Blue Smoke and Mirrors td-78

by Warren Murphy

  Yuli Batenin looked up helplessly. If only there was a way . . .

  And then he saw something that, had he not been

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  so soul-shocked by the events of the last half-hour, he would have noticed long before this.

  "Oh, God, no," Yuli breathed.

  "What . . . what is wrong?"

  "His belt light," Yuli said, pointing shakily. "It is red."

  "Da," the ambassador said. "So?"

  "It means that he is on emergency power supply." Batenin looked at his watch. "There is less than a half-hour until the suit shuts itself off."

  The ambassador's dour face brightened.

  "That is good, da?"

  "That is bad, nyet" Yuli said, finding his feet. He didn't take his eyes off Brashnikov's floating form. "If the suit shuts itself off now, he will drop to rug and all will be well. But if he floats into wall, and suit shuts off then, there is no accounting for what could happen."

  "What are the possibilities?" the ambassador asked. He had not been briefed on the vibration suit's operational details.

  "It is possible Brashnikov's body will become permanently stuck in wall. In which case we need only replace wall."

  "A minor inconvenience under circumstance."

  "The other possibility is nuclear."

  "Nuclear!" This came from almost everyone in the room in a single breath.

  "If atoms mix," Batenin told them, "they may shatter. The result will be atomic explosion."

  The ambassador jumped to his feet. "Quickly. We must evacuate embassy."

  "No," Yuli said dully, still looking at the immobile blister face only inches above him. "How far could we get in less than one-half hour? Not enough to clear Washington outskirts. And if there is splitting of atoms, it will be many, many atoms splitting. Too many to count." He shook his head. "No, we are better off here, where our end will be swift and painless. For if

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  suit goes dead at wrong time, all of Washington will be obliterated. Perhaps much of eastern seaboard as well."

  The embassy staff all looked at one another in white-faced terror. And, as if telepathically inspired, they leapt to their feet and began blowing at the inexorably moving figure with all their combined lung power.

  Even Yuli Batenin joined in, although he knew it was futile. But what else was there left for them to do-lie down and die?

  It happened just before the tips of Rair Brashnikov's still fingers brushed the wallpaper. Without warning, the blister face constricted. Then it ballooned out. Another contraction. And a rhythm was established.

  "He breathes!" Yuli shouted. "Brashnikov! Do you hear me? Turn off suit. Turn off vibration suit!"

  Then the fingertips of Brashnikov's left hand disappeared into the wall.

  "Oh, God," someone said hoarsely. Batenin's secretary ran from the room screaming.

  "Rair ..." Batenin was sobbing now. "The suit! Turn it off. Use your left hand. Please!"

  The face membrane respirated. But Rair Brashnikov still floated inertly, his limbs splayed. Then the red light blinked. Batenin's eyes widened in terror. He never saw the vanished fingers of Rair Brashnikov withdraw from the wall as he stiffly attempted to reach his belt rheostat. Batenin's eyes were fixed on that red light whose extinguishing meant their lives.

  Then the whole world seemed to fall on Yuli Batenin.

  When he woke up in the embassy infirmary later, he was screaming.

  "Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!"

  The infirmary nurse attempted to calm him.

  "Be a man, Comrade Major," the nurse admonished. She was a hulking blond who knew nothing of what had transpired in the office two floors above.

  "I live," Yuli breathed. It was more of a prayer than a question.

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  "Da. Comrade Brashnikov will survive too. He had a nasty fall. It was fortunate that you were there to throw yourself under him to break it, otherwise he would have been severely injured."

  Yuli Batenin turned his head. In the next bed, Rair Brashnikov lay with a white sheet pulled up to his sharp chin. His ferretlike profile was peaceful. He snored contentedly.

  Major Batenin's nervous reaction to the sight of Brashnikov was so violent that he had to be sedated.

  A calmer Batenin himself debriefed Brashnikov the next morning. Brashnikov's story was disjointed and Batenin did not believe much of it. He was certain that Brashnikov was holding something back. He did not know what. Brashnikov had spent much more time in North Dakota than had been necessary. What had he been doing there? Brashnikov insisted that penetrating underground launch facilities had been very difficult.

