Deep Black (34 page)

84

Rubens slid into the backseat of the director’s car, snapping on his seat belt as the door closed behind him. The Russian
“coup”—and Kurakin’s plot to blind the American defense system—had been quashed three days ago, but he was still drained.
They’d only stood down from their high-level alert twelve hours before.

The Russian defense minister had gone public with the whole story, not coincidentally announcing his candidacy to oppose Kurakin.
The president maintained that it was Perovskaya who was trying to subvert democracy, and claimed that the president’s bodyguards
had successfully intervened to thwart an attempt on the defense minister’s life.

There was sentiment at the White House that some of the NSA data should be released, proving that Kurakin was a liar. But
Rubens had argued vehemently against that. It would make it clear exactly how extensive the Russian communications network
and defense system had been penetrated. Things were always best left murky.

In the convoluted world of Russian politics, it wasn’t clear that Kurakin’s attempt to short-circuit the electoral process
would actually harm him. It might even help him. The photos of the defense minister and the young lad had not yet surfaced.
It was possible that Kurakin was holding them in reserve.

There were some who wanted to tip Perovskaya off to their existence. Perhaps that would be the play; Rubens had not yet given
the matter much thought.

The Russians had protested the strikes on their laser weapons. But since they were loath to admit that they had such weapons—which
would have been tantamount to saying that Kurakin had lied when he said they didn’t—all they could do was mutter a few terse
words to the secretary of state about the “unexplained” destruction of facilities “east of the Urals.”

The secretary had made sure to look very perplexed as he promised to look into the matter.

Martin’s death made it impossible to know how badly Wave Three had been compromised. Wave Three was too important a technology
to keep on permanent hold, but its use now had become highly problematic and would have to be rethought.

As for Martin himself, a full-blown investigation was already under way to determine what damage he had done, and to answer
such questions as whether he had been turned or come in as a spy. He was a contract agent, a technical expert recruited for
his skills, and not one of Rubens’ Desk Three people—but that was hardly a consolation.

Problems for another day.

“Congratulations,” said Brown as the car started away from the White House. “I think your report was very well received.”

“Yes.”

“A new era in warfare.” Brown smiled as he repeated the president’s phrase. “An exaggeration, but not unappreciated. ‘A new
era in covert action and intelligence gathering.’ That was more accurate. Tired?”

“Yes,” admitted Rubens.

“It’s better that it happens this way,” said Brown.

“Agreed.”

“No sudden doubts?”

“No, sir, no doubts at all,” said Rubens.

“I mean, because it’s your cousin.”

“No,” he said, and yet he suddenly wasn’t sure.

“She’ll expect us?” asked Brown.

“Not us, no. But I think it much better if you’re here.”

It had been Brown’s idea to come along. The suggestion could be interpreted as an offer of friendship. Surely it was—his boss
seemed to genuinely like him.

Did he, though? Why? What would Admiral Brown, NSA director, get from a friendship with his second in command—a second in
command whom he hadn’t chosen?

Ammunition to dump him?

A paranoid thought, surely. But paranoia was necessary to survive. Suspicion was the most important quality a man could have.

Greta was waiting in front of the restaurant just as they had agreed. As the driver pulled up, Rubens pushed the button to
roll down the window.

“There you are,” she said.

“You might want to get in,” he told her.

Greta blanched. Nonetheless, she reached for the door. Brown, meanwhile, got out and went to sit in the front. The driver
lowered the glass partition as he got in.

“I don’t believe you know my superior, Admiral Brown.”

“By reputation only,” said Greta.

She gave him the sort of smile a politician gives a constituent whose face he can’t place. Brown smiled at her, then said
something to the driver. The partition went back up as the driver pulled away.

“I’ve figured out how Greene died,” said Rubens.

Greta didn’t answer. Rubens took this to mean that she knew as well. Probably she had known from the beginning.

“Why would you sleep with a congressman?” he asked.

It was a bluff—Rubens had no evidence of an affair, nothing to back it up. But he also felt strongly that it must be so. It
was the only motivation if Greene had in fact been murdered.

Which he believed must be so.

“Oh, it was years ago. Back when I worked at HUD. I was young.”

