“The Russian president denied there was a laser program in an interview with the BBC two weeks ago,” said Blanders.
The defense secretary was obviously interested in pushing DoD’s own laser program, but that wasn’t what motivated his comment. Rubens noted for future reference not only Blanders’ disdain for Alexsandr Kurakin, the Russian president, but also the hint that Blanders believed Marcke trusted Kurakin too much.
“Perhaps you should bring it up with President Kurakin when you speak with him tomorrow,” added Blanders, alluding to the president’s biweekly telephone conference with the Russian president.
Doing that would inadvertently reveal quite a bit about the agency’s capabilities. But before Rubens could find a way to point this out semitactfully, Marcke cut him off.
“Of course we’re not going to do that,” said the president. “Why show him our hand? The question is, will he ask about our aircraft?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Rubens.
The Wave Three compartment was rigged to self-destruct. According to protocol, none of the crew carried parachutes, though there was always a possibility that some had been carried anyway. Still, transmissions from the plane indicated that there had been no survivors.
“How can you be sure?” asked Blanders.
“The plane went down in a fairly remote area,” said Rubens. “We have one possible site that we’re keeping track of, and I have a team en route to survey it.”
“You didn’t see it on satellite?” Blanders asked.
Was that a criticism or a play for the comprehensive optical survey satellites, which would give the U.S. worldwide around-the-clock coverage? Rubens decided to interpret it as the latter.
“At the moment, we don’t have the resources for complete coverage,” said Rubens. “That would be very desirable. We did, however, pick up the explosion. We have data on the possible wreckage. Now we send someone there to look at it and make sure it was destroyed. Routine.”
Hadash cleared his throat and began speaking in the slightly loud, slightly rushed tone that indicated he’d been rehearsing what he was to say for some time. “Given the controversy—”
“What controversy?” asked Rubens.
“Given the controversy, I—we—feel there should be someone outside of Desk Three along.”
“What?”
“A neutral observer,” said Hadash. “Just to see the wreckage and make an unbiased report.”
“I don’t see why that would be necessary.” Rubens had been taken by surprise, but he labored now to hide it. More difficult to suppress was his anger at Hadash for failing to warn him.
He remembered his yoga mantra.
“You don’t understand the political situation,” said Blanders.
“What political situation?” said Rubens.
The president put up his hand. “Billy, here’s the problem. The CIA wants to chop off your head. They have some friends on the Senate Intelligence Committee. The committee wants a briefing. George is going to give it to them based on what his personal investigator finds out. We need to be able to tell them definitively that the plane was completely wrecked, that there was no screwup.”
Collins, the deputy director of operations over at the CIA. She was responsible for this. The bitch.
“There was no screwup,” said Rubens.
“It’s for your own good, William,” said Blanders.
“Sir, we’re talking about something that’s at Level Five VRK,” said Rubens. VKR meant “very restricted knowledge”—the ultimate compartmentalization. “The team I’m sending in doesn’t even know about the technology, and they’re my top team.”
“George’s man won’t know anything about it, either,” said Blanders. “What’s the big deal? Assuming the plane really was trashed.”
The president’s gray eyes met Rubens’ and held them. Did he want Rubens out? Were they going to use this as a pretext to bag him?
“This isn’t a matter of trust, William,” said Hadash.
Rubens turned slowly toward him, deciding not to answer or debate the point—it was obviously already settled.
“If the politicians have any reason to run with this, they’ll compromise Desk Three and a great deal else,” Hadash added. “We don’t want that.”
“You have someone in mind?” said Rubens.
“I do. His background has already been thoroughly checked. We can trust him. All he needs to do is confirm that the plane was destroyed. He won’t even know about the original mission, just that he’s to tell me what he sees.”
“We don’t need more CIA people with axes to grind.”
“He’s not. He has no axe to grind; he’s a complete outsider.”
It was possible, just possible, that Hadash was trying to help Rubens. A neutral observer could be trotted out for the Intelligence Committee and then turned out to pasture without jeopardizing anything.
On the other hand, he could do serious damage gathering ammunition for someone like Collins.
“Who is he?” asked Rubens.
“Charles Dean,” said Hadash.
“Dean? As in Jihad Dean?”
Hadash nodded.
Dean had been used on a cooperative venture with the French some months back. An ex-Marine, he had proven himself brave and resourceful. His background had been thoroughly checked, and he had proven able to keep his mouth shut.
He’d also been a bit slow to figure out what he’d gotten himself involved in. And the project had been opposed by Collins.
So maybe Hadash was helping him out after all.
Or not. Collins might have feigned her opposition. Rubens would have to reconsider what had happened carefully and review Dean’s background.
Dean didn’t like the CIA—wasn’t that in the transcripts of his conversations?
A cover, perhaps.
“He’ll have to pass the security protocols,” said Rubens. “Briefing only on a need-to-know basis.”
“Of course,” said Hadash.
“If he passes our security tests, fine,” said Rubens.
