Line of Succession td-73 Page 4

  He pulled the letter from a pocket of the briefcase and shook it from its envelope as he settled into a chair. He had assumed it was a crank letter, but it was so crammed with facts and details that he held on to it. Just in case.

  The letter was addressed to him personally, the envelope marked personal and confidential. It had been postmarked in Seoul, South Korea. Michael Princippi skimmed the letter again, looking for the name.

  Yes, there it was. Folcroft Sanitarium. His eyes jumped back to the beginning and he read the letter quickly. When he was done, he read it all over again more slowly.

  The letter purported to reveal the existence of a highly secret governmental agency that operated from the cover of Folcroft Sanitarium and was run by Dr. Harold W. Smith. The organization was known as CURE. Its letters signified nothing, said the letter. It was no acronym, but a statement of intent. Set up to cure America of its internal ills, under Dr. Smith CURE had become a rogue operation, no longer responsible to presidential or constitutional restrictions. With access to the computer files of every government agency and major corporation in America, CURE was the ultimate Big Brother.

  More damning than the privacy issues at stake, the letter writer went on, CURE had hired as its enforcement agents the aged head of a house of professional assassins, whose name was Chiun. He was the Master of Sinanju, a ruthless, vicious professional killer. The letter went on to relate that this Chiun had trained a supposedly dead American police officer, one Remo Williams, in the deadly art of Sinanju. Together, under Dr. Smith's direction, the pair had been the unofficial instruments of domestic policy for several administrations, often resorting to assassination and terror. The letter concluded with the hope that Michael Princippi might use this information to further his quest for the presidency. The letter was signed, simply, "Tulip."

  Michael Princippi folded the letter thoughtfully and replaced it in its envelope. It was on his mind that maybe he was not the only one to receive such a letter from the mysterious Tulip. Perhaps the Vice-President had gotten one too. That would certainly explain why a speech about covert operations was given at an odd place like Folcroft Sanitarium.

  Michael Princippi decided to look into the specific details the letter claimed would prove that CURE existed.

  After that he would have his writers prepare a speech in which Michael Princippi, too, promised America that when he assumed office the American intelligence community would be purged of all extralegal operations. Scratch that, he thought quickly. He would ask the writers to put it another way-one which would show both the Vice-President and the head of CURE that Michael Princippi was on top of intelligence matters too.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith waited until the Vice-President's entourage had left the Folcroft grounds before he called the President.

  To pass the time, he locked his office door on his gushing secretary-who couldn't get over the fact that Folcroft had hosted the Vice-President of the United States-and brought up the concealed computer terminal from its desktop recess.

  Smith scanned the digest feeds of possible CURE-related news events. There were the usual gangland murders, updates on ongoing federal investigations, national-security bulletins, and CIA "burn notices." Nothing of immediate importance. Today nothing would have seemed important. But somehow the flashing green blocks of data smoothed Harold W. Smith's unquiet soul. Seated behind a computer screen, he was in his element.

  When he was done, Smith removed the red telephone from the desk drawer and picked up the receiver. He cleared his throat as, without any other action on his part, an identical phone somewhere in the White House began ringing.

  "Hello?" said the cheery voice of the President of the United States. "I hope this isn't an emergency. I'm really enjoying my last few weeks in office. Do you know that I've had three offers this week to play myself in a movie? My advisers say it would demean the office if I accepted them, but I don't know. I'm going to have a lot of time on my hands and, darn it, I'd like to get in front of the cameras again. What do you think?"

  Without skipping a beat, Smith plunged into what he had to say. "Mr. President, we've been compromised."

  "The Soviets?" The President's voice shook.

  "No."

  "The Chinese?"

  "No, Mr. President. It is not a foreign matter. I have reason to believe that your Vice-President has learned about CURE."

  "Well, I didn't tell him," the President insisted.

  "Thank you for volunteering that, Mr. President. I needed to hear it directly from you, just to keep the record straight. That settled, he does know. He just gave a speech on the ground of my cover institution in which he all but acknowledged it openly."

