“
“Homosexuality, even.”
Martin piped up from the wall. “If you don’t mind, I draw the line at having homosexuality in my legend.”
“We’ll figure out why he was fired later. What we have here is an Irish Catholic “
“Lapsed. Don’t forget he’s lapsed.”
” a lapsed Irish Catholic who worked with explosives in the private sector.”
“Only to be fired for an as yet undetermined offense.”
“At which point he became a freelance explosive expert.”
“We may have a problem here,” said the chairman, tapping a forefinger on one page of Martin Odum’s 201 folder. “Our Martin Odum is circumcised. Dante Pippen, lapsed or not, is an Irish Catholic. How do we explain the fact that he’s circumcised.”
The committee kicked around several possibilities. It was Maggie Poole who invented a suitable fiction. “In the unlikely event the question should come up, he could say he was talked into it by his first American girlfriend, who thought she would have less chance of catching a venereal disease from him if he were circumcised. Pippen could say the operation was performed in a New York clinic. It shouldn’t be too difficult to plant a medical record at a clinic to backstop the story.”
“Moving on, could he have been a member, at one point, of the IRA?”
“An IRA dynamiter! Now that’s creative. It’s not something the Russians or East Europeans could verify because the IRA is more secretive than the KGB.”
“We could give him an arrest record in England. Arrested, questioned about an IRA bombing or two, released for lack of evidence.”
“We could even plant small items in the press about the arrests.”
“We are mining a rich vein,” declared the chairman, his eyes bulging with enthusiasm. “What do you think, Martin?”
“I like it,” Martin said from his seat. “Crystal Quest will like it, too. Dante Pippen is exactly the kind of legend that will open doors.”
1989: 9ANTE PIP PEN SEES THE MILKY WAY IN A NEW LIGHT
WHEN THE BATTERED FORD REACHED THE FERTILE RIFT KNOWN as the Bekaa Valley, the Palestinians knotted a blindfold over Dante’s eyes. Twenty minutes later the two-car motorcade passed through a gate in a perimeter fence and pulled to a stop at the edge of an abandoned quarry. The Palestinians tugged Dante from the back seat and guided him through the narrow dirt streets to the mosque on the edge of a Lebanese village. In the antechamber, his shoes and the blindfold were removed and he was led to a threadbare prayer carpet near the altar and motioned to sit. Ten minutes later the imam slipped in through a latticed side door. A corpulent man who moved, as heavy men often do, with surprising suppleness, he settled onto the carpet facing Dante. Arranging the folds of his flowing white robe like a Noh actor preoccupied with his image, he produced a string of jade worry beads and began working them through the stubby fingers of his left hand. In his early forties, with a crew cut and a neatly trimmed beard, the imam rocked back and forth in prayer for several moments. Finally he raised his eyes and, speaking English with a crisp British accent, announced, “I am Dr. Izzat al-Karim.”
“I suspect you know who I am,” Dante replied. The corners of the imam’s mouth curled into a pudgy grin. “Indeed I do. You are the IRA dynamiter we have heard so much about. I may say that your reputation precedes you “
Dante dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand. “So does your shadow when the sun is behind you.”
The imam’s jowls quivered in silent laughter. He held out a pack of Iranian Bahman cigarettes, offering one to his visitor.
“I have stopped smoking,” Dante informed his host.
“Ah, if only I could follow your example,” the imam said with a sigh. He tapped one of the thin cigarettes against the metal tray on a low table to tamp down the tobacco and slipped it between his lips. Using a Zippo lighter with a picture of Muhammad Ali on it, he
“Homosexuality, even.”
Martin piped up from the wall. “If you don’t mind, I draw the line at having homosexuality in my legend.”
“We’ll figure out why he was fired later. What we have here is an Irish Catholic “
“Lapsed. Don’t forget he’s lapsed.”
” a lapsed Irish Catholic who worked with explosives in the private sector.”
“Only to be fired for an as yet undetermined offense.”
“At which point he became a freelance explosive expert.”
“We may have a problem here,” said the chairman, tapping a forefinger on one page of Martin Odum’s 201 folder. “Our Martin Odum is circumcised. Dante Pippen, lapsed or not, is an Irish Catholic. How do we explain the fact that he’s circumcised.”
The committee kicked around several possibilities. It was Maggie Poole who invented a suitable fiction. “In the unlikely event the question should come up, he could say he was talked into it by his first American girlfriend, who thought she would have less chance of catching a venereal disease from him if he were circumcised. Pippen could say the operation was performed in a New York clinic. It shouldn’t be too difficult to plant a medical record at a clinic to backstop the story.”
“Moving on, could he have been a member, at one point, of the IRA?”
“An IRA dynamiter! Now that’s creative. It’s not something the Russians or East Europeans could verify because the IRA is more secretive than the KGB.”
“We could give him an arrest record in England. Arrested, questioned about an IRA bombing or two, released for lack of evidence.”
“We could even plant small items in the press about the arrests.”
“We are mining a rich vein,” declared the chairman, his eyes bulging with enthusiasm. “What do you think, Martin?”
“I like it,” Martin said from his seat. “Crystal Quest will like it, too. Dante Pippen is exactly the kind of legend that will open doors.”
1989: 9ANTE PIP PEN SEES THE MILKY WAY IN A NEW LIGHT
WHEN THE BATTERED FORD REACHED THE FERTILE RIFT KNOWN as the Bekaa Valley, the Palestinians knotted a blindfold over Dante’s eyes. Twenty minutes later the two-car motorcade passed through a gate in a perimeter fence and pulled to a stop at the edge of an abandoned quarry. The Palestinians tugged Dante from the back seat and guided him through the narrow dirt streets to the mosque on the edge of a Lebanese village. In the antechamber, his shoes and the blindfold were removed and he was led to a threadbare prayer carpet near the altar and motioned to sit. Ten minutes later the imam slipped in through a latticed side door. A corpulent man who moved, as heavy men often do, with surprising suppleness, he settled onto the carpet facing Dante. Arranging the folds of his flowing white robe like a Noh actor preoccupied with his image, he produced a string of jade worry beads and began working them through the stubby fingers of his left hand. In his early forties, with a crew cut and a neatly trimmed beard, the imam rocked back and forth in prayer for several moments. Finally he raised his eyes and, speaking English with a crisp British accent, announced, “I am Dr. Izzat al-Karim.”
“I suspect you know who I am,” Dante replied. The corners of the imam’s mouth curled into a pudgy grin. “Indeed I do. You are the IRA dynamiter we have heard so much about. I may say that your reputation precedes you “
Dante dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand. “So does your shadow when the sun is behind you.”
The imam’s jowls quivered in silent laughter. He held out a pack of Iranian Bahman cigarettes, offering one to his visitor.
“I have stopped smoking,” Dante informed his host.
“Ah, if only I could follow your example,” the imam said with a sigh. He tapped one of the thin cigarettes against the metal tray on a low table to tamp down the tobacco and slipped it between his lips. Using a Zippo lighter with a picture of Muhammad Ali on it, he
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