“We really should line up the RS-93,” he repeated.
“I know you want to fly the plane,” Telach told him. “But this isn’t worth the delay—or the expense. Do what you can.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Malachi uploaded the mission information into the flight computer, selected the proper configuration—all listening devices—and began the launch countdown as his MP3 whipped into a section of tunes from a Bob Dylan tribute. The Vessel whipped out from the satellite station in a sharp downward angle, and he had to sit on the retros to angle it into the proper path.
“Platforms, we’re going to need a diagnostic on Two,” he told the maintenance group when he was finally confident that he had the Vessel on course. “Hey, Baldie, I had a bad angle on the launch, dude, and it’s all your fault.”
Malachi sipped his strawberry-milk drink while the maintenance tech debriefed him. The bad launch meant he was going to have trouble getting the Vessel into a recovery zone following deployment; he’d have to red-button it.
“Gotta go,” he told Baldie as the computer flashed its five-second countdown to Hydra.
“Hey,” said Rockman over the NSA line.
“Hang tight, Rock.” Malachi hit his commands. He had good telemetry from the Vessel—the wings had deployed—but the track on SpyNet disagreed with his own data. The difference was only two meters—but at this altitude and speed, two meters would translate into several miles at the target. He tried two refreshes but couldn’t get them to agree. There was no time to run a diagnostic to find out which was right.
“Yo, Mom, listen, I have a disagreement on my course position,” he told Telach. “What I’m going to do is split the drop. I think I can hit both projected sites.”
He said that before doing the calculations.
“What kind of coverage are we going to have?” asked Telach.
Duh.
“A quarter of what we planned,” said Malachi. “Half the devices over half the area. I’ll jack the power if you want, but you’ll kill the endurance.”
“Acceptable,” said Rockman.
Malachi pounded the keyboard and got the two drop points worked out. The extra maneuvers left him with a self-destruct point only twenty miles from the second drop, which called for a verbal override not only from him but also from Telach.
“Go for it,” she said.
To interpret the voice intercepts provided by the miniature bugs, Desk Three used specialists from the NSA’s translation section, who were fed the intercepts in real time over a dedicated network. The translators used a version of Speaker ID—a neural network computer program based on the Berger–Liaw Neural Network Speaker Independent Speech Recognition System developed at the University of Southern California for the agency and the Defense Department. Speaker ID could separate recorded conversations into dialogue transcripts almost instantaneously; the exact speed depended on conditions and what the program’s mentors sometimes referred to as interference from the human linguists working with the gear. An uncorrected transcript appeared on one of Rockman’s screens in near real time; a more polished draft could be called up on a sixty-second delay. The runner preferred to rely on the translation supervisor, who could summarize developments quickly. The supervisor was with the translators in another part of Crypto City, though he could take a station in the Art Room for important missions.
“Macho talk,” said the translation supervisor, Janet Granay. “A lot of conversations. General stuff. We’ll start harvesting in a few seconds.” The corrected transcripts were entered into a computer program that searched for key words such as cities or military commands. The program would then flag the conversation streams, highlighting them for the supervisor. While the program was definitely useful, in practice Granay could probably keep up with what was for her a limited number of conversation streams without its help.
“We’re looking at a Marine base then?” asked Rockman. “That’s my main question, if I can confirm my background.”
“We’re still working on it. We have only six conversations here. A lot of snoring. It’s nighttime over there.”
“I can wait,” said Rockman. Site B was a bit of an interesting mystery. The most recent satellite photo showed equipment ordinarily associated with Marine units, even though this was deep in Siberia, not a place known to house the extremely small Russian amphibious forces. A vehicle analysis put the force strength just short of a battalion—which would make it the largest concentration of Marines outside of naval bases in the Far East.
Telach theorized that they were looking at an Army unit that had inherited Marine gear, but NSA’s researchers could find no evidence of that. Large military units were routinely tracked across the globe, so the appearance of a fairly significant size force here was interesting in and of itself. So far no reference to it had been found in the mountains of daily intercepts out of the Kremlin and defense ministry.
Lia’s data didn’t provide much illumination. Her images of the men, transmitted over the phone hookup, showed that they were probably wearing Marine uniforms.
Rockman studied the eavesdropping data; one of the flies was close enough to pick up what seemed to be a conversation at the main gate. It consisted largely of a debate over how much vodka could be drunk without pausing to take a breath.
“So let’s say the helicopter belonged to them,” suggested Telach, sitting at the console next to him. “What’s it mean? Units operating independently of Moscow.”
“Private force, answerable to the defense minister,” suggested Rockman. “Big, though.”
“Why the defense minister?”
Rockman shrugged. “Who else? Yeltsin’s ghost?”
“Could be a mafiya network. Or something we haven’t tracked yet.” She rubbed her finger along her chin, considering the situation. “We’ll have to send Karr up there to see what he can find. It’s too big to ignore.”
