by Gayle Lynds
Omaha, Nebraska
Over the past year the loading foreman had lost so much at the slots in Council Bluffs that his wife wanted a divorce. So when an anonymous offer came, sweetened with an advance of five thousand dollars in cash, he said a fast yes before his anonymous benefactor changed his mind.
The shipment in question contained cutting-edge satellite phones developed for Uncle Sam. Impact-resistant and waterproof, they united accessories never found in one place. Among them were wireless e-mail and Internet access and highly sophisticated GPS readers—and all used scrambled signals that cloaked tracking.
Plus, the sat phones could shoot megapixel photos or video with more than a million points of resolution—four times the quality of most cam phones. Officers could see what their soldiers saw and advise them instantly. On top of that, they were multiband, offering seamless mobility anywhere in the world. Military and government users could fly from Europe to the United States and Japan and China and Russia with a dozen stops in between and still never have to change phones or risk losing the data stored inside.
When the big truck finished loading, the foreman left the bay open and gave his people a break. They hurried indoors to the coffeepot, while he strolled around to the driver and handed him a cigar. They stood there talking for fifteen minutes.
When he returned, crates had been moved around, but nothing seemed missing. Best of all, his bowling bag was sitting on the lip; he brought it to work the days he planned to roll a few. He peered around the deserted loading area, then ahead at the security kiosk, where a guard—one of his gambling buddies—was waving a van out.
He snapped open the bag. A smile spread across his face as he stared at the neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. His heart light, he closed and locked the bay doors, then stepped out to where he was visible in the driver’s side-view mirror. As soon as he waved, the truck rolled off. He stood there watching, grinning, holding the bag tightly. No bowling tonight, he decided. He would make one last trip to the slots at friendly Harrah’s for old time’s sake. Then he would quit. After tonight, he would quit for sure.
Seattle, Washington
From where he sat at his computer, the traffic manager at the assembly factory sent shipments around the globe every day. With a few drumbeats of his fingertips, he doled out tens of millions of dollars’ worth of equipment to governments and businesses. So when the offer came for more cash than he earned in a year, he thought about it that way: Instead of the usual keys on his keyboard, he would just tap others. And the diverted merchandise would go to Kansas City. That was important, too. Kansas City was far from the dangerous regimes of Iran or North Korea or Syria or any of the other countries on the Department of Commerce’s list of embargoed nations.
With a flicker of his eyes, and an appeased conscience, he spotted the first consignments of Tuff Boss—a brand-new, cutting-edge notebook computer so rugged its magnesium-alloy case stopped bullets. Only four pounds in weight, the Tuff Boss also boasted a spill-resistant keyboard as well as a disk drive mounted in a stainless-steel case and packed in a special protective gel. You could run a truck over it, and it would still work. Waterproof, vaporproof, and shockproof, a Tuff Boss cranked so much memory it easily operated huge programs, which was why these first ones were going to emergency-response teams, soldiers in the field, and FBI bomb squads.
He hit the keys and redirected three of the shipments to Kansas City. The NYPD antiterrorist unit would just have to wait.
Santa Barbara, California
The day was foggy and cold. Seagulls sailed over the tall palms that dotted the grounds of the research institute in the heart of the Silicon Coast. Dressed in a standard UPS uniform, a man paused in the delivery entry of the stylish modern building. As expected, three wood boxes were waiting. There was no one around, although the hot music of Parliament’s “Flashlight” drifted from a glassed-in office at the far end of the warehouse-size room, so loud he could hear it despite the door’s being firmly closed.
He carried a box out to the UPS van he had just commandeered. The driver was in the rear, drugged. When he awoke, he would have a blistering headache and no idea his uniform and vehicle had been used for a quick but very lucrative robbery.