Rubens let it pass, though he knew she must be lying. Either Greene’s talk about firing her was a smoke screen to cover up
the affair, or it was intended as blackmail to keep her from breaking it off.

“I’ve never really been able to control Jack’s passions,” said Greta. “He’s not like us. It’s so—well, he was a mistake, wasn’t
he?”

Rubens said nothing.

“How long before this comes out?” she asked.

“There are FBI agents en route to search your house, though I doubt they’ll find anything,” said Rubens. “They’ll question
Jack, of course. He should be in custody by now.”

“The media?”

“I couldn’t say. I thought you’d want to be informed.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, smiling as if it might actually be true. “Where are you taking me?”

“Wherever you want.”

Rubens felt an impulse to say something encouraging. Assuming Jack kept his mouth shut, prosecuting the case would be difficult
at best, even with all the pressure from Congress. As yet, there was only circumstantial evidence that the guitar had been
tampered with. Acting on Rubens’ hunch, however, the FBI had uncovered travel records showing that Jack had been in New York
at least once when the band was. They were interviewing possible witnesses there, as well as rein-terviewing people who had
been at the party.

The FBI agents had also realized—and Rubens had known, though not made the connection—that the CEO had started his life’s
work as an electrical engineer.

An honorable profession, surely, one that supplied much useful knowledge about how to cause freak accidents.

A coincidence, no doubt.

It had taken the coup for Rubens to see it all, though it had happened right in front of him. The misdirection play, the obvious
pattern overlooked—intelligence was more a matter of imagination than data. If you couldn’t imagine something happening, you
couldn’t understand what you were looking at.

“Maybe you should drop me off back at the office,” said Greta. “I’m going to resign this afternoon. Go out on a high note.
Faithful wife, all that.”

And strongly imply that he was guilty. A perfect outcome, surely.

Rubens buzzed the driver, who took a turn back toward the government buildings.

“Did you know about it in advance?” Rubens asked his cousin as they drove.

“You think I’d tell you if I did?”

He smiled. “If I wanted to, I could find out.”

“I bet you could.”

85

“Is there anyone here for Flight 102? Flight 102 for New York?”

The flight number didn’t register until the woman added the destination. Dean put up his right arm sheepishly, wincing not
from shyness but from the stiffness in his arm. His whole body still hurt, unused to the workout of the past several days,
and stiff from a succession of puddle-jumpers whose seats were little more than folding chairs with seat belts. He’d arrived
at Heathrow Three after eighteen hours of airplane flights. Ostensibly the tangled course he’d followed from Moscow had sanitized
his trail, though Dean strongly suspected the convoluted track—he’d been in Poland, the Czech Republic, Austria, and Norway—represented
some sort of bargain fare bonanza for the NSA.

But at least for the flight across the Atlantic he was taking a
real
airline.

“Your flight is boarding now, sir,” said the attendant with an English accent. “Could you step this way?”

Dean shambled over to the ticket counter with the cover luggage he’d been given and told the clerk his name. The man had a
bit of trouble with it at first; Dean spelled it twice.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Dean—here you are. Sorry, sir, quite sorry—Catherine, could you please escort Mr. Dean to the gate upstairs?
I’ll make sure they know you’re coming.”

An attractive young woman appeared at Dean’s right. With a deferential smile she led him toward the escalator up to the gate
level. Dean followed along through a side door of the security checkpoint, over to his own personal detector. He gave the
woman and two guards a bemused smile as he emptied his change into a small Tupperware container, then stepped through the
boxy gate. The attendant beamed back at him every few feet as she treaded him through the crowded duty-free shopping area.
Finally they made it to the moving walkway, a long hall with windows looking out at the airplanes.

“Thanks. I would’ve gotten lost back there,” he told the woman as she stepped onto the walkway ahead of him. She just smiled.
“I think I can find my way from here,” he added when she didn’t get the hint.

“Oh, not to worry, sir,” she said indulgently. “We’re almost there.”

She was short, but she had a quick pace and he had to push his stiff legs to keep up as they dodged more leisurely travelers.
He’d slept for nearly twenty-four hours in Moscow at the end of the operation, but he still felt exhausted.

He also felt very, very old.

