Ghost Force (8 page)

“My general advice would be don’t fool with the Brits. They get very touchy. And I happen to know it’s Exxon and British Petroleum who are going to develop those oil fields. That’s a U.S.-UK alliance. We should be wary of those, especially when there’s a lot of money involved.”

The President looked up and nodded. “My dear Oleg,” he said patiently, “you do not think for one moment I intend to become involved in a fight with either of them, do you? Frankly I’d rather fight the Siberians, or the Chinese for that matter.

“But there is one rather hotheaded little nation that might very easily be happy to do our dirty work for us. I believe it’s called Argentina, and they are not afraid of anyone when it comes to those islands. The Malvinas, they believe, belong to them. The very word
Malvinas
drives them mad in Buenos Aires.

“Grown men, military officers, beat their breasts and start raving about how proud they would be if their own sons fought and died for the islands. One of the Argentine admirals in the last conflict stated he would die a happy man if the blood of his son, killed in combat, was to seep into the soil of the Malvinas. There is no reason in that country, just passion…
Viva las Malvinas!
All that nonsense.

“Their claim is essentially ludicrous, utterly dismissed by London. But with a little clandestine help from us, they might just go at it again. You know, capture the islands, which are scarcely defended, seize the oil, expel the oilmen from Exxon and Shell. And allow us the rights—in return for a generous royalty.

“We then put in two big Russian oil companies, build them a tanker complex, and sit back and take our cut, in the form of taxes on the oil exported to the Gulf Coast of the United States. Works for everyone, correct?”

“Sir, it is my duty to warn you that the Americans would be absolutely furious and might use military force against the islands.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister Kravchenko. But I don’t think you are right. The Americans might be furious, but in the end they would do a deal. The Brits, however, would not. They’d attack the islands, just as they did in 1982.”

“You really think so?” said the PM. “The Royal Navy all over again, bombing and blasting the islands all over again. British troops, fighting and dying in the frozen hills of that awful, weird little place?”

“Yes, Comrade. I think they might,” said the President. “But this time they would most certainly lose. And there would be absolutely nothing they could do about it. Everyone involved in our military knows it. Great Britain’s Labour governments have weakened their war-fighting capability to a truly stupendous degree.

“They do not have the troops, they have savagely cut out some of their best regiments, merging them, closing them. They have cut back their Navy, selling many ships and scrapping others. They’ve reduced
their air combat force to virtually nothing. The Brits would be a pushover.

“And, since they don’t have Margaret Thatcher anymore, the Argentines would crush them. Especially with a little help from us. If I was their Defense Minister I would not even think about trying to recapture the Falkland Islands, should Argentina decide to claim them.”

The Russian press release was issued by the Russian Air Force in Moscow at midnight, too late for the television news channels, and very late for the morning newspapers, which are inclined to print earlier on Friday nights because of various weekend supplements and magazines.

The release, scarcely changed from the precise wording written by hand by the Russian President that morning, reached the international wire agencies shortly before one a.m. on Saturday.

It was still Friday afternoon in Washington, around five p.m., and there was plenty of time to develop the story. However, East Coast newsrooms had much more on their minds than an obscure military air crash in northern Siberia, where a few oil execs may have perished.

And it was greeted, generally, with a thunderclap of disinterest. The
Washington Post
and the
New York Times
carried a single column, a two-inch-long mention of the accident in their foreign news roundup, well inside the paper. No one thought it worth a follow-up. The CNN twenty-four-hour news channel never mentioned it; neither did the main newspapers in Philadelphia or Boston.

On the other hand, over on the eighth floor of the National Security Agency, Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe took one glance at the release from Moscow and damn near rammed the ceiling with the top of his head as he blew directly upward out of his office chair.

“H-o-o-o-o-l-e-e shit!”
he breathed. And the words on the sheet of copy paper jumped straight out at him…
Siberia…oil…death…air crash…no trace…no details…Whoa!

Having almost walked into the wall with excitement, he reeled around and hit the buttons to the former assassin in the CIA, Lenny Suchov.

“I know, I know, Jimmy, I just got it. How
about
that? Something’s going on right here. I am certain of that.”

“Hey, that’s a pretty sharp deduction—for a bloody spook,” said Jimmy, once more sounding like Crocodile Dundee.

“Oh, you mean I was clever enough to work out there may be a connection between the death in the White House and those deaths in the Siberian tundra?”

“I should bloody say so, old mate. The Ruskies obviously wiped out a top Siberian oil exec in the State Dining Room right here in Washington. And now they might have done a whole bloody planeload of ’em somewhere northeast of the Urals.”

“My thoughts completely,” said Lenny. “Crudely but effectively stated. However, it’s still very much a Russian affair—nothing to do with us. But I think it’s our duty—mine at least—to take a look at something as sinister as this. We ought to know what’s happening.”

“I agree, Lenny. But I’m not sure where to start. I suppose I could get U.S. Air Force Intelligence to find out precisely which aircraft from which base somehow took off and never returned. I could have someone get inside the rescue operation and find out how many Russian aircraft are on the case…”

“Jimmy, I think that might prove a waste of time.”

“What does that mean?”

“Because, if there is something sinister, there will be no aircraft and no air crash.”

“Gimme that one more time?”

“Jimmy, let us assume our general deductions are on the right lines. Someone near or at the top of the Russian food chain wanted those Siberian execs eliminated. Firstly, they would have found a far more efficient, quiet way of achieving that objective.

“Secondly, they would not have bothered to sabotage a damned expensive military aircraft, and effectively murder two or three Russian Air Force officers, in a totally unnecessary way. It’s not the way they operate. It’s completely out of character.

