Deep Cover

by Brian Garfield

  “It’s gibberish to them and besides they don’t know who’s receiving it. Stop asking questions—go.”

  Douglass gave his uneven smile and went. Belsky heard the front door slam and Hathaway swung to yell into the bathroom. “Time’s up. For Christ’s sake you’ve had time to lay a ton of bricks.”

  Trumble’s knees didn’t stir. Hathaway stiffened … and Belsky went past him into the bathroom and found Trumble slumped back against the toilet tank with both arms down in the bowl between his legs. The bowl was crimson with blood.

  Hathaway said over his shoulder, “The bastard chewed through the arteries in both his wrists. He’s bled himself to death.”

  “You and Torrio get rid of him. Spread some blood on the broken glass in the shower stall in Trumble’s house. Leave the body there—make it look like suicide.”

  “Which it was.”

  “Suicide because he didn’t want to talk. He knew something that we don’t know.”

  Hathaway’s scowl lifted. “Maybe he’s already blown the whistle on us. You think you better shift your base of operations again? I know a place.”

  “All right. As soon as you’ve finished with this. Now move.”

  When Hathaway went outside to get the others Belsky went back into the bathroom and stood above the bloated corpse and tried to think it out. But Trumble kept getting in the way of his thinking. It had been a long time since anyone had got the better of him. His strength had always been his attention to detail, his resourcefulness in covering all possibilities. Trumble had upset everything. A gutsy son of a bitch: yes. He’d had to bite great chunks out of his own wrists to make the blood pour out fast. But he’d died knowing something, hiding something, and Belsky had to know what it was.

  In the absence of certainty he had to assume Trumble had made preparations to expose the Amergrad network—in the event of his death or disappearance. All he had to do was to call a contact daily with the understanding that if he ever didn’t call, the contact should deliver information into certain hands. That would explain why there hadn’t been any sign up to now that the network’s cover had been broken. If vibrations had already reached Washington Belsky would have been informed: Rykov had ample sources in Washington. So the cover was still intact, as of this moment, but if Belsky’s reasoning was correct it was only a matter of hours, or at most a few days if Trumble’s system had depended on postal delivery of information.

  Under scopolamine Trumble might have disclosed his arrangements and Belsky might have reached the contact before the contact had time to release the information. So knowing he was to die anyway, Trumble had killed himself to safeguard the information.

  It might not be the truth but the probability was good. On the other hand it might be a massive and ultimate bluff—just a desperate attempt to persuade Belsky the network’s cover was about to be blown, so that Belsky would abort and withdraw.

  Belsky left the bathroom and sat down on the bed to decode the signal from Moscow. While he was working he heard Torrio and Corrigan grunting with the effort of removing the fat corpse from the bathroom. Hathaway waited in respectful silence with his big shoulders filling the bedroom doorway, keeping his distance while Belsky worked his ciphers. The message took shape and Belsky’s face contracted.

  PRIORITY UTMOST

  DANGERFIELD TUC

  VIA NUCSUB 4

  KGB 1

  CIPHER 1541 SG

  SENT 1308 GMT D ACKNOWLEDGE

  MESSAGE BEGINS X EXECUTE PLAN B3 DATE 7 APR IGNITION

  TIME 1830 X REPEAT X EXECUTE PLAN B3 DATE 7 APR IGNITION TIME 1830 X VR X MESSAGE ENDS 17652 42 5474

  About fifty-five hours from now, Sunday at 6:30 P.M., Belsky had to fire the missiles.

  By the time Belsky taped a quick acknowledgment and broadcast it, Hathaway’s men had driven their car around into the alley behind the house and wrapped the corpse in a plastic cover and stowed it in the trunk compartment of the car. Belsky stood in the back door of the house and said, “Do it fast and get back here.”

  “Something up?”

  “Everything’s up. Where’s the nearest public phone?”

  “Booth by that gas station on Elm just the other side of North Park. Three, four blocks.” Hathaway pointed west-southwest.

