Black Ghosts

by Victor Ostrovsky

  As the train carried them along, Edward took stock of the situation. He had one of the world’s best authorities on telecommunications sitting next to him, he had a platoon of miscellaneous tough guys flying into an airfield somewhere not too far off, and he had a couple of hundred Ukrainian soldiers who thought they were going to be in a movie coming into town tomorrow. Other than that, not too much was going right.

  The safe house was gone, its other occupants probably dead by now. Edward had no doubt that the goons who had picked off Anton and probably Igor were working for the Black Ghosts, which meant that if they interrogated Anton, the Black Ghosts would know that their comrade Colonel Sokolov had turned on them. From now on, his life was not worth much.

  As for Natalie, Edward didn’t even want to think about her. But beyond the cloud of pain and confusion that engulfed him whenever her image strayed into his mind, he could clearly see one result of Natalie’s betrayal was that the Ghosts now had a fully operational Barby communications array, meaning they could block out all media communications at any time and substitute their own messages. What use they might make of that over the next twenty-four hours boggled the mind.

  The train rolled into a station. Edward had no idea where they were, but he knew he had to act fast, so he grabbed Sparky by the arm and pulled him off the train.

  They went upstairs to the street. After walking up the street a little way, Edward realized he was very close to the Hotel Metropole. He found a pay phone and called Sokolov at his apartment.

  It was a woman’s voice that answered. Edward could only speak to her in English and hope she understood. It turned out she not only understood English but could speak it as well. She told him Colonel Sokolov was not at home.

  Edward told her that Sokolov’s life might be in danger. He gave her the coordinates of the airfield and told her it was extremely urgent that Sokolov meet him there as soon as possible. Her voice betraying no emotion other than a cool serenity, the woman said she would pass the message on.

  So far so good. Now all Edward had to do was get himself there. And he wasn’t about to ask directions from strangers on the street. He had to slow down and figure things out. There was no way for him to call Larry. The way the phone system worked in Russia, from what he had seen, he would be lucky enough if he could get a local call through again. He needed a place where he could sit down and think. He also needed a phone and something to eat. And he had to get Sparky off the street.

  They would never think he’d return to the Hotel Metropole. He still had a room there, and all he had to do was ask for it at the reception. It would give him a phone and everything else that he needed.

  It was as easy as that. Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the hotel room. It was as he had left it, except that Natalie had removed all her belongings. Edward also noted that his passport was missing from the drawer where he had left it.

  Sparky lay down on the bed and seemed to fall asleep, although Edward wasn’t sure if he really was asleep or back in one of his mental hideouts. It didn’t make much difference. Edward ordered some sandwiches from room service and a large jug of coffee. He needed the dark brew, since tea was practically coming out of his ears at that point.

  He then asked for an outside line and dialed the number he remembered seeing Igor and Alexi call. A thick Russian voice answered.

  “Sergei?” said Edward.

  The voice said something incomprehensible. There followed a few moments of shouting in Russian and English, then silence.

  “Hello? Hello?” Edward said. Nobody answered, but he could hear distant voices shouting in Russian. Then a new voice came on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Sergei?”

  “This is he. Who are you?”

  Edward explained the situation as best he could, while the voice at the other end of the phone made noises to show its owner was listening. Then came another pause while Russian voices deliberated in the background.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Hotel Metropole.”

  “Can you get to the Operetta Theater on Pushkin Street? We’ll pick you up there in one hour.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “You will not. I will know you.”

  Again at the mercy of others, Edward could feel the anger building. He had to keep his cool, he kept telling himself. There was a well-stocked bar in the room and the temptation was greater now than it had ever been in the past. But he had a team that depended on him, people who were willing to risk their lives on his say-so. He was not going to let them down. Not only that, but he was going to complete the job he had come here to do. He could feel a surge of energy take over. Suddenly he had an optimism he had not felt for many years.

  The sandwiches finally arrived and he woke Sparky. They were really not worth the wait, and neither was the coffee. It seemed in this country of tea drinkers you couldn’t get your hands on a good cup of coffee anywhere.

  They hurried through the streets again. Sparky was talking nervously. The time he had spent on the streets may have hardened him in some ways, but it also seemed to have made him suspicious to the point of paranoia. Either that, or the delayed shock of the afternoon’s surprises was having its effect. “Why are they sending us to the Operetta Theater?” he said. “Why didn’t they just pick us up at the hotel?”

  “It’s a standard surveillance technique,” said Edward, his voice calm and patient. “To make sure we’re not being followed.” He hoped this was true. So far, the treatment he had received at the hands of the Russian Mafia had been exemplary, but now that he had blown one of their safe houses and probably got two of their people killed, their loyalty might be stretched a bit thin, to say the least. It was possible they could believe he was trying to set them up. He knew that if he were in their shoes, with the little they knew about him, he would certainly come to that conclusion himself.

  They waited outside the theater. A few tourists wandered by, but it was too early for the evening performance.

