Wall of Night (26 page)

Ulaanbaatar,
Mongolia

As Tanner was heading toward Beijing proper, Cahil was suffering through a white-knuckle landing aboard a Soviet-build Anatov-27 whose floor had more patches than an Appalachian quilt.

He gripped the armrests tighter and glanced at his seatmate, an elderly Mongolian man wearing purple pants, a yellow tunic and a splotchy fur hat. He reminded Bear of a Mongolian Willy Wonka.

“Boombity, boombity, boom,” Willy yelled over the roar.

It was a fair impression of the sound the wheels were making on the rutted landing strip.

“Yeah,” Cahil replied. “Boombity.”

Abruptly the engines died away, leaving behind only the sound of the thumping tires. Cahil realized the pilot had shut off the engines to conserve fuel, a priceless commodity in Mongolia.

As the plane coasted to a stop, Cahil felt a tap on his shoulder.

“No more boombity,” Willy said with a toothless grin. “Stop now.”

“Never volunteer yourself, Bear,” Cahil muttered.

The answer to the game Cahil had come to call “Where in the World is Mike Skeldon?” had been answered two days earlier by a static-filled, ten-second phone call.

With Dick Mason and the CIA's resources at his disposal, Cahil had moved Kycek to a safe house in rural Virginia, where a team from Langley's Science and Technology Directorate set up a phone-router for Kycek's home number in Asheville. From Monday morning forward, all Kycek's incoming calls were automatically routed to a switchboard in the safe house's basement.

Promptly at noon on Tuesday, a call came in. As instructed, Kycek let it ring three times, then picked it up. As he did so, the CIA technician flipped on the recorders and the speakers.

“Hello?” Kycek said.

“Ready to travel?” the voice asked.

“I'm ready.”

“Tomorrow morning, Ronald Reagan. Go to the TWA desk; there'll be a ticket waiting for you.”

“Okay,” Kycek said. “Uh, should I bring anything?”

“Yeah: warm clothes.”

The line went dead.

Kycek hung up. Cahil turned to the technician, who said, “Not enough for a solid trace, but it was overseas, that's for sure.”

“Warm clothes,” Kycek said. “Wonder what that means? Russia, you think?”

Cahil shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder. “Not your worry anymore,” he replied, then thought,
Yeah,
definitely Russia.
But where and why
?

Russia via lovely Mongolia
Cahil thought as they slowed beside the gray terminal building. Painted on its front in bright red and black was a fur-hatted Mongol on a galloping horse. Cahil assumed it was the Mongolian state seal. Just to be sure, he tapped Willy and pointed.

“Suhe Baator,” Willy explained. “Suhe the Hero.”

“The liberator of Mongolia,” Cahil replied.

“Yes, yes! Great liberator.
Kharasho
!”

Kharasho
was the Russian word for “good.” Though the Russians had been gone for over a decade, their legacy lived on. Many Mongolians still spoke a mixture of Mongol and Russian along with a smattering of Dorbet, Buryat, and a dozen other dialects.

The plane shuddered to a stop. As if on cue, the passengers leapt up. The door was flung open by the lone flight attendant.

When Bear reached the door, instead of stairs he found a telescoping aluminum ladder leaning against the Anatov's fuselage. He climbed down, then let himself drop the last few feet to the ground, stirring up a cloud of fine, gray dust.

Despite himself, he smiled. “One small step for man …”

Within minutes the passengers, aircrew and maintenance people had disappeared into the terminal building and Cahil found himself alone with the dust and the plane. A gust of wind blew across his face and he shivered. From horizon to horizon, the sky was a pristine, unblemished blue. The travel book he'd read on the flight called Mongolia “The Land of the Million Mile Sky.” He now saw why.

These were the steppes of the Mongol hordes. Seven hundred years ago, Genghis Kahn and his tribe of bantam-size horsemen rode out of these grasslands and conquered half the known world. It must have been an awesome sight, Cahil thought: the bleak green hills, the blue sky, and in between, tens of thousands of Mongols, spearheads jutting skyward like the branches of a moving forest.

Maggie would love this, he decided. She was a born and raised Montanan, a child of Big Sky Country. Of course, Montana had nothing on Mongolia. This was nothing
but
sky—millions of square miles of it. Thinking of her and the girls, he felt suddenly lonely.

They're fine,
he told himself.
They're fine,
and you'll be back to them soon.

The airport sat atop one of the foothills in the Hentiyn Nuruu mountain range; below lay Ulaanbaatar proper. Aside from a few multistory buildings and coal-belching smokestacks, most of the city's structures were squat affairs similar.

The air was filled with the tangy scent of what he guessed to be mutton, the cornerstone of Mongolian cuisine: Mutton, mutton fat, and mutton juice combined with gnarled potatoes, bland radishes, and soggy cabbage.

