October's Ghost (7 page)

A servant stepped onto the deck from the main building and announced the arrival of those who had come to do battle with the president. Court was in session.

“Igor Yureivich,” Interior Minister Georgiy Bogdanov said, greeting the man who should have been his equal in government, but the president’s favor had placed the foreign minister in an elevated state of importance. He turned to the leader of his nation, who was rising from his seat. “Gennadiy Timofeyevich, your dacha looks lovely as always.”

The president welcomed Bogdanov with the accepted firm kiss on each cheek. “Georgiy Ivanovich, you are welcome here always.” A polite smile masked the hollowness of the offer. “And you bring the good general with you.”

General Aleksandr Shergin, commander of
Voyska PVO
, the Russian air-defense forces that had changed little from the days of allegiance to the Soviet Union, nodded crisply to the man he grudgingly accepted as his commander in chief. “President Konovalenko.”

The president expected no more informal a greeting than that from a military man, and would offer none in return to General Aleksandr Dmitreivich Shergin. “Come, sit.”

Yakovlev took the seat beside the president, across the small drinks table from the men who were their adversaries. A platter of
omul
, a smoked fish imported from the eastern expanses of the country, appeared from the hands of a servant, as did a bottle of vodka and four glasses. The small talk that followed lasted several minutes, until its purpose as a prelude to more serious discussions had been exhausted.

“And now to the less enjoyable matters at hand,” the president said. “Your choice of a traveling companion leaves little for me to guess at, Georgiy Ivanovich.”

The interior minister smiled obligingly at the friendliness of the comment. “General Shergin is an expert in these matters.”

“As is his superior—Marshal Kurchatov,” Yakovlev offered. “And Colonel Belyayev.”

“Yes. Yes.” The interior minister laid a strip of the pinkish fish on his tongue and chewed it quickly to a swallow. “But they do not represent the opinion of all in the military.”

The president bristled at the veiled meaning. “You do not suggest that the military would try to hinder our efforts, do you, Comrade Bogdanov?”

It was “Comrade Bogdanov” now. Soon it would deteriorate to “Comrade Interior Minister.” Beyond that, just invectives. Bogdanov hoped to avoid that, but, with the president’s well-known temper and his fervency on this point, doing so would be difficult. He had to try, however. His duty to the Motherland demanded such.

“Hinder?” Bogdanov answered the question adequately with a non response. “It is simply a matter of advisement. To place so much trust in the Americans is, well, presumptuous, would you not say?”

“No, I would not say that.” The president pulled his collar up against the breeze that was picking up. “They have given Marshal Kurchatov unprecedented access to their strategic systems. Their raket submarines are being recalled for the duration of the operation. In a few hours he will observe the process by which a launch of their strategic missiles is ordered, something that is such a closely held secret the KGB was never able to determine the exact process.” His head shook emphatically. “No, Comrade Bogdanov, I would not say that our trust of the Americans is presumptuous.”

“I would,” the interior minister countered, drawing the philosophical line between himself and the president. “And so do many others...in all areas of our government.”

The president saw the general straighten at the minister’s words. What was being implied was clear enough. He had already survived one coup and had squashed two others before they ever got past the planning stages, mostly because they lacked any sort of catalyst to spark and inspire the plotters. The dismantling of his nation’s missile-warning system about to begin with American assistance could be just such a catalyst. Warnings of such a situation had been given since the plan’s inception. There was deep, vitriolic disagreement within the government over the plan. To trust the Americans or not. There were only two answers, with no gray area in between, and these men had been dispatched to be convinced that the president’s decision was correct. Anything less could lead to something the country neither wanted nor needed.

“Igor Yureivich,” the president said, signaling his foreign minister to do that which he had hoped would not be necessary. As a smart political maverick, though, he had prepared for the eventuality that it would.

“We have proof that the Americans are sincere in this effort,” Yakovlev began. “From inside the Central Intelligence Agency.”

