Black Ghosts (22 page)

“I'm not quite sure.” From the glass-paneled front wall, Edward could see a couple of street signs but they were in Russian, which wasn't much help to him.

“No problem, dude. You see a sign with a big M on it?”

Across the street he could see the sign above what looked like a staircase leading into a subway. Of course—that had to be the Metro. “Yes, there's one across the street.”

“Good man, take the Chattanooga Choo-choo to Krasnosel Kaja. There you go up on the street. We'll pick you up. You can crash here, man.”

Edward hung up. He called the hotel but Natalie was not there, and leaving a message with the desk clerk was out of the question. He was now on his own, at the mercy of a Russian yahoo who sounded like he was on a trip of some sort. Things were not looking good.

 

“Bolshoi Mac, fries ea Shokolada milkshake,” Anna Vilosova called into the small microphone, some three miles from where Edward stood waiting for whom he thought of as the Russian from Woodstock to show up. Anna turned back to face her customers.

“Hamburger, fries, and a shake coming right up, sir,” she said in the bright, cheerful voice she had been taught to use, and the young soldier on the other side of the counter smiled his thanks.

Anna had just completed her training, and today was her first day on the job. So far, she liked it just fine. The pace was tough, especially now that the lunchtime rush was in full swing, but she didn't mind. She had always wanted to work with people, and this job gave her plenty of opportunity for just that. It also allowed her to use her pretty smile and her quick, efficient skill at handling cash. She was happy because she could work in Russian, as McDonald's was the only Western fast-food outlet that accepted rubles, which meant that not only tourists and black marketers but also ordinary Russians could eat there. Not to mention the fact that when coming to work she felt as if she were crossing an invisible border to the United States.

The young soldier paid and collected his food. He glanced at her again. Perhaps he found her attractive. She didn't mind; he was quite attractive himself, and she'd always had a thing for men in uniform.

Outside on the street, a middle-aged American couple vacationing from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, stopped in front of the restaurant's glass doors. They were there on an organized tour and this was their day off.

“Look, Harry,” said the wife, holding on to her husband's arm. “A McDonald's, just like back home. Let's go in. I'm dying for a burger.” They entered and made their way to the counter. “I don't believe this,” the wife said in a loud, squawking voice. “It's just like the one in Cedar Rapids!”

“It looks even bigger, dear,” Harry nodded, although privately he thought the women behind the counter were older, more mature, and far more attractive than the chirpy youngsters he was used to back home.

Anna took their order with a smile. Two gray-looking men parked a black car just outside the glass doors, an act that did not seem unusual to her. No one in the crowded restaurant paid any attention to the two men, who didn't enter but walked briskly down the street.

Harry and his wife took their meals and sat down in the front of the restaurant by the window. Harry found his burger and fries well up to standard, and he believed he was an expert, but his wife complained that hers was too greasy.

“I have to disagree with you, dear,” he said, to her amazement. It must have been the weather; after twenty-five years of marriage, this was the first time he had dared to voice a dissenting opinion.

The small hand was missing on the old-fashioned alarm clock ticking away in the trunk of the car parked just outside the front door of the restaurant.

“Doesn't that look like the Dodge I once had?” Harry asked his wife, who was still getting over their previous conversation.

“I do so think it's greasy, dear,” she said as the big hand reached twelve and activated the alarm. The bell hammer slammed against the chime, closing the electric circuit that sent a spark along a three-foot electric wire connected to a fuse. The fuse exploded inside a small TN cylinder embedded in a block of TNT. Before Harry could take another bite from his burger or Anna Vilosova could smile again, the parked car exploded, blowing out the front glass wall of the restaurant and turning what only seconds before had been a happy, colorful place into a helter-skelter of burning plastic, shattered glass, and torn flesh, a charred and smoldering corner of hell.

Tiny leaflets reading “Chechnya for the Chechens” scattered with the wind down the street, greeting the wailing emergency trucks as they arrived.

 

 

 

President Bradshawe sat halfway along the oval mahogany conference table. Behind him was the white marble fireplace decorated with a potted fern that had outlasted many presidents before him and would probably outlast many to follow—that is, if he didn't screw up in the meantime, as his predecessor had once said somewhat jokingly. That small remark had weighed heavily on his shoulders, representing more vividly to him than anything before the gravity of his office. More than once at times of crisis he stared at that fern, already wanting to pass it on, along with the responsibility that guarding it brought.

The president was breaking with his habit of meeting separately with various members of the National Security Council. Events had dictated that he bring them all in to share the responsibility. He knew very well that such sharing was only formal; the responsibility was his to bear alone. Rarely was a member of the Council remembered for a stupid suggestion he had made; it was always the fault of the president who took it. Bradshawe had no quarrel with that. It also allowed him to make the final decision, giving him the ultimate power that comes as a manifestation of years of campaigning, begging, and bending.

Norman Conley, the vice president, was seated across from him. Next to the VP sat Richard Townes, the secretary of defense, whose long face was not a good sign, Bradshawe concluded. The secretary of state was his usual nonchalant self, while the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the director of Central Intelligence were busy handing each other sheets of paper that Bradshawe had probably received himself but had not yet got around to reading. He also had no doubt that they would make him admit that.

At either end of the table were representatives of the president's Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board and the Defense Intelligence Agency, as well as Bud Hays of the National Security Council staff.

The topic on the table was the worsening security situation in Russia and its implications for the upcoming presidential visit. There had been news reports of terrorist attacks close to Moscow, and Army Intelligence had supplied Rick Hansen of the Defense Intelligence Agency with information about several car-bombing incidents, including the one everyone had seen on CNN the day before, outside the McDonald's restaurant, which had caused several fatalities, including the deaths of two American citizens.

