THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (15 page)

Belize and Manuela couldn't have differed more in makeup and background. Manuela had helped publish
El Ricardo
, an underground anti-Castro newsletter which she and fellow activists published bi-monthly on the campus of Havana University. She and a colleague were arrested after spraying EL MARXISMO ES MIERDA on the outside wall of Havana Coliseum late at night. After confessing her role in the production of
El Ricardo,
she was promptly sent to jail. After serving a small part of her sentence, she and several activist friends were placed on one of the America-bound boats.

Belize in turn had been a popular singer at
Tropicana,
a ritzy Havana nightclub favoured by Cuban and Russian officials. Her husky voice and fiery looks soon captivated a handsome and entrepreneurial Cuban finance minister. Having misappropriated sizable chunks of Soviet aid money, the gallivanting minister had kept his mistress from
Tropicana
in a lavish apartment, spoiling her with expensive furs, dresses, jewellry and shoes. However the minister's misuse of funds was eventually uncovered.

Unwilling to testify against her lover in court, and accused of hiding many of the fine things given her, Belize was sent to jail over the scandalous affair that made headlines across her island country. And like her older sister she too was placed on one of the Miami-bound boats.

After spending long and hellish months in Tent City, a makeshift refugee camp under a concrete overpass, Belize and her sister were finally granted US Permanent Immigrant status. They took the first available bus to Baltimore. Ousted by Castro in '59, Roberto Renaldo took his nieces into his Parkville home, and before long had them working as checkout operators in his Towson supermarket.

Belize turned on the wipers as drizzle made distorted little flower patterns on the windshield. The sparse rain looked like early sleet in the light of the sodium lamps lining Amity Street.

'My God.' Manuela peered through her lightly misted window. 'No wonder Edgar Allen Poe wrote so many stories here. All the row-houses with their old marble steps. It's damn gloomy.'

'
Madre del diablo!
' Belize gunned her rattly Chevrolet through an amber light. 'You're the one who's gloomy, with your head in books all the time. But tonight, for once, you're going to have a good time.' She cocked a thumb toward her breast. 'Courtesy of your little sister here.'

Haslow turned up the car radio as The Eagles broke into the chorus of
Lyin' Eyes.
He sang along to the song acutely aware he hadn't felt this good for a long time (of course several shots of scotch before leaving home had complemented his mood perfectly). He stopped at a red light and checked the rear-view mirror. Amazingly no one was behind him except a scraggly teenage kid in a beat-up Mazda sedan. He looked ahead. Congested lanes of headlights shone at him from across the intersection.

Friday evening.

The hordes were out for a slice of the night's action, impatient for the restaurants, bars and clubs in the crowded heart of the city. Haslow powered his BMW through the green light, grateful to be bound for the outer suburbs.

He still wanted to leave his job. He wasn't sure what procedures and legalities were involved, but come Monday he would find out. He no longer had a binding contract to speak of and, well, that was that. All that mattered now was he have a good time at Goldman's dinner party. He glanced at the unopened bottle of scotch on the passenger seat beside him: ample fuel for the hours ahead.

Along with the usual bills, he'd found a travel brochure in his letterbox. A special holiday saver to Thailand with a stopover in Hawaii had grabbed his attention. He thought about an old university friend now living in Bangkok. The same friend had invited Haslow more than once to visit him. Dropping in on Chuan Suttarom seemed a good start for his around-the-world holiday. For past hours agreeable imaginings had played in his mind. The last had him drinking cocktails at the Hilton Hawaiian Village. A rich divorcee snuggled against him, he and his lovely companion whiling away the hours as if truly fated for the good life. Yes, anything was possible now he'd decided to up and leave his old life. His only problem lay in getting too ahead of himself. He would have to take one day at a time until he found himself on a 747 heading for another part of the globe.

He continued along the street, pleasured by the hum of his precision German motor. A nervy excitement prickled his scalp. Things were looking up. It wasn't everyday he had a blind date. And come what may he would make a night of it.

