The voice of his lieutenant carried across the study on the scrambler-telephone speaker, reporting in, summarizing highlights of the hunting expedition along the arid edge of southern California. Picking off the fruit-pickers, providing a service. It had been a live-fire, sure-kill exercise for the Forresters, a chance and a challenge to hone skills, sharpen procedures, before the main event, the coming war. There was nothing wrong in acting as basic pest control, unofficial US Border Patrol. Initiative, free enterprise, were the lifeblood of his nation, prevention and purification the goal of his fraternity. Attrition among the sneaky pyongs was merely a by-product.
‘Tell ya, boss, the fuckin’ tapas contrabands are shitting their pants down here …’
‘The way we want it. Should make ’em question their migrating instincts.’
‘Sure doin’ that. We’re reaching ’em before the cops get to say the usual “Que estan haciendo aqui?”.’
Bell grunted. ‘Like it. You safe?’
‘Accounted for and out of theatre.’
‘I’m proud of you boys. How’s radio traffic?’
‘Confused,’ came the reply. ‘Federal groups are runnin’ round, deploying choppers, skirmish lines, the works. Everyone’s frettin’.’
‘Specially people on the Hill. They hate losing their perks, their cheap maids. Diplomatic stink’ll be worse than the bodies they find.’
‘If the hispanics stop groanin’ about their friggin’ rights, their dumbfuck ideas for independence and Aztlan neverneverland, we’ve done our job.’
‘I’ll second that.’ Whites accounted for 75 per cent of the deaths in California, only 30 per cent of births. In short, they faced extinction. The remedy lay either in restorative Caucasian breeding programmes or in targeted culls of aliens by Forrester hit squads. Training aside, it explained the sitrep, the mission debriefing, the presence of his teams in non-core activities. Striking a blow against ethnic globalization. He could not have wished for more upbeat news.
Tidings which merited a colossal and self-congratulatory Montecristo A, all 9.25 inches and 47 gauge of it. On the other hand, he preferred the fullness and perfection of the Cohiba Esplendidos on his palate, the sledgehammer punch of a Bolivar, enjoyed the mellow rounded 7-inch exclusivity and vitola of a Trinidad Fundadores. The latter, a hierarch’s favourite, luxury original of the famed El Laguito factory, it had to be. He selected one, sniffed it, pinch-tested between thumb and index, guillotined the cap, and rotated it into life over the flame of a gold and lapis lighter. Sheer quality, supreme expense.
First draw, initial taste, a filtering through the senses. ‘Have yourself a rest, stay in shape, and wait on my command.’
‘I hear you, boss.’
The line extinguished. He retrieved his tumbler of white rum from the polished rosewood sideboard and, with glass and smoke in hand, made his way through the tiered reception areas of the house to the pool and party deck. Among the affluent, style rarely got in the way of contents. The place stank of misdirected lavishness, of fresh flowers and taste fusion, a white architectural cascade amalgamating Etruscan and Roman villa with Cecil B. DeMille and Rancho Mirage utopia. He had designed it himself, commissioned the fountains and statuary, laid out the grounds and water gardens, built the observatory, planted the date palms, tipped the concrete for the hidden command bunker. It was both defensive position and recreational bolt-hole, a place in which to entertain, a glass and marble palace headquarters from which to assign.
A single visitor sat comfortable yet alert in a chair-lounger, screened from the desert sun by a canvas umbrella, ambient coolness guaranteed by exterior air conditioning. He sipped on a brandy and Coke, looked out appreciatively on the citrus oasis planted decoratively at the outer borders of the property. The South African had come to America. New identity, changed passport, transformed with lightened hair, close-groomed beard and tinted spectacles, he was very different to the figure who had liaised with Al Azania’s Tiger in London. Indeed, to all intents, for several purposes, and to any US Customs or police inquisitor, he was of German extraction and living in Canada. Mixing business with pleasure.
He turned and raised his drink in salutation. ‘Nice touch, the Klipdrift.’
‘Wanted to make you feel at home.’ Bell pulled up a chair, eased himself down. ‘We flew in a bottle specially. There’s even some Oude Meester if you want it.’
‘Appreciated, Boet.’
The Havana tip glowed. Savour, exhalation. ‘Attention to detail’s what it’s all about.’
‘So how is the detail? We can’t afford mistakes. I’ve seen enough of those already.’
‘Redundancy’s built in, guaranteed. You’ve my word on it. Feds have heard about the Forresters. So fuckin’ what?’
‘So I’m concerned.’ A long pull on the brandy Coke. ‘It was a close thing in London. They didn’t snatch me, but they were watching, moved against Azania’s man. Tiger had his teeth pulled, his balls shot off. The moer is now a throw-rug in a fokken morgue. It means they’ve made connections, are searching for international dimensions. That means us.’
‘Don’t I know it? There’s a Brit Security Service guy flown out to aid investigations.’
‘Then you understand the need for caution.’
‘Yep, but not the need for pessimism. We’re ahead of them.’
‘Currently.’ Three ice cubes clinked, restocking the glass. On the far side of the pool, a pair of Dogo Argentinos – massive-jawed, mastiff-blooded – canines bred originally to take down escaped slaves, panted and prowled restlessly like lionesses. ‘Feds, MI5. They have leads.’
‘So do we. Creates a more interesting campaign map.’ Smoke wreathed in a dismissive haze about Bell’s head.
‘I don’t like the London abort.’
‘From what I can see, the town’s cooking.’
‘And LA? What about Professor Duncan Pitt?’
A contented puff on the cigar, a smirk. ‘Well, let me see, now. That line of questioning appears to be closed off to them.’
‘Listen here, man, I’m not joking.’
‘Neither am I, friend. Pitt’s dead, the authorities will blame the Reverend and his tinted colleagues. It all helps ramp the situation, stoke the fire.’ Bell leant beneath the table and emerged with a bulbous stainless-steel probe in his hand. ‘There’s nothing that me and my hobby can’t take care of.’ He released the catch. The device snapped wide in a gaping metal bloom.
No explanation required. To those in the torture and interrogation trade, the object was recognizable, a basic tool tried, tested and refined for over 700 years. A steady evolution from the Middle Ages and old school of knocks to the newer disciplines of mind-alteration and electric shocks. It still remained effective, had a role – oral, anal, vaginal – was applicable in many dungeons and any body orifice. The Pear: designed to damage, tear membrane, inserted to obtain confession or ensure silence.
‘Pitt really opened up, spilled his guts,’ the American added. ‘Both ends. He wasn’t in a position to lie. Told us what we needed.’
The South African nodded. ‘In my day, we found beatings with rhino-tail samboks, losing people from windows, equally effective.’
‘We’ve got something larger-scale planned.’
They could talk freely, privately, without fear of interruption or interception. Bell’s household staff had been banished for the meeting, would stay in their quarters and on the periphery until its conclusion. There was much to discuss. Race war had many dimensions, several directions. The South African was present to oversee, review, to advise management, assess security, to admonish, encourage and make payment. It was an ambitious project, never before attempted. Based on a vision, itself founded in vengeance, its blueprint was global, its objective a firestorm from which only the strongest would emerge. In every experiment there were elements of chance. This was no experiment; accident was replaced by preparation, by guaranteed response. Hatred was the purest form of accelerant.
Ash had grown long on the stub of Bell’s cigar. ‘The government knows it’s coming, knows it’s gonna be big. It just can’t reckon where and when.’
