Black Ghosts (28 page)

“When did she call?” Edward could feel his heart pounding, a burst of joy overtaking him.

“Not ten minutes ago. I told her to stay put and that you'll find a way to get to her. If you can't, I'll call her and tell her to get out of there.”

“No, no. I'll get her out.” He felt the burden slowly lifting from his shoulders. She was alive and well, and he was going to see her very soon. “Okay. Now listen, Larry, do you know anyone you can trust in the Secret Service?”

“I may, why?”

“This is not about the Russians anymore, Larry. Now we're talking about the president. We have to stop this goddamn visit.”

“That would be great, if I could swing it. If we stopped the visit they would probably cancel the coup.”

“No, I think they are committed. The coup will go ahead whether the president comes here or not. The only difference is that we might not have an exact timetable. On the other hand . . .” Edward was thinking aloud. “If they don't know he's not coming, they will go ahead as planned. But then my question is, who cares? I mean, why should we risk our people for them?”

Larry stopped him. “Edward, don't get carried away. For the time being, the president will come. I will have a hard enough time even getting through, not to mention the fact that by now they must think I'm working for the other side anyway. I'll see what I can do, but as far as you're concerned, you know very well that if the bastards take control of Russia, we're all going to be fighting a war.”

“What we need,” said Edward, lowering his voice, “is to at least persuade the Secret Service to change the destination of the president's plane to Domodedovo. And I need the emergency radio frequency on Air Force One.”

“Anything else?” Larry sounded tired and sarcastic. “All right, all right, I'll see what I can do. This isn't going to be easy, you know.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because we're dealing with a bunch of bureaucratic . . .”

“No, why should I care how easy it is?”

“Ha, ha,” Larry said.

“And Larry, make it quick. Things are going to start happening very soon around here. I need our boys here as quickly as possible.”

“Where are you going to land them?”

“We have an abandoned airfield outside Moscow.” He gave Larry the coordinates. “How soon can you get them here?”

Larry thought for a moment. “There's still some work to do on the plane. Then it's a twelve-hour flight. Say twenty-four hours. How are they supposed to come in, I mean radar and all that?”

Edward asked to talk to one of the two pilots. He instructed him to find a commercial flight and lose it during the descent. He would have to make it the rest of the way flying very low, but Alexi had assured Edward that there was a radar-free corridor leading up to the airstrip. He gave the pilot the entry point Alexi had given him and asked if what he had said made any sense.

“I read you loud and clear.”

“Can you bring a plane that big in without detection?”

“With the information you gave me, I could bring in an aircraft carrier if you could get it to fly.”

“Good. See you soon. And Dan, let me talk to Larry again.” When Larry was back on the line, Edward said, “Put Sparky on a commercial flight to Moscow right away. I don't want to wait that long for him to get here. I have work for him.”

“Where should he go when he arrives? The airfield?”

“No, I'll pick him up. Call me back when you have the flight number and ETA.”

“You got it.”

Edward hung up, satisfied that, as regards the operation, he had done all he could for the time being. Now he had to get Natalie, and for that he would need help.

He found Alexi slumped in front of one of the stolen televisions, sipping from a chipped teacup. The cup held a clear liquid that obviously was not water.

“Are you interested in making some money on the side?”

“Always. Come to think of it, that's the only way I ever make money,” Alexi answered, not taking his eyes off the TV screen.

“It involves a little driving.”

Alexi shifted his large, heavy limbs. “No problem.”

“Are you sure you're okay to drive?” Edward gestured toward the chipped cup. From where he stood, he could smell the vodka fumes.

Alexi grinned lopsidedly. “Like I said, always.”

“Okay. First you drive me to the subway. Then I want you to drive to this address.” Edward handed Alexi a paper. “It's an apartment. There'll be a woman there. I need you to bring her here in safety.”

“A woman!” said Alexi, leering suggestively. “Is she cute?”

“That's not the point,” Edward said impatiently. “The point is, somebody may be watching the apartment.”

“I guess she is cute, then,” said Alexi, laughing loudly. “Don't worry.” Alexi took him by the shoulder, still grinning. “I can help you find your little piece of tail.”

Edward took a deep breath. “Okay, fine,” he said, his voice calmer. “I said, the apartment may be under surveillance. So here's what I want you to do.” As he spoke, the urgency of the situation seemed to increase in Edward's mind. He could imagine the soldiers knocking on the door, dragging Natalie screaming into their truck, pushing her into their interrogation rooms, torture chambers . . . With every passing moment, he could feel the chances increasing that his nightmare might become a reality. Now that he knew where she was and that she was waiting for him to rescue her, not making it in time was unthinkable.

With agonizing slowness, Alexi got to his feet and lumbered to the washroom. Ten minutes later he was ready to depart. At last, with a crash of gears as Alexi maneuvered the Volkswagen out of its parking spot in front of the building, they drove off.

With time to spare, Edward arrived at the subway stop where he was to meet Anton. Alexi drove back to the safe house in the pale green Lada.

Now all Edward could do was wait, again. He sat in an armchair, staring into space, trying to think of nothing, trying to calm his jangling nerves and steel himself for the next part of the operation.

“Hurry up,” he said to himself. “Hurry up and wait.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” Larry mumbled to himself as he got off the phone with Edward. “I've got the whole of the U.S. intelligence community out to get me, and you want me to walk into the Secret Service and persuade them that I know what's best for the president.”

In a universe where no one was where he was supposed to be but wanted you to leave your name and number after the beep and they would get back to you soon, Larry in his precarious situation was somewhat constrained. He had to make direct contact on a personal level with a person he couldn't reach. There was no one he could leave his name and number with, no one he could trust not to send in the crew-cuts to pick him off. As regards all the legitimate channels, Larry was persona non grata.

