Deep Black (29 page)

63

Rubens stood at the front of the Art Room, adjusting his headset as he waited for the Moscow assassination team to check in.
The Art Room was establishing full contact mode, connecting with the CIA’s situation room and the Tank at the Pentagon as
well as its field teams and supervisors. Had-ash paced nervously below the big screen, sweat pouring down his collar.

“Five,” said Al Austin, the CIA supervisor in Moscow. He was at a post near the Kremlin, running the crews keeping tabs on
Kurakin and trying to prevent—or at least detect—an assassination attempt.

Two other teams finished the check-in, reporting from surveillance posts that were covering secondary access routes to the
capital. Their efforts duplicated that of the NSA’s own sensors, but in an operation like this there was no such thing as
too much redundancy.

“All right, now that we’re all on the line, we’re going to run through the latest intelligence,” said Rubens. He introduced
Segio Nakami, who ran down the analysis on the latest intercepts.

Nakami was Johnny Bib’s second in command. Johnny had insisted on hunkering with the crypto people, who were working furiously
to break down a new cipher that had appeared in the military intercepts. While finding the keys and decrypting the messages
would yield considerable information, they would settle for any discernible patterns of its use that would yield information
related to the coup. Rubens agreed that Johnny was more valuable there—and besides, he was acting a little peculiar even for
him.

Nakami explained that sixteen different military units had been positively linked to the coup; several others had been ordered
to their barracks. All of the orders had emanated from the defense ministry, again pointing to Perovskaya. The one odd thing
was that they were in a cipher that had been discontinued some months before, probably because the Russians suspected the
Americans could read it easily. This was probably simply a mistake, added Nakami, though they were open to other interpretations.

No one gave any.

All of these units would be cut off when the coup began. Piranha—a virus designed to disable the military computers—would
be launched from the Art Room at the push of a small button on Telach’s console. Two other virus attacks were also ready.
Communications disrupters—basically very large vans containing equipment similar to that carried by electronic warfare planes—were
stationed near the military bases and in several key Moscow locations. These would be used to throw a blanket around the city
and the rebelling units.

Other resources had been mobilized to monitor the spread and effect of the attack. Besides the existing sensor and satellite
net, four Navy ships and nearly a dozen “joint” project aircraft were either loitering or standing by to launch. A schedule
had been worked out to feed them onto stations piecemeal, hoping not to attract too much attention. And of course there was
a large number of sensors already on-line to help monitor what was going on.

The individual units gave their own short briefs. The CIA people were more than a little testy, mostly reflecting Langley’s
pique that this wasn’t “their” operation. There also was some unvoiced but nonetheless discernible resentment that they were
putting their own necks out for the Russian president—a not unreasonable emotion, Rubens thought.

Austin began complaining that he didn’t have enough people to cover Kurakin and managed to detour into a complaint that the
NSA team that had been sent over had left without telling him where they were going.

“Are you saying, Mr. Austin, that you can’t handle the assignment?” asked Rubens. Rockman had briefed him on Karr’s concerns
and the latest developments; once again the field officer had instinctively followed the right course of action. But that
was why Tommy was there.

“No,” said Austin. “I can handle it fine.”

“Then do so.”

“We have movement,” said Telach, raising her hand a few feet away. “Infantry division near Tula.”

“We have one unit moving,” said Rubens, swinging his mike down in front of his face and addressing everyone on the common
circuit. “We wait for another unit to confirm. Then we move. As planned.”

He put his hand on Rockman’s shoulder, listening as Telach relayed information about the contact. It was an eavesdropping
bug; that was not enough to go on.

“I’m bringing up a satellite image,” she said.

A satellite photo filled about half of the massive screen at the front of the room. The infantry base was laid out like two
half-wheels, with barracks as spokes and vehicles parked in large lots to their right. It took Rubens a few seconds to orient
himself to the images; at first glance he thought the barracks were the vehicles.

“This picture’s ten minutes old, for reference,” said Te-lach. “Here’s the most recent, ninety-two seconds ago.”

Another image flashed on the screen to the right of the first. They seemed identical—and in fact were, as Telach showed with
an overlay.

A fresh overlay thirty seconds later confirmed that the unit had not in fact moved.

“Have the unit on the gate check their equipment,” Rubens told her. “No more false alarms.”

64

Karr took a slug from the tall bottle of Coke, watching the escalator from the corner of his eye. A brunette with big-time
knockers blocked his view momentarily; he had to physically step back and pry his eyes free.

And as he did, Martin got on the top of the escalator, eyes scanning the crowd nervously.

