Fallout

by James W. Huston

  “Thanks for what you did.”

  “Just doing my job, sir.”

  Luke nodded and began to eat. The door in the back of the café opened, and Vlad came in. “Hey, Vlad. Join me.”

  Vlad nodded and sat heavily in the chair across from Luke. He looked at Glenda. “Bread, if you please.”

  Glenda nodded and reached for the black bread.

  Luke stared at Vlad. “You look like I feel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like this is all your fault. Like you really screwed up.”

  “I did, I think.”

  “How?”

  “I should have known Khan was up to something. I should have figured it out.”

  “We all should have.”

  “Perhaps,” Vlad said as Glenda put his warmed bread in front of him, along with a cup of coffee.

  “Did you call anyone?”

  “What?”

  “You told Helen you were going to call somebody about Khan. Any luck?”

  “Yes. I was able to call some people who will convey our concerns to their friends in India. We will see.”

  Luke saw something in Vlad that he couldn’t explain. “What else? Something else is going on with you. What’s up?”

  Vlad shook his head. “Nothing, really. I am still hurting from my back, but it will be okay.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am sure. I . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I have other things I have to deal with in Russia. Family things, nothing for you to worry about.”

  “You need any help? Money or anything?”

  “No. I will take care of it myself.”

  “You know what, Vlad?” Luke said, leaning back.

  “What?”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead,” Vlad said.

  “What happened in Russia?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you leave the Russian Air Force?”

  “I retired.”

  “You didn’t have enough years in to retire,” Luke said.

  Vlad frowned. “Yes I did. I gave you my records.”

  “You gave me the untranslated copies, too. I had them retranslated. The dates were changed.”

  Vlad slowed his eating but didn’t look at Luke. “Must be big mistake.”

  “Did you change your records?”

  “I retired.”

  “Okay,” Luke said. “Nothing else you want to tell me about?”

  “No,” Vlad said harshly.

  Luke watched him eat. They sat there in silence, each keeping to his own thoughts. Luke finally asked, “You ever have an alcohol problem?”

  “What?” Vlad exclaimed. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because when Dr. Thurmond flew with you, he told me he smelled alcohol on your breath.”

  “I must have had drink with lunch, that one day.”

  “We have a rule, Vlad. I told you what it was. Twelve hours from bottle to brief. Not lunch to brief.”

  “Sorry. I forget.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Luke waited, but Vlad wasn’t saying anything else. “You did a good job against the Pakistanis.”

  “I did shit job. I got shot down and didn’t get any of them.”

  “You showed a lot of courage. It wasn’t even your fight.”

  “It is my fight. This is my school, too. I have bet everything to be here. This is big chance to make different life. He tried to hurt your country—and me.”

  “Well, I appreciate what you did.”

  “Yes. You are welcome.” Vlad looked at his watch. “I have to go.”

  Luke nodded as Vlad hurried away. He’d left two-thirds of his cherished black bread untouched.

  * * *

  The Colonel sat in his Russian government sedan. The heater didn’t work, and his dirty officer’s overcoat was not keeping out the cold as it once did. But the wait was worth it. As he crushed the last cigarette from the second pack he’d smoked while waiting, he thought of his last fifteen years in the Russian Air Force. It had gone from being the greatest Air Force in the world—possibly the second best, if one believed the American propaganda—to a force that saw its very existence dependent on a corrupt system that sold airplanes and weapons for food. Now the best fighters in the world sat mostly idle, and the pilots struggled to get enough flight hours just to stay competent, let alone capable of defeating skilled Western pilots who would have twenty times the flight hours and bellies full of whatever food they wanted.

  The old system was better, Colonel Stoyanovich told himself again, as he did nearly every day. There was respect for authority, there was respect for the Soviet Union around the world, there was food on the tables, and there wasn’t the pervasive despair now so common. Well . . . he had to admit to himself, there had been despair even then. Antigovernment despair, despair from never being free to do what you wanted. But the military had been strong, not an assembly of beggars, of second-, third-, or fourth-class citizens.

  Now that the government did not assert such authority, were people better off? No. The authority vacuum had been filled not with autonomy, with freedom, but rather with the Mafia, thugs and criminals with their own vicious ambition, not even paying lip service to doing what is best for the country. They did what was best to line their pockets.

  Stoyanovich looked up and saw the two young men walking quietly out of the dark woods. They hurried over to his car, nodding enthusiastically. Stoyanovich rolled down his window to talk to them.

  The taller one spoke. “He has arrived.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “There is a woman with him.”

  The Colonel smiled. “Perhaps we should wait awhile. Perhaps catch them in a compromising position.”

  “That would make it too hard to kill only him. Now she will just think it is some Mafia dispute.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to go inside the dacha with you?”

  They both shook their heads. “No. You stay outside. If he kills us both and runs outside, then you can shoot him like a dog. Feel free.” They smiled.

