CHAPTER TWELVE
Malcolm Dyson, Baumann thought, was faux-casual yet tightly wound; shamblingly relaxed yet ferociously observant. And he had made a point of keeping Baumann waiting a good half hour while he changed for dinner; where he was having dinner, whether in or out, the old billionaire hadn’t volunteered. He guarded his personal life like a state secret.
Dyson’s only revealing comment had been an aside, uttered as a liveried butler escorted him into a cherrywood elevator and up to his personal quarters. “I’ve learned,” he’d said apropos of nothing, “that I don’t even miss the States. I miss New York. I had a nice spread in Katonah, thirty-four acres. Town house on East Seventy-first Street that Alexandra put endless time into redoing. Loved it. Life goes on.” And, with a dismissive wave: “New York may be the financial capital, but you can goddam well pay the rent out of a shack in Zambezi if you want.”
Dyson reappeared in the smoke-redolent library, wearing black tie and a shawl-collar dinner jacket. “Now, then. Your ‘conditions,’ as you call them. I don’t have all day, and I’d prefer to wrap this up before dinner.”
Baumann stood before Dyson. For a few moments he was silent. At last he spoke. “You have outlined to me a plan that will wreak terrible destruction on the United States and then the world. You want me to detonate a rather sophisticated explosive device in Manhattan, on a specific date, and disable a major computer system as well. I am now privy to your intent. And you, like me, are an internationally sought fugitive from justice. What makes you think I can’t simply go to the international authorities with a promise to divulge what I know of your plan, and strike a bargain for my freedom?”
Dyson smiled. “Self-interest, pure and simple,” he replied phlegmatically. “For all intents and purposes, I am beyond reach here. I’m effectively protected by the Swiss government, which receives enormous financial benefit from my corporate undertakings.”
“No one is beyond reach,” Baumann pointed out.
“You are a convicted murderer and terrorist,” Dyson said, “who broke out of a South African jail and went on the lam. Why do you think they will believe you? It’s far more likely you’ll simply be rounded up and returned to Pollsmoor. Locked up in solitary. The South Africans don’t want you talking, as you know, and the other governments of the world sure as hell don’t want you at large.”
Baumann nodded. “But you’re describing a criminal act of such magnitude that the Americans, the FBI and the CIA in particular, will not rest until they locate the perpetrators. In the aftermath of such a bombing, the public pressure for arrests will be enormous.”
“I’ve selected you because you’re supposed to be brilliant and, most important, extremely secretive. Your job description is not to get caught.”
“But I will require the services of others-this is hardly a job I can do alone-and once others are involved, the chance of secrecy dwindles to nothing.”
“Need I remind you,” Dyson said hotly, “that you’ve got talents you can use to make sure no one talks? Anyway, the FBI and the CIA, and for that matter MI6 and Interpol and the fucking International Red Cross, will all be looking for parties with a motive. Parties who claim responsibility for such an act, who have some agenda. But I want no credit, and as far as the world knows, I have no agenda. Whatever my legal troubles in the United States, I have all the money anyone could ever want and much more. Much, much more. Beyond, as they say, the dreams of avarice. After a certain point, money becomes merely abstract. I have, you see, no financial motive.”
“I can see that,” Baumann agreed, “but there are flaws in your plan I can see already-”
“You’re the expert,” Dyson exploded. “You’re the goddam Prince of Darkness. Iron out the wrinkles, straighten out the kinks. Anyway, what sort of flaws are you referring to?”
“For one thing, you say you’re unwilling to give up operational control.”
“If I want to call it off, I need to be able to reach you-”
“No. Too risky. From time to time I may contact you, using a clandestine method I deem safe. Or I may not contact you at all.”
“I’m not willing-”
“The point is nonnegotiable. As one professional to another, I’m telling you I will not compromise the security of the operation.”
Dyson stared intently. “If you-when you contact me, how do you plan to do it?”
“Telephone.”
“Telephone? You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the sophisticated ways-”
“Not landlines. I don’t trust them. Satellite telephone-a SATCOM. Surely you have one.”
“Indeed,” Dyson replied. “But if you plan on calling me through satellite transmissions, you’ll need a portable-what are they called-”
“A suitcase SATCOM. It’s the size of a small suitcase or large briefcase. Correct.”
“I have one I use when I’m out of telephone range, or on my boat, or whatever. You can take that.”
“No, thank you. I’ll get my own. After all, how do I know the one you’d give me isn’t bugged?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dyson said. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“You want to keep track of my whereabouts-you’ve made that clear. How do I know there isn’t a GPS built into the receiver?” A Global Positioning System, Baumann did not bother to explain, is a hand-held device that can be modified to transmit an inaudible signal as a sub-carrier of the audio signal transmitted over satellite link. It would enable the receiving party to determine within a few meters the precise location of the party using the portable SATCOM.
“In any case,” Baumann went on, “I don’t know where you acquired your portable unit. It’s simple technology these days for a government intelligence agency, using a sensitive spectrum analyzer, to identify the characteristic emissions from a particular transmitter and map its location. Just as the CIA, a few decades ago, followed certain automobiles of interest in Vietnam from space by picking up their unique sparkplug emission patterns.”
“That’s the most far-fetched-”
“Perhaps I’m being overly cautious. But I’d much rather procure my own, if you don’t mind. It’s an expenditure of approximately thirty thousand dollars. I assume you can afford it.”
Baumann’s tone made it eminently clear that he would do as he pleased, whether Dyson minded or not.
Dyson shrugged with feigned carelessness. “What else?”
“You are offering me two million dollars. Unless you are prepared to multiply that figure, there’s no sense in our talking any further.”
Dyson laughed. His even false teeth were stained yellow. “You know what the first rule of negotiation is? Always bargain from strength. You’re standing on quicksand. I sprung you; I can burn you in a second.”
“That may be true,” Baumann conceded, “but if you had another alternative, you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to pull me out of Pollsmoor. I wouldn’t be standing here before you. There are indeed other professionals who could do the job you describe-but you will get only one shot at it. If it fails, you will never have another chance, I can assure you of that. So you want the best in the world. And you’ve already made that decision. Let’s not play games.”
“What do you want? Three million?”
“Ten. Money for you is, as you say, abstract. Theoretical. To you, another five million is a telephone call before your morning coffee.”
Dyson laughed loudly. “Why not fifty million? Why not a billion, for Christ’s sake?”
“Because I don’t need it. In a dozen lifetimes, I could never need that kind of money. Ten million is enough to buy me protection and anonymity. This will be the last job I do, and I’d like to live the rest of my life without the constant fear of being caught out. More important, though, any more than that is a risk to me. The basic rule in my circles is never to give anyone more than he can explain. I can explain, by various means, a fortune of ten million dollars. A billion, I cannot. Oh, and expenses on top of that.”