Black Ghosts (39 page)

No one jumped out of his sack ready and eager to go. Edward attributed this to the fact that they were still on New York time. They were being told by their bodies that it was one in the morning, just the hour that most of them were used to hitting the sack.

Grumbling and complaining, they assembled around the small portable gas range, holding the tin cups in both hands to beat the Russian chill. The sergeant broke out some of the food rations they had brought over on the plane. Not much, but enough to get them going.

After breakfast they climbed into the trucks. Now not a word of complaint was heard. They knew that today they had a job to do, and it was a job they took very seriously.

 

“Get your commanding officer, on the double,” Sokolov shot to the guard at a checkpoint on the road leading into Sheremetyevo Airport. The guard saluted the colonel in the car and spoke to his radio for a moment.

“Password?”

“Blaze Delta Fox,” said Sokolov. The guard checked a list he had on a clipboard hanging from the end of the temporary barricade. He then read something from his board into the radio. It was a secondary code, known to the commanding officers who were part of the Black Ghosts' network. It not only confirmed that Sokolov was a member of the organization, it also identified him personally. If any of Rogov's people had begun to suspect that Sokolov had turned against them, now would be the moment when he would find out.

The guard listened as he got a response over the radio, then he leaned closer to the open window. “Major Lermontov will see you, sir.” He pointed down the road. “The command post is that way.” He straightened up and saluted smartly. Then he signaled a second guard to move the barricade. To this point, it seemed Sokolov's status was intact.

Major Lermontov came out of the command post to greet him with a salute. “Is everything all right, sir?” he asked, unsure of what this unscheduled visit portended.

“Everything is proceeding as planned,” said Sokolov. “I am here to supervise the arrival of the special commando units and give them their final orders regarding their taking control of the Kremlin. I require immediate access to the air traffic control tower.”

“Of course, sir. Right away.”

Lermontov provided two lieutenants to escort Sokolov to the control tower. The air traffic control room was busy and the atmosphere was tense—it was an ordinary business day, as well as being the morning of the American president's arrival. The controllers seated at the desks were uncomfortably aware of the strong military presence in and around the airport—soldiers everywhere, waiting, watching. It was a reminder of the bad old days of the Soviet Union, when every move you made seemed to be watched by someone. Still, the tower staff knew it was in a good cause. No one wanted anything bad to happen, today of all days.

“You wait for me here,” he said to his two escorts before entering the control room. Inside, he could see all eyes on him. To his pleasure, not one look was sympathetic. The chatter was muted, each controller involved with his planes, guiding them to a safe landing at the gigantic airport.

Shortly, though, they knew they would have to start diverting traffic to other destinations because of the impending visit. They were not aware yet that the president's landing location had been changed.

On one side of the control room, overlooking a section of the airport where a large number of military planes were parked, sat a uniformed controller. He was a sergeant of the local air battalion who was the military coordinator for the field.

Sokolov approached him. “Do you have your schedule?” he asked bluntly.

The sergeant looked up at him, dropping his earphones to his neck. “Yes, sir.” He handed Sokolov a long yellow sheet of paper.

Sokolov ran his eyes over it. “There is an unscheduled flight on its way here.” He drew a pen from his pocket and scribbled something on the yellow sheet. “Raise this flight on that frequency,” he said. “I need to speak to the lead pilot.”

Several seconds later he was handed the earphones, which had a mouthpiece extending from one side.

“It's the pilot you requested, sir,” the sergeant said and leaned back in his seat, giving Sokolov as much privacy as he could without leaving his post.

“Condor One, this is Blaze Delta Fox, can you hear me?”

“This is Condor One, go ahead.”

“Code nine nine four seven velochick. Do you read me?”

“Yes, sir, I'm waiting for a new heading, sir.”

Sokolov had input the emergency relocation code that had been created to divert the flight of the incoming commandos in the event that the CG did not take control of the airport or if there was some other change of plan. He then relayed a new heading to the pilot and ordered them to observe radio silence after this conversation was over. They were now moving away from Moscow and would land at a secondary location in Gorky. Sokolov would have preferred to send them straight to Siberia, from where there was no chance of their returning in time. But that was something only the general was authorized to do.

He then returned the earphones to the sergeant and wrote a second frequency on the sheet. “Get this one for me.”

The sergeant nodded and turned back to his radio. Sokolov looked over his shoulder. One of the lieutenants he left outside had entered the room. He stopped to say a few words to the door guard, who was probably one of his soldiers. Then the young officer walked over to Sokolov, just as the radio operator handed him the headset again.

“I asked that you wait for me outside,” Sokolov said, frowning.

“I just need to know about the trucks, sir.”

Sokolov ignored what the young man was saying. “I specifically remember asking you to wait outside.”

“Sir.” The lieutenant was starting to lose his nerve. He lowered his voice. “Sir, I just wanted—”

“Get the hell out of this room,” Sokolov interjected, raising his voice. “Now, get out now.”

The young man, pale and wobbly, turned and left the room. No one dared look at Sokolov. He put the earphones on. “You have clearance to land,” he said. “I am handing you back to air traffic control.” The operator took back the microphone.

“Bring him in,” Sokolov said to the sergeant. He then walked briskly out of the control room and, turning to the two lieutenants standing outside, said, “Come, we will return to the command post.”

They drove back across the tarmac. Inside the command post, Major Lermontov helpfully outlined the troop transfer arrangements. Ten transport trucks and several mobile staircases would approach the planes, which would be directed to taxi to a side section of the airport, away from the passenger area. When all were aboard the trucks, the convoy would set off for the Kremlin.

