Читать книгу Air Force One is Down - Alistair MacLean, Alistair MacLean, John Denis - Страница 6

Basil Swann, a young man with spots, hornrimmed glasses and a string of honours from three universities, bustled into the office of Malcolm G. Philpott, Director of the United Nations Anti-Crime Organisation. The bureau was located in the UN Building in New York City, and Basil was childishly proud to work there, although he would not have dreamed of showing it. He had a predictably sound future with UNACO – provided that UNACO itself had one.

The bureau had never been – and, Philpott feared, never would be – a totally secure operation, free from political pressure and financial stress. Philpott himself had proposed the formation of the top-secret group when he was a research professor at a New England college.

His specialist subjects had been behavioural sciences, but Philpott’s deepest interest lay in the motivation and machination of the criminal mind. He had lobbied furiously to gain UN approval, and won it only because the US government of the day had funded the initial outlay. Philpott resisted the American patronage, and ever since then had fought successive Administrations to keep UNACO independent of the American, or any other, state. The bureau must, he insisted, be at the disposal of all UN member countries, from whichever power-bloc. An enlightened UN secretariat finally saw the point.

Philpott’s other problem – easily foreseen but difficult to resolve – was infiltration by the UN states who were picking up the bills. Philpott fought off patently obvious attempts at penetration by both the CIA and the KGB, but the French, Israeli, British and South African plants were sometimes trickier to uncover. Gradually, the Director established his right to a cordon sanitaire as the only effective means of guaranteeing UNACO’s neutrality and disinterestedness. He managed to cope with the naturally divided feelings of his American-born operatives, who had constantly to fend off appeals to their native patriotism, and relied heavily on his Assistant Director, Sonya Kolchinsky, a Czech national, for ammunition against Warsaw Pact interests.

Lastly, Philpott had to persuade all his clients that UNACO was not in business to play politics … that the American de-stabilisation of Chile and Jamaica, or the Soviet Union’s ruthless repression of Czechoslovakia and Poland, were not international crimes in the accepted sense; deplorable, but not actionable. UNACO’s enemies were criminals who challenged the security of nations and the stability of social order; and of those known to Philpott, Mister Smith came near the top of the list.

An unwanted complication for the UNACO Director was the depth of his personal relationship with the US President, Warren G. Wheeler, a close friend since college days. Wheeler had to be treated as impartially as any other UN head of state, but it created a difficult tight-rope for Philpott to walk. If he leaned too far in either direction, he would fall, and UNACO with him. But then, Malcolm Gregory Philpott had been trained for the risk business. And anyway, it made life interesting.

Now approaching his mid-fifties, Philpott was still a lean, trim and handsome man, though his abundant hair was iron-grey and his sharp, intelligent face was seamed, more from responsibility than age. The principal emotions showing on it as Swann walked into his office were tension and concern, rather belying Philpott’s reputation as a cunning poker player.

The large room through which Swann had passed on his way to see the Director housed the UNACO master computer, plus an electronically operated wall map of the world and a staff of multi-lingual monitors, whose continuous task was to tap listening-posts in a hundred and thirty countries.

Each time a new contact was made, a red light flickered on the wall map, indicating its point of origin. An exact see-through miniature of the map rested on Philpott’s uncluttered desk. Basil Swann approached the desk, stood in silence, coughed discreetly, and handed the Director a computer print-out. It was a brief list, no more than five lines.

USSR : Gold bullion shipment – Klvost to Moscow.

EEC : Brussels. Quarterly NATO conference.

MIDDLE EAST : Bahrain. OPEC ministers to Washington.

: Cairo. Israeli–Egyptian defence talks.

SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE : Cape Town. Diamonds in transit to Amsterdam.

Philpott quickly scanned the entries and accompanying estimate of dates, and then read it over, more slowly. ‘Is this everything?’ he inquired.

‘It is a complete catalogue of the likeliest events within the next three months in which the computer considers our friend might conceivably display a criminal interest,’ Swann replied ponderously.

