Top Hook (28 page)

“High Noon is the Strike Lead. Lone Ranger is MARI one and Tonto is MARI two. The tankers are Wagon
Train one through six, and the Tomcats are Gunslingers. The F-18s are Riflemen. It's all on the yellow card. Frequencies within your stations are color-coded. Thanks.” She ducked out.

The brief rumbled on for more than an hour. When Rafe went back to the front and asked for questions, the briefing team endured another ten minutes of details that surfaced a fuel-consumption error and a lot of questions about the rules of engagement. Rafe announced that there would be a brief recce review of Chinese, Indian, and Pakistani hull types and aircraft in the VF-162 ready room in an hour. Then he looked at all the people in the ready room, running his eyes over them slowly as if measuring them.

“Two days ago, China delivered a war ultimatum to India. It has three days to run. This is real, folks; we have to find 'em and wake them up to the New World Order. Or in three days we'll be playing with fire.”

The admiral nodded at Rafe and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he waved at a man in civilian clothes who was hovering in the doorway behind Rafe.

Rafe looked at the man and held up his hands for silence.

“This is Special Agent Stein from NCIS.”

“Ahem, yeah. Admiral Kessler has asked me drop by to say something. Commander Craik is being, ah, instrumental in supporting an ongoing counterintelligence investigation. I have here a letter of commendation from the Director of NCIS that I'd like to present to Commander Craik. Admiral, shall I read it?”

“No, Marty, I think we'll save that for the awards ceremony. But thanks, and well done, Commander. Okay, boys and girls. If this thing gets approved, it launches in twenty-two hours. Get moving.”

Alan thought his throat would burst, it had swelled so hard. The effect of the announcement was immediately visible: everybody was making surprised faces at everybody else.

Shreed, wearing an English suit and tie, and with a wooden cane, was sitting in the Palm Court of the Langham Hotel. A businessman in an even more English suit and tie was sitting next to him at right angles, rather red in the face from sun and aggression, one of those Thatcherite go-getters who look as if they mean to eat you raw.

“We have to know what you're bringing,” he was saying in a surprisingly quiet voice.

“Myself.”

“My people would like something as a bona fide.”

“Your people can go fuck themselves. They know me.”

The man sipped his coffee. “They'd really like
something.
”

“They'll get something if they're willing to deal.”

“They don't want to take a pig in a poke.”

“Neither do I. Forget it.” Shreed made a movement to get up.

The businessman laid a hand on his arm. “No, don't. Please, don't get angry.” He smiled a toothy smile. “They'll just have to vet you that much more thoroughly at the other end, you know.” He put his hands up in mock surrender. “You're too much for me. You can leave at seven. I'm terribly sorry, but two security people will go with you; they'll have a passport for you. I'm told to say that we deeply regret any implication that you can't be trusted to make the flight alone.”

Shreed ignored the smile. “I'll take the passport and a ticket to Nicosia. No minders, no ‘protectors.' A room in a good hotel. If they try to snatch me and stick me in a safe house or fly me to Mossad headquarters, it's over. Tell your people that.”

“Please, Mister—Ackroyd—you must accept
some
conditions.”

“No, it's Tel Aviv who must accept some conditions. If they don't like it, I'll go home.”

“They'll never agree to Nicosia. Nicosia is full of Palestinians.”

“Exactly.”

The man passed a hand over his face. “Let me consult with my people.”

“You better consult fast. I'm not staying in London past midnight.”

He had been gone for twenty-six hours.

The
Jefferson
and her escorts were out of the Ditch, and the moment they were clear of the navigational nightmare at the southern end of the canal, the carrier had again leaped forward to her full speed. Jordan dropped away to the east, and Egypt was a dirty yellow smudge to the west. A forty-knot wind generated by the huge ship's passage blew African sand and heat through the p'ways; it was one hundred and twelve in the shade of the tower, and the sunset wind blowing over the deck was red hot.

No one lingered on the flight deck, but men and women came up from below to see Africa and to feel the incredible heat. Flight operations remained at a standstill, and a group of sailors labored in the heat to replace the nonskid that had been worn down to bare metal by aircraft on the deck. Alan stretched his arms over his head and looked off the starboard side at Egypt and Somalia and thought about the past.

