“I’m glad he’s alive,” said Rubens, though of course the exact opposite was true. However, if he had to have survived the crash, it was far better that they had him than the Russians. It would be easier to assess the damage to the program with his account.
“He claims he didn’t tell the Russians anything about Wave Three,” added Telach.
Even Rubens had an extremely difficult time stifling a laugh of derision. Of course Martin had been broken; it was absurd to think otherwise. It was just a question of how much time the Russians had had to interview him.
“I will be down shortly,” he told Telach. “Have Karr and his people arrived in Moscow yet?”
“They’re en route.”
“Tell them to move more quickly.” Rubens hung up and glanced at his watch. There were seven minutes left until the scheduled hourly update on Bear Hug. The update involved a secure conference call with the NSC, agency, and military leaders connected with the operation. While he could take the call in the Art Room, he’d never make it through the security chamber in time. He’d have to take the call here, then go downstairs.
He thought again of the things that needed to be cared for at his home. The African violets must be watered, and he should change the thermostat and phone settings. He’d also want to put on the random lighting pattern that made it seem as if the house were occupied.
Rubens picked up the gray phone and called home, where the house’s central computer system could be accessed through its phone mail system. He hated using the gadget. The phone menu was exasperating, and not too long ago he’d managed to tell the lawn sprinkler system to keep itself on 24/7; he returned home just in time to prevent a mud slide.
The machine answered on the first ring, indicating he had a message. Rubens hit his code to check. The machine greeted him and then began playing a message from his cousin Greta.
“Hi, Bill, I hope you’re well. Call me, OK?”
It had been left a few hours before.
Call her?
She never, or almost never, called to chat. It had to be the investigation. Was something going to come out?
Was that what Brown had been getting at earlier?
There were no other messages. Rubens hung up, then punched his cousin’s number. The phone rang three times, four—he started to hang up, not sure what sort of message to leave. He couldn’t tell her to call him here.
“Hello?”
“Greta?”
“Bill?” Her voice sounded tentative, very un-Greta-like.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh yes, I’m OK. Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“There’s going to be an inquiry into Congressman Greene’s death. There’s a special congressional committee.”
That was it?
“I had heard that, yes,” said Rubens. “Are you concerned?”
“Concerned? Of course I’m concerned. I’m worried.”
Maybe she did do it, he thought. Perhaps she felt pressure to confess.
That would end the rumors and contain the potential damage. A good solution.
“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” he said in his most soothing voice. “If you need anything, I’ll help any way I can.”
“Thanks.”
“You expect to be called as a witness before the committee?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I guess.”
Rubens thought of the scene playing on Fox. They’d cut from the live feed to the studio, where one of the commentators would point out that her cousin was William Rubens, the most important spymaster since …
He was not a spymaster.
Most important since whom?
“They’re all grandstanding,” said Greta. “They have their own agendas.”
She stopped speaking, probably on the verge of tears. As Rubens thought of what to say next—as he considered what formula might get her to gush out a confession—something odd occurred to him, something unprecedented.
He felt sorry for her.
“I feel like I’m in a vise,” she said.
“Washington is like that,” Rubens told her. He glanced at the small clock on his desk—it was almost time for the conference call.
“Do you have anything to worry about?” he said. It was blunt and crude, but with the time constraints it was the only way to proceed.
“What do you mean, William?”
“I mean that, unless you’re ashamed of something, I wouldn’t worry about all this,” he said, backtracking. “It’s nonsense.”
“I’m not ashamed of anything.”
“See?” Rubens pitched forward in his chair. Better to leave things in as positive a light as possible. “It’ll work out. Look, Greta, I have to go. Do you need anything? Anything at all? Do you want to just talk?”
“No, thanks. Thanks. I appreciate your support.”
“It’s nothing. If you want to talk, let me know. I’m busy, but I’ll help. I promise.”
“It’s good to have family.”
Rubens hung up, feeling more guilty than he would have cared to admit.
54
Malachi Reese cursed and slammed on the brakes about halfway down the parking lot aisle in Lot 2D. Some stinking SOB had parked in his spot. He threw the Honda into reverse without bothering to figure out whose car it was; security would do that, and besides, he was running late as it was. The problem now was where the hell to park.
The handicapped section. There were sixteen spots in the lot, mandated by federal law—even though no one with a handicapped license had clearance to park here.
Sixteen other scumbags had gotten there first. This really was a serious alert.
Malachi wheeled back, the heat shield in the Honda clattering as the engine jerked on its mounts. He almost parked on the sidewalk but at the last moment saw a spot near the fence. He raced a Neon for it—as if—leaving a good patch of rubber on the hot asphalt as he screeched in. Out of the car, he ran to the facility entrance, trotting in place as the security guards—who had seen him leave only a few hours ago—wanded him and did the retina thing.
Inside, Malachi dialed his MP3 jukebox to the Clash’s “London Calling.” The hunt for a parking spot had made him feel particularly nostalgic.
