by Jon Land
Natalya found herself well in control of her motor capabilities as she and her guards reached the steps leading down to the tarmac. It was dusk, the grayness suiting her chances. She walked unsurely, waiting for the men to lead her. Twenty feet from the portable steps a trio of limousines waited on the tarmac. Natalya felt her heart quicken with hope. One of the cars, meant surely to take her to her death, could similarly provide her with a means of escape. She would have to act in the shadow of an instant, and the circumstances would have to be just right. At least there was a chance.
This was Algiers! She recognized the airport clearly!
More of Raskowski’s guards surrounded the cars. The general himself was not to be seen. Three guards stood near the limousine to which she was being led. Her mind sharpened all the way. She fought to push blood into her lagging muscles. Speed would determine survival.
A plan, a hope, she had it! One of the guards by the limo held a small machine gun at the ready. The others were wary but not yet handling their weapons. What of the driver? Was he inside or was he outside the car? If he was inside, her plan would be in jeopardy. In the half-darkness she could see nothing through the darkened limousine windows.
Almost there …
Natalya stilled her thoughts. The rest she would have to leave to reflex.
Ten feet from the limo she could see one of the guards reach for the back door latch. The big car’s engine was idling. Perfect.
The man was holding the door open when Natalya drew within a yard. She acted in an instant. A quick lunge both separated her from her escorts’ grip and closed the gap to the limo.
The force of her body weight crashed the back door inward, pinning the man’s hand against steel. He was screaming horribly when Natalya went for the machine-gun-toting guard who was starting to aim the weapon at her. She didn’t stop him from firing. Instead she grabbed the barrel and aimed the bullets where she wanted them.
The escorts and final guard went quickly, and she aimed next at the guards outside the other limos to keep their fire erratic. The guard was trying to pull his machine gun free now, and Natalya let him while she pounded his back hard against the frame of the limo, grasping his hair and yanking his head viciously backward. His skull rammed hard into steel and he stiffened. Natalya went for the front door and threw it open.
The side window shattered and glass rained over her. More bullets peppered the windshield, carving jagged holes which quickly spread into spiderweb patterns. Natalya didn’t care. She jammed the idling limo into gear and lurched forward with her head beneath the dashboard.
She didn’t think of fleeing yet. She couldn’t with two fully able cars intact and plenty of men in them. The first thing was to make sure they were reasonably disabled before proceeding.
Windows were lowering. Gunshots blazed at her from both the other cars. One of the drivers had the sense to move. The other stayed as he was, so when Natalya drove into his rear passenger-side fender, the sudden impact stripped his transmission and left him with an engine-racing shell. Tires screeching, Natalya threw her limo into reverse as the last car came for her with bullets flashing from within. Her back window exploded and more glass showered the rear seats, a few shards nipping at the back of her neck. Screaming down the pain, she backed her car hard into the front of the last limo. Steam burst from its radiator.
Gunshots followed her as she floored her car. Despite an incessant screech and a strong smell of gasoline mixed with friction-burned rubber, Natalya concentrated on the tarmac. Airport security would be responding, but that was hardly a bother. She sped along the cement, swerved to avoid one parked jet, and headed for an open gate that would take her to freedom.
The Toy Factory never slept; there were not enough hours in the day to accomplish all of its tasks. The past week had seen the normally hectic activity turn frantic. With little chance that stores of Atragon sufficient to power Bugzapper could be found in time, the search was on for an element to take its place. So far that search had yielded nothing.
The man in charge of these labors was Robert Tibbs, who had been with the Bureau of Scientific Intelligence for seven years. His devotion to his work was total, and many days came and went without his leaving the grounds. Because he often worked well past normal hours, the Toy Factory staff had christened Tibbs “Captain Midnight.” He was known to become so obsessed with a particular assignment that for days on end he wouldn’t sleep, eat, or change his clothes.
The last week had seen him whipped into the most unyielding frenzy of his career. He had not left the lab once in two full days, other than to refill his canteen from a cooler of water down the hall. He had assigned himself the task of sifting through those few substances deemed by his subordinates to have any chance at all of serving as a surrogate power source. Thus far all those that had passed into his lab had passed into the waste basket.
But the latest substance intrigued him, resisting his attempts to dismiss it. True, there were dozens more tests to be performed. At least, though, there was hope, and Captain Midnight was ready to grasp at anything.
He returned to his lab with freshly filled canteen in hand and flipped a single switch which illuminated a trio of pinkish crystals on his work table.
“Okay, fellas,” he told them, “let’s get back to work… .”
Chapter 22
THE PLANE BOUND for Madrid from Athens started into its descent and McCracken shifted uneasily in his seat. Whatever over twenty-four hours of rest had done to soothe the wounds he’d suffered at Fass’s villa had been offset by the cramped, uncomfortable flight. It had been early Saturday morning before Blaine felt well enough to travel and to discover that the quickest way to reach Marrakesh was actually to fly first to Madrid and then switch planes.
