Five Minutes to Midnight

CHAPTER ONE

The moment he saw the lickspit grin on the manager's glistening rotund face, he was overcome by a strong urge to turn on his heel and flee. Driving there, he had toyed with the idea of using the blinding downpour as an excuse for not showing up. It was one of those hot, muggy Washington days which he had come to despise since he began dividing his time between D.C. and his post in Berkeley, and the closer he got to the bookstore, the more disgusted he felt.

Why, for Christ's sake, had he given in? How had he let anyone talk him into the autographing party? It was one thing agreeing to give up his pseudonym, his privacy; it was another to personally peddle his book like some cheap salesman, to prostitute his academic and professional stature by autographing trite inscriptions to people he neither knew nor cared to know. He felt more comfortable in the role of talk-show guest, helping promote the book on television or radio or giving newspaper interviews, where the selling was indirect, subtle. There it could be done with a modicum of intelligence and a veneer of respectability. He winced in anticipation of the condescending expressions on his colleagues' faces.

"We're so honored to have you here, Professor Sartain." The sweaty hand of the disagreeable young man was already pumping his. "Murphy, Roger Murphy. I'm the manager of the store. Really, it's really an honor to have you."

Too late now, Sartain thought. He had to go ahead with it; there was no way out. He forced a smile and hoped it looked pleasant. "It's my pleasure to be here, Mr. Murphy."

The store looked impressive by bookshop standards: large, tastefully appointed, and obviously well stocked. After a brief handshaking reception with some of the staff on the second-floor gallery, the professor was led to a podium on the ground level. A small gathering of people was already standing in front of it, some holding copies of his book with its unmistakable dark blue dust jacket.

The group was a mixed bag of late-afternoon browsers: some obvious bibliophiles, some casual autograph seekers whose favorite best sellers were those which had been personally inscribed by a visiting author, and others whose main purpose was to avoid the drenching downpour outside.

Murphy tested the microphone. Sartain felt relieved to finally be on the podium. This was definitely his territory. As Murphy introduced him, reading from the curriculum vitae the professor's impressive credentials, Sartain mused on the reasons why he always preferred facing an assembly of people from behind a podium, microphone in hand, to the personal, one-to-one contact with ordinary people as he had just so awkwardly endured on the second floor. Could he be guilty of the same contempt for the non-intelligentsia of which he so often accused his colleagues? He must talk it over with Linda, he decided, inwardly chuckling at the relish with which she always dissected his motivtes; laying bare his ego like the innards of an earthworm.

He only half heard Murphy's litany of his accomplishments. "Our distinguished guest... the author of... professor of political science... internationally known expert on guerrilla warfare and terrorism... fellow of the prestigious Harry S Truman Institute for International Affairs at... lecturer at the American University in Beirut and at... author of The Rescue, a novel about a daring commando raid... the real man behind the pen name..."

His thoughts were back with Linda in Tiburon when the sound of applause snapped him back. He took the microphone from Murphy.

Just as Sartain opened his mouth to begin, a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder interrupted. He used it to help break the ice.

"I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, ladies and gentlemen," he began, rolling his eyes toward the skylight "And owing to my penchant for long-winded dissertations, to which any of my students will attest, I suppose I'd best stick to a course of merely taking toy questions you might have."

Sartain's bio placed his birthdate in 1925, but those in the audience who had expected a soft-bellied, myopic college professor were surprised to be confronting a ruggedly built individual. Sartain, with his trim torso and dark, full hair, looked more like an athlete than an academic. Most people's immediate impression was of a man of action rather than a university intellectual.

A tousle-headed, bearded young man in an orange Windbreaker, obviously a student, was the first person to raise his hand. "How long ago did you start writing The Rescue, Dr. Sartain, and when did you complete it?"

"Oh, I started to write it..." he paused, puffing on his pipe, reckoning aloud, "Now let's see. It was shortly before the La Guardia bombing, I remember that... I suppose it took roughly seven or eight months to complete. I completed writing it roughly two months prior to the Entebbe raid. Does that answer your question?"

The young man nodded.

Sartain took the next question from a man who looked every inch a Washington lawyer, from his executive all-weather coat to his hard-set features. When the man spoke, Sartain knew his impressions had been right.

