BETA - Project Avatar, page 27
“Exactly. We're still on schedule,” Whylom assured him. “That is, as long as you and your team are still on schedule. On my side, I've got all the dominoes set up. You know, it's taken me over a year to prepare all this.”
“We'll cover our end,” the general grumbled sternly. “UMBRA will be there, when the time comes.”
“You'd better be. In four days, my foreign service people in Kuwait are going to reroute the diplomatic communication channels and start a long, complicated dance of seduction. The emir and his government will have every reason to believe they are being told, through the most official covert channels available, that the U.S. regards it as a matter of vital importance that Kuwaiti forces cross the southern border and take the main Saudi oilfields in a lightning strike.”
“So, everything's in place then?”
“Absolutely everything.”
“How many do we have working on Hydra?”
“I have a dozen men sitting in strategic positions in the CIA field office and the Kuwait City embassy, and even in the military liaison office. Hell, I've placed over a hundred men, if you count all the patsies.” Whylom turned briefly to give the general a droll smile from beneath his dark glasses. “Of course, damn near everyone's a patsy in an operation like this.”
“I guess that's right.”
“Present company excepted.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Whylom settled back more comfortably in his chair. “About half the oil in the world is within two hundred miles of the Kuwait border, right there at the northeast edge of Saudi Arabia. The Kuwaiti military is no match for the Saudis, but with all the aid we've given Kuwait, they'll have no problem barging across the border and taking the fields. They just can't hold them very long.”
“So how long do we have?”
“It will take the Saudi a good forty-eight hours to muster sufficient firepower to repel the invasion, and by then, I'm confident that U.S. forces will be defending the new Kuwaiti border.”
“That'll be the sticky part,” the general observed. The sun was rising higher now, and he pushed his chair noisily back into the shadow of the parasol, sheltering his pink skin from the harsh subtropical rays. “At that point, we'll have done all we can, and we'll just have to pray that the White House and the Pentagon have the good sense to do what's right.”
“Prayer has nothing to do with it,” Whylom snarled, with surprising vehemence. “For one thing, they're going to find that the Kuwaitis are expecting American backup. In fact, they're going to find that the Kuwaitis believe themselves to be serving as obedient U.S. puppets, acting under orders that quietly trickled down from the Oval Office. And then, there's the matter of the CIA Allegiance Analysis.”
“Right. The results of your computer modeling.”
Whylom's smooth tenor voice was developing a distinct rasp of resentment. “Well, those bastards are going to have to read it now! The damn fools. If they had only taken the Allegiance Analysis report seriously when I first presented it, two years ago, then none of this would have been necessary. I ask you, Grimmer, what kind of man could ignore a report like that?”
“The kind of man who doesn't take his patriotic duties very seriously,” the general immediately proposed. He waved away a waiter who seemed to be preparing to offer him a third Rob Roy. It was, after all, not yet nine a.m.
Whylom continued his rant, becoming visibly agitated now. “What do these people hire intelligence specialists for, if not to alert them to situations when they arise? My team took the CIA's best analyses of foreign policy and of the events of recent history, put them through a massive bank of supercomputers, and showed with absolute certainty that the biggest threat to America's future wasn't Iran or North Korea, but Saudi Arabia! But when I took those findings to the White House, what did those peons in the basement tell me?”
“They told you to shut the hell up,” the general reminded him plainly.
“They told me to shut the hell up. That's exactly right. Well, I, for one, am not about to take the biggest threat to this nation's future lying down! Now listen, this operation that you're chasing around, the one that sidetracked you all the way here to Brazil. Has this punched any holes in our security cordon?”
The general, caught off guard by this sudden question, lowered his gray brows and squinted at Whylom. “Holes? As in leaks? Absolutely not. Everyone at UMBRA is on a need-to-know basis. Just like we discussed.”
“And who on your team needs to know?” Whylom asked slowly, emphasizing each word.
“Nobody! Which is to say, everybody on the team knows their part of the mission. They know their own part inside out. But nobody understands the command structure except myself.”
“So nobody knows that this operation hasn't been pre-approved by the president?”
“Absolutely no one.”
“Not even your aide? The big guy? What's his name . . . Major Oliver? He couldn't have overheard something?”
“When I say no one, I mean no one.”
“Excellent.”
“And what about on your end, Whylom?” The general was staring at the CIA agent with open hostility now. “How sure are you that we're not the patsies, here?”
“Don't worry yourself about the details on my end,” Whylom told him flippantly. “Everything's airtight. I've told you the setup. The whole operation is on the books. It even receives a slice of the official covert ops funding. That means that, technically, we're already operating under the approval of the U.S. Congress . . . they just happen not to know the details yet. The operation is filed under the Ultra classification—that's such a high level that you and I can be pretty sure no one is going to open that folder until the year-end budget review. By which time, it will all be ancient history.” A thin smile curled up the corners of Whylom's lips, and he added, “I don't mind telling you that I've managed to slip the Operation Hydra file into a classification that's way above my own! Right now, I couldn't read our own file, even if I wanted to.”