  Later, Batenin conferred with the technician on staff who maintained the suit.

  "He claims he was in North Dakota, making call to this embassy when he was surprised in hotel room," Batenin explained. "He turned on suit. He remembers rushing through dark tunnel. He thought himself dead. The next he knew he crashed to floor of my office. Tell me, how can this be?"

  The technician considered.

  "This tunnel," he asked, "was it a long straight tunnel?"

  "No. He said it twisted and turned."

  "Hmmmm. We do not fully understand the suit's many properties," the technician said slowly. "But as you know, when it is on, the atoms of the body are in an unstable state, as are the component protons, neutrons, and electrons."

  "Yes, of course. I know all that."

  "Electricity is composed of electrons. It is possible

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  theoretically possible-that teleportation might have been achieved."

  "I do not know that word," Batenin had admitted.

  "A theoretical fantasy," the technician supplied. "One that postulates that if it were possible to disassemble a person or an object on the molecular level, it should also be possible to transmit those elements, as electricity is transported through wire or cable, to another place, there to be reconstituted into its original form."

  "I fail to-"

  "Imagine a fax machine," the technician said. "One which, instead of producing a duplicate copy of a document at another site, transmits the original document, which ceases to exist at the point of origin."

  "Are you saying that Brashnikov faxed himself through telephone?"

  "I do not think it was intentional. How could he know? As he said, he was talking into an open-line receiver. He turned on the suit. Somehow his free-floating electrons were conducted into the receiver, taking his other atomic particles with them, and transmitted out the other end."

  Batenin shuddered at the memory of the incredible white light that had blinded him.

  "And the tunnel he described?" Batenin prompted.

  "Wire or fiberoptic cables," the technician assured him. "The Americans use both for voice transmission."

  "This accident. Might it be duplicated?"

  "If it worked once, it should work again. But I would not advise a repetition of the experience. It obviously had a traumatic effect on the agent. He was not breathing when he emerged from the receiver."

  "Perhaps he will become used to the experience," Batenin said thoughtfully. "Thank you for your analysis."

  Yuli Batenin had already made his decision when he visited Brashnikov in the infirmary.

  The Russian was already sitting up, eating ice cream.

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  He had developed a suspect addiction to American foods.

  "I am returning to Moscow, captain," Yuli told him stiffly after explaining the technician's theory to the interested thief.

  "I will be here when you get back," Rair said, spooning out the nuts in the bowl of pistachio ice cream. He liked pistachio, but hated the nuts.

  "I may not be coming back," Yuli told him. "I am going to ask for a new assignment. While I am in Moscow, see that you behave yourself until my replacement arrives. Then you will proceed with the operation."

  Surprised, Rair Brashnikov had put down the bowl of ice cream.

  "I am sorry to see you go," Brashnikov
said, his black eyes shining like a fawn's. "You have been a good man to work with. And you saved me from bad fall, for which I am grateful."

  Touched in spite of himself, Yuli Batenin nodded. "Da, I will miss you too, Brashnikov."

  And when Rair reached out his arms to give him a farewell bear hug, Yuli returned the gesture, even though he had never liked the tiny thief.

  Yuli had to struggle to extricate himself from the sentimental gesture.

  With a stiff "Farewell, Tovarich Captain," Major Yuli Batenin exited the room, quickly picked up the diplomatic case, and entered the waiting limousine.

  And now, as the limousine pulled up at his terminal at Dulles International Airport, Batenin was pleased and relieved that he would no longer have responsibility for such a high-risk operation as this.

  With the big case still handcuffed to his wrist, Yuli Batenin strolled to the airport lounge. He ordered a C-breeze, and stared at his watch, while awaiting his departure time. He did not want to be seen in the waiting room, the case so obvious on his wrist. There

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  were many thieves in America who would be attracted to the case for that very reason. Yuli hated thieves of all kinds.