There was an extra set of security guards downstairs in the hallway leading to Conference Room Three, where he’d been told to report. Malachi didn’t know them, which meant they dished major hassle over his MP3, making him put it under an X-ray and then passing it through the bomb sniffer gate twice. By the time Malachi finally entered the briefing room—a small auditorium with thirty seats, about twenty of them filled—they were well into the operational briefing, with an Air Force colonel Malachi didn’t recognize talking about “the asset limitation list.” Malachi saw Terry Gibbs, one of the other platform jocks, sitting in the second bank of seats. He slid behind him and poked him in the back.
“You’re big-time late,” whispered Gibbs.
“Some asshole parked in my spot,” said Malachi, pulling up the LCD video screen at the side of his chair. He flicked it on: channel A featured a map of the greater Moscow area, with red stars all around it. Malachi recognized the stars as defense installations without having to tap the screen for IDs.
“So like, I have to lose my day off because we’re going to bug the Russians again? Shit, Frenchie could have done it.” Frenchie was an Air Force captain named Steven Parlus.
“Take off the earphones and listen to what the colonel’s saying,” said Gibbs. “Look around. You’re not flying the platform. They want you on the Birds. Kelly’s unavailable and Duff asked for you. You missed Rubens.”
“The F-47s? Kick-ass.”
Malachi pulled out his ear buds and started paying serious attention. The F-47Cs, sometimes called Birds, were Mach 1.5–capable UFAVs, or unmanned fighting aerial vehicles, capable of carrying weapons as well as “mission pods”—signal and image–capturing gear. The remote planes we
re an outgrowth of Boeing’s successful F-45 program for the Air Force, which had provided considerable pointers for the satellite-controlled NSA force. They generally worked in packs or flights of four and required several remote pilots, along with a full relief team.
“This unit here is our prime concern,” said the colonel, tapping at a base northeast of Moscow. The legend identified the unit there as 593, a fighter aviation regiment of MiG-35 “Super Fulcrums.” The MiG-MAPO next-generation fighter was based on the MiG 1.42, itself a development of the MiG29.
“Yes,” said Malachi, as if he’d just hit a three-point shot at the buzzer. Those close enough to hear him snickered, and the colonel giving the presentation stopped speaking and looked toward him.
“Is there a question, Mr. Reese?” asked the colonel.
“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Just saying we’re going to kick their butts.”
“That’s not the idea, Reese,” said General Tonka, standing up from the front row. Tonka was another holdover from Space Command. “Russia is a member of NATO, an ally—no unauthorized dogfighting, no unauthorized anything.”
Tonka’s nickname was, naturally, Truck, though he was built like a slim walking stick. He’d flown combat in the Gulf. He gave the room one of his best stares, then turned back to Malachi and pointed at him. “I know you’re a cowboy, Reese. Don’t fuck up.”
“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Not on purpose.”
Two hours later, Malachi joined the flight crew in Control Bunker C, a separate underground facility with its own power supply, ventilation system, and communications network. It linked to the Art Room via three separate dedicated lines, each of which was always on. Malachi was second pilot, essentially the copilot in a four-man crew that also had a pilot, navigator/weapons officer, and radar/ECM man. They could control from two to eight planes with the help of a bank of computers and a dedicated satellite network. This could be augmented by J-STARS and AWACS aircraft; eventually, specially equipped Raptors and Strike Eagles would also be able to tie into the network.
“Look who the cat drug in,” said Train—officially known as Major Pierce Duff. Train had cut his teeth as a young lieutenant flying F-16s in the Gulf War and was regarded as one of the top remote pilots in the service. This was his team, and Malachi—or “Mal,” as they sometimes referred to him—swept his torso down as a gesture of respect.
Kind of.
“He was probably making it with some ho in the elevator,” said Riddler, who worked the radar and ECMs, or electronic countermeasures. Riddler’s real name was Captain George Thurston.
“Got me,” said Malachi. “Where’s Whacker?”
“Getting updated disks on the weapons sets,” said Train. “More programming code from your people.”
“Hey, I just work here. I’m not one of them,” said Malachi.
“Yeah, he’s a mutant alien form of fungus,” said Riddler.
“Actually, bacteria. I’ve evolved.” He slid into his station, which was dominated by a large flight stick. Most often the remote planes were directed through verbal or keyboarded commands. While the pilots could take direct control via the stick, the transmission delay could amount to more than two seconds, which made guiding the planes a difficult art. You had to think ahead, anticipating not just the plane but also the control lag. Combat situations were especially treacherous.
Naturally, Malachi prayed for one.
“The planes are due to be offloaded at No¨bitz, Germany, in four hours,” Train told him. “We have to be ready to take them off the ground as soon as they’re fueled.”
Nöbitz was an airfield near Altenburg in the southern part of the country, once used by Soviet forces during the Cold War. It had obviously been chosen for security purposes, not proximity to the target area—it was a good hike from there just to the Russian border, let alone Moscow.
“We’re looking at a two-hour cruise to get onstation,” added Train. “We get there, we stagger back to tank. We’re looking at a twelve-hour window at the moment.”
Malachi whistled. That was a long time for the robots to stay aloft, even with refueling. It would also be a considerable strain for the crews.