  A man pulled up on a moped. Still sitting astride the vehicle and revving the motor noisily, he called to Edward and Sparky. Edward went over to speak to him. Above the noise of the engine, the man asked if he was looking for Sergei. Edward nodded. The man gave him directions. They were to proceed along Pushkin Street, turning right at the first intersection. Then they must turn left on Petrovka and keep going until they came to a small park. They were to go into the park and wait for further instructions. Revving the engine again, the man drove away.

  There was nothing for it but to follow his instructions, although Edward was getting somewhat impatient with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He kept these thoughts to himself. Sparky, however, gave full expression to what was going on in his mind. “I don’t like this, Edward. What if it’s a trap?”

  “It’s not a trap. If they wanted to, they could have killed us ten times already.”

  It was beginning to get dark by the time they reached the corner of Petrovka Street. Sparky stopped walking. “I’m not going,” he said.

  “For God’s sake, Sparky, what’s the matter with you?”

  “It’s a trap, I can feel it.”

  “Look, these guys want to help us, they’re on our side.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Struggling to control his temper, Edward said, “Listen, Sparky, they want democracy for Russia as much as we do. It’s the only way they can hope to stay in business and make some money.”

  He took Sparky by the arm and pulled him along. Still grumbling, Sparky let himself be led.

  They crossed a wide boulevard, on the corner of which was a thickly wooded park. Ignoring Sparky’s muttered protests, Edward headed into the park. There was no sign of anyone.

  It all happened so fast. Edward sensed a movement behind him and quickly turned around. Some fifteen paces away, under cover of the trees, a man in combat fatigues was grabbing Sparky’s hands and pinning them behind him. Sparky screamed as his w
rists were handcuffed. A second man pulled a large cloth bag over Sparky’s head and shoulders. The bag had a cord around it, which the man pulled tight.

  Edward ran toward the shadowy figures, but he had not moved very far when someone grabbed him from behind, immobilizing him. He felt the handcuffs encircling his wrists. Then the cloth bag descended over his head and Edward could see no more. He felt the cord squeeze him, and then he was being hustled to the boulevard. Behind Sparky’s muffled screams, he could hear the smooth purring of a powerful automobile engine. Doors were opened, and the two were thrown into the back seat of the car.

  Sparky was still screaming. Then he could hear someone say, “Be quiet or I will shoot your head off.” Edward could only assume the man had brought a gun to bear on Sparky because the screaming stopped.

  “I told you it was a goddamn trap,” Sparky said in a low voice, almost a whisper.

  “Don’t worry,” said Edward, trying not to worry himself. “This is routine.” He was hoping he was right, but there were too many things that could go wrong. Sergei was only a hunch. He could be working with Natalie, or whatever her name was, for all he knew.

  CHAPTER 25

  10 Downing Street, London

  18:06 hours

  The crowd of reporters waited outside the prime minister’s house, exchanging gossip and speculation about when the occupants would appear. They had been in there for three hours. A statement had been scheduled for five o’clock, and it was already past six. The official signing of the treaty was to take place in private. The Americans had refused to countenance a public ceremony with TV cameras present, citing security reasons.

  In fact, went the word among the reporters huddled outside No. 10 in the persistent rain, the real reason the Americans wanted this to be a low-profile visit was that they wanted to distance themselves slightly from the British, with whom there had been disagreements over the Irish question. It had been suggested in media reports that the British Security Service was up to its old dirty tricks in Ireland, trying to undermine what was thought to be a permanent cease-fire and some very fruitful negotiations that were getting close to a positive conclusion. The prime minister had rolled several senior heads at Whitehall in an effort to show that the actions had been carried out without his approval. The Americans, however, were not buying the story. Nevertheless, some show of solidarity was still in order, hence the statement and photo-op outside.

  At last the door opened, and the phalanx of men in suits emerged.

  “A great day,” said the prime minister, eager to extract the maximum public relations value possible from this rather limited opportunity. “A great day for Britain, and indeed for the world. We are at last coming to the promised land of peace and prosperity for the entire world. Never again will the shadow of a nuclear holocaust be upon us.”

  Beside him stood President Bradshawe, flanked by the U.S. secretary of defense and some of his aides. There were also several uniformed, well-decorated generals. The president was trying to look enthusiastic, a thin smile of comradeship flitting across his face as he turned and shook the prime minister’s hand. Cameras flashed, the moment was recorded for posterity, and then the men went back inside the house, completely ignoring the shouted questions and raised microphones of the reporters.

  The crowd in front of the house quickly dispersed. They knew there would be nothing more for them tonight. All in all, it had been a very unsatisfactory afternoon.

  Inside the house, preparations were being made for the rest of the visit. The president, his wife, his personal secretary, and a small team of bodyguards were to spend the night at the prime minister’s country residence, while James Fenton, Richard Townes, Bud Hays, and the others were heading back to the Grosvenor Hotel for the night.

  Fenton’s people were already in position at the country residence, and he had the rest of the night off. He was going to take full advantage of his time to sleep, as the rest of the trip promised to be very tense. They would be rejoining the president at Heathrow the following morning, when the entire party would board Air Force One to fly to Moscow.

