Deep Black (3 page)

“What controversy?” asked Rubens.

“Given the controversy, I—we—feel there should be someone outside of Desk Three along.”

“What?”

“A neutral observer,” said Hadash. “Just to see the wreckage and make an unbiased report.”

“I don’t see why that would be necessary.” Rubens had been taken by surprise, but he labored now to hide it. More difficult
to suppress was his anger at Hadash for failing to warn him.

He remembered his yoga mantra.

“You don’t understand the political situation,” said Blan-ders.

“What political situation?” said Rubens.

The president put up his hand. “Billy, here’s the problem. The CIA wants to chop off your head. They have some friends on
the Senate Intelligence Committee. The committee wants a briefing. George is going to give it to them based on what his personal
investigator finds out. We need to be able to tell them definitively that the plane was completely wrecked, that there was
no screwup.”

Collins, the deputy director of operations over at the CIA. She was responsible for this. The bitch.

“There was no screwup,” said Rubens.

“It’s for your own good, William,” said Blanders.

“Sir, we’re talking about something that’s at Level Five VRK,” said Rubens.
VKR
meant “very restricted knowledge”—the ultimate compartmentalization. “The team I’m sending in doesn’t even know about the
technology, and they’re my top team.”

“George’s man won’t know anything about it, either,” said Blanders. “What’s the big deal? Assuming the plane really was trashed.”

The president’s gray eyes met Rubens’ and held them. Did he want Rubens out? Were they going to use this as a pretext to bag
him?

“This isn’t a matter of trust, William,” said Hadash.

Rubens turned slowly toward him, deciding not to answer or debate the point—it was obviously already settled.

“If the politicians have any reason to run with this, they’ll compromise Desk Three and a great deal else,” Hadash added.
“We don’t want that.”

“You have someone in mind?” said Rubens.

“I do. His background has already been thoroughly checked. We can trust him. All he needs to do is confirm that the plane
was destroyed. He won’t even know about the original mission, just that he’s to tell me what he sees.”

“We don’t need more CIA people with axes to grind.”

“He’s not. He has no axe to grind; he’s a complete outsider.”

It was possible, just possible, that Hadash was trying to help Rubens. A neutral observer could be trotted out for the Intelligence
Committee and then turned out to pasture without jeopardizing anything.

On the other hand, he could do serious damage gathering ammunition for someone like Collins.

“Who is he?” asked Rubens.

“Charles Dean,” said Hadash.

“Dean? As in
Jihad
Dean?”

Hadash nodded.

Dean had been used on a cooperative venture with the French some months back. An ex-Marine, he had proven himself brave and
resourceful. His background had been thoroughly checked, and he had proven able to keep his mouth shut.

He’d also been a bit slow to figure out what he’d gotten himself involved in. And the project had been opposed by Collins.

So maybe Hadash was helping him out after all.

Or not. Collins might have feigned her opposition. Rubens would have to reconsider what had happened carefully and review
Dean’s background.

Dean didn’t like the CIA—wasn’t that in the transcripts of his conversations?

A cover, perhaps.

“He’ll have to pass the security protocols,” said Rubens. “Briefing only on a need-to-know basis.”

“Of course,” said Hadash.

“If he passes our security tests, fine,” said Rubens.

“Make sure your team waits to examine the plane’s wreckage until he does,” said the president. He rose, and as he did, he
smiled broadly and his shoulders seemed to roll a bit. “So talk to me about wine, Billy. The French ambassador is upstairs
and he’s always trying to one-up our California reds. Walk with me, gentlemen.”

3

“Name?”

“Charles Dean.”

“Middle name?”

“Aloysius.”

“
Real
middle name?”

Dean pursed his lips, hesitating to answer.

“If you think this is hard,” said the man in the black business suit near the door, “just wait.”

“My middle name is Martin,” Dean said. “Charles Martin Dean.”

The technicians sitting in front of him nodded. Dean sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair in his undershirt. A web of thin
wires ran from sensors taped to his chest, back, neck, and both arms. A headband held larger arrays of sensors to both temples.
He felt like an actor in a ’50s Disney movie, transferring his consciousness to a chimp.

Or maybe Mr. Black Suit by the door. Same difference.

“Place of birth?” asked one of the technicians.

“Bosco, Missouri. Population 643, not counting the cows.”

