by Stuart Woods
The man managed a kind of laugh. “Oh, no! And I worked so hard on my cover!”
“Your cover was great,” Will said. “I didn’t notice the signature until yesterday.”
Rule gaped at the two men. “What is going on here?”
“I’ll explain later,” Will said.
“Lee, I am not going back to the Soviet Union,” Helder said. “I will ask to stay in the West.”
Will fished his Senate business card from his wallet. “Here’s where you can find me. Let me know if I can help.”
Helder looked at the card. “A country lawyer, eh? Your cover was pretty good, too. You fooled Majorov.”
“I didn’t lie to him,” Will said. “I just didn’t tell him the whole truth.”
“Just as he didn’t tell me all the truth,” Helder said. “He didn’t tell me about the bomb.”
“Bomb? What bomb?” Rule asked.
“There is a bomb, a nuclear mine, in the archipelago, not far from here.”
“Minister!” she called through the front door. “You’d better come out here.”
The minister joined them, and Rule listened while Helder explained and gave him the longitude and latitude of the bomb and the frequency of the sonar signal that would release its antenna. “Don’t worry,” Helder said to the man, “I think it cannot be detonated until the antenna is released.”
The minister disappeared into the house.
A man wearing a press badge approached Rule and Lee. “Aren’t you Will Lee?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Lee replied, surprised.
“I’m Fred Allen, Scandinavian correspondent for Cox Newspapers, which include the Atlanta Constitution. Don’t you work for Senator Carr in Washington?
“Uh, yes, but I’m just on vacation at the moment.”
“Vacation?” the reporter snorted. “What kind of vacation would dump you in the middle of all this?”
The minister walked up. “Oh, this young man is the hero of the story,” he said, “and …”
Rule caught his eye and shook her head.
“Well look,” the reporter said, “I want to hear all about this.”
“Not now,” Will said. “Why don’t we talk about this later, okay?”
“Only if you promise me not to give it to somebody else first. I want the whole thing from the horse’s mouth.”
“I promise, nobody else first.” He turned to the minister. “Mr. Westberg, I understand all the airports and ports have been sealed. Do you think you could assist us in getting on a plane to New York tonight? I think there’s an SAS flight at seven o’clock.”
“Of course, Mr. Lee,” the minister replied, “I’ll send someone with you to the airport to clear the way.” He pulled Rule and Lee away from the reporter. “Miss Rule,” he said quietly, “I’ve had a report that there is an Italian at the Grand Hotel in Stockholm holding some sort of auction of what he claims is the Soviet plan to invade Sweden. Do you know anything about this?”
59
TRINA RAGULIN looked around the theater. It was nearly deserted, now, and without the illumination of the center screen, the lights were low. A few more people shuffled out, and only Jones, Majorov, and the guard were left in the large room with her. The guard had turned to watch the television screen.
Helder was gone from the screen, taken away by the Swedes. He was gone from her, too, and she was left with Majorov.
Majorov spoke into the silence, seeming to think himself alone with Jones.
“By this time next week, I would have been elected to the Politburo,” Majorov said. “It had been promised to me by the Chairman, himself.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
“Oh, it will still happen,” Majorov said. “But not next week. Tomorrow, I will go to Moscow and stand before the Politburo and put the best face possible on what has happened. I will launch an investigation of how the Swedes learned of our plans, and that will occupy me for some time.”
“You don’t fear …”
“Punishment for failure?” Majorov interrupted. “Certainly not. I will have the protection of the First Secretary, and of two other members, about whom I have, shall we say, interesting documentary information. Anyway, I have achieved an expansion and upgrading of SPETSNAZ forces that would not have been possible under any other Russian. That will not be forgotten, especially by Admiral Gorshkov, who is the immediate beneficiary of this achievement. No, Jones, I have a great deal in my favor. I still have Ferret, in Washington, and I have run him personally. Ferret alone, with his high position in the CIA, would be enough to guarantee any man’s career. I will survive and prosper, Jones, and I will take you with me, fear not.”
“You will not survive,” Ragulin said, and she immediately had everyone’s undivided attention. The soldier came at her, and she shot him once. It was quite enough. She stepped away from the galley, holding the submachine shotgun. Jones had frozen, and now Majorov had stood and was turning to face her.
“Ragulin,” Majorov said, quietly, “put down that weapon now, and nothing will have changed. The soldier is of no consequence; I can fix that. You will still have your place here.”
“Do you believe that I still want my place here?” Ragulin asked. She turned slightly and shot Jones. He tumbled over the railing behind him and landed on a desk on the next tier down. “Do you believe I would like to spend the rest of my youth as an animal in your stable, available to you or any visitor, beaten and whipped at your command?”
Majorov was edging around his desk, now, his eyes locked on hers. Ragulin could hear footsteps pounding down the stairs that led to the theater.
“They are coming, now, Trina,” Majorov said. “Put down the weapon, and I will protect you from them.”
“I have previously enjoyed your protection, Majorov,” Ragulin said. “And I have no wish to repeat the experience.” She flipped the weapon to automatic and squeezed the trigger.
