Wall of Night (7 page)

To get that answer, Bousikaris had left his home at midnight, drove his car to the Eastern Market metrorail stop, boarded the train, and taken it to the last stop, Addison Road. The ambassador's instructions had been clear about the time and place of the meeting, if not the identity of his contact.

“Stand at the railing overlooking the parking lot on Adak,” the ambassador had said. “You will be approached by a person who will identify himself as Qing.”

The train squealed to a stop and Bousikaris stood up. There were only two other passengers in the car, a spiky-haired teenager and a businessman. Bousikaris resisted the impulse to pull up the collar of his trench coat.
Relax.
You're just a man on a train,
another late night commuter
…

It was all very surrealistic, if not downright bizarre, Bousikaris thought. Here he was, chief of staff to the goddamned president of the United States, skulking around in the middle of the night like a character from an Ian Fleming novel. If not for the stakes, it might actually be amusing.

The doors opened. Bousikaris stepped out. The platform was deserted except for his two fellow riders, both of whom quickly disappeared down the steps to the street. The train's doors
whooshed
shut and the train started out again, trailing scraps of trash in its wake.

Bousikaris looked down the platform, saw no one. He checked his watch: 12:55. He walked to the railing. Across the street he could see the streetlights encircling the parking lot. Except for a dozen cars, the lot was empty. A minute passed. Then two. Suddenly, a figure was standing beside him.

“You were not followed, Mr. Bousikaris.”

Bousikaris wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. “No, I wasn't. You're Qing?”

“I am.”

“I have to say, you're … You're not what I expected.”

Qing shrugged. “It's unlikely we will meet again, but if it becomes necessary, I'll leave a message in the
Post's
classifieds. It will read, “Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.” Check the paper daily. If you see the ad, meet me here the following night at eleven p.m. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I understand you've been told about our problem.” Qing handed across a 3.5-inch diskette. “On this are the details of what we want done, and how. Follow them precisely.”

Bousikaris hesitated.
Very serious people.
Qing was so businesslike it was unnerving. “At least give me an idea of what you're asking.”

Qing considered this for a moment, then shrugged. It took two minutes of explanation.

“God, you can't be serious,” Bousikaris rasped. “Do you have any idea what you're asking?”

“Don't ask stupid questions, Mr. Bousikaris. Of course we know. Follow the instructions.”

“That kind of operation you're talking about is … complex. If even one part of it goes wrong, we could find ourselves in a goddamned shooting war.”

“Follow the instructions and nothing will go wrong.”

FBI Headquarters

“So it's official,” said Owens. “We can start worrying.”

“Yep,” replied Latham. “We've got at least two, maybe more,
Guoanbu
operatives out there. We're gonna have to be careful with the media.”

“They're treating it like a murder-suicide. Until you're done that's going to be our party line.”

“Good. Maybe these sons-of-bitches will let down their guard.”

“Maybe. You doing okay with this?”

“Yeah. It's just … Christ, what they did to that family.”

“I know. You said
two
operatives. Why two?”

“Part deduction, part instinct. We know they gained entry at the kitchen door because one of the glass panes had been tapped out. I'm guessing they'd probably been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go out before moving.

“Once they were inside, they went to the master bedroom, woke Baker and his wife, then took him into another room and held him there. The second intruder rounded up the family and gathered them in the master bedroom, where they were tied up. Once done, Baker was taken in to see them.”

“Why?”

“To show him his family's in jeopardy. To show him there's nothing he can do about it. Here's where it gets sketchy, but I think it fits: Baker is taken away again. They question him for a while, get nowhere, then start describing what they're going to do to his family. He still balks. One of them takes him away again, this time in his car. They drive to Rock Creek Park.”

“Before his family is killed?”

“Right. It's unlikely he would've been able to drive after seeing that. Once parked at Rock Creek, the intruder places a call to the Baker home.”

“We've checked—”

“One incoming call at eleven-forty. It was from a cell phone; lasted seven minutes. We tracked the phone; it was stolen from a woman's car at a Bethesda shopping mall the day before the murder. We narrowed down the location to a cell that encompasses all of Rock Creek and about a mile beyond.”

“Why make the call?”

“So Baker can listen to his family being tortured.”

Owens's face went pale. “Jesus.”

“At this point, Baker's already been told what will happen to his family. His imagination is working overtime. He's cut off from them, helpless, forced to listen as the other intruder works on them … It would be devastating. A couple minutes of that and even the toughest SOB would talk.”

“About what, though? What did he have they wanted? That's the big question.”

“Exactly. So, hearing his wife and children screaming, Baker breaks. He tells the intruder everything he knows, or at least enough that the intruder is convinced they've wrung him out.