The revelation caught both Bogdanov and Shergin off guard, and each looked to the other for some bearing as to what should be done now. The interior minister went on with the obvious. “We have an agent
in
the CIA?”

“Not exactly,” Yakovlev said with a smile, explaining the full story for the visitors after a sip of vodka. “As you can see, it is an unusual arrangement. But we have validated the information. The spy that State Security caught earlier this year—the damned Lithuanian in the shipyard—was foretold by the information we received from our source. And several other pieces of information have proven very helpful, and very truthful.”

Bogdanov thought over what he’d just been told. It was quite out of the ordinary but very elegant indeed. State Security, the leftovers of the former KGB, still held domain over the gathering of intelligence, but not in this, it was apparent. “And the reason for having the Foreign Ministry handle this...source, instead of State Security?”

The president laughed. “Even you, Georgiy Ivanovich, cannot believe that our vaunted intelligence agency is free of all the powers that corrupted it in the past. This arrangement is more secure, if somewhat more cumbersome. The chain consists of two persons in America. One of them is an American who has given us advance word of media reports for more than a decade now—their press is often more adept at information gathering than the KGB was—and can be trusted completely. Now his use is mostly as a courier. The other is a liaison at the embassy. Reports are delivered to the American by means that are not important, then to our man at the embassy. They are then brought directly to Moscow and hand-delivered to Igor Yureivich. He then brings them to me for review. And now the both of you are blessed with the knowledge.” He said the latter with a warning glare. “Where this information comes from is beyond compare, especially because it is given...how would you say?...unwittingly. Without embellishment or filtering. To let on that we have access to this information would surely end its availability. Hence the extreme precautions. I alone make the decision as to how the information is to be used.”

“This could be trickery,” Bogdanov suggested.

“Not with what has been allowed to slip out,” Yakovlev responded. “We have learned such secrets that you would not believe.”

“And those may be useful in the future,” the president said, knowing the value of inside knowledge during negotiations in the international arena. “I tell you all this only to stave off any foolish moves by ‘other parties.’ You must convince them that such would be a grave mistake, and you must do so without revealing what you have been told.”

Shergin caught the president’s attention with his stare. “I trust that you are right to believe this information. Inoperable radars will do little to protect the Motherland.”

“As will malfunctioning ones,” the president shot back. “A safer tomorrow will come only from trust today.”

Interior Minister Bogdanov, in a position of allegiance that was odd considering his seemingly benign place in the government machinery, had to decide whether to report in the positive or the negative to his fellow dissenters back in Moscow. The 106th Airborne Division, a unit that had saved the president once by refusing to participate in a failed effort to unseat him, was poised to move into the capital with just a word from General Shergin, its allegiance this time opposite of the past by way of a new, conversely loyal unit commander. Would Bogdanov set such a thing in motion? Could he?

“The next two weeks will be somewhat tense,” the interior minister theorized, his decision sure to disappoint many of his political bent. “I hope events bear out your trust in the Americans.”

“I have no doubts,” the president said confidently. “All will go well.”

“I hope so,” Bogdanov said. “For the sake of the Motherland.”
And for yours
.

*  *  *

“Tomás, look. Quick,” Jorge said, the CNN anchor’s words sounding much too awake for such an early hour, then reminded himself that he was on the West Coast. He had been out here too long, he knew. “Turn it up, Tomás. Turn it up.”

Tomás set down the plastic cassette case and jeweler’s screwdriver and rolled off the motel bed. He twisted the volume knob until the sound came up. No fucking remote, he thought, realizing that fifty-six bucks a night didn’t necessarily guarantee the latest in amenities.

