Black Ghosts Page 9

  “I’ll be in my office, Mr. President.” The DCI nodded to both men and walked across the room, letting himself out.

  As the door shut, the president asked, “What about our special project? Have you heard anything from your man?”

  “No,” said Townes, looking worried. “Bud Hays said he dropped out of sight. I gather a call came into my office from him while I was out, but he left no message. He hasn’t called Bud or myself since.”

  “Do you have any idea what he’s up to?”

  “Last we heard, he was somewhere in Utah. We’re not working through regular channels, as you know, which makes things awkward, to say the least.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Well, Jim, there isn’t much I can do. Unless you want to get the whole community involved, we just have to sit tight and wait. He’s a good man, I’m told. He knows his stuff. We just have to give him some time.”

  There was a knock on the door and Terry Kay came in again. “Any minute now,” he said, pointing to the red phone on the president’s desk.

  As if on cue, the telephone began to ring. Kay picked it up on the second ring and handed it to the president.

  “Hello?” the president said, knowing full well who was on the other end.

  “Hello, my friend. How are we today?” the Russian president said.

  “Very well, Mr. Konyigin, and you?”

  “I have had better days.”

  “May I express my condolences to the families of your officers and diplomats who were killed while visiting my country.”

  “Of course, James. That is understood. Have you caught the killers yet?”

  “No, but you can rest assured that we will. I hope, however, that despite this unfortunate incident, we can conclude the treaty as planned.”

  “Of course, of course. This I hope also. The treaty will be for both of us a feather in the tail, no?”

  “Cap. You mean a feather in our caps.”

  “You can put it where you like,” said the Russian president, laughing immoderately. “We both know how important is this treaty. We need it very much, if we want to continue these pleasant conversations we have, no?”

  “Quite so, Mr. Konyigin. I look forward to seeing you in Moscow next month.”

  “And I you. My wife has already begun preparing the dacha. We will have a splendid party. Oh, and by the way, James.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you would be so kind. I am a great admirer of your American bourbon, your famous Tennessee sour mash. Could you manage to bring a case of it with you? Now that we are a democracy, I cannot ask my people at the embassy to do anything for me without they say I’m corrupt.” He laughed again, enjoying his own joke.

  President Bradshawe rolled his eyes in disbelief, shaking his head. “Will one case be enough?”

  The Russian roared with laughter again. “See you in Moskva,” he said.

  As the president hung up, the two men looked at him expectantly.

  “Business as usual,” the president said glumly.

  CHAPTER 7

  CG Command Bunker, outside Moscow

  February 22

  11:00 hours

  Peter Ivanovich Rogov sat at his wide wooden desk, reveling in the sense of renewed power this room gave him. He could almost hear the drumbeat of destiny fulfilling itself. His exile in Siberia had been an aberration, a glitch in the smooth, powerful flow of his life. He regarded himself as being in the saddle. A throne was but a chair; a saddle was power, and power would take him places, now that he held the reins.

  Interrupting his mental ride into the near future, the intercom buzzed sharply. He reached over and pressed the winking button. “Colonel Yazarinsky has arrived,” said the anonymous voice.

  “Send him in,” barked Peter, impatient for the next phase of the operation to get under way.

  Yazarinsky’s uniform and jackboots made him look comical, too small and runtish to be a proper soldier. But there was nothing comical about his sallow face and cold eyes. He clicked his heels.

  “Welcome back. Everything went well, I see,” said Peter, indicating the soundless wall of televisions, each in its dark wooden frame, each displaying a different channel.

  “America’s underbelly is as soft as ever.” Yazarinsky’s voice was monotonous. “They were quite powerless to stop us.”

  “And Boris?”

  Yazarinsky chuckled. “Ah, yes, dear Boris. He played his part well. A noble man, he made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.”

  Peter’s eyes twinkled. Yazarinsky’s ruthlessness amused him, much as the innocent antics of a young child amuse a world-weary parent, “And General Kozov?”

  “The general caught his flight as planned, sir. He’s waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Very good. Shall we go?”

  Outside Peter’s quarters, a junior officer stood waiting. When the general emerged from his office, the young officer opened a metal door leading to a spiral staircase. The three walked down without a word. Only the sound of their leather heels echoed down the long shaft. The young officer stood holding the door again as Rogov and Yazarinsky entered the CIC room, which was still deserted and lifeless. The blank computer monitors stared at them defiantly. The eye of the Iris Identification Scanner gleamed expectantly.

  A metal container, the kind used to transfer photographic equipment, sat on the table. Peter nodded to Yazarinsky, who opened the container. His face betrayed no emotion as he pulled out the grotesque, dripping, bloody thing that had once been connected to Kozov’s body. The junior officer had brought a towel and a waterproof sheet, on which the head was placed. From a first-aid kit he took a cotton swab and a small bottle of surgical alcohol, and as if it were something he did every day, he proceeded to wipe the coagulated blood from around the head’s right eye. When he was done, Yazarinsky picked up the head by its hair and brought it over to the scanner, the junior officer supporting the head from below with the towel. Together the two men positioned the head carefully, and at a nod from Yazarinsky, Peter typed the code into the keyboard next to him, activating the scanner.

