Klein obeyed, watching in silence while his old friend finished skimming a memo. Large, bold red letters stamped across the top indicated that it included top-secret intelligence obtained from U.S. spy satellites. Castilla came to the end, snorted in disgust, and stuffed the document back into one of the folders.
“More trouble?” the head of Covert-One asked carefully.
“In spades.” Castilla ran his big hands distractedly through his hair and then indicated the folders stacked in front of him. “Our satellites and signals intercept stations seem to be picking up signs of Russian military moves and increasing readiness in several frontier districts—those bordering Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Kazakhstan. But the intelligence is damned sketchy, and no one in the Pentagon or the CIA seems willing to place any bets on what may be going on.”
“Because of problems with the data?” Klein wondered. “Or because they’re having trouble analyzing the facts they’ve got?”
“Both,” Castilla growled. He shuffled through the various folders, picked one out, and shoved it across the desk. “There’s an example of what I’m getting. Take a look for yourself.”
It was a Defense Intelligence Agency report on the possible buildup of Russian divisions stationed in Chechnya and along the Caucasus Mountains. Relying largely on satellite photos showing large amounts of military equipment moving by rail into the areas around Grozny, some analysts speculated that the Russians were building up forces for yet another all-out offensive on the region’s Islamic rebels. Others disputed this conclusion, claiming the rail shipments were only part of a normal troop rotation. A small minority claimed that the tank and motor rifle formations ostensibly being transferred to Chechnya were actually being diverted to other areas, though no one could say exactly where.
Klein flipped through the folder quickly, reading with growing disapproval. By its very nature, intelligence analysis was an imperfect, imprecise business. But this report was fuzzier than most. The competing theories were couched in remarkably vague terms, loaded down with so many qualifiers that they lacked any semblance of conviction, and were presented in a jumble, without making any attempt to rank them in order of probability. From the standpoint of a senior policymaker, especially one at the president’s level, the analysis was essentially useless.
He looked up in dismay. “This is second-string material, Sam.”
“Try third-string,” Castilla said grimly. “Our best Russia analysts are either dead or running scared that they’re next. The folks who are next in line just don’t have the same level of experience…and it shows.”
Klein nodded. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff of modern intelligence—garbled fragments of intercepted communications, satellite photos that were difficult to interpret, stray rumors passed along by agents and embassy staffs, and all the rest—was a skill that took years of training and practice to fully develop.
Still frowning, the president took off his reading glasses and tossed them onto his desk. He looked across at Klein. “Which brings us to Covert-One’s assignment, pinning down the cause of this illness. What have you learned so far?”
“Less than I would like,” the other man admitted. “But I have just received an urgent signal from Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin.”
“And?”
“They’ve definitely run into something very nasty going on in Moscow,” Klein said quietly. He grimaced, resisting the temptation to fiddle with the battered briarwood pipe tucked away inside his suit coat. “Some of their news ties into those reports you just showed me. Unfortunately, precisely what it may all mean is not yet completely clear to me.”
Castilla listened intently while Klein summarized what his team had reported, including their suspicions about the possible involvement of Konstantin Malkovic and the rumors of impending military action passed on by Oleg Kirov’s contact inside the Russian security service.
The lines on the president’s face grew deeper. “I don’t like the sound of this, Fred. Not one little bit.” He sat back in his chair. “So there’s no doubt that what killed those people in Moscow two months ago is the same disease we’re confronting now?”
“No doubt at all,” Klein told him bleakly. “Smith confirms that the symptoms and test results he saw correlate perfectly with those reported by the CDC and other researchers. But…” His voice trailed off.
“But what?”
“Without solid evidence of official Russian involvement in spreading this mystery illness as a weapon, we can’t expect anyone else—whether in NATO or in the other countries around Russia—to agree to any serious countermeasures,” Klein continued. He shrugged his narrow shoulders apologetically. “The Kremlin’s efforts to cover up an epidemic may be regarded as criminally stupid, but our European allies are not going to see that as a justification for possible economic sanctions or for raising NATO’s alert status.”
“No kidding,” Castilla said drily. “I can just imagine the howls of anguish from Paris or Berlin or Kiev if I asked them to take a serious stand against Dudarev and his regime on the basis of one dead doctor’s notes. And they’re sure not going to be convinced by seeing a few iffy satellite photos or hearing second-hand gossip about a possible Russian military mobilization.”
He sighed. “Damn it, Fred! We need facts. Right now we’re just punching at shadows.”
Klein nodded silently.
“I’m going to call an emergency meeting of the National Security Council when we’re through here,” the president decided at last. “We’ve got to tighten our surveillance of the Russian armed forces. At a minimum, we can retarget our satellites and conduct more reconnaissance missions along the border areas.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Castilla pushed back his chair and strode over to the tall windows overlooking the South Lawn. The capital’s evening rush hour was in full swing. In the gathering darkness, the cars inching along distant Constitution Avenue looked like small, crawling beads of brightly colored light. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Have you ever met Konstantin Malkovic?”
“No, I haven’t,” Klein admitted. He smiled slowly. “Hobnobbing with billionaires is well above my pay grade, Mr. President.”
