Zig Zag to Armageddon: Volume 2

By Tony Foster

Day breaks over the coastal waters of Cosecha Rica, a small central American Dictatorship where history is synonymous with revolution. The battle-bolstered by Middle East Terrorists and Anti-American sympathizers- has ended. But the strange calm, which surrounds this volatile nation like a tourniquet against ozzing bloodshed, is deceptive: crisis lies just beneath the waters... and a new battle is about to begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469705057

Tony Foster

Tony Foster is a Pastor, Professional Life Coach, and Keynote Speaker. Tony Foster serves as the Senior Pastor of Restoration Worship Center, in Greenwood, South Carolina. Tony is the CEO and Founder of Foster Development Group, LLC, a professional life coaching company. He is also President of Restoration Bible College. Tony is a former Health Educator/ Counselor with the University of South Carolina. Tony also hosts a weekly television broadcast, called "Restoration Today". As a Keynote Speaker, Tony travels and speaks to congregations and organizations nationally and internationally. Networking with Leaders in India, Kenya, Nepal, Jamaica, and England. Tony is also a member of Destiny Network International, South Carolina Pastors Alliance, and International Coach Federation. Tony brings a unique blend of experience in leadership and personal development. He and Joanie, his wife of nineteen years, have two sons.

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Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

 1 

 2 

 3 

 4 

 5 

 6 

 7 

 8 

 9 

 10 

 11 

 12 

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EPILOGUE

‘Z’ is a zigzag path I know

Through the woods where bluebells grow.

:from a child’s nursery rhyme

... if a great number of countries come to have an arsenal of nuclear weapons, then I am glad I’m not a young man and I’m sorry for my grandchildren."

Dr. David Lilienthal

First Chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission

speaking to the U.S. Senate Committee Hearing

in January 1976

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In August 1976 I commenced a fifteen month sentence at the Terminal Island prison in San Pedro, California. The sentence was received after a conviction for smuggling almost a ton of marijuana into the United States from Mexico by aircraft the previous Fall. Upon arrival at prison I was lodged in a two-man pink cell where I remained between August and October, 1976. For some reason the Bureau of Prisons believes pastel shades of pink, green and brown provide an interesting variation on the sterility of color found outside prison walls, although from my own experience a seven-by five-foot, two-man cell equipped with sink and lidless toilet can hardly be considered the ideal location from which to offer a valued judgment. It was during the pastel period I began to write Zig Zag, using a pencil and paper provided by the Bureau of Prisons; later graduating to a ballpoint pen which I managed to steal from one of the guards. From that moment on it was all downhill.

During late October I was released into what is euphemistically referred to as population. This particular graduation ceremony takes a prisoner from the solitary luxury of a private cell where time weighs heavy, to a hundred-man dormitory and prison yard, where time weighs heavier. However, I discovered the main advantage of being in population was the access to a typewriter, in addition to the variety of interesting people I met among the thousand odd souls—both men and women—who were sharing my fate. Pimps, prostitutes, drug addicts, smut peddlers, tax evaders, bank robbers, smugglers, con men, swindlers and embezzlers with an assortment of warped idealists, lesbians and homosexuals, plus the insane. Some of them noble and quite innocent, some not so noble and guilty as hell, but all of them very real human beings. To them I am grateful, for they taught me to understand a part of life I never knew; each of us is really after all the sum total of our own experience, no matter what we choose to pretend.

Without belaboring the point, I’d like to thank my wife Helen, who, with our three children, endured the coldest winter on record in Canada while I endured the California sun, and who had the courage to wait until the nightmare ended; my lovable loyal Lorraine, who spent those long lonely hours typing this manuscript during the winter months in Toronto, deciphering my cramped scrawl initially, then later, my badly typed copy, and who had the steadfastness to wait until the dawn. Finally, my thanks to the staff and prisoners at Terminal Island, without whose help and comments this book could never have been written; the inmates, because they cared enough to understand—the staff of ‘F’ Unit, because they understood enough to care. This story is dedicated to that villain who dwells deep within us all.

Terminal Island F.C.C.

San Pedro, California

March 30, 1977

PROLOGUE

Canadian nuclear power started in 1945 at Chalk River, Ontario, near the deepest part of the Ottawa River, 125 miles west of the nation’s capital. ZEEP (Zero Energy Experimental Pile) was the British Commonwealth’s reply to the United States’ independent nuclear energy program. While the beneficiaries of the technology produced in the Manhatten Project at Alamogordo, New Mexico, shared their idealistic philosophy and information to develop atomic power for peaceful purposes, Canada joined Britain to produce its own unique nuclear reactor—CANDU.

The U.S., after a brief examination of the ZEEP system, decided on an alternative type of reactor technology. Britain abandoned its program based on ZEEP out of prudence and political common sense, realizing the long term dangers inherent in such a system. Canada, mistress of international vacillation and compromise, proceeded on its development alone.