He followed the road down out of the foothills, across a bridge spanning a muddy river, and reached a road his map called Engels Avenue. Somewhere in the distance he heard strains of music, and it took him a moment to recognize it: “Hey Macarena …” Ulaanbaatar, it seemed, was several years behind the newest tunes. Bear imagined a group of squat legged, dusky cheeked Mongol teenagers dancing the Macarena and found himself laughing.

He veered left down Engels and soon reached the Ulaanbaatar railway station.

He checked his watch: 11:30. Skeldon's written instructions, which had been attached to the ticket at Dulles, had been curt:
Go to the train station and wait.
You'll be met sometime after noon.

Bear mounted the deserted platform, explored a bit, checked the train schedule (the next arrival was due in in three days from Ulan-Ude, Russia), then found a bench and sat down.

At three o'clock, a green, Russian Yaz truck—the Soviet version of the U.S. Army's deuce-and-a-half—screeched to a stop beside the platform. The driver's door opened and a man climbed out.

The mysterious Mike Sheldon,
Cahil thought.

He matched Latham's description to a tee: a few inches over six feet, rangy but muscular, blond buzz cut, and a hawk nose. As Skeldon walked toward the platform, Cahil could see his eyes scanning the ground around him.
The LRRP on patrol.
Retired or not, Skeldon was still a soldier-scout at heart

Skeldon mounted the platform steps and walked to Cahil's bench. “You've lost weight”

And you've lost your Southern twang.
The persona of Joe-Bob the Handyman was gone.

“Thanks. You trying to pick me up?”

“You've lost weight,” Skeldon repeated impassively.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“I went to Jenny Craig, so what?” Cahil growled. “Look, I've been flying on a death trap for the last six hours. Can we save the quiz for later?”

“No. Where'd you go to college?”

“Purdue. Dropped out in my senior year, joined the navy, and went into EOD—Explosive Ordinance Disposal.”

“Separation date?”

“My DD-two-fourteen says May ninth of eighty-nine, but they got it wrong. It was the tenth.”

Skeldon asked him a few more questions, then nodded. “Grab your bag and follow me.”

Skeldon drove away from the railway station and turned onto Peace Avenue. The road teemed with goats, horses, automobiles, and pedestrians, all of whom seemed to be obeying their own personal traffic laws. “No traffic police, I assume?” Cahil said.

“Nope,” replied Skeldon.

“How many people in the city?”

“Half a million. About forty percent of them live on steppes just outside the city in
gherrs.
”

“What's a
gherr
?”

“It's what we call a ‘yurt'—you know, those teepee-like things.”

“All year around—summer or winter?”

“Summer's about a month long here; blink and you miss it. Mongols are tough.”

“Genghis Khan.”

“Yep. Tough.”

An hour later they were twenty miles outside the city and traveling northeast on a rutted dirt tract. On either side of the road the steppes and rolling hills spread to the horizon.

“Can you tell me anything about where we're going, what we're doing?” Cahil asked.

Skeldon glanced at him, hesitated a moment, then replied, “We're headed to Naushki, on the Russian border. Once we're across, we'll link up with our team outside Kazachinskoye.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You and six billion other people.”

“You said ‘team.' I thought it was just you and me.”

For the first time since they met, Skeldon laughed. “You kidding me? For where we're headed, we're gonna need all the help we can get.”

Germantown Memorial Hospital

Neither Dutcher nor Mason were under any illusion: the course they'd chosen could not only land them in prison, but could, if ever made public, shake the country to its foundations. Love him or hate him, Phillip Martin was the democratically elected president of the United States. Neither of them were comfortable in the knowledge that what they were planning was nothing less than a coup d'
é
tat.

“We can dress it up and dance it around all we like,” Mason confided in Dutcher, “but the plain truth is, we're talking about overthrowing our own head of state.”

“I can live with it,” Dutcher replied. “Can you?”

“Ask me later.”

Exactly at noon, General Cathermeier pushed through the door of the hospital room. Standing beside Grandma Zi's bed were Dutcher, Mason, and Latham.

“Thanks for coming, Chuck,” said Mason.

“What the hell's going on?” He walked cautiously toward the bed, his eyes on the old woman lying there. At the head of her bed, an EKG monitor beeped every few seconds, accompanied by the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. “Dick, why am I in a hospital, and who is this woman?”

“Bear with me, Chuck.”

“You call me out of the blue, give me this mystery summons … Christ almighty, all this cloak-and-dagger crap …” Cathermeier looked at Dutcher. “Leland?”

“You've got to trust us, Chuck.”

Cathermeier frowned, the sighed. “What happened to her?”

Latham answered. “General, we haven't met. I'm Charlie Latham. I'm an agent with the FBI. This woman was shot by my partner a few nights ago. She was trying to kill me.”

