Class Fives: Origins (43 page)

“Jesus!” Marcos barked, startled. “What the Hell are you doing here?”

The security guard closed the door and the limo began to move.

“I’m glad you can drop me, Senator, on your way home. It will give us a chance to talk.”

“Talk about what?” Marcos said, annoyed, reaching to pat his perfect hair and straighten his wrinkled tuxedo.

“We have an op on, Senator. As we speak.”

“A what?” Marcos snapped. “Speak English, will you?”

Crawford nodded, agreeably.

“All right, Senator. In English. At this very moment we have an operation running in Russia. It’s a low-level incursion with a destroy target objective.”

“Destroy target, what target? Did you say Russia?”

“That’s right, Senator. You don’t have to worry, we have absolute deniability. But a Chairman of the oversight committee, the procedures dictate that I inform you. So, I’m informing you.”

Marcos stared at him, his expression flaccid.

“You and your little bunch of mystery men are doing something in Russia.”

“That’s correct.”

“Right now.”

“Correct.”

“And I take it you didn’t bother to tell the Russians.”

“That would have been inconvenient, Senator.”

Marcos eyed him, now beginning to look like a wary cat with its attention fixed on a mouse hole.

“And what will you say if this… mission… is exposed?” he said quietly.

“I will say that I was acting in accord with my brief as provided by the administration,” Crawford replied smoothly.

Marcos watched him carefully.

“By the
current
administration.”

Crawford favored him with a bland smile.

“Of course, Senator. We’re a new agency. We’re just getting started.”

Marcos seemed to consider this, and then a slow smile seized his lips.

“And if it succeeds?” he inquired.

“I believe you are the Chairman of the Committee that oversees us, Senator.”

“That I am,” Marcos said, coolly.

He drew in a satisfied breath and relaxed in the seat.

“So don’t fuck it up,” he said, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Well, thought Crawford, if we do fuck it up, we’ll probably all be dead. And if we don’t, he was going to need this moron in the future.

He sighed and turned to watch the night passing by.

Loving one’s nation was so difficult sometimes, he thought.

15

Checkmate

John clutched the screwdriver so tightly it was hurting his palm, but he wasn’t going to risk releasing it and having it roll around in the pitch black of the trunk, where he might not find it.

He shifted slightly, feeling the butt of the .9 millimeter pistol dig a bit deeper into his ribs. Although it added to his discomfort, it was also reassuring, provided he could remember which way the little switch had to be flipped to take it off safety.

He felt a momentary panic and quickly shot a hand down, groping toward his belt until his fingers touched the lump that was the small radio. Good. At least he wasn’t completely out of touch with those who could come swooping down to rescue him if he should need them. Unless he was now so far away from the nearest tower he couldn’t get a signal. But no, he quickly told himself. It’s a satellite radio. It gets reception anywhere. He felt himself relax a bit.

He’d spent the last hour having a hurried, muttered conversation with someone on the other end of that crackling lifeline. They’d given him what they’d called a "crash brief" about what he had to do, and made him repeat it back several times.

And they’d assured him they had a fix on his position from the locator in the radio, that they would have assets standing by, were even then gathering transport and firepower to back him up, if necessary. He just had to say the word and they would swoop down to his rescue. In fifteen minutes. They couldn’t stage any closer than that without risking detection. Terrific, he thought. How many times can a guy get shot in fifteen minutes?

He didn’t let himself fix on the idea, ordering himself to just relax and ride it out.

It felt as if he’d been stuck in the dark, stuffy trunk of the long, black car for hours now. And every time the vehicle jostled, thoughtlessly bouncing him up and down, his stomach would give another little lurch. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he thought, he’d wind up laying in a puddle of his own puke.

Then he sensed the car was slowing down and, once again, he quickly groped out, letting his fingers locate the metallic catch that kept the trunk sealed, ready to stab it with the screwdriver and pop it open.

