It meant utter ruination-losing his wife and his job and his overpriced house with its pool and hot tub and expensive back deck. It meant blacklisting in the industry and a very expensive lawsuit, and probably criminal charges and jail as well.
But if he did this thing, just this one thing, his handlers would turn him loose. He’d have the negatives of him and Masha and the incriminating documents to do with as he pleased. And he’d have a half-million dollars besides.
Yeah… an offer he couldn’t refuse.
The whole thing didn’t make an ounce of sense. The Cold War was over, right? The Russians were friends now, friends and business partners. It wasn’t like they were asking him to steal military secrets or betray his country or anything like that.
But to actually kill someone…
Golytsin had explained with great care why he had to do this, and do it this way. A simple murder wasn’t enough. The murder had to look like it had been committed by one of the NOAA officers. Otherwise, it would all be for nothing… and Benford would lose everything he’d worked for since leaving college.
He didn’t like the idea of murder, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the alternative…
British Airways Flight 2112 200 miles southeast of Nova Scotia 1710 hours EDT
Charlie Dean sat in 7A, a window seat in tourist class, looking down on the brightly sunlit waters of the western Atlantic. Tommy… dead?
No. God damn it, no! It made no sense whatsoever. Tommy Karr had been a good agent, but more important, he’d been a lucky agent. At times, it had seemed like nothing could touch the exuberant young giant with the unkempt blond hair and unfailing grin.
Everyone back at NSA headquarters had been shaken by the news… no, stunned. It just didn’t seem possible that Tommy was gone.
Damn it, this was going to hit Lia hard. Her relationship with Karr had been a thorny one, full of jabs and put-downs and outright arguments at times, but Dean knew she liked and respected the guy, despite the sometimes acid banter.
Somehow, it made it even worse that Rubens had left the job of actually telling Lia to him, a job Dean was not going to enjoy. On the other hand, of course, it would have been worse if she learned about the death through other channels-a radio call or a terse e-mail from headquarters. Dean understood why she hadn’t been told while she was still in the field.
But God, this was going to be hard.
Almost as hard, just possibly, as identifying the body, picking up Karr’s effects, and arranging to have him shipped back home.
“How about you then, sir?”
“Eh?”
An attractive blond flight attendant was leaning over him. “Something to drink, sir?” She had a lovely British accent.
“Um, no. Not right now. Thank you.”
“You just give me a ring if there’s anything I can get for you.”
“Right. Thanks.”
This was the same flight Tommy had been booked on a couple of days ago.
Rubens himself had rescheduled Dean’s flight. His trip to St. Petersburg was off, he’d been told. Instead, he would catch a shuttle for the quick hop up to JFK, and there catch British Airways Flight 2112, part of the regular transatlantic service between New York and London.
Dean was used to sudden changes in orders and schedules, often with no explanation… but Rubens had explained this one carefully.
Tommy Karr… dead?
Dean had wondered at first why they’d insisted on putting him on the same flight Karr had taken, but it did make sense. As Rubens had told him, “Don’t take anything for granted, Dean. This thing is big, bigger than we’ve been seeing. I’d like you to talk to the flight crew, the flight attendants, maybe see if any of them remember Karr.”
Dean wondered if this attendant had waited on Karr, if she even remembered him? He looked at her name badge.
Julie.
After she was gone, Dean brought his hand up to his jaw and pretended to rest his head, using his hand to block his mouth from view. “You guys on the air?”
“We’re here, Charlie,” Rockman said back in the Art Room. His voice was fuzzy and indistinct, with bursts of static. Sunspots, they’d told Dean. Communications were going to be patchy in spots for the next several months.
“Just wondering. Did Tommy have any conversations with the flight attendants the other day? Something you folks might have picked up?”
“Sorry, Charlie, you’re breaking up. Say again after ‘Tommy.’”
He repeated himself, trying to speak distinctly while keeping his voice low enough that none of the other passengers would overhear.