The thief slid the box into the van and hurried back for the next, because UPS drivers always hurried. A professional, he had taken the wrong product many years ago, which had put him in the dangerous situation of returning it and snatching the correct one. Now he always knew what he was supposed to grab. These boxes should contain thousands of StarDusts, subminiature computers in development for more than a decade. So miniaturized it was not much larger than a grain of sand, each StarDust was fueled by tiny solar batteries and capable of only two or three elementary jobs. But together, they could establish wireless connections among themselves and create powerful networks that could blanket anything that moved, grew, made noise, or gave off heat or odor.
He shoved the box next to the first and headed back for the third. Star-Dusts could be scattered like flower seeds across farms and cities or tossed onto trucks or planes or trains that shipped matériel and people. Wherever they were, their networks would send detailed data about ordinary people or squads of soldiers or scientists in clandestine weapons labs back to control centers where high-octane computers would collate the information and turn it over to whoever needed it. Designed for the government, they would not be available to the public for years.
Back in the van with the third and final box, he stopped long enough to open each. All contained little Bubble Wrapped bundles. Inside the bundles were dozens of the simple computers, each in its own plastic packet. Shaking his head in awe over the impossibly small size, he repacked everything and drove off toward the security kiosk. The guard looked at his uniform, not at his face, and waved him through.
8
Along the North River, North Carolina
Palmer Westwood’s security center was in the cellar of his pre–Civil War manse. Dripping mud, Tice and he entered from outside, down indoor stairs. Tice checked the array of monitors that surveilled the compound’s perimeter. Everything looked quiet. He focused on the room. A second flight of steps led up into the house. A TV hung from a wall. On a second were cabinets, wet bar, refrigerator, and a glass case of arms. There were chairs, a daybed, and a coffee table. The air was odorless, the ventilation system running quietly. If the place was stocked with food and water, as it no doubt was, Westwood was equipped for a small siege. The careful arrangements were typical.
Westwood sat at the desk, which held a wireless computer and telephone and shortwave radio. He stripped off his hip boots. Standing, Tice skinned off his wet clothes. Westwood showed him the bathroom and a walk-in closet of clothing and disguises. Glancing frequently at the security monitors, they dried off and dressed quickly. Tice put on jeans, a denim shirt, tennis shoes, and a light jacket.
Westwood changed into a blue-checkered shirt and jeans and canvas shoes. Then he grabbed his M-16 and returned to the staircase that led outdoors.
He raised the rifle, and his face darkened. “Get out of here, Jay. You’ve got clean clothes. This is your last chance. I’ll give you a head start before I report you, but only because we used to be friends.”
Tice studied the old Cold Warrior then reached into his pocket.
“Careful,” Westwood warned.
Tice nodded and withdrew his hand. He opened his fingers.
Westwood’s posture sagged. “You’ve kept it all these years?”
Tice looked at it, too—a triangle of gold, jagged on two sides, lying on his palm. He let it slide onto the desktop. The gold caught the overhead light and glittered. “It wasn’t so long ago, not for us. Let’s see your watch. And don’t pretend you don’t have the fob. You couldn’t turn your back on what happened any more than I could.”
Westwood sighed and gave an almost imperceptible nod. As he walked toward Tice, he took out his watch and chain. He removed the fob and laid it next to Tice�
��s gold piece. With a touch of his fingers, Tice slid the two triangles together. Each had a toothy side that fit the other’s perfectly.
Westwood fell heavily into his desk chair. The crevices on his face deepened into canyons. Abruptly he looked all of his seven decades.
He and Tice peered into each other’s eyes then quickly away.
“What do you want?” Westwood asked.
“Have you heard anything from Raina Manhardt?”
“Raina? Not in years.”