  Stoyanovich was troubled. “You are taking this too lightly.” He looked at their faces. “Has either of you ever killed anyone? It is not easy, you know. To look someone in the eyes and just shoot them.”

  “This will not be a problem,” the other man said. “Let’s get this over with. I’m cold.”

  Stoyanovich pulled the keys from the ignition and struggled out of the small car. He put the keys in his pocket. He took the pistol out of another pocket and chambered a round. The other two men did likewise with their guns. “Lead the way,” he said to the eager man already heading back to the dacha.

  They tried to be as quiet as they could as they walked through the woods. They could see the lights of the dacha half a mile away. The lights were like beacons. Gorgov certainly wasn’t trying to hide.

  Stoyanovich stopped to catch his breath. He looked around for any signs of activity, any cars or people, but saw nothing. He nodded, and they continued walking. They closed to within a hundred yards of the house, stopped, and knelt down on the hard dirt. He whispered to them, “How many doors are there?”

  “Three” came the reply, but not from either of the two men with Stoyanovich.

  His blood stopped as he realized that someone was behind them. His head snapped around as he looked. Three men were standing there wearing night-vision goggles and watching them. The one in the middle took off his goggles and shone a light in Stoyanovich’s face. “Colonel, what are you doing here, outside my dacha with a gun?”

  “Gorgov!” Stoyanovich exclaimed. He stood up slowly, as did the other two men, who had panicked looks on their faces.

  “Put your guns down immediately, so we can discuss whatever problem you have with me. And please don’t move quickly. I have several men behi
nd me whom you can’t see. They have rifles with night scopes and will shoot you immediately.”

  Stoyanovich dropped his handgun next to his foot. The other two men did likewise. Gorgov smiled in the darkness. Stoyanovich could barely make out his face.

  “So what is the meaning of this? Who has put you up to this very unwise action?”

  “No one.”

  Gorgov looked puzzled. “No one? You came out here to murder me all on your own? Why? What have I ever done to you?”

  “I’m not here to murder you. I am here to talk to you.”

  “Colonel, I am many things, but I am not stupid. Do you always approach the home of someone you want to talk to by walking through the woods in the dark with a gun?”

  “No, not always. Just when I think it is necessary.”

  “Nonsense. Who sent you to kill me?”

  “No one.”

  Gorgov shook his head. He suddenly raised his gun and shot the man standing to Stoyanovich’s left. The man fell in a heap as his life drained away from him.

  Stoyanovich blanched as he acutely felt his own mortality. “Why did you do that?”

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one!”

  Gorgov breathed in loudly. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Stoyanovich’s mind raced for anything that was believable. “Major Petkov called me about how to help you . . .”

  “What? He called you?” Gorgov asked, concerned. “When?”

  “Just yesterday.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said you had asked him to allow this American pilot to be a hero. He thinks Khan, that Pakistani pilot, is going to attack an Indian nuclear plant.”

  “They know Khan is alive?”

  “I think they suspect it.”

  “Go on.”

  “And he asked me to get our intelligence people to contact the Indian intelligence people and suggest to them that Petkov and this American would be of use in defending the Indian plant without too much movement on the part of the Indian forces. He didn’t want to give away that we know Khan’s coming.”

  “They know when he’s coming?”

  “I think they suspect he—”

  The other man with Stoyanovich suddenly dropped to the ground and reached for the handgun he’d found with his foot in the dark. As soon as he moved, four men behind Gorgov opened up on him, and he was knocked to the ground. Gorgov watched his last movements. “I don’t think he believed I had others with me. Now, you were saying?”

  Stoyanovich looked at his two friends lying dead beside him. He knew he was next unless he thought of some way to remain indispensable to Gorgov in a hurry. “I think they had some indication of timing. I don’t know when.”

  “And?”

  “So I did as he asked.”

  “What exactly did you do?”

  “I called our intelligence people and asked them to call their comrades in India.”

  “Did they do that?”

  “Yes.”

  Gorgov smiled. “Perfect. Then it is all set, isn’t it?”

  “It appears to be.”

  “And is Major Petkov planning on doing what I asked?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I came to buy his freedom.”

  “His what?”

  “His freedom. Once he has completed the task you have given him, he owes you nothing, and he is free to do as he wishes.”

  Gorgov had never heard anything like it. “Your offer is rejected.”

  “But—”

  “You called the intelligence people?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Thank you,” Gorgov said. He raised his handgun to Stoyanovich’s chest and shot him dead.

  * * *

  Luke lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He listened to Katherine’s breathing next to him. He couldn’t sleep. Too much had happened. Dust on the furniture was all that was left of the FBI’s visit. Helen Li was sure they’d found Khan. The idea of him being back in Pakistan, operating as a Pakistani pilot again under a different name . . . But such thoughts couldn’t compete with the self-condemnation Luke felt for having let it all happen in the first place.