“I want to run through a couple of mission bits on the simulator first,” explained Train, “practice ingress and egress and at least one refueling. Then we break, get a real brief, come back, and do it.”
“Sounds hot,” said Malachi. “What kinds of weapons are we carrying?”
“Still to be decided,” said Train. “Probably AIM-9s, AMRAAMs, and Paveways, full mix.” So equipped, the planes could be used for either air-to-air or air-to-ground attacks.
“Hot dingers,” said Malachi.
“One more thing, dude,” said Major Duff, leaning over to Malachi’s station. “No music. For anybody.”
“Shit. Serious?”
“Serious. Whacker threatened to break out his Barry Manilow collection, and I just can’t live with that over the interphone circuit for twelve hours.”
“Agreed,” said Malachi, pulling out his ear bud.
55
Karr decided on his own authority to have the plane land at Kirov, not Moscow. He told the Art Room it was because of a peculiar challenge by an air controller, but the real reason was that he had doubts about Martin.
He’d checked Martin’s identity with the portable retina scanner and there was no question it was him. Karr had gone over Martin’s story with him several times; while it was obvious that he was hedging about what he had told the Russians, that was to be expected—no one wanted to admit he’d been broken, even if it was obvious. The details about Martin’s escape from the plane checked with what the technical experts had predicted, and there were no inconsistencies or inexplicable gaps.
Yet Karr was still bugged.
Normal procedure called for a transfer out of Moscow via an antiseptic protocol that minimized other contacts. But that would jeopardize one of the safe houses and possibly the people who had set it up. Karr had to get the team into Moscow right away, which implied further complications for holding Martin. He might end up with considerable knowledge of the network in the city, which presumably he hadn’t had as an equipment operator.
Karr couldn’t leave him in Kirov, however. He had no people there, not even CIA agents who might be roped into the job. There was no safe house. Foreigners were often monitored when they checked into hotels. And it would take quite a while to arrange a pickup.
What was it that made him feel uneasy? The fact that Martin didn’t seem all that happy in the first few minutes of the rescue?
But that could be explained by the fact that he had been sleeping and didn’t know what was going on. Martin would already have passed countless background checks, lie detector tests, all sorts of investigations.
Still.
The pilots of the Fokker 80 were Brits who were only too happy to land at Kirov, since it would save them considerably on the use fees and fuel.
The pilots did a lot of work for the CIA. They probably had been set up in business by MI6, though that wasn’t entirely clear, since the British intelligence agency actually used different freelancers, all native. The only thing Karr was reasonably sure of was that the pilots wouldn’t sell them out to the Russians, the Chinese, or anyone from the Middle East.
That, and their plane was reasonably fast and spacious.
Karr had told them the team was a group of American businessmen who’d gotten sick while looking at oil sites in Siberia. The odds on them buying that story were about the same that a snowman would last a full day on a Miami beach.
“OK, up and at ’em,” he told the team camped out in the well-appointed passenger cabin.
“Moscow already?” asked Fashona, unfolding himself from the seat.
“Kirov. Let’s go.”
“Kirov?” said Lia.
“Hit the road. Up, Martin. Let’s go, Dean, shake it. Come on.”
They got a rental car and began driving toward a collection of tall b
uildings on the highway, one of which bore a Holiday Inn logo. Karr found a nondescript semi-Western-style no-questions-asked motel—its Russian name translated literally as “small name”—at the edge of an industrial complex. The motel had what amounted to a coffee shop at one side; he told the others to go in and get something to eat while he talked to the Art Room.
“Why aren’t you in Moscow?” demanded Rockman, the runner, when he came on the line.
“I have questions.”
“I need you in Moscow right away. Where is Martin?”
“He’s around. He’s what I have questions about.”
Rockman didn’t answer for a moment. “We need you in Moscow. Deliver Martin to the embassy and we’ll find someone to take him back.”
“I want to keep him sterile.”
“Sterile? You’re sure it’s him, right?”
“Yeah,” said Karr. “I’m sure.”
“Look, we have something of a much higher priority than Martin,” said Rockman.
“Can I have Dean take him back?”
“You’re going to need Dean.”
“My ESP isn’t working all that well tonight,” said Karr.
“We’ll tell you the game plan when we’re ready. Your line’s not secure enough.”
The satellite system connecting Karr with the Art Room used four different and independent encryption systems; the NSA itself would have trouble reading it.
But it was theoretically possible.
The only more secure system—aside from going home and speaking in person—was located in a Moscow safe house.
“Do what you can with Martin,” added the runner. “Put him on ice if you have to. That’s your call. But we need you in Moscow. And we’ll need your whole team.”
“All right,” said Karr.
56
Two cups of coffee—actual, real coffee—and Dean felt wired. He had a hard time sitting in the restaurant booth, let alone concentrating his thoughts. He wanted to get back home and sleep for a week, if not more.
Lia had on her pissed-off scowl and Fashona kept jerking his head back and forth. Martin seemed to be in a fugue state, possibly so mentally wasted that he couldn’t process information anymore.
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