Sokolov didn't have long to wait. He had been in the command post for less than half an hour when a radio message informed them that the Ilyushins were landing. A few minutes later, both aircraft were on the ground.

“Only two?” said Major Lermontov. “I understood there were to be three of them.”

“The third developed engine trouble,” said Sokolov, improvising. “So they crowded everybody into two planes.”

They went outside. The soldiers were already descending the stairways, moving toward the waiting trucks.

Major Ostinov, the commanding officer of the Ukrainian units, walked jauntily up to where Sokolov and Lermontov stood. Grinning broadly, he gave a mock salute. “Where are the movie cameras?” he asked in Ukrainian.

Sokolov could only gamble that Lermontov would believe they were speaking in code.

“They're hidden, for greater spontaneity. But they're already running.” Sokolov saluted again. The man's face went very serious and with slightly exaggerated movements he executed a formal military salute. There was still a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Lermontov, who had been speechless with surprise at the man's lackadaisical approach, now seemed somewhat mollified. He returned the salute, although somewhat hesitantly.

Still speaking in Ukrainian, Sokolov ordered Major Ostinov to board one of the waiting trucks. “I will join you in a moment,” he said. He took his leave of Lermontov, then climbed into the cab of the nearest truck. As the convoy pulled out of the airport, Sokolov could see Lermontov standing on the tarmac, still with a look of vague puzzlement on his face.

 

The Boeing 747 taxied gently to the end of the runway. For several moments, the white plane with its chrome underbelly and blue stripe running its length and converging over the cockpit and the inscription “United States of America” just stood there, as the pilots and the ground control exchanged the last procedural bits of information.

With a roar of jet engines, Air Force One began its sudden, urgent acceleration along the runway. The fuselage shook gently, the wheels rumbled, and then like a gigantic hippo leaping into the air, the plane took off. It banked at a steep angle, and President Bradshawe kept his eyes tightly closed. Only when the slope of the floor had leveled off, and the seat-belt sign had winked out, did he release his grip on the chair's armrests and open his eyes. Below him was the chaotic jumble of streets and patches of green that is London seen from the air. But the president did not look down. And not just because of his vertigo. It was also that he'd had quite enough of the annoying little country falling away beneath him and was glad to see the last of it for some time. Royalty and pageantry and all that to-do about nothing, he thought.

He had endured a stiff and formal afternoon at Downing Street, followed by a stiff and informal dinner at the prime minister's country residence, and a night on a stiff and intractable mattress in a room that made him feel claustrophobic. And, of course, he had endured the stiff and boring prime minister, whose snobbery and reserve he found almost unendurable. Even the loutish, inebriated over-familiarity of the Russian president was preferable to that.

And as for the breakfast he had been served! President Bradshawe reached into his pocket for his Rolaids but then remembered he had eaten the last of them that morning. He rang the bell for the flight attendant.

Sitting several feet behind the president, in the corner of the large flying office, James Fenton was quietly confident that things were well in hand. Based on the information Angela Baines had given him, he had decided to heed Larry's warning. He had alerted only those who needed to know about the change in destination, and even then, he had waited until a few moments before Air Force One took off from Heathrow to make the necessary arrangements. The plane's pilots and the American security men in Moscow were the only ones told of the change. Even the president himself was not yet aware that the plane would be landing at Domodedovo. Not that Fenton thought it would make much difference to him. As long as there was a camera where he was heading, he would go.

Just outside the office, in what looked more like a spacious lounge than the inside of a plane, sat Bud Hays. He was also feeling pleased with himself. He had enjoyed Angela's favors a second time after dinner last night and was anticipating more of the same during their stay in Moscow. He watched her now, her body swaying as she walked across the floor to the bathroom. She really was a beauty; there was no doubt about that.

Poor Bud, Angela thought, looking back and smiling at her boss: He had no idea of what was about to happen.

 

 

 

Vladimir Ivanovich Konyigin loved television. On the second floor of what used to be the Supreme Soviet Building, in a lavish office decorated for Andropov many years back, when the chairman of the communist party was God, Konyigin and his top advisers were reviewing videotapes of the British news broadcasts describing the American president's visit to Downing Street.

Fascinated, Konyigin watched every move, every gesture the American president made. Already, in his mind, he was rehearsing the signing of the treaty tomorrow. He knew this would be his biggest public relations coup ever. It would be a chance for him to bolster his failing popularity in preparation for the elections later in the year, his chance to show the Russian people and the world that he was a man of actions, not just words, that he could get things done.

He also knew what really mattered to his people was not the treaty itself but the influx of foreign investment and the gigantic American aid package which was Bradshawe's bribe to him for getting this thing done.

He wanted to be sure that nothing could go wrong. He had already been briefed by Gregorin, his security chief and the head of the Presidential Guard, who was now sitting next to him in the conference room. He had a clear image of the day's events mapped out in his mind. He could see it all now: the crowd of reporters and television crews at Sheremetyevo Airport as the president's plane came in, the drive in the limousine, the reception with the Guard of Honor at the Kremlin, the signing of the treaty, the handshakes, the slaps on the back, the smiles of friendship . . . this would be for all the world to see.

Next to him, the security chief's mobile phone rang almost unheard. Gregorin took the device out of the holster hanging from his belt and pressed it to his ear. After he had spoken and listened to the caller for a few minutes, he put the phone away and took a deep breath. He knew what he had to say to President Konyigin would not go down well.

“We've just heard from the American Secret Service. They want to change the arrival point to Domodedovo.”