By some weird combination of physical forces, the burst caused Majorov to dance backwards along the railing of the tier, even as he received the rain of antipersonnel buckshot. A second burst lifted him over the railing and bounced his body from tier to tier, down into the well of the theater, where it lay, pieces missing from it, pouring blood into the carpet.
The theater door opened, and two uniformed soldiers burst into the room. Trina Ragulin reversed the shotgun, took the hot barrel into her mouth and pulled the trigger. She never heard the shot.
60
RULE let herself into the suite at the Grand, with Lee close behind. The sitting room was empty, but it was littered with empty glasses and cigarette butts. The furniture was in disarray.
“Jesus,” she said, “this place looks like San Juan during the hurricane season. Emilio!” she yelled.
“In here,” came a muffled voice from the next room.
She pushed open the door to the adjoining bedroom and went in. Lee followed her. The bedroom was empty.
“In here! Please come in!”
“You’d better go first,” she said to Lee, pointing to the bathroom door.
Lee stuck his head in and laughed. “I think it’s all right,” he said. “You’re not all that shy, anyway.”
They both walked into the bathroom. Emilio Appicella was up to his ears in a huge bubblebath, with a big cigar stuck in his face.
“Hello!” he said around the cigar. “I hear you have been successful in your mission!”
“Emilio,” Rule said, “what’s this I hear about your selling the Soviet invasion plans to the press?”
A hand snaked out from under the bubbles, wiped itself on a towel, and removed the cigar from Appicella’s face. “Ah, yes,” he said, revealing all of his beautiful teeth, “I rang up a few people and organized a little auction. Got thirty thousand dollars from an American wire service. Isn’t capitalism wonderful?”
“Emilio, that document was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency,” Rule said, sternly.
“Oh, yes?” Appicel
la hooted. “How much did they pay for it?”
“Well …” Rule was flustered, “I’m sure I could have gotten you a very nice gratuity from the Agency.”
“Thank you very much,” Appicella said, “but I don’t accept tips. Anyway, there is no reason for you to be upset. I have a great deal more stuff for you.”
She sat down on the toilet lid. “Yeah? What stuff?”
Appicella pointed the cigar. “There is a briefcase on the bed.”
“I’ll get it,” Will said, and came back with a cheap, plastic case.
Rule opened the briefcase. Inside, were two fat stacks of computer diskettes and a brown envelope. “What is it?” she asked.
Appicella took a long puff on the cigar before replying. “When I was working on Malibu’s computers,” he said, finally, “I installed a very special circuit board of my own design. I told Majorov it was a modem, which allowed telephone communications with the computer. It was that, of course, but much more. With a matching board in Rolf’s computer in Stockholm, I was able to telephone Malibu’s computer at Malibu and operate it from the keyboard here. Further, I was able to instruct their computer to think of Rolf’s computer as just another hard disk drive.” Appicella took another puff and blew a perfect smoke ring. “Then, I simply copied everything on his hard disk drive to Rolf’s hard disk drive, capisci?”
“Capisco,” Rule said, her face lighting up.
“And those floppy diskettes in your very pretty lap contain the entire contents of Malibu’s computer,” Appicella said, pointing with the cigar. “There are two sets, of course; one should always have a backup copy of everything.”
“Tell me,” Rule said, narrowing her eyes, “does Majorov know that you have done this?”
“Absolutely not,” Appicella said. “He now has a multiuser system. I am simply one of the users, and I can go on using as long as his computer works.”
“Is this a gift, Emilio?” Rule asked suspiciously.
“From me to you,” the Italian smiled. “Only, please, if the CIA should wish to continue to use Malibu’s computer, I will require one hundred thousand dollars for my very special, one-ofa-kind circuit board.”
“I will be happy to put that proposition to the Agency on your behalf, Emilio; I don’t think there will be any problem.”
“Good,” he said. “I will ship the board to you on receipt of the money in my Zurich account—ah, the deposit number is written on the envelope, there.” Then his face grew serious. “I am afraid I have another gift for you, my dear. In the envelope.”
Rule removed a sheaf of papers from the envelope. “What is it?”
“In copying the files, I discovered that some of them were coded. It was quite easy to break into them, of course, since it was I who devised the coding system, on an earlier visit to Majorov. They turned out to be Majorov’s personal files, and among them was information about two moles he was personally running, one in Sweden, and one, I am afraid, in the United States. Their names are not mentioned, but the Swedish one is referred to as Seal and the American, as Ferret.”
“Seal is undoubtedly Carlsson,” Rule said, flipping through the pages.
“And Ferret?” Lee asked.
Rule stopped flipping and started reading. “There is an account of how he was recruited,” she said, “that identifies him beyond any doubt.” Reading the pages, she felt an overwhelming sadness.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” Lee said. I know this isn’t very pleasant for you.
Rule stood up. “I need a few minutes to think, Will.” She walked back into the sitting room and collapsed in a large chair. For half an hour, she thought the problem through and weighed her alternatives. Finally, she picked up the phone and asked the operator for the dialing code for the United States. She dialed the main switchboard of the Central Intelligence Agency and asked to be connected with the director’s office.
