The Krone Experiment (26 page)

Vincent Martinelli came around his desk to
greet Isaacs, his doughy face lit with a smile.

“Bob, how are you? Sit down.” He motioned
Isaacs into a chair and sat in an adjacent one.

“What did you think of the President’s
decision to hang tight? Guts ball, huh?”

“So far, so good. I guess that makes it a
wise move. We discussed the possibility that the Russians would
take out the nuke and go for broke with the laser, but the more we
talked, the more it seemed like their actual goal was to establish
their right to orbit a laser, free of our interference, and that
they would hold to the status quo. The President bought the idea
that they didn’t want an overt escalation any more than we did. But
you’re right, it took some nerve to just let the nuke sit in the
range of those hunter-killers and wait it out.”

“What’s it been?” Martinelli glanced at his
watch. “Sixty- odd hours since they were launched. As long as
nobody nudges the trigger on one of those hunter-killers, we have a
truce.”

“Looks like it.”

“So other than that, how are things in the
think tank? Seems like we haven’t had time to chat since that damn
Russian carrier caught fire.”

“Things are fine, Vince. But I was hoping you
could improve them by taking a couple of pictures for me.”

“Sure, anytime. That doesn’t require a
personal visit.”

“I would like coverage of an area in Nagasaki
near the bay, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! Jesus, man, you know it takes a
week at top speed to get a request through the priorities
committee.”

“I know that, Vince. That’s why I’m here. All
I need is one hour of your flex-time, but I need it tomorrow.
There’s no time to go through channels.”

“It would help to clear it through McMasters,
at least, even on an informal basis.”

Isaacs was silent for a moment.

“I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.”

Martinelli contemplated his visitor. He had
known Isaacs to work around McMasters before, but not in a matter
like this when consultation with him was explicitly mandated.

“This is important to you?”

“Vince, I think I’m onto something that may
help explain the Novorossiisk event and get us out of this whole
mess it has led to. I can’t prove it yet. I need more evidence,
including your photos.”

“You want to tell me what it is?”

“You’ll be sticking your neck out as it is if
you do this. I think we should leave it at that.”

“And you need to steer clear of
McMasters?”

“He’s got me between a rock and a hard place.
The less said about that the better for now, too.”

Martinelli let out a sigh. “Let’s see whether
what you’re asking is even feasible. You have the coordinates?”

Isaacs withdrew a small sheet of notepaper
from his pocket and handed it to Martinelli.

“I’ll check with the scheduling office. Hang
on a bit.”

Martinelli left Isaacs in the office. Isaacs
rose and paced the floor. He severely disliked involving Martinelli
in this way. He could not even be sure the photos would be useful,
but some steps had to be taken to reduce their level of ignorance.
He wanted to bring to bear as many means as possible. He had cabled
the consulate in Nagasaki and arranged for an observer to cover the
area, hinting at the possibility of some political turmoil. Again
he was operating out of channels since his office was not directly
responsible for covert intelligence. He had gambled that any
request from central headquarters would elicit a cooperative
response and had apparently been correct.

Martinelli returned in a few minutes.

“The satellite time is tied up tight.
There’re troop movements in southern China, near the Vietnamese
border. On the other hand, we’ll have a U-2 flight returning from
the same area at about the time you want. I can’t give you an hour,
but maybe we can get him to save a few frames in his magazine and
circle Nagasaki for ten minutes. Any longer and the Japanese will
get suspicious. We’re allies, remember. They don’t appreciate us
taking spy pictures of them. At least we try to be subtle about
it,” he grinned.

“Ten minutes is cutting it very close. But if
it’s ten minutes spanning that time,” Isaacs pointed at the slip of
paper in Martinelli’s hand, “that may do the trick.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“Thanks, Vince, I owe you one.”

“Wait till you see if we get anything.”

Isaacs spent most of the next twenty-four
hours as he had the last, in the frenzied analysis of Soviet signal
intelligence, searching for clues that the deadlock in orbit might
be broken. Danielson had used Szkada’s sonar data to refine her
estimate of the several block area in Nagasaki where she predicted
the seismic event would encroach on the city. Isaacs had cabled the
revised information to the consulate and passed it on to
Martinelli. Martinelli had confirmed that they could get some
aerial photos of the area.

