Shibumi Read Online Free PDF Page B

American intellectual woman seeking a cause to justify her existence, until marriage, career, or artsy hobbies defused her. Her personality analysis turned up none of those psychotic warps that produce the urban guerrilla who finds sexual expression in violence. Nor was she flawed by that desperate hunger for notoriety that causes actors and entertainers who, unable to remain in the public eye by virtue of their talents, suddenly discover hitherto unnoticed social convictions.
    No, there was nothing in Hannah Stern’s printout that would nominate her for particular attention—save for two facts: She was Asa Stern’s niece. And she was the only surviving member of the Munich Five.
    Diamond spoke to Miss Swivven. “Have Starr and that Arab… Mr. Haman… in the screening room in ten minutes.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And have the Deputy there too.” He turned to the First Assistant. “You keep working on Fat Boy. I want a deep rescan of the leader, this Asa Stern. He’s the one who will bleed through. Give me a list of his first-generation contacts: family, friends, accomplices, associates, acquaintances, affairs, and so on.”
    “Just a second, sir.” The First Assistant introduced two questions into the computer, then one modifier. “Ah… sir? The first-generation list will have… ah… three hundred twenty-seven names, together with thumbnail sketches. And we’ll cube as we move to second-generation lists—friends of friends, etc. That’ll give us almost thirty-five million names. Obviously, sir, we have to have some kind of priority criterion.”
    The First Assistant was right; a critical decision; there are literally thousands of ways in which a list can be ordered.
    Diamond thought back over the sketch on Asa Stern. His intuition was tickled by one line: Profession and/or cover… Farmer, Journalist, Poet, Historian. Not, then, a typical terrorist. Something worse—a romantic patriot.
    “Order the list emotionally. Go for indices indicating love, friendship, trust—this sort of thing. Go from closest to most distant.”
    The First Assistant’s eyes shone as he took a deep breath and lightly rubbed his fingers together. This was a fine challenge demanding console virtuosity. Love, friendship, trust—these imprecisions and shadows could not be located through approaches resembling the Schliemann Back-bit and Non-bit Theory. No computer, not even Fat Boy, can respond to such rubrics directly. Questions have to be phrased in terms of nonfrequency counts and non sequitur exchange relationships. In its simplest form, actions performed for no measurable reason, or contrary to linear logic,
might
indicate such underlying motives as love or friendship or trust. But great care had to be exercised, because identical actions could derive from hate, insanity, or blackmail. Moreover, in the case of love, the nature of the action seldom helps to identify its motivational impulse. Particularly difficult is separating love from blackmail.
    It was a delicious assignment, infinitely complicated. As he began to insert the first probes into Fat Boy, the First Assistant’s shoulders twisted back and forth, as though he were guiding a pinball with body-english.
    Miss Swivven returned to the work room. “They’re waiting for you in the theater, sir.”
    “Good. Bring those telephotos along. What on earth is wrong with you, Miss Swivven?”
    “Nothing, sir. My back itches, that’s all.”
    “For Christ’s sake.”
    Darryl Starr sensed trouble in the air when he and the Arab received curt orders to report to the viewing room at once. His fears were confirmed when he found his direct superior sitting gloomily in the auditorium. The Deputy International Liaison Duty Officer nodded a curt greeting to Starr and grunted once toward the Arab. He blamed the oil-rich Arabian sheikhdoms for many of his current problems, not the least of which was the interfering presence of Mr. Diamond in the bowels of the CIA, with his snide