“Office of the Drector of Central Intelligence,” a male voice said.
“This is Katharine Rule,” she said, “of the Soviet Office. Let me speak with the director at once, please.”
The voice became chilly. “The director is not available at the moment, Mrs. Rule. What is this about?”
“Kindly tell the director that I am telephoning from Stockholm,” Rule said. “I believe he will want to speak with me.”
“One moment, please,” the man said.
There was a delay of a few seconds, then a husky male voice said, “Stockholm? What the hell are you doing in Stockholm, Mrs. Rule? Don’t you watch television? Haven’t you any idea what’s going on there?”
“Is that the director speaking?” Rule asked, politely.
“You’re goddamned right it is, and I want to know right now what you are doing in Stockholm. And is this a secure line?”
“It is not a secure line, but we are not going to speak of classified matters during this conversation. I will tell you what I am doing in Stockholm in New York tomorrow morning,” Rule said.
“I have a meeting of the National Security Council tomorrow morning, and I have no intention of being in New York.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Rule said. “This is very serious. I want you, Simon Rule, Alan Nixon, and Ed Rawls in the first class lounge of Scandinavian Airways System at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“What on earth are you talking about, woman?”
“Let me put it this way; there is going to be a very large contingent of the free American press just outside the first class lounge. If you are not there, I will talk to them, and believe me, you will not like reading about this in the newspapers.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Do you know what you are doing, Mrs. Rule?” the director asked, finally. “Do you know what sort of shape your career is in at the moment? Do you have any idea what is going to happen to you when you return to Langley?”
“I will not be returning to Langley unless you and the group I have requested is in New York tomorrow morning at six. If you are not there, I will be spending a lot of time on television during the coming months. Do we understand each other?”
Another long silence. “All right, Mrs. Rule, we’ll be there.”
“Something else,” Rule said, “none of the others is to know about the meeting until tomorrow morning. Call them at home only just in time to make the chopper.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, I want two FBI agents there. They shouldn’t come on the chopper with you, and the others are not to know they’ll be there. And you should know that if any attempt is made to arrest or detain me, I have made provisions for the press to be fully informed of all my news.
“All right, godammit!”
“Just one other thing, “Rule said. “Tell Simon to bring my son to the meeting. Either Peter is there, or we don’t talk, understood?”
“Understood,” the director said, sounding defeated.
“Goodbye,” Rule said, and hung up.
She pressed her hands to the back of her neck and rubbed. If she didn’t get a bath and some sleep, she wouldn’t have the wit to bring this thing off in the morning. And she had to bring it off.
61
RULE felt oddly refreshed as they landed in New York. She had gotten her first real rest in two days in the huge first class sleeper seats. She turned to Lee, beside her.
“Okay, now, we’ve got everything straight?”
“You bet.”
She handed him a set of the computer diskettes, and a dozen copies of the Majorov files. “Just hang around outside the lounge until we leave. Those press people you called had better be there.”
“They’ll be there—all three New York dailies, the Washington Post, Time and Newsweek, the wire services, and all three networks. Senator Carr said to use his name.”
“Okay, if I’m taken, kicking and screaming, from this meeting, you talk to them and spread Majorov’s files around. You know as much about this as I do now, so I’m depending on you to spread the word if I don’t
get out of that meeting with my head.”
“I like your head where it is; hang onto it.”
The pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker system. “Will Mrs. Katharine Rule please identify herself to a flight attendant?”
Rule waved at a stewardess, who came over.
“Mrs. Rule? We’ve had a message that you are being met at the gate. We’d like you to be first off the plane, please.”
“Fine,” Rule replied, rising from her seat. She winked at Will. “Better pretend you don’t know me for a while,” she said.
He pulled her down and kissed her. “Buy you dinner tonight?”
She squeezed back. “If I’m a free woman tonight, I’m buying. I owe you one, remember?”
He grinned. “I’ll book at Maison Blanche. Black tie?”
“You bet.” She turned and followed the stewardess, steadying herself as the plane rolled to a stop at the gate. The door came open, and a man in a blue suit stepped aboard.
“Mrs. Rule?” he asked, showing her an ID card, “I’m Special Agent Madison, FBI. Will you come with me, please?”
The agent walked her through immigration and guided her to the SAS first class lounge. As she came through the door, she was forcibly struck by the weight of a small boy.
“Mom, oh Mom!” Peter yelled, drawing chuckles from the other occupants of the lounge. “I’m so glad to see you! Where have you been?”
Rule hugged the boy for dear life, then held him back to look at him. “I’ll tell you all about that later,” she said. “In the meantime, here’s something for you.” She pulled a wrapped package from her carryall.
The boy tore at the wrappings. “A camera!” he cried, “Oh, boy, how did you know I wanted one?”
“A lucky guess,” she said. “Listen, Peter, I want you to have a seat over there for a little while. You read the instructions for the camera while I have a short meeting, then you and I will be leaving together, all right?”
“Listen,” he said in a loud whisper, “Dad’s pretty mad about something. I don’t think he liked getting up so early, and he’s pretty nervous, too. I never saw him so worried.”