I Minus 72 (7 page)

“It might be dangerous and you might end up
traveling all over Eastern Europe, maybe even Russia. Are you sure
you can handle it?” Grant said, still leaning forward.

Sam paused a moment, not exactly sure how to
answer. She decided to just spit it out. “Sir, when I was assigned
to a combat unit in Iraq and was issued an M16 rifle and a Berretta
9MM sidearm, I was scared. Yeah, I knew how to shoot—I qualified
for the sharpshooter medal in basic. But, I had never shot at human
targets. I didn’t know how I would react when that happened. When
it eventually did, I found out that I was well trained, and the
first time I confronted an enemy, it was he who went down, not me.
I’m ready,” She finished confidently.

Leaning back, Thurmond nodded, pleased with
her enthusiasm. “Great. The first thing we need to do is to
establish a new working relationship. I am retired and my name is
Grant, not sir or Colonel. I have a tendency to walk around
inappropriately dressed at home, but I’ll try to spare you the
embarrassment of seeing me in my underwear or, worse, naked. If I
slip up and you see me, you’re gonna have to overlook that.
Sometimes I like to have a drink—usually every day. I never get
drunk—don’t like the feeling of being out of control. I curse. Does
that offend you?”

“No, sir, that doesn’t offend me. So do
I.”

“Good answer, but I’m Grant, not sir.”

“Yes, sir . . . . I mean Grant. That part’s
gonna be tough. I’m not used to calling a senior officer by their
first name. Or any officer for that matter.” Sam said with a
nervous smile.

With their new working relationship somewhat
established, Grant suggested lunch. Sam enthusiastically agreed.
They drove across Key Bridge into Georgetown and had lunch in a
trendy café with outside seating. It was the best cheeseburger
Grant had tasted since he started cooking for himself. Since he was
on full expenses, he resolved to eat out the whole time he was on
this assignment—an assignment he increasingly felt was an
impossible task. Somehow, though, he felt good that Sam had signed
up to help. But then that thought made him feel uncomfortable
again.

I minus 49

CIA Headquarters

Garcia sat at his desk, wondering why
Thurmond had not returned any of his calls today. Guess he’d have
to go to the Pentagon and talk to him. Ever since their
confrontation in Poland, they’d had little to say, and on the
flight back they hardly talked. It was odd, though. He knew the
bugs in Thurmond’s office were working because he had picked up
Thurmond’s conversation with Sam confirming what Thurmond had told
him about Koslowski. But he hadn’t heard a word since. Due to his
position at the CIA, Garcia had unlimited access to all DIA spaces,
and it had been ridiculously easy to plant the bugs. Before he went
over to talk to Thurmond, though, he needed to talk with his boss
and bring her up to speed. She was okay, but she wasn’t a real
field agent.

Nora Ames, Garcia’s immediate superior, was
a longtime CIA employee. She had never been in the field, instead
spending most of her career as an analyst at headquarters in
Langley. Over the years, she had many times shown brilliance when
matching seemingly unrelated bits of information to derive true
intelligence, intelligence with meaning for America. That’s how she
thought of it— to keep America safe. For her continued loyalty and
excellent work, she was rewarded with fairly rapid promotions. Now
she led a unit of agents who had spent their careers in the field.
Many of them resented reporting to someone with no field
experience. Garcia was one of them.

Garcia called Ames on the secure internal
line. “Nora, you got a minute? I need to bring you up to date on
this inauguration thing.”

“Sure, Marty. Give
me fifteen minutes then come on
up.”

Garcia walked into Nora’s office spaces and
her admin told him to go right in, she was expecting him.

Director Ames was still quite young, maybe
38, Garcia thought. She was about 5’6”, slender, and had dark hair,
pulled severely back into a low pony tail. She was wearing a navy
suit with a skirt and matching low, navy heels. A simple, but
expensive probably silk, blouse was underneath the jacket. Garcia
had never seen her outside her office and there were times he
wondered if she ever let her hair down. She was unmarried, he
knew.

