"The Chinese?"
"No, Mr. President. It is not a foreign matter. I have reason to believe that your Vice-President has learned about CURE."
"Well, I didn't tell him," the President insisted.
"Thank you for volunteering that, Mr. President. I needed to hear it directly from you, just to keep the record straight. That settled, he does know. He just gave a speech on the ground of my cover institution in which he all but acknowledged it openly."
"Well, what's so bad about that? When he's elected, he'll be your boss. At least it won't be a shock to him like it was to me. Why, I remember when the last President broke the news to me, I-"
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith cut in. "That's not the point. Listen carefully. First, somehow the information got out. That means a leak somewhere. Second, the Vice-President's speech contained a not-very-veiled threat to shut down my operation."
"Hmmm," said the President. "Could be just talk. You know, get the voters stirred up."
"No, sir. I'm sure the Vice-President arranged for this speech specifically to send me a message."
"Well, as you know, once I leave office, I will have no influence upon the Vice-President, but I'll talk to him if that's what you want."
"No, Mr. President, that is not what I want. It will be the decision of the next President, once he assumes office, to decide whether or not to sanction future CURE operations. As you know, we exist at the discretion of the current officeholder. I am prepared to be terminated, if it comes to that. "
"Well-spoken. So what's the problem?"
"As I said, if the Vice-President knows about CURE, and you did not tell him, he obtained his information from another source. Which means that someone outside of the loop knows. For security reasons, the person in question must be eliminated, or CURE must go. One or the other. That is the decision I am asking you to make, Mr. President. "
"Well, now, I don't know about this," said the President carefully. "Can I sleep on it?"
"Do you wish me to investigate the leak on this end before you come to your decision?"
"Why don't you do that, Smith," the President said amiably. "Yes, go to it. Let me know what happens."
"Yes, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, and hung up. He frowned. The President had not seemed concerned. True, it was his own Vice-President who had learned the truth, but that was not Smith's principal problem. It was the source of the Vice-President's information. For all Smith knew, CURE could be an open secret in the executive branch. And he couldn't very well order the liquidation of the President's entire cabinet and advisers to preserve CURE.
Instead, Smith knew he should be prepared to execute his ultimate responsibility as CURE's director-the destruction of operations and his own suicide.
Chapter 5
He crossed the Green Line on foot.
He carried no weapon. It was suicide to cross the Green Line unarmed. The Syrians often looked the other way, even though they had nominal control over the city. The Lebanese Army was virtually invisible. Even the native militias-of which there were several-did not cross the Green Line with impunity.
But he would. He had business in the western part of the city. And because he was not in a hurry, he walked, his white sandals making no sound on the streets littered with crushed glass. No wind stirred his blond mane of hair. The purple silk of his garments stood out, the only splash of color in a city that had once been the jewel of the Middle East but was now a scorched and shattered ruin.
Tonight Beirut was quiet, as if dead. In a way, it was. He crossed the Green Line where it paralleled the Rue de Damas. Here the Green Line was truly green. It was a sunken strip of perpetually muddy ground fed by a broken water main. Ferns grew profusely. He stepped through them, and although he was quiet, the fat rats scrambled out of his way, their beady eyes bright with a too-human fear.
He found the Rue Hamrah easily. He walked between the cracked facades of its high-rise buildings. The remains of firebombed cars sat rusting on their wheels like permanent fixtures. He felt eyes upon him. No doubt they were peering through the bullet holes that pocked the few buildings which hadn't been reduced to twisted tangles of concrete and reinforced wire. He felt a subliminal pressure against his back that warned him the barrels of automatic weapons were pointed at him.
Even at night, they would see that he was white. He wondered if they would decide to kill him, or possibly take him hostage. He was not worried. He had asked for this meeting. They would at least hear him out. And if they decided to harm him, they would learn that not all people who happened to be born in America were frightened by the Hezbollah.
In the middle of the street, he stopped. The air smelled dead. The stench of gunpowder was a permanent understink. He moderated his breathing rhythms to keep his lungs clear.
They came in pairs, clutching their rifles, their faces wrapped in colorful kaffiyehs so that only the dirty patches of skin around their eyes showed. A few stood with rocket-propelled grenade launchers slung carelessly across their shoulders. That was simply to impress him, he knew. They dared not use them at close quarters.
When he was ringed by seven of their number, he asked a question in their native tongue.
"Which one of you is Jalid?"
A man stepped forward. His face was wrapped in a green checkered kaffiyeh. "You are Tulip?"
"Of course."
"I did not expect you to come in your pajamas." And Jalid laughed.
The blond man smiled back at him, a cool insolent smile. If this warlord only knew the power he faced, he would tremble in his scuffed boots.
"Maalesh," Jalid said. "Never mind. You wish to ransom hostages? We have many fine hostages. American, French, German. Or perhaps we will take you hostage instead. If we do not like you."
They were bandits, nothing more. The world thought the Hezbollah were fanatical Moslems loyal only to the rulers of Iran. He knew different. Their ties to Iran were real, but their absolute loyalty was to money. For the right price, they would release their hostages and Iran's rulers be damned. There were always more hostages to be taken, anyway.
They understood only one thing other than money. That was raw power. When they had kidnapped Russian diplomats during the civil war, the Soviets sent in their own agents, kidnapped members of the Hezbollah, and sent them back to the Hezboilah warlords, a finger and an ear at a time, until the Soviet diplomats were unconditionally released. That was the kind of power they understood.
He would show them.
"I wish to hire your skill, Jalid."
Jalid did not ask: For what? He did not care. Instead he asked, "How much will you pay?"
"Something very valuable."
"I like your words. Talk on."
"It is more valuable than gold."
"How much more?"
"It is more precious than the finest rubies you could ever imagine. "
"Tell me more."
"It is more precious to you than your mother's very life."
"My mother was a thief. A good thief." Jalid's eyes crinkled, indicating that he smiled behind his kaffiyeh.
"It is your life."
Jalid's eyes uncrinkled. "Bnik kak!" he swore. "I think you will die here, ya khara. "
The blond man turned his electric-blue eyes upon the man beside Jalid, whose fine rifle indicated that he was second in command.