“Now, this is another guess, but at this point the intruder probably tells Baker it's all over, that his family will be released. Baker relaxes, lets down his guard. The intruder reaches over, puts the gun under Baker's chin, and pulls the trigger.”

Owens picked it up: “Then, as arranged, the second intruder kills the wife and kids, then leaves the house and picks up his partner.”

Latham nodded. The scenario contained a fair number of leaps, but it felt right.

“Where now?” Owens asked. As if on cue, his phone rang. He punched the speaker button. It was Randall: “Quantico's working with Baker's computer. They want us over there right away.”

“Something good?” Latham asked.

“Depends on how you define ‘good.'”

Moscow

Vladimir Bulganin was in one of his moods, Nochenko realized.

Bulganin stood up from his desk, clasped his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. He parted the curtains and peered out. A shaft of sunlight fell on Bulganin's face, and he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes as though seeing something on the horizon.

Where are the cameras when you need them
?
Nochenko thought.

Bulganin looked like something out of a Cold War propaganda poster. All that was missing was a giant red sickle and hammer looming over his head.
The stalwart Russian proletariat,
a peasant thrust into service by the needs of the Motherland
…

Nochenko couldn't decide if these dramatic posturings of Bulganin's were genuine or an affectation. It didn't matter, really. Whatever the truth, Bulganin knew how to work a crowd—and
that
was why he was going to be the next president of the Federation.

“What's wrong, Vladimir?” asked Nochenko. “You seem troubled.”

“You saw what happened last night. It was a debacle!”

The previous night's speech in Gorky Park had drawn nearly twenty thousand people. The cheers and applause had been thunderous. With each passing day more voters swung their way. Soon their momentum would be unstoppable.

“I don't understand,” Nochenko said. “The speech was a rousing success.”

“Yes, the speech was fine. I'm talking about the press conference. You were there, you saw!”

“What—”

“The questions! Those reporters … like dogs nipping at my heels. Always with details: gross domestic product, agricultural output, manufacturing infrastructure … Where's their vision?”

“Vlad, that's their job.”

“A country's greatness is built on vision, not details,” Bulganin continued as though Nochenko hadn't spoken. “When the Motherland called, I did not ask questions, I obeyed.”

Straight from Joseph Stalin's handbook,
Nochenko thought. Bulganin was not only an admirer of the old ways, but of the old leaders as well, especially Koba Stalin. It was an idiosyncrasy Nochenko preferred the public did not see; luckily, his pupil had thus far cooperated.

“Vladimir, we've discussed this,” Nochenko said. “As bothersome as it is, the media is powerful. It can shape the opinions of voters we can't reach—”

“Ah! But don't you see? The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything.”

Another damned Stalinism.
“Perhaps long ago, but not anymore. The Federation is—”

“Russia, Ivan. They can dress up the name as they wish, but to true patriots it will always be
Russia.
The Motherland.”

“Yes, of course.”

Bulganin's eyes narrowed. “You say the words, friend, but sometimes I wonder if you believe them. Do you, Ivan? Do you believe?”

Nochenko stared into Bulganin's inscrutable eyes and again marveled at the man's charisma; he could almost feel the power radiating from Bulganin like a wave. Another page from Koba's playbook:
An implacable gaze always enfeebles the blustering coward
…
There was only one response that would satisfy Bulganin when he got like this.

“You dare ask me that?” Nochenko snapped. “I
served
the Motherland! I toiled in her factories before you were born. Be very careful when you question my patriotism, Vladimir!”

There was a long silence as the two men stared at one another. Finally Bulganin's face cracked into a beaming smile. He clapped Nochenko on the arms. “There! That's what I like! Some fire from my compatriot! Well spoken, Ivan!”

Bulganin spun on his heel and strode back to his desk. “Back to work. We have much to do!”

White House

Mason's summons to the Oval Office had come directly from Bousikaris. When Mason arrived, the chairman of the joint chiefs, General Chuck Cathermeier, was already there. “You, too?”

“Yeah. Any clue?”

“None.”

The secretary's phone buzzed. “General Cathermeier, Director Mason, you can go in.”

They found President Martin seated behind his desk, Bousikaris at his shoulder. Sitting in one of the chairs before Martin's desk was Tom Redmond, the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Interesting,
thought Mason. Redmond was a recent political appointee, one of many Martin had brought aboard after his inauguration. As far as Mason was concerned, Redmond had about as much business running the DIA as a chimp had flying the space shuttle.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Martin said. “We have a situation. Go ahead, Howard.”

“Director Redmond has uncovered some information regarding the sale of chemical weapons.”

“Uncovered how?” Mason asked.

“HUMINT,” answered Redmond, referring to human intelligence—eyeballs on the ground.