“It would be better if you answered the questions simply,” said the technician on the right. “The process is automated, and
anything the machine can’t interpret will be held against you.”

“Let him ramble,” said Black Suit. “We’ve got nowhere to go.”

Dean started to fold his arms to his chest before remembering the attachments. He put his palms on his thighs instead, willing
himself into something approaching patience while the techies continued with their questioning. As Black Suit had hinted,
this wasn’t the actual interview; all the technicians were doing was calibrating their elaborate lie detectors.

It took them nearly forty minutes to do so. When they were done, Dean asked for a break to hit the head.

“Not now,” said Black Suit. “You’re a Marine. Cross your legs.”

Three hours later, Dean’s bladder had displaced his lungs and was working its way toward his throat. It gave him a bit of
an edge on the questions about his sexual relationships and carried him through the little game Black Suit and the head-shrink
played, peppering him with accusations about how he must really consider himself a failure. But it started to become painful
when they began asking him detailed questions about his belief in God.

Dean wondered what part religion might play in his assignment as George Hadash’s photographic memory. Hadash hadn’t been particularly
profuse in describing what Dean was supposed to do before sending him up here, saying only that he wanted someone he could
trust to take a look at something unpleasant.

Dean had met Hadash years before, back when both were considerably younger. As a Marine, Dean had been assigned to accompany
a young Pentagon visitor around Da Nang for a few days. Hadash proved to be considerably smarter than most of the suits who
came out to look at what Vietnam was all about. He’d also proven himself relatively brave, if somewhat naive, volunteering
to go out in the bush with Dean. Dean took him—a decision that caused him considerable grief with his commander.

But it wasn’t like he and Hadash were best of friends. Hadash got in touch with him a few times after the war, once to tell
some students over at MIT what the jungle was like. Until yesterday morning, he hadn’t even realized Hadash was the country’s
National Security Director.

“You can take a break, Corporal Dean,” said Black Suit finally.

“Yeah, real funny,” said Dean, who had left the Marines as a gunnery sergeant, not a corporal.

Black Suit smiled—the first time he had for the entire session. “Actually, I thought you might finally pee in your pants.”

“I’ll tell you something truthful. When I was a corporal, that was probably the best time of my life,” said Dean as they unhooked
him from the machine. “I should have refused the promotion.”

Dean was taken down the hallway, flanked by two men who accompanied him into the men’s room. They said it was impossible to
go anywhere here without an escort, and under no circumstances to lose his badge with its “V” insignia—someone without a badge
might very well be shot. He thought they might be exaggerating, but he didn’t intend on testing it.

Dean hadn’t volunteered to help Hadash, exactly. Hadash simply called and told him he had a job he needed done immediately.
He just assumed—just
knew
—that Dean would drop everything and do it.

And Dean, for reasons that included $2 million in a Swiss bank account, agreed.

Bladder finally relieved, he emerged from the men’s room feeling invigorated. He girded himself for the second round of questions
as he entered the room, but the shrink and technicians had left. Only Black Suit remained. He looked at the guards and lifted
his forefinger. They nodded like a pair of matched robots, then backed through the door.

“Dinnertime?” Dean sat in the wooden chair.

“Not for you.”

“This where you slap me around a bit, ask if I’m going to come clean?” Dean asked. “Or do you toss down a pack of cigarettes
and offer to split the loot if I talk?”

“You’re a real funny guy, Sergeant.”

“You know what? I’m not a Marine anymore.” Dean stopped himself from saying that he didn’t really care to be reminded of his
days in the service; no sense giving the guy a stick to hit him with. “I’m guessing you were in the Army. I can tell you weren’t
a Marine. And you were an officer. Maybe you still are. A major, right? They always had something up their butts.”

Black Suit smiled.

Dean stretched his legs and wrapped his arms across his chest, starting to feel a little cold in his T-shirt. “So all right,
you asking me more questions or what?”

“We’re done.”

“Same time tomorrow?”

“No. You’re on the job, starting now.”

“You mean I’m hired?” said Dean sardonically as he got up from the chair. “We going to go meet the boss?”

“You don’t have time to meet anyone,” smirked Black Suit. “You have a plane to catch.”

“Where am I going?”

“Eventually, to Surgut.”

“Surgut?”

