The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “It’s not a killshot, and you know it,” Lazarus growled. “It’s just another goddamn airplane. A fighter. It’s not really even a stealth fighter.”

  “Yes, my friend,” Grigori Sechenov acknowledged calmly. “I know all of that. It’s supposed to be the next-generation air supremacy fighter, designed to turn on a dime and give ten cents change. It’s not the airplane that worries us; it’s the computer.”

  “The computer?” A confused look reappeared on Lazarus Keesley’s face. The thick furrows over his eyebrow deepened and spread almost to his ears.

  “The one that flies the airplane. It’s called the CLEO computer,” Grigori Sechenov retorted, raising his voice as though Lazarus were hard of hearing. “It’s too damned smart. It scares the hell out of us, even if only half of what we hear about it is true.”

  “Scares the hell out of you? How? It’s just a tactical aircraft. True, it might beat the pants off your squadrons of obsolete aircraft, should the balloon ever go up, but that’s what we’re here to prevent. However, Velvet Rainbow is no killshot, Grigori.”

  Grigori Sechenov’s face flushed, but he checked his anger. He slowly crossed his arms and glared at Lazarus Keesley.

  “Once again, Lazarus. It’s not the airplane,” he repeated harshly, not quite shouting his reply, “it’s the CLEO computer. We think that it’s too damn dangerous.”

  “In the name of the seven potbellied Inca gods, HOW?” Lazarus demanded angrily.

  “It has obvious strategic applications,” Grigori repeated, this time lowering his voice in an effort to reduce the acrimony that was rapidly developing into outright hostility. “It can pick and choose targets. It can fly the airplane all by itself. If it’s intelligent enough to do that, it can be used to manage your new Star Wars II effort to the point where it can totally neutralize any retaliatory missile launch we might make in response to your aggression.”

  Lazarus Keesley eyed Grigori and then muttered, “Bullshit. First of all, we’re not going to start a war with you, and second, the so-called ‘Star Wars II’ initiative is merely a defense against some crazy third- world dictator lobbing a nuclear-tipped missile or two against us in the name of Allah. It’s even a smaller scale defense than permitted us by the SALT agreements.”

  Grigori Sechenov’s eyes bulged in response, but he again checked his fury. He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply. Finally, he turned toward Manfred Schossberg, who was standing silently, gently shaking his head.

  “Well, Manfred,” Grigori summarized, “there’s the impasse. We want it resolved. We think the Americans are developing a strategic weapon under the disguise of an airplane. We think it’s a strategic weapon, a killshot.”

  Manfred continued to shake his head sadly. It was going to be one of those nights.

  “Okay,” Manfred uttered with a sigh. He glanced back and forth between Grigori and Lazarus.

  “General Sechenov,” he addressed Lazarus formally, “has made a demand that the American Velvet Rainbow project be reviewed as a potential strategic weapon.”

  Lazarus replied with a sour expression.

  “General Sechenov,” Manfred turned toward Grigori, “why do you feel that the American computer can be used for strategic purposes? What you have described to me so far is merely an advanced aircraft radar-targeting system and a sophisticated autopilot—certainly no killshot.”

  “This one thinks,” Grigori persisted. His expression changed to a pout when he realized that he was making a fool of himself. Manfred stared at him in disbelief.

  “Oh, my god!” Lazarus roared with laughter, thoroughly enjoying Grigori Sechenov’s discomfort. “Somebody has certainly sold you a real winner, Grigori. I never heard of such a crock of crap in all of my life. What hallucinating drunk sold you this intelligence? Did he also tell you about the little pink elephants we’re training to fly the airplane?”

  Suddenly on the defensive, Grigori Sechenov drew back.

  “Manfred,” Lazarus said, turning to the ombudsman, “I think that they are just trying to get some tactical technology under the false claim that it is strategic.”

  Manfred paused to straighten his tie. “I have come to the conclusion that someone has told you a preposterous lie,Herr Sechenov. I do not believe computers can think. I cannot accept your argument that it is a strategic weapon system.”