"Your portrayal of the alleged events in Libya, which, I believe, is your fictional North African country, is remarkably similar to what has transpired in Entebbe, including, for example, your description of the segregation of the Jewish passengers from the others. How do you explain such precise foresightedness? Was it a coincidental fluke, clairvoyance, or, perhaps, complicity?"

The stern manner in which the innuendo was put forward elicited a few twitters from the crowd. Sartain could hardly conceal his own amusement.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," the professor began, "but it is none of the above. It has more to do with my belief that those who study terrorism must train themselves to think like terrorists if they're not to misdiagnose the whole phenomenon. What I did was to apply this theory in the writing of my novel. To give you a broad illustration: frequently the objectives of terrorism are obscured by random attacks involving death and destruction which do not appear to benefit the terrorists' cause. Yet the objectives of terrorism are not at all those of conventional combat. To paraphrase one of my eminent colleagues," Sartain continued, "terrorism is publicity, is theater, and it aims at the demoralization of society with the hope that it will bring about total erosion of our trust in our democratic institutions. The terrorist thrives on our outrage, manipulates our emotions, and plays on our inner fears." He paused then, realizing he was getting carried away. His audience was silent.

Sartain managed a smile and in a much calmer tone continued. "You must understand," he addressed the lawyer, "that what happened in my book would have taken place sooner or later--in Uganda, Libya, Southern Yemen, or any other Third World dictatorship. That the actual hijacking took place shortly after The Rescue was published is only a matter of pure coincidence."

"Yes, but what about the Israeli--"

The professor indicated with his hand that he hadn't finished, that he was about to answer exactly what the man had in mind. "As for the Israeli response," he continued, "it's even simpler. I've been studying Israeli reaction to such acts for some time now. Knowing their attitude, knowing their capabilities, and being personally acquainted with some of the people involved, I was able to make a sound, educated guess as to how they would respond when faced with such contingencies. As it turned out," Sartain shrugged, "I was right on target."

The bookstore manager beamed. It was evident the professor was getting through to his steadily growing audience. Luckily the store was spacious. Murphy felt proud to be the manager of the largest bookstore in D.C.

Sartain looked at the pretty blonde toward the back. This time her hand was up, waving at him, and she smiled broadly when he acknowledged her. She reminded him of someone he had once known.

"Ah've read your book, Dr. Sartain, and Ah found it extremely entertainin'," she drawled with a voice dripping Alabama honey. "Ah even recommended it to some of mah friends. It was so... gosh-awful realistic. Ah wondah if you personally have evah been hijacked?"

Murphy seized the microphone before Sartain could reply and interjected triumphantly (as though he had had something to do with it) that, indeed, the professor had also been consultant to several airlines on the handling and prevention of air piracy.

God save me from bubblebrains, Sartain silently wished, as Murphy's disclosure set the audience abuzz.

The attorney's hand went up again, and he demanded to know precisely what kind of things the professor had done and for which airlines exactly. Sartain barely managed to conceal his vexation with Murphy. Knowing that this was not what they wanted to hear, he explained that all he had done was to help formulate policies, draw guidelines; and suggest some preventive methods.

The tense student with the wild, curly hair, who had inched his way to the very front of the podium, pulled his fist from his Windbreaker's pocket, and shot it into the air. Before Sartain could beckon to anyone else, he was already asking his question. The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. "Don't you think, Professor, that it's very possible your book gave some ideas to the Entebbe hijackers?"

"If indeed this was the case," the professor was fully prepared for just such a question, "then the hijackers, my friend, were guilty of putting my book aside halfway through. On the other hand the Israelis apparently did not find me as tedious and managed to stay with the story to its conclusion." There was laughter, even some applause.

Murphy, consulting his watch, stepped in. "Two more questions," he announced with a grin. "We must sell books, you know."

Sartain winced as he accepted the mike again. The crowd had tripled since the session began. More people were coming into the store as the downpour slackened considerably. They were standing now shoulder to shoulder. Only very few had left. Murphy couldn't have been more satisfied.

Sartain pointed to a nondescript man in his late thirties whose only outstanding feature was his red hair. Concentrating more on the man's appearance than what he was saying, Sartain nearly missed the question.

