The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “Don’t worry, Lazarus,” the president told him, “I wouldn’t have you miss that meeting for anything. I’ll have a helicopter waiting for you. See you at three.” The president hung up without saying good-bye.

  Concerned by the president’s tone of voice, Lazarus hung up and got out of bed—he’d never get any sleep now. Slowly, he pulled on his shoes and opened the door to the hallway.

  Lazarus Keesley let the Marine lieutenant guide him through the hallways of the White House to the room in the sub-basement that the National Security Council used during emergencies.

  Lazarus glanced around the room and noticed several empty chairs. Exhausted by constant travel and almost no sleep for nearly two days and nights, Lazarus picked the closest chair and sank into it.

  The president strolled into the room. Informally dressed as were the rest of the attendees, President Hayward nodded for Jack Bergman, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, to begin and sat in his chair. It was 3:04 a.m.

  “I’m certain that you will all forgive the President and me for calling you in at this ungodly hour,” Jack Bergman began somberly, “but the Iraqis are about to attack Israel. We expect massive retaliation. Very little of the Middle East will be left.”

  Lazarus Keesley peered around, surprised by the lack of reaction. They obviously knew something he didn’t know, something that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  “First, we have the situation in Nevada,” Jack Bergman continued. “Terrorists, nationality unknown, attempted to kidnap the chief scientist of the ATASF project at Groom Lake. Lazarus Keesley,” he said as he glanced toward Lazarus, “has just returned from there.”

  Jack Bergman took a sip of water from a glass sitting on the podium. One or two of the men were pouring themselves coffee while the others were watching him with the same bored look he would have expected if he’d just finished reading them his grocery list. It was obviously old news to everyone but Lazarus.

  Bad news travels fast,Bergman thought to himself.Particularly in this town . As nonchalantly as he could, he looked toward Lazarus. “We’ll begin with a review of the situation at Groom Lake from Mr. Lazarus Keesley,” he announced.

  Lazarus was taken aback by the request for a presentation. However, he recovered quickly, got up and walked to the podium.

  “Friday night, some party unknown tried to abduct Dr. MacCauley and Lieutenant Colonel Rodell in Las Vegas. Dr. MacCauley is the chief designer of the CLEO computer and Lieutenant Colonel Rodell is the pilot assigned to train the CLEO computer to fly combat missions. We suspect that it was an overt attempt by the SVR to obtain the secrets of that system.”

  “You mean that adequate safeguards weren’t taken to ensure her safety?” President Hayward protested.

  Lazarus Keesley had a pained expression. He faced toward the president. “Fortunately, her companion,” he replied, “Lieutenant Colonel Rodell, foiled the attempt. Apparently, Colonel Rodell drives about the same way he flies fighters—he ran the assailants off the road in a high- speed highway chase. The assailants died in the ensuing crash; their bodies were burned beyond recognition.”

  “What about this Dr. MacCauley?” President Hayward inquired with a penetrating look. “Why was she exposed to this sort of risk?”

  “Because, until now, Mr. President,” Lazarus explained frostily, “spending the weekend in Las Vegas has never been equated with a similar outing in Beirut. Now that we know exactly how desperate they are to obtain the CLEO system, we have all personnel directly involved in the project under armed guard at Groom.”

  “Any idea who the abductors might have been?” Admiral Hillman queried.

  “Yes.” Lazarus puffed his pipe. “Preliminary medical examinations of their bodies revealed that they had Russian style dental work. It is quite possible that they were a RussianSpetsnaz team sent to effect the kidnap.”

  “Then it might be considered an act of war?” the admiral questioned.

  “If they were Russians and members of a military special forces team, yes.” Lazarus put his pipe down and looked at the group. “In any case it was the assumption I proceeded on when I ordered the security of Hanger 18 increased. It was quite apparent that a small heavily- armed team of special forces troops, such as theSpetsnaz could easily raid the base, effect entrance into Hanger 18 and actually capture one of the CLEO computers.”