“This old woman? Why?”

“That's a question best answered by our guest of honor,” Mason said, glancing at his watch. “Leland, call the doctor, let's get this ventilator unhooked.”

Bousikaris arrived five minutes later. As did Cathermeier, the chief of staff hesitated at the door, a mixture of anger and confusion on his face, then shut it behind him. “What is this? Dick, why—”

“Come in, Howard,” Mason said. “We have something to discuss.”

“Why am I here? This is a hospital. If we have something to discuss, call my secretary—”

“This is a topic best kept between us.”

“Is that so? And what might that be?”

“Your betrayal of your country, Howard.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“And your association with agents of the government of the People's Republic of China.”

“Nonsense! What agents?”

“This woman, for one.”

“I've never seen her before in my life. Dick, I don't know what game you're playing, but you've lost your mind—all of you. I'm going to make sure the president hears about this.”

Bousikaris turned and headed for the door. Latham got in front of him and held up a photo.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Bousikaris glanced at the picture, hesitated for a moment. Dutcher saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Now he'll decide,
Dutcher thought.
Bluff it out,
or work an angle and hope to save himself.

“Never seen him before,” Bousikaris said. “Now remove your hand—”

“I think you do,” Latham pressed. “He's in the morgue downstairs. I killed him. And my partner shot this woman. They invaded my house, Mr. Bousikaris. They came to kill me and my family—just like they killed Larry Baker, his wife, and their two daughters.”

“Who? Baker … you mean the Commerce—”

“That's right,” Mason said. “Not only did you and Martin climb into bed with foreign agents, but murderers, as well.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about”

“She and her husband taped everything—including your meetings and the murder of the Baker family. When she recovers, she's going to point the finger at you.”

“Recovers? Look at her; she's a vegetable.”

“Is she? She's not going to be much to look at, and she probably won't be able to feed, dress, or wash herself, but she'll be able to answer questions.”

“I don't believe you.”

“That's your choice. I'm more concerned with what the attorney general and the American public are going to believe. You've conspired with a pair of mass murderers to betray your country, Howard. The moment those accusations become public, your life is over.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Goddamned right I would,” Mason replied. “In fact, if I had my druthers, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. Use your brain. Once the newspapers sink their teeth into this, you're going to be the most reviled man in America.”

Bousikaris was shaking his head. “No.”

“They'll play a few seconds from the Baker tape, then mention your name, and it'll all be over. Two hundred sixty million Americans will want your head on a stick.”

“You don't understand—”

“What's to understand? Your loyalty to Martin? Martin works for the people of this country; so do you. You sold them out and now it's time to pay.”

Bousikaris shuffled to the chair and slumped into it. His overcoat slipped from his arm and piled around his feet. “What do you want?”

“All of it. We want to know exactly what you and Martin have been up to.”

Two hours later, back at the Holystone office, they had it.

Bousikaris, his face blank, his voice monotone, answered their questions without hesitation.

He took them back to the beginning: Martin's assault of his secretary; President Haverland's vow to see Martin's campaign die before it got off the ground; the last-minute influx of capital from the PAC; and finally, the visit from the PRC's ambassador.

“It was all very subtle,” Bousikaris explained. “We knew that each one of the ambassador's ‘requests' was actually another demand, and we knew what would happen if we didn't go along.”

“They would expose the true source of the donations?” Mason said. “They weren't afraid of the repercussions that would bring them?”

“They must have done their homework; they knew Phil would play along. He's so fixated on his damned legacy … You know, the irony is, he could've been a great president. Not anymore.”

Dutcher said, “They never gave any hint of what was behind their requests?”

“No. The sarin purchase … the ship in Nakhodka … It all had a ring of truth to it—which was probably the point, of course.”

“To make it easier for you to say yes with a clear conscience.”

“Yes.”

“What's Redmond's role in this?” asked Mason.

“Nothing. Redmond would wear his pants backward if Phil told him to.”

“And the battle group? The business about the reactor accident in Chita?”

“The Chinese want the group there as a calming influence—at least that was their explanation. The reactor accident is real. As for the Chinese casualties—if there are any … It would be impossible to pin down, really. There's no census of the Chinese diaspora in Siberia.”

“What about the Security Council meeting?”

“It probably went exactly as they wanted it to go; they didn't want to settle anything.”

Mason looked at Dutcher and said, “That'll be their reason—the heartless Russian Bear.”

Once sure Bousikaris had given them everything, Latham led him to an empty office with a couch. The chief of staff looked like a shell of himself, shuffling along, his shoulders slumped.

“I almost feel sorry for the guy,” Latham said when he came back. “He's been running around for years trying to save Martin from himself, and it just came crashing down on him.”

“We might want to keep an eye on him,” Dutcher said. “In his state of mind … Who knows.”