“Okay,” Rockman said. “Got it. I was running Tommy during his flight, but Sandy was handling him later on, at the hotel. I do know he was chatting one girl up on the plane, though. Took her back to his room after he got in, in fact.”
“Got a name for her?”
“It’ll be in the transcripts. I can check.”
“Do it, please.”
“Hang on; I’m calling it up. You got something?”
“Not really. Mostly just wondering if someone on the flight crew remembered Tommy, y’know?” He was also remembering that someone had followed Tommy from Heathrow Airport all the way into downtown London. He wasn’t sure why yet, since the ambush had taken place the next day at the symposium, but Karr hadn’t picked up that tail at random. They’d been waiting for him on the street outside the Heathrow hotel. That strongly suggested a chain of contacts, picking him up and handing him off.
“Yeah. Okay… I have it here. ‘Julie.’” There was a pause as Rockford read the transcript. “Wow. Looks like they were going at it pretty hot and heavy until Tommy shut down his comm system. Don’t have a last name on her here, but we could check British Airways records and see who’s scheduled for that flight.”
“Not necessary. Probably not even important. But I may see what she knows.”
Besides, it would give him something else to think about than his upcoming reunion with Lia.
Ice Station Bear Arctic Ice Cap 82° 24' N, 179° 45' E 0538 hours, GMT-12
The snowmobiles rested on their wooden racks at the far end of the aisle. The barking of the dogs was so shrill and loud, Benford could hardly hear himself think. Which, as he thought about it, wasn’t a bad thing at all. Damn it, how had he gotten himself into this?…
He set the gasoline cans down, then reached into the canvas shoulder bag. Inside were two items-the pry bar, stuck halfway out of the bag, and a heavy canvas belt with a black holster dangling from its length. Holding the bar in one hand, he set the belt and holster on the floor.
Benford stepped back, moving into a niche formed by stacks of supply crates, which placed him out of sight. Holding the pry bar in both hands, he hefted it, getting the feel of its weight.
“Commander Larson!” he shouted. “Can you come here?”
There was no answer. Peeking around the corner of the crates, Benford could see both Larson and Richardson at the far end of the building, their backs to him. The damned dogs were making so much racket, the men couldn’t hear him.
This was bad. He was sweating, now, and his heart was pounding. He hadn’t anticipated the possibility of not being heard against the racket.
“Hey!” he screamed, bellowing as loud as he could. Startled, the dogs stopped barking for just a few seconds, long enough for him to shout, “Commander Larson!”
The barking started up again, but not as loudly, for now. Benford heard Larson moving just behind the sheltering corner, heard him say, “What the hell?” as he found the gun belt on the floor. That holster was Larson’s own, holding his 9mm service Beretta. Benford had taken the weapon from Larson’s personal locker hours before, along with a loaded magazine, hiding them in the satchel. “Benford! What the hell is this?”
In the next moment, Larson came into clear view as he stooped over the holster, reaching for it, his head at about the level of Benford’s waist.
Benford had been gripping one en
d of the pry bar with both gloved hands, holding the bar to one side and low, next to his leg. As Larson bent over the holster, Benford swung the bar, pivoting, coming around hard and up, across his body, the pry bar first catching Larson awkwardly on his arm but then slamming up into his face.
The blow was clumsy. Benford was badly positioned, squeezed in as he was behind the stack of crates, and he’d almost squandered the swing by accidentally striking Larson’s arm first. Still, Benford managed to hit the man squarely enough and hard enough to knock him over, sending him toppling against the crates, a few of which came tumbling down on top of him as he collapsed in a sprawl on the decking. Larson’s face was gushing blood from a broken nose, his hands and legs moving feebly. The dogs went berserk. One husky, easily over a hundred pounds, slammed itself against the chain-link fencing of the kennel.
Stooping, Benford checked the NOAA officer. Larson was unconscious and bleeding heavily.