In 1968 the first commercial production of this Canadian Brain Child commenced operations on the shores of Lake Huron at Douglas Point. Government plans called for one hundred and twenty of these reactors by the year 2000. With future power problems organized to its satisfaction, the Canadian government then turned to sell the progeny to foreign markets.

In keeping with the policy decisions made by Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson in 1962 to provide Canadian assistance in developing countries, a full scale CANDU reactor was presented as a gift to the government of India between 1964 and 1972. It was built in Rajastan and called RAPP 1. Pearson, a Nobel Peace Prize winner and compromising civil servant turned diplomat, sensitive to the Indian government’s desire to avoid losing ‘face’ by having inspection teams from Canada control the use of CANDU, settled for a gentlemen’s agreement’. This agreement provided that India would never use the technology of CANDU for anything other than peaceful purposes. The tree planted in Rajastan by the Canadian government bore a terrible fruit.

On May 18, 1974, India exploded her first atomic bomb, using plutonium fuel supplied by the Canadian government for RAPP 1. The CANDU reactor, like the U.S. Light Water Reactor (LWR) ‘breeds’ its own plutonium through use. The fuel required to make a bomb is simply removed from the CANDU reactor a little earlier than is usual and reprocessed with natural uranium and radioactive wastes. Common chemical solvents are used to separate the plutonium from these raw wastes.

Obtaining plutonium of a standard capable of producing a bomb from the U.S. reactor is a much more difficult problem. In the LWR, made by the U.S., the important Plutonium (Pu 239) is contaminated with another isotope of Plutonium (Pr 240), creating a lot of heat, light and radioactivity with no explosion. In addition, the LWR requires enriched uranium to operate. Russia and the U.S. are the only two world suppliers of this commodity.

CANDU eliminates all these annoying problems by providing the ability to use world-wide supplies of natural uranium and breed its own plutonium. However, instead of moving swiftly to chop down the offending tree, when the nature of the first harvest had been perceived, Canada moved its gardening efforts elsewhere.

Pakistan, the unplacated enemy of India, was also provided with a Karachi version of the CANDU reactor called Kanupp. Next, Taiwan, the armed island fortress with unfulfilled dreams of reconquering mainland China, collected the same reactor used by India to make her bomb—another gift from Canada. Six weeks before the predicted overthrow of the constitutionally elected government of Argentina by a group of army officers, a CANDU reactor was supplied to that country. South Korea, crouching at the bottom half of the Korean peninsula awaiting the opportunity to spring to the North, is to be the next recipient of Canadian generosity, together with several other nations in the dictatorial areas of the free world which aspire to nuclear membership. No enforceable treaties, safeguards or inspection agreements have been obtained from any of these countries. To date, the government of Canada has not made a single penny from any country to which it has provided CANDU. Payment, when it comes, will be the terrible harvest.

This story concerns one small country in the Western Hemisphere which used its CANDU reactor to build a bomb, and some men and women in various parts of the world who made it possible. They are the heroes and heroines of the story. The villain—and every story must have its villain—is the Bomb. The Bomb that will explode tomorrow morning at dawn, ending all our illusions.

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India’s Rajasthan Atomic Power Plant (RAPP).

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The Karachi Nuclear Power Plant (KANUPP) in Pakistan.

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 1 

1971

The February sun burned down across the city of Tripoli, swaddling the narrow streets with a suffocating heat. Angrily, Jamil looked at his watch for the tenth time and glared out the eighth floor window of the Uaddan Hotel to the harbor.

Well, we’ve wasted another day. It’s after three, the government offices will be closing.

Patience, Galal, they’ll call. She was reading a newspaper on the bed, her shoes off. She didn’t look up. He whirled away from the window and pushed her feet aside to sit down. Leila laid the newspaper down, folding it carefully. They had been waiting a week to see Colonel Muammar al-Qaddafi. Arrangements for the meeting had been confirmed in Beirut weeks before by the Libyan Ambassador to Lebanon. Shakir el Numeiri had been warmly cordial when they visited his residence in late November.

He had embraced them affectionately and led them into his reception room, clapping his hands for sweet tea, which was delivered swiftly by a sandalled servant with no teeth. His Excellency was a dark rotund man with a happy face and piercing black eyes. They sipped the tea thoughtfully and wiggled the tea bowls for a refill before embarking on the reason for their visit. When the second sweetened cups were finished and the toothless servant had clearedthe room, Jamil broached the subject.

Excellency, my friend indicated that your Premier, Colonel al-Qaddafi, agreed to hear me in private audience as soon as his duties permitted such a meeting. I don’t mean to rush you, but the particular subject I wish to discuss with the Premier is of a delicate nature—an opportunity for your government to seize the iniative in a certain area, an opportunity which may well pass if we delay action too long.

Your friend was quite correct. I have been notified by Tripoli this week officially to invite you both to visit our country sometime in February, if that is convenient? He smiled.

February? But Excellency, that’s three months away! Surely we could plan our visit before February?

Visit to be sure, but to see his Excellency, Colonel al-Qaddafi, you will have to wait till February. I’m sorry, but his Excellency is a very busy man as you will doubtless appreciate. There are great events planned on the merging of Arab nations in which his Excellency is, as you are aware, much concerned in bringing to fruition for all our sakes.

