The Fourth K by Mario Puzo
Despite her duties Annee had a lot of time to kill and spent it roaming through the city. She was appalled by the slums, especially Harlem; she thought she had never seen a city so dirty, so ill kept, with whole districts looking as if they had been hit by artillery fire. She was disgusted by the mass of homeless, the snarling rudeness of the service people, the cold hostility of the public servants. She had never been to a place so mean-spirited.
The ever-present danger was another matter. The city was a war zone, more perilous than Sicily, for in Sicily violence had strict laws of self-interest, logically conceived, whereas in New York the violence sprang from the malodorous sickness of some animal herd.
There had come one particularly eventful day that made Annee resolve that she would stay in her apartment as much as possible. She went to a late-afternoon American film, a film that irritated her with its moronic machismo. The muscular hero she would have loved to encounter, just to show him how easy it would be to shoot his balls off.
After the film she had strolled along Lexington Avenue to make calls in public phone booths required by her mission. She went into a famous restaurant to give herself a small treat and was affronted by the rudeness of the staff and enraged by the pale imitation of Roman cuisine offered to her. How dare they. In France the owner of the restaurant would be lynched. In Italy the Mafia would burn the restaurant down as a public service.
So, in truth, it came as a tonic when the city of New York tried to make her submit to the final indignities it visited on thousands of its inhabitants and visitors.
During her late evening stroll, the exercise necessary to enable her to sleep, she suffered two separate attempts to rape or rob her.
The first attack, at the beginning of twilight, truly astonished her. It happened right on Fifth Avenue as she was looking at the display in Tiffany’s store window. A man and a woman, very young, not more than twenty, pressed her on either side. The young man had the lynxlike face of the hopeless drug addict. He was extremely ugly, and Annee, who admired physical beauty, immediately disliked him. The young girl was pretty but had the petulance of the spoiled American teenager Annee had observed on the streets. She was dressed in the harlot’s mode made fashionable by the latest screen idols. Both were white.
The young man pressed hard against her and Annee felt hard metal through the thin jacket she was wearing. She was not alarmed.
“I’ve got a gun,” the young man whispered. “Give my girl your bag. Nice and friendly. No fuss and you won’t get hurt.”
“Do you vote?” Annee asked.
The young man, distracted, said, “What?” His girlfriend stretched out her hand for the bag. Annee took the girl’s hand, then swung her around as a shield, at the same time using her other hand to hit the girl full in the face with her ringed other hand. An incredible amount of blood splashed Tiffany’s elegantly dressed window, causing passersby to stop in amazement.
Annee said coolly to the young man, “You’ve got a gun, shoot.” By this time he had swung his body around away from where he held the gun in his pocket. The fool had seen that move in gangster movies. He didn’t know it was a completely useless stance unless the victim froze. But to be on the safe side she grabbed the man’s other arm and pulled it out of its socket. As the young man screamed in agony his hand came out of the pocket and a screwdriver clanged against the pavement. Of course, Annee thought, stupid adolescent cunning. She walked away from them.
At this point it would have been prudent to return to her apartment, but out of some territorial imperative she continued her stroll. But then, right on Central Park South, lined with its expensive luxury hotels, guarded by its uniformed doormen, and limousines parked along the street with burly chauffeurs, she was surrounded by four black youths.
They were handsome high-spirited fellows that she liked on sight. They were very much like the youthful rascals in Rome who felt it their duty to accost women in the streets. One of the youths said to her playfully, “Hey, baby, take a walk in the park with us. You’ll have a good time.”
They barred her path, she could not move forward. She was amused by them, she did not doubt she would have a good time. It was not they who angered her, it was the doormen and the chauffeurs who deliberately ignored her plight.
“Go away,” she said, “or I’ll scream and those doormen will call the police.” She knew she could not scream, could not afford to do so because of her mission.
One of the youths, grinning, said, “Go ahead and scream, lady.” But she could see them poised on their toes ready to flee.
When she did not scream, another of the youths understood immediately that she would not. “Hey, she won’t scream,” he said. “You hear her accent? I bet she has some drugs. Hey, lady, give us some.”
They all laughed with delight. One of them said, “Or else we’ll call the police.” And they laughed again.
Before leaving Italy, Annee had been briefed on the dangers of New York. But she was a highly trained operational agent and had absolute confidence in that training. So she had refused to carry a gun, fearing that it might compromise the mission. However she wore a specially designed zircon ring that could do a great deal of damage. And in her handbag was a pair of scissors more lethal than a Venetian dagger. So she did not feel herself in any danger. She only worried about the police becoming involved and being questioned by them. She was sure that she could escape without any fuss.
But she had not taken into account her nervousness and natural ferocity. One of the youths reached out a hand to touch her hair and Annee hissed, “Get out of my way, you black bastard, or I’ll kill you.”
