Fatal (3 page)

Moving across the street, Cassie felt like a swimmer in water. The air was thick and she felt herself breathing heavily, an effect she knew from experience would eventually drain her, forcing her to return to her body. She fought it off and kept going. The sign on the front door of the building said Triumph Transportation, listing a phone number and office hours. She walked across the parking lot, passing the guard who looked up as she went by, then returned his attention to the latest issue of Car and Truck. Cassie could see the entire parking lot now, filled with moving trucks, panel vans, and here and there larger flatbeds. An aging gas pump rusted back in the corner.

She moved more quickly now, the effort draining her. She returned to the front, passed through the door and found herself in a small office. A hall extended from the front to the rear of the building. She headed that way. The faster she moved the more she felt herself
slipping back. Her breathing was heavy, her legs felt weaker with each step. The first door on the left down the hallway was open. She reached the door, looked in, saw a picture of General Archer on the bookcase to the left. Her hold on the vision slipped away, the office dissolved like water. Cassie woke up on the bed, panting and exhausted. She got up, drank a glass of water, and waited for Ronnie to get out of the shower.

*****

Andre Kohl played the odds for weeks, watching Francis day and night. The investment in time and energy yielded small bits of information, little facts he wove into a more complete view of his subject. Francis was a man of regular habits. Every morning, he got up at 5AM, leaving his house in the suburbs at 6AM sharp. The drive to the small building that served as cover took him an hour. On most days, he made a quick at a small coffee shop along the way. Occasionally, always on a Friday, he would make a dip into a doughnut shop, leaving with a white box. Kohl had observed others coming in on Friday with a similar box, figured it to be an office routine shared by everyone in turn. Francis also made a few trips outside the office over the course of the months he was tailed. One of those trips was to the office of a senator whose influence on the defense budget made him a valuable ally. The most unusual trip, the one that made Kohl’s antenna go up, came in the middle of the summer, shortly before the death of Philip Archer.

Francis left his house in the morning much earlier than usual. Rather than heading into town he headed east, taking the airport exit. He caught a plane to Virginia and spent the day at the bedside of the general, returning in the late evening. He resumed his usual schedule the next morning. The next day Kohl got word from Joseph Krauss that Archer was on the move. The man was obviously frail. He boarded a plane for New Orleans. Krauss was unable to follow and no assets were readily available to greet the general when he landed. He returned the next day. That trip haunted Kohl. What would make a dying man leave his family, even for a day, to travel to a city where he had no relatives and no known friends? There were no federal agencies of note in the city, no covert programs known to Kohl or his masters. That trip was a wild card factor Kohl tucked away in the back of his mind.

*****

The eventual exposure of Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore began half a world away on a street corner in Moscow. A newspaper shop occupied one corner. There was a bench outside with a bus stop adjacent. Colonel Alexei Bronislov often stopped there in the evenings on his way home from his daily assignments. Bronislov was a translator. His English was excellent and his knowledge of American idiosyncrasies was very good. His duties consisted of translating and analyzing mostly routine and low level messages intercepted from the Americans and occasionally their NATO Allies. Most of the information was unimportant, or became public later. Occasionally, though, Bronislov provided insight on more important matters, things that never found their way into the New York Times or Pravda, both of which were available in the newspaper shop he frequented almost daily. His fluency in English had other benefits. He often acted as a personal interpreter for diplomats, a task that got him fed well and treated with respect. It also made him aware of things that were technically above his pay grade.

The negotiations between the United States and Russia called for an almost continual series of meetings and interactions between high-level delegates for trade and security matters. The game of cat and mouse played out across the table was fascinating. Subtle shades of meaning could make a world of difference. Alexei Bronislov understood English to the nth degree. He was a man who could interpret those subtle shades of meaning in a phrase, making him very useful in negotiations. It also put him in position to cross paths with important Party members, always at their elbows of course. He was not important in himself, but enjoyed the benefits of their reflected power. The CIA knew him because of his access to that power, but thought of him as a low opportunity target for conversion throughout most of his career.