  When the boarding call finally came, Batenin drained the last of his drink and walked casually to the X-ray station. There was an armed guard in uniform standing by the metal-detector frame. Another man was operating the X-ray machine. Yuli barely noticed him. It would be the guard he would have to deal with. This shouldn't take more than a few moments.

  Ignoring the metal detector, Batenin walked up to the guard and fixed him with a bold stare.

  "I am Batenin, charge d'affaires with the Soviet embassy," he said firmly, reaching for his wallet. He froze.

  "I . . ." Yuli swallowed. "One moment, please," he said sheepishly, patting his inside coat pocket. It was empty. He tried the outer pockets. They too were empty. In vain, the perspiration streaming from his brow, he tried his pants pockets, although he knew that he never carried his wallet containing diplomatic identification there. America was full of pickpockets.

  "I am afraid . . . that is, I seem to have left billfold in car," Yuli said in a sick voice as the loudspeaker announced the final boarding call for Aeroflot Right 182.

  "Do you have your ticket, sir?" the guard asked politely.

  "Yes, yes. It is here," Yuli said in relief, plucking it from his shirt pocket. "But diplomatic identification is missing."

  "There are a lot of thieves at this airport."

  "Thieves?" Yuli said blankly. Then his facial expression changed to one of anger. He was thinking of a farewell bear hug from a man whom he despised. "Brashnikov," he hissed.

  "Beg pardon?" the guard said.

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  "It is nothing," Batenin said quickly. "Please. I beg you. I must make flight."

  "Certainly. But without ID, I'll have to ask you to go through the metal detector. And your valise will have to be X-rayed."

  Yuli Batenin looked over to the X-ray machine. The operator was looking at him with an innocent expression. He had the deadest eyes Yuli had ever seen. Like nail holes.

  "I'm afraid I must insist. For I have diplomatic immunity."

  "I don't doubt that," the guard said firmly. "But without documentation, you'll have to go through the same security procedures as everyone else. It's for your own safety, sir."

  "But I cannot," Yuli sputtered. "For key to handcuffs in missing wallet. You cannot expect me to go through X-ray device with case. I would not fit."

  Yuli gave the guard a helpless smile. In truth, the key was nestled in his left shoe.-

  The guard looked to the dead-eyed X-ray operator.

  "How do we handle this?" he asked.

  "No problem," the other man said helpfully. "We can X-ray the case without it going all the way through the belt."

  "But ... but .. ." Batenin sputtered.

  "If it's a problem, you can miss your flight," the guard said. "We can't make you go through security, but you can't board your plane unless you do. Your choice, sir."

  The thought of having to return to the embassy and to that thief Brashnikov, whose scrawny neck he would like to strangle, flicked through Major Batenin's panicky mind. He decided to take the chance. Anything was better than another day on this operation.

  "Very well," Batenin said stiffly. "I give consent."

  "Fine. Now, since you can't go through the metal

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  detector, I'll have to pat you down. Just take a moment."

  Clutching the case with both hands, Yuli Batenin allowed himself to endure the indignity of being frisked. When that ordeal was over, he was escorted to the X-ray device.

  "Just put it down on the belt," the operator told him cheerfully. He shut down the conveyor belt.

  He was a very happy menial, Yuli noticed. Usually airport security people were as grave of face as a statue of Stalin, but this one seemed quite eager to be of help. Perhaps this would not be so bad. For he doubted that the X-ray would show anything that an untrained person would consider suspicious.

  Yuli complied. The operator jabbed a button several times to make the conveyor belt inch forward. The case disappeared into the innards of the X-ray machine, Yuli's right hand following it in right up to the elbow.

  "Will this hurt?" Yuli asked awkwardly. He had to lean on the machine to keep his balance. This was very difficult.

  "Just hold that pose," the operator told him. Then he pressed a button. He pressed it again.

  "What is wrong?" Yuli demanded nervously.

  "Minor glitch. Be just another second. Don't worry."

  "I do not want my hand to be X-rayed to what you Americans call a crisp."

  "Not a chance," the operator assured him. He tapped the machine again. It seemed to tap back. And then the operator smiled.