"Sir, in The Rescue you wrote that Carlos, or the Jackal as you mostly referred to him, was the mastermind behind your fictional terrorist attack. You clearly suggested that even though he didn't personally appear in the actual skyjacking, he was the one who planned and oversaw it. It is common knowledge that Carlos is a real character, and so I'd like to know if you suspect that it was really he who masterminded the Entebbe hijacking, and if that is the case, do you fear he is contemplating revenge for the thwarting of his efforts as you hinted in the conclusion of your book?"

Realizing that the session was beginning to drag on, Sartain kept his reply simple. "The answer to both your questions are qualified 'yeses.' I don't mean to be abrupt, but time is running out."

"May I have the final question, please," a man's voice from the center of the crowd entreated. "It's an appropriate one."

Sartain agreed.

"Just briefly," the man proceeded, "are you planning to write another novel? And if so, could you tell us what it will be about?"

Sartain quickly responded that, indeed, he had already started to work on another novel. One in which Carlos, the Jackal, the world's archterrorist, will figure as the main adversary. Like The Rescue the new book will deal with transnational terrorism, but on a level far more ominous than skyjacking or conventional sabotage.

"I am convinced," Sartain drove his point, "that there is a much greater danger to the phenomenon of terrorism than what society has witnessed so far. And so this hook will focus on what, I'm afraid, we will soon have to grapple with, namely, the specter of terrorism going nuclear."

Sartain knew he had touched a raw nerve, that he had laid open a deep, hidden anxiety. He couldn't tell, however, whether the silence that followed his last remarks was from shock, concern, fear, or anger... and whether it was directed against him or those faceless, dreaded terrorists. What response had he meant to evoke? He wasn't sure.

Sartain was relieved when the spell was broken by a stocky middle-aged man who "asked in a heavy European accent, "Don't you tink, Mr. Professor, dat dis iss dangerous... dat dis iss giving dem... doze bandits... bad ideas... you know vat I mean?"

Sartain saw the nods of agreement ripple through the crowd. He knew that the man, in his inarticulate way, had spoken for many of them. He wanted to respond in a manner that...

Suddenly, as if to finally seal Sartain's dislike for him, Murphy stepped in and declared that there would be no more questions. "I would like to take this opportunity to thank the professor for..."

Sartain shunted the man aside and seized the microphone. "Look, I know we're running late," he apologized, "but this question deserves an answer, and I feel I must fully respond to it."

It was then that he saw him, standing apart, like a shadow from the past. His features were obscured by the distance. But Sartain's heart skipped in sudden recognition of the unmistakable face with those unforgettable horn-rims. The beard threw him off for a split second, but there was no question it was the man. Framed in the gray light of the street window, he seemed a specter from Sartain's past come to haunt his present.

He wondered how long Atkins had been standing there, but he was glad he had not noticed him before. It would have made him too self-conscious.

What a damn coincidence, he thought, or was it a coincidence? Of all the people he knew, Atkins was most probably the last person he ever expected to see there. The man represented another era, another time, another life--a decade that seemed like a century... He forced himself away from these thoughts and back to his audience.

"The danger is there, ladies and gentlemen, whether I write about it or not, and we cannot bury our heads in the sand and hope that it will go away." He had difficulty framing his thoughts with the presence of Atkins looming up from the back.

"We must be aware of the dangerous potentialities if we are to protect ourselves. The truth is that the public has precious few sources of information about the magnitude of the threat I guarantee you that certain dangerous people are, even as we speak, aware of the possibilities of acquiring some nonconventional leverage and are plotting toward that end. And unless we publicize the danger before a catastrophe occurs..."

Sartain was doing his best to sound clear. He knew the subject was far too complex to explain briefly; he was afraid he was muddling it, particularly with Murphy conspicuously checking his watch every ten seconds and Atkins hovering back there. That's why he was writing a book about it, he justified to himself--the entire phenomenon was too immense for any other treatment

"What I am trying to say is that the dangers involved in nuclear terrorism are not just physical, and by that I mean the loss of life and property. These we can overcome... the way we overcome natural disasters. What is threatened most, I believe, is our way of life, our democratic system, our survival as a free nation. Much will depend on how we react to this crisis, and how we react depends on how much we know..."

Damn it, Sartain thought, he sounded like some blithering Cassandra. He fought for control, for organization. He knew he had to try once more. He concentrated on fact and let emotion go.

