven't worked out all the details, but that should be the easy part. From our hotel room we can phone Anna Murray in London. As soon as she finds out we're in Italy she'll catch the next plane. We'll give our KGB minders the slip and go with her to Rome. She will tell the world that Ivan Kuznetsov is really Vasili Yenkov, and he and his girlfriend are applying for political asylum in Great Britain.”

Vasili was quiet. “Could it really happen, do you think?” he said, sounding almost like a child talking about a fairy tale.

Tanya took both his hands in hers. “I don't know,” she said, “but I want to try.”

•   •   •

Dimka had a big office in the Kremlin now. There was a large desk with two phones, a small conference table, and a couple of couches in front of a fireplace. On the wall was a full-size print of a famous Soviet painting,
The Mobilization Against Yudenich at the Putilov Machine Factory.

His guest was Frederik Bíró, a Hungarian government minister with progressive ideas. He was two or three years older than Dimka, but he looked scared as he sat on the couch and asked Dimka's secretary for a glass of water. “Am I here to be reprimanded?” he said with a forced smile.

“Why do you ask that?”

“I'm one of a group of men who think Hungarian Communism has become stuck in a rut. That's no secret.”

“I have no intention of reprimanding you for that or anything else.”

“I'm to be praised, then?”

“Not that either. I assume you and your friends will form the new
Hungarian regime as soon as János Kádár dies or resigns, and I wish you luck, but I didn't ask you here to tell you that.”

Bíró put down his water without tasting it. “Now I'm really scared.”

“Let me put you out of your misery. Gorbachev's priority is to improve the Soviet economy by reducing military expenditure and producing more consumer goods.”

“A fine plan,” Bíró said in a wary tone. “Many people would like to do the same in Hungary.”

“Our only problem is that it isn't working. Or, to be exact, it isn't working fast enough, which comes to the same thing. The Soviet Union is bust, bankrupt, broke. The falling price of oil is the cause of the immediate crisis, but the long-term problem is the crippling underperformance of the planned economy. And it's too severe to be cured by canceling orders for missiles and making more blue jeans.”

“What is the answer?”

“We're going to stop subsidizing you.”

“Hungary?”

“All the East European states. You've never paid for your standard of living. We finance it, by selling you oil and other raw materials below market prices, and buying your crappy manufactures that no one else wants.”

“It's true, of course,” Bíró acknowledged. “But that's the only way to keep the population quiet and the Communist Party in power. If their standard of living falls, it won't be long before they start asking why they have to be Communists.”

“I know.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

Dimka shrugged deliberately. “That's not my problem, it's yours.”

“It's our problem?” Bíró said incredulously. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It means you have to find the solution.”

“And what if the Kremlin doesn't like the solution we find?”

“It doesn't matter,” Dimka said. “You're on your own now.”

Bíró was scornful. “Are you telling me that forty years of Soviet domination of Eastern Europe is coming to an end, and we are going to be independent countries?”

“Exactly.”

Bíró looked at Dimka long and hard. Then he said: “I don't believe you.”

•   •   •

Tanya and Vasili went to the hospital to visit Tanya's aunt Zoya, the physicist. Zoya was seventy-four and had breast cancer. As the wife of a general, she had a private room. Visitors were allowed in two at a time, so Tanya and Vasili waited outside with other family members.

After a while Uncle Volodya came out, holding the arm of his thirty-nine-year-old son, Kotya. A strong man with a heroic war record, Volodya was now as helpless as a child, following where he was led, sobbing uncontrollably into a handkerchief that was already sodden with tears. They had been married forty years.

Tanya went in with her cousin Galina, the daughter of Volodya and Zoya. She was shocked by her aunt's appearance. Zoya had been head-turningly beautiful, even into her sixties, but now she was cadaverously thin, almost bald, and clearly only days or perhaps hours from the end. However, she was drifting in and out of sleep, and did not seem to be in pain. Tanya guessed she was dosed with morphine.

“Volodya went to America after the war, to find out how they had made the Hiroshima bomb,” Zoya said, contentedly indiscreet under the influence of the drug. Tanya thought of telling her to say no more, then reflected that these secrets no longer mattered to anyone. “He brought back a Sears Roebuck Catalogue,” Zoya went on, smiling at the memory. “It was full of beautiful things that any American could buy: dresses, bicycles, records, warm coats for children, even tractors for farmers. I wouldn't have believed it—I would have taken it for propaganda—but Volodya had been there and knew it was true. Ever since then I've wanted to go to America, just to see it. Just to look at all that plenty. I don't think I'll make it now, though.” She closed her eyes again. “Never mind,” she murmured, and she seemed to sleep again.