They hadn’t said good-bye. Lia and Karr and Fashona were gone from the safe house when he woke. In their place a dour-faced
CIA agent took him to breakfast at McDonald’s, then drove him to the airport after supplying him with baggage, a proper passport,
and travel documents, along with a list of his flights. The man hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself.

He hadn’t known where the others were and, in fact, didn’t seem to know who they were, or at least didn’t admit knowing. When
Dean asked what had happened to them the CIA agent merely shrugged. “Assignment, probably,” was all he said.

Dean would have liked to say good-bye. He’d come to like Karr—hell, it was hard to dislike Karr, even though his goofy smile
could get on your nerves sometimes.

And Lia—Lia he liked a lot, though not necessarily for her personality.

Actually, her personality
was
attractive, underneath the tough-girl thing she did. But she probably had to play it that way or she wouldn’t survive. She
was a good kid.

A good
woman
.

Dean’s mind wandered as they made it to the end of the walkway. His guide picked up her pace, strolling down the long hallway
toward the departure gate. She had nice legs and beautiful hips—but she wasn’t as pretty as Lia.

“Here you go,” she said, sweeping her hand out as they reached the gate area, a separate waiting room off the passage. “Have
a nice flight.”

“Thanks,” said Dean.

The last of the passengers were just getting past a final security check at the far end of the room as he entered. A familiar
voice seemed to hit him on the side of the head as he came in the room.

“Just turn the damn thing on, for christsakes. You never heard of an on-off switch?”

Lia DeFrancesca was standing to one side of the door leading to the boarding tunnel, shaking her head as a ham-fisted guard
tried to turn her handheld on to make sure it was really a computer.

“Here,” she said, grabbing the computer from the guard. “God. On. Off. On, off.”

“She’s always cranky in the morning,” said Dean, walking up. “And in the afternoon. Pretty much around the clock.”

Surprise flickered across her face when she turned her head to him, but only for a second.

“Stuff it, Charlie Dean.” She turned back and disappeared down the runway.

“Lovely personality,” Dean said to the attendant.

The airline employee nodded, then took Dean’s boarding pass.

“Oh, yes, sir,” he said, his voice gaining a little snap. “You’ll want to get aboard right away, sir.”

Dean took the ticket back. At the door to the airplane, the attendant took the pass, smiled, then led him inside.

“Champagne, sir?” she said, standing to one side at the head of the first-class section.

“Uh, champagne, sure,” said Dean. He started toward the back of the plane.

“Your seat’s right there, sir,” said the attendant. She smiled and pointed toward a wide, thick, soft first-class seat.

“Really?” said Dean. He hadn’t bothered looking at the pass downstairs.

The attendant turned her head slightly in a way that suggested either utter servitude or well-disguised contempt. Dean opted
to believe it was the former. He turned and started to back into the seat, feeling more out of place than he had even in Siberia.
He’d never flown first class before.

“Try not to act too much like a rube,” said Lia, who had the seat next to him. She was wearing her denim jacket over a short
black skirt and chiffon top so thin he could see the delicious outline of her breast. It was going to be a great flight.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Dean.

“Yes,” she snapped. “What luck.”

The attendant poured them champagne and the video screens began showing the preflight warnings and service advertisements.
The other passengers settled into their seats.

“A whole bottle of champagne,” said Dean admiringly. He turned to Lia. “A successful—uh.” He stopped, not wanting to say “mission”
where he might be overheard.

“A successful what, baby-sitter?” she said.

“Don’t you ever give it up?” he said.

She smirked. Then she leaned toward him and gave him a kiss.

“Hey, none of that,” boomed a voice behind them.

Karr poked his head over the seats.

“Karr, what are you doing here?” asked Lia.

“Chaperoning, obviously.”

“We’re all on the same flight?” asked Dean.

“Duh,” said Lia.

“Some coincidence, huh?” said Karr, sliding back down. “I guess we’re all supposed to go to the same place.”

“Life’s full of coincidences,” said Lia.

“You know, I’ve never flown first class,” said Dean.

“I couldn’t tell,” said Lia.

“This the way you guys always travel?”

“Yeah, right,” said Lia. “We’re lucky we’re not shoveling coal in the bottom of a boat.”

“So how did we end up here?” said Dean.

“That’s actually a pretty good question,” said Lia. They both turned back to Karr.

His only answer was to smile and sip his champagne.