‘If you could trust job descriptions, there wouldn’t be chaos theory.’
A madonna-faced woman entered the room. She had a supermodel’s figure. He’d noticed her when she’d stayed behind to cue up the next videos. Rhonda called to her, ‘All set up?’
She came over. ‘I think so.’ Her cutaway top displayed the high lift of her breasts.
‘Karen Hunt. Meet John Cain — our great Grade Four.’
‘Hello,’ Cain said, longing to look at the cleft of exposed smooth skin. With effort he kept his eyes on her face. Smooth brow, beautiful jawline. She made Pat look like her mother.
Rhonda said, ‘Karen’s one of my best Grade Ones. She’s handling The Square.’
He’d heard of it — a pervasive cult already a concern to several governments. ‘Must be a blast.’
‘She’ll be telling you about it next session.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Ron’s told me a lot about you,’ the woman said. Her voice sounded like a recorded message. He wondered what kind of training had produced her inner deadness. Pat watched his reactions but needn’t have worried. Hunt was as sexually approachable as a waxwork.
A glass was tapped and Vanqua, in the centre of the room, raised his hand. ‘Now cadets have a work session and observers have one hour free before the next presentation.’
Rhonda turned to Cain, coldly serious again. ‘Let’s talk.’
9
DEBRIEF
When they were back in her den she said to him, ‘You’re officially dead. Feel good?’
‘Marvellous.’
‘And poor Rehana’s really dead.’ She eased her bulk into a chair. ‘A terrible death.’
‘And pointless.’
She passed a hand above her head. ‘Que?’
‘We get our man installed, then Pak One falls out of the sky.’ He sat opposite her, wondering why she didn’t see it. ‘Was it Beg? He was the only top general not on the plane. The other fifteen died, plus the US Defence Attache. Beg took the chopper, flew over the wreckage. What’s your take on it?’
‘Yes, tricky one that.’ She got up, searching for something. ‘There were chemical traces in the cockpit. Could have been poison gas. I’d say the likely lads are Spetsnaz.’
‘Moscow knows?’
‘That we substituted Zia? No. We think they did it to pay him back for funnelling arms to Afghanistan. Can’t blame them. Even Washington was fed up with Zia back in ’86. I know you were fretting because I wouldn’t let you switch him sooner. But we had to wait until we were sure about the Russian withdrawal. And now I’ve got nicotine withdrawal. Where the hell are my fags?’
‘But he sold off half the arms he got.’ His work with Zia and the man’s puppet government still rankled. ‘That was why he blew up the Ojheri dump before the audit. A few more Stinger missiles he didn’t have to account for, tricky bastard. We could have done him six months earlier and got the other half across the border.’
‘The Pentagon factored that in — just gave him twice as much.’ She dropped from sight to search under the desk.
‘Thirty-two years of training. Four and a half more in the field. Then the whole thing up the spout. And you say it’s a success?’
‘A brilliant success.’ Her head popped up. ‘You made the switch right on time. Your duplicate dismissed the regime, dissolved the assemblies, announced elections…’
‘And died in a crash ten weeks later with the top brass of the army. Come on, Ron.’
‘Dear heart, our last state’s still more blessed than the first.’
But he still didn’t believe her.
‘Oh, happy the blossom that blooms on the lea…’ She launched into Sullivan’s most joyous confection, the finale of Ruddigore, dancing about the room, still looking for fags but lifting piles of folders in time with the refrain. It was a curious sight — this woman who shaped the progress of nations, leaping around like an impala.
She stopped moving and stared at him. ‘I’m not just being nice. Honestly. A tremendously difficult switch. And a wonderful result. The first female prime minister of Pakistan.’
‘Her government’s on the take already. The rip-off mindset in that country’s…’
‘But equilibrium’s restored.’ She laughed. ‘Poor wandering one. You still don’t believe me, do you? We’re thrilled with how it’s gone.’
‘Long as you’re happy,’ he shrugged. She was the strategist. Despite dregs of doubt, he felt pleased and suspected the alcohol was making him benign. ‘The link with the CIA in Islamabad helped. And he was the spitting image, right down to the tombstone teeth.’
She was hunting again. ‘Ah! Success has crowned my efforts.’ She pounced on a half-crushed pack and came back to her chair. ‘Now. A serious question.’ She lit the fag and sucked, squinting with satisfaction. ‘The feudal heiress from 7 °Clifton… equipped with her own generators, water tanks, security guards and tutored by daddy to rule… You see, I do read your reports. They say she’s arrogant and cold.’
‘She’s a Gemini.’
‘Spare me the superstition. Will she stick?’
‘If a despot put you under house arrest, smashed around your mother, killed your father, would you face the world with an enchanting demeanour?’
‘Daddy Bhutto was no paragon.’
‘But she cared for him, needs to vindicate him. She’s no pushover either.’
‘Attractive, too. Mind you, she’s still controlling the media. And there’s the chain-smoking, playboy-husband factor. Will she survive?’
He shrugged. ‘Why ask me?’
‘Don’t fudge. What was that Hegel thing? “History teaches us that man learns nothing from history”? You’ve spent years in the country. Stop being disgustingly coy.’ She sucked the fag, eyes narrowed, waiting.
‘Okay. You’ve got a newly married woman with a baby. She’s in charge of a broke, illiterate, bazaar-culture theocracy where nothing works, nothing’s on time. More guns than sewers, zamindars, poverty… I give her three years.’ He shook his head. ‘If our man had survived, at least we’d have control.’
‘What I’ve been labouring to explain, dear heart…’ she gulped the last of her scotch, ‘… is he survived long enough to alter the spin. And the fetching Benazir will do very nicely for now.’
‘Long as you’re happy.’ He sipped his scotch, feeling good.
‘So Zia’s fixed. But our internal problem isn’t. In the next few hours, I may do some inconsistent things. So be warned.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And remember what I told you. Watch your step.’
10
BLOW-UP
Hunt, the drop-dead gorgeous woman with the supermodel body, managed her segment well. She began by showing a video of Gustave Raul, guru of millions and charismatic phoney who, as far as Cain could see, packaged new-age cant as entertainment.
‘What this cult trades on,’ she told them, ‘is a mixture of philosophies arranged in a manipulative way. It takes people’s money and turns them into sociopaths. This gives Raul enormous power. He’s ruthless but clever. He’s now infiltrating bureaucracies and political parties. I think he regards God as his favourite fictional character.’ She concluded the survey of her assignment with a tape showing devotees clustered around the master who sat on a kind of throne. Hunt herself sat at his feet, gazing at him intently and oozing carnality, in stark contrast to her attitude on the platform.
‘What I’ve managed to do,’ she explained, ‘is become his most trusted follower. And yes, I sleep with him, which proved the easy way in.’ She cupped her hands beneath her breasts. ‘I was trained to regard these as weapons. In my case, they have been. Now many of his manipulations are filtered through me. It’s difficult, though. You have to go along with him utterly or he’ll pick you. That means a big part of me has to believe his guff. Meanwhile my team’s getting things ready to replace him. I can’t be specific but ask general questions if you like.’