Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (34 page)

“As quickly as you can,” Oliver told him. “In the meantime I'll get our people over there.”

“Won't they be closed at this hour?” Bingo asked.

“They can open.”

Chapter Forty-one

Entering Admiral Cotton's office
a minute later, Oliver said, “Frost's even cleverer than I gave him credit for. I mean, a man has to be very clever indeed to be this unpredictable.” After explaining Frost's ruse to the senior officer, he added, “I'm sure he chose Naples not in spite of but because of its well-polished rep for corruption. He could accomplish what he had to there. Anyone watching him, meanwhile, would be left to draw the inevitable conclusion we did.”

Cotton shook his head in disbelief. “It's a lot to reckon with. And, of course, it remains a surmise, doesn't it?”

“Technically I suppose it does, but the geeks have gathered an awful lot of facts to support it.”

“Those kids!” Cotton exclaimed. “They never cease to amaze. When I was a boy, there was a run of films about aliens arriving on earth from outer space and taking control of all the levers of power. Some of them were so realistic they gave you nightmares for weeks. Who could have imagined that those aliens would turn out to be our own children?”

“You don't hack, yourself?” Oliver inquired with a smile.

“I'm afraid not.”

“I'm surprised.”

The admiral laughed. “I've fat fingers, as the young would say. I did try following the keystrokes of one of them once as he worked his magic at War College, but when it came my turn to input the data, the program simply ‘jumped off into never-never land'—at least that's how he put it.”

Oliver's phone rang as the admiral finished. The fleeting blue light showed that it was in secure mode, with a randomly generated encryption key. “Yes,” he answered.

“Commander Molyneux, this is George Kenneth,” said the cordial if businesslike voice on the other end of the connection.

“Dr. Kenneth,” Oliver replied, laughing suddenly to himself when he recalled that that had also been the name of his mother's gynecologist.

“Where are we?” Kenneth inquired.

When Oliver had brought him up to speed, he added, “I don't know where we'd be without Ty or the computer jocks. It's been a good team.”

“That was the intention,” George Kenneth said. “Look, Oliver, I appreciate how far you guys have come.”

“But we're coming down to the wire—”

“Very rapidly,” interrupted the President's National Security Advisor, “and we're placing all our bets on one possibility. What if we've guessed wrong?”

“You don't doubt that Frost's our man?” Oliver asked edgily.

Kenneth hesitated. “No, not really, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility that he isn't.”

“You wouldn't? Come on, if there really are loose warheads—which, granted, no one's seen—and if Santal was involved in capturing and brokering them, Frost has to be involved, too. Otherwise what in hell is he doing on both sides of the equation? Facilitating Santal's plan, whatever it was, whatever it
is.
That's what! Any other premise flies in the face of reason.”

“Are you that sure you've considered them all?”

“Don't be gormless,” Oliver said.

“Watch it, Commander,” Kenneth snapped.

“Sorry,” Oliver replied, “but there's absolutely no evidence that points elsewhere and lots that points to Frost.”

“No one suggested abandoning surveillance of him, but we have only so many eyes and ears, human or electronic, and we have to keep a certain number of them free for and alert to other scenarios. We can't be caught flat-footed.”

“By what? Phantoms? If we were bound for a court of law, I might be inclined to agree with you. Right now, though, it isn't proof we need, but information. Our goal is to prevent a transaction, not convict anyone for it later on.”

“Frost called me,” Kenneth said.

“Is he in the habit of doing that?”

“No, but it's not without precedent. We
have
known each other for a long time. I recollect telling you that.”

“I'm all ears.”

“The CEO of Claussen Inc. had written to Ian Santal, worried that his company's whiter-than-white reputation was being tarred by its involvement in a deal Santal had put them into.”

“That deal wouldn't happen to be the redevelopment of a missile installation into a resort near the Strait of Kerch?”

“Of course it would. Against that incriminating fact, one must question why Frost would contact me. He said it was because Claussen's CEO had copied the Secretary of State on his letter to Ian Santal, no doubt to register his purity and protect the company's many international licenses. But I think Frost called me because he was trying to protect Ian Santal. He as much as admitted that Santal had cut it close on occasion. Afterward I began to wonder if we might not have been a bit cynical about Philip. He
is
planning to marry Santal's goddaughter, after all.”