  "Well, what's so bad about that? When he's elected, he'll be your boss. At least it won't be a shock to him like it was to me. Why, I remember when the last President broke the news to me, I-"

  "Yes, Mr. President," Smith cut in. "That's not the point. Listen carefully. First, somehow the information got out. That means a leak somewhere. Second, the Vice-President's speech contained a not-very-veiled threat to shut down my operation."

  "Hmmm," said the President. "Could be just talk. You know, get the voters stirred up."

  "No, sir. I'm sure the Vice-President arranged for this speech specifically to send me a message."

  "Well, as you know, once I leave office, I will have no influence upon the Vice-President, but I'll talk to him if that's what you want."

  "No, Mr. President, that is not what I want. It will be the decision of the next President, once he assumes office, to decide whether or not to sanction future CURE operations. As you know, we exist at the discretion of the current officeholder. I am prepared to be terminated, if it comes to that. "

  "Well-spoken. So what's the problem?"

  "As I said, if the Vice-President knows about CURE, and you did not tell him, he obtained his information from another source. Which means that someone outside of the loop knows. For security reasons, the person in question must be eliminated, or CURE must go. One or the other. That is the decision I am asking you to make, Mr. President. "

  "Well, now, I don't know about this," said the President carefully. "Can I sleep on it?"

  "Do you wish me to investigate the leak on this end before you come to your decision?"

  "Why don't you do that, Smith," the President said amiably. "Yes, go to it. Let me know what happens."

  "Yes, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, and hung up. He frowned. The President had not seemed concerned. True, it was his own Vice-President who had learned the truth, but that was not Smith's principal problem. It was the source of the Vice-President's information. For all Smith knew, CURE could be an open secret in the executive branch. And he couldn't very well order the liquidation of the President's entire cabinet and advisers to preserve CURE.

  Instead, Smith knew he should be prepared to execute his ultimate responsibility as CURE's director-the destruction of operations and his own suicide.

  Chapter 5

  He crossed the Green Line on foot.

  He carried no weapon. It was suicide to cross the Green Line unarmed. The Syrians often looked the other way, even though they had nominal control over the city. The Lebanese Army was virtually invisible. Even the native militias-of which there were several-did not cross the Green Line with impunity.

  But he would. He had business in the western part of the city. And because he was not in a hurry, he walked, his white sandals making no sound on the streets littered with crushed glass. No wind stirred his blond mane of hair. The purple silk of his garments stood out, the only splash of color in a city that had once been the jewel of the Middle East but was now a scorched and shattered ruin.

  Tonight Beirut was quiet, as if dead. In a way, it was. He crossed the Green Line where it paralleled the Rue de Damas. Here the Green Line was truly green. It was a sunken strip of perpetually muddy ground fed by a broken water main. Ferns grew profusely. He stepped through them, and although he was quiet, the fat rat
s scrambled out of his way, their beady eyes bright with a too-human fear.

  He found the Rue Hamrah easily. He walked between the cracked facades of its high-rise buildings. The remains of firebombed cars sat rusting on their wheels like permanent fixtures. He felt eyes upon him. No doubt they were peering through the bullet holes that pocked the few buildings which hadn't been reduced to twisted tangles of concrete and reinforced wire. He felt a subliminal pressure against his back that warned him the barrels of automatic weapons were pointed at him.

  Even at night, they would see that he was white. He wondered if they would decide to kill him, or possibly take him hostage. He was not worried. He had asked for this meeting. They would at least hear him out. And if they decided to harm him, they would learn that not all people who happened to be born in America were frightened by the Hezbollah.

  In the middle of the street, he stopped. The air smelled dead. The stench of gunpowder was a permanent understink. He moderated his breathing rhythms to keep his lungs clear.

  They came in pairs, clutching their rifles, their faces wrapped in colorful kaffiyehs so that only the dirty patches of skin around their eyes showed. A few stood with rocket-propelled grenade launchers slung carelessly across their shoulders. That was simply to impress him, he knew. They dared not use them at close quarters.

