The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Puzzled, Grigori looked at Lazarus for a moment and then glanced at his bodyguards. “I believe that they’re all sitting, even though Pavel tends to sprawl over the furniture.”

  Lazarus Keesley continued to glare impassively, unamused. “I meant in Iraq.”

  “In Iraq?” Grigori repeated with a bewildered look.

  “Yes, in Iraq. Just what are you up to?” he snapped at Grigori.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he lied.

  “Bullshit,” Lazarus barked angrily. “You know damn well what I’m talking about—the Gomazal Valley. Just what the hell are you up to in there?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lazarus,” Grigori repeated. He eyed Lazarus, but quickly realized that Lazarus wasn’t buying a word of what he was saying.

  “Why don’t we sit down and calm down, my friend?” he suggested quietly as Lazarus’ face flushed ever deeper shades of red. “You obviously need rest.”

  “I don’t have the time for that! You know goddamn well what I’m talking about! And don’t try to lie about it!” Lazarus growled.

  “I want to know why you’re building a super cannon for the Iraqis in the Gomazal Valley,” Lazarus snarled.

  “We’re not doing any such thing.”

  “Then why are you hiding the whole damn valley from view?” Lazarus snapped irately. “Your people set off that goddamn smoke screen every time one of our reconnaissance aircraft or satellites gets near.”

  Grigori Sechenov fought to prevent a smirk from creeping on his face. “You mean that your complaint is that you can’t see what we’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are conducting tactical exercises in that valley, Lazarus,” Grigori announced. “As in the case of the CLEO computer system which you claim is a tactical weapons system, I see no reason to reveal to you any of our tactical weapons secrets. If you want to know what’s going on in that valley, you either reveal your ‘tactical’ secrets, or you find out on your own what we’re doing.”

  Grigori Sechenov began to leave, but suddenly paused to look back again at Lazarus Keesley. “And by the way, Lazarus,” he said with a malevolent smile, “where do you want us to send the body of your spy who tried that very thing just last night?”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “The Russians wouldn’t admit to a thing, Mr. President,” Lazarus said slowly, almost painfully. “Except that whatever they’re doing in that valley is no more a strategic weapon than the CLEO computer system. They also claim to have Roger Fontaine’s body. Apparently, Fontaine didn’t make it.”

  The president grimaced. He glared at Lazarus briefly before squirming uncomfortably in his chair and glancing anxiously first at Director Boswell and then at Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne. It was just after sunrise; they were all in the president’s private office next to the Oval Office.

  “And we all know that they know that our assertions about the CLEO computer are damn lies,” President Hayward remarked while he glanced nervously at the three men. “How do we find that goddamn cannon and destroy it?”

  President Hayward turned his attention back to Lazarus Keesley, whose eyes were rheumy from exhaustion. “Well, Lazarus,” he inquired in a low voice, “any suggestions?”

  Lazarus shook his head.

  “Gil?” the president asked the secretary of defense.

  “Perhaps we can try sending another man in,” he suggested without any apparent enthusiasm.

  “Jonathan?”

  “If they got Roger Fontaine, then they have already proven that they can take out our best,” Director Boswell said. “He was in a class by himself. There is nobody else.”

  “How about one of those stealth fighters?” the president prompted hopefully.

  “Perhaps, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Van Dyne answered after a moment’s reflection. “However, as I understand it, the Iraqis have literally filled the area all around that valley with antiaircraft guns. Worse, they’ve placed every available radar they have around it as well. The F-117A is stealthy, but it’s not invisible. With that much radar, they’ll spot it.”

  The president’s face screwed up with anger. “Goddamnit!” he shouted in frustration. “You’re telling me that the Iraqis have the Israelis and me over a goddamn barrel, and that I can’t do a damn thing about it!”

  Lazarus and the others looked at the president. None of them had ever seen him so angry. President Hayward glared silently at them.

  “Could that airplane do the job?” he queried.

  “Which airplane?” Secretary of Defense Van Dyne prompted.