You mean you are actually going ahead with that idea of joining Libya with Egypt! Jamil knew it was a pipe dream. Since Nasser’s death from a heart attack in September, the new Egyptian President, Anwar Sadat, had been wooed by Qaddafi on an Arab Federation. The economics of the idea appealed to Sadat, and to the young Libyan Colonel, anxious to make his mark in the Arab limelight. Jamil knew it was impractical when he had heard the first rumors of such an association. The tubby ambassador looked hurt for a moment.

You disapprove of such action, Mr. Jamil?

My approval or disapproval is hardly a matter of concern to either government, your Excellency. The United Arab Republic was unworkable in Nasser’s time and I think an Arab Federation in Sadat’s time is equally unworkable—however ... He smiled apologetically ... I do not profess to be a politician and therefore I bow to the wisdom of his Excellency, Colonel al-Qaddafi.

He lowered his eyes modestly. He had nearly put his foot in it that time. His Excellency appeared satisfied with the explanations.

If you have your passports with you, I can give you the visas now and a letter of introduction which might be useful when you arrive in Tripoli.

He heaved himself out of the ornate chair and they followed him into his office. Later, on the road back to the camp, they laughed over the pretentious little Ambassador with the harsh Libyan accent, but the ten week delay on the visit to Tripoli was no laughing matter.

Finally, in February, when they had arrived at Idris Airport and taken the drive into the city, they were sure everything had been arranged for an immediate meeting—if not the next day or the day after. Captain Tarbu Zitlan returned the following morning to the hotel and informed them there had been a small delay in the meeting.

How small? Jamil inquired.

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. In the meantime, permit me to show you more of the sights of Libya. We have a rich history.

They collected their things and followed Zitlan to the car. They left the city with the Libyan Captain driving like the wind.

Where are we going?

Leptis Magna. He skirted a mule wagon loaded with bundles and children, and rocketed on by. Jamil and Leila clung to the safety straps.

Is that a name or a disease?

The Libyan laughed brightly. A very good joke. I must remember that one.

Leptis Magna had been a Phoenician trading station in 193 A.D.; restoration and excavation to the surrounding area was still underway, though in a haphazard manner. They poked around the crumbling stone piles for an hour, then raced back to the hotel. The Libyan dropped them off at the front door, saluted and burned rubber as he squealed out the driveway. He was back next day with another apology for the delay in meeting the Premier and suggested they go visit more ruins.

This is ridiculous, Captain. We didn’t come here to see ruins. We’re wasting time, Jamil told him angrily. Zitlan looked hurt. It was a repeat performance of the previous day; a thunderball trip through the countryside to Sabratha. Jamil spent the entire tour grumbling, while the Captain tried his charm on Leila, explaining the Vandals’ destruction of the premises during the first and second centuries. Jamil was unimpressed. They made the return trip to Tripoli in silence.

The next day when Zitlan arrived at breakfast with the usual apology and another suggestion for a sightseeing trip, Jamil lost his temper.

Listen, Captain! We’re all through with bloody sightseeing trips to piles of rubble. Will you please go find your Major, tell him to find his Colonel and see if you can manage to get the audience with the Premier we were promised? We will be waiting in our room for your call. Good morning!

The Captain saluted and left without a word. Five days later they hadn’t seen or heard a thing from anyone.

Of course yesterday was the Sabbath, Galal, and you couldn’t expect anything on the Sabbath, Leila said reasonably from the bed.

He turned, glaring at her. That was yesterday. What about today?

The phone rang and he sprang to his feet to answer it.

Hello, Mr. Jamil! Colonel Qaddafi here. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Tell me, are you free to see me now?

Jamil was dumbfounded. Yes Sir. At once. Where shall we come?

I’ll send a car—for you, Mr. Jamil—there is no place for women in the scheme of things. They should stay home and raise their children, he said severely.

Yes Sir. I’ll be down in the front lobby waiting for the car. Thank you. He hung up and looked at Leila. The Man himself! He’s sending a car—for me—no women allowed, he said. He sat down on the bed smiling. Women are supposed to stay home and raise babies in Libya. What do you say to that?

I say ‘fuck him!’ Leila glared.

The collision foreseen by Jamil between the Jordanian Palestinians and King Hussein had occurred the previous year. On February 10, 1970, while Doctor Kastenburg pored over the package of maps and reports on terrain features at Punta Delgado, King Hussein unleashed a massive attack against the refugee camps. Amman came under fire from all directions and the battle raged throughout the day.

Hussein was forced to back down and later explained the whole thing had been a simple misunderstanding. The London Observer in mid-February suggested his statemanship was responsible for averting civil war, heading off the bloodbath because he did not want to be a hated prisoner in his own palace. It does not seem in Hussein’s character, nor to be in his concept of kingship, to contemplate such a state of affairs, the newspaper stated.

Jamil read the article in Beirut. Bullshit! was his only comment when Akbar handed him the overseas edition of the newspaper.

