The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

Roger Fontaine was only a hundred meters from his goal, the ridge of the hillside, when he paused to look back. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the twinkle of a flashlight through the rocks bordering the large open area on the hillside below him. A moment later, he spotted two men and a dog moving cautiously through the open area.

  “Damnit,” he muttered to himself as he glanced around with his night binoculars to see if there were any other pursuers. To his surprise, he didn’t spot any, nor did he hear the sounds of helicopters flying in reinforcements. For whatever reason, the two Russians hadn’t sounded the alarm, even though they were obviously tracking him. Then he realized that they weren’t sure what they were chasing. He could still make a clean getaway. All he needed was a few minutes to get the photographs he had waited days to get.

  Still, he had to eliminate the dog. Sooner or later the two guards would sound the alarm, and, with a dog already tracking him, he’d be easy prey. Roger Fontaine unzipped his fly and urinated.

  Shura strained at her leash when she at last caught the clear scent of the man she’d been tracking for almost a half-hour. She wanted to howl in delight and throw herself uproariously into the thrill of the chase; but she constrained herself and merely emitted a soft whine as she’d been trained to do.

  “Eto khorosho. That’s good,” Vadim muttered to Iosif, “she’s found something.”

  “Chto?”

  “Khuy ego znayet?How the hell should I know?” Vadim sputtered angrily in a low voice. “Maybe it’s a deer. Maybe it’s a blackass ready to leap out of the shadows to slit your throat. Just be prepared.”

  They crept uphill as Shura led the way, eagerly straining at her leash. A few minutes later, they reached the spot where Roger Fontaine had urinated. Unable to constrain herself any longer, Shura leaped forward, tearing free of Vadim’s grip on her leash.

  “Shura!” Vadim shouted as the dog bounded the last few meters to the spot and began nosing the still damp soil, sniffing wildly at the abundant human scent in Fontaine’s urine. An instant later, Shura howled in anguish as she rolled frantically on the ground, madly rubbing her forepaws over her snout. As suddenly as it began, her agony ended. She fell limp.

  “Shura!” Vadim cried in shock as he rushed to his dog.

  “What happened?” he demanded. He stared up at Iosif.

  “Poison,” Iosif answered. “An Afghan blackass trick. They put poison around where they’ve pissed and hope the dogs would sniff it into their noses. They must have taught you that in training.”

  “Da,” Vadim replied. “They did. But I never thought I would see it here.”

  “We’d better radio for help,” Iosif suggested. He reached for the walkie-talkie Vadim was carrying.

  “We can’t,” Vadim responded weakly while he gently petted Shura’s head. “The batteries are dead. They didn’t have any spares.”

  “What do you mean they didn’t have any spares!” Iosif yelled. “That’s insane! They must have spares!”

  “He’s up there somewhere,” Vadim said somberly. He got to his feet. “I’m going to stick my bayonet up his ass and twist it around and around for what he did to Shura.”

  “Are you crazy?” Iosif snarled, watching Vadim disappear in the darkness. Realizing he had no other choice, he followed.

  The Indian smirked when he heard the howling and then shouting. He clearly didn’t have to worry about the dog any longer. However, he still hadn’t gotten his photographs, and time was now very short. He moved quickly and a minute later reached a cluster of boulders on the far side of the ridge. He’d reached his objective; he could see into the valley. He reached into his rucksack for the specially prepared camera.

  “So that’s where it is,” he murmured to himself when he spotted the cannon’s firing port. It looked like a large steel door set into the hillside of the valley opposite from him. The Indian raised the camera loaded with high-speed infrared film and carefully focused the telephoto lens.

  Click. He had his first picture.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Field Marshal Khalid Rashid Ribat marched into the room as regally as ever. Resplendent in his spotless white uniform, he stopped at the head of the table to survey the attendees of the meeting.

  “Who is that man?” he demanded when he spotted the stranger. He pointed at Major-General Yakov Sakharovsky who was sitting between Lieutenant-General Feliks Puzitsky and his adjutant, Colonel Leonid Sitnikov.

  “Major-General Yakov Sakharovsky,” General Puzitsky replied. He got up to introduce the two. “Marshal Dobrovolsky, the head of the Russian armed forces, personally selected him to oversee the defenses ofNew Babylon.”

  “How dare he!” Khalid screamed. “How dare he think that he can ship officers and men to Iraq willy-nilly and expect me to pay for them. What am I, a dumping ground for every Russian solder looking for a sinecure?”

  “Certainly not!” Puzitsky snarled back. “If you look at General Sakharovsky’s uniform, you will notice that he is in a Russian uniform with Russian insignia of rank. General Sakharovsky was sent not to collect pay from you but to insure that the contracts already in place are properly safeguarded and that you receive full value for what you are paying for.”

