Wall of Night (20 page)

Washington,
D.C.

Though joking when he made the offer, Randall did in fact end up spending the night sleeping in the bushes of Rock Creek Park watching Tsang's dead drop. Given its location and the limitations of their three-person team, there'd been no other option. Aside from some rambunctious teenagers strolling the trails and drinking beer, Randall's night passed without incident.

At dawn, Latham and Janet called on the radio. “Morning, Paul, are you there?”

“I'm here. Cold, tired, and hungry, but here.”

“Come on out,” Latham said. “I'm at Q and Twenty-seventh. Janet's playing jogger on the main trail. I've got breakfast for you.”

Randall was there in ten minutes. He climbed in the car—groaning as he felt the warmth hit him—and accepted a cup of coffee and Egg McMuffin. “Ah, Charlie, you're a good man.”

“Sorry you had to play Rambo all night. Thanks, Paul.”

“No problem. How's Bonnie and the kids?”

“Fine. I saw them last night. Samantha's already complaining about the casts being itchy.”

“That's a good sign. Say, did you know there are mosquitoes out in April? You'd think it'd be too cold for them, but nope, they're out in swarms.”

“I can tell.”

“What?”

“Your face.”

Randall pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror; his face was pimply. “Great.”

“Finish your breakfast, then go home. We'll call you if there's any action.”

Janet spent the morning traversing the trails of the park, stopping occasionally to check her watch and write in a notebook, an affection they hoped would disguise her as a runner on a training schedule.

At noon, she called in: “Charlie, there's a tour bus pulling into the Adams Mill lot The whole group is heading in the general direction of the drop. They're all Chinese.”

“What?”

“There's not a Caucasian in the bunch.”

What would a Chinese tour group be doing in Rock Creek Park? Latham wondered. It didn't make sense. Then he caught himself: Maybe it did.

Last year a female Olympic runner from Beijing came to Washington on a goodwill trip. While running in the park late one night, she was raped and murdered, her body dumped just off the trail. Her killer was never apprehended, and the woman became an icon in China.

“Janet, you remember that murder—the Chinese, marathoner?”

There was few second's pause. “Damn, you think—”

“I wouldn't rule it out. Where are they now?”

“About a half mile from the drop; the guide is stopping to talk.”

Probably retracing the woman's route.
“Okay, stay back. If our target's in the group, he'll be watching. Also watch for late joiners. Any chance you could get a head count?”

“I'll try.”

“I'm driving over to the lot and check the bus.”

Latham started up Q, turned north on Connecticut near Dupont Circle, then east again on Columbia. Six more blocks and three more turns took him to Adams Mill Road. He parked away from the bus and sat watching for loiterers. There were none.

“Charlie, they're starting up the path east of the drop. I'm gonna circle to the other end of the trail and jog past the group.”

“Okay. Head count?”

“I've got fifty-two.”

Latham got out of the car and strolled past the bus to a bank of phones near the bathrooms. He made a fake call, then walked back to his car and got in. He flipped open his notebook and jotted down the bus's particulars: company name, plate number, and side number.

Fifteen minutes passed, and then, “Charlie, you there?”

“I'm here.”

“The group's coming off the trail. I tell you, that girl must have been special; there's not a dry eye in the bunch. As far as I can tell, the count's the same.”

“Good. Meet me at the drop.”

The area around the drop was trampled by overlapping footprints, and Latham assumed this was where the woman's body had been found.
Very smart,
he thought.

He knelt on the fallen log and leaned down. The knot was empty. The bottle was gone.

“Clever sons-of-bitches,” Janet Paschel said.

“Yep.”

But ingenuity could be a double-edged sword, Latham knew. While the tour group had given their target anonymity, it had also lumped him into a unique and hopefully identifiable group.

“What now?” Janet asked.

“We dive into the haystack and look for something shiny,” Latham replied.

Moscow

The days following the Irkutsk Massacre became a whirlwind as Bulganin virtually uprooted his office and took to the countryside, leading an army of print and television reporters.

The campaign had reached critical mass, Nochenko realized. No longer did they have to contact the media to announce press conferences or rallies. Bulganin's calendar became increasingly jammed with interviewers clambering for his time. The grassroots network of RPP supporters was now a finely tuned machine. Bulganin and the RPP had become an ongoing news story,

And when exactly had they turned the comer
?
Nochenko wondered.
The day after Irkutsk.

Try as he might, he was unable to dismiss the idea that Bulganin had been involved. The odds against the incident being anything but a tragic accident were enormous. More importantly, it would take a special kind of ruthlessness to arrange such a slaughter. Bulganin was eccentric, not homicidal.

