Once a Spy (35 page)

Locks were heard popping open within the wall.

10

The first
shot sounded high caliber, like the rounds in battle footage. As the report resounded along the raw cement corridors of the complex, Charlie envisioned a zealous Karpenko brandishing some sort of shoulder-mounted cannon, and he felt like jumping for joy. With his hands cuffed behind him to the handles of the heavy refrigerator and freezer, he could barely move.

More weapons joined in. Among the blasts and jolts, bullets hissed, whined, and pinged off the walls and floors. Things began to pop and shatter, building to one continuous, deafening peal. To Charlie it was a symphony. Lights flickered and a fog of dust rolled into the employee lounge.

Suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch, the shooting ceased. The complex settled, the familiar hum of the ventilators and fluorescents returned, and the air regained most of its clarity.

Charlie heard someone approaching the employee lounge. He pictured himself momentarily giving Grudzev a bear hug.

Dewart batted through a dust cloud and entered the lounge. His face was streaked with perspiration and blood. A fragment of ceiling tile clung to the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he said flatly.

Charlie was too stunned to muster even that much in response.

Dewart uncuffed him from the refrigerator, nudged him aside, and opened the door. He lunged in for a fresh bottle of Gatorade and drained most of it with his first gulp.

Charlie got out, “What happened?”

Dewart wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “We had three men to their four. They had vastly superior weapons. But one of the guards here was alerted in time for us to put a couple of rifles on tripods and wait inside the tunnel entrance. You see, criminals without qualms about nuclear devastation is a key demographic of ours, so one of their men was really one of our men.” Dewart flicked a hand at the hallway.

To Charlie’s shock, Karpenko appeared, hauling a giant assault rifle. As most PlayStation veterans would have, Charlie recognized the iconic AK-74 fitted with a big-mouthed underbarrel grenade launcher. Despite the burden, Karpenko stood more erect than usual, his jaw no longer jutting and his eyes shining with intelligence in place of the usual demonic possession.

“Fortunately, Charlie Clark, you have qualms about nuclear devastation,” Karpenko said. His accent was now no more Russian than Charlie’s. “You went to elaborate lengths to convince us you were the new town gossip, but all you really did was give Grudzev vague details. None of his surviving goons know anything of consequence. And now we’ll be able to spin it so I can get in with Bernie Solntsevskaya, who’s a much greater threat than Grudzev ever was.” The past tense slapped Charlie. “Also, the way things worked out, we were able to save Pitman.”

Charlie reflected that his rescue mission had amounted to saving the life of a traitor, almost certainly at the cost of his own life. Through a thick gloom, he said, “Super. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

11

The interior
of the Blue Lion Pub was paneled in mismatched sheets of dark wood, all nail-gunned into place, many of them warped. The effect was more utility shed than pub. Alice had chosen the Blue Lion for its view across Broadway onto West 112th. She’d been sitting by herself in a window booth for half an hour, nursing a pint of Guinness while immersed in a copy of the free weekly she’d taken from the pile in the entryway. Or so the wizened barkeep and three solitary drinkers were meant to think.

Really she was using the neon Rolling Rock bottle in the window as camouflage of sorts while watching the Perriman Appliances building. Earlier she’d followed Cranch there from the heliport. The night vision lenses in her otherwise superfluous eyeglasses allowed her to see him admitted from the dark vestibule to the Perriman reception area by a young man who wore a powder-blue Columbia rugby shirt—but probably was no Columbia student. Although baby faced, he had that boxy build indigenous to ex-military contract agents.

Her job now was to determine the right time to send in her backup unit, augmented shortly after Cranch’s arrival by sixteen SOCOM weapons and tactical specialists, all of them in dark gray Nomex jumpsuits with body armor vests, Twaron/Kevlar helmets with protective face covering, night-vision goggles, gas masks, and combat steel-reinforced boots. They were armed with either nine-millimeter Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns or Remington 870 shotguns. All carried semiautomatic handguns as well. Their tactical aids included a battering ram, flash bang grenades, Stingers, tear gas grenades, and—probably most
useful of all—extension poles with mirrors on the ends for looking around corners without putting the looker in the line of fire. If the Clark exfiltration went according to plan, they would need to fire only a couple of paintball guns. The paintballs were packed with oleoresin capsicum, an upmarket pepper spray.