  A pencil beam of light came forth from the scanner’s eye. Yazarinsky and the junior officer repositioned the head so the beam bore directly into the dead eye.

  Peter held his breath. His entire future was now in the hands of American ingenuity, since it was an American device that had been used to prevent electronic trespassing in the Ghosts’ headquarters. The last time Kozov’s eye had looked into the Very High Speed Integrated Circuit Signal Processor was when he was very much alive and visiting Rome Laboratories in Doral Air Force Base. It was then that they had scanned the general’s eye and entered his code. Now, if all went well, the machine would recognize the dead eye and unlock the computer system. If it didn’t, Operation Czar was over before it had really gotten started.

  The scanner buzzed and hummed for a few seconds, and then a green light glowed on the console. Immediately the room burst into life. Thirty-two monitors glowed, flickered, and produced images. Some showed military installations, others showed systems diagnostics and menus. Across one wall, nine large computer-generated maps appeared on gigantic screens, showing color codes that indicated the locations of military installations, arsenals, airfields, and naval bases. One showed a computer-enhanced view of Russia from an orbiting satellite.

  “Get this garbage cleaned up,” snapped Peter, flicking his hand at the bloodied head that now lay on its side on the table. The junior officer hurried to do his bidding.

  Peter sat at a keyboard and typed a second password. The command center menu appeared. Peter nodded, satisfied. Then he went to the intercom and pressed the button.

  “Sir!” said the anonymous voice.

  “There’ll be a briefing session in ten minutes. I want everyone here.”

  Ten minutes later, a half dozen officers were seated around the conference table in the glass cubicle at the far end of the CIC room. Peter stood at the head of
the table.

  “Colonel Yakov,” he said to a squat, mustachioed officer to his left. “We need a few more strikes by your people.”

  “We have two more attacks planned, sir. Should we still make it look like the work of the Chechen resistance?”

  Peter thought for a moment. “We should increase the circle. We want them to raise the level of their alert to at least code blue. That will enable us to get our troops into position right under their noses.”

  “Who, then?” asked the officer.

  “Make it anonymous. After all, who is not angry in Russia today?”

  A grin appeared on all the faces around the table. Heads nodded in agreement.

  “Make sure there are enough casualties that they can’t brush it under the carpet,” continued Peter. He raised his hand. “But at the same time, we don’t want them to overreact.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “When you’re ready, bring me the final plans for approval.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young officer looked relieved that the general was going to give the final approval; the responsibility wasn’t going to fall on his own shoulders.

  “We need to get ready to mobilize. Once they declare code blue, they will start moving their forces, and we will not have too much time. I want the Second Armored Brigade from Sverdlovsk with the T-72s . . .”

  For over an hour, the six officers watched and listened intently as Peter spoke and pointed at the maps on the wall behind him. Then he sent each of them by turns on his separate way, until only Colonel Sokolov remained.

  “So, Andrei,” said Peter, looking intently at the tall, slim man in his immaculate black uniform. “What are your thoughts?”

  “The operation is proceeding as planned,” said Sokolov. “We are still missing one piece of the communication array.”

  “How soon will it arrive?”

  “Very soon. We’re working on it now.”

  Peter was glad to have Sokolov on board. He knew the colonel was as dedicated as he to restoring Russia to her former glory, and as realistic as he in acknowledging the only way that could be achieved was through strong, aggressive leadership. Russia was not made for democracy; she was built through the might and terror of the czars and would survive and prosper only under a new generation of czars, of which he, Peter, would be the first. Sokolov knew this better than anyone. Nevertheless, Peter was conscious of a slight area of tension between them, no doubt due to the colonel’s being overly concerned with sticking to procedure. The man was brilliant, Peter thought, but too inclined to focus on details, and lacking the necessary vision to see the big picture.

  Sokolov cleared his throat. “General, may I speak candidly?”

  “Yes, Andrei, what’s on your mind?”

  “There is one aspect of the plan which still troubles me, and that is the final phase.”

  Peter smiled indulgently. “Do not worry. I have given it considerable thought.”

  “I strongly advise against the course of action you propose.”

  “I remind you, Colonel Sokolov, that I am not proposing. I am ordering.”

  “Of course, General.” Sokolov got to his feet and saluted.

  “Carry on, Colonel. Oh, and could you have Colonel Yazarinsky come and see me in my quarters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remember, my boy, Russians are at their best when they are afraid.”

  A few minutes later, Peter was again seated at his desk in his private office. The intercom announced Yazarinsky’s presence outside, and then the door opened and the small man moved like a crab across the carpet.

  “Any news of our American friend?” asked Peter.

  Yazarinsky sat in the high-backed leather chair opposite Peter’s. “It seems there was a leak.”

  “What did he find out?”

  “That we had a contract with them that involved a communications array and that the death of General Kozov is related to this affair.”

  “Where did he come by that information?”