It was hard to picture George Shreed, his father's wingman, as a traitor. Yesterday, looking at the photo of the Top Hook ceremony in his mind, the connection had seemed obvious. Today, he considered the man's ambition, his manipulations, and his relentless scheming at the Agency and couldn't see George Shreed betraying his country. Certainly, Alan's dad had said that he had come home from Vietnam a bitter man. The
politics within any large bureaucracy had a corrosive effect that Alan had witnessed first-hand.

Alan thought that Shreed was capable of using and discarding individuals. Was it a long step from personal betrayal to treason? He knew enough to know that falsehood was the foundation of espionage. Lies about identity, lies about purpose, lies about sides and roles and information.

When he thought about Naples and Harry and Anna, he no longer regretted missing his own trip to the Ranch. The cold manipulation that Harry had preached as the method to manage Anna struck Alan as being a dark magic that would eventually warp the user. He tried to imagine what a man would be like after decades of seduction and betrayal every day. He couldn't imagine what ends would justify such means, and, although he could imagine the effect on Shreed, he tried not to wonder how the Ranch had changed Harry.

Alan had to face the fact, however, that Harry the professional was a different man. He didn't want to examine that too closely. What he had seen of Harry in Naples had shocked him, rather like finding that a close friend was cheating on his wife. But Harry had cried at a stop on the flight out of Africa, after trying to sell a group of people beside the road on democracy and personal liberty. That was the real Harry. A man who had high ideals and cared deeply for people, both individuals and masses. Not the man who told him that the battle for an agent's soul was often won in small talk. Not that Harry.

Did George Shreed care for anything? Alan stood in the heat, looking over the sea to Africa, and wondered.

do i know you, sir?

We haven't met, but friends of mine have tried.

oh you

Many things have changed.

have they??? you suggested we might meet i'm not

sure i'm interested my attempts to meet you have

had very exciting conclusions

I'm thinking of changing jobs

ah that changes things doesnt it

We might make a very powerful team.

we might if i survived the experience

What guarantee can I offer?

i pick the venue:)

I hate the whole smiley face thing. Okay you pick it.

skating rink

Where?

figure it out

When?

24 hours

How will we meet?

you wander i'll find you when i like it

No. I will not be that vulnerable.

too bad you tried for me twice youre not in position

to preach trust

I'll wait ten minutes.

you do as you like i will approach you when i like it

Ten minutes.

see you in dubai who knows perhaps you will see

me as well

Stevens was done with the brief, and he came back to the water cooler in the back of the ready room and touched Alan's shoulder.

“How come you're in my plane?”

“Because you're the best pilot.”

“Okay. I just wanted to—”

“Alan! You got a minute?” Rafe, in full flight gear, stood with his helmet under his arm.

“I'm with you.” Alan turned back to Stevens. “See you at the plane in five.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“Read this?”

Alan took a message board from Rafe and looked at the top message.

“Jesus saves.”

“Yeah. The Australians have put their fleet units on alert and are sending a task force.”

“And ASEAN is falling apart.”

“The East Timor thing didn't help. Taiwan is torn. Vietnam still hates China. Australia has muscle.”

“Fucking odd time for the Aussies to decide they want to be players.”

“China has moved their East Fleet units into the Taiwan Strait. Seventh Fleet is on full alert.”

“And Opera Glass is still a go?”

“No one's said boo. We're going.”

Alan pulled Rafe out of the passageway into the comparative privacy of the VS-53 maintenance office. Men and women in float coats and deck helmets were moving purposefully around; VS-53 was struggling to get their last plane off the elevator and on the deck.

“Rafe, we're playing for a lot of marbles here, right? We're
fucking
close to World War III in the Indian Ocean.”

“I hear you.”

“I'm venting, okay? Just bear with me. We have to send the right message. They have to buy that we are here to fight if we have to.”

“Without fighting. Yeah, bud, I'm the CAG, okay? I know the mission. You know the joke: Mrs Luce, I
am
a Catholic?”