“
Early reports from Havana indicate that the apparent coup has caused widespread disruption of communications systems.
” The anchor fiddled with papers that were being fed to him, obviously trying to sort out that which was before him and the flow of words through his earpiece. Fast-breaking news was never as pretty as the produced stuff. “
And, uh, we are now getting some confirmation on an earlier report that this may be a very large and a very well organized uprising. Sources at Guantanamo Naval Base near the eastern end of the island are reporting that there is heavy fighting in the nearby city of Guantanamo. Flashes... I am reading this as I receive it, so bear with the roughness of it. Flashes are visible from the north and... If these reports are correct, and we believe they are, then this fighting is hundreds of miles from the initial reports from the area near the country’s capital of Havana. And...
”

Jorge switched the set off. “I don’t believe it.”

“Shit. No wonder they want this thing out of circulation.” Tomás tightened the last of the small metal screws that held the cassette together. “Does this do anything to us?”

Jorge’s head shook. “Fee up front, Tomás. We have our money, we do the job.” He looked at the work his partner was finishing up. “How long?”

“Just...a...there!” Tomás held up the tape. “You should go for the head like me next time.”

“Like I should have known,” Jorge protested. One of his shots had not only found its mark in the man’s chest, it had also clipped the cassette he was carrying in his shirt pocket, destroying the transfer rollers but sparing the tape itself. That had necessitated a hurried search for the required materials and tools. A cassette of the same type had been purchased, along with the tiny screwdrivers, and was simply dismantled and the undamaged spools of tape inserted. It had taken some time, as Tomás was careful to remove all fragments of the shattered plastic. Thankfully, the tape had been pulled from Portero’s pocket quickly enough, saving it from a drenching in the man’s blood. Liquids, especially thick ones like human blood, were devastating to the thin magnetic tape that depended on stability in its environment for longevity. Anyone who had ever left one exposed on the dash of an automobile on a hot day would understand the fragility completely.

A thump from outside the door made Jorge turn his head. It had to be the complimentary
USA Today
, one of the reasons he had chosen this motel. The one extra he wanted, actually needed. It would save him a trip to the liquor store across the street. “Let’s hear it.”

Tomás reached for the portable cassette player and inserted the tape, pressing Play next. A few seconds went by before there was speaking to be heard. Thank God it...

“What is this?” Jorge asked. It was not what they had been told to expect.

“Who is that?” Tomás added another question. “This isn’t the fucking tape! What the fuck is going on!”

“Shut up!” Jorge said, looking at the walls and hoping they were thick enough to contain his partner’s outburst. He listened for a few minutes to the conversation’s end. “Damn.”

“Jorge, that is not what we were supposed to find.” Tomás stood from the bed and began to pace.

“That had to be Portero speaking,” Jorge said. “But the other one?”

Tomás stopped his stalking, looking directly to his partner. “Jorge, we fucking killed an FBI agent today to get that tape, and it ISN’T EVEN IT!” The news on both radio and TV had spread the word quickly, along with vague descriptions of the pair that, thankfully, weren’t very accurate.

“But it is something.”

Tomás, the younger of the two, snorted. “Yeah. A lot of good that’ll do us. Fuck!”

His partner was right, Jorge knew. They were supposed to get the tape and verify that it was
the
tape. What they had been briefed to be on the lookout for was definitely not what they had just heard. “You still have that reporter’s name, the one he was supposed to meet with?”

“Sure do. You think he might have given it to him ahead of time?”

“It’s possible,” Jorge figured, even though he didn’t see how it could have happened. “But we’re going to make damn sure about it. First we’ve got to report this.”

“But we’re not supposed to...” His partner’s look convinced him that arguing was not a good idea at the moment. “They’re going to love this.” Tomás watched Jorge go to the door and open it gingerly, peering through the crack into the early-morning darkness before retrieving the paper from just outside.

“Dial it,” Jorge instructed his partner while he pulled the slip of paper out of his wallet. On it was the number of a phone booth he had selected a few days before. He had selected others and would use each only once. Next he opened the paper to the sports section. It was baseball season, so he found the first story nearest the upper left of the page concerning America’s favorite pastime, ‘
Angels Still Alive
’, the heading read. Hard to believe, he thought. But his interest was in the body of the story.
Just when the team from the land of Disney
... He had his key. D.