Nora’s office was what one
would expect a senior CIA executive’s office to look like. Located
in a corner of the 5
^th
floor, the office was large, containing a dark
wood desk with a tall, plush leather swivel chair and two
comfortable side chairs across the desk from hers. The office also
had a conference table with six chairs, and a comfortable sitting
area in one corner had a sofa and two leather easy chairs. There
were potted plants throughout the space which were diligently
maintained by Nora’s administrative assistant. Another nice feature
which Garcia especially liked was that she had tinted windows on
two walls, affording her a nice view of the back side of the CIA
campus. Garcia was always impressed when he entered. Someday, he
thought, someday.

He joined Nora at the conference table,
sitting across from her.

“Hi, Nora. Just wanted to bring you up to
date. I went with Thurmond to Krakow and it was a dead end,” He
said.

“What do mean ‘a dead end?” she replied,
leaning forward with her elbows on the table and hands crossed
under her chin.

“The old guy he went to see was a basket
case with no memory. Didn’t even know Thurmond. By the way, I
already told this to the DNI. Sorry,, but he called me for an
update and I had no choice but to tell him.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Marty. But next time,
I would appreciate it if you would tell me first,” Nora complained,
sitting back and crossing her arms.

“Oh, sure. I meant to this time, but, well,
he called me and, well, you know.” Garcia looked at her and
shrugged.

She held his gaze for a moment and then
said, “Okay, what’s the next step?”

“Well, I don’t really know. There were a lot
of people around, so Thurmond and I didn’t talk much on the way
home. I’ve called and left messages several times, but he hasn’t
called back. Thought I’d head over to the Pentagon today and talk
with him personally.” Garcia deliberately didn’t tell her about the
bugs. If they were discovered before he could retrieve them, well .
. . easier to get forgiveness than permission.

Nora looked a little peeved, but responded
calmly. “Okay. Look, you guys are supposed to be a team. If he
doesn’t want to cooperate, you have to convince him you can help.
This is sensitive enough that I can’t do anything to help you.
Thurmond is running the show. He has the authority all the way up
to the President-elect and that’s way above my pay grade.”

“Okay, Nora, I’ll work with him. I’ll get
back to you in the next couple of days with an update.”

“Don’t keep me in the dark, Marty. If the
DNI calls the Director, the Director will call me. I want to be
able to answer his questions.” She stood, indicating the meeting
had ended.

Garcia stood and said, “I’ll keep you up to
speed.”

Garcia left Langley heading towards the
Pentagon. When he got there, he went straight to Thurmond’s office.
Nothing was different except Thurmond wasn’t there. Sam wasn’t in
her office either. Not knowing exactly what to do next, he went
into the Pentagon’s five-acre center plaza to grab some lunch and
listen to the band that was playing. After eating and sitting in
the sun for a while, Garcia went back to Thurmond’s office and
found it the same—empty. At that point, he triggered the
transceiver in his pocket which sent a signal to the two bugs to
transmit back any noise they had picked up. He would listen to it
once he was back in his office in Langley. This had been his
routine since planting the bugs the day before Thurmond
arrived.

He exited the building and, thankful it
wasn’t raining, took the long walk through the massive parking lot
to his car. On his way back to his office, he used his cell phone
to call Thurmond’s number and, getting no answer, left another
urgent message. This sure was strange. He was beginning to think
Thurmond went off on his own, deliberately not telling Garcia where
he was going. He couldn’t understand why Sam wasn’t there, though.
She certainly wasn’t a field agent and surely Thurmond wouldn’t
risk the whole operation by involving someone with no experience.
But, who knows, he thought, Thurmond was a real cowboy. He might do
anything.

I minus 49

Krakow

Riley called the number he had been given to
report his status and was surprised when a man’s voice said, “Yes?”
He expected to reach voice mail as he usually did. After a brief
pause, Riley said, “I’m in place. Barry called the garage just as I
asked and I’m now his permanent driver. What do you want me to do
next?”