‘Which friend?’ called a voice from the doorway, ‘and furthermore, what do you mean by bleeping me at the hairdresser’s? You know how sensitive Pepito is. It’d better be important.’

‘It is, Sonya,’ Philpott answered as his Assistant Director, newly and radiantly coiffured, sailed into the room, and sank into a chair proffered by Swann. Sonya Kolchinsky was sumptuously fashioned and of above-average height, with a round face, soft grey eyes and short brown hair, elegantly moulded to her shapely head. She was a good ten years younger than Philpott, but saw no reason to permit minor considerations like age difference or their positions in UNACO to interfere with the affair they had both conducted, guiltlessly and joyfully, ever since she had become part of UNACO and of Philpott’s life.

‘It’s very important,’ Philpott added gravely. ‘Smith’s got out of jail.’

‘O-h-h,’ she breathed, ‘that friend.’

‘That friend.’

Sonya pondered the news. ‘He hadn’t long to serve, had he?’ she said. ‘I remember he bribed his way to a lenient sentence after the Eiffel Tower snatch. It could have had only a few more months to run.’ Philpott nodded his agreement. ‘In which case,’ Sonya pressed, ‘wasn’t it rather foolish of him to break out now?’

‘Maybe,’ Philpott conceded, ‘– or maybe not.’

‘Why “maybe not”?’

‘Because, my pet, it could be he’s planning something so important that only he personally can mastermind it. Ergo, he wanted out of Fresnes.’

Sonya frowned. ‘So – we’re looking for the big one, are we?’ Philpott nodded, and handed her the print-out.

‘The computer’s come up with these,’ he explained, concern in his voice. ‘It could be any of them. They’re all his style, although a couple are more overtly political than usual for Smith.’

A single glance confirmed the impression for Sonya, and she provisionally eliminated the Brussels conference and the Cairo talks. Like Malcolm Philpott, she had become obsessed with Mister Smith when UNACO finally got to grips with him and succeeded in putting him away. Smith was arguably the most enigmatic force in world crime, a rare breed of criminal: dedicated to anarchy, and totally amoral. Perhaps even worse, he was wedded to the abstract concept of crime for its own sake, as a cleansing agent in a second-rate world.

Financial gain seemed hardly to matter to him; he craved solely the power and influence to commit more astounding and more atrocious assaults on people, on governments, institutions and social systems.

Smith did not seek to become the Napoleon, the Alexander or the Tamburlane of crime; in his warped mind, he already was. No one – not those closest to him, even – knew where he had come from, what he had originally looked like (he altered his appearance like other people changed their clothing), or the precise nature of the obsessional paranoia that drove him. He was fabulously rich, well-connected, young for his age (whatever that was), and a man of almost limitless accomplishment, who could have been outstanding in any area of human activity he chose. Yet Mister Smith had chosen one of the lowest forms of human activity and, unfortunately for the world, he had elevated it to an art form.

As Director of UNACO, Philpott had recruited, and still used, international criminals, poachers turned gamekeepers, to fight Smith. They had been successful once, and Philpott was convinced that only UNACO could stop him again.

But if they could not, then whatever the chosen battleground, Philpott had an uneasy foreboding that UNACO, directly or indirectly, would be right in the firing line. Together with its Director and Assistant Director.

‘Right,’ said Philpott, handing the print-out back to Swann, ‘plant agents in sensitive areas of all the operations I’ve marked – including Cairo and Brussels.’

‘But not Bahrain?’ Basil protested.

Philpott cupped his chin in his hand and pursed his lips. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘not Bahrain. The transport of the OPEC ministers to Washington at, I believe, the end of next month, is being done in Air Force One, and we already have Joe McCafferty on secondment there as Head of Security. We couldn’t possibly have anyone safer in such a sensitive area.’

‘Right, sir,’ said Swann, and was half-way to leaving the room when Sonya called him back. Philpott looked up at her inquiringly.