Alan shook his head. “I'm tensed up.”

“Get over it, Lone Ranger. It's time to play ball.”

When, late in the day, Mike Dukas hadn't heard from Carl Menzes, he drove to the Agency's headquarters and went looking for him. As it turned out, Menzes was in his office but with somebody, so Dukas cooled his heels for fifteen minutes before the door opened and Menzes ushered out two somber men and stood looking around as if daring anybody else to take up his time.

“We need to talk,” Dukas said.

“I've got a case. Been breaking all day. I'm beat.” Menzes looked less well-pressed than usual, it was true. He passed Dukas through the door and came in behind him. “What's up?”

“I need you to check if George Shreed has split.”

“Jesus Christ, you don't kid around, do you? What do you mean, ‘split'?”

“Gone missing. Flown the coop. Dropped out.”

“Why?”

“I have a source says he hasn't been in his office since yesterday about ten. He doesn't answer his home phone.”

“Goddamit, Dukas, if you've flushed him with your NCIS bullshit—!” Menzes blew out his cheeks angrily and swung around to a computer terminal. He punched keys. “Yeah, left the office sick yesterday, called in sick today. So?”

“Called in sick
last night
for today, is my understanding.”

“I haven't got that.” Menzes was hitting more keys. “He's due to fly out to Budapest tonight on Agency business; we've got that covered here and in Budapest, perfectly routine stuff. Due back Monday morning.”

He swung back to Dukas. “What's your problem?”

“I think something's funny.”

“So do I—you! There's stuff you're not telling me.”

They stared at each other. Menzes pushed the knot of his tie up even tighter. A muscle twitched in one lean cheek. Dukas said, “He's an obsessive computer user. His computer hasn't been on for more than twenty-four hours.”

“You interfering sonofabitch!” Menzes was standing. “You're surveilling him!”

“It's passive, I swear to God—no way he could know—”

“You're breaking a federal law! You don't have a court order, or I'd know! You stupid, interfering goddam sonofabitch!”

Dukas took it. He let Menzes read him out for fair—and Menzes was good at it. Behind that lean facade, Menzes was a passionate man, and he let his passion pour like hot tar over Mike Dukas. When he was done, Menzes stopped, breathed, and said as a closer, “God knows what damage you've done!”

“Now will you check to see if Shreed has flown the coop?”

Menzes locked eyes with him. Then he whirled to the computer, picked up his telephone, and jabbed in a number he got from the screen. After thirty seconds, he pushed down the phone cutoff and dialed another number. And waited. And hung up.

“No answer on either the listed or unlisted telephone. Doesn't mean a thing.” He sat down. “Tell me the rest. All of it.”

Dukas shook his head. “NCIS case. You gave it to us, remember? ‘By the book.'”

“By the book, my ass! You've compromised one of the Agency's most important cases in decades!”

“Oh, really? Now Shreed
is
the mole? A week ago, you'd hardly admit he was on the short list.” Dukas sat down, too, as a way of signaling some intention to accommodate. “Carl, if he's bolted, it isn't because of something I did. Yes, I'm ahead of you on the case and I know things you don't, but I haven't set him off. But it scares me when a suspect goes missing for twenty-four hours.”

Menzes put his forehead on the fingers of his left hand and massaged the two prominent knobs there. He sighed. “What do you want?”

“We can't let the weekend go without knowing where he is. The Budapest thing—I didn't know about that. You just let him fly off to a foreign place like that?”

“He's a senior official; he can go where he wants, subject to telling us and to us checking on him.”

“What time is he supposed to fly out of here?”

Menzes looked at the computer. “Eight.”

Dukas checked his watch. “Three hours. Put somebody on it, will you, Carl?”

Menzes looked disgusted. “Just what I needed. Okay, there's somebody out at Dulles anyway, as you very well know. I suppose you want me to stay here until eight.”

“You got it.”

Menzes shook his head. “You really fucked up, Mike. How the hell could you?”

“I haven't fucked up yet! I'll have fucked up when
I have to give up on him. Has it ever occurred to you that it's you guys, with a five-year lead time on an investigation, who fuck up?”

