Whirlwind (37 page)

The best that could be said was that it got the job done barely downloading the documents Israeli experts had sent via the less-than-highspeed lines of the Navajo Phone Company, Inc.” another egregiously underfunded operation.

It took until eleven A.M. Mountain time for him to retrieve the last of the

files. Just as the final document dripped byte by tedious byte into his computer, the blue Citation charter jet landed if “landed” was the right word. “Controlled crash” would be a better description. Putting a private jet down on a stubby dirt runway in the middle of a cow pasture was, at best, an iffy proposition. Getting off the ground again was more so. The damned thing actually dropped below Mitchell Canyon’s rim during its quote-takeoff-unquote and Charlie found himself remembering prayers he’d thought he’d forgotten.

However, the pilot earned his pay (all cash, and a lot of it). A little more than an hour and a half later, Charlie deplaned at the San Francisco general aviation terminal.

In a vengeful mood.

During the flight, he’d studied all the files his Mossad friends had sent him. Everything had come together. Almost everything. There was only one open question: the pricetag.

The rest of the puzzle was no puzzle at all. Dr. Sangin Wing, head of research for DefCon Enterprises and the brains behind Whirlwind, had gone to a scientific conference in Tokyo, February third through February seventh, just another tax-deductible scholarly boondoggle, a bunch of eggheads from India, England, Germany, Norway, Singapore, and uh-huh China, sitting around, chewing the fat. Such conferences were one of the scientific world’s few perks, excuses for hardworking researchers to spend a couple of days away from the lab. Hundreds of them were held every year. There was nothing unusual about DefCon subsidizing Wing’s attendance .… nothing except that on February the seventh Dr. Wing didn’t show up for the panel discussion he was supposed to moderate.

Neither did the gentleman from China.

According to their hotel receipts, both had checked out two days earlier, and, hey, what a coincidence, the day they disappeared was the same day the People’s Republic announced that Wing’s son had been arrested for espionage.

The kid was bait. Daddy bit.

Wing did what the boys in Beijing expected him to do made a beeline for China in the company of an ever-so-sympathetic fellow scientist, a benevolent and friendly guy from his own profession who claimed to have high-level contacts.

Which, no doubt, he did, mainly because he moonlighted for the Chinese Ministry for External Calm. A.K.A.: the spook shop.

It was all there, the whole story, in the travel records the Mossad had shipped to Charlie. He could read it as if it was printed in big bold type: “Oh, Dr. Wing, my esteemed colleague, I am sure this is an unfortunate bureaucratic error. Happily, my cousin Chan is placed highly in the civil service. I am confident that if we you and I together explain the situation to him …”

Yeah, sure.

And so Wing scampered off to China, and the interrogators were licking their chops. They might not know precisely what kind of research Wing did, but they sure as hell knew it was defense-related. That much was in the public record.

The stuff that wasn’t in the public record would be what they wanted.

Legally the Reds had every right to squeeze it out of him. Wing was born a Chinese citizen. Under international law, they had absolute sovereignty over him. They could have, and should have, wrung him dry.

But behold: rather than tossing him in their deepest dungeon for “intense interrogation,” two days later the Chinese government apologetically set him free. Here’s a guy who has the most valuable secrets imaginable locked in his pointy little head, thought Charlie, and nobody tried to pry them out. Instead, unbelievably, they let him go.

Unless they didn’t let him go.

Unless they sold him.

So who was the buyer? Easy answer: a certain fat-assed national security advisor who boasted of being in charge of both Whirlwind and Chinese diplomacy. Sam was directly accountable for the well-being of the scientist he’d personally appointed to lead the Whirlwind project, and, most conveniently, was in daily contact with China’s highest officials.

Sam, you insect, you did a deal with them. What did you promise those scum to get Wing back? Dropping tariffs maybe? Letting them import restricted technologies? Or did you offer to share Whirlwind with them? I wouldn’t put it past you. Whatever they asked for, that’s what they got. And when I find out what it was… Would he get his presidential pardon? You betchya, and it wasn’t going to bear the signature of President Sam.

Although this was odd, this was a new thought exoneration was no longer his top priority. His first, and if necessary, only priority, was getting a young woman named Irina Kolodenkova to safety.

Assuming she wasn’t already under the protection of the Russian legation.

