Black Ghosts (12 page)

A pencil beam of light came forth from the scanner's eye. Yazarinsky and the junior officer repositioned the head so the beam bore directly into the dead eye.

Peter held his breath. His entire future was now in the hands of American ingenuity, since it was an American device that had been used to prevent electronic trespassing in the Ghosts' headquarters. The last time Kozov's eye had looked into the Very High Speed Integrated Circuit Signal Processor was when he was very much alive and visiting Rome Laboratories in Doral Air Force Base. It was then that they had scanned the general's eye and entered his code. Now, if all went well, the machine would recognize the dead eye and unlock the computer system. If it didn't, Operation Czar was over before it had really gotten started.

The scanner buzzed and hummed for a few seconds, and then a green light glowed on the console. Immediately the room burst into life. Thirty-two monitors glowed, flickered, and produced images. Some showed military installations, others showed systems diagnostics and menus. Across one wall, nine large computer-generated maps appeared on gigantic screens, showing color codes that indicated the locations of military installations, arsenals, airfields, and naval bases. One showed a computer-enhanced view of Russia from an orbiting satellite.

“Get this garbage cleaned up,” snapped Peter, flicking his hand at the bloodied head that now lay on its side on the table. The junior officer hurried to do his bidding.

Peter sat at a keyboard and typed a second password. The command center menu appeared. Peter nodded, satisfied. Then he went to the intercom and pressed the button.

“Sir!” said the anonymous voice.

“There'll be a briefing session in ten minutes. I want everyone here.”

Ten minutes later, a half dozen officers were seated around the conference table in the glass cubicle at the far end of the CIC room. Peter stood at the head of the table.

“Colonel Yakov,” he said to a squat, mustachioed officer to his left. “We need a few more strikes by your people.”

“We have two more attacks planned, sir. Should we still make it look like the work of the Chechen resistance?”

Peter thought for a moment. “We should increase the circle. We want them to raise the level of their alert to at least code blue. That will enable us to get our troops into position right under their noses.”

“Who, then?” asked the officer.

“Make it anonymous. After all, who is not angry in Russia today?”

A grin appeared on all the faces around the table. Heads nodded in agreement.

“Make sure there are enough casualties that they can't brush it under the carpet,” continued Peter. He raised his hand. “But at the same time, we don't want them to overreact.”

“I understand, sir.”

“When you're ready, bring me the final plans for approval.”

“Yes, sir.” The young officer looked relieved that the general was going to give the final approval; the responsibility wasn't going to fall on his own shoulders.

“We need to get ready to mobilize. Once they declare code blue, they will start moving their forces, and we will not have too much time. I want the Second Armored Brigade from Sverdlovsk with the T-72s . . .”

For over an hour, the six officers watched and listened intently as Peter spoke and pointed at the maps on the wall behind him. Then he sent each of them by turns on his separate way, until only Colonel Sokolov remained.

“So, Andrei,” said Peter, looking intently at the tall, slim man in his immaculate black uniform. “What are your thoughts?”

“The operation is proceeding as planned,” said Sokolov. “We are still missing one piece of the communication array.”

“How soon will it arrive?”

“Very soon. We're working on it now.”

Peter was glad to have Sokolov on board. He knew the colonel was as dedicated as he to restoring Russia to her former glory, and as realistic as he in acknowledging the only way that could be achieved was through strong, aggressive leadership. Russia was not made for democracy; she was built through the might and terror of the czars and would survive and prosper only under a new generation of czars, of which he, Peter, would be the first. Sokolov knew this better than anyone. Nevertheless, Peter was conscious of a slight area of tension between them, no doubt due to the colonel's being overly concerned with sticking to procedure. The man was brilliant, Peter thought, but too inclined to focus on details, and lacking the necessary vision to see the big picture.

Sokolov cleared his throat. “General, may I speak candidly?”

“Yes, Andrei, what's on your mind?”

“There is one aspect of the plan which still troubles me, and that is the final phase.”

Peter smiled indulgently. “Do not worry. I have given it considerable thought.”

“I strongly advise against the course of action you propose.”

“I remind you, Colonel Sokolov, that I am not proposing. I am ordering.”

“Of course, General.” Sokolov got to his feet and saluted.

“Carry on, Colonel. Oh, and could you have Colonel Yazarinsky come and see me in my quarters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember, my boy, Russians are at their best when they are afraid.”

A few minutes later, Peter was again seated at his desk in his private office. The intercom announced Yazarinsky's presence outside, and then the door opened and the small man moved like a crab across the carpet.

“Any news of our American friend?” asked Peter.

Yazarinsky sat in the high-backed leather chair opposite Peter's. “It seems there was a leak.”

“What did he find out?”

“That we had a contract with them that involved a communications array and that the death of General Kozov is related to this affair.”

“Where did he come by that information?”

“From someone in London.”

“Any idea who?”

“Yes, I have a name. He's from the London office of the Foundation, an ex-MI5 operative named Donoven.”

“I see. And where is this Mr. Donoven now?”

“He was sent to New York to clean up after the assassination. He'll be checking that the equipment we left behind is clean, and that nothing went wrong.”

“I see. When he returns from that laudable task, I think you two should have a little chat?”

Yazarinsky's eyes did not blink. “Understood, General. And the American?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yes, of course.”

“We'll leave him for now. He has no one to pass that information to and he may yet prove to be useful to us.”

 

The United Airlines Boeing 737 began its gradual descent into Salt Lake City International Airport. In obedience to the tiny sign above his seat, Edward buckled up. He was hoping that by the time he got back to Grantsville, Larry would be ready to take over. All he wanted was to get back to his gently mind-numbing routine of baking croissants, eating, and sleeping. All this activity was causing him to think, and thinking meant remembering. And there were too many things he wanted to forget.