What are we going to do, Galal? Akbar and the others were growing restless in the security of the Lebanese capital. Well-fed, well-paid, they felt indolent living in the lap of luxury while their countrymen fought and died.

We already did it—we moved out. He looked at his friend quizzically. You’re not thinking of running back now to throw your life away with the others?

No one wants to throw away his life, Galal. But every morning when I shave, I have to face myself. It’s becoming more difficult to look me in the eye. He smiled.

You would rather die a hero like Abu Talaat than live to tell your grandchildren how you expelled the Jews from Palestine—is that it? Abu Talaat had been one of the courageous commanders who had fallen in Jordan. Akbar was silent. Jamil stood up and looked down at the sunny harbor filled with anchored ships awaiting berths along the crowded waterfront. The dirty windows hazed the view. He decided to tell him the plan—at least part of it.

What would you say if I told you we are building some atomic bombs?

Akbar laughed. Are you speaking rhetorically or academically?

Jamil turned back from the second floor window. He was not smiling. They will be built for us in Cosecha Rica under the guise of an agricultural chemical factory. The factory will be built less than a mile away from a nuclear reactor power station on the Atlantic coast.

Akbar stopped grinning.

Jamil took an hour to outline the details of the plan with Blucher Chemicals, then ended by saying, When everything is finished we will have our atomic bombs. We will make music, my friend! A symphony everyone will hear!

How long will all this take?

The Doctor thinks three to five years. It is complicated. First we must steal the waste before we can start extracting plutonium. The only problem now is the lack of waste. The plant at Punta Delgado hasn’t been in operation long enough to give us everything we need yet. He paused, smiling at Akbar. Do you like it?

Where will we place the bombs for our demands?

I haven’t decided. The first explosion should be in the Negev desert to illustrate our sincerity—but we may not have to go that far, once we announce we have the bombs. Remember, it is the threat of the bombs we want to use, not the bombs themselves! He liedsmoothly.

Hell! Forget the Negev, tell the Americans we’ve got one in New York and the British we’ve got one in London. Ha! Can you imagine how fast they’d want to make a deal then? God! We don’t even have to have the bombs as long as everyone thinks we have them. It’s sheer genius. He chortled happily at the thought, his eyes dancing in delight.

It’s also expensive. We are going to need more money. I’ve sent Leila back to Kuwait to see if our friends are still willing to support the Cause.

And are they?

I don’t know. They were when we had an army. Now—well, we’ll find out when she returns. He looked back at the harbor. A fast speed boat towing two waterskiers crossed the filthy window panes; he watched the skiers criss-cross the speedboat’s wake, jumping the ridge of water, then ducking to clear each other’s tow ropes. It was hard to see whether they were male or female. He rubbed the pane absently, uselessly. The dirt was on the outside.

In the meantime, my friend, we are going to keep pressure on the Jews, where it will do the most damage and gain us the most attention. He turned back to Akbar. When Leila and I were in Caracas we met an interesting young lad—Pico Ramos—his father is a doctor; one of the best families in Venezuela. He is a revolutionary fanatic, but with no organization behind him. He lacks experience—like we did when we started. I invited him to join us for field training—he laughed—returning the favor Chirlo did for me, I suppose.

Does he speak English?

Fluently—French too. He opened his desk. I got this yesterday. Read it. You’ll see what I mean. Ignore the flowery language.

He tossed the envelope to Akbar and returned to the window. The skiers were still swapping places, but going in the opposite direction now, back to the hotel wharf. Akbar removed the flimsy tissue letter and read the contents.

"My Very Dear Friends: I have missed seeing you and the buffet discussions on the terrace at the Tamanco. I believe you were both right in your most wise advice to me and I am now making arrangements to come and visit you this next month. The Imperialistic forces of the world must be destroyed and the evolution of the proletrariat established on the carcass of their remains. It can only be achieved by the dedication of all men working together towards the common cause of world revolution, sharing in their experiences, hardships and victories between themselves and between nations. There are no boundaries to world revolution, just as there are no boundaries between nations of men with a uniformity of ideals. It is the imperialistic aggressors that erect the boundaries to contain and control the proletariat to rule, rape and repress the more easily with thievery and corruption. They must all die and it is up to us to ensure they do. I offer and pledge myself to your cause in the certain belief it will benefit my own. Your most sincere friend, Raymondo Ramos."

I have one question.

Jamil turned to him. Well?

How do we control him? He sounds like a lunatic.

Not we—you. You control him—murder, rape, arson, destruction, pillage—whatever you want him for, use him. Put him in the front line. If he succeeds, we claim the credit. If he fails—then we know nothing about this—as you say—lunatic from Venezuela.

He is our sacrificial lamb? The idea appealed to Akbar.

Sacrificial only if he fails, Jamil stated. Let him bring others from his world revolutionary group: from Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, even Japan. Bring them here, Khala, bring them all here; train them at the camp and send them off in the name of world revolution, but don’t expose our own group to any danger. I need every one of us for that final assault when we have our bombs—credit for that we share with no one!