“Do your job. Be his driver. Keep your eyes
and ears open and relay everything you hear.”

“Everything? How do I know if it’s
important?” Riley asked.

“
You don’t have to know.
Just tell me everything. I’ll determine what may be of value to
me,” the voice replied.

“Yes, sir. It’s your money.” Riley then
related the DNI’s telephone conversation about Koslowski and the
man said “Is that all?” When Riley said, “Yes,” the man hung up
without saying another word.

The man on the phone spoke English with a
slight accent. Eastern European, Riley thought, maybe even Russian.
Riley didn’t have a clue where the man was located and knew nothing
about him, just that he paid well . . . and that was enough.

A single shingle PI with no real training,
Riley was pretty sleazy. For several years now, he’d barely eked
out a living taking jobs that no reputable PI would take . . . and
not all of them were above board. Nothing terribly illegal, but he
was not against breaking laws to make a few bucks. He was in his
early fifties, though looked slightly younger because he kept his
weight down. Thick blond hair added to the illusion. He’d been
looking for a bigger score recently. Something he could use to buy
a condo down in Florida, maybe. So when he was contacted by phone
about two months ago, with the caller telling him he needed him for
some work to be done in the near future, he’d jumped at the chance.
He was put on a fat weekly retainer and told to get a job as a
driver for the US Government and await further instructions.

He’d managed to do that fairly quickly;
seems they were always looking for part-time drivers. Since then
he’d been on call, driving for a variety of people. He had a clean
record, so the LAC/NAC went quickly and he was granted a SECRET
clearance. This was indicated by a small red dot under the plastic
coating of his badge and, along with his demographic information
like height, weight, eye and hair color, was also recorded on the
magnetic strip on the back of the card. His picture was on the
front.

However, he now had a new badge that he’d
found this morning in an envelope stuffed under his door. While it
looked identical to the other one, under the plastic coating it had
a little yellow dot instead of the red one. He thought that might
indicate a different access level. Riley didn’t know what security
level the dot indicated, but, since the badge had his picture on
it, he’d worn it all day. He’d never met the guy with the accent,
but the deposit showed up every week at his bank right on schedule.
And to boot, he was getting good pay as a government driver. Good
thing, too, because he didn’t have any other cases right now and
the old bank account was getting mighty low. Also, this was a good
diversion from his usual boring casework.

***

The man with the accent walked quickly
through the residential streets of Krakow. He’d arrived early this
morning, catching a late night flight from Dulles two hours after
shoving the badge under Riley’s door. It had taken him less than
two days to determine that the Koslowski mentioned in the call was
Genoa Koslowski, a past Soviet middle manager in the old Polish
Ministry of Defense. He must have been cooperating with the
Americans for a long time. The man needed to know if Koslowski had
mentioned his name to the Americans and, if so, to whom. Either
way, Koslowski had to be eliminated. Today. When this was over,
there could be no one left alive who had seen or heard his name in
conjunction with any American spy operation.

“Yes, I’m coming,” came the response in
Polish from the other side of the door. As Koslowski opened the
door a crack, the man standing there pushed sharply, knocking
Koslowski backwards into the apartment. The man quickly entered,
closing the door behind him.

Within thirty minutes he had all the
information he had come for. Even more, for Koslowski had revealed
that he had actually run a fairly large network, and now the man
had all the names. Any one of the people on this list could have
heard his name, so all would have to be eliminated. Too bad the old
man died before answering all his questions. Well, he had all the
names and knew generally in which city they lived, but just didn’t
know how to contact all of them. That’s more than he’d hoped for.
Adding these names to the list he had obtained earlier gave him a
good picture of the network. Too bad the paper was torn in the
earlier case, but he was sure it went unnoticed. All in all, a good
day’s work. He would have vodka tonight.

I minus 49

Washington

After lunch, Grant and Sam returned to their
new apartment to begin the task of matching names with Grant’s
memory and the reams of specific intelligence requests made over a
twenty-year period.