“No, young Jimmy. This aircraft crap is a cover-up. And quite a noisy one. They’ll be aware that within a few days there’ll be people all over the place trying to solve what the stupid newspapers will call
the mystery of the missing Russian jet
…and they’ll have to offer a measure of cooperation.

“But, Jimmy, they won’t care who wants to investigate. Because
no one will ever find anything. There’s nothing to find. I’m sorry to disillusion you…but the Air Force jet is a decoy. Doesn’t exist. But neither, I am afraid, not now, do all those oil chiefs.”

“Jesus. This is like listening to Sherlock Holmes. You’re more bloody devious than the Russians…”

“That, Lt. Commander Ramshawe, is what I believe your government pays me to be.”

Jimmy chuckled. “Well…former genius of the Black Sea wrestlers…what the hell do we do now?”

“You sit tight. I’m going to get some field agents on the case, simply to find out who died in Siberia. I’m looking for names. The whole list of who’s suddenly gone missing. Then we can sit down and try to join up the pieces. Jimmy, this may have much more to do with your area of operations than you know. But for the moment, sit tight.”

“Sit tight? I’m not sitting bloody tight. I’m phoning the Big Man, right after I contact Admiral Morris.”

He said good-bye to the spymaster from Langley and punched in an e-mail message for Admiral Morris, his boss, to contact him from the West Coast, where he was attending a conference with the FBI in San Diego. He informed the Admiral that something had come up re the White House murder, and he was proposing to have a chat with Arnold Morgan.

Jimmy then called Admiral Morgan and quickly realized he had done so at a bad time.

“Christ, Ramshawe. It’s nearly four bells, I
never
take phone calls on the last dog-watch. I’m trying to get ready for the evening.”

“Sorry, sir. But something’s come up you’ll want to know about…”

“How the hell do you know what I want to know about…?”

“Well, sir, I think…”

“Think, think, think. The whole damned world’s thinking, mostly crap. I’m not interested in what you think. Call me with facts, fine. Not goddamned thoughts, hear me?”

“These are bloody facts, Admiral, otherwise I wouldn’t have called…”

“That’s entirely different,” the Admiral harrumphed. “But I’m still busy. Can these facts wait, or is the entire goddamned planet on the brink of war?”

“Not exactly, sir. I guess they can wait.”

“How long can they wait?”

“Not long, sir. This is important.”

“All right, all right. Now listen. In precisely two hours I have to meet Mrs. Kathy Morgan in Le Bec Fin, one wildly expensive restaurant in the heart of Georgetown on one of the most expensive streets in the free world…I suppose you wanna come?”

“Jeez, Admiral. That would be great.” But he added after a sudden flashback on the Admiral’s excellent taste in French wine, “So long as I don’t have to pay.”

And then, realizing this might be the precise moment to push his luck to the absolute brink, he asked, “Can Jane come?” He knew of course that Kathy adored his fiancée, the Australian Ambassador’s daughter Jane Peacock, but was nonetheless aware that Arnold’s answer might not be precisely orthodox. Arnold’s answers usually weren’t.

“Can Jane come?” he rasped. “Oh, sure, why not check whether there’s any other members of her family at a loose end tonight…few cousins, aunts, maybe a coupla neighbors?

“How about your mom and dad, could they make it down from New York in time? Got any visiting uncles from the goddamned outback, might fancy a bowl of kangaroo soup at a high-class establishment at about twenty-five bucks a spoonful—bring the whole goddamned lot if you like. I’ll remortgage the house.”

Jimmy by this time was falling about laughing. “Actually, I meant just Jane, sir,” he eventually said.

“’Course she can come,” grunted the Admiral. “Eight bells, Le Bec Fin. And don’t be late. My best to your dad.” Bang. Down phone.

Jimmy called Jane at the embassy and told her he’d pick her up at 7:45. Then he spoke to Admiral Morris, who was very thoughtful about the Russian press release and what Lenny Suchov had said. “Good plan to run it past Arnie…I’m sorry I can’t join you.”

Jimmy resisted the temptation to inform his boss that the merest suggestion of another guest at the table might have sent Arnold into a paroxysm of mock indignation. Instead he just said, “I’ll give him your best, sir. And it sure will be interesting to hear what he thinks about the old Ruskies.”

“Jimmy,” concluded Admiral Morris, “we know what he thinks
about the Ruskies. But this press release from their Air Force will get his attention.”

“It better,” replied his assistant. “Otherwise I might find myself with the biggest dinner check I ever saw.”

EIGHT BELLS
LE BEC FIN
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, DC

It was raining steadily when Jimmy Ramshawe’s black Jaguar came whipping through the puddles and pulled up right outside the entrance to the restaurant. A doorman immediately stepped out with an umbrella and motioned for Jane to jump out.

Then, somewhat surprisingly, he motioned for Jimmy also to disembark. “Admiral’s orders, sir, we’re to park the car for you…you are Lt. Commander Ramshawe, aren’t you?”

“That’s me, old mate.”

“Yes, I thought I was correct.”

“What did the Admiral actually say?”

“He said when some kind of a black English racing car comes speeding up the goddamned road, let the beautiful blonde in the passenger seat out first, then bring the Australian driver in, and park the car.”

“Sounds just like him.”

“Yessir. Remie will take care of you right inside the door.”

The maitre d’ steered them to the back of the restaurant where Admiral Morgan and Kathy were quietly sipping glasses of superb 2001 Meursault, which had set the Admiral back almost $100.00. The bottle of white burgundy was in an ice bucket set in a raised stand on the floor at the end of the table.

“Hi, kids,” said Arnold, standing to greet first Jane, then Jimmy, while Kathy climbed to her feet and hugged Jane.

The waiter had already placed two extra wineglasses on the table, and the Admiral dipped into the bucket and pulled out the bottle, splashing it out generously. Never occurred to him either of his guests could possibly want anything else. And he was dead right about that.