“Make sure your team waits to examine the plane’s wreckage until he does,” said the president. He rose, and as he did, he smiled broadly and his shoulders seemed to roll a bit. “So talk to me about wine, Billy. The French ambassador is upstairs and he’s always trying to one-up our California reds. Walk with me, gentlemen.”
3
“Name?”
“Charles Dean.”
“Middle name?”
“Aloysius.”
“Real middle name?”
Dean pursed his lips, hesitating to answer.
“If you think this is hard,” said the man in the black business suit near the door, “just wait.”
“My middle name is Martin,” Dean said. “Charles Martin Dean.”
The technicians sitting in front of him nodded. Dean sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair in his undershirt. A web of thin wires ran from sensors taped to his chest, back, neck, and both arms. A headband held larger arrays of sensors to both temples. He felt like an actor in a ’50s Disney movie, transferring his consciousness to a chimp.
Or maybe Mr. Black Suit by the door. Same difference.
“Place of birth?” asked one of the technicians.
“Bosco, Missouri. Population 643, not counting the cows.”
“It would be better if you answered the questions simply,” said the technician on the right. “The process is automated, and anything the machine can’t interpret will be held against you.”
“Let him ramble,” said Black Suit. “We’ve got nowhere to go.”
Dean started to fold his arms to his chest before remembering the attachments. He put his palms on his thighs instead, willing himself into something approaching patience while the techies continued with their questioning. As Black Suit had hinted, this wasn’t the actual interview; all the technicians were doing was calibrating their elaborate lie detectors.
It took them nearly forty mi
nutes to do so. When they were done, Dean asked for a break to hit the head.
“Not now,” said Black Suit. “You’re a Marine. Cross your legs.”
Three hours later, Dean’s bladder had displaced his lungs and was working its way toward his throat. It gave him a bit of an edge on the questions about his sexual relationships and carried him through the little game Black Suit and the head-shrink played, peppering him with accusations about how he must really consider himself a failure. But it started to become painful when they began asking him detailed questions about his belief in God.
Dean wondered what part religion might play in his assignment as George Hadash’s photographic memory. Hadash hadn’t been particularly profuse in describing what Dean was supposed to do before sending him up here, saying only that he wanted someone he could trust to take a look at something unpleasant.
Dean had met Hadash years before, back when both were considerably younger. As a Marine, Dean had been assigned to accompany a young Pentagon visitor around Da Nang for a few days. Hadash proved to be considerably smarter than most of the suits who came out to look at what Vietnam was all about. He’d also proven himself relatively brave, if somewhat naive, volunteering to go out in the bush with Dean. Dean took him—a decision that caused him considerable grief with his commander.
But it wasn’t like he and Hadash were best of friends. Hadash got in touch with him a few times after the war, once to tell some students over at MIT what the jungle was like. Until yesterday morning, he hadn’t even realized Hadash was the country’s National Security Director.
“You can take a break, Corporal Dean,” said Black Suit finally.
“Yeah, real funny,” said Dean, who had left the Marines as a gunnery sergeant, not a corporal.
Black Suit smiled—the first time he had for the entire session. “Actually, I thought you might finally pee in your pants.”
“I’ll tell you something truthful. When I was a corporal, that was probably the best time of my life,” said Dean as they unhooked him from the machine. “I should have refused the promotion.”
Dean was taken down the hallway, flanked by two men who accompanied him into the men’s room. They said it was impossible to go anywhere here without an escort, and under no circumstances to lose his badge with its “V” insignia—someone without a badge might very well be shot. He thought they might be exaggerating, but he didn’t intend on testing it.
Dean hadn’t volunteered to help Hadash, exactly. Hadash simply called and told him he had a job he needed done immediately. He just assumed—just knew—that Dean would drop everything and do it.
And Dean, for reasons that included $2 million in a Swiss bank account, agreed.
Bladder finally relieved, he emerged from the men’s room feeling invigorated. He girded himself for the second round of questions as he entered the room, but the shrink and technicians had left. Only Black Suit remained. He looked at the guards and lifted his forefinger. They nodded like a pair of matched robots, then backed through the door.
“Dinnertime?” Dean sat in the wooden chair.
“Not for you.”
“This where you slap me around a bit, ask if I’m going to come clean?” Dean asked. “Or do you toss down a pack of cigarettes and offer to split the loot if I talk?”
“You’re a real funny guy, Sergeant.”
“You know what? I’m not a Marine anymore.” Dean stopped himself from saying that he didn’t really care to be reminded of his days in the service; no sense giving the guy a stick to hit him with. “I’m guessing you were in the Army. I can tell you weren’t a Marine. And you were an officer. Maybe you still are. A major, right? They always had something up their butts.”
Black Suit smiled.
Dean stretched his legs and wrapped his arms across his chest, starting to feel a little cold in his T-shirt. “So all right, you asking me more questions or what?”
“We’re done.”
“Same time tomorrow?”
“No. You’re on the job, starting now.”
“You mean I’m hired?” said Dean sardonically as he got up from the chair. “We going to go meet the boss?”
