Deep Black (10 page)

16

Alexsandr Kurakin nodded as his adviser continued, talking about how Kurakin might refine his image for the coming elections.
American-style election consultants with their polls and slick advertising styles had been mandatory since the 1990s; Kurakin
himself had first used the consultants to win election to the state parliament. But there was a great deal of witchcraft involved,
and he trusted these men even less than he did the parliament.

“Your popularity in the countryside remains strong,” said the consultant, whom Kurakin privately referred to as Boris Americanski.
The man gestured toward the chart he had projected on the wall, the gold of his pinkie ring catching a glint. He talked like
an American consultant, but he dressed like a Russian gangster. Kurakin hated both, though necessity at times demanded they
be used.

More and more he found himself a prisoner of necessity. Not since the breakup of the Soviet Union had Russia been so ungovernable,
so at odds with itself. By any economic measure, by any social indicator, it was in chaos. The future promised by the democratic
reformers had proven to be the stuff of a child’s fairy tale. No, crueler—a parent’s promise of a plentiful Christmas when
foreclosure loomed instead.

Kurakin felt the bitterness more deeply than most of the people he governed. He himself had been one of the reformers; many
of the now-empty promises had emanated from his own mouth.

He had been a true believer. He trusted in the people and the system to bring a better life to ordinary Russians—to his parents
and brother still living in the east beyond the Urals and still, by any definition, ordinary Russians.

The president strode around the room as the consultant continued to speak. Some months ago Kurakin had moved his offices from
the Senate to the Arsenal as a security measure. His quarters were cramped, altogether inadequate, but the move had been necessary.
It was, to him, an important symbolic concession to reality, and to the course that he knew he must pursue.

Kurakin had lost faith, not in the people, not in the future, but in the system. Democracy did not work, at least not here.
Special interests blocked true reform. Graft and corruption diverted energy and resources from where they were needed. Old
hatreds—some even dating from Stalin’s day!— poisoned the legislature. Rivalries in the military drained morale. He saw and
understood everything, and it was his responsibility as president to fix it.

He would do so, but with his own methods. In parliament, a bill suggesting that the sun rose in the morning would not make
it to the floor for a vote if it was whispered that he supported it.

The rebels in the south were an even more enduring and obstinate irritation. But he could not deal with them forcefully, as
Putin had dealt with Chechnya, because of the Americans.

Indeed, Kurakin felt checked at every point by the U.S. The American president professed to like him—Kurakin kept his own
opinion of the man well hidden—yet blocked Russia from taking its proper place as partner in NATO or the Middle East. More
critically, the Americans threatened to call in their loans and end a long list of programs if Russia punished China for aiding
the southern rebels or dealt too severely with the rebels themselves. The Americans had recently taken to monitoring the Kazakhstan
border. It was a particularly egregious slap, considering how Russia had assisted the U.S. in its war against the Islamic
militants in Afghanistan.

“The good news is, no other likely opponent polls higher than fifteen percent,” said Boris, who’d been droning on, oblivious
to the president’s disinterest.

“The bad news is, I poll fourteen,” said Kurakin dryly.

“It’s not quite that bad.”

“I still have my sense of humor,” the president told the consultant. His approval hovered between 35 and 43 percent and had
since the election.

“Historically, it’s not bad. Look at Yeltsin. Russians love to hate their leaders.”

Yes, thought Kurakin, unless they give the people a reason to hate them. In that case they love them.

The phone on Kurakin’s desk buzzed. His appointments secretary was trying to keep him on schedule; his 7:15 A.M. appointment
had already been waiting ten minutes.

“Our time is up,” Kurakin told Boris abruptly. “Your check will be sent.”

The consultant gave him an odd look.

“Yes, I’m terminating the contract,” Kurakin said. “I’ve decided to go in another direction.”

“You haven’t hired one of the German firms, have you?”

“I’m not going to work with a consultant,” said the president. “I’m going to handle things on my own.”

Boris clearly didn’t believe him, but there was little else for him to say. He shrugged and was still standing by the door
when the president’s next appointment was ushered in.

17

Rubens folded his arms in front of his cashmere sweater, staring at the distant hills that undulated beyond the glass wall
of his house. The dawn was just breaking, and from here the dappled hills looked like perfect little mounds of untouched greenery;
if you discounted the odd pockmark or two, they presented an image of untamed and untouched nature. But Rubens knew there
were houses and roads all through those hills, and if the area wasn’t nearly as developed as the geography immediately to
the south and east, it was anything but pristine.

