Black Ghosts (11 page)

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.”

“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.

 

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.