The Brotherhood of the Rose (3 page)

The man stared down at his cigarette. Saul told him where. The man stubbed out his cigarette. "Go on," he said. "We can keep surveillance to a minimum, simply making sure all six of them show up for the meeting."

"Possibly. We'd still need communications. Someone else to get the stuff."

"That's you." "No argument. But getting the stuff in the building won't be easy."

"Not your worry.". "Fine with me. It's flaky. I don't like it. But if that's the way you want it, we can do the job with twenty men."

"You're right," Saul said- "That's how I want it."

"What's the matter?"

"Let us just say I had a few assignments with people who let me down. I'm losing my faith in human nature."

"That's a laugh."

"For this job, as much as Ican, I wanttodependon myself."

And me, of course. You'll have to depend on me." Saul studied him. The waitress brought the check. "My treat," Saul said.

The estate spread across the valley-a three-story mansion, swimming pool, tennis courts, stables, a lush green pasture, riding trails through a park-like forest, ducks on a take. He lay in tall grass on a wooded bluff a half mile away, the warm spring sun on his back, its angle such that it wouldn't reflect off the lens of his telescope and warn the bodyguards in front of the house that someone was watching them. He studied a dust cloud on a gravel road, a limousine approaching the house, four other limousines already parked in front of a six-stall garage to the left. The car stopped at the house, a bodyguard stepping forward as a man got out. "He ought to be there by now," a voice said from a walkie-talkie next to Saul, the raspy tone of the man he'd talked to in Baltimore. The walkie-talkie had been adjusted to a seldomused frequency. Even so, there was always a chance of someone accidentally overhearing the conversation, so the walkie-talkie had been equipped with a scrambler. Only someone with another scrambler tuned to the same uncommon frequency could receive a clear transmission. "That's the last of them," the voice continued. "Eyeball I.D. Counting the guy who lives there, all six targets are in the zone."

Saul pressed the "send" button on the walkie-talkie. "I'll take it from here. Head home." He stared through the telescope at the house. The visitor had gone inside, the limousine joining the others in front of the garage.

He checked his watch. Everything on schedule. Though the mansion was closely guarded now, its security force had been minimal a week ago, just a man at the gate, another patrolling the grounds, a third in charge of the house. With a Starlite nightscope, he'd studied the estate three nights in a row, learning the guards' routine, when they were relieved and when they were careless, choosing four A.m. as the best time to infiltrate the grounds. In the dark, he'd crept through the forest toward the back. Precisely at four, two members of his team had created a diversion on the road that ran past the gate by pretending to be kids revving loud jalopies in a drag race. While the guards were distracted, Saul had picked the lock on a storm door, entering the basement. He hadn't worried about a warning system since he'd noticed that the guard in charge of the house never took precautions to shut off an alarm when he entered. In the basement, he used a shielded penlight, hiding plastique explosive in a furnace duct, attaching a radioactivated detonator. Taking his equipment, he locked the door and disappeared into the forest, hearing the roar of the jalopies finishing the race.

Two days later, a full security force had sealed off the estate. When they searched the house, they might have found the explosive, but from his vantage, he'd seen no commotion.

The guards had seemed concerned only with watching the perimeter of the house.

He'd soon learn if the explosive remained. Glancing at his watch again, he saw that twenty minutes had passed. Time enough for the man with the cleft in his chin to have got away. Putting the walkie-talkie and the telescope in,his knapsack, he concentrated on a single blade of grass, focusing on it, narrowing his vision till the grass absorbed his mind. Free of emotion, achieving a stillness, he picked up a radio transmitter and pressed a button.

The mansion blew apart, from the basement upward, outward, its walls disintegrating, rubble flying, spewing in all directions. The roof lifted, toppling, shrouded with dust, engulfed with flames. The shock wave hit him. Ignoring it, he shoved the radio transmitter in his knapsack. Hearing a rumble, he ignored it also, running from the bluff, approaching a car in a weed-covered lane.