  “That’s insane!” Admiral Hillman insisted.

  “Agreed,” Lazarus replied softly, “but nevertheless a possibility— one that I was not going to leave unguarded against.”

  The room fell silent as those watching Lazarus implicitly agreed with his conclusion.

  Louis Downley, Secretary of State, had a dour look, perhaps due to a concern over having to deal with the diplomatic consequences of an armed military incursion on American territory.

  “However, they could have been civilians?” Louis Downley insisted after a moment of uncertainty. He was obviously searching for a way out of his quandary.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Lazarus replied as civilly as possible, although he wanted to scream at the man. “They might have been civilians who had just recently been discharged from the Russian Army. They might have been some hoodlums recruited out of the slums of Moscow. They could have been Martians genetically altered to look like Russians. However, given the state of their bodies, we’ll probably never know.”

  “Then the matter is closed?” the president asked, glancing around the room. Several of the participants nodded their heads. Nobody objected.

  “Okay,” President Hayward announced when he decided how to handle the situation, “I want this whole affair buried, covered up. Just imagine the reaction of the American people if they were to ever learn that Russian soldiers are running around Nevada, kidnapping people. Any more questions for Lazarus?”

  Lazarus wearily checked to see if there were any additional questions. There were none. Secretary of State Downley seemed particularly relieved—no nasty communiqués to write to the Russians, no difficult diplomatic repercussions to deal with. Thankful that his presentation was over, Lazarus sat as Jack Bergman rose to retake the podium.

  “We have a second, more important issue to discuss—the Middle East,” Bergman said as he got up. “The president asked me to compile all the data available. Most of it comes from the CIA. I want to thank Director Boswell for supplying it.”

  Jonathan Boswell nodded graciously to Jack Bergman.

  “If I may have the situation map of the Middle East,” Jack said. He waited until a large map of the Middle East appeared on the screen.

  “The situation in the Middle East has become explosive in the last twenty-four hours. Iraq has been testing their super cannon and from the data we have been able to collect from our satellites, it is very accurate. The range is at least fifteen hundred kilometers.”

  “What’s that in miles, Jack?” the president interrupted.

  “That’s a little more than nine hundred miles, Mr. President,” Bergman replied. He stopped to study his notes. “Let’s see. Ah, the CEP is less than fifty meters—er, I mean yards. All shots landed within two hundred yards. In other words, the cannon is damn accurate.”

  “What’s its ultimate range?” Admiral Hillman inquired.

  “Not known, Admiral, but with a range of nine hundred miles it could undoubtedly reach all of Israel. We suspect that it can shoot as far as twelve hundred miles. That would also let Khalid Ribat attack Egypt as well, should he choose.”

  “What about the ‘projectile,’ as you called it?” the admiral asked. “What are its capabilities?”

  “I was just coming to that, sir,” Jack Bergman said. “According to information collected by the CIA, Khalid now has nuclear capability. They are apparently producing a copy of a Russian tactical weapon known as the ‘Ch-87,’ which is an enhanced radiation weapon in the fifty-kiloton range.”

  “Enhanced radiation?” the president queried.

  “Better k
nown as a neutron bomb, Mr. President,” Jack answered. “They kill people instead of destroying property. If World War III had ever broken out in Europe, a large number of those neutron bombs would have been used. Fortunately, that’s all behind us now that the Cold War is over.”

  “And ahead of us in the Middle East?” the president suggested.

  “I’m afraid that’s a distinct possibility.”

  “Ah, Jack,” Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne asked, “just how many of these weapons will the Iraqis have?”

  “About twenty to twenty-five.”

  “What effect would these have on Israel?”

  “I can show you graphically on the map,” Jack Bergman replied. He picked up a TV remote control and tapped some buttons. The map suddenly showed a number of red splotches. They overlapped and covered most of Israel.

  “Oh, shit,” the secretary of defense uttered when he saw it. “There would be nothing left.”