Bad karma, that. He was sure, damned sure, he’d won her over. But then he’d been sure Schmidt’s men wouldn’t shoot him. He’d been sure he could provoke Sam into losing both his temper and discretion. He’d been sure Mitch Conroy wouldn’t be harmed. He’d been sure, he’d been sure, he’d been goddamned cocksure too many times in his life.

And now he was sure that a Russian spy in possession of a priceless secret would abandon her own side, come over to his.

Pick one from column A or one from column B: (A) Irina goes home to Moscow with that disk. Or, (B) Johan Schmidt gets his hands on her. If it comes down to that, do I honestly know which I’ll choose?

Hell, yes, I do.

Entering San Francisco’s general aviation terminal, favoring a wobbly leg, Charlie chewed his lip. No choice, he had no choice. The only way out of this mess was to retrieve the disk and spirit Irina out of harm’s way. Sam’s noon deadline had expired. Irina was an open contract with a price on her head. He had to find her, damnit, had to. Obligation, duty, commitment, call it what you will, she was his responsibility, and there was no one else to protect her.

Only problem: he didn’t know how.

However, he did know that, for starters, he had to make a phone call.

His cell phones were long gone, lost in a war bag hurled into a canyon along with two fine handguns, plenty of ammo, and all the greenbacks he hadn’t been able to stuff in his money belt. Doc Howard was leading a search party to find the bag, and as far as Charlie was concerned, he could spend every penny he found upgrading his clinic.

Not that money was important at this present time. The only important thing was a Russian girl, a girl good enough to be Mary’s daughter good enough to be Mary’s twin, goddamn it and the rest of the world could go to hell because he was going to bail her out, and that was that.

Charlie glared around the small general aviation terminal. No surprise: a couple of dozen expensive suits loafed around, briefcases in one hand, mobile phones in the other. The private jet business had boomed after the destruction of the World Trade Center. No chief executive could afford the two or three hours it took to check onto Continental, American, Delta, or any of the other passenger carriers. Everyone who was anyone flew charter.

He spotted a kiosk near the end of the terminal, four pay phones next to a newsstand. Not much privacy. If he was overheard, he would be in serious trouble.

But then he was in serious trouble anyway. Calling a foreign spymaster from a civilian telephone eavesdroppers on every line couldn’t make his situation any worse.

Pumping four quarters into a slot, he dialed a number no honest American should have known. A guttural voice answered. Charlie cut him off at the first syllable. “Mikhail, this is Charlie McKenzie, listen close “

“Charlie! Is good to hear you! But also is not so good. Some people, Charlie, some people they say they got a problem with you.”

Hellfire and damnation, Sam and Claude have gotten to him first. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a problem with them too.”

“They solve problems for keeps, Charlie. You watch your back, okay?” He was a big guy, Mikhail was, broad shouldered, with a barrel chest. He less spoke than boomed like a kettle drum.

“Always. Look, Mikhail, I don’t have time for polite chitchat “

“From what I hear, you got no time at all. Charlie, I give you some good advice: wherever you are, go somewhere else.” He’d been a first-rate enemy, one of the best, always honorable. Charlie thought of him as a friend. God knows, once the Soviet Union had collapsed, they’d gone out drinking often enough.

“I will, but first I have to talk to you about one of your agents “

“This would be Kolodenkova. She is not my agent anymore. This is made very clear to me. Mikhail, they say, if she knocks, you don’t open the door. Persona non grata. Stripped of her citizenship. A woman without a country. I got a personal call, Charlie, personal. Straight from the Kremlin. The big boss himself. Somebody in Washington leans on him pretty hard. So he leans on me pretty hard too. He leans on me about Kolodenkova. Then he leans on me about you.” There was a note of sadness in that last sentence. “You know what I’m saying, Charlie?”

Charlie knew. “If I contact you, you have to … well…”

“I already have, Charlie. This is what you call ‘deep shit,” no? They put the bridge on my phone last night. Soon as I hear your voice, I hit the switch. Sorry, Charlie, I am very sorry. But you know how it is.” Mikhail was going to crack open a vodka bottle as soon as Charlie hung up. He knew the man, and knew that one bottle wouldn’t be enough.

“No problem. We’re still friends. Someday we’ll have a drink and laugh about this.”