Quickly Benford dropped the bar, peeled off his gloves, and picked up the holster, fumbling with the catch until he could open it and draw Larson’s Beretta. Benford fished the magazine from the satchel, nudged the end into the grip, and slapped it home, dragging the slide back and letting it snap forward, chambering a round.
Now came the really tough part… except that Benford felt surer, more confident, now that he’d taken the first irrevocable step. Holding the weapon in his right hand, he turned so that it would be hidden behind his body. “Richardson!” he screamed. “Richardson! Come here! Something’s happened!”
No response. Cautiously Benford peeked around the corner of those crates still stacked after Larson’s fall, looking for the other Greenworlder.
Richardson was not in sight.
God! Benford was close to screaming with frustration and growing panic. Where had Richardson gone? A moment later, though, the door opened again and Richardson reentered the garage, carrying another armload of frozen meat from the ice locker outside. Benford almost sagged with relief. “Richardson!…”
Richardson heard him, saw Larson on the floor under a spill of heavy crates, and came at a run.
“Jesus, Harry! What happened?”
As Richardson pulled one of the crates off of Larson’s twitching form, Benford brought the Beretta up in one smooth motion and squeezed the trigger.
The explosion of sound momentarily silenced the dogs, but as Richardson toppled backward, they began barking more wildly than ever, the noise so shrill it almost masked the second shot.
Richardson collapsed in an awkward sprawl.
His eyes wild, Benford looked from one man to the other, checking the scene, looking for loose ends. Okay… this would work. Just one more thing, the final and convincing argument…
He pushed the muzzle of the handgun against his upper arm, trying to position it in such a way that it would miss the bone. He needed a flesh wound as a convincer. He hesitated, though, fearing the pain, fearing even more what would happen if this went wrong.
Squeezing his eyes tight, he tried to make himself pull the trigger… tried… failed… then tried again. Damn it, he had to do this…
The third shot came as a complete surprise. Almost, he’d decided to try to get by with the story alone, without the self-inflicted wound, but then his finger slipped and the gun went off. To his surprise, there was little pain, at least at first, but it felt as though someone had just slammed a hammer against his arm. The shock staggered him, and he dropped to his knees.
Don’t lose it, he told himself. Focus! Focus!
He had a handkerchief in his pocket. For a moment, he was stumped, needing to wipe down the pistol but suddenly aware that his left arm and hand simply weren’t working. He managed to get the cloth free, however, and wiped the oily surface of the weapon. He doubted anyone would be in a position to check for fingerprints up here, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The gun wiped clean, he dropped it on the floor next to Larson, then pocketed the handkerchief.
A final check. Larson and Richardson had been arguing about here. Larson had drawn his weapon and shot Richardson twice, killing him. Benford had seen it all happen and had picked up the pry bar… from that shelf. Larson had shot at him but only wounded him just as Benford had swung, knocking Larson out.
Yeah. It all fitted.
Golytsin hadn’t told him how to carry out the murder, of course, but had stressed that whatever Benford did, he had to make it look as though one of the NOAA officers had killed one of the Greenworlders. Everything, Golytsin had told Benford, depended on his making the scene look convincing.
Larson was still alive. Benford could hear him trying to breathe through the blood still pouring from his savaged nose. Benford considered hitting Larson again, killing him… but decided that would be harder to explain. Then… damn! The gun belt! He’d almost missed that detail, almost forgotten. Stooping, he slid the belt under Larson’s torso, immediately wishing he’d remembered to do this before he’d shot himself in the arm.
Finally, though, the belt was on, and Benford was able to click it shut with one hand. His left arm was starting to hurt now, a dull, throbbing ache, and blood was starting to seep through his parka. It felt like he might have hit the bone after all. He was starting to feel dizzy. Fishing out the handerchief again, he pressed it over the seeping wound.
Benford took a couple of minutes to collect himself, breathing hard… then made his way to the door and banged out into the cold.
It was snowing harder now as he raced back to the main building.
