The Zero Hour

“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.”

Dyson stared, his steely-gray eyes penetrating. “Upon completion.”