The Zero Hour

“Well, I spent a lot of time, when I was in Germany working SCOTBOMB, looking into timing devices for bombs. I talked to one colonel at DIA-an old guy, who died a couple of years ago-about an attempted coup in Togo in 1986. This DIA guy mentioned, really in passing, the name of someone thought to be involved in the Togo affair. He was a mercenary terrorist who went by the alias Fürst. One of many aliases this mere used.”

Taylor, who’d been massaging his eyes, suddenly looked at her.

Vigiani said sharply: “Heinrich Fürst?”

“Just ‘Fürst’ or ‘Herr Fürst.’”

“German?” Ullman said.

“No,” Sarah said. “I mean, the alias was, obviously, but not the mere.”

“Did you get a true name on the mere?” Taylor asked.

“No. Just that, and a nickname, sort of a nom de guerre.”

“Which was?”

“Well, the guy was good, really good, and apparently as amoral as they come. Brilliant, ruthless, every adjective you can come up with-top-notch in his field. A white South African-rumored to have once worked for BOSS, the old South African secret intelligence service. And some of his admirers called him ‘Prince of Darkness.’”

“Loves kids, dogs, Mozart, and walks on the beach,” said Vigiani dryly.

Sarah went on: “Well, my German’s pretty rusty by now, but doesn’t Fürst mean-”

Ullman interrupted: “Fürst-Prince-oh, Jesus. Fürst der Finsternis. Translates as ‘Prince of Darkness.’”

“Right,” Sarah said. “Just a possibility.”

Taylor gave a lopsided grin. “Nice. I think I’m beginning to understand why all the raves in your file. You’ve got a mind for this stuff.”

“Thanks. I did, once.”

“You still do. Now, if it’s true that our good Prince is really a South African, we should reach out to Pretoria. See what they have on anyone with this alias.”

“I’d-I’d be careful about that,” Sarah said.

“Oh, come on.” Vigiani scowled. “The new South African government is as cooperative as can be. If you think the guy used to work for BOSS, that’s where the answer will be. Pretoria.”

“Wait a second,” Taylor said. “What’s your thinking, Sarah? That it might get back to him?”

“I think we’ve got to consider the possibility-however remote-that certain white South Africans might be the ones hiring Herr Fürst.”

“White South Africans are out of power,” Vigiani said irritably.

Sarah gave Agent Vigiani a blank look. “I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” she said calmly. “Who do you think mainly staffs the South African intelligence service? White South Africans. Anglos and Afrikaners. And they’re not happy about how the rug was pulled out from under them.”

Vigiani continued to scowl. Sarah noticed that Duke Taylor’s brow was furrowed, so she elaborated: “Say we contact the South African service and ask about a terrorist who calls himself Heinrich Fürst. And some group within that service is in fact running this agent for some nefarious purpose of its own. Suddenly you’ve set off all kinds of alarms.”

Taylor grunted. “So if we’re not going the official route to Pretoria, that rules out both State Department channels and our new legat.” The FBI had sixteen legal attachés, or legats, in American embassies around the world, which exchange information with foreign police and intelligence agencies. For years the FBI did not have a legat in Pretoria, because of the sanctions applied by the U.S. government. Only recently, since the election of Nelson Mandela as president, had the FBI opened an office there. “We need to reach out and touch some people. Some trusted, private source.”

“Do we have a paid asset over there?” Sarah asked.

“Not that I know of. I’ll ask around, but I don’t think so. At least, not a paid asset high enough in the government.”

“Someone with whom the Bureau or the Agency or the government has a relationship, someone reliable?”

“We’ll have to shake the bushes. But the first step is to set up an elite, completely secret task force, Sarah, and I’d like you to be on it.”

“Where? In New York?”

“Right here,” Taylor said.

“I’ve got a little boy, remember?” Sarah said.

“He’s portable. Anyway, it’s summer. He’s not in school now, is he?”

“No,” Sarah said. “But I’d really rather not.”

Taylor regarded her for a moment in puzzled silence. In the old days-during the Hoover era-it was unheard of for an agent to refuse an assignment. In the old days, you’d be told, “You want your paycheck, it’ll be in Washington in thirty days.” They’d have said, “We didn’t issue you a son. You want him, bring him.”

“Agent Cahill,” Taylor said icily, “if our intelligence is accurate, we’re looking at a major act of terrorism that’s going to take place in New York City in a matter of weeks. You want to tell me what the heck you’re working on that’s more important, more urgent, than that?”