“Help! Everyone, help! Murder! Help!…”
11
City Morgue London 1045 hours GMT
CHARLIE DEAN FOLLOWED EVANS and the morgue attendant deeper into the chill of the morgue. Fluorescent lights hung overhead, and the green-painted concrete block walls added a depressing air to the place. The attendant walked up to one of the stainless-steel doors in one wall, checked his clipboard, then opened the vault and hauled the steel slab into the room.
They already had Karr in a black body bag, the zipper halfway open, the man’s eyes staring up at the lighting fixtures overhead. Some cold inner part of Dean was operating on pure automatic, letting him note the wounds-a number of deeply purpled bruises around half a dozen holes in his friend’s chest and upper abdomen, and a terrible gash that had opened the left side of his throat from jaw to collarbone.
Christ…
“That’s him,” Dean said simply. He looked up at the attendant. “I’d like to see his effects, too, if I may.”
The morgue attendant shrugged and nodded. “Sure thing.” He seemed to be nothing so much as bored and… was he chewing gum?
“Friend of yours?” Evans asked as Karr’s body slid soundlessly back into the recesses of the locker.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. He seemed like a good chap.”
“What the hell is that?” Dean demanded. “British understatement?”
“I only met him a few moments before the attack,” Evans said. His mouth twisted unpleasantly. “The two of us were joking about the Boston Tea Party.”
Dean drew a deep breath. Evans had met him at the airport and driven him into London late last night, putting him up in a hotel a short walk from the Tower of London and just across the river from the bizarre black egg of a building where Tommy Karr had been killed. However much Dean wanted to lash out at someone, it wasn’t Evans’ fault that Tommy was lying dead on a morgue slab.
“I’m… sorry,” Dean said. “Didn’t mean to snap.”
“Not a problem. I know what it’s like to lose a mate.”
Yes, I imagine you probably do, Dean thought, but he said nothing. As one of the senior British officers at the Menwith Hill listening station, Evans had been on the front lines of European SIGINT for a good many years. Listening in on other people’s radio and telephone conversations didn’t seem like a dangerous occupation, but over the years there had been all too many incidents.
People had died. Good people, like Tommy.
“Thank you.” Dean sorted through the packages, wondering what he was looking for. Karr’s shoulder holster and Beretta were in one bag, his wallet, a set of house keys, two pens, some loose change in another, wristwatch and sunglasses in a separate bag. Same for his passport, an airline weapons permit, an FBI ID card, a driver’s license, and a number of pocketed receipts. Karr, Dean knew, never wore jewelry, rings, or other accoutrements unless they were needed for a particular legend on an op. One bag held a small collection of technological odds and ends… a cell phone; a fiber-optic lead; what appeared to be a PDA; a couple of button-sized objects that Dean recognized as small, sticky-backed surveillance cameras; the clip-on microphone Karr would have been wearing beneath his shirt collar, a part of his personal communications hookup with the Art Room.
A few of the tools of the trade.
His clothing made up a rather larger bundle. Slacks, coiled-up belt, shoes, socks, underwear. Shirt, tie, and jacket, all of them soaked with dark blood.
Keeping his emotions firmly in check, Dean reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a PDA identical to the one in the bag on the table. Evans raised his eyebrows but said nothing as Dean switched it on and began passing it over each of the bags of Karr’s effects. Several LEDs lit up as he passed it over the package containing the phone, mike, and cameras.
“ ’Ere,” the morgue attendant said. “What’s that?”
Dean didn’t reply but continued moving the PDA above Karr’s things. When Dean passed it over the bag containing the blood-soaked shirt and jacket, the LEDs flashed again. “Hello there,” Dean said, half-aloud. “That’s interesting.”
“What do you have?” Evans asked.
“Not sure yet.” Setting the device on the table, Dean pulled the plastic wrapping open, giving him access to the clothing inside. Picking up the device again, he checked, the shirt first and, when nothing happened, began checking the jacket.
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