Spyder Web

by Tom Grace

  It was eleven o’clock at night, late into his second day, but Cole now saw light at the end of the tunnel. He grabbed one of the lab PCs and formatted a new hard disk. If the translated titles were correct, within the next hour he might be able to reactivate Yakushev’s computer files.

  Cole loaded the first operating-system diskette into the disk drive and restarted the machine. As with all personal computers, the machine ran through its diagnostic tests, followed by a search for its configuration files. The screen then filled with a Cyrillic version of the MS-DOS setup screen.

  Cole knew that the translators were home for the night, so he scrounged up another PC and began to install an old U.S. version of the DOS beside the Russian one. Step by step, the programs were identical in execution. In the end, he had two machines sitting there, with a C:> prompt on their screens, waiting for him to do something.

  Using an ethernet jack in the lab, he connected the English-language PC to the building’s local-area network and tied into the Linguistic Section’s on-line translation library. He loaded the Russian technical dictionary and queried for a translation of the Directory command. Plodding along, he was able to list out the operating-system commands and identify their English counterparts.

  Cole was a man possessed by the thrill of solving a difficult puzzle. As everything began to fall into place, his adrenaline surged. At two o’clock in the morning, rather than fatigue, he felt a burning desire to unlock the secrets on Yakushev’s disks.

  He took the first of Yakushev’s program disks and loaded it into the machine that he now called the ‘KGBPC’ and requested a listing of its file directory. The screen began to scroll, filling with the names of programs stored on the disk. On the normal PC, he requested the Russian translation for the Install command and scanned the file list for a program bearing that name.

  He found a small file with the appropriate name and typed the command for the KGB-PC to execute the installation program. Cole hadn’t seen many examples of Soviet computer programming, though he’d heard their skills were excellent.

  It took over an hour to load all of Yakushev’s software onto the KGB-PC. Cole laughed when he discovered several of the programs were simply Cyrillic versions of popular business software from the early nineties. Who would have thought a good Communist would keep track of his material wealth?

  He looked over the list of translations for the disks and eliminated those with generic names, such as Account Data and Correspondence. Instead, Cole decided to concentrate on those with the bird names; either Yakushev was a naturalist or these disks carried something more interesting than personal correspondence and account balances.

  Cole loaded the first program, whose Russian name loosely translated into the English word Records. The KGB-PC’s screen cleared and a single title line of text appeared across the top, followed by three numbered lines of text in the center of the screen. The cursor flashed above an Underscore character at the bottom of the screen. Not the prettiest program he’d ever seen, but it was obviously offering one of three choices.

  Cole typed the screen text into his translator and discovered that the program was unable to find any data files on the hard disk. He was now offered the choice of loading files onto the hard disk, reading files from the disk, or exiting the program.He grabbed one of the birdnamed disks from the stack and sent the computer off to read it.

  KGB-PC’s disk-drive lights began to flash as the central processing unit, hard disk, and floppy disk began to converse with one another in response to Cole’s command. The screen again went blank before filling with information from the disk. In the upper-right corner of the screen, a photograph of a man appeared; in the upperleft corner, the shield emblem of the KGB became evident. The middle of the screen then filled with an options menu.

  He translated the information on the screen and discovered that this was a personnel file for a KGB deepcover agent. The agent, code-named ‘Seagull,’ was a man named Vitali Farkas. The program now offered Cole a look at Farkas’s personal information, career record, medical record, cover history, current assignment, historical assignments, and commendations. It was the complete life of a KGB mole tied up in a neat package.

  Cole could barely contain his excitement. Using the information encoded on these diskettes, the CIA might be able to cripple an entire section of the MB’s intelligencegathering operations. In a few hours, Frank Villano was going to be one happy man.

  Since it was already 3:30 in the morning, Cole decided to work straight through until 7:00 A.M., when Villano would arrive, and give him the good news personally. In the meantime, he would just continue loading diskettes and browsing through what might be the Who’s Who of Soviet deep-cover agents.

