Deep Black (26 page)

55

Karr decided on his own authority to have the plane land at Kirov, not Moscow. He told the Art Room it was because of a peculiar
challenge by an air controller, but the real reason was that he had doubts about Martin.

He’d checked Martin’s identity with the portable retina scanner and there was no question it was him. Karr had gone over Martin’s
story with him several times; while it was obvious that he was hedging about what he had told the Russians, that was to be
expected—no one wanted to admit he’d been broken, even if it was obvious. The details about Martin’s escape from the plane
checked with what the technical experts had predicted, and there were no inconsistencies or inexplicable gaps.

Yet Karr was still bugged.

Normal procedure called for a transfer out of Moscow via an antiseptic protocol that minimized other contacts. But that would
jeopardize one of the safe houses and possibly the people who had set it up. Karr had to get the team into Moscow right away,
which implied further complications for holding Martin. He might end up with considerable knowledge of the network in the
city, which presumably he hadn’t had as an equipment operator.

Karr couldn’t leave him in Kirov, however. He had no people there, not even CIA agents who might be roped into the job. There
was no safe house. Foreigners were often monitored when they checked into hotels. And it would take quite a while to arrange
a pickup.

What was it that made him feel uneasy? The fact that Martin didn’t seem all that happy in the first few minutes of the rescue?

But that could be explained by the fact that he had been sleeping and didn’t know what was going on. Martin would already
have passed countless background checks, lie detector tests, all sorts of investigations.

Still.

The pilots of the Fokker 80 were Brits who were only too happy to land at Kirov, since it would save them considerably on
the use fees and fuel.

The pilots did a lot of work for the CIA. They probably had been set up in business by MI6, though that wasn’t entirely clear,
since the British intelligence agency actually used different freelancers, all native. The only thing Karr was reasonably
sure of was that the pilots wouldn’t sell them out to the Russians, the Chinese, or anyone from the Middle East.

That, and their plane was reasonably fast and spacious.

Karr had told them the team was a group of American businessmen who’d gotten sick while looking at oil sites in Siberia. The
odds on them buying that story were about the same that a snowman would last a full day on a Miami beach.

“OK, up and at ’em,” he told the team camped out in the well-appointed passenger cabin.

“Moscow already?” asked Fashona, unfolding himself from the seat.

“Kirov. Let’s go.”

“Kirov?” said Lia.

“Hit the road. Up, Martin. Let’s go, Dean, shake it. Come on.”

They got a rental car and began driving toward a collection of tall buildings on the highway, one of which bore a Holiday
Inn logo. Karr found a nondescript semi-Western-style no-questions-asked motel—its Russian name translated literally as “small
name”—at the edge of an industrial complex. The motel had what amounted to a coffee shop at one side; he told the others to
go in and get something to eat while he talked to the Art Room.

“Why aren’t you in Moscow?” demanded Rockman, the runner, when he came on the line.

“I have questions.”

“I need you in Moscow right away. Where is Martin?”

“He’s around. He’s what I have questions about.”

Rockman didn’t answer for a moment. “We need you in Moscow. Deliver Martin to the embassy and we’ll find someone to take him
back.”

“I want to keep him sterile.”

“Sterile? You’re sure it’s him, right?”

“Yeah,” said Karr. “I’m sure.”

“Look, we have something of a much higher priority than Martin,” said Rockman.

“Can I have Dean take him back?”

“You’re going to need Dean.”

“My ESP isn’t working all that well tonight,” said Karr.

“We’ll tell you the game plan when we’re ready. Your line’s not secure enough.”

The satellite system connecting Karr with the Art Room used four different and independent encryption systems; the NSA itself
would have trouble reading it.

But it was theoretically possible.

The only more secure system—aside from going home and speaking in person—was located in a Moscow safe house.

“Do what you can with Martin,” added the runner. “Put him on ice if you have to. That’s your call. But we need you in Moscow.
And we’ll need your whole team.”

“All right,” said Karr.

56

Two cups of coffee—actual, real coffee—and Dean felt wired. He had a hard time sitting in the restaurant booth, let alone
concentrating his thoughts. He wanted to get back home and sleep for a week, if not more.

Lia had on her pissed-off scowl and Fashona kept jerking his head back and forth. Martin seemed to be in a fugue state, possibly
so mentally wasted that he couldn’t process information anymore.

Dean had been on a mission in Vietnam rescuing a South Vietnamese village official from the Vietcong. They’d gotten the man
back alive—he’d actually been left when the small unit retreated as the Marines moved in. That guy had had the same look Martin
did now, completely spaced. The gooks hadn’t hurt him physically, but their taking him screwed his head so badly, Dean had
doubted he lived more than a few weeks after his rescue. The first cold he caught would kill him.

