Pandora's Clock

by Nance, John J. ;

  “This came from right here in the building, but”—she gestured to the computer—“Jon Roth isn’t your suspect.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “Enter the damned search string, Bubba, before we both get arrested. Prove it to yourself.”

  Rusty keyed in a phrase from the message and launched a search routine. The computer began chattering to itself as it tried to find a file that had the exact same string of letters and spaces.

  Rusty looked up at her.

  “This started as curiosity, but when Mark implied I was to blame for leaking the location of the airfield, I had to find out. If that message came from this building—if it is bogus, as we both suspect—then I couldn’t be guilty of leaking anything.”

  “Something’s going on with Mark. I couldn’t warn you, because I didn’t see it in time.”

  Rusty knew he looked shocked. “But, you know Mark. You said you’ve worked with him for years.”

  She shook her head and frowned. “Rusty, you can never fully know anyone in this business. The bum’s rush he gave you out of the building was very weird. It’s possible he wants you out of here for his own reasons. Or maybe someone else here at Langley is worried about you, and Mark’s responding to their worries.”

  “Worried about me?”

  “You’re too curious. You’re not one of the good ole boys. For that matter, neither am I.”

  Rusty purposefully leered at her chest and cocked his head. “You definitely aren’t one of the good ole boys.”

  “Stay focused, Rusty. This is serious.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I may not be a fully accepted insider, but I’m considered controllable and loyal. But you’re a renegade. That’s why someone at Langley wants you out of here, and I think, for your sake, we’d better comply.” She looked back at him. “Mark thinks you’re already gone. He may be checking with security any minute to make sure you cleared the gate.”

  “Sherry, how … how serious could this be? I mean, what’s going on here?”

  She shook her head. “You’re in a puzzle palace in the middle of a crisis. It’s possible someone’s trying to seize an opportunity. It could get damn serious, especially if someone’s going around Roth, outside channels, and launching their own operation.”

  “Is that possible here? With all the safeguards?”

  She sighed and shook her head as if disappointed at the question.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  The computer bleeped and they both looked at the screen:

  STRING NOT FOUND

  “Let me try one other possibility,” Rusty said. He entered a lengthy flurry of commands and executed them in one fluid movement.

  “What was that?”

  “Just another idea, to see if he had any other locked directories.”

  The computer whirred and clicked for a half minute, then bleeped again, but the message flashed on and off the screen too fast for them to read.

  “Dead end,” Rusty said, biting his lip. “Damn!”

  “You see what I mean?” she said.

  Rusty nodded. “The message did not come from Roth’s computer.”

  Sherry leaned over him and backed out of the secure directory, leaving the screen on the shell menu as Rusty had found it. She straightened up and took his hand roughly, pulling him out of Roth’s chair.

  “Let’s get the flock out of here, double-oh-nothing. I told you my boss wasn’t the bad guy.”

  “But who is?”

  “You hit the road. I’ll keep looking. None of this happened, okay?”

  “You’re scaring me,” he said.

  “Best defense is a good escape route. Go home.”

  Rusty returned to his tiny office and sat quickly at his desktop computer. He searched through several screens before keying in a series of commands and inserting a small floppy disk, then commanded a download. After two very long minutes he launched another short series of instructions into the computer, then turned it off and removed the floppy disk, which he stuffed into his coat pocket. Rusty gathered a few papers from his desk and retrieved his personal digital assistant—a small steno-pad-sized portable computer tied to the cellular network—from a desk drawer.

  Sherry had the appropriate numbers. She could transmit directly to the small screen by phone or computer, and since she had an identical unit, he could reach her the same way without going through Langley’s phone or computer systems.

  The CIA’s Langley complex was ten minutes behind him when the tiny personal digital assistant beeped at him and a terse message appeared on its screen:

  Apparently too many questions asked downstairs of communications personnel. Internal security was around here a few minutes ago looking for a certain former FAA doc. Someone’s upset. Watch this space. You stumbled into something.

  EIGHTEEN

  KHARKOV, UKRANIAN REPUBLIC—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23—7 P.M. (1600Z)

  Yuri Steblinko turned the small twin-engine jet off the main runway and began taxiing slowly toward the ramp where the prince’s Gulfstream sat armed, loaded, fueled, and ready. There had been a ruddy glow of twilight on the western horizon as they descended, but the ramp was now dark, with only a few overhead mercury-vapor lamps showing in the distance.

  Fortunately, he had the airfield memorized.

  Yuri glanced at the former Soviet Air Force major in the seat beside him, an old friend who was now fifty thousand dollars richer for securing the aging Hawker Siddeley business jet they were flying and for helping to file the outbound flight plan Yuri would need.

  The prince’s own pilot had relayed an order to the small company doing the missile installation. The prince’s aircraft was to be made ready immediately. The royal pilot would arrive sometime during the night or early morning, they were told, to do an acceptance check flight. The prince would arrive a day later, and the money would be paid over at that time.

  That part had been simple.

  Making certain that the prince’s real pilot was not coming to town early had taken several hours.

