Black Ghosts Page 8

  20:15 hours

  Back at the Ritz, Edward called Donoven’s hotel, only to be told the man was out. He left a message that he would call back at nine. Then he ordered a club sandwich from room service. It came with a huge salad made of a variety of colored lettuce, and only after taking the first bite did he realize how hungry he actually was. A few minutes after nine he called Donoven again. This time the man was in.

  “Donoven here,” said a stiff, cold, very Englishsounding voice.

  “Hi, I’m Edward.”

  “You are a friend of Larry’s, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you have something for me.”

  “I do,” said Edward. “When can we meet?”

  “Tomorrow, at the bar of the Plaza Hotel, at precisely two o’clock. I expect you to be punctual.”

  “Okay. Is that the one on Central Park South?”

  “That’ the one.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be wearing a gray raincoat. How will I identify you?”

  “I’ll be wearing a cowboy hat.”

  “Wouldn’t that be rather conspicuous?”

  “Don’t worry about that, just be there.”

  Edward hung up, chuckling to himself at the prim, stuffy voice that had insisted on punctuality. It went well with a gray raincoat. He couldn’t help himself with the part about the cowboy hat, but since he had no intention of meeting Donoven at the rendezvous, it really made no difference.

  February 21

  13:55 hours

  Leaning on the stone fence of Central Park across the street from the Plaza Hotel, Edward saw the nervous-looking man in the gray raincoat entering the bar at precisely two o’clock. Through the window, he could see the pink, bald head looking around at the people seated in the plush bar. Edward smiled; he knew Donoven was looking for a cowboy hat—not something you would readily find in this part of Manhattan. Edward dialed the hotel on his cellular phone and asked for the bar. He told the barman that his friend, a Mr. Donoven, had just come in wearing a gray raincoat. Could he be called to the phone? Edward watched through the window as the barman dispatched a waitress, who carried a mobile phone on a silver tray to Donoven’s table.

  “Who’s this?” said Donoven, taking the phone and looking around him in suspicion. This was not what he had expected, nor what he had planned for. But Edward knew Donoven was not going to give up what Larry had promised him, surely not for a mere technicality.

  “It’s your cowboy. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

  “I’ve only just got here. Where are you?”

  “I’ll tell you where to go and we’ll meet there.”

  “What’s wrong with meeting here?”

  “I don’t like the service at that place. Besides, it would be better for you if I knew you were clean before we met, don’t you think?”

  Donoven hesitated, then said quietly, “Where, then?”

  “Walk over to Madison. You know where that is?”

  “Yes, I turn right outside here.”

  “Right. On Madison take a right and walk down to 53rd. Then go right on Lexington until you reach 50th. You got that?”

  “Is there much more?”

  “No, just turn left on 50th. There’s a hotel there called the Kimberly. Wait for me in the lobby. If I’m not there five minutes after you get there, I’m not coming and you are in deep shit.”

  “Not funny, old chap.” The man sounded annoyed. “See you soon, then.” He was trying to put up a brave front, but Edward, like a good hunter, could sense the fear.

  “Walk normally, don’t rush, and don’t look for a tail. I’ll handle that. If you have a tail, we don’t want to scare them off, do we?”

  Edward took up position on 59th Street between Madison and Park. From there he could see Donoven’s pink face and gray raincoat approaching. He could easily have spotted a tail had there been one. When Donoven turned on Madison, Edward quickened his pace and headed down Park, arriving in plenty of time to see Donoven turn on 53rd, heading for Lexington. Edward knew that if he was clean here, everything was fine.

  Edward let him enter the hotel. Then he dialed the lobby and had the desk clerk call Donoven to the phone. He told him to come across the street to a small diner next to the San Carlos Hotel.

  “So we finally meet,” said Edward, extending a hand and a smile to the man standing by the door.

  “Edward?” said Donoven, looking somewhat lost.

  “Yes, yes. Come and sit down.”

  It was clear from his expression that Donoven was not expecting such a welcome, not after all the running around he’d been made to do. “Sorry to have dragged you all over the place,” Edward said as they sat at a sticky table to the rear of the establishment.

  “I must say, that was quite a walk. I’m quite out of breath.”

  “So, what do you have for me?” Edward dived right into the subject matter.

  “And you for me?”

  “Mine is a payment for yours, so let’s have it, pal. We both have other things to do.”

  For the next twenty minutes Donoven talked, leaning across the table, his voice low. Edward felt like offering the man a breath freshener, but since he had no intention of meeting him again, he decided to suffer through Donoven’s halitosis. He took notes and occasionally dropped a question. Donoven was not reluctant to give him the answers. As Edward was showing no sign of being ready to pay him, he kept talking. There were still some details missing, but Donoven, who was now sweating more than he had after his short walk, promised to get them.

  “When?”

  “When I get back, most of what you need should be waiting on my desk. It will, however, cost you.”