‘I’m not so sure …’ she said, appearing deep in thought. Philpott cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

It went back, she explained, to their joint suspicion that Smith could be planning some form of revenge upon UNACO, even if only as a by-product of the larger operation. If that were so, might he not select the Bahrain gathering and go for Air Force One because UNACO’s man was seconded to the plane as Head of Security?

‘Deliberately bracket us in the target, you mean,’ said Philpott, pensively.

‘Yes, deliberately. After all, what would destroy our credibility more effectively than that something awful should happen to the US President’s private aircraft, with one of UNACO’s top men in charge?’

Philpott stroked the bridge of his nose, then removed his spectacles and chewed the ear-piece reflectively. It was, he thought, a hell of a position to be in, having to compromise one of their own leading field operatives on secondment by planting a check agent on him; but Sonya had advanced a persuasive argument.

‘He’s so unpredictable,’ she pressed. ‘The big one could be any of these – or none of them.’

‘OK, Basil,’ Philpott conceded, ‘we’ll cover all the options, including Bahrain. I’ll contact McCafferty in general terms and warn him to be especially vigilant on the OPEC trip, and you assign an operative to Air Force One.’

‘With McCafferty’s knowledge and permission?’ Swann inquired.

‘Without it, Basil,’ Philpott said firmly, ‘most definitely without it. Clearly, it must be someone Joe hasn’t served with previously, has never met, and doesn’t even know works for us. We’ve done it before.’

‘Not to top cats like McCafferty,’ Swann persisted. Philpott grinned and said, ‘There’s always a first time for everyone. With Smith, we can’t afford to take chances.’

Basil left, and Sonya regarded Philpott shrewdly. ‘Why the anonymous back-up?’ she inquired. It had not been part of her thinking. She had merely wished to strengthen McCafferty’s hand.

Philpott looked back at her levelly, and liked what he saw. He liked her thought processes, too; they had played seven card draw poker a couple of times in bed, where she had him at a constant and embarrassing disadvantage. ‘Merely covering the options,’ he replied.

She grinned. ‘Or playing both ends against the middle?’

Philpott winked at her. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, ‘you and Smith aren’t the only clever bastards in this little game.’

The weather was once again a splendid advertisement for Switzerland, with the air as clear and bracing as Stein’s brochure claimed. The Mercedes driver was in excellent humour, too; for once he had a communicative passenger. To Dunkels’ astonishment, Smith had insisted on keeping up a flow of spirited conversation throughout the journey to the Edelweiss Clinic. Dunkels guessed that he might be doing no more than testing out his new accent and persona – aristocratic Boston Irish, with long Harvard vowel-sounds to match his Ivy League suit. The chauffeur, though, had been impressed, not least by Smith’s courtesy in explaining his more obscure witticisms in faultless Swiss patois.

Stein met them at the door and took them straight round to the landscaped gardens at the rear of the clinic, which reached back to the sheer wall of the mountain. Jagger sat in a wheelchair in a far corner, talking to a blonde nurse, recently hired to replace the previous one who had been sacked on Karilian’s orders. The fewer people who knew that Jagger and the plastic surgery case from the private wing were one and the same man, the better, Karilian reasoned.

Before Stein could call out to Jagger, Smith shouted, ‘Colonel McCafferty. Visitors.’

The wheelchair swung about, and Jagger, in what even at that early stage was a passable imitation of McCafferty’s voice, said, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?’

‘Good, Jagger, good,’ Smith exulted. ‘I have not had the honour of Colonel McCafferty’s acquaintance, and it’s my intention to keep it that way. You’ve done well. Already, you’ve exceeded my expectations.’

He turned to Stein and pressed congratulations on him, too, which the little doctor was compelled modestly to accept. The transformation had, in all truth, been a miracle of plastic surgery.

