Op Center 02 - Mirror Image

by Mirror Image [lit]

  "Understood," the Deputy Director said, then turned to Matt Stoll. The portly computer expert was tapping his steepled fingers together.

  "Matt," Rodgers said, "I want you to use your computer contacts to find out if the Russians have been ordering or stockpiling anything out of the ordinary. Or if any of their top tech people have relocated to St. Petersburg in the last year."

  "Those guys are pretty tight-lipped," Stoll said. -I mean, it's not like they have a lot of options in private industry if the government stops trusting them. But I'll try

  'Don't try-do, " Rodgers snapped, Almost at once, he looked down and rolled his lips together. "Sorry," he said after a moment. "It's been a long night. Matt, I may have to send my team into Russia, and that won't be a day at the beach. I want them to know everything they can about their target and who they might encounter. Knowing something about the electronics will help a great deal."

  "I understand," Stoll said stiffly. "I'll do some hacking, internetting see what I can find."

  "Thank you," Rodgers said.

  Ann watched as the Deputy Director turned to Liz Gordon. She reacted with surprise when he spoke. Un like Hood, who put little faith in psychological profiles of foreign leaders, Rodgers trusted their validity.

  "Liz," he said, "I want you to put Russian Interior Minister Dogin through the computer. Factor in his loss of the presidency to Zhanin, as well as the influence of General Mikhail Kosigan. Bob has information on the General if you need it."

  "His name rings a bell," Martha says. "I'm sure he's in my file."

  Rodgers turned to Environmental Officer Phil Katzen, who had his laptop open and ready. "Phil, I need a workup on the Gulf of Finland into the Neva, and the Neva where it passes the Hermitage. Temperature, speed, wind factor

  The computer to Hood's right beeped. He hit F6 to answer, then pushed Control to hold the call.

  Rodgers continued, "And I want whatever you've got on the composition of the soil under the museum. I want to know how deep the Russians may have dug there."

  Katzen nodded as he finished typing.

  Hood hit Control again. The face of his Executive Assistant, Stephen "Bugs" Benet, appeared on the screen.

  "Sir," said Bugs, "there's an urgent call from Commander Hubbard at D16. It pertains to this matter, so I thought-"

  "Thanks," said Hood. "Put it through."

  Hood snapped on the phone's speaker button, then waited. The bloodhound face appeared on the monitor a moment later.

  "Good morning, Commander," Hood said. "I'm with the rest of my team, so I took the liberty of putting you on the speakerphone."

  "Fine," Hubbard said, his thickly accented voice

  deep and raspy, "I'll do the same. Mr. Hood, let me get straight to the matter. We have an operative here who would like to be part of the team you've sent to Helsinki."

  Rodgers's expression soured. He shook his head.

  Hood said, "Commander, ours is a carefully balanced unit-"

  "I understand," Hubbard said, "but hear me out. I've lost two agents and a third is hiding. My staff wants me to send our own Bengal unit in, but it wouldn't do to have our two groups stumbling one over the other."

  "Could your Bengal unit put me on the phone with the head of this new operation in St. Petersburg?"

  "Pardon me?" said Hubbard.

  "What I'm saying," said Hood, "is that you're not offering me anything I can't get myself. We'll share what we find out, as always."

  "Of course," said Hubbard. "But I disagree. We can offer you one thing. Miss Peggy James."

  Hood quickly input Control/F5 on his keyboard to access agent files. He hit D16, typed James, and her dossier appeared.

  Rodgers got up and stood behind Hood as he scanned the file, which was filled with data from D16 as well as independent information collected by Op-Center, the CIA, and other U.S. agencies.

  "She has quite a record," Hood said. "The granddaughter of a lord, three years in the field in South Africa, two in Syria, seven at headquarters. Special forces training, speaks six languages, holds four commendations. Rebuilds and races vintage motorcycles."

  He stopped when Mike Rodgers pointed to a crossreference to another file.

  "Commander Hubbard, this is Mike Rodgers," he

  said. "I see that Ms. James also recruited Mr. Fields-Hutton. "

  "Yes, General," Hubbard admitted. "They were very close."

  "Watch out for grudge matches," Liz muttered, shaking her head.

  "Did you hear, Commander?" Hood asked. "That was our staff psychologist."

  "We heard," a sharp female voice replied, "and I assure you, I'm not in this for revenge. I simply want to see that the job Keith started is finished."

  "No one was questioning your abilities, Agent James," Liz said in a strong, unapologetic voice that left no room for debate. "But emotional detachment and objectivity fuel caution, and that's what we want in our-"

  "Balls," snapped Peggy. "Either I go with you or I go in alone. But I am going."

  "That will be quite enough," Hubbard said firmly.

  Coffey cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. "Commander Hubbard, Agent James-I'm Lowell Coffey II, Op-Center's attorney." He looked at Hood. "Paul, you're probably going to have my head for this, but I think you should consider their offer."