  Two hours later, Cole still hadn’t come down from the initial rush of success. He’d previewed and printed out the complete files on ten agents whose assignments, up until 1991, had placed them in sensitive positions around the world.

  The next disk Cole slid into the KGB-PC’s disk drive was for an agent code-named ‘Cormorant.’ For the first time, an error message appeared on the screen, interrupting the program. Cole translated the message: ‘File not found.’

  The message puzzled Cole; after reading the disks on several agents, why would one suddenly be blank? It was tagged just like the others. Since he had nothing to lose by trying, he pulled the disk out of the KGB-PC and loaded it into the other computer.He then loaded a diskscanning utility to give the Cormorant disk a once-over. Yakushev’s disks had been formatted in a standard DOS environment,Cole reasoned,which meant that there was a good chance that a DOS file utility program might be able to identify and correct the problem.

  Sector by sector, the utility program found that the disk was undamaged. Cole then asked the program to look for any unallocated program fragments still present on the disk. The program went back to work and quickly returned after locating eight deleted files on the disk. Someone had erased the disk, but they hadn’t wiped it clean of information. Cormorant’s files were still there; only the directory names had been deleted. Cole immediately set out to recover the lost information.Re-creating the disk directory and file-allocation table took no more than ten minutes.

  After completing the file recovery,Cole placed the disk back into the KGB-PC and restarted Yakushev’s program. He sat back in his chair, sipping on a can of soda, waiting for the next Soviet agent to be unveiled. Cole choked in midgulp when the digitized photo appeared in the corner of the screen. The picture, though taken several years ago, bore an uncanny resemblance to Alex Roe.

  Cole selected the cover-history option from the menu and, word by word, fed the information into the translation program. What came back confirmed his initial reaction.According to the text, the photograph belonged to a KGB deep-cover agent named Anna Mironova. The agent Cormorant was assigned to the acquisition of scientific and technological information under the cover of a Western journalist, freelance writer Alexandra Roe. The disk left no doubt. Cole had aided a foreign agent in acquiring restricted technology. An overwhelming sense of nausea swept over him.

  He sat for several minutes, stunned by the truth about Roe. Gradually, his brain began to thaw from its initial panic and he started sifting through the rest of the Cormorant file. The list of commendations was extensive and, even though Cole didn’t bother to translate all of them, he quickly realized that Roe was a valuable agent.

  The last entry in the file was dated August 1991, just a few weeks before the coup attempt. Unlike the other commendation entries, this one had no bold capitalized entry naming the decoration. Instead, it was just a single sentence. Cole typed the entry into the computer and waited for the translation. The entry read: ‘10 August, 1991 Capt. Anna Mironova was killed in an automobile accident while on assignment.’

  Cole reread the translation several times. He even retyped it into the computer to double-check it, and the computer returned with the obituary for Mironova.

  Cole’s thoughts raced. If Villano w
as right about KGB record keeping, then the files in Lubyanka might list Mironova’s many honors, but they would say nothing about how she had earned them. Yakushev’s operational files would hold the only detailed account of Mironova’s activities under the alias of Alex Roe, and the only known copy of those files was on this disk. As far as Moscow is concerned,Cole thought,Mironova died over seven years ago. Case closed.

  In the midst of his disbelief, Cole made an intuitive leap: If Roe had faked her death in order to escape Moscow’s control, how would her former masters deal with her if they discovered this deception?

  A wicked smile curled on his face; the tables had turned. He now possessed information as dangerous to Roe as the Gerty report was to him—information that vastly improved his bargaining position with Roe and her partner. Cole copied Yakushev’s program diskettes and the Cormorant disk onto four blank diskettes of the type that the CIA bought in bulk, then placed the copies inside his briefcase. He then scratched the Mylar surface of the original Cormorant diskette with a paper clip, rendering it unreadable.