  “Not me. It will be Larry who will deal with you then. I’m just helping out for the moment.” Edward took the envelope out of his coat pocket. As he was about to hand it over, he said, “One more thing. Why did they kill this General Kozov, or whatever his name was?”

  “He was the commander of the Black Ghosts.”

  “So why kill him?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps they didn’t like him. It would seem rather stupid, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well you see, only he can, or rather could, activate their computer. It has a security system in place that scans the general’s iris to verify it’s him before they can get access to the system. Without that, if activated the system self-destructs.”

  Edward handed Donoven the envelope. The man tore off the end and peeked inside at the bundle of one-hundred-dollar bills. His pudgy pink face beamed. Without another word Edward got up and walked out of the diner. He was starting to get the picture, and it was not a pretty one.

  CHAPTER 6

  The White House, the Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

  February 21

  10:55 hours

  The most powerful man in the world reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small tube of Rolaids. He crunched up two of the chalky white tablets, hoping they would calm his stomach, which had been acting up intermittently since breakfast. He made a special effort not to let the minor pain show on his face. He knew for a fact that if one of the two men in his office at that time were to notice, it would only be a matter of minutes before his personal physician would be notified and he would face a tedious battery of tests over at Bethesda Medical Center. And he was in no mood for that.

  James Fenton, the senior Secret Service officer in charge of the presidential detachment, was one of the two. He was about to leave, the president having just signed his forty-eight-hour schedule update. The other was Terry Kay, personal secretary to the president.

  “The call from Moscow should be coming through in half an hour,” said Kay. “The briefing is scheduled for eleven.”

  The president looked at his watch. It was five to eleven.

  In the west wing of the White House, Bud Hays was also looking at his watch. He had three minutes to deliver the b
riefing note to his boss. The president’s National Security Council staff adviser was scheduled to present it at the briefing in the Oval Office.

  The National Security Council, or NSC, is an executive council formed in 1947 to coordinate the defense and foreign policy of the United States. The principal members of the NSC are the president, the vice president, the secretary of state, and the secretary of defense. Their special advisers are the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as part of the defense department, and the DCI—the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Various other members of the NSC are drawn from the intelligence community at large when their particular expertise is called for, such as the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency, the central coordinator of the various arms of defense intelligence which include Army, Naval, Marine Corps and Air Force intelligence, or, on occasion, the head of the National Security Agency, the highly secretive and extremely powerful organization in charge of U.S. communications security activities.

  Bud Hays was middle age, of less than average height, and with a spare tire around the middle. No one would guess, from looking at him, that he was one of the key players in the U.S. intelligence game.

  Bud looked again at his watch. Angela, his secretary, was busy at her workstation, inputting the final changes to the briefing note. She was a perfectionist when it came to her work and her hair, and she had no intention of letting one of the girls under her botch a paper that was going into the Oval Office. The note dealt with some new developments in Russian terrorist activity emanating from the troubled region of Chechnya. The topic was rather sensitive, due to the active sources that provided the information and the pending arms verification treaty. The Russians had insisted time and again that the region was finally under control, but the facts contained in the document were somewhat different. Bud had decided on several last-minute changes to the briefing note, in order to downplay the seriousness of the terrorist threat. After all, there was no sense in upsetting the apple cart, not while everything was going so well—as he’d been told by someone who was going to see to it that he had a great future after he left government service.

  Having been in the business for more then ten years, Bud knew that the politicians who came and went through the corridors of the White House could only digest things that were relayed to them in bite-sized pieces, while the only outcome they really cared about was the one that played itself out on TV.

  He had made the changes by hand and had given them to Angela just a few minutes ago. Fortunately, he thought, looking again at his watch, she was very good at her job. And that’s not all she was good at. Angela noticed his stare and returned a warm smile, filling him with pride and lust.

  However, Angela’s feelings were at odds with her expression. She thought Bud was a little weasel and could barely stand to let his sweaty hands touch her. But she also knew that his sexual satisfaction was her ladder to bigger and better things—neither of which, she thought, should be hard to find in his case.

  The printer hummed into life, running off the remaining pages.

  “It’s done,” she said, slipping the papers into a green file.

  “Thanks.” Bud grabbed the file and took it to his boss’s office.

  “Come in, Bud,” said Jeff Millner, head of the NSC and Bud’s boss. “You know Secretary Townes.” He indicated the tall, well-dressed man standing by his desk. Bud nodded his surprise. The last person he had been expecting to see here was Richard Townes, the secretary of defense.

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Secretary.”

  Townes shook Bud’s extended hand, smiling at the little man. “How have you been, Bud?”

  “Very well, thank you, sir.”

  Bud had no way of knowing whether the secretary of defense had told Millner about the operation Bud was carrying out for him. As far as he had understood his instructions, Bud was not to say a word to anyone and report directly to Townes. He had no doubt that if this were to come out he would be in hot water with his boss. Not that the operation was illegal—it was only the small matter of personal loyalty that his boss might have a problem with.

  He decided to say nothing, especially since Larry had gone missing and he wanted to be the one to get to him first—if the son of a bitch was still alive, that is.

