Black Ghosts (23 page)

“That's news to me,” said the DCI. “How come we never got wind of that?”

“I have sent you a memo, sir,” Bud said somewhat apologetically. “But I was keeping it under wraps as much as I could. You see, it was just a hunch that I had. It only started to pay off yesterday.”

“Well.” The president was beaming. “I don't think the United States is going to be intimidated by a bunch of thugs from Moscow's underworld, do you?”

The defense secretary burst in again. “Wait a minute. How reliable—?” The president cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Nobody ever said being president was a safe job. I'm willing to take the risk. Your job is to minimize it.”

The meeting adjourned. As the men left the conference room, Townes called to Bud Hays. “I need to see you in your office.”

Bud knew the interview was not going to be a pleasant one. The secretary of defense would explode in his face for not telling him about this new information ahead of time. There was little Bud could do, except to tell him that the information had been confirmed only this morning and that he had sent him an urgent note about it. Enduring Townes' wrath would not be difficult. Bud was rejoicing that his presentation of the information had produced the desired effect—averting the cancellation of the president's visit to Moscow.

The information had been obtained through the National Security Agency's computerized search system. Not all of the countless numbers of radio and telephone communications intercepted by the NSA around the world could be stored indefinitely, for reasons of their sheer numbers. So once the contents of each intercepted message had been digitized, it was run through a series of searches using several thousand key words that the agency kept on file. If any of the key words were present in the message, then that message would be sent to a file name in the appropriate group, and the intelligence agency that had requested that particular key word would receive a copy.

As a staff member of the National Security Council, Bud had free access to the system and could request a search whenever he wanted. He had no idea how Singleton had known the particular key words to look for. But if he had learned anything in Washington, it was that you don't argue with success.

As expected, Townes turned on Bud the moment he had closed the door to his office. “Why wasn't I briefed about that communications report?”

“There wasn't time,” said Bud. “I tried to reach you, and if you check you'll find my memo in your office. I tried not to bring it up, but the president . . .”

“Okay, okay. You don't have to tell me the whole story. I was there, remember. Do you believe the information is good?”

“It seems like it is.” Bud's face expressed a certain awkward regret. “I didn't intend for it to have the effect it did. I'm not crazy about this presidential visit myself. Something just doesn't smell right.”

“Damn it, Bud.” Townes' voice was tight with angry frustration. “Couldn't you have come up with some useful intelligence for a change?”

“I wish I could. But, hey, if it ain't there, I can't go inventing it, can I?”

“No, I guess not. By the way, have you heard anything from our friend Larry?”

“No, and I have a bad feeling about that too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm still checking it out, so I don't want to jump to conclusions, but there is a good possibility we picked the wrong man.”

 

 

 

“Da,” answered General Rogov when his aide handed him the phone in the CIC room. He was in the middle of dictating an order to the 502nd Mechanized Mountain Brigade that was to take position around Bykovo Airport in a few days.

“I will only say this once, general.” Rogov knew the deep voice on the other end of the line. He had done business with the man and probably owed him his freedom, but he had never met him. He knew he was one of the few people on the planet who played with politicians and generals like some play chess, and no matter which side won, in whatever conflict, he would be collecting the prizes. Peter knew him as Singleton.

“Go on, I'm listening.”

“If you want the visitor to visit, you better tell your friends to stop breaking windows.”

“But I thought we had that straightened out with the communications you asked for.”

“It worked for now, but if this goes on they will cancel the visit, trust me.” The line went dead.

 

“Drink this,” said Igor, setting the chipped mug on the floor next to the sofa where Edward lay. His whole body was sore from sleeping on the short sofa, with a hard lump pressing against the small of his back. Edward slowly rolled over and stared at the mug, which contained the bitter, brown, odorous liquid that he had, in the eighteen hours since they brought him here, come to know as tea. He reached for it and was pleased to note that his hand obeyed his instructions and picked up the mug.

Sipping the hot, rank liquid, Edward began to piece together the events of the previous day. He had stood for a long time by the Metro station at Krasnosel Kaja, waiting for Gregor's friends to pick him up. Finally they had arrived in an old, battered Volkswagen van, into the back of which he was summarily hoisted and laid to rest on a piece of foul-smelling carpet.

There were two of them. Igor, the older one, was a square, squat man with thick black hair and a permanent five o'clock shadow. The other was Alexi, a younger man whose gruff voice and odd choice of words Edward had noticed over the phone. Alexi had apparently learned his English from Hollywood and from recordings of sixties and seventies rock music—which he referred to as golden oldies. He had found that necessary after ending his brief career in the KGB in favor of the more lucrative Moscow underworld, never having completed the English course the agency had enrolled him in. “Al,” Edward heard him saying as he extended his hand from the driver's seat. “Like Al Capone.” He gave a treacly chuckle. “Al Caponeski, that's me.”

They had brought Edward to what might be termed a safe house, although as Alexi had pointed out with a leering grin, safety was a relative thing. It was a large flat that used to house several families before Igor and Alexi “bought” them out, keeping their meager furniture and letting them leave, as Al had put it, alive. In fact, it was two flats separated by a stairwell, one on the second floor, the other adjacent to it but one floor higher. The second-floor flat was used for storage. It was filled to the ceiling with cardboard cartons which contained, Igor explained, a consignment of contraband Korean computer monitors that had been “diverted” in Siberia and now were awaiting distribution via the alternative market—which turned out to be his euphemism for the black market.