Alice had no expectation that things would go according to plan. In her experience on such ops, Murphy’s Law was a good-case scenario. Her “go” order was to be decided by a number of variables and protocols perhaps best summed up, by her backup unit’s chief, as “whenever you feel the time’s right.”

Shortly after the tactical team arrived, she’d watched Fielding enter the vestibule, then use a key to admit himself to the Perriman offices. She itched to send a couple of troops rappelling through a plate glass window and into the rogue’s face, but the time still wasn’t right.

A few minutes later, a lanky young man who reeked of the Farm prodded in Charlie. Given what Alice had gleaned of his travails, Charlie appeared in great shape. She again refrained from issuing any orders; Drummond still might be en route or somewhere else altogether. Also, she could afford to hold off because Cranch needed time for his act.

When four men parked a van, studied Perriman as if casing the place, then broke into the neighboring apartment building carrying a fifth man who appeared to be unconscious, she still lacked sufficient cause to order in her team. Upon hearing faint but unmistakable bursts of AK fire, however, a vegetable would have known it was time.

“It’s Desdemona with a green light,” she said into her cell.

“Desdemona, we’ve just been ordered to go home,” came the voice of her backup unit’s chief.

“You’re kidding? By who? Nick Fielding?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, on conference with the interim national security advisor.”

“What about our cable to HQ?”

“Pending investigation by the inspector general. Meanwhile, our top brass were briefed by the director of the CIA and now they’re basically telling us, ‘Yeah, Nick Fielding’s
supposed
to be a bad guy—it’s his cover.’”

Alice was incredulous. “Great, he’ll probably win an award,” she said.

Before she could begin to ask any of the questions flooding her mind, the bell on the pub’s entry door jingled. Two young men in Columbia sweatshirts strolled in.

“Hang on,” she whispered into the phone. “Looks like a couple of boys are about to hit on me.”

Sure enough, the young men wandered toward her booth. They wore no coats though the night was arctic. In all probability, she thought, she’d been hit-listed at Echelon or the like. They’d rushed from wherever they’d been lurking when she made her cell phone call.

“We need to talk, Ms. Rutherford,” said the stouter of the two.

“Sorry, angel, you got the wrong girl.”

“It’s okay, Alice, we work for the same uncle you do.”

She believed him. The issue was the thinner man’s hand, inching past his hip and toward the back of his waist.

“I’m not Alice Rutherford, but I’m looking for her,” she said. “I’m Rita Hayworth-Thomas, with National Recon. Here’s my ID.” She flung a cardboard coaster.

Hardly an air-cushioned Bicycle, it wobbled in flight. It slapped the thinner man in the wrist, barely inhibiting him as he drew a silenced SIG Sauer. But it caused a slight delay, allowing her to loose the Beretta from her shoulder bag and fire first. Her bullet hit his knee as he fired. He fell into the next booth, vanishing behind the high seat back. His round bored past her shoulder and into the top of her seat back, creating a cloud of sawdust.

The other man produced a SIG as well. She shot at him while diving for the cover of the bar. When she came down, her head exploded—or felt like it had. The world began to fade. Just before it went black, she glimpsed the barkeep standing over her, gripping a baseball bat.

12

Fielding sat
in one of the comfortable Naugahyde recliners in the observation room, puffing a Señora Dominguez cigar. On the other side of the two-way mirror, at the head of the conference room table, Cranch was getting started. His white lab coat, usually crisp and immaculate, was rumpled. He’d traveled for much of the night, first in the vintage motor launch, which made him seasick; then for three turbulent hours in a small jet; and finally in a helicopter buffeted by a snowstorm. Still, he radiated energy and enthusiasm. He would have flown to the moon on his own dime, Fielding supposed, for the opportunity to crack Drummond Clark.