  In the bedroom Belsky tested the radio batteries and packed the apparatus into its compact case. Folded up and closed, it looked like a large but ordinary portable transistor radio. Essentially that was what it was, with the addition of the miniature recorder and the shortwave transmitter. At one corner of the case was the socket which enclosed the telescoping aerial and at the other corner was a small red globe which would wink with a bright rapid flash when an incoming signal activated the receiver to self-start automatically and record the signal on high-speed tape. The Japanese toy’s low output signals had to be relayed and amplified by intermediate stations but nevertheless it took hardly twenty minutes for a message to travel the distance between Belsky and Rykov.

  He drove down to the filling station and filled the tank of his rented car, took his change in dimes and carried the transceiver into the curbside booth and set it on the seat by his elbow where he would see the red flasher if it began to blink: from now on, he’d have to watch the radio at all times; if a countermand came he had to be prepared to abort the mission he was now starting.

  His first call was to Lieutenant Colonel Fred Winslow at Davis Monthan; it took five minutes for the switchboard to find him for “Colonel Dangerfield” and when he came on the line Belsky barked at him: “Henceforth leave word where you can be reached. They’ve been tracking you down for five minutes. What if this had been a no-notice ORI?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I did leave word but it must have got tangled up.”

  Belsky had to talk like an Air Force colonel: there was no reason not to assume there were other ears on the line besides his own and Winslow’s. The enlisted people on the switchboards wouldn’t know there was no Colonel Dangerfield in the chain of command but they would recognize it instantly if Dangerfield didn’t sound right.

  He said, “I understand the Wing Commander will be absent from the base for the next seventy-two hours and that means you’ll have command. You’d better keep on your toes, Fred.”

  It was meant to sound like a tip-off that the brass was planning to spring a no-notice Operational Readiness Inspection. In actuality it was an instruction: Winslow had to get rid of the Wing Commander for seventy-two hours and take over the wing himself. It was up to Winslow to work out the details.

  Winslow said, “I, ah, haven’t been informed yet as to how soon Colonel Sims will be leaving for the, ah, weekend.”

  Winslow was unnerved; that was bad.

  Belsky said, “Well, I hear he’ll be up in Colorado Springs tonight for a conference with General DeGraff at twenty-two hundred. I guess he’d have to leave there by eight o’clock tonight if he’s flying up to NORAD.”

  “Yes, Bud mentioned something about it but it slipped my mind,” Winslow lied. He was doing better now, getting the hang of it.

  Belsky said, “It’s too bad you’ll miss the party. It ought to be quite a bash. Half-past six Sunday night. Maybe Colonel Sims will be back by then and you’ll be able to come. We’ll save some Scotch in case you show up late.”

  “Yes, I’d hate to miss it, sir. Been a long time since the old gang got together. Christ, do you remember that blowout we had in Darmstadt?” Now Winslow was winging it; the sudden shock had induced a talking jag and Belsky had to cut him off.

  “Yeah, that was sure a lulu, Fred. And I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few ICBMs go off right in my living room at this one. Some of the boys can really put it away. I hope you’ll be able to make it.”

  “Six-thirty Sunday evening, huh? I’ll sure try, Colonel, and thanks for inviting me.”

  “Won’t be the same without you.”

  “I’ll find out when Bud Sims plans to get back here.”

  “Do that. And don’t forget to b
ring that gorgeous wife of yours, Fred. You know where the place is.”

  “No. That is, it’s been a long time, Colonel. As I recall it’s kind of hard to find.”

  “I’ll get a little map of the roads over to you, Fred.”

  “That’d be mighty kind, sir. I mean I’d feel like a fool if I got all dressed up and didn’t know where to go.”

  “Okay, Fred, I’ll shoot it over to you.” They were talking about the identity of the targets and those could hardly be given by telephone.

  “See you, Colonel. And thanks again.”

  “Sure enough, Fred.” Belsky broke the connection. Now Winslow knew he had to activate the final firing sequence at half-past six Sunday evening.