Then why couldn't he put it out of his mind?

Nochenko was a logician at heart The world turned according to physical laws; people behaved as they did because of the electrochemical impulses swirling in their brains; two plus two always equaled four. And suspicious hunches … they were for men of weak intellect

And yet, Nochenko's suspicions persisted.

Two days after the incident at Chita, he began his own discreet investigation of Irkutsk. So far, he'd turned up nothing unusual—save one item.

Bulganin's chief bodyguard and leader of “The Guardians,” Pyotr Stomanov, had gone missing two days before the Irkutsk incident then reappeared the day afterward. No one at RPP headquarters knew where he'd gone and Bulganin himself demurred when Nochenko put the question to him.

“Pyotr was running an errand for me. A personal matter.”

“I would have been happy to handle it for you, Vlad.”

Bulganin had waved his hand. “You? No, Ivan, this was gopher work. You're too important for that; I need you here. Especially now.”

Typical of Bulganin, the conversation had ended with an abrupt subject change.

Unsatisfied with Bulganin's explanation, Nochenko turned his attention to Pyotr himself and called an acquaintance in the SVR's archives directorate.

Bulganin's chief bodyguard was a former
Spetsnaz
special forces soldier, discharged from the army six years before after being accused of killing a civilian during a nightclub fight. Nochenko's contact could find no details on what had become of the charges, nor could he get access to Stomanov's service record, neither of which were surprising.
Spetsnaz
activities had always been cloaked in shadow.

It was no wonder Bulganin had excused Stomanov and his men from Nochenko's background checks. What about the rest of the Guardians? Nochenko wondered. Like Stomanov, were they also ex-military? Why would Bulganin load his entourage with thugs?

Unless
…

Unless the man's fascination with “Koba” Stalin ran deeper than he had imagined. From what little he'd read of Stalin, Nochenko knew the man had been something of a thug in his youth, and that he'd shrewdly distanced himself from such activities as he gained power, instead delegating such chores to cronies he kept around for that very purpose.

Nochenko's desk phone rang. “Yes?”

“The Chief wants you.”

“Very well. I'm on my way.”

He found Bulganin standing at his desk, hands clasped behind his back. “Ivan, come in, sit.”

Nochenko took one of the wingback chairs before the desk.

“Ivan, guess who I just got off the phone with.”

“Vladimir, please … ”

“All right, all right.” Grinning, Bulganin banged his fist on the desk. “Fedorin! The man himself! Can you believe it?”

“What? When?”

“Minutes ago. He would like to come over to ‘pay his respects'. His words exactly.”

“My God,” Nochenko murmured. This was significant.

Sergei Fedorin was the head of the SVR, the successor to the KGB. Though much had changed in Russia over the last decade, one thing had not: By whatever name, the Committee for State Security was alive and well. Though now leaner and more circumspect in its methods, the SVR still wielded tremendous power.

Fedorin's visit could mean only one thing: Like the rest of Russia, the SVR had decided Bulganin's momentum was irresistible, and Fedorin wanted a head start on backing the winner. By day's end the media would have the story, and one by one other government organs—along with their own constituency and power base—would begin tacitly falling into place behind the SVR.

“We've done it, Ivan!” Bulganin roared. “We've won!”

He's right,
Nochenko thought, still numb.
God almighty
…
just like that.
Of course, the formalities of the election would still take place, the votes would still be counted, but the outcome was virtually locked. In a few day's time, Vladimir Bulganin would be president of the Russian Federation.

Nochenko realized he had a decision to make. If he moved now, he might still be able to thwart Bulganin's victory. It would be dangerous, but it could be done. But that begged a question, didn't it? Were his suspicions enough to justify such action? What proof did he have of anything? True, Vladimir was something of an oddball, but perhaps that was his strength. Bulganin wasn't a cookie-cutter politician. Albeit a tad arcane at times, he had vision.

For Nochenko it came down to one question: Had all his work over the last six years been in vain? Had he taken a damned peasant from a shoe factory to the brink of the Russian presidency only to throw it away over a … spooky feeling in his belly?

No,
Nochenko decided,
No.

Bulganin clapped him on the shoulders. “Ivan, don't you see? Do you know what this means?”

Nochenko looked up at him, then smiled. “Yes, Vlad, I know. We're almost there.”

White House

The special session of the Security Council ended with the Chinese delegation storming out an hour after it started. Two hours after that, Martin's own ambassador arrived with the transcripts.