  When he was ringed by seven of their number, he asked a question in their native tongue.

  "Which one of you is Jalid?"

  A man stepped forward. His face was wrapped in a green checkered kaffiyeh. "You are Tulip?"

  "Of course."

  "I did not expect you to come in your pajamas." And Jalid laughed.

  The blond man smiled back at him, a cool insolent smile. If this warlord only knew the power he faced, he would tremble in his scuffed boots.

  "Maalesh," Jalid said. "Never mind. You wish to ransom hostages? We have many fine hostages. American, French, German. Or perhaps we will take you hostage instead. If we do not like you."

  They were bandits, nothing more. The world thought the Hezbollah were fanatical Moslems loyal only to the rulers of Iran. He knew different. Their ties to Iran were real, but their absolute loyalty was to money. For the right price, they would release their hostages and Iran's rulers be damned. There were always more hostages to be taken, anyway.

  They understood only one thing other than money. That was raw power. When they had kidnapped Russian diplomats during the civil war, the Soviets sent in their own agents, kidnapped members of the Hezbollah, and sent them back to the Hezboilah warlords, a finger and an ear at a time, until the Soviet diplomats were unconditionally released. That was the kind of power they understood.

  He would show them.

  "I wish to hire your skill, Jalid."

  Jalid did not ask: For what? He did not care. Instead he asked, "How much will you pay?"

  "Something very valuable."

  "I like your words. Talk on."

  "It is more valuable than gold."

  "How much more?"

  "It is more precious than the finest rubies you could ever imagine. "

  "Tell me more."

  "It is more precious to you than your mother's very life."

  "My mother was a thief. A good thief." Jalid's eyes crinkled, indicating that he smiled behind his kaffiyeh.

  "It is your life."

  Jalid's eyes uncrinkled. "Bnik kak!" he swore. "I think you will die here, ya khara. "

  The blond man turned his electric-blue eyes upon the man beside Jalid, whose fine rifle indicated that he was second in command.

  "Aarrhh!" the man howled suddenly. The others looked at him, their eyes not straying far from the unarmed white man.

  "Bahjat! What is it?"

  "I am on fire!" Bahjat howled, his rifle clattering to the cratered pavement. "Help me. My arms are burning!"

  The others looked. They saw no fire. But then vague blue flames, like a faintly luminous gas, ran down their comrade's arms. His arms browned delicately, then blackened. Bahjat screeched and twisted onto the ground, trying to put the flames out. They would not go out. The others fell to his assistance, but when the first man touched him, he jumped back, staring stupidly at his hands.

  Spiders spilled out of his palms as if from a hole in a dead tree. They were large and hairy, with eight reddish eyes each. They scrambled up his arms and swarmed over his face.

  "Help me, help me!"

  But no help came. The others were busy, each with their own nightmare. One man felt his tongue swell in his mouth, forcing his jaws apart until the hinge muscle strained beyond endurance. He could not breathe. The pain was excruciating. In despair he fell on a dropped grenade launcher and, bringing the warhead to his face, triggered it with the toe of his boot. The explosion obliterated him from the chest up and killed others who were nearby.

  Another man thought his legs had become pythons. He slashed off their heads and laughed triumphantly even as he fell to the street, blood pumping from the stumps of his ankles until there was no fluid left in his entire body.

  Jalid saw it all. He saw, too, as if in a dream, an old enemy facing him. It was a man he had killed over a gambling dispute years ago. The man was dead. But here he was again, coming at him with his knife held low for a quick disemboweling thrust.

  Jalid shot the man to pieces with his rifle. Standing over the man's quivering body, he laughed triumphantly. But the figure shimmered, revealing a face obscured by a twisted kaffiyeh. Jalid undid the kaffiyeh and beheld the face of his younger brother, Fawaz. He sank to his knees beside the boy, tears starting from both eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Fawaz, my brother. I'm sorry," he repeated dully.