  “The secretary here will be presenting the brief to the president.” Jeff Millner’s wide smile did not hide his disappointment that the matter was being taken out of his hands by the secretary of state.

  “Sure,” Bud said and handed Townes the green file he had brought with him. The secretary stuffed it into his briefcase and immediately set off down the hall toward the center block.

  When Townes arrived at the Oval Office, the DCI, a sophisticated-looking, white-haired man named Charles Bouver, was already seated opposite the president at the massive oak desk. President Bradshawe smiled at Townes, and with a broad gesture he waved his old friend over to the third chair.

  “Are you okay, Mr. President?” asked the secretary of defense, noting that the president looked somewhat pale. Townes addressed his old high school buddy in the proper fashion. He would call him Jim when they were alone, but with anyone else present it was always Mr. President.

  “Just fine, Rich, nothing a couple of Rolaids can’t cure. Just keep it down. We don’t want Murray to rush in here and drag me over to Bethesda.” The three men laughed.

  Richard Townes took his place by the president’s desk.

  “Well, Rich,” the president asked, “where do we stand, now that the chief Russian negotiator on the disarmament treaty has managed to get himself killed?”

  “The agreement stands, Mr. President. I’ve talked to Konyigin in Moscow, unofficially of course, and he said they are as keen as ever to sign the treaty. They want this thing to fly.”

  “I’d expect that much,” said the president. “So you don’t think they’re going to try and renegotiate any of the terms?”

  Townes shook his head. “Not a chance, Mr. President. It was all finalized before the incident. The documents went through their embassy via diplomatic pouch. Nothing was lost.”

  “Except a heck of a lot of face,” growled the president. “How did that happen, anyway?” He was now addressing the DCI.

  Bouver scratched his chin, looking faintly embarrassed.

  “We’re going over all the leads we have outside the country, Mr. President. Don’t forget, it did take place outside our jurisdiction. I mean, it was in the hands of the Secret Service.”

  “Come on, Charles, don’t give me that crap. I need to know who is behind this thing,” the president growled.

  “From what I can gather, sir, very few people knew the route, and there is no doubt that such an operation had to be planned at least a few days ahead. That’s the way we see it, and so do the people over at the Bureau.” He knew the president had more respect for the FBI than for the CIA, which was the reason Bouver referred to them whenever he had them on his side. “They’ve narrowed the leak down to a couple of options. There’s the duty captain—he’s kind of a loose cannon.”

  “Why him?” The president’s eyes narrowed.

  “He’s the only one who survived the attack. Then there’s the Russian security officer. We can’t talk to him, obviously.”

  The president glared at him. “And what am I supposed to tell Konyigin?”

  “Blame it on the Russian security officer,” Townes said immediately. He turned to the DCI. “You get the Bureau to work on it, check his contacts and so on . . . make it look like it was their fault.”

  Bouver was less sure. “Don’t forget, Mr. President, you’re going to Moscow yourself soon. We don’t want this to become a diplomatic incident. Let’s just say it’s under investigation and the perpetrators will be brought to justice.”

  Townes slammed his hand on the table. “No! We can’t afford to sound defensive! We’ve got to make them responsible, let them feel the heat . . . Come on, what are the chances it’s the cop?”

>   “But we don’t know enough yet to—” began Bouver.

  “All right, enough.” The president held up his hands. His stomach was still bothering him, and the bickering was starting to give him a headache. “I’ll handle Konyigin my way. Now, about the signing ceremony. Is there anything you gentlemen think we need to inform our Russian colleagues about?” He looked at Townes again. “We’ll have the entire world watching us. We don’t need any screw-ups. Let me remind you this is an election year.”

  “Nothing in particular, Mr. President,” replied Townes, taking from his briefcase the file Bud had given him just before the meeting, “Whatever information we thought they could use, we passed along to them.” He ran his eyes quickly over the page. “Here’s something that just came in, regarding some terrorist element from Chechnya. The report says it’s nothing significant, but I suggest we keep an eye on things.”

  “Should we mention it to the Russians?”

  “Probably not. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Good. What about you, Charles?”

  “Nothing new, Mr. President,” said the DCI. “The report the secretary just gave you is based on information we brought in. I myself would tend to think they are not yet in control of these people. You never know where one of them might just show up.”

  “So you think those guys on the bridge might be connected somehow to that?”

  “I couldn’t say, but it is possible.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever catch them?” asked the president, fixing his eyes on the DCI.

  “Not very likely, sir. We’re dealing with a highly sophisticated group here. They haven’t left a trail of any sort.” He paused and took a deep breath. “That doesn’t mean we won’t keep trying.”

  “You do that, and keep me informed.”

  “I will, Mr. President.” The DCI closed his folder and got up. It was understood that his part of the meeting was over. “If you will excuse me . . .”

  “Thank you for coming over, Charles. I have a few more points I want to go over with you after I talk to Konyigin.”