  Khalid glared at General Puzitsky and then shifted his attention to General Sakharovsky who was now standing next to Puzitsky.

  “You are in the artillery,” he said when he noticed the crossed cannons on Sakharovsky’s uniform jacket lapels.

  “Yes, sir,” Sakharovsky responded as he snapped to attention. “I am currently attached to Marshal Dobrovolsky’s headquarters staff.”

  “So you can fire theNew Babylon cannon for us?”

  Sakharovsky’s heart missed a beat. As a member of the SVR he was in Iraq at General Sechenov’s orders, even though the cover he was using as an artillery officer had been supplied by Marshal Dobrovolsky himself. However, he had no idea how one goes about firing a cannon, even a small one.

  “Certainly, sir,” he replied confidently. “However that will not be necessary, your own men are more than capable of handling that task.”

  “What are you saying?” Confused, Khalid peered at him.

  General Puzitsky chuckled aloud. “Let me explain that,” he said. “The testing ofNew Babylon is complete. We have fired a total of ten rounds. The first five were done by Russian personnel, the next two by Iraqi personnel under our supervision, the last three solely by your own people. They passed with flying colors. TheNew Babylon cannon is fully operational and in the hands of your men. Only the security measures around the site ofNew Babylon remain in Russian hands, as according to the contact.”

  Khalid stared at Puzitsky in disbelief. “The cannon is operational? Why was I not told?”

  “That was the purpose of this meeting,” Puzitsky answered. “That and to present the bill for our services. As you remember, the contract stipulates a payment of five hundred million Swiss francs when the cannon is operational and is handed over to indigenous Iraqi forces.”

  General Puzitsky opened the folder on the table and withdrew a small pile of papers. “Here is the bill,” he added cheerfully while he handed it to Khalid.

  The Iraqi leader accepted the bill as though in a daze. Stunned by the news that his long-cherished dream of destroying the Zionist infestation in Palestine was about to come true, he held the papers in his hand for a moment. The trance broken, he turned to General Iyad Sa’id Rawi, the Iraqi Defense Minister.

  “Is this true?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Why have you not told me?” Khalid eyed his subordinate suspiciously.

  “General Puzitsky requested that he be the one to give you the happy news. I thought that it would do no harm.”

  Khalid laughed. “No, it has done no harm. For years I have prayed for this day, and now it is here! This is great news! At long last,Ar- Rasm as-Salah ad-Din , Operation Saladin, can go forward. Soon theAl- Harbi , the Javelin missiles, shall rain down on the Zionists and wash them f
rom the face of the earth!”

  “If they don’t destroyNew Babylon first,” General Puzitsky said, interrupting Khalid rapture.

  “They can’t!” Khalid screamed. Panic replaced the euphoria felt just a second earlier. “They must not!”

  “That’s why Marshal Dobrovolsky sent us General Sakharovsky,” Puzitsky explained. “The SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, has learned that the Israelis—ah, Zionists—have learned of the existence of both theNew Babylon cannon and the Javelin missiles. Already, the Americans are showing an excessive interest in Gomazal Valley. There is a very real threat that the, ah, Zionists have convinced their American allies to try to destroy the cannon before it can be used.”

  “How is this possible?” Khalid demanded. “The utmost security precautions have been taken. Nobody without the absolute need to know was aware of the project. It there was a leak, it must have been a Russian!”

  “If I may speak, Marshal?” Sakharovsky asked.

  Khalid glared at him. “What is it?” he snapped angrily. “And don’t try to tell me that the leak wasn’t from a Russian.”

  “I won’t,” Sakharovsky replied, “because we have no idea where the leak came from. Even though I am certain that counterintelligence is searching for the source, the important issue is that the damage has already been done. That’s why Marshal Dobrovolsky sent me. I, with the help of General Puzitsky’s staff, have devised an in-depth defensive perimeter around the site of the cannon. May I show it to you?”

  A faint smile appeared on General Puzitsky’s lips. He knew that Sakharovsky was in fact a member of the SVR and a key player inOperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka , Operation Armored Fist. He also had no doubt that the leaks to the Israelis had been carefully contrived by the SVR, for the success of Operation Armored Fist depended on the Americans taking the bait. Last, but not least, he knew Sakharovsky had wisely let Puzitsky and his staff draw up the defensive plans that they were about to present to Khalid.

  The Iraqi leader looked worried. The thought of theNew Babylon cannon being destroyed before it could be used had shaken him to the core.

  “Yes,” he replied at last.

  “If I may have the first slide,” Sakharovsky said. The room darkened and a map of Iraq appeared on the screen on the far end of the room.

