The Fourth K Read online

  Kennedy made a dismissive motion. He was not interested in details.

  Tappey went on: “Further information. None of the passengers have been mistreated. Also, curiously enough, the female members of the hijacking cadre have been replaced, certainly with the connivance of the Sultan. I regard this development as a little sinister.”

  “In what way?” Kennedy asked sharply.

  Tappey said, “The terrorists on the plane are male. There are more of them, at least ten. They are heavily armed. It may be they are determined to kill their hostages if an attack is made. They may think that female guards would not be able to carry through such a slaughter. Our latest intelligence evaluation forbids a rescue operation by force.”

  Klee said sharply, “They may be using different personnel simply because this is a different phase of the operation. Or Yabril might just feel more comfortable with men—he’s an Arab, after all.”

  Tappey smiled at him. He said, “Chris, you know as well as I do that this replacement is an aberration. I think it’s happened only once before. From your own experience in clandestine operations you know damn well this rules out a direct attack to rescue the hostages.”

  Kennedy remained silent.

  They watched the little bit of film remaining. Yabril and Theresa talking animatedly, seeming to grow more and more friendly. Then finally Yabril was actually patting her shoulder. It was obvious that he was reassuring her, giving her some good news, because Theresa laughed delightedly. Then Yabril made her an almost courtly bow, a gesture that she was under his protection and that she would come to no harm.

  Klee said, “I’m afraid of that guy. Let’s get Theresa out of there.”

  Eugene Dazzy sat in his office going over all his options to help President Kennedy. First he called his mistress to tell her he would not be able to see her until the crisis was over. Then he called his wife to check their social schedule and cancel everything. After much thought he called Bert Audick, who over the last three years had been one of the most bitter enemies of the Kennedy administration.

  “You’ve got to help us, Bert,” he said. “I’ll owe you a big one.”

  Audick said, “Listen, Eugene, in this we are all Americans together.”

  Bert Audick had already swallowed two of the giant American oil companies, gulping them like a frog swallowing flies, so his enemies said. Actually, he did look like a frog, the wide mouth in a great jowly face, eyes slightly popping. And yet he was an impressive man, tall and bulky, with a massive head and a jaw as boxy as his oil rigs. He had always been an oil man. Conceived in oil, raised in oil, matured in oil. Born wealthy, he had increased that wealth a hundredfold. His privately held company was worth twenty billion dollars and he owned 51 percent of it. Now at seventy he knew more about oil than any man in America. Said he knew every spot on the globe where it was buried beneath the earth.

  In his Houston corporate headquarters, computer screens made a huge map of the world that showed every one of the countless tankers at sea, its port of origin and destinations. Who owned it, what price it had been bought for, how many tons it carried. He could slip any country a billion barrels of oil as easily as a man-about-town slips a fifty-dollar bill to a maître d’.

  He had made part of his great fortune in the oil scare of the 1970s, when the OPEC cartel seemed to have the world by the throat. But it was Bert Audick who applied the squeeze. He had made billions of dollars out of a shortage he knew was just a sham.

  But he had not done so out of pure greed. He loved oil and was outraged that this life-giving force could be bought so cheaply. He helped rig the price of oil with the romantic ardor of a youth rioting against the injustices of society. And then he had given a great part of his booty away to worthy charities.

  He had built nonprofit hospitals, free nursing homes for the elderly, art museums. He had established thousands of college scholarships for the underprivileged without regard to race or creed. He had, of course, taken care of his relatives and friends, made distant cousins rich. He loved his country and his fellow Americans, and never contributed money for anything outside the United States. Except, of course, for the necessary bribes to foreign officials.

  He did not love the political rulers of his country or its crushing machinery of government. They were too often his enemies with their regulatory laws, their antitrust suits, their interference in his private affairs. Bert Audick was fiercely loyal to his country, but it was his business, his democratic right, to squeeze his fellow citizens, make them pay for the oil he worshiped.

  Audick believed in holding his oil in the ground as long as possible. He often thought lovingly of those billions and billions of dollars that lay in great puddles beneath the desert sands of Sherhaben and other places on earth, safe as they could be. He would keep that vast golden lake as long as possible. He would buy other people’s oil, buy other oil companies. He would drill the oceans, buy into England’s North Sea, get a piece of Venezuela. And then there was Alaska. Only he knew the size of the great fortune that lay beneath the ice.

  He was as nimble as a ballet dancer in his business dealings. He had a sophisticated intelligence apparatus that gave him a far more accurate estimate of the oil reserves of the Soviet Union than the CIA. Such information he did not share with the United States Government, as why should he, since he paid an enormous amount of cash to get it, and its value to him was its exclusivity.

  And he truly believed, as did many Americans—indeed he proclaimed it a linchpin of a democratic society—that a free citizen in a free country has the right to put his personal interests ahead of the aims of elected government officials. For if every citizen promoted his own welfare, how could the country not prosper?