  “Well, this is based on the assumption that the super cannon can fire about once an hour and that all twenty or so shots hit their targets,” Bergman noted.

  “What’s the probability of that happening?”

  “Good to excellent. The Israelis have no way of attacking that cannon with a high probability of success. That means that the Iraqis can simply continue firing until they run out of ammunition.”

  “What’s the most likely Israeli reaction?” Louis Downley, the secretary of state, inquired.

  “They have well over 150 nuclear weapons stockpiled,” Jack Bergman replied. “Given that they have a similar number of Jericho II missiles, they could do quite a bit of damage. For example, should they decide to take out all of their Arab neighbors, this would be the likely outcome.” He pressed some buttons on the remote control. The map changed to one showing the entire eastern Mediterranean Sea, all the way east through Iran and south to southern Saudi Arabia. All the population centers were covered with a red splotch.

  “The Arab world as we know it would be destroyed as well,” Bergman commented while he looked at the map. “Also, the Persian Gulf would be sanitized. That is to say, no oil production would be possible for twenty years.”

  “In other words, Armageddon?”

  “Exactly. Perhaps forty or fifty million killed,” Jack Bergman agreed. “And, unfortunately, it is the most likely scenario the Israelis would use.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is the most profitable use they could make of their weapons.”

  “Well, why don’t they just shoot all those missiles at the super cannon?” the secretary of state questioned. “I mean, that way they’d have some chance of reducing their damage if they could destroy it.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Jack answered, “until you factor in two bits of information. First, nobody but the Iraqis and some Russian mercenaries know exactly where that cannon is located. We assume that it is buried deep in a hillside. While we have a pretty good idea of where it is, say within a few miles, we still don’t know exactly where it is well enough to send nuclear missiles after it. We’d just be guessing and unless we can land a weapon within a thousand feet, we’d probably do it no harm.”

  “What’s the second issue?”

  “Iraqis have over two hundred RussianAntey, S-300V antiballistic interceptor missiles. They are located mainly in northern Iraq where they can guard the super cannon. In other words, most, if not all, of the Israeli missiles would be intercepted and thus wasted. The Israelis are well aware of this.”

  “How about an attack by aircraft?”

  “Suicidal,” Bergman said. “The Iraqis have a large number of modern Russian fighters and Russian mercenaries to fly them. Most of the attacking Israeli force would be destroyed before they got even halfway across Iraq.”

  “Options?” President Hayward asked.

  “Ifwe knewexactly where that super cannon was located,” Jack stressed the two words, “and by that I meanexactly , we could attack it ourselves.”

  “With what?”

  “If we wanted to be sure, a couple of ICBMs fired from the United States could do the job.”

  “Nukes?” the president queried.

  “Yes.”

  “Not until the other side fires a nuke first,” Hayward warned.

  “Alternatively, we could use the new deep-penetration warheads. They’re conventional, but can burrow through at least a hundred feet of solid rock. That way we could simply collapse the tunnel the cannon is in. Or we could send several dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles in and flood their defenses. They would all be targeted at the steel doors that we believe they have covering the cannon’s firing port. One might get lucky and fly inside while the door is open. Otherwise, we could simply bash the door open with several hits.”

  “If we knew exactly where the cannon is?” the president queried.

  “Absolutely. That is imperative, sir,” Bergman replied.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Before we expect the Iraqis to attack?”

  “Yes,” the president snapped angrily.

  “Oh, that’s difficult, sir.”

  “Guess, goddamnit!”

  “The best estimate is one week,” Bergman replied.

  “So we have just one week?”

  “That’s just a wildass guess, sir. We just don’t know for sure.”

  The president looked directly at Jonathan Boswell. “Where’s that goddamn super spy of yours, the one you call the Indian? Did he get those pictures?”

  “He hasn’t reported in yet, sir,” Director Boswell answered with chagrin. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Major-General Yakov Makarovich Sakharovsky studied the two men lying at attention in their hospital beds.