“I didn't know that,” Oliver said.

“Why would you? Mind you, I am only suggesting, not positing, that what appear to be the actions of a very guilty man might be explained as no more than those of a young man in love.”

“There's another possibility,” Oliver said.

“That Frost is playing me?” George Kenneth replied.

“Spot on.”

“I would have heard it in his voice.”

“Have you spoken to the President about this?”

“Of course, and he's put the ball in my court.”

“The flow of funds would seem pretty conclusive,” Oliver suggested.

“It's a complicated world of complicated people doing complicated things. More than one interpretation could be valid.”

Oliver drew a deep breath. “Cards on the table?” he said. “I believe that from very early on in their deal Philip Frost intended to skim, using an account in Vienna to do so. I further believe that the de Novo Fund, suddenly flush with other money, was actually purpose-built as a conduit for the sale of the missing warheads. Santal must have become suspicious of Frost and made that obvious, catalyzing Frost's own suspicion of Santal, an apprehension that grew into a fear that led to murder. If that's what happened, he will wind up his business as quickly as he can. So we have no time to lose painting in pictures of the conspiracy, or trying to plumb or game it further. We have to act else, before we know it, the warheads will have vanished from our grasp once and for all.”

“Slower, please,” George Kenneth insisted. “Supposing he did manage to wind up his business, what would he do then?”

“I don't know. My guess is that he would tie up any loose ends, perhaps first by marrying Isabella Cavill, as apparently he told you he planned on doing. Then, for the time being, he would probably go dark.”

“Finished?”

“Not quite, but it's your turn.”

“These warheads have been around a long time,” George Kenneth said, his tone of voice suddenly remote and professorial. “In fact, the International Atomic Energy Authority recorded 1,562 incidents where nuclear material was lost or stolen between 1993 and 2008, mostly in the former Soviet Union, and sixty-five percent of those losses were never recovered. What haven't been around until recently are people who would use them. Which raises the question: How do sane men deter madness?”

“You're only proving my point.”

“What I'm proving is that we have to be like a Cyclops, with an eye in all directions.”

“This is not the time to dilute the strength of our effort,” Oliver said.

“Is that your decision or mine?”

“I can tell you what you ought to do,” Oliver said. “You ought to hoover those funds right out from under them as quickly as you can. Don't tell me that that's impossible! I've been with a few of your players lately, as you well know. I have a pretty damned good idea what's possible.”

George Kenneth snickered. “There is a larger view to be taken,” he said, with a calm Oliver found distressing.

“Not in this instance.”

“Again, who is to decide that?”

“The man you work for, I would have thought,” replied Oliver. “How could the stakes be greater? If you were to seize their funds, they would be bound to panic and almost certainly make mistakes. Their plan would grind to at least a temporary halt. What else could it do? So we'd buy time as well as very likely gain the opening we need.”

“Take a deep breath and think about it, Commander. Even if we do have genies on a leash, we can't just let them slip. To do so would be to confirm that we possess capabilities best left unconfirmed, but that's the least of it. Stealing that money could well destroy the fragile faith that underlies the whole modern economy. No transfer would ever again be deemed secure, no bank anywhere sound, no deal final. That strikes some people as far too high a price to pay, most especially in today's delicate financial climate.”

Oliver shook his head. “Does it really?” he asked.

“You mentioned Secretary Burr a moment ago. He is of that view, as are the Secretary of the Treasury, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, your Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Governor of the Bank of England.”

“Where, if I may ask, do the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense stand?”

“Conflicted, I think that's the apposite term. The point is that the President has already come down against having the geeks fiddle the world's financial system.”

“Which means you've thought this through?”

“Eight ways from Sunday,” George Kenneth insisted. “It isn't just yours truly flying by the seat of his pants.”

“I wish I could say I am relieved to hear that.”

“Don't lose your focus, Oliver. You're too valuable. Keep Philip Frost in your sights, but not so tightly that you miss whatever else might turn up.”