“What have you got on his home computer?”

“Nothing. We know when it's warm, period.” He didn't admit that that wasn't quite true, that Valdez had in fact been with Shreed to a chat room, and that there were three computers, not one. “How about you guys?”

Menzes shook his head. Again, they locked eyes, and Dukas didn't flinch. No way he was going to tell Menzes about Valdez and the wild-card hacker. Not today. Maybe, if Shreed was really gone, Monday—“How about having the local cops drive by his house, just to check it out for signs of life?”

Menzes shrugged.

“Come on, Carl.”

Menzes picked up his phone; hunched over with it pinned against his left shoulder, he picked at his nails as he talked. “Get the DO's logs on Shreed, George, for the last three days. Check for sick calls and give me the times and the exact wording. Then flag the Dulles office about Exit Permit 99-1374, departing 2000 hours for Budapest; I want confirmation of check-in, baggage, and confirmed boarding.” He leaned back and dialed again, this time to ask the police in Shreed's town to check his house for signs of activity.

Dukas was still there at six-twenty when the police reported that everything looked normal.

And he was still there when the Dulles office called at seven-thirty to say that Shreed had not yet checked in.

And at eight-ten when the Dulles office called again.

Menzes listened. His face was blank. He hung up.

“Plane's in line for takeoff. Shreed is not aboard.” He threw a pencil. “Oh, Christ.”

Dukas was standing by the window. It was starting to rain again. “He made an appointment to see his doctor yesterday. Better check if he kept it.”

Menzes stared at him and sighed, then reached again for the telephone.

As the Gulf Air flight rolled to a stop at the terminal, the young woman in 22C got out of her seat and wandered back to the loo. Sheila Horne, a female flight attendant, felt sorry for her, as she had all the marks of a new recruit for the Gulf Air staff. Anyone blond and shapely could make a living in the Middle East. Sheila had hoped to talk to her for a moment as she left the plane, but when she looked back toward the loo, the girl was nowhere to be seen. Maybe nerves? Sheila hoped she wasn't muling drugs, and by the time she collected her in-flight bag and prepared to deplane, the passenger in 22C had lost all interest for her.

When the sliding door to the loo opened, a shapeless woman wearing a veil, a face mask, and a floor-length
abya
emerged. She was not the only woman to change into acceptable local dress before leaving the plane. Although there were no religious police in Dubai, life for a woman could be very hard if she showed too much of herself. Most Arab women who traveled abroad changed when they returned.

Harry's team at the airport waited for a beautiful blonde to emerge. They were mostly Westerners, and they had learned to ignore the BMOs—Black Moving Objects—that were local women. They knew which flight she was on, and Harry had got the passport name
she had used from Istanbul. They watched and waited, and they had to report their failure when Harry arrived on the next flight.

Wrapped in black anonymity, Anna had entered Dubai and vanished.

Alan walked out on the flight deck and was hit, as he hadn't been in years, by the grim majesty of the full weight of the air wing's power. Around him, on every side, dozens of aircraft fired their engines and rolled to their pre-launch positions. As Alan watched, two VS-53 S-3s launched, one from each of the forward catapults, and two VF-162 Tomcats began to roll into the shuttles to take their place. The chainsaw was launching, and the planes and reserves of gas that would make it possible for his two planes to search the ocean twelve hundred miles away were slowly uncoiling from the stack over the carrier and moving over the ocean ahead of the bow. The portside Tomcat dipped her nose as she locked into the shuttle and seemed to quiver with feline anticipation, jet-engine haunches vibrating, head down for the pounce.

Then the jet-blast deflector seemed to grow out of the deck behind the jet and obscured all but the tip of the vertical stabilizers and the canopy. Her pilot put her to full power and there was a crash that was felt throughout the ship as the catapult flung the Tomcat off the bow and into the chainsaw. Two F-18s rolled into the catapults with a different eagerness, more like war-horses scenting the smoke of a distant battle.