“You’re a businessman. Your passport and luggage are waiting for you in the foyer upstairs. Your driver will take you to the
airport.”

“Where the hell is Surgut?”

“Don’t ask questions. Just follow the program.”

“Surgut,” Dean demanded.

“It’s in Siberia. But don’t worry; it’s not the really bad part of Siberia.”

4

Eight hours and several time zones later, Charles Dean found himself at the counter of Polish National Airlines in Heath-row
Airport, waiting as one of the ten ugliest women in the world pecked his
nom de passport
into the reservations computer. His handlers had chosen “John Brown” as his cover name, matching it to a cover story claiming
he sold metal and plastic fixtures used for filling teeth. Undoubtedly they knew of his fear of dentistry, though if they
had really wanted to be perverse they might have given him the first name James and sent him out as a record salesman.

“So, Mr. Brown,” said the reservation clerk. “How long will you stay in Warsaw?”

The woman attempted a smile. Dean realized that his initial assessment was incorrect—she must rank among the
five
ugliest women in the world.

“Not long.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“I have a brochure of restaurants,” she said, reaching below the counter.

Dean took the pamphlet stoically, unsure whether the woman was moonlighting for the Polish travel board or—and here was a
frightening thought—trying to pick him up. When he looked at the pamphlet a few minutes later in the boarding area, he saw
that two words separated by several paragraphs in the densely packed jungle of ungrammatical English had been underlined—“King”
and “Street.”

His instructions had been to simply use his plane tickets and he would be contacted along the way. This couldn’t be their
way of contacting him, could it?

King Street?

But what else could it be?

Dean took the brochure and stepped away from the desk. Was King Street a destination or a code word?

He made a circuit around the mall of newsstands, fast-food shops, and currency exchanges, walking slowly to let anyone interested
in contacting him do so. When no one stopped him, he went across to the baggage check-in area, checking the suitcase he’d
been given. Upstairs, he cleared through security and walked down the hallway to a duty-free area that reminded him of a massive
department store. As he headed toward the airline gate, he realized that “King Street” might refer to a display of some sort—booze
or perfume, maybe. So he went back through more carefully, perusing the pyramids of Chivas Regal and Baileys, stopping by
the Bulova watches, sniffing the Chanel. The only one who came close to him was a three-year-old German girl trying to escape
from her mother. He made his way down the tunnel to the gate, where the stiff plastic seats were about a quarter filled. His
carry-on baggage contained sales material relating to his dental cover story; he’d managed to read through it twice on the
flight over. He was just debating whether to try a third time when a middle-aged doppelganger for Porky Pig—had Porky Pig
worn a goatee—pushed down into the seat beside him. Dean noticed that the man had a wire-bound street atlas of Krakow in his
open briefcase.

“Hate Polish National,” said Porky, in what to Dean sounded like a Scottish accent. His light tan loafers were made of thin,
expensive-looking leather, but the material of his blue suit pants had begun to pile.

“Yeah,” replied Dean.

“Have you flown it?”

“Never before,” said Dean. “First time to Poland.”

Which was about the only part of his cover story that was actually true.

Porky told Dean that he was a barrister for a reinsurance company, heading to Poland to depose witnesses in a negligence case.
He frowned slightly when Dean gave him his fake name and cover. Few people wanted to talk about dental fixtures, though Dean
wondered what he would do if he ran into a dentist.

“Staying in Krakow?” asked Porky.

“Just a quick business meeting.”

“Then where?”

“Russia,” said Dean. “It’s wide open for braces. And cosmetic fillings—we have no quality competition. Our crowns are among
the best.”

“I’ll bet.” Porky changed the subject to the weather.

As they were talking, a petite Asian woman took a seat across from them. Her pale white hose pulled Dean’s eyes up her legs
to a short red miniskirt. Above it she wore a mostly unbuttoned black silk shirt beneath a faded denim jacket. Her milk-white
neck and slim face managed to look somehow vulnerable and bored at the same time.

Their eyes met; the woman’s frown deepened instantly. Dean smiled. The woman got up from the seat, shaking her head as she
walked away.

“Mostly what I do,” said Porky, who had changed the subject once more as Dean indulged in a little gratuitous lust, “is take
depositions. Industrial cases. Defective jackhammers, faulty pressure valves, that sort of thing.”

“Intriguing,” said Dean.

