The Zebra Network

by Sean Flannery

  “Or someone connected with them,” Dennis Foster said. “They’re all safely in prison. But there could be others. Their control officer, for one.”

  “Which means McAllister wouldn’t have murdered Ballinger,” Highnote said. “He went through the woman to get information, and when that didn’t work he went directly to the source. The Russians killed Ballinger because they wanted to stop McAllister from learning something. They must know what he’s up to. It was probably they who called security warning them that McAllister was on his way out here.”

  “That’s a weak guess, Bob,” Kingman said.

  Highnote slammed the palm of his hand on the table top. “We don’t have anything else to go on, goddamnit. I’m trying to save lives, don’t fight me.”

  “If he’s after something or someone connected with the O’Haire network, let’s give it to him,” Kingman said.

  “Bait?”

  “Exactly. If he responds we’ll know for sure what he’s up to.”

  “What have you got in mind? Any ideas?”

  “We’ll get a message to him.”

  “How?”

  “There is only one way to make sure that we get his attention,” Kingman said. “We let it leak to the press that we’re on the verge of arresting the O’Haires’ control officer. We’ll even go so far as to name him as a former Agency officer: David McAllister.”

  “You’re nuts,” Foster said. “Every cop in the country would be gunning for”

  Kingman shook his head. “We give a bogus description. Something not even close. Different age, height, hair. McAllister will know that we’re trying to reach him, and why.”

  “So will the Russians.”

  “And they’ll go gunning for him, because they know what he really looks like. In the meantime we’ll be watching them. Sooner or later they’ll lead us to”

  “If they get to him first they’ll kill him,” Foster said. “It’s the chance we all agreed to take when we raised our right hands, Dennis.”

  “You must have taken a different oath than I took,” Foster said.

  “I for one want no further part of these proceedings, and I suggest that this entire case be turned over to the Bureau. It’s in their baIliwick. let them handle it.”

  The telephone at the head of the table burred softly. Everyone stopped as Highnote picked it up. They’d all heard him instruct his secretary that there were to be no interruptions of this meeting, except in an emergency. “I see,” Highnote said softly, the expression on his face impossible to read. Foster had gotten to his feet and was halfway to the door. Even he hesitated.

  “This morning?” Highnote asked. “Yes, I see, thank you.” He hung up. For a long time he sat stock-still, staring at the telephone.

  “What is it, Bob?” Kingman asked, the first to break the suddenly ominous silence.

  Highnote looked up. “It was Janos Sikorski,” he said. “He was found tortured to death at his home outside of Reston this morning.”

  “Good lord,” Foster said.

  “Any witnesses?” Kingman asked, his eyes bright. Highnote shook his head. “It’s not all straightened out yet, but the killers evidently came in two cars. They left one behind. There was a lot of blood… “Any idea who the car belongs to?”

  “It was a rental unit. Out of Baltimore.”

  “A name?”

  “Stephanie Albright.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Kingman said. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  Chapter 15

  Live a hundred years, learn a hundred years, still you die a fool. Better to turn back than lose your way. A bad compromise is better than a good battle. The proverbs were a Russian litany; the response, survival. The man in the charcoal-gray overcoat and dove-gray fedora crushed out his cigarette in the Mercedes’s ashtray and attempted to settle back in his seat and relax. But he was tense. So much had gone wrong that it was becoming increasingly difficult to see how the situation could possibly turn out for the best.

  He looked up as a car came around the corner and slowly passed him, his heart quickening until he realized it was not for him.

  So much history here, he thought, far and near. Since coming to Washington he had steeped himself in the city’s heritage. So goes Washington, so goes the nation. The irony of meeting in the parking ramp of the Watergate Hotel was not lost on him. A president had been toppled by events that had happened here. An entire government had very nearly fallen. Was it possible again? He shuddered to think of it.

  McAllister was still alive, and now he had help. They had learned nothing from Sikorski, and what’s more his carefully nurtured contacts among the underworld in New Jersey were threatening to pull out unless their fee was substantially increased.

  “We’re talking about my country here,” the heavily accented Italian voice had screamed at him over the telephone. “It’s gonna cost you, and cost you plenty.”

  Coming up with the extra money, though not impossible would be difficult. “I have accountability too,” he’d said.

  “Breaks of the game. But the price of poker has just gone up, gumba. Twenty-four hours.”

  McAllister was the key. He had been released from the Lubyanka

  by whom? Someone had to have signed the release order. Someonehigh up within the Komitet. But who? And why? It simply made no sense from where he sat.

  The door at the far side of the ramp opened and the Russian turned his head in time to see his American counterpart emerge from the stairwell. He watched how the man walked, holding himself close as if he were in pain, as well indeed he might be considering the circumstances. Stem the tide. They had to not only stop McAllister, but they had to learn who was directing him and why.

  The American reached the Mercedes and got in on the passenger side. He was visibly distressed, his complexion pale, his hand shaking as he lit a cigarette. “It’s time we thought about pulling out, unless you can tell me what the hell is going on here,” the nature of his words stronger than the tone of his voice.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “McAllister is getting help.”