“Yeah. Mr. Rubens is going to want to know.”
“Definitely.”
“What do you want to do about Dean?” Rockman asked.
“Have Fashona fly him and the metal back, pack it into a transport, and get it home.”
“Karr’s going to complain about having the Hind taken away.”
“Who’s running this operation, us or him?”
“You know Tommy.”
They were interrupted by Granay. “You ought to listen to this,” she said. “Line Four. And it matches, I checked it.”
Rockman punched the feed button, bringing up the raw intercept in his earphones. He was about to key in a translated overlay when he realized he didn’t have to: the voice being picked up by the tiny bug was speaking English.
American English. Reciting, in fact, a passage from the Bible—one so well-known that even Rockman, who was about as religious as Rin Tin Tin, could recite by heart.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” said the voice shakily in a low whisper. “I shall not want.”
Telach and Rockman looked at each other. They didn’t need the audio library to know the voice belonged to Stephan Moyshik—aka Stephen Martin.
32
Favors begat favors. In exchange for the information that the consultant provided to the FBI on the guitar—information that would be forthcoming from the FBI anyway—Rubens had managed to obtain access to the local police department’s complete investigation file on the Greene murder.
It was a shockingly easy transaction, though it required Rubens to go to the police station in person. The investigator clearly didn’t know who he was. He had accepted the rather bland declaration that Rubens was “looking into the matter on an informal basis for the administration” far too easily. That didn’t speak well for the quality of the investigation, but then, he’d never thought very highly of them to begin with.
And yet, the file was fairly thorough. The interviews with the surviving band members indicated that the guitarist had never jumped into a pool while playing before, with or without his guitar—but then a
gain, they’d never played anywhere there was a pool. He did do bizarre stuff, no question. Plunking himself into the water, wire and all, was completely in character.
The band members didn’t know much about Greta Meandes and were vague on whether she even worked, let alone what she did. Rubens got the impression that they had been playing up the drugged-out airhead band thing for the police, but in any event they had added nothing of substance. One suggested the guitarist had been “boffing” her; the investigator’s notes said specifically that he doubted it.
The notes suggested there was plenty of opportunity for the guitar to have been tampered with. The detective had attempted to put together a time line, but it was full of gaps. Obviously working on the assumption that it was a freak accident, he hadn’t even bothered to speak to everyone on the guest list, though Greta had provided one.
Rubens’ name, of course, was on it. He had to exert every bit of his self-control not to grab it from the file. He surely would have if the detective had left the room.
Not that it would have done much good. By now the congressional committee would know he had been there, though no one had made an issue of it.
Yet.
It required no imagination and even less paranoia to envision the scene:
Congressman Mason: By the way, did you see Representative Greene the whole time he was in the pool?
Witness: No, actually. William Rubens was in my way.
Congressman Mason: William Rubens? [pretends to be shocked] Is that the William Rubens who works with the NSA?
Witness: I wouldn’t know… .
By the end of the hearing, the papers would be printing that the death was an NSA plot. They’d have it all figured out.
Rubens, waiting to clear the last check into the Art Room, wondered how he could prove that his cousin had murdered the SOB. That, and only that, would end the investigation.
But there was no proof. If this were a Desk Three mission, he could have such proof manufactured—a security video showing her playing with the guitar would suffice.
Of course, this wasn’t a mission, and it was his cousin he was thinking of railroading. Nor would he break the law by manufacturing evidence.
Still, if he was convinced his cousin committed the murder, if he had real evidence, he’d definitely give it to the police. That was his duty.
Especially if it would ward off potential embarrassment.
Not that it wasn’t embarrassing to have a cousin accused of murder. But that was preferable to being accused yourself.
Rubens cleared the matter out of his head as he waited for the computer to admit him to the Art Room, substituting his yoga mantra instead. He needed to clear his mind so he could focus on the Russian coup and his plan to thwart it.
If he could only prove Greta did it, he’d save everybody a lot of grief.
Not everybody, but definitely himself.
The Art Room door opened. Telach looked like she was about to explode.
“Martin’s alive,” she blurted. “We have his voice pattern at Veharkurth.”
“Martin?”
“The Wave Three op. Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Matches exactly. We have a possible location. We have the facility sketched out, but we’re going to update. We’ll have a satellite onstation in twenty minutes.”
Rubens’ skepticism grew as Telach detailed the situation. The voice they thought was Martin’s had spoken only for a minute or so, saying a short prayer apparently to himself. Analysis put it in one of two buildings about equidistant from the bug’s location in the northwestern corner of the facility.
“Is it a prison or what?” asked Rubens, looking at the satellite details.
“It’s two things,” said Telach. “One is a base for a Marine unit that Defense Intelligence says is attached to a Black Sea naval force.”
“Black Sea?”
Telach smirked. “Obviously, something’s wrong somewhere. Look at the right side of the complex. Serious SAM defenses.”
