Joe Strelski embarks on his address.
* * *
And Joe Strelski as a purveyor of disinformation is word perfect.
Burr is bemused. After a decade of deception, it has never occurred to him until today that the best deceivers are the bores. If Strelski were wired from head to toe with lie detectors, Burr is convinced, the needles would not flinch. They would be too bored. Strelski speaks for fifty minutes, and by the time he has finished, fifty are as much as anyone can take. In his word-heavy monotone, the most sensational intelligence is turned to ash. The name of Richard Onslow Roper barely escapes his lips. In London he had used it without compunction. Roper is our target; Roper is the centre of the web. But today in Miami, before a mixed audience of Purists and Enforcers, Roper is relegated to obscurity, and when Strelski trails a half-hearted slide show of the cast, it is Dr. Paul Apostoll who gets star billing as known to us for the last seven years as the cartels' principal intermediary and dealmaker in this hemisphere...
Strelski now logs the wearisome process of pinpointing Apostoll as the primary axis of our initial investigations and offers a laboured account of the successful activities of agents Flynn and Amato in placing a bug in the doctor's New Orleans offices. If Flynn and Amato had repaired a leaking pipe in the men's room, Strelski could not have sounded less thrilled. With a superbly tedious sentence, read from a prepared text, unpunctuated and full of false emphases, he hastens his audience on its way to sleep:
"The basis for Operation Limpet is intelligence indicators from a variety of technical sources to the effect that the three leading Colombian cartels have signed a mutual nonaggression deal with each other as a prerequisite to providing themselves with a military shield commensurate with the financial muscle available and equal to the twin threats foremost in their conceptual thinking." Breath. "These threats are, one" ― another breath ― "armed interdiction by the United States at the behest of the Colombian government." Almost done, but not quite. "Two, the growing strength of the non-Colombian cartels primarily in Venezuela and Bolivia. Three, the Colombian government acting on its own account but with the hands-on encouragement of U. S. agencies."
Amen, thinks Burr, transfixed with admiration.
The history of the case appears to interest nobody, which is probably why Strelski supplies it. Over the last eight years, he says ― another slump in interest ― several attempts have been made by "a variety of parties lured by the cartels' unlimited financial resources" to persuade them to get the habit of buying serious weapons. French, Israelis and Cubans have all pressed their cases, as have a bunch of independent manufacturers and dealers, most with the tacit connivance of their parent governments. The Israelis, assisted by British mercenaries, actually succeeded in selling them a few Galil assault rifles and a training package.
"But the cartels," says Strelski, "well, after a while the cartels kind of lose interest."
The audience knows exactly how the cartels feel.
Screen atmospherics as Dr. Apostoll is discovered on the island of Tortola, in long shot from across the street, seated inside the offices of the Caribbean law firm of Langbourne, Rosen and de Souta, notaries to the nefarious. Two whey-faced Swiss bankers from Grand Cayman are identified at the same table. Major Corkoran sits between them, and to Burr's secret pleasure the signer is holding a drawn fountain pen in his right hand. Across the table from him sits an unidentified Latin American. The languid male beauty next to him, hair tied prettily at the nape, is none other than Lord Langbourne, alias Sandy, legal adviser to Mr. Richard Onslow Roper of the Ironbrand Land, Ore & Precious Metals Company of Nassau, the Bahamas.
"Who took this footage, please, Mr. Strelski?" a very legal American male voice demands sharply in the darkness.
"We did," Burr replies complacently, and the company at once relaxes again: Agent Strelski has not, after all, exceeded his territorial powers.
But now even Strelski cannot keep the excitement out of his voice, and for a brief moment Roper's name is fair and square before them.
"In direct consequence of the nonaggression deal to which I have just had reference, the cartels instructed their representative to take soundings with a couple of illegal arms traders in the hemisphere," he says. "What we see here, according to our sources, but filmed unfortunately without sound, is the first overt approach made by Apostoll to hands-off intermediaries of Richard Roper."
As Strelski sits down, Rex Goodhew bobs to his feet. Goodhew plays it straight today. He isn't funny, he uses none of the English linguistic frills that so infuriate Americans. He openly regrets the involvement of British nationals in the affair, some of them with distinguished names. He regrets that they are able to shelter behind the laws of British protectorates in the Bahamas and the Caribbean. He is heartened by the good relations established at working level between the British and American sides. He wants blood, and he wants Pure Intelligence to help him draw it:
"Our shared aim is to catch the culprits and make a public example of them," he declares, with Truman-like simplicity. "With your help, we want to enforce the rule of law, prevent the proliferation of arms in a volatile region and cut off the supply of drugs" ― in Goodhew's mouth the word sounds like a mild form of aspirin ― "which we believe to be the currency in which the amis bill will be paid ― to wherever they are destined. To this end, we are asking for your full, unquestioning support-in-aid as intelligence-gathering agencies. Thank you."
Goodhew is followed by the federal prosecutor, an ambitious young man whose voice growls like a racing car engine turning over in the pits. He vows he will "bring this thing to court in record time."
Burr and Strelski take questions.
"How about humint in this one, Joe?" a woman's voice calls at Strelski from the back of the hall. The British contingent is momentarily baffled by this piece of Cousins jargon. Humint!
Strelski almost blushes. It is clear he would have preferred her not to ask. His expression is that of a loser who refuses to admit defeat. "We're working on it, Joanne, believe me. Human sources on a thing like this, you have to wait and pray. We have lines, we have hopes, we have our people in there sniffing, and we believe that somebody out there soon is going to need to buy himself some witness protection, is going to call us up one night and ask us to arrange it for him. It's going to happen, Joanne." He nods determinedly, as if he agreed with himself where nobody else did. "It's going to happen," he repeats, as unconvincingly as before.
It is lunchtime. The smoke screen is in place, even if they cannot see it. Nobody remarks that Joanne is one of Strelski's close assistants. The procession toward the door has started. Goodhew departs with Darling Katie and a couple of espiocrats.
"Now listen, you men," Katie can be heard saying as they leave. "No fobbing me off with two fat-free lettuce leaves, d'you hear? I want meat and three veg and plum duff, or I ain't goin' no place. Femagogue indeed, Rex Goodhew. And then you come to us with your begging bowl. I'm going to break your pious neck."
* * *
It is evening. Flynn, Burr and Strelski sit on the deck of Strelski's beach house, watching the moon path flutter in the wake of returning pleasure boats. Agent Flynn is nursing a large glass of Bushmills single malt. He sensibly keeps the bottle at his side. The conversation is sporadic. Nobody wants to talk out of turn about the day's proceedings. Last month, says Strelski, my daughter was a vegan. This month she's in love with the butcher. Flynn and Burr laugh dutifully. Another silence falls.