As Isaacs headed home Wednesday evening he
was concentrating on the upcoming event in Nagasaki, only a few
hours away, a little after eleven in the morning Japanese time,
July 8, allowing for the International Dateline. Would they learn
anything useful? And, if so, for god’s sake what? What were they
dealing with? He replayed in his mind the interchange in La Jolla.
Russians? Extraterrestrials? Damn it all anyway! He failed to
notice that he had been following the same dark sedan all along
MacArthur Boulevard nor did he notice the limousine that pulled in
behind him as they neared Georgetown.

The sedan pulled into the quiet narrow street
Isaacs always took to get home, and Isaacs followed. Part way along
the block the sedan braked, and Isaacs also did so mechanically.
The sedan’s back-up lights came on, and it reversed to within a few
feet of Isaacs’ bumper. He felt a momentary hint of irritation at
the delay and then looked back over his shoulder, preparing to back
up himself to give room. All he saw was the hood of the limousine.
At the same moment, someone opened his door and he jerked around
with surprise.

A tall figure in a dark suit was silhouetted
in the doorway. The man bent down, revealing a broad-featured face
that was vaguely familiar.

“Mr. Isaacs?” The voice was slow, working
methodically with an alien tongue. “Mr. Zamyatin would like a word
with you.”

Mr. Zamyatin was it! Isaacs’ eyes followed
those of the man back to the limousine. Colonel Grigor Zamyatin was
well known in the Agency as the head of the KGB station in the
capital, a position that gave him immense power throughout the
country, not to mention his own homeland.

Isaacs fixed his eyes on the man again,
recognizing now the face from the Agency file on the embassy staff.
Yegor Vassilev, a “secretary” in the visa section.

“Zamyatin be damned,” he said with some heat.
“You can’t accost me like this on a public street in my own
country!”

“Please, Mr. Isaacs,” Vassilev replied in a
placating tone, “Mr. Zamyatin said to mention Academician
Korolev.”

Isaacs stared. What the hell did that mean?
It was on the record that Isaacs had submitted the report
suggesting meteorite damage to the Novorossiisk. A report that
Korolev had rejected. But this forced liaison was unlikely to have
arisen from such an interchange. They must have intercepted his
personal letter to Korolev. Resignation mingled with a strong dose
of curiosity drove Isaacs out of his seat. Could Zamyatin
conceivably be turned to an ally in this bizarre situation?

As he stepped onto the pavement, Vassilev
mumbled, “I will operate your vehicle,” and slipped behind the
wheel of the Mercedes.

The rear door to the limousine opened and
Isaacs stepped in and sat. Someone outside closed the door, and a
deep hush settled into the interior of the car. In a moment they
began to move ahead gently.

A half block away an anonymous tan Oldsmobile
Cutlass was parked in a driveway. The driver lowered the compact
camera he had been using and spoke softly into a microphone. He
watched as a van from a Georgetown appliance store pulled around
the corner and closed to within a half a block of the limousine. He
then backed out and headed in the opposite direction.

In the limousine, Grigor Zamyatin reached
across, extending a hand.

“Mr. Isaacs,” he said in a carefully
developed Midwestern accent.

Isaacs, examining the neatly combed grey
hair, the friendly peasant face, the shrewd black eyes, hesitated a
moment. Then he took the hand in a firm grip. No sense insulting
the man before the cards were on the table. He felt some protest
was deserved, however.

“Colonel. I trust you have good reason for
this bit of piracy. You could get me in quite a jam. The Agency
frowns on unauthorized clandestine meetings with the
opposition.”

“Come, come, Mr. Isaacs. I think you will
agree we need a quiet, frank chat, man to man. Surely you would not
want me to make an official request for an audience. How would you
explain that to your Mr. Drefke—or to your Mr. McMasters?”

Damn! thought Isaacs, even the KGB knows he’s
on my back.

“In any case,” said Isaacs, “here we are.
What’s on your mind?”

“Your role in the Novorossiisk affair, Mr.
Isaacs. Simply that.”