  “The one with that goddamn computer in it.”

  “God, no!” Lazarus exclaimed.

  “Do you mean that it can’t or that you don’t want it to?” President Hayward growled.

  “Do you have any idea what it would mean if it fell into the hands of the Russians?” Lazarus inquired.

  “Do you have any idea what it would mean if the Iraqis and Israelis have a nuclear war?” the president sneered sarcastically.

  “But we could destroy that valley and everything in it,” Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne countered.

  “Without nuclear weapons?” the president probed.

  the secretary of defense took a moment to answer. “No,” he admitted.

  “I won’t be the one to go down in history as the man who destroyed the Middle East to save it,” the president snarled. “I will not authorize nukes until after the Iraqis use them first.”

  The president sat behind his desk and gazed at the three men for several seconds. “We’ve spent billions of dollars on that goddamn computer. I think it’s about time it did a little work to earn its keep. Send it in as soon as possible. I have to know where that fucking cannon is hidden in that goddamn valley.”

  The knock came just after two in the afternoon. Jerry Rodell answered it. One of the air policemen who was guarding their trailer was standing in front of the door next to a major dressed in a Class A uniform. He saluted Jerry as soon as the door opened.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Rodell, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jerry replied while he returned the major’s salute.

  “I’m Major Foster. I have orders to escort you to Incirlik Air Base in Turkey, sir,” the major informed him. “You have ten minutes to pack.”

  General Winslow leaned back in his chair and waited for the others to settle themselves. How all ten of them ever got into his tiny office at Groom was beyond him, but they somehow managed.

  “I have just received orders,” he announced, glancing from Captain Wilma Korfman to Colonel Fred Kelder and then on to young Jeff Anderson, who seemed honored to have been called into the general’s office.

  “Cleo,” he said, “is going to take a little trip to Incirlik, Turkey. She and Colonel Rodell are going to go poking their noses into where they’re not wanted.”

  “What—that’s insane!” Fred Kelder exclaimed.

  “Be that as it may, Colonel,” General Winslow said quietly, “but orders are orders, and these come from the man himself.”

  “The president?” Jeff asked innocently.

  “Yes, Jeff, the president,” Winslow responded. “And we will obey them.”

  The room fell quiet as those present eyed each other silently.

  “I want you, Captain Korfman,” General Winslow began, “to select twenty air policemen to go with the ATASF. We’re going to have a hangar all to ourselves at Incirlik Air Base in Turkey, but we will supply our own security.”

  Wilma Korfman took notes.

  “Colonel Kelder,” Winslow ordered, “we’re going to ship the ATASF in a C-5. That means the wings will have to come off.”

  “It was designed for that,” Fred Kelder replied.

  “I know, Colonel,” the general agreed, “but it still has to be done. I want you to oversee that yourself and select whatever personnel you need. This is an operational mission, so don’t bring along any unnecessary peopl
e—just maintenance people.”

  “Mr. Anderson,” General Winslow said with a fatherly smile to the young man. “I need you to volunteer. Since you are a civilian employee, I have no right to order you to Turkey. However, I think we’re going to need your technical support.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Jeff agreed immediately. “What should I take?”

  “Ah,” Winslow sighed, “I’m going to leave that to you. Some of your computers for certain. However, take only one of the CLEO systems. I don’t want to risk any more than one. If we need a spare, we’ll fly it over later.”

  General Winslow stopped. Fred Kelder appeared to have a question. “Yes, Colonel?”

  “How about Lieutenant Colonel Rodell and Madeline?” Fred asked.

  “Colonel Rodell is already on his way to Turkey. Dr. MacCauley will stay here until we return,” Winslow answered.

  “I understand, sir,” Fred responded. “When do we leave?”

  “Most of you will leave on the C-5 tomorrow morning at 0700 hours,” Winslow replied. “I’ll be following about twelve hours later.”