  The taxi lights of the Hawker picked up several aircraft parked ahead on the tarmac. The upturned winglets of the Gulfstream IV loomed on the other side. He could see no one near the aircraft.

  Yuri parked the Hawker and shut down the engines. They had gone over the plan numerous times. Yuri would depart with the Gulfstream under the Hawker’s flight plan—unless something went wrong and he was seen. In that case, a separate departure plan for the Gulfstream had been prefiled under its real call sign, and the major would leave minutes later in the Hawker.

  Yuri clapped his friend on the shoulder and slipped to the back cabin to put on the headdress of a Saudi royal pilot as well as a beard and mustache. After checking himself in a small mirror, he let down the steps and descended, carrying a small suitcase, and walked quickly to the Gulfstream.

  The aircraft was dark, but a portable power cart was plugged in and sitting quietly by the nose. Yuri disconnected the wheeled unit and rolled it safely to one side before lowering the forward steps and placing his bag inside, his mind racing through the possibilities. What if they hadn’t fueled it? What if they hadn’t armed it?

  He entered the cockpit and flipped on the battery switch. The fuel gauges showed full.

  He searched for the new armaments panel and toggled it to STORES STATUS.

  It, too, showed everything in readiness. There were four missiles installed and armed.

  Yuri returned to the cabin to pull up the stairs and secure the door when the lights of a car caught his eye as it entered the ramp area a quarter mile distant. He watched, momentarily transfixed, as the car turned in his direction and headed directly toward the Gulfstream.

  The decision in front of him was critical. He could still slam the door shut without detection and lie low inside the airplane, hoping no one tried to enter.

  Or he could play the part he was dressed to play.

  The car was accelerating. Its lights would fall on the
open door in less than ten seconds. He had to decide now!

  Yuri grabbed his suitcase and a flashlight and climbed back down the steps just as the car came to a halt beside the aircraft. He waited to greet the man who was climbing from the backseat of the car.

  “Sheik Farouk Akim?” the man asked.

  “Ahmed Amani, his assistant and alternate captain,” Yuri replied in Arabic-accented Russian.

  “The control tower personnel alerted us someone was at the aircraft.”

  The man approached warily, his eyes darting to the aircraft’s open door and back to Yuri. “We were not expecting you this evening!”

  “Could you turn on and connect the power unit, please?” Yuri asked.

  The man looked momentarily confused, then motioned to his driver, who moved toward the power unit, obviously familiar with its operation.

  “We would have met you properly if we had been informed.”

  Yuri looked more closely at the man, keeping his expression level even as his mind raced. It was the owner of the company himself, a former member of the Soviet Aircraft Design Bureau named Nicolai Sakarov.

  And Nicolai Sakarov knew Yuri Steblinko very well!

  Yuri repressed the impulse to shake hands automatically. Inclining his head in more traditional Arab fashion, as if reluctant to stoop to a Western custom, he extended his hand.

  Sakarov pumped it without enthusiasm while he examined Yuri’s features in the dim light of the ramp, as if trying to place a slightly familiar face and voice.

  “Have we met, Captain Amani?” Sakarov asked.

  “I believe we have talked on the telephone. That is all,” Yuri said.

  Sakarov cocked his head slightly and decided that the features were sufficiently Arabian, but there was still something about the voice.

  “I have come a little ahead of Sheik Farouk,” Yuri said, being careful to keep his tone and accent under control, “because I was in Europe dealing with a small matter related to our Airbus purchases. I also have duties with Saudi Airlines. I am the one who decides to whom we should turn for maintenance and modification.”

  Sakarov’s eyes lit up, and the pall of suspicion partly melted away. If the Arab before him had purchasing authority for Saudi Airlines, keeping him happy could mean additional modification contracts for his young company.

  “Your early arrival is not a difficulty,” Sakarov said broadly.

  “The aircraft is ready as requested?” Yuri asked.

  Sakarov nodded energetically. “Absolutely. All the requested items, including the armaments. As directed, they are installed and pins are pulled.”

  “I appreciate your efficiency. The sheik will arrive around ten tomorrow morning. I will be up about an hour tonight. There is a hotel arranged nearby, I trust?”

  Sakarov looked alarmed. “You … will be flying tonight?”

  Yuri turned to him with a stern expression. “This is a problem?”

  “No … ah, no. We just weren’t expecting a flight until tomorrow.”

  “My copilot will join me across the field shortly. We will do some ground checks, then a quick flight.”

  “As you wish,” Sakarov said, nervously glancing at the aircraft again.

  Yuri caught his look, understanding his nervousness.

  “Mr. Sakarov. If there were any last-minute inspections you were planning on doing in the morning for quality control or cosmetic purposes, that is no problem—as long as the systems are ready tonight.”

  Sakarov nodded and looked relieved. “Last-minute quality checks, you understand, are all we have left to do. The sheik, as you know, was very specific.”

  Yuri nodded solemnly. “The sheik is always very specific when it comes to the prince’s aircraft. On my return, the airplane is yours as planned until the sheik’s arrival. I will be making no cosmetic evaluations tonight.”