“Unit protection?” asked Rubens.
“Well, I wouldn’t rule anything out,” she said. “But this deep in Russia, not, as far as we know, connected to the standard defense network.”
“Not connected?”
“Doesn’t show up in our inventory,” she said. “Again, not to jump to conclusions.”
“So what else do they do there?” Rubens asked.
“My bet is it’s a lab or a research facility connected to their laser operation,” said Telach. She reached to the console and punched up a new set of satellite photos on the main board. The series showed a thin blue rectangle along roads and wasteland. “There’s a dedicated fiber-optic line between one of the Wave Three targets and the facility.”
The NSA had studied the possibility of breaching the network linking the laser facilities nearly a year before, ultimately deciding that it could not be penetrated without detection. Rubens did not remember this site as part of the network, though of course he could not expect to.
“There were no Marines here then,” said Telach. “Not when the line was built. It was originally tagged as a supply depot and possibly a backup laboratory. I have a call in over to the laser specialists; they may be able to fill us in.”
Rubens looked at the situation map. The Wave Three aircraft had been shot down nearly three hundred miles away; the plane’s target was another hundred or more to the south. The actual weapons facilities were between the Marine base and the Wave Three target. Four other buildings believed to house associated research facilities were within the same grid. The project had probably been scattered to increase physical security.
Obviously, they had a lot of work to do. The connection between the Marines and the laser project was intriguing and had to be fleshed out. But the coup took precedence.
“How are we going to get Martin out?” said Telach.
“It can’t be him,” said Rubens.
“It is.”
“No. There’s no way he got out of the plane.”
“Boss, it is,” said Rockman, from his station. “Trust me.”
“It’s not a matter of trust,” Rubens told them. “It’s physically impossible for him to have escaped from the Wave Three package.”
“The voiceprint is perfect.” Rockman’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp and loud. “He must’ve gotten out before he hit the self-destruct. And you know as well as I do that the contract people on some of our aircraft have packed parachutes. Martin probably did as well. And the pilots.”
It was, regrettably, true.
“Karr found traces of human remains in the wreckage,” added Rockman. “So obviously someone went down with it. But not Martin.”
“We have to get him out,” said Telach.
“If it is Martin, I agree,” Rubens said. “But we need more information. And regrettably, we have something of a higher priority. I need the team in Moscow.”
Telach started to object.
“No, I need them in Moscow,” said Rubens. For the moment, he couldn’t explain why. “We don’t have anything definite and I really need them in Moscow. Tell them to pack up and get out there.”
“If that’s Martin, we have to get him,” said Telach. “And we’re there now.”
“The team isn’t there,” said Rubens, who pointed to the locator map that showed them a good twenty miles farther south.
“Boss, I’m begging you,” said Telach.
Rubens clamped his lips together. He was not an unreasonable man. And truly if Martin was alive, retrieving him was very important. But the coup was more important, ultimately.
Still, he could not appear to be unmoved by his team’s plea. It would undermine their effectiveness.
“Six hours to gather more information,” said Rubens. “Anything beyond that needs my personal authorization. I want them in Moscow.”
“Thank you,” said Telach.
There was so much relief in her voice that Rubens decided to le
ave quickly, before she had a chance to do something foolish—like rushing over and kissing him.
33
Dean felt her moving toward him even before he heard her. He kept his face down on the bed, turned away from her.
For a second he let himself fantasize that she was coming to slip into bed with him. His desire surprised him, not least of all because he knew she wasn’t coming to slip in beside him.
He opened his right eye, the one closest to the pillow. The lights were still on and the sun shone through the nearby window.
She touched the end of the bed.
“Can’t resist me, huh?” he said. He pulled himself up.
Instead of a torrid comeback there was a shriek. A maid stood near the end of the bed, her face blanched in surprise. A stream of Russian—the tone showed it was not necessarily an apology—left her mouth as she backed from the room.
Lia was gone. The cushions from the seats and the curtains from the windows were piled next to him on the bed, which might have explained why the maid didn’t realize he was there. Light streamed through the windows; it was now past eight o’clock, according to his watch.
Lia had taken all their gear from the room. She didn’t answer when he knocked on the other door. Unsure what else to do, Dean walked out to the lobby area, slowly enough so the clerk could stop him if there was a message but, on the other hand, not trying to look as if he were expecting one. He went outside; the truck was gone.
A small building next to the motel looked like a restaurant. Inside, Dean took a place at a small table; the rest of the room was empty. The woman who came out from the back frowned when she saw him. Somewhere in her rapid-fire greeting he thought he heard a word similar to coffee, and so he said, “Da.” This elicited more words, which sounded like questions. Dean nodded and said “Da” again, but apparently this didn’t suffice as an answer.
“I’m just a dumb American,” he told her, shrugging. “Bring me what you got.”
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