  General Winslow looked around the room. “Okay, folks,” he declared, satisfied that everyone understood the urgency of their orders, “you all have a lot of work to do in the next few hours. Good luck, and I’ll see you all in Incirlik.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Lazarus slept fitfully. Exhausted beyond the normal limits of a man his age, his body had reacted to the stress of the last several days by pumping adrenaline to keep him going. Finally, at five o’clock in the afternoon, he crawled into his bed for the first time in days. Now that he had time to sleep, the adrenaline flow wouldn’t stop. He rolled on his bed, wishing Beatrice, his wife, would return from Boston. Alone, he grabbed a pillow and pulled it tight against his body as pain seared his stomach.

  “Damn,” he grumbled, “just what I need—an ulcer.”

  Lazarus rolled in his bed and gazed at the alarm clock.

  “Seven,” he muttered. “That’s nice. In the name of the seven potbellied Inca gods, is it a.m. or p.m.?”

  Puzzled, he glanced around and noticed that the light seeping through the drapes covering the bedroom windows was weak. All that meant was that it could be the twilight of dusk or dawn—he couldn’t tell.

  He decided that it really didn’t matter what time it was; he was awake, and that was that. So he got up to take a bath, a real bath. His role in what was about to happen was over and was now beyond his control. He was on the bench and no longer an active player. The president himself had seen to that when Lazarus continued to argue against sending the CLEO computer to Turkey. The SVR’s mole was still running free, he argued, and it was certain that the Russians would know their plans in hours—a day at most. President Hayward had acknowledged Lazarus’ point and then sent him home.

  Lazarus Keesley entered his bathroom and padded across the room to the whirlpool tub that he had installed for his wife’s arthritis. Normally preferring a shower for its efficiency, he rarely used the whirlpool himself. However, today was different. He was in no hurry; he had nowhere to go. He had all the time in the world.

  He stripped off his pajamas and stuffed them in the laundry hamper while he waited for the tub to fill. With the aerator turned on high, he slipped into the soothing, bubbling, steaming hot water and relaxed. He was asleep in just a few minutes.

  “This is your target, Colonel,” Major Foster said as he unrolled the maps. Although they were still on their airplane en route to Turkey, they were going to spend the time profitably, working on the mission.

  “This is the Gomazal Valley, right here about fifty miles east of the Iraqi city of Dukan. This is the Iraqi-Iranian border,” the major said, pointing to the border. “As you can see from these satellite photos, they keep a smoke screen over the top of the valley so we can’t see what they’re up to.”

  “And you want me to fly there and take a look?” Jerry Rodell asked casually, as though it were a sightseeing trip.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” the major replied, pleased that Jerry Rodell understood.

  “And what are these?” Jerry pointed to the many overlapping red circles that surrounded the valley for miles around.

  “Those are their antiaircraft defenses,” Major Foster informed him. “Those that we’ve spotted, at least.”

  Jerry Rodell stared at the maps. There were well over a hundred red circles, together with twenty larger blue circles indicating the radar sites that had been identified so far.

  “You’re mad,” Jerry declared firmly. “A housefly couldn’t sneak in there and remain undetected.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel?Me ?” Wilma Korfman squealed in delight. She fell into General Bill Winslow’s lap, kissing him while throwing her arms around his neck.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Papa Bear,” she murmured, punctuating each “thank you” with a kiss. “How did you ever managethat ?” she exclaimed while she admired her lover.

  “Well, Honey Bear,” he said with a wry smile, “you did it all on your own. It appears that you impressed the hell out of the gray-haired spook who came out after those goons tried to kidnap Jerry and Maddy. He apparently got the president to make the recommendation.”

  “You mean that dear Mr. Keesley?” Wilma seemed puzzled that he had been the one to arrange her unexpected double promotion.

  “Yes, Honey Bear, he did.”

  “Maybe I should have taken him to bed,” she teased. “Perhaps I could have made general!” A grin flashed on her face when she saw Winslow’s face flush.

  “Why, I do believe you’re jealous,” she cooed.

  “I’m a better man than he is.”