  “Osloyoby!”he snarled at Sergeants Vadim Savechenoko and Iosif Goryanov. “I don’t know whether or not to have you shot for stupidity because you failed to call for help when you first spotted the intruder.” He glared at them. “As you know, he almost got away.”

  General Sakharovsky glared again at the two men. “Fortunately,” he added in a less harsh tone, “you stopped him. What do you have to say for yourselves? Why didn’t you call and request reinforcements?”

  “The radio batteries were dead, General,” Iosif answered meekly. “They didn’t have any replacements.”

  General Sakharovsky turned sharply to the border guard major standing rigidly at attention next to him. “Major, is this true?”

  The major swallowed hard. “Da,General,” he acknowledged in a near whisper. “The supply captain was using them for his radio to listen to music.”

  General Sakharovsky’s face grew fiery red. “You mean to tell me that a supply captain jeopardized the security ofOperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka , Operation Armored Fist, so he could listen to music?”

  The major didn’t respond.

  “I want to see that man as soon as I leave this hospital! Now go see to it!”

  The major hurried out the door as General Sakharovsky returned his attention to the two wounded sergeants.

  “So you have an excuse, and therefore I won’t have you shot,” he announced, patting his breast pocket to make certain that it still contained the roll of film found on the body of the American spy.

  “However, no Orders of Valor either,” he added in a lower voice. “Still, you did well. What sort of reward do you want?”

  “Choice of permanent assignment?” Vadim offered. The modesty of his suggestion surprised General Sakharovsky, who was ready to give them far more for the service they had performed forRodina, the Motherland.

  “Where?” General Sakharovsky questioned.

  “The Finnish border for me,” Vadim answered. “And I think Osya wants to grow fat stamping passports at Sheremetyevo.”

  “Done.”

  General Sakharovsky began to leave but suddenly stopped. He faced the two men and asked, “Just one more thing. Why didn’t you fire your guns into the air when you reali
zed that your radio didn’t work? That should have brought help, shouldn’t it?”

  Vadim glanced over at Iosif, who was eyeing him in return.

  “Yes, General, it should have,” Vadim replied cautiously.

  “Then why didn’t you shoot?”

  “I guess, General, we just didn’t think of it,” Vadim admitted sheepishly.

  “Good evening, Manfred,” Lazarus murmured as the oak door of the safehouse near Zurich creaked open. Manfred Schossberg studied Lazarus for a second and saw how exhausted he appeared.

  “Ah,Herr Keesley andHerr Egan, too,” Manfred Schossberg greeted Lazarus Keesley and John Egan, Lazarus’ chief bodyguard.

  “Did Grigori arrive yet?”

  “Yes,Herr Keesley,” Manfred answered while he hung both Lazarus’ and Egan’s overcoats in the hallway closet. “He arrived early, in fact. He’s downstairs with the others.”

  “Come on, Jack.” Lazarus headed toward the back of the house.

  “HerrKeesley,” Manfred called anxiously.

  “Yes?”

  “If I may make a suggestion,Herr Keesley,” Manfred offered cautiously. “May I suggest that you take a moment and relax. You are putting yourself at a disadvantage. You look like you haven’t slept, and you are also very upset. I would.…”

  “Upset?” Lazarus snapped.

  “Yes,Herr Keesley, you have forgotten your pipe and tobacco,” Manfred said as he reached out and handed them to Lazarus. “You left these in your overcoat. You have never done that before.”

  They found Grigori Sechenov seated alone at the table, playing solitaire. He was losing.

  “Damn game,” he muttered as he got up to greet Lazarus.

  “Lazarus, you’ve arrived. I hear you have had a difficult trip, my friend.” He extended his hand to Lazarus. Lazarus shook his hand limply while depositing his pipe and tobacco pouch on the table.

  “Part of the job, I guess,” he commented indifferently. Grigori Sechenov tensed in reaction to Lazarus’ edginess.

  Lazarus Keesley eyed Grigori and suddenly demanded, “What the hell are your people doing now?”