“Well, I have,” Castilla said quietly. “He’s a powerful man. A forceful man. An ambitious man.”
“How ambitious?”
Castilla smiled thinly. “Ambitious enough to be sitting at this desk in my place—if he had been born here in the United States instead of Serbia.”
Klein nodded soberly. “We’ll start digging into Malkovic and his business empire. If he is secretly working with the Russians, we might be able to find connections between them that would give us a lead on what they’re planning.”
“You do that, Fred,” the president agreed. Then he shook his head. “But I’m not sure how far you’ll get. The IRS tried to go after him a few years ago—on some question of possible tax evasion as I recall. They ran into a solid wall and had to back off. Apparently he’s arranged his finances as an incredible labyrinth of offshore holding companies and private foundations. The Treasury and Commerce departments suspect that he also controls a large number of other businesses on the sly, using third-party surrogates to avoid any overt ties that might prove embarrassing or illegal. The trouble is that no one seems able to prove anything.”
Klein frowned. “It sounds like a perfect set-up for running deniable clandestine operations.”
“Doesn’t it just,” Castilla agreed sourly. He swung away from the windows to face his old friend directly. “Let’s talk about your team in Moscow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now that their cover is blown, I assume you’ve ordered Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin out of Russia?”
Klein chose his words carefully. “I have strongly suggested that they leave as soon as possible.”
Castilla raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Only suggested? Hell, Fred, from what you’ve told me, every cop in Moscow is out chasing after them. What on earth can
they hope to achieve in those conditions?”
The head of Covert-One shot him a lopsided grin. “You’ve met Jon Smith before, Sam. You haven’t yet met Fiona Devin. But I can assure you that they are both remarkably stubborn.” He shook his head slowly. “In fact, almost as stubborn as you are sometimes. And right now, neither one of them is willing to admit that they’re licked.”
“I admire guts and persistence,” Castilla said quietly. “But do Smith and Ms. Devin understand that if they are arrested, we’ll throw them to the wolves?” His face was deadly serious. “That we’ll deny any knowledge of them and wash our hands of any responsibility for their actions?”
“Yes, they do, Mr. President,” Klein said somberly. “That’s part of working for Covert-One and both of them knew the risks when they signed up. Should it prove necessary, I’m confident they will pay any price that is demanded of them.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
February 20
Berlin
Ripped unwillingly from the bleary depths of a bad night’s sleep, Ulrich Kessler first tried to ignore the phone ringing by his bed. Then he opened one eye a slit. The luminous numbers on his alarm clock told him it was just after six in the morning. Appalled, he groaned, rolled over, and tried to muffle the maddening, chirping noise the phone made by pulling his pillow over his head. Let the damned answering machine get it, he told himself drowsily. There would be time enough at a more reasonable hour to handle whatever crisis needed his attention.
Crisis. His eyes opened again. Even thinking the word was enough to force him all the way back to full consciousness. His position inside the highest circles of the Ministry of the Interior depended on his being seen by his superiors as the hardworking, ever reliable, indispensable man—the senior Bundeskriminalamt official they could trust with any predicament.
Groaning again with the effort, Kessler pushed himself up into a sitting position. He winced at the stabbing pain in his temples and the horrid taste in his mouth. He had drunk too much at the Chancellor’s reception the night before, and then made things worse by drinking cup after cup of thick Turkish coffee in a failed bid to fully sober up before he drove home. By the time his sour, heaving stomach had finally settled itself, it must have been well after three.
He fumbled blindly for the receiver. “Ja? Kessler hier.”
“Good morning, Herr Kessler,” a woman said to him in crisp, clear German, sounding almost obscenely cheerful considering the early hour. “My name is Isabelle Stahn. I’m a special prosecutor for the Ministry of Justice, working in the public corruption division, and I’m calling to request an immediate appointment with you to discuss a special case—”
Kessler’s headache flared up. He had been woken up before dawn by some overzealous underling from the Ministry of Justice? He gripped the receiver tighter in irritation. “Look, what the devil are you doing calling me at home like this? You know the normal procedures. If your ministry wants Bundeskriminalamt assistance on some investigation, first you need to apply through the proper channels! Fax whatever paperwork you have to our liaison office and the appropriate officer will get back to you in due time.”
“You misunderstand me, Herr Kessler,” the woman said, now with a hint of open amusement in her voice. “You see, you are the target of the official corruption case I’m calling about.”
“What?” Kessler snapped, suddenly wide awake.
“Some very troubling allegations have been made about your conduct, Herr Kessler,” the woman continued. “Allegations concerning the escape of Professor Wulf Renke sixteen years ago—”
“That’s utter nonsense!” Kessler blurted out angrily.