Escaping from Fass’s villa on Thursday night had not proven difficult. Still wearing the uniform of one of the mad Greek’s guards, he moved from one group to another until the simplest opportunity to walk out presented itself. Returning to Athens had yet to be considered and with the wounds inflicted by Fass’s Minotaur, the trek promised to be rough. He stayed off the roads but near them, since he would need to appropriate a car.
He found one on a hill overlooking the Sfakia River. Two young lovers were busy in the backseat and Blaine, with the help of his gun, had little trouble talking them into a loan. The next few hours were spent driving to a port. He was back in the Athens hotel room he had shared with Natalya by early morning on Friday.
Taking care of his wounds was the next order of business and inspection of them revealed a doctor would not be required. For the most part they were puncture wounds, already closed but still extremely painful. Blaine paid the hotel clerk to fetch antiseptic, bandages, and other implements and then spent the next hour cleaning, stitching, and dressing the wounds, after which he collapsed at last on the bed.
He awoke nearly an entire day later with the realization that his first task was to call Sundowner with an update on his progress. Some more bills pressed into the clerk’s hand gained him use of the hotel’s only phone. He waited an hour after requesting an overseas line and another twenty minutes before the operator called back with the connection to Sundowner’s contact exchange.
“This is a Deep Seven Cover reroute,” a mechanical voice greeted him, a tape recording obviously. “Reinitiate at the following exchange. …”
McCracken memorized the exchange as he’d been trained to, forming immediate patterns in the numbers to keep them from sliding from memory. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the procedure, wasn’t what he had set up with Sundowner. But the scientist was calling the shots.
“You have reached Deep Seven Cover station,” a real male voice greeted this time.
“I want Sundowner. Get me Sundowner.”
“Negative. His line is down. I have alternative—”
McCracken hung up the phone, face flushed with anger. Something had happened in Washington and whatever it was it had isolated him from Sundowner. They wante
d him to talk to someone else. Why? He thought of the Farmer Boy. Was he getting so close to the Atragon that Raskowski’s mole had maneuvered the crisis committee into a change of strategy? He didn’t know.
But he knew that matters had taken a turn for the worse. He was being cut off. It was a truth he constantly had to face. There was no one he could trust.
No one except …
He picked up the phone and repeated the whole lengthy procedure, an hour this time, of putting through a call. He reached the contact number for Johnny Wareagle. A message would be sent to the big Indian, and Blaine could only hope his friend would be in a position to receive it.
All this accomplished, he set out for the airport and the first flight he could catch for Madrid.
Victor Ivanovitch gathered up the morning papers to read with his coffee, as he customarily did at the start of each day. The Soviet chargé d’affaires at the Syrian embassy in Algiers was actually a career intelligence officer with twenty years’ experience in the KGB. The increasingly strategic importance of Algeria over the last few years had called for a man of Ivanovitch’s seasoning to be stationed here. Though the Soviets carried on few “wet” missions in the port city, they needed to keep an eye toward future manipulation. Ivanovitch was an expert in such matters and he infinitely preferred the Algerian desert climate to that of Moscow. A Soviet who hated snow might be unpatriotic, but for Ivanovitch the warm sun was as natural as his morning ritual with papers and coffee.
The phone on his desk buzzed twice.
“Yes?” he said in Arabic, a language he had come to speak as well as his own over the years.
“You have a call, sir. Line ten.”
Ivanovitch stiffened. The Syrian embassy had only nine official lines. The tenth existed only for direct, and unusual, contact by a mission operating within his sector. Strange, he had not been informed of any… .
“I’ll take it,” he told the operator as he reached for a second phone and lifted the receiver to his ear. “How may I help you?”
“All happy families resemble each other,” said a female voice, “but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
Ivanovitch stiffened even more. The first line of Anna Karenina! How could it be? Alerts were signaled by reciting the agreed-upon first line of a Russian book. Anna Karenina was the current code.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number,” the KGB man told the caller. “Try the party at …” He proceeded to provide a drop point address. As soon as the call was terminated a messenger would be sent to the drop with a note telling the caller when and where in Algiers to meet him. Something must be up, something very big. Ivanovitch’s flesh tingled with excitement. Only the deepest Soviet agents were furnished with the regular alert code. He was finally about to see action again.
“Thank you very much,” said Natalya Tomachenko, and she left the phone booth.
The drop point to which Ivanovitch had sent her was an ancient hotel struggling for its existence against far more luxurious competition. Natalya’s instructions for the meet were contained in the room box belonging to a nonexistent guest whose name the KGB man had passed on during the course of their conversation.
The instructions stated that she should proceed immediately to the National Museum of Fine Arts, specifically the African exhibit on the second floor, where Ivanovitch would meet her. Natalya hoped to arrive before him, to give her an opportunity to make sure all was clean on the premises. But as soon as she stepped into the second-floor hall she found the KGB man standing before a tapestry of an ancient warrior.
“Long time no see, Victor,” she said softly.
He stared at her in shock. “Natalya …”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she told him, aware it was difficult not to, given the numerous small cuts on her face from shattered car glass.
“No, no. It’s just—”
“You’re surprised to see me.”
He calmed a bit. “It’s just that I was expecting it to be someone else.”
“Who?”