Following a brief statement describing the reactor accident in Chita, then moving on to similar incidents in the past, China's normally circumspect ambassador proceeded to lambast the Russian representative, accusing the Federation of negligence, illegal labor practices, and racially biased safety standards toward Chinese citizens living in Siberia.

“Not very smart of the Chinese to come out swinging like that,” Martin said as he read. “The Russians don't like being backed into a corner.”

Maybe that's what they want,
Bousikaris thought. The natural assumption was that China wanted a solution. True or not, nothing the PRC did was unconsidered. Every word spoken in that meeting had been decided in advance. “They're grandstanding,” he said. “Jockeying for advantage.”

Martin turned to his ambassador. “What's your take, Stephen?”

“I've been at the UN for eight years, and I've never seen a Security Council meeting go this badly this quickly. I don't think China is looking for a solution just yet. I wouldn't be surprised if we see a news conference at their embassy later today.”

“I agree,” Bousikaris said. “If so, I'm betting we're going to see a whole different tone.”

“Explain,” said Martin.

“Very solemn, very disappointed: ‘We were hopeful the Federation would be appropriately responsive to our concerns, but it appears we were mistaken'—something along those lines.”

The ambassador said, “Right or wrong, much of the world still sees Russia as the big hungry bear. It won't take much to paint China as the underdog.”

“And everybody loves the underdog,” Martin said.

“Especially when the victims are peasants just trying to scratch out a living in a foreign land. China's got the high road. By this time tomorrow, the Federation's position will be lost in the shuffle.”

Martin considered this. “So where's all this headed? Howard?”

Where this is headed,
thought Bousikaris,
is to another visit from the PRC ambassador.

“Once China gets the leverage it's looking for, we'll see their real agenda, sir.”

USS
Columbia

One hundred twenty miles from Russia's coast,
Columbia
had its first close encounter.

“Conn, Sonar.”

Kinsock keyed the intercom above his head. “Conn, aye.”

“Contact, Skipper. Designate Sierra-four. Bearing zero-zero-five, close aboard—make it eight thousand yards. He was laying in the grass, Skipper.”

Four miles off our beam,
Kinsock thought. “What's he doing?”

“Bearing rate indicates a turn to the south; he's headed our way, but in no big hurry.”

No chance he knows we're here:
Still,
better safe than sorry.
“Diving officer, make your speed one-third for eight knots. Sonar, how soon can you get me an ID?”

“Twenty minutes, Skipper. Less if you can get me closer.”

“Stay on it. Let's see what he does.”

Sierra-four kept coming, turning in an arc that brought it three miles off
Columbia's
starboard quarter. “We got an ID, Skipper. Need to refine it a bit, but it looks like an Akula.”

Damn.
An Akula was a Russian hunter-killer, fast and dangerous. More importantly, Akulas were prestigious billets in the Federation navy and reserved for its best skippers. “Conn, aye.”

A few minutes passed. “He's turning again … coming north, but still heading generally west.”

Jim MacGregor,
Columbia's
exec, whispered, “He's hunting, Archie.”

“Yep. Zigzagging to open up his passive sonar.”

Kinsock felt the first tinge of wariness. He'd tangled with Akulas three times, the last incident lasting nearly fourteen hours before they'd been able to slip away. On this trip they couldn't afford such an encounter. Though currently ahead of schedule, the closer they got to the Russian coast, the greater their chances of running into more bad guys. Out here, a stray Akula was something of a fluke; inside the mouth of Vrangel Bay … Well, it didn't bear thinking about.

“Sonar, Conn, how many turns has he done in the last half hour?”

“Four, Skipper.”

MacGregor said, “About one every seven minutes. Pretty slow turn rate.”

“Maybe we can use that.”

Together they leaned over the chart table, jotting numbers and making calculations. Finally satisfied, Kinsock keyed the intercom. “Sonar, Conn, let me know the instant he starts his next zig.”

“Aye, sir.”

Two minutes later: “Bearing shift on Sierra-four. He's coming around.”

“Conn, aye. Diving officer, all ahead two-thirds for twelve knots.”

Kinsock felt the deck surge beneath his feet as
Columbia
'
s
engines sent more power to the screws. MacGregor clicked his stopwatch. “How long, Archie?”

“Make it forty seconds.”

Kinsock was doing what's known as a “scoot-and-die” and its success depended on three things: the angle of the Akula's turning radius, her speed, and how well Kinsock had done his math. The theory was sound, if not exact: As the Akula turned to open its port sonar array, there would be a period during which it would have an “aural blind spot” on
Columbia
'
s general bearing.

