Black Ghosts (32 page)

At last the door opened, and the phalanx of men in suits emerged.

“A great day,” said the prime minister, eager to extract the maximum public relations value possible from this rather limited opportunity. “A great day for Britain, and indeed for the world. We are at last coming to the promised land of peace and prosperity for the entire world. Never again will the shadow of a nuclear holocaust be upon us.”

Beside him stood President Bradshawe, flanked by the U.S. secretary of defense and some of his aides. There were also several uniformed, well-decorated generals. The president was trying to look enthusiastic, a thin smile of comradeship flitting across his face as he turned and shook the prime minister's hand. Cameras flashed, the moment was recorded for posterity, and then the men went back inside the house, completely ignoring the shouted questions and raised microphones of the reporters.

The crowd in front of the house quickly dispersed. They knew there would be nothing more for them tonight. All in all, it had been a very unsatisfactory afternoon.

Inside the house, preparations were being made for the rest of the visit. The president, his wife, his personal secretary, and a small team of bodyguards were to spend the night at the prime minister's country residence, while James Fenton, Richard Townes, Bud Hays, and the others were heading back to the Grosvenor Hotel for the night.

Fenton's people were already in position at the country residence, and he had the rest of the night off. He was going to take full advantage of his time to sleep, as the rest of the trip promised to be very tense. They would be rejoining the president at Heathrow the following morning, when the entire party would board Air Force One to fly to Moscow.

The Grosvenor party returned in several limousines to the hotel, where they rejoined the support group of secretaries and other lower-level aides. It is a little-known fact that no matter where the president goes, the activity of the White House follows. Even in some completely out-of-the-way spot, he still has to take care of the smallest of details, signing documents, talking to people.

There would be an hour's break to “freshen up,” and then the entire group was to have dinner in a private dining room.

James Fenton was stretched out on his hotel bed when the call came through. He greeted his old friend warmly. In the short conversation he'd had earlier with his wife, when he had told her to give Larry the name of the hotel, he had no idea what was the matter, only that it was urgent. Somewhere in the shuffle it didn't get through to him that the president's safety was the matter.

He listened carefully as Larry filled him in briefly on his mission to unmask and neutralize the Patriots, on how the mission had turned sour at Hill Air Force Base in Utah, and on the imminent danger to the president if Air Force One were to fly into Sheremetyevo as planned. Larry implored him to switch the destination to Domodedovo.

“There's something I need to know,” said Fenton. “Who were you working with on this mission before it went sour?”

Larry decided he had nothing to lose by telling him.

“Bud Hays. And I guess his secretary took some messages for me, although she didn't have to know what they were about.”

“And was he the only person who knew about this?”

“Richard Townes, he was the initiator.”

Fenton thought about this. Either one of the men in the suites down the hall was a traitor, or Larry was lying. For now, it didn't matter which. Fenton agreed to switch airports, and he also gave Larry a frequency channel by which a competent radio operator could establish contact with Air Force One. It was a standard frequency, confidential but not top secret. The secret ones, Fenton didn't give out, period.

As for the airport switch, Fenton would determine later whether or not Larry was lying. If it turned out he was, the president would land at Sheremetyevo as planned, and Larry's people, whoever they were, would be none the wiser.

With a promise to get together for a drink once this was all over, the two men said goodbye. Fenton had his work cut out for him. It was Secret Service standard policy never to overlook a warning regarding the safety of the president, or as they code-named him, the Falcon. Since the warning had came from a person whom Fenton personally trusted, even though he would have to take all the procedural steps to verify it, he was putting everyone he could on alert. A gut feeling is the basis for good security work, he always said, and his gut was telling him to take action.

Then, after a moment's further reflection, Fenton put a call through to the maître d'hôtel in the dining room.

Two doors down, Bud Hays was having the time of his life. His secretary, Angela Baines, wearing nothing but black stockings, a lace garter belt, and patent leather high heels, was kneeling in the chair by the dressing table. Bud stood behind her, his pants down around his ankles. She liked the act, feeling someone inside her, his hands running over her body, feeling her breasts, pulling her toward him, entering deeper. This way, she didn't have to see him; she could think of anyone. Today it was that young, handsome bellboy. Then he stopped, she felt anger, he just stopped, she tried to lean back and hold on to him just for one more moment—that's all she would have needed—but he was moving back.

What a great idea it had been to get her along on this trip, he thought, pulling his pants back on. She can never get enough of me, he thought as he moved away from her grip. “Later, honey. We'll get back to it later.”

Her face was hidden by a swath of dark hair. If he could have seen it, he might have noticed the anger. For a moment Angela remained standing there, unwilling to accept that it was over.

Bud returned and dropped on the large bed, staring at the ceiling. Angela finished putting her clothes on and sat at the dressing table, taking an especially long time in making up her face.

The phone rang, and Bud picked it up.

“Hays,” he said. Then his voice changed. “Yes, thanks for getting back to me.” Angela could tell that this was not the tone of voice he normally used for business calls. She applied a dab of lipstick.

“So it's in the best interests of America,” Bud said. He listened for a while, then he said, “From the Patriots, you mean?” More silence. Angela decided this was the wrong shade of lipstick. She wiped it off with a paper tissue, then selected another shade from the palette in her traveling vanity case.

“When's it supposed to happen?” asked Bud. More silence while he listened. “So there's nothing to worry about,” he finished. “Okay, we'll be in touch.” He hung up.

“What was that all about?” asked Angela.

“Nothing much,” said Bud. Angela, now fully dressed and made up, picked up her vanity case and walked to the door. “See you at dinner,” she said.