“In other words, do what I can with what I've got?”

“If you
are
as close as you believe, you'll have more than enough. Adding to it now could be counterproductive—in fact, a distraction.”

“That's an interesting way of looking at it,” Oliver observed.

Kenneth left a thoughtful pause. “But you take my point?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. I take it completely,” Oliver said before switching off his phone.

Reading Oliver's face a few seconds later, Giles Cotton said, “When I put a man in the field, I don't second-guess him.”

Oliver smiled. “The way the great Dr. Kenneth sees it, it is
I
who am second-guessing the President and most of his cabinet.”

“In my experience it often comes down to a tribal thing with politicians and civil servants,” Cotton reflected. “Sooner or later a line of demarcation develops between those who believe the world is abstract and those who know it's real.”

“It's real, all right,” Oliver said.

“What are you going to do?”

“My job,” Oliver answered, “with one hand tied behind my back. What the hell, that's the way they play the game. Because that's what it is to men like Kenneth: a game. Life and death, sure, but by remote control.”

“Don't be too harsh,” Giles Cotton implored.

“Is that possible?” Oliver asked. “Considering that this is the same clique that sends kids to war without body armor?”

Chapter Forty-two

Across the carefully laid,
candlelit dinner table, Ty regarded Philip with intensified wariness. Since Philip had returned later than expected from Gibraltar, the meal before them was actually more of a supper, scallops Mornay and a Caesar salad with a chilled bottle of Ian's favorite Corton-Charlemagne, Remoissenet. They had barely begun it when Philip, in a puzzled tone, asked, “What do people in the States make of your President?”

Ty shook his head. “That's difficult to say. I suppose it's pretty much the same as with most of his predecessors. Any president is lucky if his popularity ends up a bit over fifty percent. Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular. I happened to catch a glimpse of him on television while I was waiting for the pilot to finish signing the necessary departure forms at Gibraltar Airport, and it struck me not for the first time that I couldn't make up my own mind.”

“I wish I could help you,” Ty said diffidently.

“Have you met him?”

“I have, but ‘met' is the operative word. I would never claim to know him.”

“Of course,” Philip said, then added, “I gather he has an interesting background.”

“He does. Not long after they got out of college, Garland White and a friend started a restaurant—the Skillful Skillet, if I remember correctly—that was on its way to becoming one of those very successful chains when, who knows why—probably too much optimism spiraling into too much debt—it suddenly went belly-up, which left him a rising star at twenty-seven and a burned-out one by thirty. Then a strange thing happened. In the early days of his restaurant, he had done a television promotion in which he'd been featured on-screen.”

“Shades of you and the American army,” Philip observed.

“I suppose,” Ty said, deflecting the analogy. He assumed Philip had come by this information from Ian, though he might have read it elsewhere. “Anyway, I think his line was something like, ‘There's no VIP room at the Skillful Skillet, because here everyone's a VIP.' At the time the publicity not only made him a local celebrity but aroused the interest of pooh-bahs in his state's politics. When the congressman from his district died jogging a few months before an election, they urged Garland White, who was then a buck short of bankrupt, to put his name on the ballot. He did. Those ads were replayed a million times during his campaign. He won, and the rest is history.”

“More precisely, ‘an accident of history,'” Philip corrected. “Do you think he's a ditherer?”

“How would I know?”

Philip laughed. “When it comes to politics, lots of people have firm opinions on subjects they know precious little about.”

“I'm not one of them,” Ty said.

“I wonder why.”

Half an hour later, forgoing coffee, Philip wiped his brow with his handkerchief and said, “I'm afraid, for me, the time has come to turn in. It's been a busy day, and tomorrow promises to be another.”

“Not tomorrow, too,” Isabella reacted plaintively.

“I'm sorry, darling. There's no choice.”

Isabella shot a friendly glance toward Ty, then a more amorous version to Philip. “How much longer must we stay here?” she asked.

Philip said, “God willing, I should be able to wrap things up tomorrow.”

“Wouldn't that be wonderful?” she exclaimed. “Including with the Tangier authorities?”