“Yes.”

Porky started detailing his current case, concerning a railroad company that was being sued by passengers, or rather the survivors
of passengers, after a coupling failed on a brake system, with horrific results.

The story was about as interesting as dental fillings. Was this guy the agent who was supposed to contact him?

Dean interrupted a finely wrought description of pneu- matic couplings to ask if he could look at the street atlas in Porky’s
briefcase.

“Sure.” Porky’s sandwich-sized hands jammed against the sides of his briefcase as he unwedged it. The atlas had a few pages
creased over, but Dean got the distinct impression the creases had been added to make it look used. He studied the city.

“Maybe I can help,” said Porky. “What are you looking for?”

Dean said, “King Street,” and waited for Porky to tear himself out of his fat suit and reveal himself as an American agent.
But he did neither, instead scratching his thumb against his temple. “King in English or Polish?”

“Don’t worry. Somebody’s meeting me at the airport,” said Dean.

He glanced at his watch, then decided he’d hit the gents’ before boarding the Polish plane. Excusing himself, he wandered
across the waiting area to the hall with the rest rooms. He entered the men’s room and was just positioning the strap of his
carry-on against his shoulder when someone else came in; the sharp click of heels against the floor caught Dean’s attention
and he glanced over his shoulder.

It was the Asian woman.

“Hey,” he started to say.

“Into the stall,” she said.

“What the hell?”

The woman leaned toward the sink and waved her hand in front of the faucet. Its motion sensor clicked and water spewed from
the tap.

“The stall,” she said, pointing.

“Wait up.”

The door opened once again. As Dean glanced toward it the woman took two quick steps to him and wrapped herself around him,
her mouth seeking his.

Even if her accent hadn’t given her away as an American, Charlie Dean was hardly the sort to forgo a kiss, even if it was
offered in a men’s room. Still, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation.

Nor was the man who’d come in to use the facilities for their intended purpose. He retreated hastily, the door slamming behind
him. In the meantime, the woman had begun pushing Dean backward toward the last toilet stall.

“Uh, what’s go—”

She slapped him.

“Idiot,” she hissed, reaching over and waving her hand in front of the flush sensor.

“What the hell’s the story?”

“Idiot,” she repeated. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small, round makeup case. “Here.”

Dean took the case. He turned it over and then opened it. There was nothing inside, so he started to give it back. She grabbed
it from him, opened it, then pushed it in front of his face.

“What, my five o’clock shadow?” he asked.

“Just shut up.”

Something about the mirror wasn’t right. The woman tilted it slightly, clicked something on the back, then frowned and shook
her head as she pocketed it.

“Retina scan?” he asked, finally catching on.

“Did they recruit you off the street?” the woman asked. “Or is it just that you’re from Texas?”

“Do I sound like I’m from Texas?”

“You sound like you’re from the planet Moron,” said the woman.

“Well, don’t let that stop you from explaining who the hell you are,” Dean told her.

“Santa Claus. Now why the hell are you talking to a Russian agent?”

“Who?”

“You idiot. The fat boy sitting next to you in the waiting area works for the Russian Security Service.”

“He does?”

“Listen, do me a favor and go home, okay? I don’t have time to baby-sit an NSC wanna-be.”

“Fuck you.”

“Gee, Chuckie, what a clever comeback. That wow ’em back in Houston?”

“I don’t come from Texas.”

“I know where you’re from.” She glanced toward the door of the rest room, as if she heard someone coming. “Yeah,” she said
to herself. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Okay.”

Dean strung his carry-on bag over his shoulder. Except for the fact that she obviously knew who he was, he might have thought
the woman psycho.

Not that those were mutually exclusive propositions.

“Just go catch your flight,” she told him, turning back around and pointing. “When you get there, in the terminal, go to Gate
Two. Gate Two—you can count that high?”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I don’t have a ticket beyond Poland. I’m supposed to be going to Surgut, but no one gave me a ticket.”

“You
are
from Texas. Just buy a ticket on the first flight on the board.”

“That’s going to take me to Surgut?”

“Buy a ticket on the first flight on the board.” She pushed open the door to the stall. “Good-bye.”

The door to the men’s room opened before Charlie could grab her. “Ooo-la-la,” said the newcomer, watching her leave.

“Yeah, ooo-fucking-la,” said Dean.