He could hear the crunching of the tires beneath him over the uneven, pebble-strewn ground as it slowed and finally stopped. A few seconds later the engine died away to silence.

Now, he told himself, feeling a jolt of excitement rush through him. He managed to use his fingertips to place the hard end of the screwdriver against the large metal clasp and push on it. It gave a faint snapping sound and the trunk lid lifted an inch, spilling a sliver of chilly night air over him.

He dropped the screwdriver and shifted clumsily around to tug on the pistol, and managed to yank it free from his jacket pocket, shifting it around until he assumed he was holding it in a correctly threatening manner, then eased the trunk lid up, hoping it wouldn’t make any noise. He heard the driver’s door open, the crunch of footsteps on loose pebbles and the slam as the door was shut.

After so long in the utter blackness of the trunk, the dim moonlight seemed surprisingly bright. He could see that he was surrounded by open, flat terrain, a mix of large patches of bare dirt and clumps of low, wild grass.

He waited a few moments until he heard the footsteps moving away, and quickly scrambled out of the trunk as silently as he could manage. He turned and peeked around the car, catching sight of the dark silhouette moving off toward the low, dark structure.

It looked strange, he realized. A squat, dull building that seemed to taper into the ground at the sides. If he didn’t know better, he told himself, it looked like some kind of bunker. He took a moment to scan his surroundings and noticed there were a few small structures set off from the bunker, all of them dark and silent.

He turned to catch sight of the silhouette and realized that it was now about halfway to the structure.

Here we go, he encouraged himself, took a deep, steadying breath and started moving, keeping himself crouched low, the pistol gripped tightly in his hands.

I don’t believe I’m doing this, he told himself as he hurried on tiptoes toward the figure.

Just as the bald man arrived at the side of the building, John could see that he was in front of a large, heavy door of some kind, already extending an arm toward a keypad beside it.

John didn’t hesitate, continuing his awkward but swift, half-crouched tiptoe run, the arm holding the pistol already extended before him.

Shit, he thought with a sudden bolt of panic, is the safety on or off? Too late now, he realized as he reached the back of the figure, shot up straight and clamped a hand down on the man’s shoulder, even as he jammed the barrel of the pistol against the back of his neck.

“Don’t move,” he hissed loudly, and for added effect, fumbled his thumb around and cocked the hammer of the pistol.

The man seemed to jolt, his spine shooting up straight, his body going rigid.

“Open the door. Slowly,” John whispered.

The figure hesitated until John gave a little press with the gun barrel into the man’s neck.

“Okay,” the bald man said, his tone calm, almost soothing. “Take it easy.”

“Do it,” John snapped breathily.

The bald man slowly raised a hand to the keypad beside the heavy door and pressed in a long, complex code.

John heard the quiet click as the lock gave way, and tightened his grip slightly on the man’s shoulder.

“Inside,” he whispered.

The bald man didn’t bother to respond, merely sighed and reached out to push on the door, which swung open.

“Lights,” John said.

The bald man leaned to extend a hand into the door, and after a moment’s groping there was a click and a harsh, sharp light came on inside the small structure.

John instantly saw that it contained a kind of stairwell landing at the back of which were a pair of closed metal doors. Elevator doors, John realized.

“Inside,” he encouraged the man, giving his shoulder a small press.

The bald man started to move forward but seemed to understand John was not going to release his shoulder, and eased the motion back so it wouldn’t seem as if he was attempting to break free.

Stepping into the space, John saw that there was a complex keypad where the call button for the elevator would normally be.

“Get us downstairs. Now,” he said sharply.

The bald man didn’t bother to speak but took slow, measured steps across the open space until he was before the elevator. He lifted a hand and began pushing various buttons on the panel, each press causing it to emit a tiny, electronic beep.

After a moment there was a click, and the doors of the elevator slid smoothly open.

John pressed on the shoulder and the man stepped inside the elevator. John tightened his grip and turned him until the bald man was facing the small panel with only two buttons, one above the other. John gave the shoulder a small shake and the bald man reached out to press the lower of the buttons. The doors slid closed and there was a faint whine as the elevator began to descend.