Joseph Sisco, American Assistant Secretary for Middle Eastern Affairs arrived in Jordan during mid-April to offer a U.S. peace proposal to the leaders of Fateh. The Palestinians refused the plan, but neither Sisco nor Hussein were prepared to relent. Acting under orders from the King, Special Security squads roamed the streets of Jordan’s major cities provoking resistance, flouting Jordanian laws, causing chaos and trying to provoke a civil war between Palestinians and Jordanians. The Popular Front grew and the fractured Fateh membership assembled quickly under one banner and fought back, capturing the strategic areas of Amman and seizing the First Secretary of the American Embassy hostage. The Popular Front then moved in to occupy the Intercontinental and Philadelphia Hotels, taking all foreigners captive.

Hussein savagely shelled the camps of his Palestinian charges on the pretext that an assassination attempt had been made on his life. The fighting raged on for a week until the Jordanian king became alarmed and promptly arranged for a cease-fire. Joint committees were set up between the guerrillas and Hussein to supervise the truce. The Americans and the King put their heads together to find a plausible excuse for their underestimating the ferocity of the Palestinians, and in the best American tradition of explaining away any conspiracy, the problem was settled by blaming everything on a single individual General Zeid Bin Shaker. The General’s sister was alleged to have been killed by a guerrilla prior to the fighting and he had lost his head over the incident. Both he and General Sharif Nassir, Hussein’s uncle, resigned their posts and the king assumed command of the armed forces.

The whole thing was made to sound perfectly plausible to the international press, but Max Bruner made the mistake of sending the true story back to New York and was ordered to leave the country the following day by the American Embassy. He refiled the story when he landed in Beirut and phoned his New York office for instructions. The night man on the desk told him B.J. would phone him when he got in at nine. Bruner checked into the Phoenicia and went to bed. The New York call came in from B.J. at three in the morning.

Wake up, goddamnit! Bruner could picture the florid face six thousand miles away. Can you hear me, fer Chrissakes? B.J. roared in his ear.

Yes, B.J., I can hear you fine. What’s the problem?

Problem? What are you talking about. I’m answering your call. What’s all this shit about being thrown out of Jordan?

It’s not shit. They did it. You got my copy.

Yeah, he growled. Fuckers!

What do you want me to do now?

How about that nut you were with before, isn’t he in Beirut?

I think so. I’ll have to check.

If you can find him, hang with him for a few weeks and see what you can pick up. If he’s out of town, run him down somewhere. Call me back when you find him. Oh yeah, I’ll make a switch on your money to American Express Beirut today. Is that bullshit in Jordan over now? he asked as an afterthought.

No, there still has to be a final showdown, B.J., but it won’t happen until Hussein purges all the Palestinians in high places out of his government and army—late summer—early Fall—is my guess for the final explosion.

Think you can get back in to cover it?

I can try sneaking across the border.

Now, I’m not asking you to do anything that’s gonna get your ass shot off, Max, but I’d like to have the story first hand, if you know what I mean.

Yes, B.J., I know what you mean. Goodbye. Bruner lit a cigarette. The problem with B.J. Bronstein, Bruner decided, was he would never be satisfied until the news came into the C.P.I, office that Max Bruner had gotten his ass shot off trying to get a story.

Bruner hadn’t seen Jamil or Leila for ages, not since the Algerian meeting after the El A1 hijacking. They had told him they were going abroad for a honeymoon the last time he had spoken to them, but that was nearly six months ago. He climbed out of bed and rummaged through his suitcase to look for his special address book, then switched on the bedside lamp and leafed through to G. He kept private phone listings indexed by the first letter of the first name. He dialed the number and waited. There was no answer. After ten rings, he hung up, turned out the lamp, and after butting his cigarette, went back to sleep.

Doctor Kastenburg relaxed when he saw the affectionate greeting between the two men. It had been a nagging worry ever since he had agreed to join Jamil; did the young Palestinian in fact have as close a working relationship with the dictator as he assured him he had? He saw Chirlo release Jamil from the bearhug and turned to face the formal introductions.

Welcome to Cosecha Rica, Doctor. A great pleasure to have you visit us.

Kastenburg noted the eyes and handshake were sincere andfirm.

Thank you, Colonel, he said gravely.

And my good friend and father-in-law, President Artega. Chirlo presented the beaming doctor of medicine to the doctor of chemistry.

Doctor Kastenburg—a great pleasure!

Doctor Artega, con mucho gusto! They both laughed and everyone grouped themselves about the table in the reception room. Jamil passed the tubular map case to Kastenburg and sat back to hear the German’s sales pitch as they had rehearsed it on the flight from Madrid.

Gentlemen, my Board of Directors has approved our plans to build the factory! It was a perfect opening for the withdrawal of the blueprints and their flourished unrolling across the table.