  “Thank you!” Sakarov said.

  “And on our return, would you have someone available to take us to a hotel?”

  “Certainly,” Sakarov said. “About an hour, then?”

  “No earlier,” Yuri replied.

  Yuri could see there was still concern in Sakarov’s mind. The man had been caught off-guard and was still off-balance. But the thought of the million and a half U.S. dollars that would be in his hands within twenty-four hours when the sheik arrived and formally accepted the job would keep his smile broad and sincere. After all, once expenses were paid, Sakarov stood to pocket personally a half-million dollars.

  Sakarov seemed content to stay out of the way while Yuri did a thorough ground check, accepting his explanation that his copilot had gone to speak with tower personnel.

  Sakarov made a show of waving goodbye and entering his car, but Yuri saw him drive to a remote corner of the ramp and shut off the lights.

  He ran through the engine start procedures and taxied to the base of the control tower as stated, positioning the left side of the airplane, which contained the entrance door, away from Sakarov’s position. He glanced back at the Hawker. The major would have seen Sakarov’s arrival and would know to go to plan B. Yuri left the engines running and set the parking brake, then lowered the stairs and descended to the ramp for a few seconds before reversing the process and securing the door. Sakarov, watching through field glasses, would have only seen legs and feet, Yuri knew. He would assume the copilot had been standing in the dark and had now boarded.

  As soon as the Gulfstream IV reached the end of the runway, the sleepy tower controller issued the takeoff clearance. Within thirty seconds Yuri had lifted off and headed west, calculating Sakarov’s reactions, which would come at predictable times. Having worked for his company, Yuri knew his excitable nature all too well. He was anything but a diplomat.

  The prince’s Gulfstream would not return in an hour, of course, in which case Sakarov would begin to worry about an hour and fifteen minutes after departure. Sakarov would make inquiries of the air traffic control officials around thirty minutes later, and be shocked to find that the prince’s jet had left the country. He would suspect the prince of larceny. He would first seek help from the Air Force and the Russian Air Traffic System, but when that failed, he would call Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and hurl an incautious accusation at Sheik Farouk Akim. The Saudis would inform him that there was no such person as Ahmed Amani in their employ, and hurl their own threats about finding the prince’s aircraft. Sakarov would be convinced they had stolen their own aircraft to avoid paying. The Saudis would be convinced Sakarov had staged the theft for his own nefarious purposes.

  And by that time Yuri would be in a different place under a different call sign over a thousand miles away over the Mediterranean.

  Step two was successful! he thought to himself. Now to send the departure message.

  As soon as he had reached cruising altitude, Yuri left the cockpit and opened the sophisticated communications panel located at the front of the passenger cabin. The panel had been engineered in a beautiful walnut console. He selected the appropriate satellite routing and turned on the communications computer, then entered the agreed-upon coded numbers and activated the transmit circuit.

  Within one minute, he knew, the message would be seen by the intended recipient—a coldhearted professional monitoring that particular satellite transponder. There would be a message in return sent back to the Gulfstream when the target was airborne, and one indicating the expected arrival time over the preplanned coordinates. A chime would ring in the cockpit when the message arrived. He’d checked out the communications system during the flight test phase several months before.

  He found a bag of cookies and some pastries in the small galley and put them in a bag, then returned to the radio control panel and lowered the polished walnut cover.

  Something clicked.

  That’s odd, he thought.

  He raised the cover and spotted the source of the noise. The master power switch for the satellite link had been jarred to the OFF position when the lid closed. Yuri turned the computer
on again, double-checked its operational status, and secured the lid in the UP position, just to be sure.

  Yuri settled back into the left captain’s seat of the Gulfstream and put on his seat belt, mentally running through the risky procedure just a half hour ahead of him. He had worked it out with surgical care. Some eighty miles before the Turkish border, he would begin a simulated landing approach to an uncontrolled airfield, but when low enough to be clear of radar, the Gulfstream would make a high-speed dash a hundred miles north. There he’d climb back up within radar coverage as if departing from a nearby airport, activate a new flight plan under a bogus call sign, and become a chartered American flight returning to the States by way of the Canary Islands.

  In the old days, he knew, Soviet radar would have spotted the trick. Since the breakup of the U.S.S.R., however, the coverage had deteriorated. He had known about the Turkish coverage “hole” for eight months.

  As soon as the Turkish border was behind him, there would be six hours of boredom ahead. With the flight plan carefully entered into the onboard flight management computer, he could relax and enjoy the prince’s beautiful machine while it flew itself. Maybe he’d even nap in his seat for a while. He’d need to be sharp on the other end.

  The act of taking a Gulfstream into combat would leave no margin for error.

  ABOARD FLIGHT 66

  At 2:50 P.M. word came from Dallas Operations to depart Iceland for the airfield in western Africa. Dick Robb sent for James Holland and passed the word to the flight attendants. The Air Force mobile command post just outside confirmed receiving the same message and promised to disconnect and move out of the way when the pilots were ready. The runway would be theirs.

  Holland arrived on the flight deck with Barb in tow.

  “You get any sleep?” Robb asked.