“You don’t have time to meet anyone,” smirked Black Suit. “You have a plane to catch.”
“Where am I going?”
“Eventually, to Surgut.”
“Surgut?”
“You’re a businessman. Your passport and luggage are waiting for you in the foyer upstairs. Your driver will take you to the airport.”
“Where the hell is Surgut?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just follow the program.”
“Surgut,” Dean demanded.
“It’s in Siberia. But don’t worry; it’s not the really bad part of Siberia.”
4
Eight hours and several time zones later, Charles Dean found himself at the counter of Polish National Airlines in Heathrow Airport, waiting as one of the ten ugliest women in the world pecked his nom de passport into the reservations computer. His handlers had chosen “John Brown” as his cover name, matching it to a cover story claiming he sold metal and plastic fixtures used for filling teeth. Undoubtedly they knew of his fear of dentistry, though if they had really wanted to be perverse they might have given him the first name James and sent him out as a record salesman.
“So, Mr. Brown,” said the reservation clerk. “How long will you stay in Warsaw?”
The woman attempted a smile. Dean realized that his initial assessment was incorrect—she must rank among the five ugliest women in the world.
“Not long.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“I have a brochure of restaurants,” she said, reaching below the counter.
Dean took the pamphlet stoically, unsure whether the woman was moonlighting for the Polish travel board or—and here was a frightening thought—trying to pick him up. When he looked at the pamphlet a few minutes later in the boarding area, he saw that two words separated by several paragraphs in the densely packed jungle of ungrammatical English had been underlined—“King” and “Street.”
His instructions had been to simply use his plane tickets and he would be contacted along the way. This couldn’t be their way of contacting him, could it?
King Street?
But what else could it be?
Dean took the brochure and stepped away from the desk. Was King Street a destination or a code word?
He made a circuit around the mall of newsstands, fast-food shops, and currency exchanges, walking slowly to let anyone interested in contacting him do so. When no one stopped him, he went across to the baggage checkin area, checking the suitcase he’d been given. Upstairs, he cleared through security and walked down the hallway to a duty-free area that reminded him of a massive department store. As he headed toward the airline gate, he realized that “King Street” might refer to a display of some sort—booze or perfume, maybe. So he went back through more carefully, perusing the pyramids of Chivas Regal and Baileys, stopping by the Bulova watches, sniffing the Chanel. The only one who came close to him was a three-year-old German girl trying to escape from her mother. He made his way down the tunnel to the gate, where the stiff plastic seats were about a quarter filled. His carry-on baggage contained sales material relating to his dental cover story; he’d managed to read through it twice on the flight over. He was just debating whether to try a third time when a middle-aged doppelganger for Porky Pig—had Porky Pig worn a goatee—pushed down into the seat beside him. Dean noticed that the man had a wire-bound street atlas of Krakow in his open briefcase.
“Hate Polish National,” said Porky, in what to Dean sounded like a Scottish accent. His light tan loafers were made of thin, expensive-looking leather, but the material of his blue suit pants had begun to pile.
“Yeah,” replied Dean.
“Have you flown it?”
“Never before,” said Dean. “First time to Poland.”
Which was abou
t the only part of his cover story that was actually true.
Porky told Dean that he was a barrister for a reinsurance company, heading to Poland to depose witnesses in a negligence case. He frowned slightly when Dean gave him his fake name and cover. Few people wanted to talk about dental fixtures, though Dean wondered what he would do if he ran into a dentist.
“Staying in Krakow?” asked Porky.
“Just a quick business meeting.”
“Then where?”
“Russia,” said Dean. “It’s wide open for braces. And cosmetic fillings—we have no quality competition. Our crowns are among the best.”
“I’ll bet.” Porky changed the subject to the weather.
As they were talking, a petite Asian woman took a seat across from them. Her pale white hose pulled Dean’s eyes up her legs to a short red miniskirt. Above it she wore a mostly unbuttoned black silk shirt beneath a faded denim jacket. Her milk-white neck and slim face managed to look somehow vulnerable and bored at the same time.
Their eyes met; the woman’s frown deepened instantly. Dean smiled. The woman got up from the seat, shaking her head as she walked away.
“Mostly what I do,” said Porky, who had changed the subject once more as Dean indulged in a little gratuitous lust, “is take depositions. Industrial cases. Defective jackhammers, faulty pressure valves, that sort of thing.”
“Intriguing,” said Dean.
“Yes.”
Porky started detailing his current case, concerning a railroad company that was being sued by passengers, or rather the survivors of passengers, after a coupling failed on a brake system, with horrific results.
The story was about as interesting as dental fillings. Was this guy the agent who was supposed to contact him?
Dean interrupted a finely wrought description of pneumatic couplings to ask if he could look at the street atlas in Porky’s briefcase.
“Sure.” Porky’s sandwich-sized hands jammed against the sides of his briefcase as he unwedged it. The atlas had a few pages creased over, but Dean got the distinct impression the creases had been added to make it look used. He studied the city.
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