From his shirt pocket, Tice took the clipping he had torn from yesterday’s International Herald Tribune and silently passed it over. Westwood laid it on the desk and bent over it, his shoulders hunched. Tice stared at it, too:
RAINA MANHARDT’S SON DIES IN ALPINE SKIING ACCIDENT
As Westwood read, Tice studied the two photos that accompanied the piece. One showed Kristoph, his hair sun-streaked, his grin breezy. That was the way Tice remembered him, full of energy and intelligence. He was Raina’s only child. The second was a close-up of their two-story house in Potsdam. A black funeral wreath hung on the door. The article quoted a press release issued by the BND conveying Frau Manhardt’s gratitude to the public for their outpouring of sympathy and announcing she was taking an official leave of absence. The agency asked the public to respect her privacy and allow her time to grieve. It concluded with a firm statement that the young man’s death was a tragic accident with no relation to his mother’s work.
“So, he was nineteen,” Westwood murmured. “How swiftly the years pass. It’s been at least ten since I saw either of them. Berlin, of course. Did you see him often?”
“No.”
“Did he know you were his father?”
“No.”
“I can understand why his name wasn’t Tice. After all, you never married her. But why didn’t he have her name? It should’ve been Manhardt.”
“About five years ago he got fed up with being the child of a legend. He said as long as he was Raina Manhardt’s son, he was never sure whether his good marks, the awards he won, the advantages that came his way, the people he thought were his friends, were his because of himself—or because of his mother. Raina was never easy with her fame anyway, so she had the surname on all of his records changed to Maas. Then she transferred him to a new school.”
“She became Frau Maas?”
“For anything that had to do with him, yes. By then the Cold War was old news, and the BND didn’t need her in the spotlight anymore. She was able to live quietly. When he went off to university, they officially made him an orphan. She told me they laughed about that, but I think it hurt her, too.”
Westwood stared. “What did you think?”
“I had no vote.”
Westwood seemed to consider that. His eyes narrowed. “She must’ve been shocked as hell to find out you were spying for the East during the Cold War while she was risking everything to spy against it.”
Tice looked away. “It just gave her one more reason to hate me.”
Westwood separated the gold triangles. With one finger, he spun his on the desk. “I’m sorry about the boy, Jay. A tragedy. Now I know why you asked if she’d been in touch. The article doesn’t say where she’s gone. You’d probably like to talk to her.”
“It’s more than that. See the photo of her house? That’s a statue of Icarus in the picture window in front of the drapes. It’s a signal to me—one that we agreed on years ago. It tells me something’s happened, and she wants help.”
Westwood frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. How could she expect any paper to print that exact photo? How could she know you’d see it? Maybe she left the statue there by accident, and the picture was taken and published with no ulterior motive.”
“No. There’s an editor there, a former East German. Raina helped him escape the Stasi. Without her, he’d be dead, and he knows it. We’ve had other signals over the years, but Allenwood has no e-mail for prisoners, and regular mail takes days from Europe. Besides, my mail was read before I got it. I told Raina I’d keep my Herald Tribune subscription, so all she had to do was ask him to print it, and she knew I’d see it. In any case, whatever’s happened has to be very bad for her to ask for my help. Since the photo goes with the article about Kristoph, I have to figure it involves him.”
“Maybe his death was no accident.” Westwood returned the clipping.
Tice nodded. He folded it and slid it into his pocket and changed the subject. “What’s Moses up to these days?”
“Good God, that monster? I haven’t heard his name in years. He must be dead or in some dungeon—or spending his millions living the high life. Do you think his hand is in this?” Before Tice could answer, a curse exploded from Westwood. “Damn! We have company!” He stared over Tice’s shoulder at the monitors.
Tice checked quickly. Two ordinary-looking vans were parked in the drive. A dozen men and women were jumping out, crouching, handguns raised. Dressed in casual clothes, they were spreading out, circling the house and dashing into the garage.
“You have another way out?” Tice scooped up his gold piece.
“Damn right I do!” Westwood grabbed his and ran to the bookcase. He yanked out a book and pressed something inside. “Come here and help me!”
Tice seized the case’s edge and dragged. As a damp stink burst into the room, he peered around the bookcase into a black tunnel.
“There’s a light switch just inside.” Westwood snatched up his M-16. “You first.”