Karr took a few steps forward, putting himself just beyond the view from the escalator. He hung back as Martin descended.
The meter he held in his hand beneath the newspaper sent a strong stream of clicks through his earphone. Martin was still
wearing the markers.

Following him would be child’s play. Karr hoped to get at least a rough idea where Martin was planning to go next before grabbing
him.

Rather than heading toward the airline reservation desks to Karr’s left, Martin continued straight ahead, walking in the general
direction of the street. Somewhat surprised, Karr followed along leisurely.

Moscow. So that probably meant one of the intelligence agencies.

Or not. A
mafiya
connection, a relative, a car rental place that wasn’t as conspicuous, another airport, a safe house, the Army, the Navy,
the U.S. embassy—any of a million places.

Karr began trotting as Martin reached the door. A father and a small boy pulled their suitcases in front of him; he nearly
fell as he spun out of the way. Karr tossed down the soda bottle, running flat out now.

Martin was walking up toward a car.

Black-market taxi. Another break. He ought to play the lottery today, truly.

“The city,” said Martin to the driver in Russian.

“
Ckopee!”
added Karr, grabbing the door and pushing Martin in with him. “Hurry!”

The driver started to look back, but his eyes caught the hundred-dollar bill Karr had dropped onto his seat. He responded
the way any taxi driver would—he hit the gas.

“We are in a hurry, aren’t we, Stephen?” said Karr.

“Yes.” Martin couldn’t have looked more stunned if Lenin had come out of his tomb.

“Boy, you know, it’s awful funny,” said Karr. “I thought you were supposed to take a plane over to—was it Finland? No, that
wasn’t it. I think it was Sweden. Yes, as a matter of fact, it was.”

“There were problems,” said Martin. “I was followed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was on my way to the embassy.”

Karr leaned back against the corner of the seat and the door. He stretched his legs as much as he could, which wasn’t all
that much. “I’ll give you this—you’re not as dumb as you look. But then again, neither am I.”

“Why do you think I’m dumb? I was on my way to the embassy. What would you have done?”

“Embassy. OK.” In Russian, Karr told the driver to take them to the U.S. embassy. The driver started to protest that he didn’t
know the way until Karr reached into his pocket and pulled out another hundred-dollar bill. “My friend can direct you once
you’re in the neighborhood,” he said. “He says he knows it.”

“I’m not sure I do,” said Martin.

“Beautiful place. Bugged all to hell by Russians. Pretty clever, the Russians.”

Martin didn’t answer.

“How long have you been a scumbag? Did they turn you, or were you born that way?”

Martin remained silent.

“Do me a favor, Stephen. Lock your door. The embassy’s in a pretty high crime area.”

Martin made a face but reached over and locked it.

Largely because he did, Karr was ready when he pulled the gun on him a minute later.

“I was kind of hoping you were telling the truth,” Karr said. “Even though I knew it was a fantasy.”

“Screw yourself.” The gun was a small .32-caliber revolver.

“Did you have the gun here, or did you get it past the detectors somehow?” said Karr. “I’d kind of like to know, because I’m
always looking for new techniques.”

He was also wondering if Martin had been met by someone at the airport, which would mean they were probably being tailed.

Martin didn’t answer.

“I’m kind of hoping you don’t shoot me,” said Karr.

“Start praying.” Martin’s hand twitched, but not so much that Karr was going to risk rushing him.

“Come on now. I did save you. Even if you didn’t want to be saved.”

“Stop here,” Martin told the driver in Russian, looking at Karr.

The Russian started to protest; they were still on the highway and a good distance from the central city, let alone the embassy.
Martin said they’d paid enough money for him to stop anywhere they wanted. He kept his eyes on Karr’s the whole time.

“Aim for the heart,” Karr told him as he raised the gun. “If I’m going, I want to go quick.”

“I know about your vest.”

Karr jerked his right arm upward as Martin pushed his hand forward to fire. His hideaway Glock was in his hand and he fired
point-blank, the bullet crashing against Martin’s left shoulder just as he fired. Karr had loaded the gun with rubber bullets—he
wanted Martin alive—but even lead wouldn’t have stopped Martin from pressing the trigger.

But Karr had succeeded in throwing off Martin’s aim. His bullet flew forward, shattering the plastic shield between the passenger
and driver compartments. Shrapnel flew into Karr’s face and his eye caught fire.

The car turned sideways, jumping a curb. Karr felt a hard thud against his chest, then fired the Glock again.

65

It was amazing what two shirt buttons could do.