He had one hope. Years back, he had shared a convivial evening with an up-and-coming Secret Service operative, his wife, and a few other guests at their home in Silver Spring. James Fenton and Larry had always gotten along well when their professional paths had crossed, something that happened quite frequently after Larry was transferred to headquarters at Langley and saddled with a desk. Larry knew that if the whole damn world went berserk, Fenton would be standing there against all odds, defending his president.

Larry had no phone number and wouldn't have risked it even if he had. But maybe, if he could just remember where the house was . . .

By the time Jean-Pierre had the minibus fueled and ready to go, Mario had already rounded up the platoon, and they were getting ready to move.

Standing in the living room was a group of people who until only days ago had been strangers to one another, with nothing in common except a shared background. They were now a cohesive unit. They could read each other's gestures and had an abundance of the inside jokes that were the fruit of tough training and mutual trust.

Larry opened an attaché case and handed each of them an envelope. “There's a grand apiece,” he said. “We're going to the airport together. You're all going to catch the same flight, but you each buy your own ticket. We don't want to attract any attention. You can leave behind whatever you don't need for the operation. It will all be here when you come back.”

“If we come back,” Doug Findley said.

They all laughed in approval.

“Okay,” said Larry, playing along, “if you come back your stuff will be here. If not, we'll have a garage sale, okay?”

Within half an hour, they were on their way to LaGuardia Airport, still telling morbid jokes and laughing. Larry gave them the location of the airfield where the stolen 747 was waiting. One of the pilots was still with the plane, and Larry assured them that once they got to the airfield they would have quite a bit of work to do. “Get some rest on the flight over, and don't get yourselves plastered.”

Larry dropped the somewhat rowdy bunch at LaGuardia, reminding them to be on their best behavior as there was no time to bail anyone out of trouble. “If you get yourselves into shit, you're out of this game and on your own.”

Next, Larry drove Sparky to JFK Airport, with instructions to call Edward from London with the details of his flight into Moscow. Then he got on the road again, heading southwest.

Traffic was heavy on Highway 95, and it seemed to take much longer than usual to drive to Washington. Larry's chest was aching, and at times he had the feeling he was not going to make it. He would have preferred to fly, but not having any false documents to buy tickets, he wasn't going to risk the registration. Flying from Utah to New York had been a calculated risk, but flying into Washington was asking for trouble. He was too well known on the Beltway to pass unnoticed.

By the time he got to Silver Springs, it was already midafternoon. Now to find the house. He drove through a maze of suburban streets, following a vague memory and a clear instinct. Almost without conscious effort, he found himself on a quiet street with large, red brick houses nestling in deep green foliage. Which one was it? He remembered asking himself the same question the first time he had come here. Then he remembered that it was the house with the tall pine tree in the front garden. He rang the bell.

When the door opened, she was exactly as he remembered her: brown bob of hair, lots of teeth, a friendly face. It took her a moment to place him, but then she was all smiles.

“Larry! Yes, of course I remember. Come right in. Here, let me take your coat.”

She sat in a leather armchair and waved Larry to the sofa.

Larry remained standing. “Sorry I can't stay,” he said. “It's business, you see. Is Jim around?”

She frowned slightly.

“I really need to get ahold of him. It's urgent.”

Mrs. Fenton made a face. “You just missed him, I'm afraid. He's going to England with you-know-who. He left about a half hour ago.”

“I see. Oh, boy.”

“Can I help? I mean, what's this all about?”

“Nothing, just business.”

“Don't give me that, Larry. Jim doesn't bring his work home. Tell me, maybe I can help.”

“I need to talk to him. It has to do with the president.”

Her expression became serious. “Why don't you call the office?”

“I don't know who I can trust. It's a long story, but I know I can trust your husband.”

“That you can, but you better not be playing games with him, Larry. He can be very mean if you play games with him.”

“This is not a game.” He walked over to the door, then turned back to face her. “I understand your concern, but you have to trust me. I believe it was your husband who kept saying that good security is ninety percent gut instinct.”

She nodded, smiling, as if she enjoyed her husband's sayings even when repeated by others.

“I need to talk to him in person, and not some aide or another. Do you know where he'll be staying in London?”

“Larry, I'm surprised at you. You know I couldn't tell you that, even if I knew. The best I can do is talk to him about you when he calls. If he wants to speak to you, he'll give me a number for you to call.”

Larry knew she had an emergency number she could call and reach him. It was one of the few perks of being married to the president's praetorian guard. He also knew she couldn't tell him about it. He decided to play along. “That's great.” Larry smiled and gave a little bow. “I would very much appreciate that and will be in your debt forever.”

“Don't overdo it, Larry. By the way, is the president in any immediate danger, I mean in the next few hours?”

He realized she'd been around this block more than once. “No, not in the next few hours.”

“So call me back later tonight.”

“Thanks again.” Larry walked out with a degree of hope, which was something.

He headed back to New York, but after an hour of driving he realized it was going to be too much for him. His chest was hurting and he needed to take his medication, which in itself was draining his strength. He checked into a roadside motel and decided it was as good a place as any to while away the time until he could make the call.

By 7:45 he could wait no more. He called back Mrs. Fenton. She had spoken to her husband, who had said he could be reached at the Grosvenor Hotel in London the following day. Larry thanked her again. He set his alarm for 3 a.m. That, he estimated, should give enough time for the president and his entourage, which included Mr. Fenton, to get there. He then grabbed a few hours' sleep.