Without indicating, Belize Cheraz swerved into the poorly lit cul-de-sac. Her sun-faded Impala idled past a parked van with SEA VIEW PLANT HIRE painted decoratively along its sides. She parked at a careless angle across the back end of the cul-de-sac. The sisters climbed from the Impala, straightening clothes and fixing hair.

'How do I look?' Belize flicked a smoked cigarette onto the rain-spattered asphalt and jutted her body at a proud angle.

'Like when you worked that seedy joint back home,' Manuela said evenly.

Belize cussed and made to spit at her sister. 'Listen,
cabron
. We're here to have a good time. I don't want you and your attitude screwing things up. Relax, be sociable. You never know,
you just might get laid
.' She spun on her heel and headed for the steps leading to Goldman's apartment.

'Listen,' Manuela said. 'Getting laid isn't everyone's idea of – '

'Come, come.' Belize beckoned with an impatient wave of her hand. 'You're always behind.'

The sandy-haired man in the back of the black surveillance van, a Quadra loop receiving antenna concealed along one side of its roof, reached for the microphone attached to the instrument panel in front of him. A blinking red light announced an incoming transmission. He unclipped the microphone and a recessed speaker on the panel came to life:
“Sea View One, this is Base One. Control has issued two back-up units. Expect General Turner's arrival. Over.”

'Copy that, Base One. Out.' Great, the sandy-haired man thought with little joy. Turner's coming. He re-clipped the microphone and lit a cigarette. Though he'd never met the man, Turner's reputation as a hard-nosed sonofabitch preceded him.

As Belize Cheraz parked outside Goldman's apartment, General Turner overtook a sputtering VW Micro-bus on Interstate 95. The VW's long-haired driver looked as if he'd seen better days, such as when 450,000 people had gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in Woodstock.

Driving his 4WD International Scout at just under the speed limit, the general expected to be in Towson in another fifteen minutes. He gripped the wheel with liver-spotted hands, his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Earlier on he'd excused himself from a dinner engagement with Harold and Mary Olsen, much to the chagrin of his wife. Betty always enjoyed the Olsens' dinner parties, as well as the tipsy game of Rummy that usually ensued. So much so she'd taken the Volvo wagon to keep her end of the invitation.

General Turner had declined the dinner date because too much was at stake to have tonight's operation run by anyone less competent than himself. He wanted to listen in on Goldman's dinner party so he could make on-the-spot decisions should the need arise. Moreover, he wanted to be in close proximity of Goldman's apartment so he could verify his orders were being properly executed. The potential downside of the situation warranted that nothing be left to chance.

After Goldman's outburst in the corridor of the administration building, Kaplan had taken General Turner up to the new computer room. Turner paled and the ground shifted under his feet when he read the message on the room's live terminal: THE FINAL SECTOR OF TAPE 64 HAS FINISHED.

Turner's private computer directory had been left wide open. After checking the tape's subject matter, the three-star general knew his worst fear had come true: Goldman had learned the truth behind his father's murder. Goldman must have heard the tape, possibly all of it. But how had the chemist listened to the tape without knowing Turner's compartmentalized password? Quite likely with the help of a Datacheck employee, the irate general concluded. A matter he would look into.

After dismissing General Kaplan with a gruff tone, Turner logged off his password-protected directory. He then logged back on to make sure the directory was again protected by his specialized password. Only then was he able to devote himself to this unexpected development that had the potential to wrench apart his carefully crafted world.

Like many of his military colleagues, Turner had succumbed to the flashy new world of computer programmers and systems analysts. He was led to believe that the encrypted firewall encircling AUDNET 501 would withstand the attack of any passing hacker. Turner promised himself that after cleaning up this mess with Goldman he'd get AUDNET 501 taken off-line. He would secure the incriminating recordings as he saw fit. So much for the smart new world of computers. He would employ conventional methods of containment that had served him well in the past.

The general used a secure telephone line at Silverwood Centre to get a DIA update on the audio-surveillance of Goldman's apartment. After learning about Goldman's dinner party, Turner poured himself a strong black coffee and put together a covert operation in what had to be, even for a seasoned strategist like himself, record time.