“Is it?” the woman asked. Her voice grew colder, taking on a tone filled with contempt. “Then I look forward to hearing your explanation for the following purchases of very expensive works of art—purchases made strictly in cash, it seems—which we have, with some difficulty, traced to you. First, in 1990, a painting by Kandinsky, bought from a gallery in Antwerp for the sum of 250,000 euros at today’s rates of exchange. Then, in 1991, a collage by Matisse—”
Listening in mounting horror, Kessler broke out in a cold sweat while she ran through a painstakingly accurate list of the paintings so dear to him, paintings acquired with the money he had been paid for keeping Renke safe for so many years. He swallowed hard, trying desperately not to throw up. How could this investigator from the Ministry of Justice know so much? He had been so careful, always buying through a different agent and always using a different name and address. It should have been impossible for anyone to follow a paper trail from the various art dealers and galleries back to him.
His mind raced. Could he apply pressure to block this investigation? His own boss, the Minister of the Interior, owed him many favors. Instantly, he discarded the notion. The minister would never compromise himself by trying to conceal a scandal of this magnitude.
No, he realized desperately, he would have to flee, abandoning the possessions for which he had mortgaged his integrity and his honor. But to do so safely, he would need assistance from another source.
Inside a dark green Ford panel van parked several blocks away from Kessler’s villa, Randi Russell finished her call and hung up. “That ought to send a well-deserved chill down the bastard’s spine,” she said, with a satisfied grin. “Ten-to-one he screams for help right away.”
One of the two CIA audio-operations technicians sitting beside her in the van’s cramped equipment-filled interior shook his head. “I’m not taking that bet.” He nodded toward a display that showed the stress patterns they had recorded in Kessler’s voice during the call. “The guy was skating right on the edge of total panic as soon as you started talking about his paintings.”
“Stand by,” the second technician said suddenly, holding up a hand for quiet while listening carefully to the sounds coming through her earphones. She flicked through a series of switches on the console in front of her, pausing just long enough to listen briefly to the signals transmitted by each of the listening devices Randi had planted in Kessler’s house during her break-in the day before. Then she looked up. “The subject is on the move. He’s left his bedroom. I think he’s heading for the study.”
“He’ll use the telephone in there,” Randi predicted. “The one in his bedroom is cordless and he won’t want to risk inadvertently broadcasting anything he’s about to say.”
Her companions both nodded. All cordless phones acted as small radio transmitters, allowing the easy interception of conversations made using them. No one in his or her right mind ever used a cordless phone to discuss anything confidential.
The first CIA tech entered a series of commands on the keyboard in front of him. “I’m linked into the Deutsche Telekom network,” he said calmly. “Ready to initiate a trace.”
Still sweating, Kessler sat slowly down at the beautiful antique desk in his study. In silence, he contemplated the phone for a moment. Did he dare make contact? The number he had been given was for emergency use only. Then he laughed harshly. An emergency! he thought bleakly. Well, what else was he facing?
With a shaking hand, he picked up the receiver and slowly and carefully punched in the long international telephone code. Despite the early hour, the phone on the other end rang only three times before being answered.
“Yes?” a cold voice said brusquely. It was a voice from which he had taken occasional orders for nearly two decades.
The BKA official swallowed before speaking. “This is Kessler.”
“I am well aware of who is calling me, Ulrich,” Professor Wulf Renke replied. “Do not waste my time with pleasantries. What is it that you want?”
“I need immediate extraction and a new identity.”
“Explain.”
Trying his best to sound calm, Kessler quickly relayed the substance of the call he had received. “So you see, I need to get out of Germany as soon as possible,” he said. “I’ve bought a few hours by agreeing to meet with the Ministry of Ju
stice prosecutor later today, but she already knows far too much about my financial affairs. I cannot risk appearing before her.”
“You believe this woman Stahn was genuine?” Renke asked icily.
Kessler was bewildered. “What else could she be?”
“You are a fool, Ulrich,” the other man said flatly. “Did you even bother to confirm her story before you came running to me in fear?”
“What difference does it make?” Kessler asked. “Whoever she may be, she knows too much. I am not safe here.” He felt a flicker of resentment ripple through him. “You owe me this, Herr Professor.”
“I owe you nothing,” Renke said coldly. “You have already been amply rewarded for your services. The fact that others have learned of your transgressions is unfortunate, but it gives you no special claim on me.”
“Then you will do nothing for me?” Kessler asked, appalled.
“That was not what I said,” Renke retorted. “As it happens, I will honor your request for my own purposes. Now, listen carefully and follow my instructions to the letter. Stay where you are. Do not make any more calls—for any reason. When the arrangements for your escape are complete, I will telephone you with further instructions. Is that clear?”
Kessler nodded his head rapidly. “Yes, yes, that’s clear.”
“Good. Are you alone?”
“For now,” Kessler glanced at the clock on his desk. “But my handyman and cook will be here in an hour or so.”
“Send them away,” Renke told him. “Tell them you are ill. There must be no witnesses to your disappearance.”
“I will make sure of that,” Kessler said quickly.
“I am very glad to hear it, Ulrich,” Renke said, sounding genuinely pleased. “It will make everything much easier in the end.”
Inside the CIA surveillance van, the first tech turned to Randi with a rueful look on his face. He took off his headset and held it out to her. “This is what we picked up from our tap on the phone line during Kessler’s call.”
The Moscow Vector Page 25