  “From someone in London.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Yes, I have a name. He’s from the London office of the Foundation, an ex-MI5 operative named Donoven.”

  “I see. And where is this Mr. Donoven now?”

  “He was sent to New York to clean up after the assassination. He’ll be checking that the equipment we left behind is clean, and that nothing went wrong.”

  “I see. When he returns from that laudable task, I think you two should have a little chat?”

  Yazarinsky’s eyes did not blink. “Understood, General. And the American?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We’ll leave him for now. He has no one to pass that information to and he may yet prove to be useful to us.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Grantsville, Utah

  February 22

  10:15 hours

  The United Airlines Boeing 737 began its gradual descent into Salt Lake City International Airport. In obedience to the tiny sign above his seat, Edward buckled up. He was hoping that by the time he got back to Grantsville, Larry would be ready to take over. All he wanted was to get back to his gently mind-numbing routine of baking croissants, eating, and sleeping. All this activity was causing him to think, and thinking meant remembering. And there were too many things he wanted to forget.

  He could feel the dull pain he had lived with for so long creeping back into his chest. The kind of pain that comes from sadness, the kind you can only numb but never cure. It was almost like meeting an old confidant he had painstakingly managed to elude. The guilt that he normally kept so deeply buried was stabbing at him as sharply as ever. He would now have to start forgetting all over again, but he didn’t know how anymore. The last time he had tried, he hadn’t used any kind of system—he had just tossed himself into the wind, hoping never to land.

  No matter what anybody said, he knew he was responsible for their deaths. It had started out as a simple enough operation that turned unexpectedly nasty. A drug kingpin who had enjoyed the luxury of the CIA’s pampering, in return for his contacts in the Eastern bloc, had become expendable. His arrogance and tenacity, which had previously made him an invaluable asset, had overnight turned him into an embarrassment. He was no longer of use to the Agency, so it was unilaterally decided to end the relationship. The man would be paid off not with the fulfillment of his expectations of refuge and glory, but rather with a few ounces of lead. It was Edward’s mission to deliver the lead to the awaiting target.

  Edward and thirty other men disembarked from low-flying Black Hawk helicopters several miles from the man’s residence in the thick, mountainous jungle of Colombia. Several hours later, like a dark cloud in the small hours of the night, they descended on his residence and made their deadly delivery. His guards and cronies were so utterly surprised, the operation was as easy as a simulated exercise and extremely successful. They managed to liquidate the man and all his cronies, or so they believed. Almost a year later, Edward learned that two of the man’s brothers were still alive and out for vengeance. They managed to lure their brother’s CIA contact man in Bogota into a trap. After several days of intense torture, and just before they granted his final wish and killed him, they got him to give them a name. Not long after that, they caught up with one of Edward’s men, and as every man can be made to talk in the end, they got the names of the other unit members, including Edward. He was at Fort Bragg when they called him the first time. They made him listen to his man’s cries as they took their revenge upon him. Edward could remember standing there, unable to hang up, listening. After what seemed like eternity, the callers informed him the man was dead, and they said they would call back. Several weeks later they did, and then again and again.

  It was all coming back: the sights, the sounds, the anger. He resigned from the service and spent the next ten months tracking them down. They had captured and tortured seven of his men before he finally cau
ght up with them, ending their careers and their lives.

  By then he was attached to his bottle and on a long fall into the darkness of self-blame and depression. His wife told him it was her or the bottle, and when he chose the latter, she walked out. For months he drifted aimlessly from one bar stool to another, until one night he found himself beaten, robbed, and lying facedown, almost drowning in a six-inch-deep puddle of water outside a roadside bar near Grantsville, Utah.

  He could remember the gentle hands that helped him up, the look of worry on the faces that seemed to belong in a generation past. It was then that he realized there was still decency in the land of the free, and it was time to start over.

  Grantsville was as good a place as any, and more remote than most, which suited him just fine. For the first few months he still had to drink himself to sleep, but as time went by and he slipped into the comfort of his routine, he began to calm down. He kept the past well buried inside him, putting off dealing with it as long as he could. Fortunately, the bistro gave him plenty of things to keep his mind occupied.

  Now it all came back. For the first time since coming to in that puddle, he felt an overwhelming need, a need he knew could never be satisfied. He wanted a drink to dull the pain, to help him face the emptiness of his life.

  It was midmorning when Edward arrived. Natalie was out shopping. Larry had borrowed some of Edward’s clothing and looked like a little boy wearing his father’s suit, but he was able to walk a few steps around the apartment. Edward suggested coffee and croissants, to which Larry consented gladly. They sat upstairs and munched in silence for a few minutes. Edward was a little disturbed to note that the croissants were as delicious as ever, even though it was not he but the burly short-order cook who had prepared them. Perhaps, Edward reflected ruefully, I’m not as indispensable to this place as I thought.

  Having satisfied his hunger, Edward briefed Larry on what he had learned on his visit to the Big Apple. He tried to sound uninterested, as if none of this really had anything to do with him. When he had finished, he handed Larry his notes.