Latham nodded. “I'll watch him.”

Mason turned to General Cathermeier. “Chuck, you asked me why all the cloak-and-dagger crap. Now you know why.”

“I almost wish I didn't. In essence, what you're saying is our president is a goddamned puppet for the Chinese government.”

“That's only the half of it,” said Mason. He spent the next ten minutes explaining the connection between Baker, Skeldon, and Han Soong. “Cahil should have already met Skeldon in Mongolia, and Tanner's already on the ground in Beijing.”

“Your theory has a lot of gaps in it.”

Before either of them could respond, Walter Oaken, who'd disappeared into his office when they arrived with Bousikaris, returned. “Maybe not anymore,” he said. “I have a theory.”

“Have a seat,” Dutcher said. “What've you got?”

“Actually, it's not so much a theory as it is guesswork.”

“Go ahead,” said Mason.

“Okay.” Oaken cleared his throat. “I put myself in China's shoes. The first thought I had was, why try to tackle Russia all by themselves? They may win, they may not. Given how much China has invested in this, those are crappy odds. The Russian Bear may be a little anemic, but a bear is still a bear. Knowing that, the Chinese had to ask the next logical question: How do we even the odds?

“Surprise is one way, but given the number of troops and equipment they'd need to pull off the invasion … Well, you just don't move that many bodies and tanks without somebody noticing. Tactical nuclear weapons is another way, but what's the point of capturing territory that's been turned into a radioactive cesspool?

“If you remove those two equalizers, that leaves one: Overwhelming numerical superiority. To get that, China would have to have been dumping more money into war making.”

“Which we know they haven't done,” Mason said.

“Right. So their only other choice is to find an ally with enough military might to tip the scales in their favor. But who? Who, among the powerhouse nations, would have anything to do with an invasion of Russia?”

“No one,” Dutcher answered.

“Not knowingly, at least. Don't you see? We're China's ally.” Oaken started ticking items off on his fingers: “The shale oil process was leaked to China by an employee of the U.S. Commerce Department; we have a team of U.S. Navy SEALs on Russian soil, and a U.S. Navy submarine in Russian waters, both getting ready to launch an attack on the biggest commercial port on Russia's eastern coast; as we speak, a U.S. Navy battle group is steaming toward that same coast; and finally, a former U.S. Army Special Forces soldier is headed into Russia to do God knows what.”

“We're being sandbagged,” Dutcher said.

“Exactly. By the time China makes its move into Siberia, they'll have us looking like we're involved up to our necks. In Moscow's eyes, it'll be us and China against them. And you know what happens when you corner a bear.”

Mason nodded. “It fights back.”

Moscow

​For Ivan Nochenko, election day in the Russian Federation had passed like a surrealistic dream.

To Bulganin's credit, despite being virtually assured of victory, he'd played the perfect challenger for the media, circumspect in his confidence and fervent in his esteem for the democratic process. Even so, Nochenko had seen the gleam in his pupil's eye, as though Bulganin were enjoying a joke to which no one but himself was privy.

By ten p.m. local time, both the print and electronic media had begun to officially call the election in Bulganin's favor. By eleven, a crowd of five thousand Bulganin and RPP supporters were milling and dancing about Red Square chanting, “Russian Pride … Russian Pride!” Vodka bottles appeared and were passed from hand to hand, between stranger and friend alike. Under the watchful eyes of militia riot-control troops, barrel bonfires were lit and soon flickering shadows swirled over the façade of Lenin's Mausoleum and the arcading of St. Basil's Cathedral.

In his office two miles away, Bulganin stood, arms clasped behind his back as he watched the television coverage. He barked out a laugh. “There's nothing more heartening than a happy Russian! Look, Ivan, do you see?”

Nochenko nodded. “Yes, I see.”

Bulganin's secretary rushed into the room. “Sir! Channel Four … it's the president.”

Bulganin clicked the remote and the channel changed to show the incumbent Federation President standing at the podium on the floor of the Duma. “… you have spoken, my fellow Russians. It is with both respect and sadness that I hereby congratulate my opponent, Vladimir—”

“Ha!” Bulganin snapped. “About time!”

My God,
Nochenko thought.
It's done.
He felt momentarily dizzy.

From the other room, a cheer arose from Bulganin's staff, followed by applause.

Bulganin clicked off the television. He stared at the blank screen for a few moments, then took a deep breath and turned to face Nochenko. “Ivan,” he said solemnly.

Nochenko nodded. “Yes.”

“We've done it.”

“Yes … Mr. President.”

Bulganin's face split into a broad grin and he strode forward and clasped Nochenko by the shoulders. “We've done it, Ivan! Now we can get started. We have much work ahead of us—great work! Starting tomorrow, we put the Motherland back onto the road to greatness! God help those who stand in our way!”