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"I drop you cats off here at Heathrow and pick up an anonymous requiring full fuel tanks. Where to, I've got twenty minutes to figure out."
"You're the best, Luther," said Montrose, raising her voice above the engines.
"That's why they chose you."
"Yeah, I've heard that before.
"Many are called but few are chosen."
Why the hell did it have to be me?"
"The colonel just told you," yelled Cameron as the pilot reversed thrust upon landing.
"You're the best!"
"I'd rather have lunch," said Considine, proceeding down the runway.
The movement on the ground was choreographed. Luther taxied down the airstrip to a predetermined, isolated area. A refueling truck raced from a hangar, and as two uniformed mechanics reeled out hoses for the dual-wing tanks, a third man in civilian clothes approached the plane. Considine opened the fuselage panel of the Bristol Freighter; the man spoke.
"Here's your flight plan, Lieutenant. Study it and if you've any questions, you know whom to call."
"Thanks a bunch," said Luther, reaching out and taking the manila envelope.
"Here's your cargo," he added, gesturing at Pryce and Montrose.
"Yes, I assumed that. If the two of you will please accompany me, our car is directly behind the truck."
"We have luggage," Cameron broke in, "give me a minute to get it together."
"Lieutenant," said the MI-5 officer, "perhaps you could assist us."
Luther Considine, USN." looked imperiously down at the stranger.
"I
do not do windows," he said with quiet authority, "and I do not do laundry, and for your information, Cipher Head, I'm not a redcap in one of those old movies."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Never mind, fella," interrupted Pryce, "our friend is a little stressed. I've got the suitcases."
"Thank you, Chicken Little."
"What are you chaps talking about?"
"It's colonial code," answered Cameron.
"Our pilot is brewing tea to throw into the Southampton harbor."
"I don't understand a word you're saying."
"They're both stressed," broke in Leslie, her voice flat and insistent.
"Let's go, kiddies."
As Pryce, Montrose, and the intelligence agent walked rapidly toward the MI-5 vehicle, a second car, its windows shaded from the late-afternoon sunlight, sped out on the field to the Bristol aircraft.
"That must be Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous," said Leslie.
"Unless you've short-circuited my perceptions," observed Cameron, "it's a young mister."
"Roger Brewster?" whispered Montrose, as they were in the backseat.
"But why and where are they flying him?"
"To the south of Spain, a bull ranch owned by a colleague of ours during the Basque rebellions, and you were right, Cameron," said Geoffrey Waters, addressing Pryce and Montrose in his office at MI-5.
"He reached old Coleman in Belgravia because, as you correctly assumed, he had no one else to turn to."
"Good Lord, you are good," interjected Leslie, looking at Cam.
"Not really, I just tried to narrow down his options. What could he do alone, without help? But he had to have a substantive reason for breaking out and coming back here."
"He did, indeed," agreed Waters, his voice rising.
"A woman in High Holborn we knew nothing about."
Sir Geoffrey Waters described the revelations as they had been told him by young Roger Brewster and Oliver Coleman. He then produced the letters and, most notably, the deciphered notepad from Myra Symond's flat.
"Amsterdam, Pryce! The head of the snake has got to be in Amsterdam!"
"It looks that way, doesn't it? But whoever it is in Amsterdam that's running this whole obscene thing is a manager, a bureaucrat, not the total power. There's someone else behind him or her."
"Why do you say that, Cam?" asked Leslie.
"I know you'll think I'm stupid, or something, but when I was in college, I really loved reading and listening to recordings of Shakespeare. Silly, isn't it? But one phrase always stuck with me-I can't even remember the play."
"What was it?"
"
"Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream."
" "I believe it's Julius Caesar," said Waters.
"What's the application here?"
"The 'phantasma," I think. I had to look it up to get the context. The specter, the hidden phantom. There's someone or something beyond Amsterdam."
"But Amsterdam is certainly our first priority, isn't it?"
"Of course, Geof. Definitely. But would you do me a favor? Fly Scofield over here. I think we need Beowulf Agate."
THE NEW YORK TIMES
MEDICAL COMMUNITY STUNNED
Over Nine Hundred Formerly Nonprofit Hospitals Sold to Consortium NEW YORK, OCT 26. In what can only be described as a move that has stunned the medical community, 942 formerly nonprofit hospitals in the United States, Canada, Mexico, France, the Netherlands, and Great Britain have been sold to Carnation Cross International, a medical group whose headquarters are in Paris. The consortium's spokesman, Dr. Pierre Froisard, issued the following statement.
"At last the medical dream of the century, Project Universal, as we call it, has become a reality. In private hands, and with instantaneous global communications so readily available, we shall upgrade the quality of hospital care wherever we have the authority. By pooling our resources, information, and expertise, we can and will provide the best. Again, Project Universal, to which we have devoted quiet years and extraordinary sums of money, is now a reality, and the civilized world will be better for it."
In response to Dr. Froisard's statement, Dr. Kenneth Burns, a noted New England oncological surgeon, had this reply. ""It depends on where they go. If words were actions, we'd all be living in Utopia. What bothers me is so much authority in so few hands. Suppose they take another tack and say, "You do it this way, or we don't share." I think we've seen enough of that with the insurance companies. Choice is obliterated."
Another opposition voice came from the plainspoken Senator Thurston Blair of Wyoming.
"How the [
expletive deleted] did this ever happen? We've got antitrust laws, foreign-intervention laws, all kinds of laws that prohibit this kind of thing. Were the [expletive deleted] idiots on the watch asleep at the switch?"
The answer to Senator Blair is quite simple. International conglomerates only have to satisfy the laws of the specific countries in which they operate. The laws vary and none prohibits subsidiaries. Therefore, Ford is Ford U.K. in England; the Dutch Phillips is Phillips, USA; and Standard Oil is all over the world as Standard Oil-wherever it is. By and large, these international corporations benefit the economies of their host locations. Therefore, it may be assumed that Carnation Cross will be C.C. USA, C.C. U.K." C.C. France, et cetera.
Continued on Page D2
Brandon Scofield and Antonia had settled into their suite at the Savoy, Bray exhausted by the trip on the Air Force jet, Toni exhilarated by the fact that they were back in London.
"I'm just going to go out and wander around," said Antonia, hanging up the last of their clothes.
"Give all the pubs my best wishes," said Scofield, shoes off and supine on the bed.
"I'll try to touch base with the best of them."
"They're not on this tourist's agenda."
"I forgot, you're the reincarnation of that bitch Carry Nation."
"A little of her agenda wouldn't hurt you." The telephone rang.
"I'll get it." Toni crossed to the bedside phone.
"Hello?"
"Antonia, it's Geoffrey! It's been a thousand years, old girl."
"At least twenty or so, Geof. I understand you're now Sir Geoffrey Waters."
"Accidents happen, luv, even in this business. Is the reprobate there?"
"He is and he isn't. He hates the time zones, but here he is." She handed the phone to Brandon.
"Hello, Sir Asshole, would you mind if I got a couple of hours' sleep?"
"Normally, I'd be loath to interrupt your much-needed rest, old chap, but what we have to discuss is extremely important. Cameron and Leslie are with me."
"So important we can't talk about it over the phone while I'm lying down?"
"You know the answer to that, Bray."
"I do now," said Scofield, wearily moving his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up.