“Anyone.” He paused, settled down even more. “An agent of your clearance is a rare find in Algiers. Small pickings, as the Americans say.”
But Natalya was not convinced. The KGB man still seemed nervous, as if his thoughts were not his own.
“What is it I can do for you?” he asked.
“I need a direct line to the General Secretary. You know the codes and clearances.”
“The … General Secretary?”
“The explanations don’t concern you. Suffice it to say I had a private channel but it’s been disconnected.”
“No, it’s not that. This sort of thing is new even to me. You’re asking a lot.”
“But you can deliver. I know that. The problem is procedure. It must be a direct link, no middleman involved.”
“My channel will have to be red flagged. There’ll be questions.”
“Which you won’t be able to answer. All you’ll have is my name, but that will be enough. The General Secretary will understand the importance of contact, rest assured.”
“If not, my career, my reputation …”
“Neither is in jeopardy. My latest assignment,” she said, almost whispering, “was uncoded. My channels were closed upon completion, but completion was not achieved. Am I making myself clear?”
He smiled. “Of course not. But I’ll do what you ask.” He thought briefly. “We are set up for this here. The hardware is in place. You know the Sidi Fredj holiday resort?”
“At the far end of the Bay of Algiers, yes.”
“The complex contains a marina. Many boats are docked there this time of year. One is called the Red Tide.”
“How fitting.”
“In terms of color as well. A thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser. You can’t miss it. The equipment is on board. We had to move it out of the embassy when the CIA set up shop around the corner.” Ivanovitch checked his watch. “I’ll meet you there in three hours. Go below as soon as you arrive.”
“The call came from Greece,” CIA chief Stamp reported to the President. “Athens specifically. We’ve flooded the city with agents, focusing on all avenues of potential transit.”
“But you don’t expect to catch him, do you?”
Stamp paused. “Honestly, sir, no.”
“This cloak-and-dagger business was uncalled for,” Lyman Scott said. “You should have simply got on the line and laid out the situation for McCracken to see.”
“If he’d refused, we would have had nothing.”
“And what do we have now?”
Natalya arrived at the Sidi Fredj marina ten minutes before the three hours had elapsed. She had taken a route which provided her the opportunity to view the marina from the other side of the bay. She saw the red cabin cruiser. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what. Ivanovitch’s tone had been off. There was too much shifting in his voice. Why?
It didn’t matter. The Red Tide held a direct line to Chernopolov, and the General Secretary would be waiting for her call. But something still felt wrong.
Eight minutes remained to her rendezvous with Ivanovitch when she started down the dock for the Red Tide. Several men were at work on their boats, and they eyed her as she passed. Any of them or none could have belonged to the KGB man.
She stepped lightly from the wharf down a set of steps leading from the gunwale to the deck. The entire boat was spotless. She gazed around her for signs of something wrong but found nothing. The Red Tide was just as it should have been.
She opened the door to the cabin and descended the three steps into it. Somewhere in the exquisitely furnished interior was the communications equipment to effect a patch-through to Moscow. Technologically, that road would be long and complicated, the transfers made in milliseconds from channel to channel and all originating here.
Like the exterior, the cabin was spotlessly clean. Except… .
The thin carpet covering the cabin floor was damp in patches, with the
outlines of footprints visible. Not sneakers or boat shoes. Loafers, with thin, slippery heels. And the wet footprints had to be recent, left by men who had departed only minutes before her arrival.
Yes! She should have seen it earlier. Ivanovitch had so much as told her, not with words but gestures, tones—subtle indications she should have picked up then. But there was still time; there had to be!
The explosion came seconds later. It obliterated not just the Red Tide but a good portion of the dock and boats two deep on either side of it. Showers of flaming wood and steel covered the area, falling up to two hundred yards away, out to sea, onto the parking lot, and into the nearby Sidi Fredj recreational area. The nearby hospitals took in seven emergency patients suffering from lacerations and contusions.
Fire officials were reasonably quick to appear on the scene, but they could do nothing more than watch as the last remains of several ships sank into the bay dragging the dying flames with them.
Chapter 23
AFTER LEARNING THAT the bastards occupying the town had turned his jailhouse into their armory, Sheriff Junk knew there was only one option available to him for spiriting some of the weapons out.
Much of Pamosa Springs was built over mining veins whose hidden entrances had been sealed for generations. Heep had located several as a boy, including one which lay directly beneath the jailhouse. Years later he had covered up the entrance himself so this latest generation of kids wouldn’t be tempted by it. Since the front of the jailhouse was well guarded, his sole chance for gaining access to the weapons stored in the rear was to approach the building from the abandoned mines beneath it. Once inside, he would grab as much as he could carry and then retrace his path out.
The soldiers’ new commander, like the old, agreed to let town council members move freely through Pamosa Springs during the day, mostly to keep people at ease as to what was going on. Such permission not only served to keep the leaders separated, but it also cast them in the role of being unwitting accomplices to the takeover. The other residents would resent their freedom of movement and inwardly hold it against them. Thus, subtly, their authority was undermined. If it came down to depending on their orders, the people would resist. The strategy was one of factionalization, a classic of occupational forces.