  Lazarus laughed aloud. “That means, Grigori, that if you want to know the secret of Project Velvet Rainbow, you shall have to do so on your own efforts. There’ll be no free ride on this one.”

  “Then I shall,” Grigori answered acridly. “I’ll have it in six months.”

  “Give it your best shot, because that’s what it will take!” Lazarus sneered.

  Grigori quietly turned and walked to the entrance. Pavel rushed to undo the steel dogs locking the hatch while Grigori watched in silence. A moment later, he was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Colonel Jerold Rodell turned sharply when he reached the corner in the corridor and hastened toward the steel-clad door at the end of the short hallway. The sounds of Nellis Air Force Base’s F-16s taking off permeated the building, occasionally causing the opaque glass windows set in the doors to rattle as the fighter pilots lit their afterburners.

  Colonel Rodell stood before the door, then knocked once and entered without waiting for a reply. Inside, he found the outer office deserted; General Winslow’s secretary was known more for her looks than her dedication to duty.

  “Jerry, is that you?” a voice called from the inner office.

  “Yes, sir.” Jerry walked to the door and peered in. Brigadier General William Jackson Winslow sat behind his desk, looking up at Jerry. Ten years older than he, General Winslow had closely cropped sparse hair of an indistinguishable light color, appearing either silver gray or blond, depending on the light. Like Jerry, he had pilot’s wings on his chest and his trim body showed the benefit of regular exercise. Both men were two inches under six feet and wiry, ideal for fighter pilots.

  “Glad you could come so early,” the general said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down and relax. I’ve just received a go-ahead on a new assignment, and I think you might be interested in it.”

  Jerry Rodell eyed General Winslow and then casually seated himself.

  “How are you and Mary getting along?” General Winslow began.

  The question startled Jerry. He gazed at Winslow without answering.

  “We’re still married,” he replied finally. He wasn’t about to admit to the general that his wife had walked out on him three weeks earlier to enforce her ultimatum that he quit the Air Force and was now threatening divorce.

  “I know that it wasn’t a fair question,” Winslow said, “but I understand that she wants you to take your retirement as soon as you are eligible. Is that true?”

  Jerry nodded. “Yes, sir, you might say that’s her position. She wants a house, she wants to live in LA, she wants roots, she wants comfort.”

  “What do you want?” The general’s tone was firm but not harsh; it was paternal.

  Jerry relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “What do you think? I have a wife of six years—my second. No kids. Not even a puppy dog to greet me if she leaves me. I’m torn between two worlds, General. I’m thirty-eight and nearing the end of my fighter-jock days. All I have to look forward to in the Air Force is a desk like this, pushing papers.” Jerry shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

  General Winslow leaned back in his chair, placed his hands together and then arched his fingers. He studied them for a few seconds and without looking at Jerry asked, “What do you want to do?”

  “To be a sculptor.”

  “What?” General Winslow glanced at Jerry who grinned.

  “I thought that I might surprise you with that, but, given the option, I would like to try my hand at it seriously.”

  General Winslow contemplated Jerry for a moment. Jerry was the commander of the one of the squadrons that play the aggressor role in the R
ed Flag exercises run several times a year at Nellis. With over three thousand hours of flying time, Jerry was one of the more experienced fighter pilots in the Air Force. He was also one of the most fit. Few pilots could pull more than seven or eight g’s, but Jerry, after special training, was able to withstand ten g’s without blacking out. Jerry Rodell was the man General Winslow needed.

  “Sculptor?” he questioned while he pondered the younger man. “Interesting that you should say that. I once studied architecture.”

  “Funny, isn’t it,” Jerry commented, “that we never seem to get to do what we would like.”

  General Winslow nodded in agreement and fell silent for a moment.

  “Jerry,” he began, but paused to clear his throat. “I want you to take a job working for me. It’s a flying job. You’re one of the few people we have who can to it. It’s a year assignment.”

  “Flying?” Jerry Rodell’s voice was strangely indifferent.

  “Yes,” Winslow responded slowly while contemplating Jerry’s unexpected disinterest.

  Jerry shook his head. “You’re asking me to throw my marriage on the rocks.”