  Hood's expression was unchanged, but Rodgers's eyes were wide and angry. Coffey avoided them.

  "Martha and I still have a few points to work out with the CIC," Coffey said, "and if I can tell them that this is an international team, there's a much better chance we'll be able to bargain for things like more time, a larger geographical area, that sort of thing."

  "You'll want me to fall on my sword too, Mike," McCaskey said, "but having Agent James on the team will help me too. The Finnish Minister of Defense is very close to Admiral Marrow of the Royal Marines. If

  we need other favors as this unfolds, he's the man we'll have to ask for them."

  The General said nothing for a long moment, and the silence from London was provocative. Hood finally looked at Bob Herbert. The Intelligence Chief's lips were pursed and he was drumming the leather armrests of his wheelchair.

  "Bob," Hood asked, "what do you say?"

  His soft voice tinged with remnants of his Mississippi youth, Herbert said, "I say that we can get the job done just fine, all by ourselves. If the lady wants to go in alone, that's Commander Hubbard's business. I don't see why we need to toss an extra gear into a finely tuned machine."

  Martha Mackall said, "I think we're getting dangerously territorial here. Agent James is a professional. She'll fit into your finely tuned machine."

  "Thank you," Peggy said, "whoever you are."

  "Martha Mackall," she said, "Political Officer. And you're welcome. I know what it's like to be kept out of the boys' club."

  "That's bull," Herbert waved dismissively. "This isn't about black, white, male, female, or hands-across-the-goddamn-water. We've already got one first-timer on this mission: Sondra DeVonne, the lady who took Bass Moore's place. All I'm saying is that we'd have to be crazy to take on another."

  "Another lady, you mean," Martha said.

  "Another rookie," Herbert shot back. "My God, when did every command decision become a mandate against somebody?"

  Hood said, "Thanks for the suggestions, all of you. Commander, I hope you'll forgive us for talking about your person in front of her back."

  "I appreciate it," Peggy said. "I've always liked to know where I stand."

  Hood said, "I have my reservations, but Lowell's right. A binational group makes sense, and Peggy seems to have the right stuff."

  Herbert drove his palms into the edge of the table and whistled the first few measures of "It's a Small World." Rodgers returned to his seat. His neck was flushed above the collar of his uniform, and his dark brow seemed even darker.

  "I'll make sure you get the specifics as we do," Hood said, "so that your agent can link up with Striker. Needless to say, Comman
der, Striker's leader, Lieutenant Colonel Squires, has our complete trust. I expect Agent James to follow his orders."

  "Of course, General," Commander Hubbard said, ',and thank you."

  Hood looked at Rodgers as the monitor winked off.

  "Mike," Hood said, "he was going to send her anyway. At least now we'll know where she is."

  "It was your call," Rodgers replied. "It's just not the one I would've made." He looked at Hood. "This isn't D-Day or Desert Storm. We didn't need an international consensus. The United States was attacked, and the United States military was responding. Period."

  "Semicolon," Hood corrected. D16 suffered casualties as well. The information they gave us reinforced our suspicions about the target. They deserve a shot at that target. "

  "As I told you, we don't agree on that," Rodgers said. "Ms. James had to be disciplined by her own superior She's certainly not going to listen to Squires. But you're back, and you're in command." He looked around the table. "I've finished everything on my agenda. Thank you, everyone, for your attention."

  Hood also looked around. "Any other business?"

  "Yes," said Herbert. "I think Mike Rodgers and Lynne Dominick and Karen Wong deserve friggin' medals for the silk purse they made from a sow's ear last night. While everyone else in the country was runnin' around wringing their hands about the explosion, those three figured out who did it and probably why. Instead of a Purple Heart, though, we just kicked Mike in the pants. I'm sorry, but I just don't get it."

  "Because we disagree with him," said Lowell Coffey, "that doesn't mean we think any less of what he did."

  "You're tired and p.o.'d, Bob," said Liz Gordon. "This wasn't about Mike. It was about living in the world of today."

  Herbert grumbled his disapproval of the world of today as he rolled away from the table.

  Hood rose. "I'll contact you all individually during the morning to check on your progress," he said. Then he looked at Mike Rodgers. "Once again, in case anyone missed it, no one in this room could've done the job that Mike did last night."

  Rodgers gave him a little nod, then buzzed open the door and followed Bob Herbert from the Tank.

  NINETEEN

  Monday, 8:00 P.M., St. Petersburg

  As the digital clock in the comer of the computer monitor rolled over from 7:59:59, a change came over the Operations Center. The blue hue that had filled the room from the more than two dozen computer screens was replaced by a flood of changing colors which were reflected on the faces and clothes of everyone in the room. The mood changed too. Though no one applauded, the release of tension was palpable as the Center came alive.

  Operations Support Officer Fyodor Buriba looked at Orlov from his lone console on a table tucked into the front right comer. A smile broke through the young man's neatly trimmed black beard and his dark eyes gleamed. "We have one hundred percent go, sir," he said.