That, unfortunately, was an excellent metaphor for Representative Johnson Greene’s death. From the distance—even from the
ten or fifteen feet away that Rubens had been standing when it happened—it was a bizarre, ridiculous, and ultimately coincidental
tragedy. Up close, it was something more complicated.

Rubens had been interviewed by two FBI investigators in the presence of an NSA attorney and a representative from the agency’s
Office of Security yesterday afternoon. It was clear from their faces that he told them absolutely nothing that they had not
known already. It was also clear that they were very disappointed—obviously, they wanted to prove that the death had not been
accidental. They undoubtedly saw the investigation as a ticket to better things, assuming they could prove it was something
more than an accident.

This, of course, presented an enormous danger. Ambition was forever the wild card in Washington. At no level, in no walk of
life, could it be ignored. Channeled, yes, but never ignored.

And so, having been blindsided once, Rubens had taken steps to find out everything he could about the investigation, his cousin,
the band, and the congressman. Of course, he did not use the agency’s resources, most especially the black computers at Crypto
City. Anything he did there could be tracked and recorded. He had even eschewed his home phone and computers, even the gray
one, which was equipped with a scrubber program. (Powerful, but not quite at agency-level standards.)

Instead, Rubens—William Madison Rubens—had gone to a public library to conduct most of his grunt research over the Internet.
It was a good exercise, the sort of thing he would encourage a young operative to do to stay sharp. Deriving information without
Desk Three’s resources was a tonic, even an end in and of itself.

Actually, Rubens had gone to two libraries and made use of phone booths in three different diners. Were it not for the dishwater
coffee he’d been forced to drink as a cover, the whole experience might have been considered oddly thrilling.

The results were somewhat less so.

The kid with the guitar went by the name of Trash, a fairly accurate appraisal of his station in life. Before joining the
band his hazy history extended only as far back to his days as a teenage street person in New York City. He’d been recruited
into the band when some of the members heard him playing guitar at a shelter they were volunteering at. A regular Horatio
Alger story had ensued, Trash turning out to be a guitar genius with a special appeal to nubile prepubescent girls. Of course,
to get the high gloss you had to ignore certain calculated self-promotional behavior, as well as a serious drug habit that
leaned toward Ecstasy and an odd, if original, mix of Quaaludes, “crank” speed, and double-olive martinis. Rubens believed
the martinis probably hinted at the young guitarist’s actual pedigree, though he hadn’t bothered to pursue that, and the young
man’s credit reports contained no hint of rich relatives bailing him out.

Prowling chat sites dedicated to the music scene, Rubens had picked up considerable gossip on the band. The guitarist’s death
had made the group a very popular topic of discussion in the extremely small world of people interested in following such
things. Rubens was able to find a former devotee who called herself EZ18 but was actually a thirty-five-year-old schoolteacher
in Edison, N.J. In an IM conversation that lasted three hours, EZ18 helpfully pointed out that the band’s rise began when
a middle-aged woman had befriended them while they were playing at a small but obscure club in New York City’s East Village.
She had given them considerable money, recommended a manager, and in other various and sundry ways pushed their career.

The middle-aged woman was Greta Meandes.

Rubens turned from the windows and began to pace. He was not shocked that there was a connection between his cousin and the
guitarist. She was the family’s token liberal and probably saw him as a reclamation project. There might even be some sex
involved, though frankly, Rubens had never had that high an opinion of her.

Rubens paused at the corner of his room, staring at the massive Matisse that hung on the wall opposite the windows. It was
an unknown and uncatalogued piece from the dancer series; six red figures (not the five in the better-known paintings) swirled
around the green-and-blue field. The painting always looked somewhat off-balance to him, which was one of its attractions.

One of his phones buzzed. He let it ring.

What he had not determined, however, was who was behind spreading the rumors. They appeared sourceless, which naturally led
him to suspect Collins. He had heard that she had had lunch with Freeman two days before. His informant suspected a tryst;
Rubens concurred—pillow talk was very much her style.

If Collins was involved—he was admittedly not 100 per cent sure of his source, a CIA underling who wanted her job—well then,
perhaps she was doing more than whispering. Perhaps she had arranged for the guitar or pool to be tampered with, then drugged
and hypnotized the idiot band member, programmed him to take the leap.

Child’s play.

Unlikely, surely. Ah, but if he could prove that—if he could find the smoking guitar, so to speak, he might be through with
her forever.

The idea was too delicious to avoid. A ridiculous long shot, yes—but it would bring such indescribable joy.

Now he realized why poor people played the lottery.

His next step was to find out if the guitar or the pool had been tampered with. Obviously the local police would attempt to
do so as well; quite possibly they already knew the answer.

Or not. He doubted their inquiry would be expert.