Alan was in the last plane to launch. He checked his chaff launchers mechanically and turned to watch the spectacle. His cards were onboard; the computer was
cool despite the one-hundred-thirty-degree heat on the deck, and he was in no hurry to get into the oven. He found Stevens and Soleck and Craw all watching with him, as the catapults ground remorselessly through the air wing, flinging plane after plane into the dawn. The roar was deafening, the fire and heat supernatural. Every few seconds, another sharp crash indicated that another plane had launched. Endlessly, the deck crews moved in their intricate dance, moving planes into the launch sequence, spotting new arrivals from the hangar deck, moving the launcher into the shuttles. Regardless of sweat and fatigue, they moved, flashed their lights, locked the shuttles and knelt to let wings pass over them.

Suddenly his S-3 was fourth to launch, strapping in as Soleck and Stevens exchanged the ritual of the preflight. Alan listened to the Strike Common frequency, deprived of his datalink until the g-force of launch was past and the computers could be engaged. The heat was like nothing any of them had ever experienced, made worse by the layers of flight suits, turtlenecks, and gear they wore against the cold that waited above five thousand feet.

The air-conditioning was losing the struggle with the heat. The plane stank of a full load of JP-5, its own aged electronics, and the new-plastic smell of the MARI gear. Four men added a human tang.

Sweat flowed down Alan's back and pooled on his seat. His oxygen mask tasted of sweat and rubber and ancient bile.

It was unbearable. It went past unbearable. Alan watched the temperature pass one hundred and thirtyfive degrees and began to wonder what the heat limit for the human frame was. The last planes launching
always got the worst; the deck collected heat from every engine that went to full power and cast it back at the next launch.

When the plane ahead of them on cat three went to power, the surge of heat washed past the blast deflector and over their sweltering cockpit and the temperature went up again. Alan had been hot in Africa and in the Caribbean, but he had never known anything like this.

They crept up to the shuttle. The cavalry charge of the launch was gone, and the flight deck was nearly empty. The other det bird, Tonto, launched from the starboard-side forward catapult, and they were the last. Alan felt the increased tension and the faint snap as the shuttle bit home, and he looked out his tiny portal at the empty deck and the exhausted flight-deck crew, and he remembered the last time he had been last to launch, with a bird already lost to sabotage and Rafe's wife a cripple.

“Everybody happy?” Stevens asked. He seemed buoyant and Alan smiled, full of adrenaline and overheated well-being. He was going to do something very hard, and he was going with a unit he had helped to mold. They were going to try to save the world. He flipped a thumbs-up forward to the cockpit, and Stevens gave the crispest salute of his life.

And then they were off.

The cold air over five thousand feet froze them in glaciers of their own sweat. Everyone was soaked through, and the wet suits and turtlenecks were suddenly a liability against the chill of altitude. Stevens and Soleck pulled down the air-conditioning and began to discuss the possibility of the heater. Alan worked with Craw to get the computer loaded and to begin the sequence that
would bring the MARI on line and into synch with the other plane, already more than fifty miles ahead. Alan had the datalink picture on his screen before he turned to the MARI, and his teeth began to chatter.

The chainsaw was more than one-third complete, with the first tanker station established and the first F-18s, the deep reserve, already in place. If the Chinese were really where they were supposed to be, if they were competent and ready, they would now have a possibility of detecting those F-18 radars brushing the sky over their ships. It wasn't likely, but the ducting of the Indian Ocean was famous to radar experts all over the world.

“Hey, skipper!”

“Soleck?”

“Hey, you know this isn't the first time the Chinese navy's been here.”

“Huh?”

“Commander Ho, in the brief, said this deployment was ‘unprecedented.'”

“And?”

“In the fifteenth century, they sent a huge fleet this way. They demanded tribute from India and set up some military colonies in Africa.”

“Soleck, is this pertinent to anything we're doing?”

Stevens cut in. “Hey, give him a shot. He helps pass the time.” It was almost civil, from Stevens.

“Okay, I'll bite. Then what happened?”

“After fifty years of increased trade and contact with the outside world, China folded. The Emperor basically decreed that nothing outside of China mattered. The fleet was scrapped. If they hadn't, Vasco da Gama might have found a Chinese empire waiting for him when he brought the first western fleet into the Indian Ocean.”