  On Dazzy’s recommendation, Kennedy agreed to see this man. To the public, Audick was a shadowy figure presented in the newspapers and Fortune magazine as a cartoonish Czar of Oil. But he had enormous influence with the elected representatives in the Congress and the House. He also had many friends and associates among the few thousand men who controlled the most important industries of the United States and belonged to the Socrates Club. The men in this club controlled the print media and the TV media, ran companies that controlled the buying and shipping of grain; they were the Wall Street giants, the colossi of electronics and automobiles, the Templars of Money who ran the banks. And most important, Audick was a personal friend of the Sultan of Sherhaben.

  Bert Audick was escorted into the Cabinet Room, where Francis Kennedy was meeting with his staff and the appropriate Cabinet members. Everybody understood that he had come not only to help the President but to caution him. It was Audick’s oil company that had fifty billion dollars invested in the oil fields of Sherhaben and the principal city of Dak. He had a magical voice, friendly, persuasive and so sure of what it was saying that it seemed as if a cathedral bell tolled at the end of every sentence. He could have been a superb politician had it not been for the fact that in all his life he had never been able to lie to the people of his country on political issues, and his beliefs were so far right that he could not be elected in the most conservative districts of the country.

  He started off by expressing his deepest sympathy for Kennedy with such sincerity that there could be no doubt that the rescuing of Theresa Kennedy was the main reason he had offered his services.

  “Mr. President,” he said to Kennedy, “I have been in touch with all the people I know in the Arab countries. They disavow this terrible affair, and they will help us in any way they can. I am a personal friend of the Sultan of Sherhaben and I will bring all my influence to bear on him. I’ve been informed that there is certain evidence that the Sultan is part of the hijacking conspiracy and the murder of the Pope. I assure you that no matter what the evidence, the Sultan is on our side.”

  This alerted Francis Kennedy. How did Audick know about the evidence against the Sultan? Only the Cabinet members and his own staff held this information, and it had been given the highest security classifica
tion. Could it be that Audick was the Sultan’s free ticket to absolution after this affair was over? That there would be a scenario where the Sultan and Audick would be the saviors of his daughter?

  Then Audick went on. “Mr. President, I recommend that you meet the hijacker’s demands. True, it will be a blow to American prestige, its authority. But that can be repaired later. But let me give you my word on the matter that I know is closest to your heart. No harm will come to your daughter.” The cathedral bell in his voice tolled with assurance.

  It was the certainty of this speech that made Kennedy doubt him. For Kennedy knew from his own experience in political warfare that complete confidence is the most suspect quality in any kind of leader.

  “Do you think we should give them the man who killed the Pope?” Kennedy asked.

  Audick misread the question. “Mr. President, I know you are a Catholic. But remember that this is a mostly Protestant country. Simply as a foreign policy matter we need not make the killing of a Catholic Pope the most important of our concerns. It is necessary for the future of our country that we preserve our lifelines of oil. We need Sherhaben. We must act carefully, with intelligence, not passion. Again here is my personal assurance. Your daughter is safe.”

  He was beyond a doubt sincere, and impressive. Kennedy thanked him and walked him to the door. When he was gone Kennedy turned to Dazzy and asked, “What the hell did he really say?”

  “He just wants to make points with you,” Dazzy said. “And maybe he doesn’t want you to get any ideas of using that fifty-billion-dollar oil city of Dak as a bargaining chip.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I think he can help.”

  Christian leaned closer to Kennedy’s ear. “Francis, I have to see you alone.”

  Kennedy excused himself from the meeting and took Christian to the Oval Office. Though Kennedy hated using the small room, the other rooms of the White House were filled with advisers and staff planners awaiting final instructions.

  Christian liked the Oval Office. The light coming from the three long bulletproof windows, the two flags—the cheerful red, white and blue national flag on the right of the small desk and on the left the presidential flag, which was more somber and a darker blue.

  Kennedy waved to Christian to sit down. Christian wondered how the man could look so composed. Though they had been such close friends for so many years, he could detect no sign of emotion.

  “We have more trouble,” Christian said. “Right here at home. I hate to bother you, but it’s necessary.”

  He briefed Kennedy on the atom bomb letter. “It’s probably all bullshit,” Christian said. “There’s one chance in a million there is such a bomb. But if there is, it could destroy ten city blocks and kill thousands of people. Plus radioactive fallout would make the area uninhabitable for who knows how long. So we have to treat that one chance in a million seriously.”

  Francis Kennedy snapped, “I hope to hell you’re not going to tell me this is tied up with the hijacker.”

  “Who knows,” Christian said.

  “Then keep this contained, clean it up without a fuss,” Kennedy said. “Slap the Atomic Secrecy classification on it.” Kennedy flipped on the speaker to Eugene Dazzy’s office. “Euge,” he said. “Get me copies of the classified Atomic Secrecy Act. Also get me all the medical files on brain research. And set up a meeting with Dr. Annaccone.”

  Kennedy switched off the intercom. He stood up and glanced through the windows of the Oval Office. He absently ran his hand over the furled cloth of the American flag standing by his desk. For a long time he stood there thinking.

  Christian wondered at the man’s ability to separate this from everything else that was happening. He said, “I think this is a domestic problem, some kind of psychological fallout that has been predicted in think tank studies for years. We’re closing in on some suspects.”