  Belsky plugged another coin into the phone and made the second of the dozen calls he would have to make. He felt nerveless and unhurried. His only concern was tidiness: the operation had to be performed exactly as ordered.

  Chapter Twelve

  The broadcast studios of KARZ-TV occupied a low cinder-block building on Drachman Street about a mile north of downtown Tucson. Ramsey Douglass felt edgy and irritable when he parked at the curb and walked to the heavy glass doors. The waiting room inside was freezing cold; the air-conditioning had been built for 120-degree summers and nobody had adjusted it for the 85-degree outside temperature of early April.

  The skinny man at the reception desk sat with a telephone against one ear and a finger stuck in the other to block out the piped music that flooded the room like an oil spill. An American flag hung limp on a standard in the corner and above it, suspended from the ceiling, an animated color cartoon flickered on the screen of a television monitor, without sound. Douglass waited for the receptionist’s attention; finally the man at the desk hung up the telephone.

  “My name is Douglass, to see Miss Lawrence. It’s important.”

  “I’ll see if I can locate her.” The bow tie bobbed up and down at his throat.

  Douglass said, “You could hang meat in here.”

  “I know. Mr. Burgess likes it cold.”

  “Look, it’s on the urgent side.”

  “Yeah. You wanted Nicole Lawrence?” The man picked up his telephone and pushed buttons. “Hi, Gene. Nicole back there? … Well did she come in yet? … Guy out here wants to talk to her, says it’s real important. Okay, if she isn’t, then she isn’t.” He hung up and tipped his head back. “She came in a little while ago but she’s not here just now. You want to wait?”

  “Not particularly. No idea where she went?”

  “You might try the coffee shop around the corner on Stone.”

  Douglass left without thanking him and walked down to the corner. There was a motel coffee shop down the block, the only one in sight; he found Nicole at the counter brooding over a glass of tea full of crushed ice. When she saw him in the mirror she made a face and spoke without turning her head. “One if by land and two if by sea.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “My if we aren’t manly and domineering this morning. I’m busy.”

  “Come on, we’ve got things to do.”

  Nicole sighed and turned her small creased face toward him. Since when has anything had any importance for you before eleven o’clock in the morning? Whence cometh thy serious mien?”

  Douglass dropped a quarter on the counter and took her elbow. When he had steered her outside she laughed aloud. “The waitress must have taken that for a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “My car’s around the corner,” he said and took her up the walk, still gripping her arm. “We’ve got a little disciplinary problem and that’s supposed to be your department.”

  “Has Fred Winslow been wetting his bed or what?”

  “We’ll talk about it in the car.” They turned the corner and he went around to the driver’s side without opening the curb-side door for her. When Nicole got into the Volkswagen she said, “Someday you really should take a few lessons in elementary etiquette.”

  “I always adjust my manners to the company I’m in.” He turned the key and the engine started with a pop and a hum.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the courthouse.”

  She nodded. “I thought we’d get around to that—it’s time we straightened her out. You’d have thought she’d have learned her lesson the first time.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And those who do not learn from history,” Nicole drawled, “are doomed to repeat it. But this time we could hardly leave him behind a bowling alley with his head crushed in.”

  He circled the block and made the left turn into Stone Avenue. “Actually it’s a little late in the day for her personal entanglements to matter. If it were just that I’d let it ride. But somebody’s got to get to Forrester and persuade him to quit meddling at Davis Monthan for a while.”

  “She doesn’t know about the activation yet, does she?”

  “No, I tried to reach her but she was at Forrester’s ranch and they must have taken the phone off the hook.”

  They went through the railroad underpass and got caught in the coagulation of morning traffic between Main and Pennington. Nicole said, “I wish to hell this Dangerfield bastard had stayed home.”

  “So do I. But we can’t do anything about it.”

  “Do you think they’ll really go through with it? Or is it just part of some international bluff they’re trying to pull off?”

  “I have no idea. You’re supposed to be the political expert—what do you think?”