"Let me give you a personal example. Back in nineteen seventy-four, when there was hardly any talk yet about the dangers of nuclear sabotage, I became concerned about the quality of the security at our nuclear installations. I decided to test one of them, the nuclear reactor at Dresden, Illinois, though security was negligent at all of them. I called up, using a fictitious name... He paused and smiled.

"Anyway I told them that I was a student writing a term paper on the peaceful use of nuclear energy. Yes, that was all it took to gain entry, nothing more... I went there, announced myself, and was never questioned further. It didn't, for example, disturb anyone that perhaps I looked a bit too old to be a student. The main point is that I had a briefcase with me in which I had placed a large bottle filled with ordinary tap water but labeled nitroglycerine. In addition I had a hunting knife hidden in my jacket...

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but these two articles created no commotion whatsoever. Primarily because they were never discovered as no one bothered to search me at any time, not even when I started dropping some strange comments. Believe me if I tell you it was as easy walking into that nuclear plant as it was for you today to come to this store, disregarding the rain, of course..."

He let the laughter subside before he continued; now he felt he was getting to them again with his more personal approach. He glanced once more at the man by the window, wondering if Atkins realized he'd recognized him. "I reported the incident to the AEC, now the NRC, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and wrote about it in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. As a result of this, and other more publicized warnings by people such as Mason Wildrich and Theodore Taylor, security in the last few years has increased substantially but, I regret to say, far from sufficiently. Much, much more attention should be given to this subject. The public at large should be aware of the very serious problems we face."

Sartain consulted his watch again. "Time really is running out. Let me just say that it is my conviction that publicity in this case will lead to increased public pressure, which, in turn, should hasten the introduction of better preventive measures and the development of more effective deterrents."

By now Murphy's impatience had manifested itself in beads of sweat on his forehead. Much of Sartain wouldn't have minded prolonging the man's discomfort, he thanked the crowd for its patience and announced that he was ready to autograph their copies of his book.

At least a dozen people had passed through the line before Atkins appeared before him. They stared at each other for a long moment, each noting the inevitable physical changes of the passage of time. Aside from the scruffy, grizzled beard that covered his face, his old boss hadn't changed much. Come to think of it, Sartain thought Atkins had always looked middle-aged.

"Good to see you, Fred." Sartain offered his hand.

Atkins didn't say anything. He just shook the hand and nodded, still gazing at him intently.

There was an awkward moment before Sartain took the two copies of The Rescue that Atkins gave him to sign. "You shouldn't have paid for these. I would very much have liked to give them to you as a gift." Sartain still couldn't shake the oddness of encountering him under these circumstances.

"Don't be silly, Sam," Atkins finally spoke in that familiar sonorous voice. "I appreciate the thought, but I won't have it. Anyway these aren't for me. They're for my kids. I read the book as soon as it came out, before Entebbe." He winked. "Incidentally you did a good job up there, Professor. I was rather impressed."

The people behind Atkins were getting impatient for their turn. Sartain opened the two books.

Atkins looked behind him at the line. "Sam, how much longer will you be here?"

Sartain handed him the inscribed books and checked his watch. "I suppose for another hour. I'd like to visit with you, it's been so long since--"

Atkins interrupted as the lady behind him gave him a noticeable nudge. "I would too, but I can't stay that long. How about dinner tonight? Or tomorrow night? Beverly and I would love to have you over. How about it?"

"I'm sorry, Fred, but I'm catching a plane tonight for San Francisco. I'll be staying there through the weekend, until next Tuesday." He hesitated, not quite sure he wanted to pursue the subject or ever see the man again. What the hell, he thought, it's only dinner.

"I'll take a rain check though, Fred. When I come back next week sometime, or the week after? Here's my number at home."

"No problem. It's a deal. Take care, Sam."

"You too, Fred."

The woman in line nearly shoved Atkins out of the way, and as Sartain mechanically signed an inscription in her book, he could not help but chuckle. If only these people knew that the bothersome squatty man who had held up the line had been his boss at the spy agency, the superspy agency, the NSA. There it was, the intrigue, the mystique, the undercover hero they all searched for... the true cloak-and-dagger connection in his life. There they were, in the presence of a superspy, a real superspy, more real than his novel's hero, and it all went by them so totally unperceived... as, of course, it should have. The irony of it all.