He could feel the dull pain he had lived with for so long creeping back into his chest. The kind of pain that comes from sadness, the kind you can only numb but never cure. It was almost like meeting an old confidant he had painstakingly managed to elude. The guilt that he normally kept so deeply buried was stabbing at him as sharply as ever. He would now have to start forgetting all over again, but he didn't know how anymore. The last time he had tried, he hadn't used any kind of system—he had just tossed himself into the wind, hoping never to land.

No matter what anybody said, he knew he was responsible for their deaths. It had started out as a simple enough operation that turned unexpectedly nasty. A drug kingpin who had enjoyed the luxury of the CIA's pampering, in return for his contacts in the Eastern bloc, had become expendable. His arrogance and tenacity, which had previously made him an invaluable asset, had overnight turned him into an embarrassment. He was no longer of use to the Agency, so it was unilaterally decided to end the relationship. The man would be paid off not with the fulfillment of his expectations of refuge and glory, but rather with a few ounces of lead. It was Edward's mission to deliver the lead to the awaiting target.

Edward and thirty other men disembarked from low-flying Black Hawk helicopters several miles from the man's residence in the thick, mountainous jungle of Colombia. Several hours later, like a dark cloud in the small hours of the night, they descended on his residence and made their deadly delivery. His guards and cronies were so utterly surprised, the operation was as easy as a simulated exercise and extremely successful. They managed to liquidate the man and all his cronies, or so they believed. Almost a year later, Edward learned that two of the man's brothers were still alive and out for vengeance. They managed to lure their brother's CIA contact man in Bogota into a trap. After several days of intense torture, and just before they granted his final wish and killed him, they got him to give them a name. Not long after that, they caught up with one of Edward's men, and as every man can be made to talk in the end, they got the names of the other unit members, including Edward. He was at Fort Bragg when they called him the first time. They made him listen to his man's cries as they took their revenge upon him. Edward could remember standing there, unable to hang up, listening. After what seemed like eternity, the callers informed him the man was dead, and they said they would call back. Several weeks later they did, and then again and again.

It was all coming back: the sights, the sounds, the anger. He resigned from the service and spent the next ten months tracking them down. They had captured and tortured seven of his men before he finally caught up with them, ending their careers and their lives.

By then he was attached to his bottle and on a long fall into the darkness of self-blame and depression. His wife told him it was her or the bottle, and when he chose the latter, she walked out. For months he drifted aimlessly from one bar stool to another, until one night he found himself beaten, robbed, and lying facedown, almost drowning in a six-inch-deep puddle of water outside a roadside bar near Grantsville, Utah.

He could remember the gentle hands that helped him up, the look of worry on the faces that seemed to belong in a generation past. It was then that he realized there was still decency in the land of the free, and it was time to start over.

Grantsville was as good a place as any, and more remote than most, which suited him just fine. For the first few months he still had to drink himself to sleep, but as time went by and he slipped into the comfort of his routine, he began to calm down. He kept the past well buried inside him, putting off dealing with it as long as he could. Fortunately, the bistro gave him plenty of things to keep his mind occupied.

Now it all came back. For the first time since coming to in that puddle, he felt an overwhelming need, a need he knew could never be satisfied. He wanted a drink to dull the pain, to help him face the emptiness of his life.

It was midmorning when Edward arrived. Natalie was out shopping. Larry had borrowed some of Edward's clothing and looked like a little boy wearing his father's suit, but he was able to walk a few steps around the apartment. Edward suggested coffee and croissants, to which Larry consented gladly. They sat upstairs and munched in silence for a few minutes. Edward was a little disturbed to note that the croissants were as delicious as ever, even though it was not he but the burly short-order cook who had prepared them. Perhaps, Edward reflected ruefully, I'm not as indispensable to this place as I thought.

Having satisfied his hunger, Edward briefed Larry on what he had learned on his visit to the Big Apple. He tried to sound uninterested, as if none of this really had anything to do with him. When he had finished, he handed Larry his notes.

“The details are here,” he said, “as much as Donoven claimed to know.”

Larry looked the documents over. “You still write the best goddamn reports I ever read. I guess you don't much like Donoven, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I guess we have us a situation here.”

“You mean you have a situation.”

Ignoring this remark, Larry continued his thoughtful perusal of the report. “So they mobilize their special units under the veil of a general state of alert as a result of the increased numbers of terrorist attacks. Then, once in position and with the communication array active, they take over. The perfect coup d'état. We've seen that happen before, in Weimar—a fledgling democracy falling prey to a nationalistic, militaristic, lunatic fringe. Except this time the fringe is everywhere. Too bad we don't have any idea of the timetable.”

“Well, that is what Donoven's supposed to get for you when he gets back to London. My feeling is that things could start happening very soon.”

“I guess you're right.”

“Time for you to call your boss again, Larry.” Edward shrugged. “Good luck.”

“Edward . . .” Larry hesitated. “I'm going to need your help on this one.”

“No way. I did what I could. Now it's back to you.”

“Edward, you've got to understand . . . I cannot afford a mistake at this point. There's too much at stake. I have no one I can trust but you. I'm out of the CIA—and who knows which side they're on in this, anyway? My own boss is probably the one who set me up, or someone close to him. Then there's those spooks you saw the other day. They sure weren't going to inquire after my health. They probably think I'm public enemy number one. I'm on my own, Edward. I can't stop this thing alone. I need you.”