  “I know,” Winslow replied in a near-whisper. “That’s why I asked about your marriage. You don’t seem happy.”

  Jerry glared at the general. At first, his look was hostile, but it quickly faded into an impassive gaze.

  “What’s the job?” Jerry inquired unenthusiastically. He shifted in his chair as though suddenly uncomfortable.

  “It’s in Dreamland,” Winslow answered. “I can’t tell you the details here, but I have had you cleared for it, if you want to take a look-see. Approval just came in.”

  Jerry stared at Winslow in shock. Dreamland was the Air Force’s designation for the area surrounding Groom Lake, officially called Area 51. Located some ninety miles northwest of Las Vegas, it was where the Air Force munchkins tested and perfected the next generation of aircraft. As an aggressor pilot, Jerry had often flown around Dreamland, but he had never been to Groom Lake itself. Never once in his career did he ever even hope for an assignment at Dreamland. Jobs at Dreamland went to pilots with degrees in aeronautical engineering, not to sculptors.

  “I’ve got a T-38 ready,” Winslow said as he pulled in the line patiently. In a moment, he would set the hook and haul Jerry Rodell in like a trout.

  “We can be there in an hour,” the general added. Without hesitation, Jerry nodded.

  “A penny for your thoughts, sir.”

  “What’s that?” Lazarus Keesley replied, turning to Jack Egan. They were alone in the back seat of a Mercedes Benz sedan, heading down the dimly lit roadway toward the Zurich airport. In less than half an hour, they would be aboard their leased Boeing 767, headed back to Washington.

  “I said, ‘a penny for your thoughts,’ sir. Of course, given inflation, I might go as high as a dollar.” Jack smiled at his little joke. “Ah, Jack, they’re hardly worth a penny,” Lazarus sighed.

  “It’s just that you seem lost in thought, sir,” Egan answered. “More like worry, actually. And you were humming from that opera again, you know, theTriumphant March fromAida. You only do that when you are really worried.”

  Lazarus nodded. “Yes, I’m worried. Grigori Sechenov knew too damn much about the Velvet Rainbow project, especially the computer.”

  “He did appear cocksure of himself.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly the point. He knows much more than he should. He must have a mole somewhere in the Velvet Rainbow project. Even though there might be as many as a thousand people briefed on the airframe and its capabilities, only a few hundred have any knowledge of the control system. And Grigori Sechenov is one of them.”

  “But where, sir?”

  “Jack, that’s why I’m so worried. That mole can be anywhere. Most likely, he’s just a flunky into selling secrets for a few thousand dollars a throw. That’s what will make him so hard to find. Remember the John Walker case? That sonofabitch was selling the keys to our top-secret ciphers for twenty years, and the only reason we ever caught him was that his wife turned him in. Grigori could have recruited the janitor who picks up the burn bag. How do you catch an activity like that? It’s worse than finding a needle in a hay stack. At least with that you just might sit on it.” Lazarus sighed and looked forward, gazing idly through the front window of the car.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Jack replied slowly. “I don’t know.”

  Lieutenant-General Feliks Borisovich Puzitsky and his adjutant, Colonel Leonid Mironovich Sitnikov, were sitting together in a conference room reading reports. General Puzitsky was large man, an archetypal Russian—hefty, with his head set upon his shoulders with no discernible neck in between. One couldn’t help but notice that he was completely bald for, as he moved, the glare of the overhead lamps reflected off the polished skin on top of his head.

  Colonel Sitnikov was the antithesis of the general. A tall thin man with bird-like legs, he could sit in a chair, cross his legs at the knee and still have both feet on the ground—or so it seemed. Unlike the general, his head was encapsulated in a thick mane of dark brown hair that had been allowed to grow too long.

  Both men wore Russian army officer uniforms, each proudly displaying his many medals and decorations on his chest. However, the insignia on their shoulders were Iraqi.