Stein then mentioned that Jagger was curious about the nature of the assignment he was to carry out as McCafferty, but Smith advised Jagger not to worry; he would be told all in a few weeks. Meanwhile, he was to immerse himself in the role, for he would periodically be examined in his mastery of it by Dunkels. ‘I need hardly have to explain,’ Smith purred, ‘that I shall be most displeased if all the hard work and expense I have gone to proves to be wasted. If you are found ultimately incapable of performing this task, I assure you that you will not survive long enough to ponder your failure.’

Jagger flushed as far as the stretched pink tissue of McCafferty’s face would permit, and made as if to rise from the wheelchair, but Stein and the nurse eased him back down. Stein protested that Smith was being unfair, and could unsettle Jagger’s psychological acceptance of the permanent loss of his identity.

Smith dismissed the possibility with an airy wave of his hand, and reassured Jagger of his confidence in the ringer’s powers. He repeated that Jagger would learn everything he needed to know before long. ‘You, on the other hand, my dear Doctor,’ Smith said to Stein, ‘will not be told the details of the plan. When it becomes a fait accompli, the whole world will know. In the meantime, I am paying as much for your silence as for your undoubted medical skill.’

Stein smiled and inclined his head. Smith need have no fears for his discretion, Stein promised, nor would he seek information from Jagger when the ringer was in full possession of the facts. ‘Then we understand each other, Doctor,’ Smith replied, a satisfied smile on his face.

Stein beamed back at him. Probably no other man alive, he reflected, had ever double-crossed Mister Smith and collected a large fee from him at the same time.

No other man, true. But a woman had …

… and her name was Sabrina Carver.

She had been a member of Smith’s Eiffel Tower commando team, but in reality (and undetected by Smith) had helped bring about his destruction there, for she was also a valued agent of UNACO. Sabrina knew the identity of only one other UNACO field operative – and it was not Joe McCafferty.

Philpott had made it a corner of UNACO’s game-plan to keep his agents anonymous and apart. It protected the agents, and it shielded UNACO, since a captured operative could denounce only himself or herself, or the headquarters staff. And everyone knew who the headquarters staff were; their names were published in official UN documents. Philpott’s only truly secret weapons were his agents, which he employed in every UN member state. A full roster of their names would make a priceless intelligence weapon, and surprising reading, especially to the agents themselves.

When circumstances absolutely required it, Philpott paired agents into a team for a ‘need to know’ one-to-one relationship. Sometimes, teams stayed together – if both members survived. Certain operatives were never twinned, either from disinclination, or because they were politically or strategically sensitive. McCafferty was in the strategically sensitive category.

Philpott drew his field staff from all classes, colours and creeds, and if he had to pair an agent, he took what sometimes seemed to Sonya Kolchinsky to be an almost perverse delight in matching polar opposites.

For example, Joe McCafferty, who now had to be twinned, was an honest and straightforward career airman, a fiercely patriotic American and a high-ranking officer with an outstanding reputation, both in the Pentagon and in the American Secret Service.

Whereas Sabrina Carver, whom Philpott had selected as McCafferty’s partner, was an international jewel thief.

Her fee for the Eiffel Tower job (reluctantly agreed by Philpott) had been the proceeds of an astonishing raid on the Amsterdam Diamond Exchange, which she had carried out to impress Smith into hiring her for his team. Philpott’s ruthless efficiency, and proven success with UNACO, frequently collided head-on with his conscience when the delicate question arose of the head of an anti-crime squad actually aiding and abetting his own pet criminals. Luckily, his conscience invariably fell at the first fence.

UNACO’s finances, never more than grudgingly yielded by the UN member countries, depended on results, and there was very little that Malcolm Philpott would not do to obtain those results. Particularly when he was forced to deal with criminal monsters like Smith.

Philpott gave Swann his instructions on Sabrina’s role of shadow to Joe McCafferty. ‘There’s to be only a one-way “need to know” this time,’ he emphasised. ‘Sabrina must know about McCafferty, but he is not to know about her, unless I expressly order it. Clear?’