Same thing with Martin. He slumped in the corner of the booth, eyes wide open, but body stiff, as if its joints were welded
in place.

Dean could’ve ended up like that, too. Still might.

“Wow, you’re a cheerful bunch,” said Karr, sliding into the booth next to Dean. “Jesus, only Dean looks like he’s awake.”

“You’re talking pretty loud,” said Lia.

“You don’t really think they don’t know we’re from out of town, do you?” asked Karr.

“What’s the drill?” asked Fashona.

“The drill is, we have about an hour to get to the airport,” said Karr. “Our tickets await.”

“Why’d we get off the charter?” said Lia.

“Complications.” Karr looked at Martin. “Stephen, you figure you’re all right to travel by yourself?”

Martin didn’t seem to hear. Lia kicked Karr under the table so hard Dean felt it. He looked over at her; her brow was furled
as if she were trying to send a telepathic message.

Karr ignored it. “Yo, Stevie?”

“I’m OK,” said Martin.

“I’ll give you the route when we get there. Come on, let’s do it.” Karr threw a small wad of crumpled rubles on the table.
“Anyone looking for souvenirs can get ’em at the airport.”

Karr didn’t bother checking in the rental car when they reached the airport. He’d booked Martin on a flight to St. Petersburg
and from there to Sweden and then the UK; the rest of them were going to Moscow. Karr took Martin along to the gate—he’d booked
two seats just so he could do so—while the others checked in. Their flight was already boarding.

“He’ll have to catch up,” said Lia.

“You know where we’re going?” said Dean.

She rolled her eyes instead of answering.

Their seats were next to each other. The airliner was a Tupolev Tu-154, somewhat similar to a Boeing 727 with a comfortable,
if nondescript, cabin. But after the Fokker the interior seemed dowdy and crowded. Lia jerked her legs away as Dean’s foot
accidentally brushed against hers. She seemed to have recovered from her brief try at being human and was back into full-bitch
mode.

Dean briefly fantasized about what she might look like without her clothes. He remembered the skirt she’d worn when he first
saw her—very nice, though even in the baggy pocket-laden pants she was a knockout. One of the attendants was a blonde with
a model’s body and soft blue eyes, but she looked bland by comparison.

Obviously he needed real sleep.

“Shit,” Lia muttered. The plane had filled up; Karr’s seat was empty.

“You think we should get out?” Dean asked.

“He can take care of himself.”

“Just checking.”

She twirled her finger around the bottom edge of her shirt, working out her anxiety or something.

They were taxiing back from the gate as Karr bounced down the aisle, his shit-eating grin lighting his face.

“Hey, homes,” he said, pointing at them and then plopping down next to Fashona in the row in front of them.

“You cut it close,” said Lia, leaning forward.

“Nah. I would’ve caught up on the runway if I had to.”

“Is Martin OK?”

“A question that won’t be answered until two hours from now,” said Karr. “Though I’m fully prepared to guess the answer now.”

Karr pushed his seat down so abruptly the top cushion caught Lia in the face.

“Shit,” she said.

“Oops. Sorry.” Karr gave her one of his shit-eating grins. “Better get some sleep. We may not have a chance for a while.”

Neither Dean nor Lia slept on the short flight, but Karr snored so loudly Fashona poked him once or twice in the ribs to get
him to stop. Dean found himself admiring, even envying the kid, simply for his ability to relax.

Dean dragged himself down the ramp after they landed in Moscow. The others walked through the terminal with the self-assured
quickness of regular travelers, but Dean moved slowly, diverted by sights and slowed by his fatigue. His ribs and hip had
stopped hurting, and while he had an assortment of scrapes and bruises, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him that
rest wouldn’t cure. Though it was night, there was a certain excitement in the terminal. Dean began to feel curious and, thinking
about the city, wondered if he might come back someday as a tourist.

He had learned to sort the clothes. Karr was dressed in a fairly standard Russian style—simple brown pants and shoes, a couple
of shirts that were obvious under the pullover, a slightly worn but clean suit jacket that didn’t match the pants. But he
still stood out as a foreigner who dressed like a Russian. So did the others.

They took a black-market taxi into the city, all four of them cramming into a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. Dean stared from
the window, expecting gold spires and painted domes, symbols of the city’s exotic flair. For a while, he was disappointed.
From the highway Moscow looked a lot like any other city at night—lights and traffic, big boxy buildings in the distance.
Finally, a quartet of gold-painted domes loomed above the shadows, glinting in the wash of nearby searchlights. Then they
seemed to move back, hiding amid the more mundane facades, gray with the night.