Dean watched Lia loosen them, then walk up to the plainclothes detectives at one of the side gates to the complex. She had
foreign press credentials saying she was a Singapore television correspondent. He tagged along, bodyguard/driver whose job
was to keep his mouth shut. Her spiel was all in Russian, but the outlines were in a universal language:

“You’re cute; I’d like to see what’s inside so the TV cameras don’t get tripped up; you’re cute.”

“Sure, but I have to frisk you first.”

“Go for it.”

Dean was frisked, too, though considerably quicker. They’d stashed their weapons; the guards seemed more interested in Lia’s
cosmetics than her handheld or the small satellite phone, both of which looked like normal business items.

Dean wondered how the Russians could be taken in so easily, allowing access to a restricted area in exchange for a chance
to cop a feel. But there were other people inside looking at the sight lines, and one of the guards walked with them as they
went. So probably they thought, What’s the big deal? And let’s squeeze a little tit if we can.

Which angered him. Feeling more than a little protective, he glared at the Russian as he led them around to the area where
the press would be allowed to stand—a good fifty feet at least from the president’s path.

Lia stumbled and grabbed the Russian’s arm; as he pulled her up, Dean felt a stab of jealousy. He watched her flirt a bit
more, then turn back toward the gate. Baffled, he followed her out. Lia paused and gave the guard a kiss, then began bantering
with his partner and finally kissed him, too.

“What the hell was that all about?” said Dean, following as she walked back up toward the street. “Jesus. We didn’t even get
close to any of the spots. And what was that about kissing them?”

“Jealous?”

“Why did we go in there and not see anything?”

“Wait.” She glanced at her watch, then took out a small folding set of opera glasses from the handbag she’d brought with her.
The bag—the first Dean had seen her carry since he’d met her—seemed almost foreign.

About a half-block up, she turned and looked back. “One down. One to go. Watch them while I check the layout again,” she told
Dean, handing him the glasses.

Dean peered through the small case. The first detective had slipped back into his chair and nodded out. The other was laughing
at him but looking a little tired himself. He reached into his pocket and took a hit from a flask, then ran his hand along
his collar.

“What’d you slip them?” Dean asked.

“It’s similar to what guys give dates to knock them out and rape them,” said Lia. She looked at her handheld, clicked one
of the keys twice, then put it back in her purse. “Except it’s faster.”

“How’d you get it in them?”

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” she said, heading back toward the gate. “Just in case I need to use it on you.”

None of the spots Dean had picked out were pre-set for a sniper. Lia placed what looked like a thin brown elongated pebble
at each one. There was a tiny hole at one end where a wide-angle video cam could survey the area. The rest of the rock was
a wireless transmitter set to come on at irregular intervals. It took more than an hour for them to go to all the spots Dean
had picked out; they had to work around the dozen or so other security people who were overseeing the area.

When they returned to the gate, the guards were still sleeping. Lia walked back up the block to a tree, then took what looked
like a tampon holder from the purse and gave it to Dean.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he said.

“Just hold it.”

He held it doubtfully in his hand, as gingerly as if it were a hand grenade. Lia took a small compact from the bag and took
it apart, leaving the mirror. Then she took the case back, pulled it, and pushed one part onto the compact shell.

“Give me a boost,” she told him. “To the branch.”

Dean gave her a foothold with his hands. She grabbed the tree limb with one hand, pulling herself up as she held the contraption
in the other. Her legs swung and her shoe almost hit him in the face as he looked up to make sure she’d made it.

It might have been worth the view. He wondered what she’d look like in a long tight skirt.

“Get your rocks off, Charlie Dean?” she asked when she jumped down.

“I’m just trying to figure out what you’re doing.”

“The transmitters in the flies are very low power. This picks them up and uploads to a satellite. The data is then fed through
a computer which will look for anomalies—in other words, if anything changes, the program will sound an alert. We have to
call our friend Mr. Austin and let him know it’s set so he can bring it on-line. It’s probably overkill, but you’re the sniper
expert.”

“You don’t think they’re going to scan the site before the president comes?” asked Dean. “They’ll find the bugs.”

“I think they’ll be looking for bombs, not surveillance gear,” said Lia. “But that’s why we used the low-powered flies. They’re
very difficult to detect, especially if there are other systems in the area. One of the people we saw inside was from the
BBC service, so you know the media will have a feed. And then there are the security people themselves.”

“Any one of whom may be an assassin.”

“These guys, maybe,” said Lia. “But hopefully Kurakin’s people will be on top of them. There’s only so much we can do. Come
on—let’s go check the apartments.”

“You got a nice butt, you know,” he said, following her.

“So do you, honey.”