MacGregor counted off the seconds. “Thirty seconds … thirty-five … forty … Archie?”

Kinsock shook his head, waiting.

“Forty-two … three … ”

Kinsock turned to the diving officer. “All stop.”

“All stop, aye.”

Columbia's
deck shivered. She began slowing, drifting forward on her own momentum. There came a soft squeal from the pressure hull. They were scraping against the thermal layer; the temperature change was expanding the hull.

The diving officer whispered, “Might be losing our layer.”

“Two degrees down plane, all ahead one-third for two knots.”

“Two degrees down, one-third for two, aye, sir.”

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra-four still opening, shaft rate decreasing … He's slowing, Skipper.”

All the better to hear us with,
Kinsock thought.

MacGregor said, “You think he heard—”

“We'll know soon enough. Sonar, time to Akula's next turn?”

“At his new speed, nine minutes.”

If the Akula had heard their hull squeal, its next turn would come sooner than its last. If the Akula's skipper was feeling frisky, he might go active on his sonar and try to get a bounce off something solid—in this case,
Columbia's
hull.

The air in the control room grew thick with tension. Everyone's movements slowed, became more deliberate. Except for commands from Kinsock and the occasional soft chirp from consoles, everything was silent. Eyes not glued to consoles stared at the overhead.

“Conn, Sonar, two minutes to turn. No change on Sierra-four.”

“Conn, aye. Jim, crunch the numbers again; we'll try another scoot when he turns.”

“Right … Make it thirty-two seconds. His slowing down gave him a tighter turn radius.”

“Okay.”

Without realizing it, the Akula's skipper had partially countered Kinsock's tactic. Unless the Akula changed course or slowed even more,
Columbia
would now gain only a few hundred yards on each scoot. It could take several hours to leave the Russian far enough behind to breathe easy again.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra-four's time to turn in ten seconds. Nine … eight—”

MacGregor held up crossed fingers. Kinsock smiled.

“Mark! Listening … no change on shaft rate … no change on bearing rate or doppler …”

Come on,
buddy
…

“Wait! Here he comes, Skipper. Bearing rate indicates port turn—he's coming south again.”

Kinsock ordered, “Diving Officer, all ahead two-thirds for twelve.”

MacGregor clicked the stopwatch.

“Sonar, Conn, how's his speed?”

“No change. Up Doppler … bearing rate steady …”

All good signs. Suspicious though he might be, the Akula's skipper wasn't sure of anything. So far,
Columbia
was still just a ghost on his screen.

The next four hours passed with agonizing slowness:
Columbia
scooting forward a few hundred yards at a time, the Akula remaining doggedly astern, but slowly losing ground as it tried to gain contact.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra-four is fading. Haven't had a bearing shift in twenty minutes. I make his range at twenty thousand plus.”

Standing at the chart table, Kinsock replied, “Conn, aye. Good work.”

“Stubborn SOB,” MacGregor said.

“Yep, they usually are.” Kinsock chuckled. “Like trying to scoop sand with a net.”

“What's that?”

“That's how my first skipper described trying to hold contact on an LA boat.”

“Thank God and pass the silence,” MacGregor said.

“We're gonna need it.”

“That bad, you think?”

“ 'Fraid so. That game we just played was a preview. The closer we get to Nakhadka the more traffic we're gonna see. Add to that the hydrophone array outside the harbor—”

“Which may or may not be operational.”

“Never rely on maybe, Jim—it'll get you killed. We assume it's operational. If we're wrong, fine, we're wrong
and
alive.”

Dozens of things could go wrong between here and the coast. Dozens of chances to be picked up by a passing frigate or another attack sub. And once inside Russia's territorial waters, the rules changed from cat-and-mouse, to shoot first and ask questions later.

One hundred eighty miles to
Columbia's
south, another submarine, this one a specially modified, Russian-built Kilo class, was heading north at a leisurely four knots, her captain unaware of
Columbia's
close call with the Akula. Had he been, he would have fretted the situation as much as Kinsock himself. Everything depended upon the American sub reaching her destination.

The captain walked to the chart table, where the navigator was working. “On track and slightly ahead of schedule, Captain.”

“How far ahead?”

“Two hours.”

Have to adjust for that,
the captain thought.
Timing will be critical.

The navigator said, “Of course, we could improve that if we increased speed.”

“This will do for now.” Four knots was the Kilo's best, quiet speed. “Inform me when we're a hundred miles from the intercept point.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain was under no illusion: His was a good boat, but it was no match for the American—not on an even playing field, at least. Of course, by the time they reached the intercept point, the field would be heavily canted in his favor.