They rode down in silence, John feeling the anxiety rising within him. This was completely crazy, he told himself. He shouldn’t even be here. He had a half-formed idea of what he had to do, but not the vaguest notion of how to do it. He wasn’t a secret agent, hadn’t had any training for something like this. Hell, he didn’t even know for sure if the gun he currently held pressed against the back of the man’s neck was on safety or not.

Well, he told himself, at least he had one thing in his favor.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open, revealing a long corridor of concrete and steel leading a dozen yards or so to a massive door which currently stood wide open, revealing a dimly lighted room beyond.

“Now what?” the bald man finally said.

“Where is he?” John growled, hoping his voice didn’t contain the hint of the quaver he felt in his throat.

“How should I know?” the bald man said, his tone half-annoyed.

John pushed on the gun, driving the barrel harder against the back of the man’s neck.

“Okay, okay,” the bald man blurted, “Probably in his office, off the old control room.”

He raised an arm and pointed, listlessly, toward the huge open blast door before them.

“Thanks,” John said. “Let’s go.”

He pressed and the man stepped forward, out of the elevator, John still holding him tightly by the shoulder. When they were several feet inside the starkly lit corridor he stopped, causing the man to jerk to a halt.

John stood unmoving for a long moment, then relaxed his grip on the man’s shoulder, finally releasing it completely.

He smiled slightly and drew the pistol away from the man’s neck.

Instantly the bald man was whirling, his arm sweeping up, head ducking violently to the side, as if he intended to catch John’s gun arm with his own in some complex martial arts maneuver, but before he had gone halfway around, his arm encountered nothing but the air.

He barely had an instant to register his surprise and confusion before –

John landed, steadied himself. Ten minutes. They had not yet pulled up outside. Not much time but maybe enough.

He moved quickly down the corridor, catching more and more sight of the room beyond the massive door. It was well lit, but it appeared to be
a neglected construction site, as if half-built and suddenly abandoned. As he reached the door he saw that whatever control panels, counters and equipment had once occupied the space, they had since been removed, leaving only small holes in the concrete floor where they had once been anchored. All that filled the space was a large utilitarian table spread with various plans and blueprints, and a few blackboards pushed into the far end of the room bearing what looked to John like equations of some kind. Other than these Spartan dressings the room simply looked hollow and lifeless.

Suddenly he caught a sound coming from his left and, turning, saw the ordinary door leading off even further into the earth. It was a voice, that much he recognized, but he could not make out the words.

Another quick glance at his watch told him his time was now fleeting and he moved swiftly to the doorway, pressing himself to the wall beside it and straining to listen.

This voice was tinny and electronic in tone, coming from a speaker of some kind but fuzzy and indistinct. The one that answered was in the room itself.

“Very well,” that voice said, “Stand by. I am beginning the power sequence here.”

There was a pause, then the voice returned.

“Is the device reacting?” it said.

Whatever the answer might have been, it was masked in distortion.

“All right,” the voice in the room responded, “The balance of the procedure should be automatic. Thank you, Mr. Gvorshin, I’m very grateful for your assistance.”

Once more the speaker voice replied, but again John could not distinguish any clear words.

But what he had heard was enough to cause his gut to tighten. Whatever was going to happen was well on its way to happening.

He sucked in a breath, pushed off the wall and plunged through the door, the gun extended before him like a talisman.

“Hold it!” he barked, instantly feeling a little foolish and off-balance but taking several firm steps forward and planting himself, the gun pointed at the man.

The room was almost enough to distract his attention. It was squalid and startling. A room where objects, recently used by a man living alone with little or no contact with the world, had simply been dropped when their immediate usefulness had been outlived, or tossed casually against the nearest wall. The floor was strewn with papers, overturned books, crumpled clothing, even plates still bearing half-eaten meals from the past.