  “I think we’re in a son of a bitch of a mess,” she said. She stretched indolently on the seat and adjusted herself with her legs loosely apart. “I guess we asked for it. You can’t stand in the middle of the freeway and not expect to get hit by a truck.”

  He fished out a cigarette. “We’ll just have to do the job and get out.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “They’ll have to get us out afterward. It would be too embarrassing for them if we were left behind and discovered and forced to talk.”

  “I thought of that,” she said, “but let’s face it, if they want us to start pushing buttons it’s got to mean the big war and by the time it’s over with I can’t seriously believe there’ll be much left of Tucson but a big hot hole in the ground.”

  “No. That’s what I thought at first but it doesn’t make sense that way. Figure it out. The targets have to be one of two kinds—Western or Communist. If the targets are in the Soviet bloc it could only be for one reason—Moscow wants the United States to start shooting first, so that Moscow has an excuse to ‘retaliate.’ But I don’t buy that because it’d be just too high a price to pay. We’ve got fifty-four warheads in this complex of silos and even if all of them landed on reasonably uninhabited areas the fallout would wipe out half the population of the Soviet Union. No, I think we eliminate that.”

  “What about Europe? West Germany?”

  “I can’t conceive of any reason to bomb Europe, can you? And the prevailing winds are westerly so you’d have the same problem—fallout over Russia. What’s left? The third-world countries? Israel? None of them’s big enough to justify using nuclear ICBMs.”

  “You’ve just about ruled out everything.”

  “It narrows down to home base. They’re going to have to shoot at targets in the United States. NORAD, maybe, the big SAC bases, the Pentagon, that kind of thing. It’ll leave the nuclear subs and a good deal of other firepower but it’ll damage this country’s military strength enough to discourage the United States from shooting at Russia, because the United States would lose. Besides, NORAD will see the missiles coming in, they’ll know where they were launched from—they’ll know they’re not Russian missiles. They’ll be confused; they won’t know who to hit back at. What can they do? Bombard Tucson with hydrogen warheads?”

  “Why not?”

  “Once these missiles are fired Tucson’s arsenal will be exhausted. Why bomb it then? No, all they can do is pick up the pieces and start an investigation to find out wh
at happened down here. By that time we’ll all have to be out of the country—probably in Mexico on our way back to Russia. It’s either that or kill all of us and Dangerfield’s only one man, he can’t wipe out three hundred of us.”

  “Once they get us all out of the country and in one group they can kill us easily enough.”

  “But once we’re that far they’d have no reason to. As soon as we’re beyond the reach of the American authorities we’re no longer a threat to Moscow.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? But I still don’t see it the way you do. I still feel like a punchcard that’s been programmed to do a job without knowing why. We’re supposed to think it’s necessary just because a stranger comes in and says it’s necessary.”

  “It’s not a hoax. I checked with Moscow—Dangerfield’s legitimate.”

  “I never thought he wasn’t. That’s not the point.”

  They had crawled two blocks in the traffic and a truck in front of them was gnashing its gears; they got stuck at the light.

  In a different tone Nicole said, “I’m frightened out of my wits.” She turned and reached across the seat and put her hand on his thigh. “Ramsey?”

  “Stop it. Christ you’ve got a one-track mind.”

  The light changed and he put the car in gear and whipped it brutally out into the left-hand lane, nearly clipping the tailgate of the stalled truck. The car behind him screeched and he heard the angry yelp of its horn. When he was clear of the traffic snarl he floored the accelerator and took the Pennington Avenue turn too fast, clipping the curb and rocking the car violently on its springs. Nicole was laughing unpleasantly and when he pulled into the courthouse parking area he slapped her viciously across the face.

  She stopped laughing but her mouth was still twisted with mockery; it turned itself inward now; she was bitter with herself. “Of all the impotent bastards in the world I had to pick you to fall for.”

  “One of these days I’ll ream you out,” he said in a weary mutter. “You God damned supercilious bitch.”

  Her face didn’t change but after a while she said, “Look at us. We’re both insane, you know we are. We’re utterly mad.”