Air Force One is Down. John Denis
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