There were pedestrian reasons for finding out, reasons that had nothing to do with Collins. If he had a report that declared
everything in order, it could be leaked to the press. It would end their interest abruptly. The rumors would dry up; there
would be no reason for anyone to find out that he was at the scene, et cetera, et cetera—problem quashed.

How could he examine the guitar and the pool without involving the NSA?

He might suggest the idea to the police, arrange the technical help, then get access to the findings. That could be done quietly
if he recommended the company, one that did work for him.

But the FBI would then get access to the report. Freeman would see it.

Of course. The FBI should do the work in the first place. He would hold Mr. Freeman close—very close.

Not quite as close as Ms. Collins was, certainly.

But then he wouldn’t want the lab to be easily connected to him. Hadn’t there been a Division D project to electrocute a KGB
agent in a backyard pool during the 1960s?

That was before Collins’ time, but still, she’d know about it. She always did.

The phone rang again. This time the programmed ring pattern told Rubens that it was his driver, waiting outside to take him
to Crypto City. He’d arranged to use the driver—who doubled as a bodyguard—for the duration of the mission to make sure the
Wave Three plane had been destroyed.

Rubens walked to the kitchen and bent to the refrigerator drawer in the cabinets. He took out one of his bottles of Belden
bottled water, then went down to meet the driver.

An hour later, Rubens passed through the security gauntlet and entered the Art Room, where Telach updated him on the progress
of the Wave Three team. At the bottom of her eyes were hanging bags so deep, she looked like she was growing a new face. But
if he asked her if she was tired she would have insisted she wasn’t, and she would have fought—probably with her fists—any
suggestion that she catch a nap in one of the nearby “comfort” rooms. She never wanted to leave the Art Room, much less go
off-duty, once an operation was under way. It was a quality Rubens prized highly in selecting Art Room staff.

“The wreckage at Slveck is ours,” Telach told him.

“Svvlee-veck,” said Rubens, correcting her pronunciation.

“The team is en route. They’re meeting with Fashona and the Hind.”

“The Petro-UK Hind?”

“We don’t have another, do we? Besides, they needed an acceptable cover. The weapons are boxed and hidden in the hold.”

“What about the satellite images?”

“Inconclusive.” She made the face of a woman who had just tasted the world’s most sour grapefruit. “It absolutely burnt to
a crisp, but the bastards at the CIA are sitting on the goddamn analysts and telling them not to sign off. That’s what the
problem is.”

Rubens nodded. Petro-UK was one of the shell companies Desk Three had established for operations in Russia and the Middle
East. It was thought by most intelligence agencies, including Russia’s, to be a front for the Chinese.

“I’d hate to lose the Hind,” said Rubens.

“Hopefully it won’t be compromised, but we seem to be star-crossed on this one.” Telach told him what had happened at the
auto yard.

“They should have used a Bagel,” said Rubens, referring to a small UAV surveillance system.

“They didn’t have one with them,” she said.

Rubens said nothing, realizing it was counterproductive at this point to criticize or second-guess. The UAVs were cached in
kits the ops referred to as S-1s and were rather bulky to transport; having one with them increased their security concerns,
especially in a place like Siberia, where even a pickup truck stood out. Besides, the Space Platform/Vessel system had been
designed exactly for that type of operation in a relatively remote area.

“How’s Mr. Dean doing?” Rubens asked.

Telach shrugged. “He hasn’t gotten in the way. Karr seems to like him.”

“Tommy likes everybody,” said Rubens. “What does Lia think?”

Telach gave a snort. “She hasn’t castrated him yet. That’s a plus.”

“Well, see that she doesn’t.”

“Karr wants to know if it’s OK to implant him.”

“Is that necessary?”

Telach shrugged. “We’re having some difficulties with communications out there anyway. It’d probably just be a waste of time.”

“Then don’t. He’s not ours.”

Implanting
was slang for surgically placing the small com and locator devices on an op’s body. Coverage in some areas was limited by
satellite position as well as active government interference programs, even though they weren’t aimed specifically at the
NSA’s system. It was almost impossible to use the devices in Israel and a good portion of the Arab countries near it. Both
Russia and China were obviously studying and applying some of the Israeli techniques. A new system relying on laser technology
was being readied, but it, too, had limitations.

Rubens glanced at the board in the front of the room, which showed a large map of north-central Siberia. The team’s position
and target were marked by blipping lights, blue and red respectively. They were nearly two hundred miles apart.

“They’re on the Hind?” Rubens asked, noting that the blue light was moving.

“Yes. Just refueled.”

“Tell them not to break it, will you? It cost a fortune.”