‘And?’
‘The reports are all classified, but the essence is this: terrorist infrastructure is a legitimate target even if the infrastructure happens to be human.’
‘And if the infrastructure consists of nothing but an individual?’
The Director’s voice hardened. ‘If he poses a threat to the security of our country there will be nowhere to hide. I think we demonstrated that in Afghanistan.’
‘I see. So the legal niceties you mentioned, they go by the board.’
‘No, they’re more important than ever; they define us. They’re the difference between the civilised world and the barbarians we’re fighting.’
‘Okay,’ Hazel said. ‘But these aren’t terrorists. They’re innocent citizens. Young people.’ It’s going wrong, she told herself. This isn’t turning out the way I wanted.
Logie Harris said, ‘You surprise me, Ms Baxendale. Why should you care? Since you believe we’re all just animals then, to you, there are no absolute rules. Killing for expediency should be easy as falling off a log.’
Hazel flushed.
Sullivan said, ‘An enemy soldier is an innocent man, doing what he must. And he can be sixteen. It’s down to definitions again. Are they bringing us destruction, does that amount to an undeclared war, and is bumping them off like fighting a pre-emptive war?’
Bull said, ‘Logie, you got an ethical handle on this situation?’
The evangelist nodded. ‘Practically all authorities agree that the Bible sanctions the taking of life in particular circumstances. Whether at an individual level, or at the level of nations, killing is justified in self-defence.’
‘Self-defence?’ Hazel said incredulously. ‘You—’
Bull interrupted, ‘But as Hazel says, these are innocent people.’
Harris’s face was adopting the old dogmatic expression, the turned-down mouth, the fixed expression. ‘They are not. They’re emissaries of Satan and are only too willing to bring his message and insinuate it into our society. Consider the words of Paul in Ephesians six, verse eleven. “Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” There are no half measures, Seth; nothing less than the whole armour. That’s about as plain as you can get. In war you kill your enemy. And this is a war declared on us by the Prince of Darkness.’
Hazel was swinging her long earrings again. ‘Logie, do you and I share the same planet?’
The President turned to the DCI. ‘Al, say I wanted you to arrange for these people to stop breathing. Without fuss. Given all the internal and external scrutiny you guys are subject to, would that be a problem? There’s my own Intelligence Oversight Board, and your internal one — the Inspector General’s office — and then there’s the congressional Intelligence Committee. And they insist on prior notification of all covert actions.’
‘An assassination need cost no more than a few air fares, a few hotel bills and some bullets. Sure we can do it, hide it away in the rounding errors. But if it worries you, Mr President, there are other routes open to you. For example you could go through the Pentagon. They have authority to carry out “special operations” which bypass congressional scrutiny altogether.’
‘Hell, that would bring in the Vice president, SecDef, the joint chiefs, the National Security Adviser and the whole damn NSC.’
‘But as you know, sir, the rules for writing reports of an NSC meeting are strict. If you gave an assassination order there’d be nothing on paper. Eisenhower and Nixon both played the game.’
Hazel couldn’t resist it: ‘And of course there was the Castro farce, eight assassination attempts by the CIA, all failures.’
‘That was the Stone Age.’
‘And now? You’re squeaky clean?’
‘We’re more efficient.’ Sullivan’s face was beginning to go pink. It might have been the heat from the flames leaping in the stone fireplace. ‘Hazel, do we really need ethics to flush nasty things down the tube?’
‘What about Callaghan and his assistant?’ Hazel asked. ‘Two Americans; and your own people. They know about this extraterrestrial signal.’
Sullivan looked uncomfortable. He glanced over at President Bull, who was leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s down to what the President wants.’
‘What do you want, Mr President?’ Hazel asked.
They held their breaths.
The President told them.
48
Execution
Petrie was on his second coffee when he heard the distant sound of a vehicle. From the bedroom verandah, he watched a white Transit van toiling up the hairpin bends, occasionally crashing gears. He felt a sudden surge of nausea, for a panicky moment wanted to run into the mountains, had to consciously go through the icy logic again.
He thought they probably wouldn’t kill him here, in Callaghan’s place. More likely they would string him along, tell him some story about transporting him through desolate routes to the safety of the States in exchange for the disk. That way they would keep him docile all through the desolation until the last moments.
The weather had worsened; the fluffy clouds over the peaks had reared up into towering black cumulus, and grey streaks under them told of falling snow.
The van turned into the driveway and pulled to a halt. There was slush under its mudguards. Elmonet was printed on its side, with a red arrow giving the impression that Elmonet was a courier service. However, the two men who stepped out didn’t look like couriers and it didn’t take two men to deliver a parcel. One of them, a man with a neat black beard to match his black T-shirt, looked up but gave no nod or wave.
Executioners aren’t required to be friendly, Petrie thought. He took a last look at the mountains before turning back into the chalet.
‘I’m Amos.’ The man had an American accent and a neutral handshake.
‘Of course you are. I suppose your friend is Obadiah. Do you want coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
Of course not. All that DNA left around.
‘But finish yours.’ The man wasn’t trying too hard to be friendly but that might just have been tiredness after a long journey.
‘Thank you.’
Petrie thought, This is bizarre. Civilised conversation with the man who’s about to murder me.
‘Well, Dr Petrie.’ The man leaned back perilously on the kitchen chair. Tom could hear footsteps on the floor above. ‘I understand you have a disk.’
‘Uhuh.’
‘And where is it?’
Petrie sipped at his coffee. ‘Somewhere safe.’
The man grinned. ‘Posted to a friend, maybe?’
‘There’s always that possibility, although that would just shift the burden. Not that a friend or anyone else could read it. We encrypted the message. The password is as long as your arm. Even the NSA would take centuries to get into it.’
‘I see. And where is this electronic key, Doctor? Somewhere safe, you say?’
Petrie tapped his head.
The man’s smile had a trace of sadness. ‘I wouldn’t call that safe, my friend, not at all.’
Petrie didn’t respond. Vashislav had set up a duress password, one which would instruct the computer to erase the disk. For contingencies, the Russian had said. The disk’s equivalent of a suicide pill.
‘The deal is that you give us the disk and we get you to the States.’
Someone was clattering down the open-plan stairs. ‘And as I say, the disk is no good without me. It’s both or neither. How do you plan to do that?’
‘The High Tatras straddles Poland, Russia and Slovakia. Here we’re very close to the border with Poland. There are lots of trails, this being a National Park. Some of the routes are used by Russian Mafia for drug-running into Poland. Assuming you have the disk here, the plan is to take you across the border to Cracow and then on to Warsaw.’