Eight years old. The team member responsible for transportation had bought it cheap, using cash and an alias, from a man who'd advertised in the Baltimore want ads. No one could trace it here.

He obeyed the speed limit, calm, allowing no satisfaction, even though he'd achieved what his father had asked.

EXPLOSION KILLS SIX COSTIGAN, VIRGINIA (AP)-An unexplained explosion Thursday evening destroyed the secluded mansion of Andrew Sage, controversial oil magnate and energy adviser to the president. The powerful blast killed Sage and five unidentified guests who, highly placed sources speculate, were representatives from various large American corporations, members of the Paradigm Foundation, which Sage had recently founded. "Mr. Sage's family is too distraught to talk about it," an FBI official announced at a press conference. "As much as we can determine, Mr. Sage had convened a kind of industrial summit meeting in an attempt to solve the nation's economic crisis. The president, of course, is deeply shocked. He lost not only a trusted adviser but a cherished friend."

Sage's family was not present on his country estate at the time of the explosion. Several members of his security staff were injured by flying rubble. Investigators continue to search the wreckage for a clue to the cause of the blast.

Saul reread the front-page story, folded the newspaper, and leaned back in his chair. A cocktail waitress, breasts and hips bulging from her costume, passed his table. He glanced from the piano player in the lounge, across the noisy casino, toward the blackjack tables, watching a pit boss study the crowd.

He felt uneasy. Frowning, he tried to understand why. The job had gone smoothly. His getaway had been uneventful. After leaving the car at a Washington shopping mall, he'd taken a bus to Atlantic City. He'd made sure no one followed him.

Then why was he worried? As slot machines rang, he continued frowning.

Eliot had insisted on explosives. But Saul knew the job could easily have been done in a less dramatic way. Prior to the meeting, the six men could have died from apparent natural causes at different times in widely separate parts of the country: heart attack, stroke, suicide, traffic accident, a variety of other ways. The inner circle would have noticed the pattern, understanding what it meant, but there'd have been no publicity. Saul had to conclude, then, that publicity was the reason for the job. But why? Saul's instincts nagged him. Publicity violated the logic of his training. Eliot had always insisted on subtlety. Then why now had Eliot suddenly changed?

Another thing bothered him- his present location, Atlantic City. After a job, he always went to a predetermined neutral site-in this case, a locker at a Washington gym-finding money and instructions on where to disappear. Eliot knew the locations Saul preferred-the mountains, Wyoming and Colorado in particular-and as a favor, Eliot always agreed to them. So why the hell was I sent to Atlantic City? he thought. He'd never been here. He didn't like crowds. He tolerated them only as a necessary evil when he gratified his need to ski. Here, people swarmed around him like scavenging insects.

Something was wrong. The orders to use explosives, to go to Atlantic City-they were blatant 'violations of routine. As roulette wheels clattered, Saul's hands itched with apprehension.

He left the cocktail lounge, approaching the blackjack tables. He hated crowds, but in the locker at the gym, he'd found two thousand dollars and orders to play blackjack.

Accepting his cover, he found an empty chair and bought five hundred dollars' worth of chips. After betting a twenty-five dollar chip, he received a king and a queen.

The dealer won with blackjack.

"Goddamned bastards," the president said. He punched a fist against the palm of his hand. He hadn't slept. The news had aged him shockingly, much more than the recent assassination attempt. Fatigue made him tremble. Oriegrief and anger pinched his face. "I want the man who killed my friend. I want those sonsofbitches---2' Abruptly the president stopped. Unlike his predecessors, he understood the wisdom of silence. What he didn't say couldn't be used against him.

Eliot wondered if the president knew the tapes of his Oval Office conversations were being duplicated.

The director of the CIA sat next to Eliot. "The KGB got in touch with us at once. They flatly deny they had anything to do with it."

"Of course they deny it," the president said. "But I believe them," the director said. "The job was too sensational. It's not their style."

- "That's what they want us to think. They've changed their tactics to confuse us."