“Maybe instead I toast your memory. Unless you get under cover pretty soon, this becomes highly probable, my friend.”

“I’m outta here. But one last question, Mikhail. Has she contacted you? Has Irina Kolodenkova contacted anyone at the Rezidentura?”

“No, Charlie. On this you have my solemn word. Now hang up. Hang up and run. People are coming for you.”

All of a sudden, Charlie felt good. Indeed, he felt downright great! Bruises and aches notwithstanding, he broke into the broadest of smiles, pride and laughter and, yeah, all that cocksure vainglory in his voice, “Wrong, Mikhail. They aren’t coming for me. I’m coming for them!”

At first, the words didn’t register. Sam heard them but did not grasp their implication. The military policeman standing in the open hatch of his plane said, “Are you sure he’s expecting you, sir?” Sam, lounging exhausted in his seat, a badly needed single-malt scotch in his hand, didn’t react. Why should he? Schmidt had finally decided that he was more of a liability than an asset, and left him behind. Sam stormed into the general aviation terminal, phoned Travis AFB, and waited impatiently until an early-model Gulfstream V (with fresh clothes, by God, he’d insisted on that) trundled up to the boarding area. No one except the president and a couple of jet jockeys knew he was in San Francisco. So, to repeat, why should he have been concerned that persons unknown were standing at his jet’s hatch, telling the guard they had a meeting with the national security advisor?

It wasn’t until he heard the answer to the guard’s polite question that he belatedly understood what was happening. “If he isn’t expecting me, he’s dumber than I thought.”

He sprang to his feet. He didn’t have time to shout for help. Besides, Charlie had a gun.

Two guns, actually. Only one of them was aimed at Sam. The other was burrowed behind the left ear of a badly frightened MP.

Sam wasn’t quite sure what happened next. It was over too quickly, and besides, he was, let’s face it, scared shitless. The only thing he could remember was sitting frozen in his seat, thinking, For a damned old dinosaur, that fucker moves a lot faster than you’d expect.

Somewhere along the way, the MP wound up chained to a seat with his own handcuffs. Sam’s second bodyguard, who’d been in the bathroom, seemed to be out cold on the floor. And there was someone else in the cabin, a younger someone, and who the hell was he?

Whoever he was, he closed the plane’s hatch when the ground crew gave the signal. Or maybe he’d closed it when the pilot’s voice came over the squawk box with some bullshit about civilian safety procedures being mandatory on government flights.

Whatever.

The sequence of events really didn’t matter. All that mattered was the plane was taxiing on the runway, and Charlie was inches away from his face, eating an apple. He had a big knife, Charlie did, and he whisked thick wet, wedges out of the fruit with every flick of his wrist.

Juice splashed on Sam’s fresh shirt. He didn’t complain. Odds were it would be the wrong thing to do.

Meanwhile Charlie’s partner had opened the plane’s first-aid kit and was putting a dressing on an unconscious bodyguard’s forehead. Shit! A doctor! He’s Charlie’s son! Little bastard even looks like his old man. Now I’ve got two of them in my face.

Charlie was saying something. Sam hadn’t been listening. He shook his head and mumbled, “I didn’t quite catch that, Charlie.”

Charlie held that big goddamned knife in front of his eyes, flicking it back and forth so that Sam could see how sharp it was. Johan Schmidt sharp, psychopath sharp, fuck me, I put both those head cases on the payroll. “What I said, Sam, is that time’s short, and so’s my patience. Either you answer my questions, or I will start cutting pieces off of you. And Sam…” He paused. Sam didn’t like the glint in his eye.

“What?” He doubted that he’d like the answer either.

“I can cut ‘em off faster than my son can sew ‘em back on.”

No shit, Sam believed him. Little more than twenty-four hours earlier, the prick had heard Sam order Schmidt to kill him. Now unless he was very, very careful it was payback time. “There’s no need for threats, Charlie. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“Where’s Irina?”

“Don’t know.”

“Wrong answer.”

Charlie’s hand suddenly was over Sam’s mouth, and that cold, cold blade was lightly sawing at his left ear. Jesus fuck! Sam tried to scream. Charlie’s hand muffled the cry. Sam twisted and pulled away. Charlie held him fast. And all the while, the cocksucker was smiling, because he really and truly was enjoying this. “One more time, Sam. One last time. Where. Is. Irina?”