The DMZ Page 8

  “They ran another air search until they ran low on fuel again, but they found no sign of the American party or the villagers. At least one of the local guides who were paddling the canoes must have made it back, because Dr. Renken had the computer with her when she left. But how or why they got separated from our people or why the tribal group abandoned the village, we have no idea. My guess is they got spooked after whatever went wrong with John and his party. Three weeks later—yesterday—the bodies of all three were found dumped on a rancho outside the DMZ. They hadn’t been dead more than twenty-four hours, so the question is—where were they those three weeks they were missing?”

  There was a moment of silence in the office. Then Whitfield asked, “Have they determined the cause of death?”

  Sawatsky shook his head. “If so, they haven’t told us. It’s bizarre. The local FARC front where John and the others were found have the bodies in their custody. They claim they were discovered dumped in a pasture. They also claim that the FARC is not responsible for the deaths. The rebels are demanding a public autopsy in their presence before they’ll release the bodies—presumably, to demonstrate their innocence in the matter. They’ve called for a press conference and are offering safe passage to a neutral location in their zone for a limited group of press, international observers, and medical examiners. They’ll turn over the bodies only in the presence of foreign observers and examiners. They say if they turn the bodies over to the Colombian authorities, evidence will be manufactured to put the blame on them. They seem a little paranoid.”

  And with reason. The thought went around the room without being voiced aloud.

  “Anyway, there’ll be embassy personnel in that group flying down tomorrow. All we know for now is that they were not shot—the usual rebel method of execution.”

  “Then why are you so sure the FARC is responsible?” Whitfield asked. “After all, you said the guerrillas themselves had granted these people safe passage and that they approved of what they were trying to do. So why turn around and murder them?”

  “Who else would be operating in there?” Charles Wilson responded reasonably. “Even the paramilitaries limit themselves to settled areas. Besides, let’s not forget those two earlier attacks. There’s no way that’s a coincidence. As to why three separate attacks on American citizens and assets—well, there are several options. First, that the FARC leadership is stupid and bent on cutting its own throat. Of which, whatever their faults, they’ve given no indication. Or maybe the attacks were carried out by rogue elements without the knowledge or approval of their commanders. Though the sheer magnitude and sophistication of the attacks makes that unlikely. Or …”

  His pause was fractional and not intended for dramatic effect, but the words seemed to hang in the air.

  “Or?” Whitfield prompted.

  “Or there’s something there the FARC doesn’t want us getting wind of,” Charles Wilson said slowly. “Something John Goodson stumbled over, and that’s why they killed him and his companions. Something vital enough to their interests to risk the backlash of shooting down a U.S. plane and taking out a combat helicopter they may have thought to have surveillance capabilities. They may not even be expecting a backlash,” he admitted. “They’re arrogant enough, they may figure there’s nothing we can do about it. Given the present political situation, they may be right.”

  “So what is it? What do you think is out there?” Whitfield demanded.

  Charles Wilson shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe there’s a whole lot more rebels in there than they want us to know about. Maybe they’ve got some kind of permanent training base these foreign terrorists have set up. Maybe they’re building the biggest cocaine lab in the world so they can buy Colombia. Or all three. I don’t know. But whatever it is, we need to make it a priority to find out.”

  James Whitfield let his full weight sag back against the protesting frame of his armchair. He now knew where this was going and why an incident that—for all its admitted implications—could still have been easily reported in writing had instead brought these three today in person. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  “So just what is it you’re wanting from me?”

  General Johnson hardly needed to consult the list in his hand. “We want the DMZ made a Priority One intelligence objective. We want another RC-7B immediately to renew surveillance flights over the area. And to service it and our other operations in northern South America, we want the reestablishment of a land base in the region pushed to Priority One as well. The best option would be renegotiating our former headquarters at Howard Air Force Base in the Canal Zone. I know the Panamanians would fall over themselves to hand it back over to us. They’ve already had several guerrilla attacks across their borders, the last reaching within spitting distance of the canal, and they’re as panicky over the situation as we are.

  “Also, we want more land-based radar sites within Colombia to cover those gaps I mentioned. And finally, we want an immediate full-scale U.S. military investigation of the deaths of American citizens in the DMZ. Including a ground insertion large enough that the guerrillas won’t dare harass our forces. Searching for the wreckage and bodies of our downed plane should give us the political justification to nose around, both with the American public and down there. We won’t present it as a counter-insurgency operation, but as a routine crash investigation. Given enough resources and time, if there’s anything out there, we’ll find it.”

  Whitfield was shaking his head even before the general finished. “Brad, you know you’re asking for the impossible. We only had a half-dozen RC-7Bs altogether before you crashed one, and they’re tied up in places a lot more urgent than Colombia. That goes for the radar too.” Remember, you aren’t the only command stretched to capacity right now. Sure, you’ve made a decent case. But …”

  He picked up the stack of files on his desk. “I’ve got reports here of a full-scale uprising of Islamic separatists in the Philippines. North Korea is moving into biological warfare research. We know Iraq still has weapons of mass destruction. And Iran may be buying nukes from the former Soviet republics. Even with the recent increases in defense appropriations, we just don’t have the assets to keep an eye on everything that’s happening out there. Much as we’d like to be, we’re not Big Brother.