Drummond was still handcuffed to the theoretically uncomfortable chair at the foot of the conference table. A pneumographic tube had been fitted around his chest to measure his respiration rate, a cuff had been inflated around his left bicep to gauge his blood pressure and pulse, and galvanometers had been clamped onto two of his fingers to detect sweat gland activity. The sensors were wired into Cranch’s laptop computer, which was linked to a monitor in the observation room.

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Clark?” Cranch asked.

“No, but someone said this is the Manhattan Project complex. I’d very much like to see it.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No, will I need a ticket?”

Fielding glanced at his monitor. The polygraph registered no deception.

“Actually, I was hoping to ask you about Placebo,” Cranch said.

“Placebo?”

“The covert operation. Do you know of it?”

“No.”

Again, as far as the polygraph could determine, Drummond’s response was truthful.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Clark, I need to ask a few meaningless questions, just to make sure this system is properly calibrated. Could you tell me, please, what year it is?”

“1995.”

The yellow, red, and green lines running across Fielding’s monitor were identical to those of the previous responses.

“Actually, Mr. Clark, 1995 was a little while ago,” Cranch said. “Of course everybody forgets the date now and then, right?”

Drummond sighed. “Tell me about it.”

“Actually, it’s 2004.”

“Oh, right, of course.”

“I mean, 2009.”

“Oh, right, right, right.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” Cranch said.

He signaled, and O’Shea opened the door, letting him out. He disappeared into the maze of corridors. A moment later, he trudged into the observation room.

“It’s no act,” he told Fielding.

“I’m not so sure,” Fielding said. “If you hook me up to the poly, I can explain in great detail how purple two-headed men from Pluto and I traveled from another time and shot JFK, and it would read as gospel truth. A number of us can temper our responses that way.” He pointed through the mirror.
“He
was our teacher.”

“This isn’t an issue of true or false,” Cranch said. “It’s been proven that even subjects with the utmost training and ability respond on some level to meaningful stimuli more vigorously than to nonmeaningful stimuli. If the senility is artifice, and I say something he purports to know nothing about at random, he has no time to ready his defenses. If the information is meaningful to him, like the current year, the polygraph detects it; 2009 read as no more meaningful to him than 1995. If
he’d known that it was in fact 2009 …” Cranch sank into one of the recliners.

“Okay, so he isn’t lucid—where does that leave us?” Fielding asked, even though Cranch’s deflated look alone probably provided the answer.

“He won’t be able to answer our questions.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind sitting here in this comfortable chair and enjoying my cigar until he blinks on. The one little hitch is he may have written down details compromising our
entire operation
—then placed what he wrote in a dead drop somewhere between here and Virginia, to be serviced any minute by God knows who. Isn’t there something you can pump into him so we have a chance of finding out at least that much?”

Cranch shrugged. “Even if we were to penetrate his defenses with an absolutely perfect combination of sodium amytal and thiopental or secobarbital, we’d be asking for information he’s incapable of retrieving, whether he wants to or not. Also, because methedrine—or a comparable stimulant—is a necessary component in a truth cocktail, we’d risk ratcheting him to acutely confusional on a permanent basis.”

Fielding took a long drag of his cigar. He barely tasted it. “I don’t suppose there’s anything on earth—no contraption, no holistic remedy, no prehistoric fish extract—that can spark lucidity?”

“Not really,” Cranch said.

Fielding saw a glimmer of hope. “‘Not really’ is different from ‘no,’ isn’t it?”

Cranch’s lips tightened. “It was done. Once. In 1916.”

“1916?
By who, Dr. Frankenstein?”

“A Dr. Lovenhart at the University of Wisconsin. He was experimenting with respiratory stimulants, and to his amazement, a catatonic patient, after being injected with sodium cyanide, opened his eyes and answered a few basic questions. It was the first time he’d said a word in months. But immediately thereafter, due to complications inherent with sodium cyanide, he dropped dead.”

Fielding stabbed his cigar into the ashtray. “Good, now we have a Plan D.”

“There are other, more conventional methods,” Cranch said with
enthusiasm, but it felt synthetic. “We can try making him comfortable. Playing music has been shown to reduce stress hormones in the blood, which has a tranquilizing effect on the limbic system. Reflexology can—”