Three years prior to the death of General Archer, that situation changed. Bronislov’s daughter became deathly ill, the result of a bladder infection. In the United States, where antibiotics were in ample supply, the illness would not be a cause for alarm, a favorable result would have been a foregone conclusion. The Soviet Union was a different matter. His daughter received treatment with less than ideal methods. The proper medicines were available in the system but in short supply, available only to high-ranking Party members or their families. Bronislov did not qualify. His daughter grew more ill every day, running fevers at night, unable to hold down food. He watched her grow thinner every day. His wife grew desperate. Trina was their only child. They would never have another, and even if they could what difference did that make? She was his daughter. If he had ten children, it would make her no less valuable. For the first time in his life, he cursed the system.

Like any good Russian, he sought solace in vodka. Trina was still in the hospital. His wife refused to leave, sending him home alone instead. He exited a shop near his residence one night, a small neighborhood place where he had been drowning his sorrow, and turned left toward his apartment building. Winter was in full force, dirty snow in the gutter and a stiff north wind blowing against his face. He walked no more than a block when he was joined by a man walking alongside him. The stranger came from behind him, slowing his pace to match Bonislov’s.

“It is a cold night, Comrade Bronislov, no?” said the man. He was wearing the traditional Russian fur hat. The upturned collar of his coat kept most of his face hidden. His shoulders hunched against the wind. Bronislov could see only his ear and part of his cheek and had no chance of recognizing him. He realized later that the posture was deliberate. The two marched along the frozen street side by side like friends on an outing. Bronislov became instantly wary. Strangers did not speak much in the street in Moscow, where every face could be the one who sold you out. The wrong word at the wrong time could mean disaster. He nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, this is Moscow, comrade. The cold makes us stronger.”

“I will speak quickly now, my friend,” the stranger said. “You need not see me again if you do not wish. We know of your daughter’s illness. She will die if not given the proper medicine. Is this not so?”

“How do you know this? Who are you?” Bronislov asked. He stopped short now. The wind howled down the street. They were alone, but anyone standing more than a foot away would have a hard time hearing their conversation.

“I am your friend. Hear me now, and quickly. We have the medicine for your daughter. We can provide it tomorrow if you wish. In return we ask only a favor from time to time.”

“What kind of favors? Who are you?” Bronislov was frantic now. Was this a KGB trap? Was he being tested? If so, he would be dead by morning if he accepted. He stopped. If this is true, he thought to himself, and I do not accept, my Trina will be dead in two weeks. Bronislov remembered the conversation with the doctor only that morning. The man’s words spoke of hope but his eyes carried none. Trina, and his wife with her, slipped further along the path to death every minute. When he stopped, the stranger walked a few steps on. Bronislov caught up with him, his decision already made.

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t care who you are. If you can get me the medicine I will do anything you ask.”

The stranger nodded. “Our children, comrade, are worth our lives, aren’t they? But we will not ask that of you. We only want a little information from time to time. You will have the medicine tomorrow. Go to your usual newspaper shop. Ask for a July back issue of the New York Times. You will have your medicine and your daughter healthy and well. We will contact you later. We will keep you safe, Comrade Bronislov.”

The stranger turned the corner, walking into the night. Snow began to fall as Bronislov made his way home. He drank most of the night, making his way to the newspaper shop early in the morning. When he asked for the July issue of the New York Times the shopkeeper reached beneath the counter and handed him an issue folded neatly into a rectangle. Inside were three bottles of a powerful antibiotic, the instructions printed on a label spread across each bottle. He brought them directly to the hospital, waving his wife to silence when she began asking questions. It was better for her not to know. In two weeks, Trina was home and running around their apartment again. In two months, Bronislov was delivering information that went directly to General Philip Archer. He did so happily.