“Let's get this show on the road,” President Bradshawe said, rubbing his hands together. “I'm sure my in-basket is full of your reports, gentlemen, but I prefer to hear things firsthand. So, assuming you all remember what you wrote, let's get started. Mr. Bouver, if you would care to speak first.”

The DCI closed the leather folder with its large gold emblem of the CIA on the desk in front of him. “Mr. President, from what we can gather, the situation in Russia at the moment is extremely volatile. The Chechen rebels seem to have taken the fighting out of their republic and dumped it on the streets of Moscow. The Russian military is very much in control; in fact, their presence around major installations and the Kremlin has been beefed up. Still, the terrorist cells seem to be able to outsmart and outmaneuver the army.”

“Have they made any demands?” Bradshawe asked.

“Well, sir, there is a problem there.” He hesitated for a moment, then opened his folder again and took out a document. “We have a source inside the Chechen resistance, and from what he's telling us, they don't know anything about this terrorist campaign in Moscow.”

“What are you saying?” The president leaned back in his chair, his brow wrinkled.

“It appears that the rebels' central command, if you could call it that, is not behind the attacks. We believe it might be a secondary underground that wants the Russians out but is not part of the existing power structure. That is not unusual; we have seen it before in South America and Africa.”

“What if it's someone who just doesn't want the treaty signed?” interrupted the secretary of state, who suddenly appeared interested in what was being said.

“It's a possibility, sir. However, a remote one, in our opinion.”

“And why is that?” the secretary of state pressed.

“The campaign doesn't seem to be consistent with such a theory.”

“They are hitting American targets,” interjected Townes, turning to one of the young men at the end of the table. “Hansen, could you please repeat the stuff you ran by me before?”

The young man started to stand up.

“No need to stand, young man,” the president smiled, “just tell us.”

“Well, Mr. President . . .” The young man flushed, then attempted to control the nervousness in his voice. “It seems they are targeting us, sir. There was a car bomb five days ago outside the Pan-Am building at Sheremetyevo Airport.” The president nodded. “Then a device was found planted near our embassy in Moscow.”

“Who found it?” The president turned to the DCI.

“The security people at the embassy. They have instructions to check parked vehicles for several blocks around the embassy. We implemented some systems developed by the Israeli Shaback.”

The president turned back to Hansen. “Go on.”

“Then there was the McDonald's thing, sir. So far, that caused the only American fatalities. But the intention is clear.”

“Thank you, Hansen,” said Townes, the defense secretary. “Mr. President, I would ask that you change the venue of the summit to some safer place like Geneva or Vancouver. To go into Moscow now looks like a recipe for disaster.”

The president thought about this. Then he turned to the DCI on his right.

“Bouver, what's your view on this?”

Charles Bouver removed his glasses, revealing eyes of startling blue clarity. “I don't think there is cause for undue concern. I believe that as a result of what has already taken place, the security around Moscow will be greater than under any other circumstances. Unless you plan to go jogging in Red Square, sir, I see no problem.”

“What does the Secret Service recommend, Mr. President?” Townes was not giving up yet.

“You know them, Richy. They would prefer to keep me locked in the basement of the White House if they could. Their job is to protect me, not tell me what to do.”

“Sir, I must insist that you change the venue.” Townes' face was tense.

“Out of the question, Richard. Unless there is a real threat, and by real I mean proof of a plot to kill me, I'm going. Is that clear? We are looking at a significant political achievement and I will not have it said in the upcoming campaign that the president chickened out because some half-assed terrorist might have a few plans. Besides,” he smiled at his old friend, “you will be there to protect me, and I promise we will not stay the night. We'll be going in and out the same day.”

“It looks like Konyigin has the situation under control,” the DCI said as though he'd never been interrupted. “I think an unexpected about-face on our part would cause the Russians to doubt our sincerity on the disarmament issue, which could worsen, not improve, the security situation.” He turned to the secretary of defense. “With all due respect, Mr. Townes, my recommendation is that the visit proceed as planned.”

Townes broke in angrily. “How can you say that? We have no way of knowing whether Konyigin can really get this situation under control. Given some of the things that have happened over there recently, I would say it's quite likely that he cannot. In which case, going ahead means looking for trouble. And any trouble at this stage would be far more prejudicial to the disarmament agenda than a change of venue for the official signing of the treaty.”

“How about you?” The president turned to Bud Hays. “I saw a memo from you just this morning regarding the situation.”

“It's only in the preliminary stages, sir.”

“What isn't?” The president raised his hands questioningly. He was trying to break the circle of anger that he knew could damage the effective operation of the executive branch. He had no intention of allowing the various members to enter into a feud that could bring down the entire administration.

Bud Hays turned the pages of the file in front of him on the table. “The NSA has intercepted a number of covert communications between various elements of the Russian security forces, the FSK, the army, and the Ministry of Internal Affairs.” He turned a page and cleared his throat. Everyone was looking at him. It was moments like this that he treasured. “It seems that the terrorist attacks are the work of a Mafia group headed by a former member of the Supreme Soviet. The attacks are politically motivated only inasmuch as they represent an attempt by this man to assert its power at the local level, kind of a warning to the security forces to let him continue his various racketeering operations unimpeded. According to FSK reports that we have also intercepted, the arrest of the group's leader and his associates is imminent, and his operation will be shut down entirely within a few days.”