Black Ghosts (10 page)

“Did they find anything?” said Edward.

“They found the launches the next day, abandoned in different parts of the harbor.”

“How many launches were there?”

“Five. One on the Queens side, four in Manhattan. Not a mark on them. We found their gear, too, all of it—well, whatever they didn't leave up on the bridge. Gas masks, bulletproof vests, waterproof coveralls. We figure the bastards just unzipped their coveralls, climbed out in street clothes, and melted into the crowds. They could be anywhere now.” He gave Edward a look that mingled boredom and disgust. “You could be one of them, for all the fuck I know.”

“Who do you think they were?”

McPhee shrugged, glancing over Edward's shoulder at the dancer now bending over her two patrons. “Search me. I'll tell you one thing, though: These guys were pros. No mistake about that. I tell you, that bridge was a mess, fire everywhere, reminded me when Charlie would target a firebase back in country. They had guns, they had Stingers, they had fucking antitank missiles, for God's sake. They left everything up there—weapons, casings, rocket launchers, everything. The best stuff too. And you know what? Not a mark on it, any of it. Not a serial number, not a fingerprint, not a hair. Forensically spotless. Untraceable. Fuckin' incredible.”

“What about the bungee cords?”

“Good thinking. The FBI traced them to Australia. The outfit there said they were stolen just a few days ago.” McPhee lit another cigar. He was a one-man smoking section.

“Twenty-eight goddamn corpses up on that bridge. Twenty-eight! I was lucky not to be one of them.”

“Any other survivors?”

McPhee's mood seemed to shift from surly to belligerent. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Didn't Bob tell you?”

“I asked you.”

“Just a guy looking for answers.”

“Are you a fucking reporter?”

“No, this is a favor for a friend, that's all.”

McPhee shrugged apathetically. “Who cares, anyway? There was one more survivor, a guy from the motorcycle detail. He was laying on the ground, dead still, but he had his eyes open. He died at the hospital a couple of hours ago.”

“Did he see anything?”

“Matter of fact he did. He said that after they'd trashed everything, the general's limo was still standing there, like they were keeping the best for last, you know? He saw a bunch of them blow their way into the limo, shooting everything that moved. Then there was nothing for about three minutes. He couldn't see what they were doing in there, but whatever it was, it was keeping them pretty busy. Then he hears somebody yelling something, the bugger thinks it was in Russian, but who knows what you hear when you're half-fried and your backbone is in pieces. Then they get out of the limo, blood trailing everywhere. And two of them were carrying a metal container, like a big aluminum camera case.”

“Any idea what was in it?”

McPhee chewed his cigar and shot Edward a speculative glance.

“I wouldn't like to say,” he said. “But you can figure it out for yourself.”

“How come?”

“Later, when the forensic boys went into the limo, underneath the blood they found four corpses, a lotta bullets, and a wire handsaw.”

“A handsaw?”

“That's right. Oh, and one other thing I forgot to mention. They found the general, sitting there with his stars and braids and medals. Only his head was missing.”

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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.

 

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 briefing 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.