Blucher Chemicals has long considered the Central Americas as a prime location for agricultural chemical production. From here we can expand both north and south as market requirements dictate. He smiled engagingly. And frankly, I’m optimistic on our future growth. The others nodded in agreement. You will see the property we are interested in acquiring lies adjacent to the nuclear waste storage site. This location was picked specifically for several reasons. First, it is as close as we can position ourselves to the power supply from Punta Delgado and still remain far enough away from Bahia Blanca to avoid sending any malodorous scents in their direction—although I cannot say the nuclear plant will not wish we had chosen another location after we have started producing our smells. On cue, everyone chuckled. Jamil was satisfied the pitch was going extremely well.

Next, is the case of warehousing storage; we wanted our site close to a good, heavy-duty road, but isolated enough to keep out the curious. Since the nuclear plant road ends at the waste disposal pools three miles beyond Punta Delgado, we know any unauthorized visitors will be stopped at the end of the road by a security fence we intend to build around our site. We will simply extend the existing road for another quarter mile—if that is satisfactory? Again, on cue, everyone nodded in agreement.

I am bringing twelve heavy diesel trucks in with our first shipment of materials during the construction phase which will provide the necessary nucleus for tanker deliveries about the country and beyond. Initially, we will use them for transporting equipment from the docks out to the site. Later, stainless steel tanks will be attached to the truck frames. The final reason for our selection of this land area—he waved his hand across the blueprints—is because we believe that in time the area will become the site for other industrial development along the coast, in which case there will be no alternative but to create new port facilities to accommodate this development. In other words, I look upon using the docks at Bahia Blanca as a temporary situation. Jamil watched the reaction as the curtain descended on Act One.

That may be a few years in the future, Doctor, Chirlo cautioned. Seaports are expensive construction projects even for wealthy nations. Ours is a poor country.

True, Colonel. Time is relative. By a few years—I mean ten or fifteen—who can say what additional facilities will be built along the coast once we have established Blucher Chemicals? A sulphuric acid factory with its industrial byproducts? A cement plant? Perhaps an oil refinery? Nothing is impossible to imagine. It requires that firststep and Blucher’s is prepared to take that first step.

Second step, Doctor. I think the Canadian nuclear generator was the first.

Kastenburg shook his head. I disagree, Colonel. Power to drive the wheels of industry is useless without the industry.

Yes, well, in any event, Doctor Kastenburg, we are very grateful to both you and Senor Jamil for selecting our country to build your factory. Dr. Artega rubbed his hands together. Kastenburg began the closing pitch. I must caution you that the work we will be doing is a type of production requiring extreme caution. It may appear we are being over-zealous in our demands on security, safety and employment, but we recognize our responsibilities to the community and will be satisfied with nothing less than maximum safety standards.

Chirlo looked at him blankly. I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Doctor.

Jamil tensed in his seat. This was the final act, the last hurdle necessary to give Kastenburg the total uninterrupted secrecy they required for the whole project. The German smiled good-naturedly.

Yes, perhaps I should explain what we are doing, exactly. He paused significantly, as if collecting his thoughts, attempting to translate the technical information into lay terms. Agricultural chemicals are divided into four basic classifications: organic phosphates, chlorinated hydrocarbons, carbonates and elemental. The intensity of toxicity varies with each type and within sub-classifications of the four basic types themselves. The most lethal to humans and animals are the first two and it is these two we will be producing here. Parathion, for example, in its unadulterated form, is so lethal that two drops on the back of a dog’s neck, and it will die of horrible convulsions within a few minutes.

My God! It sounds more dangerous than the nuclear plant! Artega exclaimed.

Nothing is dangerous if it is handled properly, Doctor, but there are many things that become lethal when safety precautions are ignored. You can kill yourself by eating two tubes of toothpaste as easily as poisoning yourself with farm chemicals. The point I am trying to make is that any industrial product must be handled sensibly if accidents are to be avoided. Our products must be handled carefully and securely and we intend to see this is done. Our security precautions may appear excessive to an outsider, but I can assure you there is no substitute for safety, nor will I permit it. He looked at the President and his son-in-law for a moment. Do I have your permission to implement any type of security or safety measures I feel necessary?

Without question, Doctor Kastenburg, without question, Artega stated emphatically.

Thank you. Kastenburg smiled at everyone. He had closed the sale. Jamil smiled back. He dropped the curtain for Act Two in his mind and lit a cigarette, relaxed and satisfied.

Now if you will permit, I’ll go over the blueprints with you in detail and give you a capsulized outline of what we will be doing down on the coast over the next twelve months, assuming of course there are no delays on shipments from Hamburg. He looked apologetic. We have been having a series of unfortunate labor problems with the stevedores union lately.

We’ve been having a few union problems ourselves. I know what you mean, Chirlo admitted, thinking sourly of Rodolfo Munoz and the outrageous settlement he had been forced to cajole the fruit company into accepting. It was a two-year agreement and he knew the clever little lawyer would be back in a few months to begin subliminal bargaining for the next contract, forcing another crisis on the precarious economy.

Max Bruner found Leila in Kuwait after three days of pestering a lonely office girl who had been left to handle the phone and mail that arrived in Jamil’s Beirut offices. His first visit had been met with a curious disinterest.