All four went quiet, their good humor gone. She saw the hurt brooding look come into their eyes and she felt a pang of guilt. She realized that she had made a mistake. She had called them black bastards out of no racial prejudice. It was merely a form of Sicilian invective, where when you quarreled with a hunchback you called him a hunchback bastard, if you quarreled with a cripple you called him a cripple bastard. But how could these young men know this? She almost apologized. But it was too late.
One of the youths said, “I’m gonna punch this white cunt in the face.” And in that moment Annee went out of control. She flicked her ringed hand into his eye. A hideous slit appeared that seemed to detach the youth’s eyelid from his face. The other youths stared in horror as Annee calmly turned a corner and then ran.
That was enough even for Annee. Back in her apartment she was filled with remorse for having been so rough, for endangering the mission with her willfulness. She had actually sought out trouble to relieve her own attack of nerves.
She must take no further risks, she must not leave the apartment except for the duties necessary to complete the mission. She must stop calling up her memories of Romeo, control her rage at his murder. And most important of all she must make a final decision. If all else failed, would she turn this into a suicide mission?
Christian Klee flew to Rome to have dinner with Sebbediccio. He noted that Sebbediccio had almost twenty bodyguards, which did not seem to affect his appetite.
The Italian was in high spirits. “Wasn’t it fortunate that our Pope killer took his own life?” he said to Klee. “What a circus the trial would have been with all our left-wingers marching in support. It’s too bad that fellow Yabril wouldn’t do you the same favor.”
Klee laughed. “Different systems of government. I see you’re well protected.”
Sebbediccio shrugged. “I think they are after bigger game. I have some information for you. That woman, Annee, that we’ve let run loose. Somehow we lost her. But we suspect that she’s now in America.”
Klee felt a thrill of excitement. “Do you know what port of embarkation? What name she is using?”
“We don’t know,” Sebbediccio said. “But we think she is now operational.”
“Why didn’t you pick her up?” Christian said.
“I have high hopes for her,” Sebbediccio said. “She is a very determined
Klee did not need to ask why the Italian security chief had not sent this information through regular channels to Washington. He knew Sebbediccio did not want his close surveillance of Annee made part of an official record in the United States; he did not trust the Freedom of Information Act in America. Also, he wanted Christian Klee in his personal debt.
In Sherhaben, Sultan Maurobi received Christian Klee with the utmost friendliness, as if there had never been the crisis of a few months before. The Sultan was affable but appeared on guard and a little puzzled. “I hope you bring me good news,” he said to Klee. “After all the regrettable unpleasantness, I am very anxious to repair relations with the United States and, of course, your President Kennedy. In fact, I hope your visit is in regard to this matter.”
Klee smiled. “I came for that very purpose,” he said. “You are in a position, I think, to do us a service that might heal the breach.”
“Ah, I am very happy to hear that,” the Sultan said. “You know, of course, that I was not privy to Yabril’s intentions. I had no foreknowledge of what Yabril would do to the President’s daughter. Of course, I have expressed this officially, but would you tell the President personally that I have grieved over this for the past months. I was powerless to avert the tragedy.”
Klee believed him, that the murder had not been in the original plans. And he thought how all-powerful men like Sultan Maurobi and Francis Kennedy were helpless in the face of uncontrollable events, the will of other men.
But now he said to the Sultan, “Your giving up Yabril has reassured the President on that point.” This they both knew was mere politeness. Klee paused for a moment and then went on. “But I’m here to ask you to do me a personal service. You know I am responsible for the safety of my President. I have information that there is a plot to assassinate him. That terrorists have already infiltrated into the United States. But it would be helpful if I could get information as to their plans and to their identity and location. I thought that with your contacts you might have heard something through your intelligence agencies. That you might give me some scraps of information. Let me emphasize that it will only be between the two of us. You and I. There will be no official connection.”
The Sultan seemed astonished. His intelligent face screwed up into an expression of amused disbelief. “How can you think such a thing?” he asked. “After all your destruction, after all our tragedies, would I get involved in such dangerous activities? I am the ruler of a small rich country that is powerless to remain independent without the friendship of great powers. I can do nothing for you or against you.”
Klee nodded his head in agreement. “Of course that is true. But Bert Audick came to visit you and I know that had to do with the oil industry. But let me tell you that Mr. Audick is in very serious trouble in the United States. He would be a very bad ally for you to have in the coming years.”
“And you would be a very good ally?” the Sultan asked, smiling.
“Yes,” Klee said. “I am the ally that could save you. If you cooperate with me now.”
“Explain,” the Sultan said. He was obviously angered by the implied threat.
Klee spoke very carefully. “Bert Audick is under indictment for conspiracy against the United States government because his mercenaries or those of his company fired on our planes bombing your city of Dak. And there are other charges. His oil empire could be destroyed under certain of our laws. He is not a strong ally at this moment.”
The Sultan said slyly, “Indicted but not convicted. I understand that will be more difficult.”