“That does sound pretty secure,” the general grunted, his tone suggesting that he might still have lingering doubts. “Anyway, as long as no one at that clearance level stumbles across it by accident.”
Whylom tipped down his sunglasses to give the general a condescending look. “I don't think you understand how few people in the NATO nations carry Ultra clearance. But if one of those people is going to randomly stumble across our file, they'd better do it in the next four days. Because after that, Kuwait is going to be in possession of the greater part of the world's oil supply.”
“At which point, you and I either become ticker-tape parade heroes, or else we get hanged.” The general seemed to have changed his mind about that third Rob Roy, and ordered one with a small tip of his hand from across the pool. His waiter jumped into action and trotted purposefully off toward the bar.
Whylom chuckled, a surprisingly unpleasant sound, given the well-oiled quality of his voice. “I wouldn't worry about that aspect of the thing. Remember, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Except international law . . . where it's a hundred percent. As soon as the Kuwaiti incursion is a done deal, I can tell you for a fact that my assistant director at the CIA will move heaven and earth to get full support for the whole operation from the Pentagon brass, retrospectively. Within hours after the Kuwaiti flag goes up over those oilfields, the Oval Office will be full of four-star generals explaining to the president why America can't afford to pass up the opportunity offered by this tiny shift of borders on the map of the Middle East. In three months, the Kuwaiti government will be a full puppet of the U.S., and for the first time in over fifty years, America will have control of its own oil future.”
The two men settled back in their chairs and wrapped their hands over their bellies as they basked in the glow of this utopian vision. The general didn't even notice when the waiter padded up, placed a Rob Roy carefully in front of him, and silently scurried away.
“As someone once said,” the general growled benevolently, “it is a far greater thing that I do now than I have ever done.”
“Amen to that.”
The general noticed his drink and lifted a silent toast, then drank off most of it. “So, was that it? You came all the way to Brazil for that?”
Whylom gave an almost imperceptible nod. “You're vital to this operation, General Grimmer. So when you vanish off the map, I do get worried.”
“All right then, listen up, Whylom. This is no way to run a partnership. I'm trusting you on this thing, all the way. You've got to trust me too. I'm taking care of a glitch, that's all. So get off my back and let me do my work.”
“Fair enough. Don't worry, now that I see that everything's all right, I'll be flying out of here tonight. It looks like you've got matters under control.”
“Got that right.” The general rolled to his feet, poured the rest of his cocktail down his throat, and set down the glass. “Next time, don't call my secure number unless it's a serious emergency. I don't have time for a lot of idle chat. You and I will talk at the rendezvous.”
“That's fine. Thanks for taking time out of your busy day.” Whylom smiled pleasantly up into the general's face. “And, please give my regards to the sniper on the fourth floor.”
The general's red face blanched. “Sniper?”
“I would assume that's Major Oliver?” Whylom's smile became, if anything, even more bland than before. “I would wave to the man, but I don't want to embarrass him.”
The general's large, bony fists clenched with tension. “Okay. Uh huh. It's Oliver. You got me. And yeah, fourth floor.”
“Is that the new M24?”
“No, god damn it. It's a Heckler and Koch.”
“Really! That's a nice rifle.”
“Yeah.” The general suppressed the shuffling motions of his feet, which seemed more inclined to leave in a hurry then he himself preferred. He scowled and said, “I didn't know why you were calling me out for an unscheduled meeting.”
“I would have done the same thing in your position.”
The general's fists relaxed. “All right. Good. So . . . no hard feelings?”
“Everything's fine, General Grimmer. We're going to go down in history together, you and I.”
The general frowned in a way that showed a passing moment of deep, glowing pleasure. Then, as if despite himself, he glanced up briefly at the fourth floor of the hotel. “Yeah. But, how did you spot him?” He squinted at Whylom in the morning's brightening sunshine. “That position is completely invisible from here.”
Whylom waved away the question with a dismissive flick of his hand. “I'm a career man with the Company. No matter what they say in the media, we haven't run out of tricks yet.”
Chapter 27
The morning was well under way when Dee landed at Tom Jobim Airport, fifteen miles north of Rio de Janeiro. She spent fifteen minutes in one of the international concourse ladies’ rooms, trying to freshen up. Then she went looking for a booth where she could change her euros over to Brazilian reais. Everything was going according to plan, so far.
Then, while she was waiting to pass through customs, her internal alarm system went off. In addition to the uniformed immigration, customs, and security officers, there were several clusters of federal police hanging around. They leaned arrogantly against walls and columns on either side of the customs stiles in their paramilitary fatigues and combat boots, with machine pistols strapped across their shoulders. She noticed they were eyeing the women in particular, and they were also flicking their eyes lazily over the clipboards in their hands.
There was nowhere to go now that she was in the immigration area, so she presented her passport, told the customs officer that she had nothing to declare, and was waved through without incident. She walked right past a knot of policemen and forced herself not to look at them directly. No one stopped her but she had an ominous feeling about it.
She headed directly for the escalators down to street level. Forcing herself not to hurry, matching the pace of the crowd around her, she followed the signs to the taxi stand as fast as possible.