Who did you say you were? Her face was American, snub-nosed and freckled, but the accent was French.

Max Bruner of C.P.I. I’m an old friend—he paused at her skepticism—of Leila, Galal, Akbar, all of them. Who are you?

I’m the secretary.

Where are they?

Who?

Listen lady, I don’t know if you’re for real or not, but this is important. Supposing you think about it for the rest of the morning and I’ll check back later. He left, exasperated, walking down the narrow staircase to the main floor and past a fight between two elderly Turks in the doorway. They paused in their shouting match to watch him hail a taxi, then returned to their gutteral argument.

When he called in mid-afternoon, the girl was gone. He walked back to the hotel, stopping by the American Express office to pick up the money B.J. had wired in from New York. The following day he phoned again and was told to call back in the afternoon after three. When he turned up at the office instead of phoning, the girl appeared angry. I told you to phone, Mr. Bruner.

Call me Max.

I have passed your request on to someone who might be interested in contacting you. You will have to wait for them to phone you tomorrow, she explained severely.

I see. Can I ask who the mysterious caller will be, or are you going to keep me in suspense until tomorrow?

Mr. Bruner—

Call me Max, he interrupted.

Mister Max, this office is a security pipeline to our people and it is my function to insure security is maintained—that’s why I’m here.

He reached over the desk and brushed a strand of blonde hair aside, then carefully straightened her large, steel rimmed owl glasses. She blushed.

I’ve heard of security, ma petite, but this is ridiculous. If you’ve spoken to Jamil you know I’m a friend, so why the big mystery?

I didn’t speak to Mr. Jamil. Parlez vous francais? she asked with interest.

Un peu. He explained his fractured French. He had lived in Paris for several years working with the wire services’s French Bureau. She laughed at him.

Your accent is terrible! I think we will stay with English.

What are you doing tonight?

She looked surprised. Why?

Because I am waiting for a phone call for someone, somewhere, sometime tomorrow and I have a few hours to kill. How about joining me for dinner, dancing, drinks and discussions as to why a French girl is sitting in a Beirut office answering a phone all day—unless you have other plans?

No other plans, but I refuse to discuss the cause of world revolution with anyone outside the group for security reasons, she said firmly.

Then you’ll join me?

Perhaps. I’ll have to think about it. You’re much older than I am. I’m not sure I should be seen with an older man. He could see she was examining him critically.

Why not?

She shrugged. People might talk.

About your having dinner with me at the hotel? Bruner wasperplexed.

There are spies everywhere, she said seriously.

True. I’ll make sure they put us in a dark corner of the dining room where we can watch the room and still have our backs to the wall in case someone creeps up on us.

Now you’re making fun of me. She pursed her lips angrily.

Well, maybe just a little. He regarded her for a moment, seeing her for the first time as a woman instead of a female object.

How old are you?

Twenty-four. How old are you?

Ah, ma petite, I have reached that age in life when one remembers a great many things, some of which actually happened.

What’s that supposed to mean? Now she was curious.

It means I am forty-two and prefer the polite hypocricy of adults to the vulgar sincerity of the young, but for you I will make an exception. What time shall I pick you up and where?

I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Phoenicia at seven.

Bruner bowed low, sweeping his hand in the Arab form of submission . . . until seven then, . . . and backed out the door. She giggled.

He was on the street before he remembered he had forgotten to ask her name.

Bernadette—Bernadette Boivin.

She was dressed in a severe, high-collared black dress with obscure red velvet piping that wandered around the front like a trail of dried ketchup that had been squirted from a plastic serving squeezer some weeks before. He took her arm and marched towards the bar.

I’ll bet they call you Bernie?

No, they call me Bernadette. They slid into one of the dark tables.

Well, never mind, I’ll call you Bernie. The waiter came over.

What is your pleasure?

Cognac, she informed him.

On an empty stomach? Bruner was aghast. Bring me a Pimms with a twist.

The waiter scribbled and left.

Will you be staying in Beirut long?

Until I get my phone call, then we’ll see. How about you?

I will stay as long as I’m needed. I serve the Cause and wherever the Cause requires me to be . . .

Then that’s where you’ll be. He finished for her. She noddeduncertainly. The waiter returned with coaster discs and drinks.

I keep feeling you are laughing at me, Max Bruner. Are you laughing at me? She sipped the cognac without blinking.

Let’s say I find your point of view interesting. He held his Pimms aloft. To the Cause! She repeated the toast and they both drank to the absurd, seriously.

When did you first become interested in the Cause?

Oh, I’ve always been a revolutionary—since I was at school. Most revolutionaries are pacifists, but I’m an activist.

There’s a difference?

Of course there is. A pacifist believes in the Cause but refuses to do anything about it except talk revolutionary principles and philosophies, but an activist talks very little and instead goes out and makes the revolution happen—it’s a big difference.

Yes, I can see where it would be. Bruner sipped his drink thoughtfully. So how did you meet Jamil, or was it Leila?

Neither; it was Andre; that’s his code name. I don’t know his real name. Well, actually I do, but I’m not going to tell you.