  The twin doors of the conference room suddenly burst open with an almost explosive force, swinging them wide-open and slamming them into the birch-paneled walls with the loud sound of hardwood hitting hardwood. A moment later, a fairly young man resplendent in the white full-dress uniform of an Iraqi field marshal marched in. He was Field Marshal Khalid Rashid Ribat, Commander-in-Chief of all Iraqi armed forces and President for Life of the People’s Islamic Republic of Iraq.

  “Why don’t you just walk into a room like any normal person would, Khalid?” General Puzitsky commented without even looking up. He spoke in accented English because it was the only language the two had in common. Casually, he turned a page and continued to read the report.

  Colonel Sitnikov was less calm. He glanced nervously back and forth between his general and the Iraqi leader. Khalid was turning a beet red.

  “YOU ARE TO STAND WHEN I ENTER THE ROOM!” Khalid bellowed, enunciating each word slowly and distinctly so that even a nearly deaf person would understand. General Puzitsky looked up and glowered at the younger man—Khalid was barely forty. On the other hand, Colonel Sitnikov looked as though he were ready to leap to the moon, but he remained seated, following his boss’ lead.

  “I stand only for those I respect,” the general responded in a quiet manner. “And I do not respect men who do not pay their bills. Besides, it’s late and we should all be in bed.” Indifferently, he glanced at his wristwatch.

  “I will have you shot!” Khalid snarled back.

  “In that case, my men will march to Baghdad and shoot you.” The general wasn’t shouting nor even arguing. He was speaking in a matter- of-fact tone, as though he was trying to explain to a two-year-old why he shouldn’t stick his fingers into a fire.

  The stories about the special bunkers that the Russians had built for themselves when they first arrived six months ago flooded back into Khalid’s mind. Everybody assumed that the bunkers contained tactical nuclear weapons, but only the Russians knew for certain, for no Iraqi was ever permitted within a hundred meters of them. The bunkers were heavily guarded night and day, with several T-90 tanks parked around each. The two Iraqi majors who tried to inspect the bunkers were simply shot. Nobody tried after that.

  Khalid knew that with such weapons even a couple of battalions of Russians easily could blast their way through the five Republican Guard divisions stationed just outside of the city. After that, even theHaras ar-Ra’is al-Khass, the Special Presidential Guard, would run.

  “You say that you have not been paid?” Khalid asked in a more conciliatory tone. He turned to one of the men who had followed him into the room.

  “The Russian mercenaries have been paid,�
�� Lieutenant General Iyad Sa’id Rawi, the Iraqi Defense Minister murmured. General Rawi crossed his arms in an attempt to hide his discomfort.

  “The hell we have!” General Puzitsky growled as he slammed his fist down on the table.

  “Yes, you have!” General Rawi shouted defiantly.

  “In worthless Iraqi dinars, you mean,” the Russian snapped. “Not in hard western currencies as agreed to in our contract.” General Puzitsky’s eyes shifted back to Khalid Ribat. “Either I receive payment in western currency before I return to my headquarters in Kirkuk tonight, or perhaps my men will decide to visit Baghdad and make their own withdrawal from the Bank of Baghdad.”

  Khalid stared at the Russian. He hated both the man as well as the fact that he needed him. However, if he were to build the new Abbasid Empire and return Baghdad to the center of the Arab world, then he would have to have a world-class military. That meant that he needed equipment and training. The Russians were willing to supply both—for a price and payable in hard currency only.

  “You will have your money in gold,” he acquiesced with an exasperated snort.

  “I prefer Swiss francs,” Puzitsky shot back. “Gold is too heavy.”

  “Swiss francs, then,” Khalid agreed. He turned to General Rawi. “See to it—immediately.”

  As General Rawi rushed to obey, Khalid pulled back a chair and sat at the conference table. “Now that we have the tacky business of payment behind us, General Puzitsky, I believe that as your employer I am entitled to a report on your progress.”

  “I have it here.” The general shoved a copy of the report he was reading toward the Iraqi leader. “It is in English, as agreed to in our contract.”

  “You sound like a New York City lawyer,” Khalid remarked. He reached out and pulled the report to himself.

  “That is probably because the contract was written by one,” the Russian quipped. “You will find that we are either on or ahead of schedule, Marshal.”