Swann left to bring in Sabrina for briefing, and Sonya complained that the situation was still far from clear to her, even if Swann understood it. ‘He doesn’t,’ Philpott declared, ‘but he’ll do as he’s told. The point is that Joe will be a front-line target and won’t want to be bothered with looking after a “twin”. At the same time, he won’t appreciate feeling that we’ve set someone to watch him.

‘But I reckon that if Smith does have designs on Air Force One, then Joe will be able to use all the help he can get, and I’ll deal with his outraged manhood when the whole thing’s over.’

Philpott looked gravely at Sonya, and ventured a weary smile. ‘It could be bad,’ he said slowly. ‘The worst we’ve ever had to face. If Smith launches an action against Air Force One and half a dozen oil sheikhs, I don’t have to tell you that there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, anyone except our people aboard that Boeing can do about it.’

As the long-serving and respected correspondent of the Soviet newspaper Isvestia in Central Europe, Axel Karilian enjoyed an enviably high standard of living in a luxury apartment block near the centre of Geneva. He had resisted all attempts by the Swiss to plant domestic staff in his flat to spy on him, so it was Karilian himself who answered the imperious ring at his doorbell in the early hours of the morning. He recognised his visitor as medium- to top-ranking in the KGB.

‘They did not tell me you were coming,’ Karilian said in greeting.

‘I did not tell them I was going,’ his visitor said coldly. Karilian revised his estimate; there had clearly been a purge in the Gorski Prospekt, and his uninvited caller, code-named Myshkin, was now indisputably top-rank. Karilian produced whisky and cigars, vodka and cigarettes being reserved strictly for lower-order guests.

‘This man Smith,’ the KGB high-flier said, ‘interests us. So does his project, whatever it may turn out to be. We will refer to it in vague terms, please, since –’ he pantomimed a listening device ‘– we cannot be too careful.’

Karilian protested, in suitably oblique language, that the apartment was ‘clean’, but Myshkin waved him to silence. ‘It will be as I say,’ he ordered. Karilian shrugged and nodded.

‘We consider the project,’ Myshkin went on, ‘to be of the utmost significance to us.’ Karilian suddenly felt a thrill of unease steal over him; despite Myshkin’s denial, Moscow had obviously penetrated Smith’s security; they knew his target.

‘An international incident of extreme gravity can be created from the Smith project,’ Myshkin was saying, ‘one which will cause maximum embarrassment to a certain person who is not precisely our closest friend.’

Karilian inclined his head at the blatant clue, while excitement gripped his innards. The reference must be to Warren G. Wheeler, President of the United States of America – and Karilian had found out sufficient details of Air Force One’s future schedule to be certain now that Smith’s target was the OPEC ministers. Nothing else fitted the facts. Only by maximising an incident involving the oil sheikhs could Moscow conceivably create an international situation of ‘extreme gravity’ for the USA and UNACO, and cause the American President supreme embarrassment.

‘You are with me?’ Myshkin inquired. Karilian gravely nodded his head.

‘Good. The plan will succeed. It will not be permitted to fail. The doppelgänger will be everything he purports to be. Do I make myself clear?’

Without waiting for a reply, Myshkin remarked that if all went well, Moscow would be under a deep obligation to Karilian for involving the KGB in Smith’s project. Karilian swallowed, with difficulty.

Not too pleased with me, he prayed silently; not pleased enough to bring me back to Moscow.

As if reading his innermost thoughts, Myshkin grinned slyly and sat forward in his chair. The light from the anglepoise lamp illuminated his sharp, knowing features, from the sheen on his dark hair to the point of his pomaded chin.

He made Karilian feel gross. And afraid. ‘What I mean is that you could be promoted to a posting of your own choice … outside Russia.’

Karilian tried desperately hard not to show his relief.

‘But of course, should Mister Smith’s little venture end in failure, there will nonetheless be a welcome awaiting you in Moscow. On the whole, though, I would advise against failure,’ Myshkin said sympathetically. ‘You know how – eh – warm our welcomes can sometimes be, my dear Axel, don’t you?’