  "Okay," he said brightly, "you can pull it out now."

  Batenin pulled the familiar case out again. He looked at his hand fearfully, but appeared not to be discolored from overexposure.

  Nodding to the guard, the X-ray operator said, "He checks out. Let him through."

  Major Batenin inclined his head to the two Ameri-

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  cans as diplomatically as he could and hurried to the gate, muttering curses on the head of Rair Brashnikov under his breath.

  The aircraft doors were locked after Yuli boarded. The moment he sat down, he felt the cold perspiration soaking his suit. But he breathed a slow sigh of relief.

  But just to be certain, he kicked off one shoe and extracted the key as the wide-bodied Ilyushin-96 backed away from the gate. He put the key in the lock and twisted. The key would not turn. He forced it. It broke in the lock.

  "What?" he muttered. Then he noticed that the bracelet attached to the case's handle was warped. He looked closer. It was fused at the locking point. It had not been that way during the drive. Could the multiple X-rays have fused the metal? he wondered anxiously.

  And what about the contents?

  Yuli Batenin pulled another key from his right shoe. It would not open the case. Not at all.

  Fiercely, fearing the worst, he tore at the case with fingers like hooks. He broke his nails in the process, but by sheer might he ripped away one corner of the case.

  Bits of torn paper fluttered out. There had been no paper in Batenin's case. Anxiously he dug his fingers in. They came away red. He had cut them on something. Glass.

  "There was no glass in this case," he howled aloud.

  Digging further, he found a slick sheet of paper. It looked like a page from a book or magazine. There was a color photograph printed on it. A woman's face. Yuli Batenin thought the face was familiar. It took him until the Aeroflot flight had rolled into position for takeoff before he recognized the face of the famous American singer and actress Barbra Streisand.

  "Let me off plane!" Batenin screamed. "I must get off!"

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  Back at the X-ray station, the operator pointed out to the guard tha
t foot traffic had finally quieted down.

  "Wanna get us both a cup of coffee?" he suggested.

  "Sure. Take it black?"

  "Yeah, black is fine," said Remo, to whom a cup of coffee was the equivalent to a dose of strychnine.

  After the guard had disappeared around the corner, Remo rapped on the X-ray device and whispered, "It's okay, Chiun. You can come out now."

  The Master of Sinanju slithered out of the compartment with a distasteful expression on his parchment face. He hauled a big boxy case with him.

  "Next time, I will handle the buttons and you will hide inside," he hissed.

  "Let's hope there isn't a next time," Remo said, taking the case. "And I apologize for the long wait. How was I to know he'd wait until the very last minute to board?"

  "At least we did not have to resort to further subterfuge to make him relinquish his case."

  "Yeah," Remo said as they walked away. "Funny how that worked out. I must've shown my FAA ID card to thirty or forty airline reps before they'd let me sub for the regular X-ray operator, and then had to coach the guard over and over to pretend the guy's diplomatic card had expired so we could get at the case. He was so nervous, I was positive he was going to blow it. And what happens? The Russian loses his ID. Must be my lucky day."

  "Next time, I will handle the buttons," Chiun repeated as they sat down in a quiet corner of a waiting area.

  "You know how you are with machines. Something could have gone wrong." Remo looked into the case. His face fell. "Uh-oh, I think something did."

  "What?" Chiun asked quickly, leaning over to see.

  "You did switch cases, didn't you?"

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  "Do you doubt my prowess?" Chiun asked huffily.

  "No, but I think we've been rooked. Look."

  Remo held up an assortment of squares, like graphite tiles. Except they were a flat unreflective black and seemingly nonmetallic.

  "What are these?" Chiun asked.

  "Got me," Remo said quietly. "They look like Dracula's bathroom tiles. One thing for sure, they're not missile components or anything of the kind."

  "Then you have failed," Chiun said coldly.

  "Me? You did the switch."

  "But you pressed the buttons."

  Remo sighed. "Let's grab the next flight home. Maybe Smith can make sense of things," he said, sending the tiles clattering back into the case.