  13

  HAITI

  December 20

  ‘Shift change,’ Gates’s raspy voice whispered through Kilkenny’s earpiece. Changing of the guards at Masson’s base camp.

  Kilkenny repositioned himself and looked through a pair of night-vision binoculars at the camp below. Since passing Masson’s gory marker just over a week ago, the SEALs had tracked and studied the activities in the guerrilla camp.The satellite photos they had used in preparing for this mission showed elements of the compound but gave little feel for how the place worked. That kind of information could only be gathered firsthand. Several days of on-site observation gave the squad the familiarity they needed in order to succeed.

  What they discovered about their opposition’s security astounded them. No mines, no trip wires, no booby traps of any kind. The most formidable aspect ofMasson’s defenses was the fear he’d spread over the surrounding villages, a fear that the SEALs did not share. The only protective efforts they detected at the encampment amounted to a few bored men casually patrolling the perimeter. The safety of this remote jungle haven had made Masson’s men lax on their home turf.

  Kilkenny set the binoculars down and closed his eyes in a silent prayer. The plan was set and his squad had taken up their positions around the camp. Tonight, they would attack. Kilkenny prayed for the safety of his men.

  LITTLE CREEK NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE, VIRGINIA

  Dawson walked into the Operations Center and signed into one of the mission observation rooms. The rooms mirrored their larger counterparts in the Pentagon,where senior officers and mission planners watched missions unfold. During World War II, it took days before film footage and reports from the battlefield reached the Pentagon. Now, through the use of satellite imagery and the combat electronics worn by his men, Dawson could witness the drama played out live. The downside of all this advanced technology was the very real possibility of seeing some of his men die in action.

  He snapped his headset into place and punched in his access code. The five-by-ten high-definition wall display changed color as the computer confirmed his code and tied him into the mission feed from the Pentagon.An image of southern Haiti, as seen by a reconnaissance satellite passing over two hundred miles above and enhanced by a bank of supercomputers at the National Reconnaissance Office near Dulles, filled the display.

  With a few keystrokes, Dawson superimposed mission elements onto the screen. Offshore, the Columbia remained on-station, waiting for her rendezvous with his men. A cluster of man-shaped icons were lumped together, deep in the jungle northeast of Jacmel.

  He zoomed in on the cluster and switched from realtime imaging to infrared. Now he could see what his SEALs were up against. Over the past week, he, too, had been studying Masson’s camp from this room, taking a head count of the opposition. His men were outnumbered four to one, and Dawson hoped that this was Masson’s only advantage tonight.

  Just minutes from now, at zero hundred hours local time,Kilkenny and his men would attack.A brief message from the SEALs indicated that everything was ready and the mission was still on. The guerrilla camp looked quiet, with only a token force on patrol, as the SEALs started to move. The assault had begun.

  Gates and Rodriguez stalked the young soldier patrolling the perimeter of the camp. His rifle was slung carelessly over his shoulder and a cigarette dangled from his lips, each drag illuminating his face and robbing him of his night vision.

  That mistake will cost you dearly tonight, Gates thought.

  The sentry kept looking back at the hut on the edge of the camp—the whorehouse.His mind was obviously on the women who languished there as sex slaves. A terrified scream from the hut, followed by a loud stream of violent cursing, brought a smile to the sentry’s face as he leaned against a tree and smoked his cigarette.

  Nothing fancy, Gates admonished himself, just take him out.

  From a crouch, Gates sprang up in front of the sentry just as a plume of smoke billowed from the man’s mouth. Before his tiger-striped face even registered in the sentry’s eyes, Gates drove his fingers into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.

  The sentry gasped, eyes bulging as Gates grabbed him by the head and expertly snapped his neck. Gates cradled the man, slowly lowering his lifeless body into the underbrush. Around the camp, the maneuver was repeated until the entire night patrol had been eliminated.

  Near the hut where their female captives were kept, several soldiers sat near a small fire, laughing and drinking.

  ‘Merde!’ a haggard soldier growled as he stumbled out of the hut, struggling to pull up his tattered pants.