  The Grosvenor party returned in several limousines to the hotel, where they rejoined the support group of secretaries and other lower-level aides. It is a little-known fact that no matter where the president goes, the activity of the White House follows. Even in some completely out-of-the-way spot, he still has to take care of the smallest of details, signing documents, talking to people.

  There would be an hour’s break to “freshen up,” and then the entire group was to have dinner in a private dining room.

  James Fenton was stretched out on his hotel bed when the call came through. He greeted his old friend warmly. In the short conversation he’d had earlier with his wife, when he had told her to give Larry the name of the hotel, he had no idea what was the matter, only that it was urgent. Somewhere in the shuffle it didn’t get through to him that the president’s safety was the matter.

  He listened carefully as Larry filled him in briefly on his mission to unmask and neutralize the Patriots, on how the mission had turned sour at Hill Air Force Base in Utah, and on the imminent danger to the president if Air Force One were to fly into Sheremetyevo as planned. Larry implored him to switch the destination to Domodedovo.

  “There’s something I need to know,” said Fenton. “Who were you working with on this mission before it went sour?”

  Larry decided he had nothing to lose by telling him.

  “Bud Hays. And I guess his secretary took some messages for me, although she didn’t have to know what they were about.”

  “And was he the only person who knew about this?”

  “Richard Townes, he was the initiator.”

  Fenton thought about this. Either one of the men in the suites down the hall was a traitor, or Larry was lying. For now, it didn’t matter which. Fenton agreed to switch airports, and he also gave Larry a frequency channel by which a competent radio operator could establish contact with Air Force One. It was a standard frequency, confidential but not top secret. The secret ones, Fenton didn’t give out, period.

  As for the airport switch, Fenton would determine later whether or not Larry was lying. If it turned out he was, the president would land at Sheremetyevo as planned, and Larry’s people, whoever they were, would be none the wiser.

  With a promise to get together for a drink once this was all over, the two men said goodbye. Fenton had his work cut out for him. It was Secret Service standard policy never to overlook a warning regarding the safety of the president, or as they code-named him, the Falcon. Since the warning had came from a person whom Fenton personally trusted, even though he would have to take all the procedural steps to verify it, he was putting everyone he could on alert. A gut feeling is the basis for good security work, he always said, and his gut was telling him to take action.

  Then, after a moment’s further reflection, Fenton put a call through to the maître d’hôtel in the dining room.

  Two doors down, Bud Hays was having the time of his life. His secretary, Angela Baines, wearing nothing but black stockings, a lace garter belt, and patent leather high heels, was kneeling in the chair by the dressing table. Bud stood behind her, his pants down around his ankles. She liked the act, feeling someone inside her, his hands running over her body, feeling her breasts, pulling her toward him, entering deeper. This way, she didn’t have to see him; she could think of anyone. Today it was that young, handsome bellboy. Then he stopped, she felt anger, he just stopped, she tried to lean back and hold on to him just for one more moment—that’s all she would have needed—but he was moving back.

  What a great idea it had been to get her along on this trip, he thought, pulling his pants back on. She can never get enough of me, he thought as he moved away from her grip. “Later, honey. We’ll get back to it later.”

  Her face was hidden by a swath of dark hair. If he could have seen it, he might have noticed the anger. For a moment Angela remained standing there, unwilling t
o accept that it was over.

  Bud returned and dropped on the large bed, staring at the ceiling. Angela finished putting her clothes on and sat at the dressing table, taking an especially long time in making up her face.

  The phone rang, and Bud picked it up.

  “Hays,” he said. Then his voice changed. “Yes, thanks for getting back to me.” Angela could tell that this was not the tone of voice he normally used for business calls. She applied a dab of lipstick.

  “So it’s in the best interests of America,” Bud said. He listened for a while, then he said, “From the Patriots, you mean?” More silence. Angela decided this was the wrong shade of lipstick. She wiped it off with a paper tissue, then selected another shade from the palette in her traveling vanity case.

  “When’s it supposed to happen?” asked Bud. More silence while he listened. “So there’s nothing to worry about,” he finished. “Okay, we’ll be in touch.” He hung up.

  “What was that all about?” asked Angela.

  “Nothing much,” said Bud. Angela, now fully dressed and made up, picked up her vanity case and walked to the door. “See you at dinner,” she said.

  Bud lay still for a few more minutes. The call from Singleton had reassured him considerably. He knew the Patriots were involved in something that was supposed to take place in Russia. He’d made it clear to Singleton before leaving Washington the day before that he was willing to help with anything that would bring about a more secure America, but he would not support anything that might smell of treason. If it turned out the Patriots were involved in something that could endanger American interests, he wanted out. Singleton had told him that he knew there was going to be a military coup in Russia after the presidential visit, once the loyal military was taken off alert and sent back to barracks. This he said he had learned from the intelligence the Patriots had gathered. He assured Bud that he was taking whatever precautions he could to ensure the protection of American interests and that if it were not for the Patriots, no one on our side, as he put it, would have learned about this. Therefore, Bud had nothing to worry about. He would be back in Washington, safe and sound. And quite a bit richer too.