  Again Kennedy stood by the window deep in thought. Then he spoke softly. “Chris, seal this off from every other compartment of government. This is just between you and me. Not even Dazzy or other members of my personal staff should know. It’s just too much to add on to everything else.”

  The city of Washington overflowed with the influx of media people and their equipment from all over the world. There was a hum in the air as in a crowded stadium, and the streets were filled with people who gathered in vast crowds in front of the White House as if to share the suffering of the President. The skies were filled with transport aircraft, specially chartered overseas airliners. Government advisers and their staff were flying to foreign countries to confer about the crisis. Special envoys were flying in. An extra division of Army troops was brought into the area to patrol the city and guard the White House approaches. The huge crowds seemed to be prepared to maintain an all-night vigil as if to reassure the President that he was not alone in his trouble. The noise of that crowd enveloped the White House and its grounds.

  On television all the stations had preempted regular programming to broadcast the mourning for the Pope’s death. Memorial services in all the great cathedrals of the world, with the huge throngs weeping and millions in funeral black, saturated the airwaves. In all that grief there was an implicit howl for vengeance, though the sermons were full of charity. In these services there were also prayers for the safe deliverance of Theresa Kennedy.

  Rumors leaked out that the President was willing to free the killer of the Pope to obtain the release of the hostages and his daughter. The political experts recruited by the TV networks were divided about the wisdom of such a move, but felt that the initial demands were certainly open to negotiation, as in the many other hostage crises over the past years. They more or less agreed that the President had panicked because of the danger to his daughter.

  And while all of this was going on, the crowds outside the White House grew larger and larger through the night. The streets of Washington were clogged with vehicles and pedestrians, all converging on the symbolic heart of their country. Many of them brought food and drink for the long vigil. They would wait through the night with their President, Francis Xavier Kennedy.

  When Kennedy retired to his bedroom Tuesday night, he prayed that the hostages would be released the next day. With the stage set, Yabril would win. For the moment. On Kennedy’s night table were stacked the papers prepared by the CIA, the National Security Council, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense and the covering memos from his own staff. His butler, Jefferson, brought him hot chocolate and biscuits, and he settled down to read these reports.

  He read between the lines. He brought together the seemingly divergent viewpoints of the different agencies. He tried to put himself in the role of a rival world power reading these reports. It would see that America was a country on its last decadent legs, an obese, arthritic giant getting its nose tweaked by malevolent urchins. Within the country itself there was an internal hemorrhaging of the giant. The rich were getting much richer, the poor were sinking into the ground. The middle class was struggling desperately for its share of the good life.

  Kennedy recognized that this latest crisis, the killing of the Pope, the hijacking of the plane, the kidnaping of his daughter and the humiliating demands were a deliberately planned blow aimed at the moral authority of the United States.

  But then there was also the internal attack, the threat of the atom bomb. The cancer from within. The psychological profiles had predicted that such a thing could happen and precautions had been taken. But not enough. And it had to be internal, it was too dangerous a ploy for terrorists, too rough a tickling of the obese giant. It was a wild card that the terrorists, no matter how bold, would never dare to play. It could open a Pandora’s box of repression, for they knew that if governments, especially that of the United States, suspended the laws protecting civil liberties, any terrorist organization could easily be destroyed.

  Kennedy studied the reports that summarized information on known terrorist groups and the nations that lent them support. He was surprised to see
that China gave the Arab terrorist groups financial support. There were specific organizations that at this moment did not seem to be linked with Yabril’s operation; it was too bizarre and without a definite advantage for the cost involved, the negative aspect. The Russians had never advocated free enterprise in terrorism. But there were the splinter Arab groups, the Arab Front, the Saiqua, the PLFP-G and the host of others designated just with initials. Then there were the Red Brigades, the Japanese Red Brigade, the Italian Red Brigade, the German Red Brigade, which had swallowed up all the German splinter groups in murderous internecine warfare.

  Finally it was all too much for Kennedy. In the morning, on Wednesday, the negotiations would be completed, the hostages would be safe. Now there was nothing he could do but wait. All this went beyond the twenty-four-hour deadline, but it was all agreed. His staff had assured him that the terrorists would surely be patient.

  Before he fell asleep he thought of his daughter and her bright confident smile as she spoke to Yabril, the reincarnated smile of his own dead uncles. Then he fell into tortured dreams and, groaning, called for help. When Jefferson came running to the bedroom, he stared at the agonized face of the sleeping President, waited a moment, then woke him out of his nightmare. He brought in another cup of hot chocolate and gave Kennedy the sleeping pill the doctor had ordered.

  Wednesday Morning

  Sherhaben

  As Francis Kennedy slept, Yabril rose. Yabril loved the early morning hours of the desert, the coolness fleeing the sun’s internal fire, the sky turning to incandescent red. In these moments he always thought of the Mohammedan Lucifer, called Azazel.

  The angel Azazel, standing before God, refused to acknowledge the creation of man, and God hurled Azazel from Paradise to ignite these desert sands into hellfire. Oh, to be Azazel, Yabril thought. When he was young and romantic, he had used Azazel as his first operational name.