  “Yes, this woman.

  “No, I’m talking about outside help. Somebody is feeding him information. They must be, he can’t be that good.”

  The Russian studied the American for a long moment or two. How much did he know that he wasn’t telling? How many secrets had they kept from each other over the years? There was so much at stake here. They could not pull out, of course. Besides, there was nowhere on this earth for them to run and be safe. Nowhere. “Then it is up to us to stop him before he goes too far.” The American shook his head. “You don’t understand, Gennadi, how far he has taken it already.”

  “Then you will tell me, and together we will see what must be done.” The Russian forced a calmness into his voice that he did not feel. He had worked with this one for enough years to understand that when he was upset it was for good cause.

  “Someone must be feeding him information.”

  “From where?”

  “Moscow.”

  “How? Where is his pipeline? Who does he see? Where do they meet?” With care, he thought.

  “You’re in a better position to find that out than I.”

  “There has been nothing, trust me when I tell you this,” the Russian said. “I have made… inquiries. If McAllister is getting information it is coming from somewhere here in Washington, or very nearby. And by the way, that was an inspired guess on your part that he would actually break into CIA headquarters.”

  “He was after the O’Haire files.”

  “Did he get them?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re going to have to assume that he did. And you know what that could mean.”

  “They’ve received their instructions. I think we can assume that they are safely out of harm’s way for the moment.”

  “He broke into headquarters, for God’s sake, Gennadi,” the American shouted. “Do you think Marion is going to be any more difficult for him?”
The Russian shook his head. “I asked you once if McAllister was a god, and you told me he was not. He was just an ordinary man with extraordinary abilities. What has changed your mind?”

  “We’ve failed four times to stop him.”

  “Yes,” the Russian said turning away. “Either he is very good and very lucky, or he is getting help.”

  “Then you agree with me,” the American said excitedly. “Only insofar as it may… and I stress the word may… be coming from someone local. The wire and satellite links have contained nothing. I guarantee it.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “One name comes to mind,” the Russian said. “Who?”

  “Someone you don’t know about.”

  “What sort of a game are you playing at now?” the American said, raising his voice again.

  “It won’t do you any good to shout. Life goes on, as it must. We have nurtured this one for a good number of years, even before my time. He was just beginning to produce when this came up, and for the past couple of weeks it is my understanding that he has been silent. If you knew who he was you would understand just how strange his silence is just now.”

  “You’re talking in circles, Gennadi. Who is this man?”

  “Nicholas Albright,” the Russian said, watching the American’s face very closely.

  “My God!”

  “It was thought that his daughter’s entry into the Agency would provide us with an ongoing source of information about new Agency recruits.”

  “Is she working with you as well?”

  “No, of course not. But from what I understand she is very close to her father. She tells him things.”

  “Then he knows where McAllister is hiding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The American’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying to me?”

  “Albright is not my project, never has been. But if there is some maniac in Moscow who is trying to stop us, Albright could very well be his contact here. Now it seems more than logical. But I can’t directly make an approach for fear of tipping my hand. You can see the delicacy?”

  “What can I do?” the American asked.

  “For the moment, nothing other than what you have already been doing. I’ll attend to Albright personally.”

  “That would be very dangerous..

  “I don’t mean myself physically, I meant I’ll have Albright taken care of. That section of Baltimore is very dangerous. Breakins are not unheard of. If we can get the information from him, we will at least know who our enemies are.”

  “McAllister.”

  “He’s only the tool, my friend. We must learn the identity of the craftsmen now.”

  The American looked away. “Do they realize what is at risk?” The Russian did not answer. Fear, as a powerful, dark force threatened to engulf him.

  “McAllister cannot be allowed to continue.”

  “No.”

  “God help us all if he succeeds,” the American said. “Or even convinces someone else that he’s not crazy.”

  After a successful strike you must wait and watch for the enemy’s reaction before you make your next move. It is essential that this order of battle be strictly adhered to, especially when the odds are so heavily stacked against the operative in the field.

  McAllister looked up from the last of the newspapers he had been reading. Stephanie was already finished.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing yet,” he said wearily. He was tired of being cooped up in their hotel room, and he could see that she was too. Yet it was far too dangerous for either of them to wander far from the hotel now. After last night the Agency, the FBI, and the District police would be searching for them both. But until something happened they could do nothing but wait.

  They’d both managed to get some sleep, and in the morning neither of them had mentioned her outburst of the night before. But her confession hung in the air between them like a thick veil that neither of them was ready to part. For his part, McAllister didn’t know what to say or do, because in fact he didn’t know how he felt about her or his wife; except that he found Stephanie very attractive and sincere, and that his marriage had been failing for a long time before his wife had called him a traitor and had tried to kill him. He was confused, and hurting. Everything had been turned upside down for him in Moscow. No matter what happened or didn’t happen, though, he knew for a fact that his life would never be the same, could never be the same. The circumstances had changed, but so had he.