“I don't see why not. Barring something unforeseen we ought to be able to lift anchor and be under way well before dark. That's not a promise, though.”

“Just an educated prediction?” Isabella teased.

“Yes,” Philip said. “That's exactly what it is.”

“It's meant to be lovely tomorrow,” Isabella told him.

“It was lovely today,” Ty said.

“Yes, but tonight's gone filthy. I hate it when the levanter comes up and forces us inside. It's so muggy. Just listen to that drumroll of rain against the deck.”

“It's only a storm,” Philip told her as he stood. “It will pass. Coming, darling?”

“I'm right behind you,” Isabella said. “'Night, Ty.”

Back in Vanilla, Ty stretched himself across the comfortable bed. He had to contact Oliver. Deciding that a conversation would be more effective and easily camouflaged than an e-mail, yet afraid even of his end of it being overheard, he fumbled for his BlackBerry and, when he found it, pressed first the
MENU
key, then the appropriate encryption code followed by the speed-dial number for his friend's mobile.

“Hello,” Oliver answered.

“Hi, Netty,” Ty said, employing their familiar code. “How are things in California?”

“Heating up,” Oliver said, “even more than usual for this time of year.”

“I'm still on vacation,” Ty said.

“Well and good,” Oliver replied, “but I have to tell you, interesting things are happening on this end. I wouldn't stay away too long, or they'll go to others less deserving than you.”

“You can't swing at every pitch.”

“But when they come at you straight over the plate . . . well, never mind, we've had this conversation before. One thing I should tell you is that I've been meeting some resistance where your new rider is concerned.”

Ty smiled at Oliver's ingenuity and the facility with which he had acquired and adapted the language of Hollywood. A “rider” was appended to a star's contract for a particular film. It spelled out, often in embarrassing detail, that star's requirements while on the set, the studio lot and location during a shoot. “What kind of resistance?” Ty asked. “And from whom?”

“To staff levels, mostly. No one gives a rat's ass about the color or thread count of your sheets, the brand of your water, or that you happen to prefer Lapsang souchong tea and cannot stand the smell of ammonia. They gave up long ago on the square footage of your trailers, but the boys in the front office—and I mean just about as high up the corporate ladder as you can climb—would prefer to pay for less in the way of backup.”

“I'm sure they would, but will they?”

“Not today.”

“That's too bad, but not all that important, really, until I choose my next script.”

“Agreed, but I've always found it's handy to have certain things in boilerplate. What if you wake up tomorrow and not that script itself but the idea for it smacks you in the face?”

“Can't we deal with that then?”

“Depends on who we're dealing with,” replied Oliver, “and when. In this business the generosity of the fellow across the table depends on the moment. And moments pass.”

“You're a pessimist, Netty.”

“I've heard that before. Oh, I almost forgot. Your contractor called my number two. He's pretty sure he'll be getting things under way in your kitchen tomorrow.”

“Does he have everything he needs?”

“He has the keys and he has your money. What else does he need?”

“The appliances he's going to install.”

“I believe he expects them tomorrow as well,” Oliver said. “I'll be in touch if it's otherwise,”

“Bye for now then,” Ty told him.

Despite the humidity outside, the atmosphere in Vanilla was perfect, Ty thought, as he stripped and entered the shower. As the tension in his muscles eased, he felt first aroused, then a simmering rage that Isabella should have to be with Philip for another night or longer. As he rinsed off, he regarded his own physique, a scar unknown to his public on his right side, a second arthroscopic puncture wound hidden closer to his waist. He was still youthful, but only because of the discipline he brought to his diet and workouts. He had left behind that magical time of life that forgave recklessness. Without self-control he could all too easily begin to show signs of age. He had seen it happen to other film stars and had no intention of succumbing to such weakness himself. He had not exercised in several days, and his body craved what it was used to. He would do a hundred push-ups and a hundred crunches, a sequence of isometrics before he gave himself over to sleep. Dried off and with the plush towel around his neck, he entered his sitting room in search of a jockstrap and shorts.