Who is Andre?

She went on as if she hadn’t heard his question. When Pico came to Paris to see Andre, Andre phoned me in Nice to join them with the others. Then we all came to Lebanon—on separate flights, of course.

Of course. He watched her polish off the rest of the cognac.

I’d like to eat now.

Bruner dusted off his Pimms and stood up. Fine, let’s go find that secluded table, Bernie.

The wall tables were occupied, so the maitre d’seated them at one in the middle of the room. He followed her face as she surveyed the room uncomfortably, then took the menu’s unpriced version from the maitre d’.

Are we safe? he asked in a stage whisper.

She ignored the question as she scanned the impressive food and wine list. The deputy commissioner of police is sitting two tables away from us, she informed him.

Bruner resisted his impulse to look. How do you know?

I know. I think I’ll have the seafood platter and a bottle of Chablis. She set the menu on the table and smiled at him invitingly. I spent a night with the commissioner three weeks ago. He is a terrible lover—too fat. I had to sit on top of him. She giggled.

Bruner ordered the seafood platter too when the waiter appeared. He waited until a wine steward had poured the glasses, turning them light amber, then asked her, If you don’t mind my asking, Bernie, what were you doing in bed with the police commissioner?

Fucking.

I see. Do you normally fuck police commissioners?

He sent two men to see me at the office. Not me really, they were looking for Andre and the others, I think. They took me downtown and I met the commissioner. She shrugged and sipped her wine. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew we were in bed—in this hotel, as a matter of fact. You disapprove?"

No.

I looked at it as an assignment for information. She smiled wisely. I got a lot more information out of him than he got out of me.

Such as?

They aren’t certain Andre and the others actually arrived in Beirut. The Deuxieme Bureau made the inquiry when their surveillance teams in Paris reported he was no longer at his home. They don’t know he left France, they just think he might have gone, so we’re all safe for the time being. They’ll never get close enough to the camp to see anyone there; so as long as everyone stays away from Beirut, there won’t be any problems, she said smugly.

The camp at Bint Jbail?

Bernadette nodded. You’ve been there?

A few times. You?

She shook her head. No, Pico decided I should stay here and run the office because I speak all the languages. It’s an important job.

How many languages?

English, French, Arabic, German, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese. I know a little Turkish too, but it’s a hard language to work.

I’m impressed! Bruner was impressed. How did you learn so many?

I don’t know. I find learning languages easy. It’s not really that impressive because Italian, Portuguese, Spanish and French are very similar, you know. English and German are the hard ones.

And Arabic?

My father was born in Algeria. I grew up learning Arabic and French. Are you a good lover, Mr. Bruner?

Call me Max. The waiter appeared with the first serving on a heated dolly. Bruner waited until he had left before replying, I’ve never had any complaints, Bernie. Why?

That’s what every man says. We’ll see. She picked up her knife and fork, holding them European-style, and looked at him. I want you to know I dislike anal intercourse, but do enjoy oral clitoral massage, if it’s done properly.

Bruner blinked. I’ll bear that in mind. They began to eat dinner.

He could hear her voice dragging him back to consciousness from the deep gorge of sleep. He held her hand when she tried to slap his face for the third time. The phone was ringing. He lugged an arm to the instrument on the side table, knocking everything to the floor, then scrambled naked on his knees to find the receiver.

Uh hello, hello? It was Leila calling from Kuwait City.

Max! How are you? The connection was clear, but he knew they were being monitored at one end of the line or the other.

Fine, fine Leila. Sorry if I sound vague. Just woke up. He glanced at his watch. It was after ten.

Late night? She laughed.

Early morning—where’s your husband? He squatted on his haunches like an Indian fakir as Bernadette peered over the edge of the bed smiling. Without the glasses her eyes looked myopic in the morning light.

He’s abroad on a fishing expedition with a friend.

Big fish?

The biggest. Are you staying long?

When are you coming back? he countered.

I can leave anytime, there’s nothing to keep me here any longer. Why aren’t you in Amman?

I was asked to leave by the U.S. Embassy for my eye-witness account of Hashemite justice.

Is it permanent?

Is anything?

Leila laughed. Stay put. I’ll be in by the weekend and we can talk.

Great. I’ll go back to bed.

Oh, by the way, Max, stay away from the secretary at the office."

What?

"The secretary at the office—Bernadette—I’m told she’s a nymphomaniac.’’

Bruner groaned. I can verify it—you’re about twelve hours too late with that advice.

He could hear her laughter floating up from the Persian Gulf as he replaced the receiver. He crawled back into bed and flopped on his back, exhausted from the effort, closing his eyes.

He felt her tongue and lips working wetly on his inert staff and opened his eyes with a snap to see her lithe tawny figure kneeling over him, her face obscured by the flowing yellow hair.

For God’s sake, Bernie! Can’t you wait until after we’ve had our breakfast?

On July 23, 1970, President Nasser announced his acceptance of the American peace plan for the Middle East. Not only did he agree to peace with Israel as a long term objective,