Bud lay still for a few more minutes. The call from Singleton had reassured him considerably. He knew the Patriots were involved in something that was supposed to take place in Russia. He'd made it clear to Singleton before leaving Washington the day before that he was willing to help with anything that would bring about a more secure America, but he would not support anything that might smell of treason. If it turned out the Patriots were involved in something that could endanger American interests, he wanted out. Singleton had told him that he knew there was going to be a military coup in Russia after the presidential visit, once the loyal military was taken off alert and sent back to barracks. This he said he had learned from the intelligence the Patriots had gathered. He assured Bud that he was taking whatever precautions he could to ensure the protection of American interests and that if it were not for the Patriots, no one on our side, as he put it, would have learned about this. Therefore, Bud had nothing to worry about. He would be back in Washington, safe and sound. And quite a bit richer too.

He was the last to arrive at the dining room. There were seven round tables set. At one sat the contingent of CEOs from the corporate sector of the military-industrial complex—the metal-eaters. Chief among them was Hubert Austin, who sat with yes-men and would-be business partners on either side. Opposite him was an empty place at the table, to which Bud headed. But the maître d'hôtel blocked his path and directed him firmly over to where Angela sat with James Fenton and Richard Townes. He reluctantly sat down in the empty place. He was in the mood for lighter company than this, but there was nothing he could do about it without appearing rude.

Conversation was somewhat formal and sporadic during dinner. Bud kept trying to catch Angela's eye, to rekindle the wild euphoria of their moment of passion upstairs. But her look was cold, and she ate her dinner mostly in silence, save for a few words of polite conversation with the other two men.

During one of the long silences, Bud caught a snatch of conversation from the other table. Hubert Austin was laying down the law about something or other, his voice raised above the general babble. Bud looked over his shoulder in astonishment at the man: For a moment, the voice had sounded exactly like that of the mysterious, faceless person he knew as Singleton. But no, Bud thought, it couldn't be.

While they were waiting for dessert, Fenton turned to him and said, “By the way, Bud, have you ever heard of the Patriots?”

Bud sipped his wine, unsure of the safest way to answer this question. He looked across at Townes, to see if he could read some clue in the man's eyes. But Townes' face was a blank. He decided that the best thing was to act dumb. “The Patriots? No. What are they?”

“What about you, Richard?” said Fenton.

“I've heard of them,” Townes said casually. “They're a neo-Nazi militia, out in Montana somewhere.”

“Are they a threat?” said Fenton, looking carefully from one man to the other.

Townes shrugged. “Everyone's a threat. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, something I came across in an intelligence report. About the recent wave of terrorism in Russia. They were rumored to be involved. Do you think it's possible?”

“Anything's possible,” said Townes.

The dessert arrived. Angela ate her Baked Alaska in silence. But inwardly she was rejoicing. She had been looking for the next rung on the ladder that would lift her toward her goal, leaving Bud Hays far behind. Now she understood that this was it.

 

Sergei Pozharsky flicked ash from his cigar into the huge marble ashtray on his desk. “I see,” he said, “not a movie, but an armed insurrection. This is most interesting.”

Edward sat opposite him. The cloth bag had been removed from his head, but his hands were still cuffed. Next to him sat a large man wearing combat fatigues and carrying a submachine gun. For half an hour Edward had been trying to make Sergei see reason. Without much success, to judge by the cold look on the man's face and the skepticism in his eyes.

“Don't you see?” Edward began again. “If this succeeds, Russia will be worse off than it was before Glasnost and Perestroika. You and your kind will be the first to go. I'm telling you, I'm your best bet, and as you can see it's a goddamn long shot.”

Sergei just stared at him, slowly drawing from his large Havana cigar. Then he placed the Coheiba Numero Uno in the ashtray and got up to walk around the room. “You are telling me that you are here to stop a military coup. I like that. You also tell me that you have just about everything in place. I like that too. But I need to see where I fit into all this, and especially how I'm going to profit from it.”

“You will get to keep what you have,” Edward blurted.

Sergei raised his hand as if to say, I'm not through. “That is what you are telling me. Two of my people who trusted you are now dead.” He turned to face Edward. “Not a very good track record, is it?”

“So what is it you want?” Edward decided to cut to the chase. Time was running out, and if he was going to get out of that place and make it to the airstrip on time he had to get moving. “Is it money? Fine, that can be arranged. Just name your price, but get these stinking cuffs off me and let's get moving. Don't forget, you already owe me quite a bit, the way things are.”

“How do you figure that?” The man sounded surprised.

“You got my money from Igor and Alexi. You are supposed to deliver on that. Is this charade your way of trying to get out of the deal?”

He seemed to have finally struck at Sergei's heart, where it mattered. This was a negotiation session like any other. Negotiating was the only thing Sergei knew how to do, and he did it well.

At that moment a second armed man walked into the room. He went up to Sergei and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Sergei listened and nodded. He then gave a signal to the man standing guard over Edward. The man unlocked the handcuffs.

“Let me apologize,” said Sergei, “for the rather rough treatment you were given by my men. We had to be sure, not only that you were not being followed, but also that you were indeed who you said you were and that your intentions are, shall we say, consistent with our own.”

“And are you sure now?” said Edward.

“We are. Some of the things you mentioned have been confirmed. It seems these people you call the Black Ghosts are very upset with you.”

“Really?”

“When I informed them I had you, they were ecstatic.”

“You did what?”

“This is business, my friend, nothing personal, you understand,”

“So what now?”

“I negotiate.”

“I have nothing more to offer you, Sergei, except your own life.”