Caught off guard by the unexpected presence of a small Slavic man dressed in black and carrying a miniature nylon duffel, Ty felt his temper flare. He was an instant away from raising his knee and twisting his body to deliver a side kick, a
yoko geri,
to the Slav's solar plexus when reason got the better of him. Obviously one of the crew Philip had brought on board, the man was, Ty recognized at once, a breacher, an op who specialized in silence; who came in like the wind, usually to lay an explosive charge on a high-value target, then retreated.

Quickly wrapping his bath towel around his waist, Ty stood the expressionless breacher down. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

The intruder, who was at least eight inches shorter than Ty, replied in a calm but fearless voice. “Security check, that's all.”

“I feel very secure,” Ty told him. “So that won't be necessary.”

“Yeah, but I must go by my orders,” insisted the Slav.

“
I
must go to bed,” Ty said, showing his uninvited guest the door. “Good night.”

Without resistance, the intruder departed, then waited until Ty had slammed and double-locked the door to Vanilla before reaching into his duffel and switching off the electromagnet it contained.

Ten minutes later the telephone on Ty's night table rang.

“Mr. Hunter, this is Jean-François.”

“Hello, Jean-François, what's up?”

“I must apologize for the intrusion,” Jean-François began.

“Never mind, everything's all right now.”

“Yes, I am happy about that. The man was merely following procedure, perhaps too eagerly.”

Ty processed this information as well as the ambiguity in Jean-François's voice. “What procedure is that?”

“It has been decided to crash the ship.”

“What the hell? Are you crazy?”

“Not a literal crash,” Jean-François explained, nearly laughing, “merely a security one.”

“I see,” Ty said. “A strange choice of verb, but I take it that it refers to a kind of lockdown.”

“Exactly so,” replied Jean-François.

“On whose order is this being done?”

“It is the captain's order, of course.”

“And it meets with the approval of Miss Cavill, does it?”

“Implicitly, the answer to your question has to be yes. Mr. Frost approved the order, and Mr. Frost and Miss Cavill are, as you are aware, together.”

“So they are,” Ty replied, “so they are.”

Jean-François cleared his throat. “If you need anything, please ring the steward's office, but until first light please do not leave your suite. You will be safe there, I assure you.”

“Now that you put it that way,” Ty said, “I'm sure I will.”

No sooner had Jean-François hung up than Ty returned to his sitting room and picked up his BlackBerry. Philip, he reasoned, would not be able to get away with crashing
Surpass
for very long. The authorities might return at any time. Isabella might ultimately object. And it would be difficult to explain the imprisonment of Ty Hunter indefinitely, especially once the excuse that it was merely as a safety precaution had worn thin. The fact that Philip had taken such a drastic step gave strong evidence that there were indeed warheads missing and that he was on the brink of transferring them. Oliver had been right. Now a way had to be devised for Ty to escape
Surpass
and get to shore, where Oliver would need his help.

He once more pressed the speed-dial number for Oliver, but although the screen lit up, no number appeared, nor could a ring be heard. He made a second attempt, with the same result. He tried another number and another after that. Finally he held the red
END/POWER
key until the phone, with an unfamiliar shudder, seemed to shut down. When it had, he removed its back and battery, checked to be sure its SIM card was in place, counted to five, and replaced both the battery and the back. Again he pressed the red key until the screen brightened, but it was clear that his smart phone no longer possessed a brain. His logs and contact lists were blank. The instrument he held was the same device. He was sure of that. He'd found it where he'd left it. And it had worked only a short while before. There was no doubting what had happened. The breacher had exposed it to an electromagnet powerful enough to wipe clean its circuitry.

Ty settled into bed and turned off the light. Now there was nothing to do but wait and plan for every possibility.
Let yourself go,
he told himself. He felt a heavy weight on his chest. His nerves were frayed. The tips of his fingers and even his face where his skin had been cut and stretched in surgery began to tingle.
Put that out of your mind
.
Don't be distracted,
he commanded his brain. Imagination was his enemy at a time like this. He had been taught that in the army. He had been taught as well how to neutralize his imagination, but before he could do so, his mind snagged on that old acronym, SERE:
S
urvival,
E
vasion,
R
esistance,
E
scape. Those were the skills he would need in the coming conflict. And summoning those skills required rest.