  “Prove it,” she urged as she nibbled on his ear lobe. Bill Winslow easily lifted her as he stood up and carried her to the bedroom.

  Madeline turned the lights off, even though she knew she wouldn’t sleep; she needed Jerry. “It’s not fair,” she pouted and punched the pillow in anger. “It’s not fair to leave me behind.”

  For once, the Air Force had won an argument with Dr. MacCauley. Even though she tried to force her way onto the C-5 that was about to take her man to some faraway adventure, the air policemen simply picked her up, carried her to a cyclone fence, and handcuffed her to a steel-pipe fence post. Several others were ready to physically restrain Jerry if he tried to interfere.

  A tear came to Madeline’s eye as she remembered Jerry standing at the top of the aircraft’s ramp as it closed against the descending nose section like some monstrous aluminum whale swallowing a latter-day Jonah. Then he was gone. The Air Force didn’t even permit them a good-bye kiss.

  Jerry Rodell studied the photographs for hours; he had little else to do during the thirteen-hour flight from Groom Lake to Incirlik, Turkey. Alone in one of the tiny cabins located behind the flight deck of the C-5 transport, Jerry taped the photographs up on the wall and laid the maps out on the floor. He just sat on the bunk and examined the maps and photos, one at a time, again and again.

  “It’s a suicide mission,” he concluded after five hours of work. Satisfied, he carefully folded the maps and took down the photographs. Finally, he curled up on the bunk and went to sleep, clutching at the thin woolen blanket as though it were Madeline.

  Juan Pablo de Carranza y Fernandez, better known as Juan Pablo, the gardener, tromped across the desert as the sun rose in the east. Then he saw it. Brown and yellow with white lettering, the can gleamed in the sun. Juan Pablo approached it with caution. He kicked it gently, listening for the telltale rattle of a scorpion bouncing around inside. Convinced that it was safe, he picked the can up, peeked in and shook it one last time just to be absolutely certain that nothing but a slip of paper was inside.

  An hour later, the can would be in the empty lot near Sergei Kadomtsev’s apartment in North Las Vegas. Several hours after that,Zerkalo ’s message would be on Grigori Sechenov’s desk.

  Chapter Forty

  Grigori Sechenov felt uncomfortable in the commu
nications room, yet he had little choice. He urgently needed to talk directly with Major General Yakov Makarovich Sakharovsky, the man Grigori had personally chosen to overseeOperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka , Operation Armored Fist.While Lazarus Keesley merely had to pick up the STU III telephone sitting on his desk in the CIA headquarters to make a secure phone call, Grigori Sechenov, First Deputy Director of the SVR, was forced to go to the communications room to use one of the few secure telephones in the building.

  Suddenly the telephone rang. Uncertain of himself in the strange surroundings, Grigori let it ring twice before picking it up.

  “Allo?”he uttered dubiously.

  “General,” a tinny voice asked.

  “Is that you, Yakov Makarovich?” Grigori inquired.

  “Da,” the tinny voice replied. “We have a poor connection, General, but I can hear you well enough. How well can you hear me?”

  “Good enough, Yasha,” Grigori responded with a shrug. He knew that he wouldn’t get a better connection and decided to make do with the one he had.

  “The reason I have called you, Yasha,” Grigori began, “is that I’ve just received word that the Americans are going to try again to get a peek at your little secret. This time, they’re flying in their prototype ATASF. This means that they’ll come in fast and low, right over the tree tops.”

  “Any idea when, General?”

  “They’re flying it in right now to their base in Incirlik, Turkey. They are supposed to land there early tomorrow morning. My best guess is they’ll make the attempt either tomorrow or Saturday night. But just in case, I want you to go to full-alert status immediately.”

  “They must be getting desperate, General,” General Sakharovsky laughed. “They are taking extraordinary risks. Do I have your permission to shoot down that airplane?”

  “Certainly,” Grigori answered with a smirk. “Just don’t let them see where that cannon is in the valley and escape to tell about it.”