Tice pulled out his Browning and flicked the switch. Lightbulbs glowed along an overhead line, showing a dirt tunnel that curved ahead, low and narrow, very old but supported by recent timbers. He plunged in, the soles of his shoes making a sucking sound as they hit the muddy floor. Westwood followed, and the bookcase shut behind.
“The house was on the Underground Railroad?” Tice asked.
“Hundreds of slaves escaped this way. Always have an exit strategy, right?”
They ran in single file, backs bent, dodging the lightbulbs. Soon the boggy reek was overpowering, like a closed grave. Tice listened for pursuit, but the only sound was the fast slap-suck of their footfalls. Then the tunnel became solid concrete, paved on all four sides to keep out swamp water.
“Watch for a white X painted on the right.” Westwood’s breath rasped.
Tice said nothing. His heart was pounding. He did not want to emerge breathless. God knew who or what would be waiting. Back aching from running crouched, he slowed the pace, and Westwood did not complain. Tice lifted his head, watching for the sign. The tunnel seemed to extend endlessly.
They passed another lightbulb. Behind him, Tice could hear Westwood gulp air. He turned to look, but Westwood gave him a weary nod, indicating they should go on. Two lightbulbs later, Tice finally saw the white mark in the distance.
“Not much farther,” he told Westwood.
“Thank God. That’ll make three-quarters of a mile.”
At the X, Tice sank back against the rough wall. Westwood plodded up to him, sweat dripping from his face.
“You okay?” Tice asked.
Westwood lifted his head and let it fall. He leaned farther over, almost double. The M-16 dangled from one hand; the other gripped his thigh so the arm could support his torso. His tan looked gray.
“We’d better wait here awhile,” Tice decided.
But after only a minute, Westwood said, “Above you is a trapdoor.”
Tice saw it. He stuck his gun into his waistband and shoved the wood panel. It gave slightly. He straightened his back and used his leg muscles to push again. The door lifted free. Dirt rained down. The noises and odors of the swamp assaulted him. He slid the door outside and straightened until his eyes rose above ground level.
They were at the edge of a logging road. Bald cypresses loomed along it, their roots sunk deep into the coffee-colored swamp, their big branches a canopy.
Tice sprang up and pulled himself out. He looked around carefully. “It’s clear.” He lea
ned back inside and offered his hand.
Westwood took it. Tice pulled. As Westwood scrambled out, gratitude shone in his eyes then was gone. Tice smiled at him and crab-walked off, staying low, thinking he had heard something. Westwood sat on the hole’s lip, legs dangling inside. He cocked his head, listening. Insects and frogs and birds made a ceaseless racket.
When an owl suddenly hooted and lumbered into flight, Westwood jumped to his feet. “They’re here.”
Tice swore. Now he heard the unmistakable sound of people running lightly on dirt. He looked back toward the house.
“Not just on the road—in the swamp, too. They’re trying to surround us!” Westwood raised his M-16 and sprayed a fusillade.
“Not yet!” Tice grabbed the old spy’s arm. “We can’t even see them!”
But his voice was drowned out by a return volley. They dove for cover. Before Tice could stop him, Westwood opened fire again. This time Tice spotted a figure moving among the vines. He squeezed off two quick shots. A strangled cry greeted his effort. That should slow them.
As the return fire died off, Tice whispered, “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Westwood nodded. “This way.”
They dashed into the tangled growth. Hulking trees and jungly vegetation closed in. As voices shouted from behind, they settled into rhythmic slides through the water, weaving around obstacles. The wilderness fell into suspicious silence. They clambered up onto a weedy berm and ran. The gloom deepened. Breathing hard, at last they emerged at the sun-drenched North River.
Now he saw Westwood’s goal. To their left, a dock extended out, then paralleled the bank, tucked in where the river had carved an indentation. Tethered to the dock was a high-wing Cessna Caravan floatplane rising and falling with the river’s undulations. The white craft glistened, a sporty maroon stripe extending nose to tail. Beside it, branches overhung the steep bank, which plunged straight into the river.