“Whose?”

“Ours.”

Crap,
Mason thought. The DIA's mandate did not include developing human assets. Redmond was either lying or he was spreading his wings. Either way, Mason was wary. It was no secret that Martin didn't much care for him, and the DCI recognized a knee shot when he saw it.

“What kind of agent?”

Bousikaris answered: “A stringer. One of yours from long ago, in fact: a Kashmiri named Sunil Dhar. He was approached about seven months ago by a broker for the Japanese Red Army. They were looking for some sarin nerve gas and knew Dhar had contacts in the Russian black arms market.”

“By contacts, I assume you mean former military,” said Cathermeier.

“Correct; Dhar hasn't given up a name, but it's probably someone in the rocket forces.”

It took all of Mason's discipline to hold his tongue. A DIA controller handling a former CIA agent, who's brokering a deal for a terrorist group … None of it fit.

“We're aware of Dhar,” Mason said. “We've never taken any of his product at face value; he likes playing both ends against the middle. Without corroboration, I'd be skeptical of his information.”

Martin smiled. “Dick, I know it stings a little that you missed this, but nobody's blaming—”

“Mr. President, with all due respect—”

“This is a team effort, Dick. Don't forget that.”

“Sir, I'm not concerned about saving face. Sunil Dhar is—”

Bousikaris said, “We feel Dhar's information is solid. Now that we're aware of the problem, we need solutions. To that end, Director Redmond came up with a plan. Tom, if you would.”

“According to Dhar, his contact will have the sarin at the delivery point within the next seventeen to twenty days,” said Redmond. “He'll have a more exact time as it nears.”

“That's where we'll need your help, Dick,” Bousikaris said. “We want you to coordinate with the DIA and make sure this is the real deal.”

“Where's the delivery point?” asked Cathermeier.

“Russia. The Bay of Vrangel, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny. The cargo is to be transferred to a ship called the
Nahrut.
Once the cargo's aboard, the ship will be heading for Rumoi, Japan.”

Martin said, “That ship cannot be allowed to leave port.”

Suddenly Mason realized where this was going. “Why not take it while it's at sea? Board the ship, secure the cargo, detain Dhar and his crew.”

“Too risky,” said Bousikaris. “More to the point, the Russian's have been playing fast and loose too long with their weapons of mass destruction. It's time to send them a message.”

“By sinking a ship in the middle of the Bay of Vrangel? It's an act of war, Howard.”

“The target ship will be of Liberian registry. The Russian government won't—”

“They won't Care if it's a rubber dinghy. If we attack it in Russian waters, they'll retaliate.”

President Martin broke in. “They can't retaliate if they have no proof. The plan Tom has developed will get the job done without leaving any footprints.”

Tom Redmond couldn't plan a sandwich,
Mason wanted to say, but the spook inside him told him to shut up and listen. “Okay,” he said, “Let's hear it.”

Redmond spoke for ten minutes, outlining the plan from start to finish.

Cathermeier asked, “Who do you plan to put on the ground?”

Redmond told him. “It would be a small team. Four to six men.”

“Insertion method?”

“Submarine.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Cathermeier considered the plan. Finally he said, “Good plan, wrong scenario.”

“That's a political issue,” Bousikaris said. “Let us worry about that.”

“You're talking about putting armed men onto the soil of another country,” said Cathermeier. “Doing that under any circumstances is dicey, but doing it with shaky intel is—”

“General, what we need to know from you is, can you put it together? Is it feasible?”

“I need to run it by my J-3—”

“No. We're keeping the loop tight on the operation. What's your answer, General?”

“It's feasible, but I have to tell you, I have serious misgivings about this.”

Mason said, “As do I.”

“Goddamnit!” Martin roared. “What—”

Bousikaris stepped forward, placed a restraining hand on Martin's shoulder, and said, “Gentlemen, you're cautiousness is appreciated, but the time for debate is over. Your commander-in-chief has given an order. If you can't carry it out, say so now.”

The gauntlet was down, Mason realized. Whatever was happening here, it was serious enough that Martin was willing to end careers to get it done. Cathermeier would obey because he was duty bound to do so. As for himself, if he refused to go along, he'd be out, and while that in itself didn't bother Mason, he wanted to know what Martin was up to. To do that, he had to stay.

“Mr. President, I've voiced my objections. That said, you give the order, I'll do my part.”

Martin nodded, then looked to Cathermeier. “General?”

Cathermeier shrugged. “I'll start the ball rolling.”

Holystone

Tanner found Oaken in his office. Lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filing cabinets, a map wall, and three computer workstations, this was Oaken's second home, a fact to which his wife, Beverly, would readily attest.