  “And you, Martin …” He looked accusingly across at the CIA director. “You especially know just how stretched our intelligence capabilities are right now. I’m sorry, gentlemen. You may be absolutely right. Maybe I’m making the wrong decision here. But so far, all I’ve had from you is speculation. Possibilities. Maybe even nothing but coincidences. Certainly nothing that warrants going to the mat with the Pentagon to have our limited surveillance assets reassigned to a place most of them refuse to even acknowledge as a problem.”

  Whitfield’s exasperation whistled out through his teeth as he dropped the folders back onto his blotter. “Tell me, do you still have other human intelligence assets on the ground?”

  As the other three exchanged a quick glance, he went on, “Of course you do. Then I’ll tell you what I can do, since you have them—”

  “Not them—him!” Johnson interrupted bitterly. “One person! Those limited assets, remember?”

  “Them, him, whatever. You get me something—anything—I can take to the Joint Chiefs of Staff to prove that this Colombian insurgency presents a clear and present threat to our national security, and I’ll get you what you want. Until then—well, I’m sorry, but I just can’t justify any alteration in our government policy in the country of Colombia.”

  As the storm of protest broke out, he reached out a long arm to buzz his secretary, a clear signal that the session was over. “I really am sorry, gentlemen. But until you have something more, that’s just the way it has to be.”

  * * *

  TEHRAN, IRAN:

  Across the world, the occupants of another conference room were also discussing Colombia and the latest deaths of American citizens there. Here there was n
o desk or customized armchairs, but cushions and gorgeous hand-woven rugs scattered across a vast mosaic floor. A low, ornate table held a silver coffee service. The coffee, served in tiny cups of almost translucent porcelain, was thick and black and of a syrupy sweetness. Unlike his counterpart in Washington, D.C., the discussion leader knew precisely what was going on in the DMZ. And he was furious.

  “They shot down an American spy plane?”

  The last twelve years had brought little change in the appearance of Akbar Javad Khalkhali. Though he was now entering his eighth decade, he was still spare and lean with the disciplined carriage of the soldier of the Revolution he had been. His gaze was still the flat, cold look of a man who had lost little sleep over the countless death sentences for which he had been responsible since assuming the mantle of ayatollah, supreme spiritual leader of his people. The absolute power and authority that came with that mantle was something no Western member of the clergy could imagine having.

  The icy incredulity of his tone was like the crack of a whip in the room as he demanded, “And you allowed this to happen? Are you insane?”

  The man seated cross-legged on the other side of the coffee table was Taqi Nouri, Khalkhali’s successor as head of VEVAK, the Iranian intelligence service responsible for maintaining the purity and internal security of the Islamic Revolution.

  “They say they had no choice,” Taqi Nouri replied. Like his master, he was a mullah, educated to holiness and orthodoxy in the holy city of Qum. Also like his master, he had long lost track of the deaths over which it had been his duty to preside.

  Nouri was not a man accustomed to feelings of discomfort. But his hard gaze slid away from his master’s relentless glare as he went on to explain. “The plane was directly above them. Their instruments detected a full radar and sonar probe. They did have orders to do anything necessary to prevent discovery or attack.”

  “And?” Khalkhali responded coldly. “The Americans would have found nothing. The base is not visible even to their satellites. Our own experts have tested this often enough. But this attack is another matter. Do you think the Americans will not ask questions? Even if there have been no signs left of how it was destroyed, do you think they will not ask how the guerrillas can have such a long arm that they can snatch a spy plane from the sky? And then this attack on the military base—again there will be questions. This is madness!”

  “They thought it probable that the helicopter had been sent to take the place of the spy plane.”

  The explanation sounded lame even to its giver. The ayatollah’s snort ratified that assessment. “They thought it probable! Even I across the world can go to the Internet and see just what an aircraft is this Black Hawk helicopter. It is not a spy craft. It is a combat aircraft, one of many given openly by the Americans to their Colombian confederates. A nuisance, yes, for our allies there. But it is not our mission to fight their small battles for them. Not now.”

  Taqi Nouri gave a nod that could have been a gesture of helplessness or apology. He could have made the excuse that he had not been informed of the attacks until they were over or that he had been as furious as his master when he’d found out. But it was not an excuse his master would have accepted, except as proof that their dubious allies were not as strictly under their control as Nouri had boasted.

  The ayatollah didn’t allow his glare to soften, though he understood well the other’s frustration and fury at seeing a faultless plan sabotaged by incompetence. Akbar Khalkhali himself, in the wake of the 1979 Islamic Revolution, had helped the former Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini build VEVAK from the ruins of the infamous SAVAK, the Shah’s own secret police. He had been personally responsible for the assassination teams that had taken out dozens of the Revolution’s most outspoken enemies, both in the homeland and overseas. He had also been responsible for teams that had failed, from which he had learned that the price of command was to shoulder the blame for the errors of one’s subordinates.