  “What makes you so sure that they’ll say anything to the news media?” she asked. “They haven’t so far.”

  “The Bureau is involved now, and so are the District police. It’s bound to attract some attention. They’ll have to make some kind of a statement.”

  “It could be anything. It might mean nothing.”

  “Even their silence could tell us something,” McAllister said, though he wasn’t at all sure what that might be. Something inside of him, however, some instinct told him that it was not time yet to move. They needed more information.“We have four names,” Stephanie was saying. “It’s what you were looking for. let’s follow up those leads at least.”

  “Not yet,” McAllister said. He glanced at his watch. It was nearing noon, time for the television news broadcasts. He got up, crossed the room and turned on the television to the local ABC affiliate. A commercial was playing.

  “What are you waiting for?” Stephanie asked, her voice rising. “A message.”

  “What?”

  “I did the unthinkable as far as they are concerned,” he said, turning back to her. “I broke into headquarters and outsmarted their restricted-access codes. They’re going to have to strike back. They’re going to have to react, publicly. It’s the only way they can let me know one of two things. A-that they want to make a deal with me, in which case it’ll mean that someone is running scared, that I’m getting too close.”

  “We’re getting too close,” Stephanie corrected. He nodded. “Or, B-that they’re going to pull out all the stops and come after me as if I were public enemy number one.”

  “And what will that tell you?”

  “It’ll tell us who is conducting the investigation-someone legitimate, who honestly believes I’m a traitor. Or, the penetration agent who knows that I’m onto him and must be stopped.”

  “How can you be sure?” Stephanie asked, her frustration mounting. “I can’t,” McAllister said. “Anymore than you can be sure of me, especially after last night.”

  She had picked up one of the newspapers, then slammed it down

  on the table. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I planned it? I ought to have my head examined!”

  “Me too.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me. Something else you found out last night besides those four names.”

  He said nothing.

  “Don’t you think I deserve at least that much? The truth at least? My life is on the line too. If there is an APB on you, then there certainly is one on me. I made it clear to Dexter that I was not being coerced.”

  “Even the strongest would have cooperated if there had been a gun pointed at her head.”

  “I’m not getting out of this! You’re not going to push me away. Goddamnit, talk to me! Let me help you. Trust me.”

  Trust me.

  It came down to that. It always did in the end. “There,” she said pointing at the television, sudden fear in her voice.

  McAllister turned around, and for a moment he was totally confused. What appeared to be a police composite drawing of a thicknecked, heavily jowled man with thick gray hair, long mustache, and square glasses filled the screen behind a news announcer. Beneath the picture was his name. But it wasn’t him. He turned up the sound.

  …considered armed and extremely dangerous. In a tersely worded announcement, the Federal Bureau of Investigation named McAllister as one of the top control officers of the O’Haire spy network. The O�
�Haires, as you remember, were recently sentenced to life imprisonment for their part in a spy ring that stole SDI secrets and turned them over to the Russians.

  “Allegedly, McAllister worked with Soviets in Moscow to learn which areas of SDI technology the Russians most needed. It was his job, the Bureau spokesman said, to relay these questions back to the O’Haires. When the information had been gathered here in the U.S., it was transmitted to McAllister who had been stationed with the Central Intelligence Agency at the American Embassy in Moscow.

  “The CIA refused to comment this morning, except to say that it was their understanding an arrest was imminent.

  “McAllister was recently recalled to Washington for questioning, but disappeared two weeks ago from New York City. It is believed, however, that now he is in the Washington area. In other news.

  “It’s not your picture,” Stephanie said.

  McAllister had been staring at the television screen. “No,” he said absently.

  “It’s your message, though,” she said breathlessly. “But what are they trying to tell you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His head was spinning. He had expected anything but this. They’d obviously insulated the public from anyinvolvement. There would be no chance passerby spotting him and turning his description over to the police. But what else was going on here? Was it possible they were trying to lull him into a false sense of security? Not likely, he thought. The drawing was so obviously wrong, and had been supplied by someone who obviously should know what he looked like, that there had to be some meaning to it.

  “The Russians know your face, and so does the Mafia,” Stephanie was saying. “They’ll see this, and they’ll know that it’s open season on you.” Was that it? Was that the message? Perhaps it wasn’t meant for him. Perhaps it was meant for those trying to stop him. Go ahead and catch McAllister, we won’t interfere. Was that what it meant?

  “let’s get out, Mac. Before it’s too late for both of us.” Stephanie looked up at him, her eyes wide.

  It was tempting, considering everything that had happened in the past couple of weeks. Yet he wondered if there was anyplace they could run that would be very safe for long. If the CIA or KGB wanted you badly enough, they would find you. Their networks were simply too extensive worldwide for anyone to hide from them. Sooner or later someone would come. For the rest of their lives they would be constantly looking over their shoulders, constantly tensing their muscles waiting for the bullet from a sniper’s rifle.