  "Stand up, Jalid," said the white man with the electric-blue eyes. "You and I are alone now."

  Jalid came to his feet. He saw the blond man standing there, his hands loose and empty at his sides, unarmed. He exuded an insolent confidence that humbled Jalid, whose belt bristled with knives and pistols and whose cruelty had ruled this part of Ras Beirut ever since the Israelis had retreated across the Awali River.

  Jalid raised his hands in defeat. "You did this," he said resignedly.

  The blond man nodded quietly. Then he asked a quiet question.

  "You have other men than these?"

  "Almost as many as I have bullets," Jalid said.

  "An empty boast. But however many men you have, let us gather together three of the best. They, and you, will accompany me. I have work for you. And I will pay you with more than your chicken-boned life."

  "What kind of work?"

  "Killing work. The only kind you are fit for. You will like the work, for it will enable you to kill Americans. You will return to Beirut a hero to your Hezbollahi brothers, Jalid. "

  "Where will we kill these Americans?" asked Jalid. "There are none left in Lebanon."

  "In America, of course."

  Jalid was frightened. He and three of his best men, dressed in Western business suits and without weapons, sat together on the flight to New York City. They whispered fearful words in their native tongue to one another, hanging over the seat headrest to talk to those in the other seats and warily eyeing the stewardess, who was just as warily eyeing them back.

  "Sit still," said the blond man who called himself Tulip. "You are attracting attention to yourselves."

  The blond man sat alone in the seat behind them. Jalid called back to him in Lebanese.

  "My Moslem brothers and I are fearful."

  "Did I not get you through the Beirut airport safely? And did you not walk unchallenged through the airport in Madrid when we changed planes?"

  "Yes. But American customs will be different."

  "No, they will just be American."

  "All my life, I am a brave man," said Jalid.

  "I do not choose women to do my work for me. Be not a woman, Jalid."

  "I have grown up in a city torn by war. I first fired a machine gun when I was nine. Before I was ten I had killed three men. That was many years ago
now. There is little I fear."

  "Good. You will need your courage."

  "One thing I do fear is America," Jalid went on. "I have had nightmares of being taken captive and brought to America for trial. These nightmares have never gone away. And now I am letting you take me to America. How do I know that this is not an American trick to put me and my brothers on trial before the world?"

  "Because if I was an American agent," the man called Tulip replied, "I would also bring back with me the American hostages your people are holding prisoner. Tell that to your brothers."

  Jalid nodded his understanding and he and his friends huddled again. The stewardess decided, because they were in the back of the plane and away from the other passengers, to neglect to ask them if they wanted something to drink.

  At Kennedy Airport they were escorted to a holding area, where they were given preprinted pamphlets describing customs procedures. When the time came for them to pass through the turnstiles, the customs agents asked them for their passports. This was the moment Jalid had feared. They had none.

  But the man called Tulip handed the customs official a collection of green customs passes. The customs official glanced at them briefly and then handed them back, careful to give each man his correct passport.

  Jalid opened his passport, intensely curious to see the picture the customs guard had used to verify his identity. He had no idea a photo of himself even existed.

  Jalid saw instantly that one did not. The photo in the picture was of a woman.

  "Look," whispered Sayid in his ear, showing his passport photo. It was of an old man at least forty years older than Sayid, who was nineteen. The other passports were also clearly the property of other people. The man called Tulip had made no attempt to doctor them at all.

  When the customs officials went through their luggage, the others relaxed. Not Jalid. Although Tulip had specifically forbidden them to carry in weapons, Jalid could not resist placing a dagger in the lining of his suitcase. The customs guards saw the evidence of tampering and stripped the lining. The knife gleamed under the cold airport lights. "What is this?" the airport guard asked harshly.

  The man called Tulip stepped in, smiling. "Allow me," he said. And with a movement so quick that the human eye could not register it, he was holding the long dagger, bending the blade double.