The air outside was mild and comfortable, but the rich humidity was a bit of a shock after the dry air she had been breathing in recent days. The airport was far enough from the city that the breeze carried the smells of the tropical countryside: ripe fruit, moist soil, and burning banana leaves.
The line for metered taxis was thirty yards long. Dee didn’t intend to spend one second more at this airport than absolutely necessary, so she looked around for other options. Several gypsy cabs were lingering at the curb, just outside the officially demarcated zone. She groaned, knowing that they would demand exorbitant rates. But there they were, ready to go.
She walked to the first one, opened the back door, threw her luggage in, and sat down. The driver turned around with an eager, predatory smile and said something incomprehensible. She was about to ask him if he spoke English, but then she hesitated as it occurred to her that he was trying to speak English.
She smiled and held up a hand. “Just a moment.” She dug her smartphone out of her bag, switched on the speaker, and held it up so he could hear. “Beta,” she said. “Translate both sides of this conversation, please.”
“O que é isso?” the driver asked, squinting at the little device mistrustfully.
“What is that thing?” Beta said.
“I’m going downtown,” she said. “How much is the fare?”
“Eu quero ir para o Centro. Quanto custa a passagem?” Beta echoed.
“Caramba!” the driver exclaimed, his eyes wide.
“Untranslatable exclamation,” Beta said.
The driver asked for forty reais, which was steep but not outrageous. She paid him in advance and promised ten more if he delivered her there promptly. He grinned and gave a little chirp of joy, then zipped out into traffic.
Once Dee was away from the airport, she was able to relax. The driver, who said his name was Gustavo, turned out to be very chatty and full of Carioca charm. Dee turned up the speaker on her smartphone so that Beta could continue translating as the creaky little Fiat bounced along the potholed highway. Gustavo cranked up his window so that he could hear better, though he was clearly accustomed to driving with the air blasting through.
“It’s smart to come here in the autumn,” he said. “The tourists, they’ll come here for the summertime, for Carnival in February. The city is so hot in February, you can’t breathe. And the beach gets so crowded! Millions of people—you can hardly walk. But the view is nice!” He turned his head all the way around to look over his shoulder at her, leaving the car briefly unattended in aggressive highway traffic. He gave a big, toothy laugh. “A million chicas lying on the beach! And it’s so hot that they hardly wear anything at all.”
“Sounds like I really missed out,” Dee said blandly.
“Come back next summer,” Gustavo recommended, missing the irony in her voice.
Not more than a mile south of the airport, the highway passed into the midst of the biggest shantytown she had ever seen. Closely packed hovels crowded a broad plain as far as the eye could see, with no structure higher than six or eight feet. The roofs were made of green corrugated plastic and brown sheets of decaying plywood and blue tarpaulins. Some even seemed to be made of corrugated cardboard. There were children everywhere, chasing each other about, kicking makeshift soccer balls with skinny brown legs, or just sitting on the muddy ground amid the debris. She watched the dismal spectacle roll by, in a sort of morbid awe. How did all these people survive? What did they eat? Surely they lived too far from the city to be day laborers there.
Beyond the shanties, in the distance, massive limestone cliffs rose up into a misty sky, forming a gray and forbidding wall. Atop that wall, highland jungle, lush and green and full of both life and menace, loomed over the plains. It occurred to Dee that many of the ancestors of the people in this vast favela had wandered out of that jungle just a few generations ago. She wondered what they had been hoping to find.
Gustavo pretended that the shantytown wasn’t there. He whistled cheerfully and, after a little while, turned on the radio. The happy, bouncy sound of Brazilian pop music filled the car with its complex rhythms and emotive voices.
After many miles of poverty, they burst into the wealth and abundance of the city with almost no transition at all. Gustavo began pointing out landmarks and asking Dee if she had ever been to Rio before. She told him she hadn’t and reminded him that she had no time for sightseeing. He obediently headed for the tall buildings of the Centro district.
“What’s the address?” Gustavo asked her for the first time.
She said, “Just take me into the financial district. Then I need to find an internet café.” Dee wanted to check the dead drop but she also needed a restroom where she could change her clothes.
The Centro district was an odd collection of buildings. A few striking modern skyscrapers, as well as quite a number of magnificent old stone buildings from colonial and postcolonial days, were scattered among a hodgepodge of big, boring office buildings in a style that would have been right at home in some post-Soviet capital in Eastern Europe. It was strange, in the middle of a city renowned for its beauty and festive lifestyle, to find business being transacted in such dour surroundings. An urban hangover, Dee suspected, from the long decades of dictatorship in the mid-twentieth century.
Today the streets were bustling with prosperity, and the workday sidewalks were crowded with herds of proud-looking businessmen in suits, and fashionable women strolling or gazing into department store windows. Dee’s taxi was among thousands of others now, jostling together and nagging each other with their horns.
She spotted an internet café spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of a shopping center, and called it to Gustavo’s attention. He careened across two lanes, using his horn, a good bit of forceful bellowing, and a range of hand gestures out the window. He stopped, neatly double-parked in front of the café, and turned in his seat to give her a big grin and a thumbs-up. Behind them, the blocked column of cars honked and howled, roaring their engines as they squeezed around the cab.