Isaacs looked at him silently.

“You wrote a very persuasive memo concerning
the possibility of a meteorite striking the carrier. Your premise
had already been considered, tested, and rejected. Nevertheless,
your sincerity, if I may use that word, made a deep impression on
Academician Korolev.”

Zamyatin watched closely as he used that
name. He saw a slight lifting of the chin. He faced straight ahead
and continued.

“You have probably guessed that we are aware
of the contents of your personal letter to him.”

“What I don’t know is whether he even
received it,” said Isaacs, attempting to take the offensive. “I’ve
had no reply.”

“Oh, he received it. Indeed he did.” Zamyatin
glanced sideways at Isaacs. “He has referred to it in some very
high circles, and some lowly ones. I myself recently had
opportunity to discuss it with him.”

Isaacs ignored the feigned modesty.

“You might be interested to know,” Zamyatin
continued, staring ahead over the shoulder of the chauffeur, “that
your letter played a small role in recent events. As you are very
aware, an unfortunate series of circumstances has followed from the
attack on the Novorossiisk. The decision of your President to
confiscate the Cosmos 2112 was a terribly unfortunate and
provocative act. His response to our launch of Cosmos 2231 perhaps
even more so. These events have taken on a life of their own. The
Soviet people do not lightly regard an attack on the sovereignty of
our Union, whatever the motivation.”

Zamyatin shifted his gaze to fix on
Isaacs.

“But the Soviet people also have a deep
concern for truth and justice.”

And the Russian way, thought Isaacs, despite
himself. Could all this be an elaborate ruse, he wondered, to
further masquerade Soviet complicity in a scheme he could barely
fathom?

“If your country were blameless in the case
of the Novorossiisk, this is a mitigating circumstance to be
considered in any action we might take during subsequent events,”
Zamyatin continued.

“Academician Korolev has argued strenuously,
using your letter and report as evidence, that your country knows
nothing of the attack on the Novorossiisk. This was a factor in the
decision not to escalate our response to your recent
provocations.”

But what does your country know about the
Novorossiisk that you’re not telling me? Isaacs asked silently. He
chose his words carefully.

“If that is true, then I won’t deny some
satisfaction. But this rendezvous was not arranged for my
pleasure.”

“No,” Zamyatin agreed flatly. “There is
concern at the highest levels in our government to understand the
fate of the Novorossiisk. We have gathered some fragmentary
evidence of our own for this curious signal you described to
Korolev. I am authorized to ask you some questions, that we can
better understand the situation.

“Many of my colleagues reject your story.
They are convinced of the culpability of your government beginning
with the events on the Novorossiisk. They demand to know what you
did to the Novorossiisk, and why you, personally, were selected to
propagate such a rooster—pardon me, cock and bull story, eh?—about
mysterious effects in the Earth.”

“Lord deliver me from fools of all
persuasions,” Isaacs blurted, throwing his hands up in
exasperation. “Look,” he said heatedly, “I have no proof to give
you, but I do give you my word of honor. No one in my government
has a clue to what happened aboard the Novorossiisk—or the Stinson,
I remind you. But it’s the thick-headed idiots in your government
and mine who can’t see the true threat here who are leading us
close to catastrophe.”

“Sir! Sir!” Zamyatin held up a hand in
protest. “Let me stipulate that I personally accept both your word
and that there is a more subtle problem here to be understood. We
must know the position of your government. What is being done to
clarify this matter? What have you learned?”

“Precious little,” Isaacs replied in disgust.
“If it were otherwise, do you think I would write that letter to
Korolev?”

“But if the situation is as mysterious and
potentially serious as you say, surely it becomes the center of a
major investigation?”

Isaacs looked closely at the Russian.
Careful, he cautioned himself. If the Russians aren’t responsible,
then, properly cultivated, Zamyatin could prove useful, as Korolev
apparently had been. What irony to find allies in the Soviet camp
even as the confrontation overhead escalated. He must have some
hint of the problems with McMasters, but now was not the time to
take this man fully into his confidence, not when he could not
extend that confidence to even his close friends in the Agency. He
shifted to face Zamyatin more squarely and spoke with
sincerity.