  ‘What’s the problem, old man,’ one of the younger soldiers remarked, ‘couldn’t get it up?’

  ‘Hah!’ the older soldier spat back. ‘Fucking has never been a problem.Watch yourself around that new bitch—she’s got claws and teeth.’

  ‘I like a woman who fights,’ a tall, muscular soldier boasted proudly.

  ‘She’s waiting for you, Gano,’ the older soldier replied as he inspected a gash on his stomach.

  Gano handed the older soldier his bottle of rum and walked slowly toward the hut. Inside, several women huddled in a darkened corner, hoping to make themselves invisible, to disappear from this hellish place. Gano studied the quivering mass of bruised and bloodied flesh. He saw women as nothing more than animals, like chickens or goats, something you breed, slaughter, and consume.

  He reached down and grabbed one of the women by the hair. As she screamed and dug her fingernails into his forearm, Gano picked her up and threw her into the center of the hut. She was naked, and purplish welts marked what had once been an attractive body. She pulled herself up from the ground, crouching on all fours.

  ‘So, you like blood,’ Gano said as the clawed flesh on his arm reddened. ‘I do, too.’

  Gano viciously kicked the woman in the chest. She rolled with the blow, but the impact still managed to break two ribs. The sharp pain almost caused her to black out, but she held on to her consciousness.

  Kilkenny’s first shot punched a hole the size of a quarter in one soldier’s forehead. The bottle slipped from the man’s hand as his head slumped back.The others thought their companion had passed out, until a second man collapsed in a bloody heap. Kilkenny and Darvas didn’t waste a single round from their silenced H-K MP5s; each shot hammered into a kill zone. With Darvas covering him, Kilkenny followed the screams into the hut.

  Gano looked down at the woman and smiled as she struggled against the pain. He knelt, grinding his knee into her right leg to pin the limb down. Wrapping his right arm around her left leg, he spread her legs apart. She tried to pull her leg back, but Gano locked her knee, and each twist felt as if the joint would break.

  ‘I’ll give you a choice, vache,’ Gano sneered. First, he loosened the rope that held his pants up; then he pulled a grimy pistol from his hip holster and held it between her legs. ‘You can have me or my gun.Which will
it be?’

  Before the woman could reply, Kilkenny fired. The near-silent blast shattered the man’s shoulder.The impact twisted Gano at the waist, turning him toward the hut’s entry.Kilkenny’s second shot exploded in the man’s heart and sent him sprawling backward to the ground. The woman had been kicking her captor furiously as Kilkenny entered, a dark figure backlit by the fire outside. She shrank back when she saw him, not certain if Kilkenny would now take the dead man’s place.

  ‘Va!’ Kilkenny shouted at the women as he pointed to the door.

  The women needed little encouragement as they bolted for their freedom, fleeing with little regard for personal modesty as they vanished into the jungle. Kilkenny’s stomach tightened as he stowed his revulsion at the thought of his mother or sister in the hands of these monsters.

  Kilkenny switched on his throat mike.’Hep, talk to me.’

  ‘We had a little trouble on the back side,’ Hepburn replied, ‘but the camp is secure.’

  Kilkenny had heard a sporadic exchange of gunfire—on the far end of the compound—which seemed to end as quickly as it had started.

  ‘Good. The women are heading into the jungle like the devil’s after them. See if you and Gilgallon can’t get ‘em to safe ground and tend to their wounds.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Kilkenny then left the hut and turned to Darvas. ‘Let’s move.’

  The camp was quiet, unnaturally so as Kilkenny and Darvas moved among the huts. Through a few open doors, Kilkenny saw the bodies of Masson’s men scattered in heaps on the ground. Gates scurried across the compound to join him.

  ‘Masson’s holed up in his hut. Rodriguez and Detmer have him pinned down. Near as I can figure, he’s got the place lined with sandbags.’

  ‘Smart man. How are we set for time?’