"With respect, Mr. President, I don't think so," the director said. "I'll grant you, the Soviets don't like the shift in our Mideast policy-away from the Jews toward the Arabs. The Soviets have always counted on our pro-Israeli stance. They've used it to turn the Arabs against us. Now we do what they've been doing. They're upset."

"So it makes sense for them to.interfere," the president said. "Our deal with the Arabs is simple. If we turn our back on Israel, the Arabs will sell us cheaper oil. The Paradigm Foundation was established to hide our negotiations with the Arabs -businessmen dealing with other businessmen instead of government with government. Destroy the Paradigm Foundation-you destroy the negotiations. You also warn us not to reopen them."

"Sure, it makes sense," the director said. "Too much sense. The Russians know we'd blame them. If they wanted to interfere, they'd hide their tracks. They'd be more clever."

"Who the hell did it then? The FBI found Andrew's arm a half a mile away from the wreckage. I want to get even with someone. Tell me who. Qaddafi? Castro?"

"I don't think so," the director said. "We did," Eliot said. He'd been silent, waiting for the proper moment.

The president swung toward Eliot, stunned. "We what?"

"Indirectly at least. One of our men did. Naturally it wasn't authorized."

"I hope to God not!"

"We found out by accident," Eliot said.

The director, who was also Eliot's superior, stared at him indignantly. "You didn't tell me."

"I didn't have a chance. I learned about it just before this meeting. We've been watching the man for several months. He's ruined several assignments. His behavior's erratic. We've been thinking of letting him go. Three weeks before the explosion, he dropped out of sight. Today he resurfaced. We managed to retrace his movements. We can put him in the area at the time of the blast."

The president's face turned pale. "Go on."

"He's under surveillance in Atlantic City. He seems to have a lot of money. He's losing at blackjack."

"Where'd he get the bankroll?" the president said, eyes narrowed. "He's Jewish. The Mossad helped us train him. He fought in their October War in seventy-three. He's got expensive tastes, which he can't maintain if we let him go. We think the Israelis paid him to turn."

"That does make sense," the director said grudgingly.

The president clenched a fist. "But can you prove it? Can you give me something to raise hell with Tel Aviv?"

"I'll speak to him. There are ways to stimulate conversation."

"After that, do we have procedures for dealing with double agents?"

The president's evasive language made Eliot wonder again if he knew the Oval Office tapes were being duplicated.

Tactfully Eliot nodded. "I suggest you implement them," the president said. "It doesn't make a difference, but for my satisfaction, what's his name.

As he left the casino's restaurant, Saul saw a man in the crowd who suddenly turned to walk the other way. A -man with a cleft chin and a mustache. No, it couldn't be. From the back, the man had the same narrow build. The color and style of his hair were the same. The man Saul had spoken to in Baltimore. The man who'd helped on the job.

Saul's muscles hardened. He had to be wrong. When a team disbanded after a job, the agency never sent two men to disappear in the same place. For the sake of caution, the team wasn't supposed to see each other again or be connected in any way. Then what was this man doing here?

Relax, Saul told himself. You've made a mistake. Go after the guy and take another look. Satisfy your mind. , The man, had blended with the crowd, moving along a corridor, going through a door. Saul slipped around two women, passing a row of clattering slot machines. He recalled the moment when he'd seen. the man-the sudden turn to walk the other way, as if the man had forgotten something. Maybe. Or had the man turned because he didn't want Saul to recognize him?

Grabbing the door, Saul pulled it open and saw a theater, dimly lit, deserted. The entertainment wouldn't start for several hours. Empty tables. A curtain hid the stage.

The right edge of the curtain trembled. Saul ran down plush stairs. He reached the lowest tables and vaulted to the edge of the stage, creeping toward the right edge of the curtain, silently cursing himself because he'd left his automatic in his room. There'd been no choice. In Atlantic City, the quickest way to draw attention was to carry a handgun, no matter how well concealed.