  Luke jumped at the sound of someone knocking on the front door. He slipped on his flight suit that lay on a chair next to the bed, walked to the front door barefoot, turned on the porch light, and peered through the peephole. He recognized the man with the large folder of submarine pictures from the brig at Miramar. There was another man behind him whom Luke had never seen before, carrying a thin briefcase. He had the collar of his blue nylon windbreaker folded up against the cold Nevada night.

  Luke threw back the bolt and opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Henry. Good morning. My name is Bill Morrissey. You know Mr. Lane. May I come in?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m with the CIA.”

  Luke suddenly was able to see Helen Li behind them, standing by the car fifty feet away. For reasons he couldn’t explain, her presence reassured him. “You with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Making sure there’s no one else around.”

  “Who else would be around?”

  “You might be seen as someone who knows the most about these Pakistanis. They might not like you talking to people. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Henry. It’s just a habit.”

  Luke stood back and pulled the door open wide. They came in and looked around the dark house. Luke then noticed two other people sitting in cars in the driveway. “How many people are with you?”

  “Six,” the man said, and Helen stepped onto the porch to follow them into the house.

  “I think we’d better make some coffee, Mr. Henry,” Helen said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Luke headed toward the kitchen, with them following him. He opened the freezer and took out the ground coffee and quickly set up the filter to make a pot as he watched them make themselves comfortable. “Is your wife here?” Morrissey asked.

  Luke looked at him for any hint of any meaning or problem other than the obvious. “Why?”

  “We don’t want to discuss this with her. Just you.”

  He felt a chill. “Discuss what?”

  “The reason we’re here,” Morrissey said.

  * * *

  “Vladimir!” the voice yelled over the phone.

  “Da. Yes?” Vlad answered.

  The tone was sinister. “Did you really think you could send a fat Colonel and two stupid men into the woods at my dacha to murder me like some kind of animal?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” He had never heard Gorgov so furious.

  “Your Colonel Stoyanovich was at my dacha waiting for me. He and two other men, there to do your work. Rather than do what I ask, you try to kill me?”

  “No! I had no idea! What are you talking about? Is this a joke?” Vlad’s heart was pounding as his mind raced.

  “You betrayed me. I am on my way to get your sister. I wanted to tell you, so you would know. I will send you pictures.”

  “No! There has been some terrible mistake!”

  “Your beloved Colonel is lying in the woods attracting insects. How did you think you would get away with this?”

  “Gorgov, I have done everything you asked.”

  Gorgov abruptly turned off his rage. “That is a lie. But I was to give you another chance. Now you will have no chances—”

  “No. You must not do this. I will do what you have asked.”

  “You are willing?”

  “Yes. Whatever you want.”

  “If you do not . . .”

  “I will. You have my word.”

  There was a long pause before Gorgov spoke again. “It is about to happen. If you fail, your world will be more horrible than you can imagine.”

  “I understand. I will not fail.
”

  The line went dead. Vlad sat in the dark, completely motionless. He finally took a long drink from the quart bottle of vodka by his elbow.

  25

  Morrissey put his briefcase on the dining room table and opened it, leaving it open with the top toward Luke. Luke couldn’t see what was inside. Helen sat on a stool at the counter watching him pour the coffee.

  “So what’s this about?” Luke asked.

  “We’ve been talking to some people,” Morrissey said. “Thank you,” he added as Luke handed him his cup. “Pakistan continues to deny any participation. They would. They have their ISI stir up all kinds of things, then deny involvement. It’s a very interesting—and probably effective—way to avoid retaliation. And believe me, there are a lot of people in our government who want some retaliation big time. But Pakistan claims to be horrified and outraged. They say they’ve been had as badly as we have, and although we’ve suffered terrible damage physically, their injury is worse, because they have an international black eye. They look like vicious murderers, liars, and cheats to the whole world. So they cry and beg for consideration of their terrible condition. Pretty well done. You’ve seen the politicians on TV . . .”

  Luke nodded.

  “So that’s fine, unless,” he said, raising his voice, “unless it’s all bullshit and they set the whole thing up. See, then all you have to do is have your pilots disappear—three of them being dead—and simply claim they were out of control, aligned with some radical group or other. A very effective way to attack another country, if you have the balls.” He looked at Helen. “Sorry.”

  “You think that’s what happened?” Luke asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ve been talking to India. They said they’ve known about this Khan fellow for months. They knew he was up to something but assumed they were the target. They say he’s tied in with a new superradical group that’s supported by the Taliban in Afghanistan.” He smiled. “Which, of course, is supported by Pakistani intelligence. You see how tricky this can be.” Luke nodded. “Anyway, there are a lot of very smart people looking at this from a lot of angles. But the one angle I’m pursuing is getting the man who did this. I will not bore you with the details, but if anyone is going to get this guy other than the military . . .”