Now, the silver-haired general drove along the busy Interstate, his mind sharpened by the hectic pace of recent events. Light rain played across the Scout's windshield, mottling the bluish-white headlamps of oncoming vehicles. He wanted a cigarette, badly, even though he hadn't smoked one for several years. Equally, he needed a stiff drink. Something to keep his nerves at bay as he mulled over the hastily prepared operation. His mouth was dry and sour. A soft drink came to mind. The fizz of carbonated bubbles would perk him considerably. But tonight he wouldn't be stopping for any kind of refreshment. Time was too precious a commodity.

Turner looked ahead at the Towson exit sign. He squinted from the blinding headlights of an oncoming semitrailer. 'Jesus Christ, man!' Just as quickly the lights returned to normal brilliance. Before long he was off the Interstate and merging with light traffic on a four-lane street. The rain lessened as he pulled up at a red light and inched down the window. The influx of chill night air revitalized him. Tapping the Scout's wheel, he reflected on his place in the military landscape.

The general no longer cared for military-intelligence gathering and reporting. The main role the DIA played for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His heart was simply no longer in it. He was restless to move up the ladder. As a result of shrewd and incessant politicking, he would soon serve as the Director of Operations (J-5), Joint Staff, Washington D C. Turner's J-5 Directorate would “critically examine future trends and provide a broad range of responsive assessments and recommendations to the Joint Chiefs of Staff”.

Turner would be firmly active in strategic plans and policy other than mere intelligence gathering. Furthermore, his new position would be enhanced from another posting. From long-standing association with influential Republican hardliners, Turner had been promised a permanent seat on Ronald Reagan's new vision for an active, anti-communist National Security Council. An NSC that would end “the passive acceptance of Soviet expansionism”. 

After attaining these appointments, General Turner would be well placed to realize his dream of serving on the Joint Chiefs. As Chief of Staff of the Army, then not impossibly as chairman, the highest military office in the land. He was confident he could outplay other, younger contenders. After all he wasn't a new kid on the block. With his tireless drive and long-standing influence he would prove a formidable opponent.

In short Turner was over the moon from the political vistas opening up to him. All the pieces were falling in place, and none too soon. Accordingly he couldn't allow his life's work to be jeopardized by someone like Goldman going public over what he'd learned about his father's murder. Such a threat had to be crushed. Turner had fought in all kinds of wars, legal and otherwise. He'd killed enemy combatants, ordered assassinations. He'd had all manner of men at his disposal, and wasn't averse to using lethal force in covert operations.

The general was displaced from his meditations as a frizzy-haired woman pulled a young boy and girl onto a pedestrian crossing. Turner cursed and braked his 4WD, the flustered mother and the children illumined in his headlamps. An iridescent black Mustang with mag wheels and a throaty exhaust pulled up alongside the general's Scout. A hard-looking man with a Chinese dragon tattooed on his forearm glowered drunkenly at Turner. The obtuse driver blew cigarette smoke through his nostrils and looked back to the road. No sooner had the children reached the midway-point of the crossing than the Mustang leaped forward with a loud roar of its V8 engine.

Turner pulled away from the crossing in a more sedate manner. He glanced over his shoulder at the mother and her children and was filled with custodial sentiment. The little ones seemed like an embryonic promise of his country's bigger tomorrow. As such they inspired him to make full use of the governmental powers coming his way.

He braked at another traffic light, gazed at a nearby Pizza Hut restaurant. Inside the softly lit building families and couples chatted and dined, enjoying themselves at the well-earned end of another week. Turner sat in his idling Scout and imbibed the plenitude about him. God knew he was ready to fight for his country (for the whole western sphere) should generals from that cold dark forest on the other side of the globe expand their totalitarian influence on the free world.

He looked across the street at an elevated billboard for the new Atari 800 personal computer. The stylish advertisement reminded him of the time Joseph Goldman had worked at DARPA. While working on innovative missile systems, Joseph Goldman's lateral avenues of research had helped pioneer some of the electronic gadgetry the Department of Defense had released onto America's industrial and consumer markets. Gadgetry like the packet switching networks that became popular in telecommunication data networks. Also desktop computer graphics currently revolutionizing video gaming and personal computers.