  “Perhaps it is not so bad.” For the first time, the conference room’s third occupant spoke up. “At least these attacks will discourage the Americans from any more of their insolent interference in Colombian affairs—and in ours. It is well known they are cowards. They will pull out before they risk more of their people.”

  “You think so?”

  The ayatollah shifted his gaze to the foot of the coffee table. His expression did not change, but the speaker shrank back on his heels. Like the other two, Minister of Transport Parviz Gangi was also a mullah, as were, in fact, most of Iran’s present leadership. But even under the loose robes that billowed up around him where he sat, it was evident that his short, heavy frame knew nothing of his companions’ ascetic discipline of the flesh. A plodder of no more than average intelligence, only Gangi’s blood ties as the son of Khalkhali’s youngest sister had facilitated his present government post or his inclusion in this restricted circle. Even at that, he had only the haziest idea of what was really going on.

  Still, his very self-indulgence and lack of curiosity made him a useful tool for carrying out administrative tasks that were best not examined too closely. With the patient tone of a teacher with a dense student, the ayatollah asked, “And what, then, do you think is the significance of the three spies we have now caught? Is it a coincidence that they come stumbling into our camp on the very heels of these attacks?”

  “Only one was a spy, and they came upon it by accident,” Gangi muttered sullenly. “The interrogation showed that. And the spy did not have opportunity to pass on what he found. The interrogation showed that, too. The bodies were taken far away. No one will ever know where or by whose hand they died. The danger is over.”

  “The danger is not over,” the ayatollah contradicted flatly. “It has aroused American interest in the zone. You do not know the Americans as I do. That they are weak in will and decadent in morality does not signify that they are also incompetent. They are not. And when they sink their teeth into something, they do not easily let go. Our neighbor to the west found that to his cost.”

  Taqi Nouri nodded. That was his assessment as well. There was so much to despise about the Americans. They lacked political will. With the power they wielded, they could make the world whatever they chose. Yet the weakest opponent could defy them—as their neighbor across the border had also proved—and they would do little more than bluster and plead for good behavior like a parent pleading with a defiant child rather than applying discipline. The Americans had somehow never comprehended the reality that men were by nature self-seeking and prone always to violence, and that law and order needed to be just that, and not the matter of personal choice that the Americans had made it. As a result, the richest and most powerful nation on earth was besieged with violence and crime, its citizens disrespectful and foul-mouthed even to their own leaders, their children vicious and undisciplined, roving the streets unchecked like packs of wild dogs with no fear that the harsh hand of the law would ever descend upon them.

  Yet they had the arrogance to dictate to the world how a nation and a government should conduct its affairs!

  Still, when the Americans did choose to act, they did so with astonishing competence. Granted, this was due largely to the superior technology their great wealth had permitted them to develop, technology that itself was suspect as a tool of the devil. Yet there was no denying that it made of the Americans a formidable opponent.

  “You are right,” Nouri said aloud. “I too know the Americans. The killing of their people was a mistake. They will now be angry and curious, and they will not let this go until they find the answers they seek. It may not be soon or easy. They do not yet know who they are truly fighting or why. But in time they will find us out. They always do.”

  Khalkhali swore forcefully, spitting out the colorful Farsi phrases with such venom that moisture flecked his beard. “Curse him!” the ayatollah said. “We should never have allowed him to bring his people into this.”

  No one had to ask who “him” was. It had
been far longer than Akbar Khalkhali had anticipated since that astonishing meeting with Iraq’s supreme ruler on a black night in the rubble of an unnecessary war. For many years, the political climate had not been favorable—either the forces of law and order were too strong or the turmoil of combat too great to risk the establishment of a permanent outpost so near their enemy’s borders. Colombia had always been a strong possibility. The country had vast expanses of uninhabited territory and an already well-established revolutionary movement. As one after another of the surrounding political conflicts sputtered out, Khalkhali and the task force he had handpicked for the mission had shifted patiently to the Colombian insurgency, courting all factions even-handedly with weapons and military advice and contacts to the outside world. Nouri’s whispering in the ears of the FARC leadership had led to their demand for a demilitarized zone. Other quiet maneuverings in Bogotá had led to its approval. Only then had the audacious plan dreamed up by the Iraqi madman and tempered by Khalkhali’s own wise planning and counsel been able to move ahead.

  “We had little choice,” Nouri reminded his master. “He has never quite trusted that we would not turn the weapon against him. And so he would not release it until all was ready. Even now he will allow only his men to handle it. And perhaps he is right,” he conceded. “Our people are not as expert in these areas.” As the ayatollah’s burning glare flashed to him, he added quickly, “Though our own could soon be trained to replace them, given the need.”

  “He is a madman—and not even of the true Faith!” the ayatollah snapped. The Iraqi leader and his people followed the Sunni branch of Islam, to which the majority of the world’s Muslims belonged, while the Iranian fundamentalists clung to the Shiite interpretation of the Koran. The differences seemed minute to outsiders, involving chiefly the proper choosing of Mohammed’s successor as spiritual leader of Islam. But then, factions within the Christian camp had fought and died for centuries over little more.