*****

Luke Francis got the call in the middle of the night, the most common time for bad tidings. The message had come through encrypted channels, noted by a clerk who had no idea of what he was relaying. The message moved up the chain of command, where it eventually passed into the hands of someone who knew what it meant. The call went out and Francis drove in the middle of the night to his office, where he found his staff already there. Zeus was gone. He was not seen at work for three days. All efforts to contact him through established methods had gone unanswered. His wife and daughter were also absent. Francis and his staff spent the next few hours analyzing every angle. Zeuss was a reliable man. For Luke Francis, the option of playing it cool with one of his most important assets in the Soviet Union was not an option. The man had to be found. He booked the first flight to New Orleans, returned home to gather his clothes, and kissed his wife goodbye. Three members of his staff did the same.

A more circumspect man may have avoided the tail. In his haste to find out what was really going on with Zeus, Francis managed to expose an even more important asset in Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore. The trip south sent off alarm bells. Kohl managed to get a man to New Orleans International Airport well before arrival. Francis and his entourage booked themselves into a set of rooms at a downtown hotel, ate dinner in the restaurant, and went to bed. By the time they were asleep, Kohl had a team in place. Movements like this were the type of things that set his nerves tingling. The connection between Archer making his trip, and now Francis making the same journey, was well worth exploring. Something was happening. Cars were available at a moment’s notice. Kohl created a relay of inconspicuous men, placed them in a diner across the street from the hotel, and waited.

Early the next morning, Francis and his group emerged from the hotel, waving down a pair of Yellow Cabs working the Canal Street morning. Andre Kohl, who had been working the intelligence trade for two decades, was shocked. Francis was working out in the open. There was no attempt to hide anything. The pair of vehicles rolled down the city’s main thoroughfare, picked up the Interstate and drove directly to the University of New Orleans, where they discharged their passengers in front of the Student Center. Francis went inside, found a seat in the cafeteria and ordered coffee. Two of his men stayed with him. The other headed off to one of the nearby buildings, returning half an hour later with a pair of kids, obviously students.

The girl carried herself with an air of confidence, her head framed with a mass of curled brown hair. She was of average height. Her figure was good, an attractive young woman who in a few years would be beautiful. The young man stood slightly taller. His hair was fashionably long but not excessively so. His face still showed youth. He had a sharp nose and the slightest touch of facial hair. Fifteen minutes of discussion ensued between Francis and the young pair. The girl was obviously distressed. She waved her arms when she talked. Once, she leaned over and pointed her finger in the face of Luke Francis. Immediately afterward, she slapped the table while making some point. The young man was less vocal, but his posture displayed an obvious tension. They both looked around frequently. When they left Francis sitting at the table, they walked away without looking back, the girl’s face flush with anger, her hands clenched into fists. Kohl took a chance and followed them out, where one of his men was waiting. He nodded and two of his men followed the young couple. Outside, he lit a cigarette, wondering what he had just seen.

*****

“He’s going to get us kidnapped or killed, is what he’s going to do, Ronnie.” Cassie paced back and forth in the kitchen of the apartment she and Ronnie shared a few blocks from school. Her parents had been firmly opposed to their living together but at eighteen, and supplied by Archer with scholarship money; there wasn’t much they could do about it. Ronnie’s parents were a little more tolerant. He was sitting at a table they had bought for him when he moved out, a kitchen table big enough to seat four. Cassie had been at it for the better part of an hour, spewing out a verbal barrage on the stupidity of Francis and the consequences of his carelessness. Ronnie had his chair turned backwards, his head resting on the seatback as he watched Cassie prowl the apartment. He knew better than to interrupt her now. She was on a roll. Later, she would grow deathly quiet and intense, working things out in her head. Right now, it was better to sit back and let her vent. Four years of their relationship did nothing to dim the fire in her or his appreciation of it. He knew better than to interrupt the process. Cassie was smart, an intelligence that he felt sometimes overshadowed his own by a wide margin. In that quickness though, that analytical edge, was a depth of feeling he had never found in anyone else. He doubted he would ever find it in another person, nor did he care to look.