The other apartment had a small kitchen and two or three even smaller bedrooms. In the living room was the stereo system, the sofa on which Edward now lay, a television and VCR with an extensive collection of pornographic videos, and a telephone on an old carved oak desk.

This was Igor's office. It was from here that he had made the calls, sometime last night, that would arrange the rapid deployment of his inventory of computer monitors. While Igor was on the phone, Alexi had gone out to make a few small purchases and had returned with what he called “the lifeblood of Russia,” three bottles of Magosty vodka. From then on, it had been downhill all the way. At first they seemed disappointed at their guest's refusal to drink with them, but after a short conversation in speedy Russian in which they had probably reached the simple conclusion that it meant all the more for them, they embarked on their journey into oblivion.

Igor, it turned out, was a lover of classical music. He forced Edward to listen to numerous noisy orchestral works by Glinka and Mussorgsky, and as his memory dwindled with the rise of his blood alcohol level, he had played them again and again, especially a piece by Borodin that Edward knew better as “Stranger in Paradise.” If this is paradise, Edward thought to himself late in the evening, it sure is a strange one.

Finishing his tea with a gulp, Edward hauled himself into a standing position and staggered off to find the bathroom. After taking a shower, he went to find Igor, who was with Alexi in the kitchen.

“Igor,” Edward said. “We need to talk.”

“Is okay, you want something to eat, drink?”

“No, I'm fine. I didn't come here for a vacation. How well connected are you?”

“Connected, what you mean connected?”

Alexi said something in Russian to his friend, then Igor smiled. “I am okay connected.”

“Lay it on us, baby.” Alexi grinned.

“I need a military unit.” Edward had a plan in mind but wasn't quite sure how to get these two clowns to help him put the pieces together. Should he just lay it out for them, in which case they might sell him out to the highest bidder? He decided to use the piecemeal approach. One thing at a time, at a good price.

The two Russians looked at each other, then Igor asked, “What you call military unit, is this . . .” He thought for a moment. “What is this?”

“Soldiers. I need some two hundred soldiers, in uniforms, with weapons.”

“This will cost much money,” Igor said, totally unmoved by the request.

“What's fair is fair.” Edward nodded. “Can you get them?”

“What this for?”

“Didn't Gregor tell you?”

“He say there is going to be military coup and you want to stop. We want to help because if military come and win, we out of business. Military, they much bigger Mafia. But we not stupid, we want to know what need soldiers for. If for fighting, we get from one place. If only for decoratsia, we get from another. You understand?”

“I need them mainly for show, but they have to look real.”

“What they must know?” Igor pressed.

“As little as possible.”

“So what we tell them?”

Edward had thought about that point all night and he had a solution. “You tell them we're making a movie. We need them as extras.”

Alexi's constant smile broadened. “I always wanted to be in the movies. Hollywood here I come, no business like show business.”

“Shut up,” Igor barked. He was getting serious now that actual deals were being discussed. “I call someone, we do this for you, it going to be much money. You have?”

“I'll get you as much as you need, within reason.”

“Reason is, you need what we have.”

They went into the other room. Igor picked up the receiver and dialed. Edward watched him and memorized the number. He knew things like that could come in handy, especially since he had no doubt that this small-time criminal he was dealing with was now turning to a higher echelon. What Edward had requested was clearly out of Igor's league.

After a few minutes of fast-paced Russian on the line, Igor put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Edward. “When and where?”

“In Moscow. In one week.”

Igor went on talking on the phone, explaining things with large hand gestures, as if he were talking to someone who could see him. When he got off the line, he said something to Alexi in Russian. Then, as they both smiled at him, Edward asked, “Well, can you do it?”

“Sure. We get real soldiers. We tell them we make movie. They happy for we pay them good, fifty bucks a day. Good Ukrainians.”

“Ukrainians? I need Russians.”

“Until not long ago, same thing. Not to worry.”

“They would have to have Russian army uniforms, though.”

“Uniforms can get. Which division you need?”

“I don't know yet.”

“We get tags for you.”

“Okay. One question. How we gonna get two hundred Ukrainian soldiers in Russian uniforms from wherever to Moscow?”

“They come from Kiev. We need transport plane. It costs more, but we take care of that.”

Alexi went into the other room and came back with a couple of loaves of bread, some jellied fish, and a chunk of white cheese. The three of them sat at the table and had an impromptu brunch, washed down with more of the strong, bitter tea.

If they're coming by air, they will have to come aboard a military transport,” Edward said. “Ilyushins or something.”

“Ilyushins are not available at bargain price,” said Igor, munching on a bread crust.

“Does that mean you can't help me?”

“No. It means we have to borrow one.”

“You mean steal.”

“We not steal anything. Under communism they say it all belongs to us. Now they say not, so we borrow. You pay. With enough dollars anything can be borrowed in Russia.”

After they had finished eating, Igor offered him his chair at the carved oak desk where the telephone was, and Edward got to work.

He contemplated trying to reach Natalie at the hotel again but decided against it. If she was still there, she would certainly be under surveillance and the phone line would be bugged. He had no qualms about calls from the phone in the apartment being traced back to him; Al had explained that they had rigged the phone to show outgoing calls as originating from the Kremlin. They joked at the ease in which the connection had been made. “There is nothing you cannot get in Moscow for a few dollars,” said Igor.

The problem was that if he did reach her, it would confirm her involvement with him, and that might be enough to get her into very deep trouble. Edward was hoping that by now she would have made arrangements to leave. She hadn't yet called Larry, as he had found out last night when he finally managed to reach him.