  Sergei Orlov was standing in the middle of the large, low-ceilinged room, his hands locked behind his back as his eyes ranged from screen to screen. "Thank you, Mr. Buriba," Orlov said, "and well done, everyone. All stations, double-check your data before we inform Moscow that the countdown to operations has begun."

  Orlov began walking slowly from side to side, looking over the shoulders of his staff. The twenty-four computers and monitors were arranged in a semicircle on a tightly curved, nearly horseshoe-shaped tabletop. Each monitor was manned by an operator, and he relaxed a little at 8 P.M. exactly, as the blue of each screen was replaced by a strewn of data, photographs, maps, or charts. Ten of the monitors were dedicated to satellite surveillance, four were tapped into a worldwide intelligence database that included reports legal as well as "hacked" from police departments, embassies, and government agencies, nine others were hooked to radios and cellular telephones and received reports from operatives around the world, and one was linked directly to the office of the Ministers in the Kremlin, including Dogin. This link was manned by Corporal Ivashin, who was handpicked by Colonel Rossky and reported directly to him. All but the map screens were filled with phrases in code. The words meant nothing to Orlov, to the person at the next monitor, or to anyone else in the Center. Each station had its own code so that the damage a mole might cause would be minimized. In the event that an operative was sick, a code-breaker program could be activated by both Orlov and Rossky, each of whom knew half of the twopart password.

  When the screens came to life after weeks of checking and debugging, Orlov felt the same he had each time one of the huge rockets roared to life beneath him: relief that everything came on, as scheduled. Though his life wasn't at risk the way it was every time he rode a rocket, the truth was he had never contemplated life or death as he rode into space. That wasn't what exploration or being a fighter pilot or even living from day to day was about. His reputation was more important than his life, and Orlov's only thought, ever, was that he do his best and not screw up.

  The front wall of the room was covered with a world map. Images from any of the screens could be superimposed on it using a projector set in the ceiling. On the side walls were shelves of diskettes and backups, topsecret data, files, and records about governments, the military, and agencies from around the world. In the center of the back wall was a door that led to the hallway and the cryptanalysis center, security room, mess, lavatory, and exit. Doors to Orlov's and Rossky's offices were on the right and left respectively.

  Standing in the heart of the Center, Orlov felt as if he were commanding a ship of the future-one that went nowhere, yet had the ability to look down from the heavens or peer under rocks on the earth, one that could know nearly anything about almost anyone in a moment. Even when he was in outer space, with the earth turning slowly beneath him, he had never felt this omniscient. And because every government required accurate, timely intelligence, his funding and the operation of the Center had been unaffected by the chaos in many quarters of Russia. He almost understood how Czar Nicholas Il must have felt, living in splendid isolation until the end came. It was easy to be in a place like this and feel cut off from the day-to-day problems of others, and Orlov made sure to pick up three or four different newspapers every day so as not to lose touch with reality.

  Corporal Ivashin suddenly stood, faced the General, and snapped off a salute. He removed his headset and held it out. "General, sir," he said, "the radio room reports a private communication for you."

  "Thank you," Orlov said, waving away the headset. "I'll take it in my office." He turned and headed toward the door on the far right.

  Entering his personal code on the keypad to the left of the door, Orlov entered. His assistant, Nina Terova, poked her head from behind a divider in a back comer of the room. A stately, broad-shouldered woman of thirty-five, she was dressed in a tight-fitting navy-blue jacket and skirt. She had chestnut hair worn in a bun, large eyes, a handsomely arched nose, and a deep, diagonal furrow along her forehead where a bullet had creased her skull. A former officer on the St. Petersburg police force, she also carried scars on her chest and right arm, the result of having stood her ground to bring down two men during an attempted bank robbery.

  "Congratulations, General," she said.

  "Thanks," Orlov replied as he shut the door, "but we've still got several hundred checkpoints to go-"

  "I know," Nina said. "And when we pass those, you won't he happy until we've put a successful day behind us, and then a week, and then a year."

  "What's life without new goals?" the General asked as he sat behind his desk, a black acrylic surface on four thin, white legs made from the remains of one of the Vostok boosters that had carried him into space. The rest of the room was decorated with photographs, models, awards, and mementoes of his years in space, including a display case with his prize possession, a switch panel from the crude capsule that had carried Yuri Gagarin on the first manned flight into outer space.

  He sat in a leather-upholstered bucket chair, swung it in front of the computer, and typed in his access code. The screen quickly fil
led with the back of Interior Minister Dogin's head.

  "Minister," Orlov said into a condenser microphone built into the lower left comer of the monitor.

  It was several seconds before Dogin turned around. Orlov wasn't sure whether the Minister liked making people wait for him, or whether he didn't like to appear to be waiting for others. In either case it was a game, and Orlov didn't like it.

  The Minister smiled, "Corporal Ivashin tells me that everything went on as planned."

  "The Corporal was out of line, not to mention premature," Orlov said. "We haven't reviewed the data as yet."