They got out in front of an apartment building on a block that could have been in Queens, New York. Karr led the way to the
door, then abruptly turned around as the taxi drove out of sight. He double-timed across the street; Dean found himself running
with the others down an empty sidewalk, into a building and then through a courtyard, out through another building, and once
more to the street. Karr stopped short at the door, letting the others catch up before pushing it open and walking calmly
down the stoop to the street, walking along to a small bus stop. Dean was still catching his breath when the bus appeared,
a large yellow box that stopped in the middle of the street and held up traffic while they boarded. Lia grabbed his hand;
Dean looked at her in surprise, then realized she had slipped a ticket into it. He watched her insert hers at the end of a
small box and then pushed a large round knob at the other end; he did the same, validating it, then followed Lia to a seat
about halfway down the aisle.

Three stops later, they all got off. The houses here were two-family townhouses and seemed quite new. Small by U.S. standards,
their sides were made of prefab cement panels and their fronts brick, though those might have been prefabbed as well.

Karr went up the walkway of number 442 and slipped a key into the door.

“Hang tight,” said Fashona, grabbing his shirt as Dean started to follow across the threshold. Karr stood just inside, a small
probe in one hand and his tiny computer in the other. He laid his hand in the middle of a photograph on the wall before reaching
for the light switch. As the others watched, he walked inside and to the right, entering the kitchen. A minute or so later,
several other lights came on and Fashona nudged him forward.

“Home sweet home?” Dean asked as Fashona walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch. Dean fell into the thickly
padded seat across from it.

“Never been here before,” said Fashona. He promptly closed his eyes and went to sleep, his head nearly 180 degrees to his
body as it leaned on the back cushion.

Lia locked and bolted the front door, then went into the kitchen, where she started taking pots from the cabinet. Karr, meanwhile,
trotted up the stairs. He came back about ten minutes later.

“When are we going home?” Dean asked.

“Not sure we are, baby-sitter. I’ll let you know when I find out what the hell is up. Don’t look so shocked. Go grab some
of that coffee Lia’s making. Fill about half the cup up with water before you pour in her sludge, that’s all.”

Dean got up and went to the kitchen, where Lia was in fact watching the black liquid drip through a Braun coffee-maker.

“Be done in a minute,” she said.

“What’s going on? Were we followed?”

“We have another assignment,” said Lia. “But we don’t know what it is yet.”

Dean leaned back against the counter.

“I don’t have another assignment,” he said. “I’m done.”

She shrugged.

He could go to the embassy, tell them he had to talk to Hadash. That would get him home pretty quick.

Karr lumbered down the stairs and into the kitchen a few minutes later. He had a half-sheet of paper in his hands, which looked
as if it had come from a thermal fax machine. He turned on the stove burner and set it on fire.

“Eyes only,” he told Lia.

“Screw you.”

“There’s an empty bed in the back.” Karr turned to Dean and winked.

“Think twice, big man,” said Lia, pulling down a coffee mug.

“No time anyway,” said Karr.

“What’s going on?” asked Dean.

“You and Princess are going to go join a CIA team near the Kremlin,” he said.

“What?” said Lia.

“You’re going to help protect a VIP.”

“Fuck that.”

“She really is a gutter mouth, isn’t she?” said Karr to Dean. “Remember that when you kiss her.”

“What’s the story?” Lia had her hands on her hips. Her face was shaded red.

“Part of the Russian government is going to revolt. We’re going to stop it.”

“How?” asked Lia.

“Just focus on your little bit or you’ll go all to pieces like me,” said Karr. “Then you’ll smell like me and God, you’ll
never get a date.”

“Is this for real?” asked Dean.

“Shit, no, I make this kind of stuff up all the time.”

“What are you going to do? Sleep?”

“I have a few things to run down,” continued Karr. “Including making sure Martin got where he was going. I doubt he did. I’ll
catch up.”

“Shit,” said Lia as the coffee splattered on her hand.

“Better drink the coffee quick,” Karr said. “Spooks are sending a car over. You have to pee, Dean, you better do it now.”

“Who are we protecting?” Lia asked.

“Alexsandr Kurakin,” said Karr.

“The fucking president?”

“I’m not sure how sexually active he is,” Karr told her. “So use your judgment on that. I’d definitely bring protection, though,
and I’m not talking about Charlie Dean.”