“That is true,” Klee said. “But in a few months Francis Kennedy will be reelected. His popularity will bring in a Congress that will ratify his programs. He will be the most powerful President in the history of the United States. Then Audick is doomed, I can assure you. And the power structure of which he is a part will be destroyed.”
“I still fail to see how I can help you,” the Sultan said. And then more imperiously, “Or how you can help me. I understand you are in a delicate position yourself in your own country.”
“That may or may not be true,” Klee said. “As for my position, which is delicate, as you say, that will be resolved when Kennedy is reelected. I am his closest friend and closest adviser and Kennedy is noted for his loyalty. As to how we can help each other, let me be direct without intending any disrespect. May I do so?”
The Sultan seemed to be impressed and even amused by this courtesy. “By all means,” he said.
Klee said, “First, and most important, here is how I can help you. I can be your ally. I have the ear of the President of the United States and I have his trust. We live in difficult times.”
The Sultan interrupted smilingly, “I have always lived in difficult times.”
“And so you can appreciate what I am saying better than most,” Klee retorted sharply.
“And what if your Kennedy does not achieve his aims?” the Sultan said. “Accidents befall, heaven is not always kind.”
Christian Klee was cold now as he answered, “What you are saying is, what if the plot to kill Kennedy succeeds? I am here to tell you that it will not. I don’t care how clever and daring the assassins may be. And if they try and fail and there is any trace to you, then you will be destroyed. But it doesn’t have to come to that. I’m a reasonable man and I understand your position. What I propose is an exchange of information between you and myself on a personal basis. I don’t know what Audick proposed to you, but I’m a better bet. If Audick and his crowd wins, you still win. He doesn’t know about us. If Kennedy wins, you have me as your ally. I’m your insurance.”
The Sultan nodded and then led him to a sumptuous banquet. During the meal the sultan asked Klee innumerable questions about Kennedy. Then finally, almost hesitantly, he asked about Yabril.
Klee looked him directly in the eye. “There is no way that Yabril can escape his fate. If his fellow terrorists think they can get him released by holding even the most important of hostages, tell them to forget about it. Kennedy will never let him go.”
The Sultan sighed. “Your Kennedy has changed,” he said. “He sounds like a man going berserk.” Klee didn’t answer. The Sultan went on very slowly. “I think you have convinced me,” he said. “I think you and I should become allies.”
When Christian Klee returned to the United States, the first person he went to see was the Oracle. The old man received him in his bedroom suite, sitting in his motorized wheelchair, an English tea spread on the table in front of him, a comfortable armchair waiting for Christian opposite.
The Oracle greeted him with a slight wave to indicate that he should sit down. Christian served him tea and a tiny bit of cake and a small finger sandwich, then served himself. The Oracle took a sip of tea and crumbled the bit of cake in his mouth. They sat there for a long moment.
Then the Oracle tried to smile, a slight movement of the lips, the skin so dead it barely moved. “You’ve got yourself into a fine mess for your fucking friend Kennedy,” he said.
The vulgarism, spoken as if from the mouth of an innocent child, made Christian smile. Again he wondered, was it a mark of senility, a decaying of the brain, that the Oracle who had never used profanity was now using it so freely? He waited until he had eaten one of the sandwiches and gulped down some hot tea, then he answered, “Which fix?” he said. “I’m in a lot of them.”
“I’m talking about that atom bomb thing,” the Oracle said. “The rest of the shit doesn’t matter. But they are accusing
Who else in the world was there to tell? Who else in the world would understand? “What I’m astonished about,” Klee said, “is how quickly they got on to me.”
“The human mind leaps to an understanding of evil,” the Oracle said. “You are surprised because there is a certain innocence in the doer of an evil deed. He thinks the deed so terrible that it is inconceivable to another human being. But that is the first thing they jump at. Evil is no mystery at all, love is the mystery.” He paused for a moment, started to speak again and then relaxed back in his chair, his eyes half closed, dozing.
“You have to understand,” Christian said, “that letting something happen is so much easier than actually doing something. There was the crisis, Francis Kennedy was going to be impeached by the Congress. And I thought just for a second, if only the atom bomb exploded it would turn things around. It was in that moment that I told Peter Cloot not to interrogate Gresse and Tibbot. I had the time to do it. The whole thing flashed by in that one second and it was done.”
The Oracle said, “Give me some more hot tea and another piece of cake.” He put the cake in his mouth, tiny crumbs appearing on his scarlike lips. “Yes or no: Did you interrogate Gresse and Tibbot before the bomb exploded? You got the information out of them and then didn’t act on it?”
Christian sighed. “They were only kids. I squeezed them dry in five minutes. That’s why I couldn’t have Cloot at the interrogation. But I didn’t want the bomb to explode. It just went so quick.”
The Oracle started to laugh. It was a curious laugh even in so old a man. It was a series of grunted heh, heh, heh’s. “You’ve got it ass backwards,” the Oracle said. “You had already made up your mind that you would let the bomb explode. Before you told Cloot not to interrogate them. It didn’t go by in a second, you planned it all out.”