  “As you can see, there are two threats,” he continued as he made his way to the screen. He picked up a pointer and waved it over the western side of Iraq. “First, the Israelis.…”

  “Excuse me, general,” Puzitsky interrupted. “We prefer to use the word ‘Zionists’.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sakharovsky apologized. He hesitated to recollect his thoughts. “Ah, yes, as I was saying. The first source of threat is from the Zionists. They can send in a massive air strike as well as a barrage of their Jericho II missiles. The air strike would be suicidal, but could conceivably make it to the Gomazal Valley. Therefore, I have proposed repositioning all air defenses in three rings starting from near the Iraqi- Jordanian border so that an attack can be identified as soon as it enters Iraqi airspace. The second ring is located in central Iraq and positioned so that fighters assigned to it can take over from those in the first ring. That way those aircraft can return to guarding the border against a second wave of attacking aircraft.”

  “Why is the third ring completely surrounding the Gomazal Valley?” Khalid queried. “They should be positioned to guard against the attacking Zionists who would be coming from the west.”

  “The reason why the third ring surrounds the valley, Marshal,” Sakharovsky explained, “is that the Americans can attack from Turkey. Remember, if they choose, they could invade Iranian airspace and attack from the east, over the Iranian border. It is only a few kilometers from Iran to the Gomazal Valley. That’s why the bulk of the radar installations are located near the valley. If the Americans attack, they will undoubtedly use their F-117A stealth aircraft. While they are difficult to see on radar, they can be detected if the radar defenses are heavy enough.”

  “You mentioned missiles,” Khalid said. “What are your defenses against those?”

  “I have suggested that all theAntey S-300V antiballistic interceptor missiles be positioned here and here,” he replied while touching the map near the Gomazal valley. That way they can defend against the Is—er, Zionist Jericho II missiles as well as American missiles in Turkey and the United States.”

  “But that would leave Baghdad open to attack!” General Rawi, the Iraqi Defense Minister protested. “If the Zionists attack with nuclear weapons, millions will die.”

  “Then they will become martyrs who died inJihad ,” Khalid said quietly, “and we will revere them in our memories. The interceptor missiles must protectNew Babylon .”

  Khalid looked at General Sakharovsky. “I endorse your plan. The cannon must be protected at all costs. See to it that it is done immediately.”

  He then addressed General Rawi. “When will we be able to commenceAr-Rasm as-Salah ad-Din , Operation Saladin?”

  “As soon as the last warhead for the Javelins is delivered. We are now finishing them at the rate of two a day. That means that we will be finished in no more than one week.”

  “Good,” Khalid murmured as his thoughts drifted off to the imagined reveries of parading down the streets of Jerusalem as the leader of the mighty Arab army that restored Palestine toad-Dar al-Islam , the Abode of Islam. “We will open fire on the Zionists seven days from now. See to it.”

  Word of Major Sampson’s fate spread quickly. Even though it took Lazarus Keesley less than ten minutes to walk back from Sampson’s office to Captain Wilma Korfman’s office in Hangar 18’s guardhouse, she greeted him with the same enthusiasm that a condemned prisoner greets the executioner. She was obviously expecting retribution for the difficult time she’d given him earlier.

  “So, where are you having me sent?” she asked as Lazarus sat down in her office.

  Puzzled at first, he studied her. Slowly, a half smile formed as one corner of his mouth twisted up. “You’ve heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his pipe. “Do you prefer hot climates or cold?”

  “You’d give me a choice?”

  “Well, there is northern Alaska, for example,” Lazarus said idly while he played with his pipe. “I understand that the aurora borealis is quite spectacular. Then again, we’re always looking for military attachés to send to those backwater African countries with names nobody can pronounce. On the other hand, there is always the Middle East for the adventurous. I think you might find that fun.”

  Wilma stared at him, unemotionally, almost indifferently. Lazarus Keesley ignored her while he lit his pipe.

  “However, on the way over here, I came up with the perfect assignment for you,” he told her while he puffed on his pipe. Dissatisfied with the draw, he pulled out his pipe lighter again and relit the tobacco.

  Wilma glared at him, awaiting her fate while Lazarus Keesley continued to fiddle with his pipe.

  “Just what might that be?” she demanded at last.

  “What?” Lazarus uttered, her question distracting him from his troublesome pipe.

  “My new assignment?”

  “Oh, that.” He gazed at her while holding his pipe in one corner of his mouth. “I’d thought it would be nice if you’d be responsible for beefing up Hangar 18’s security.”

  Wilma froze, her face deeply lined by her shock. She swallowed as her reaction wore off. “Surely, you are playing with me, Mr. Keesley.”

  “Not at all, Captain.” Lazarus sucked on his pipe. He paused to savor the fragrant smoke in his mouth. “I’m not stupid, Captain. I find you an intelligent, efficient officer, and I admire the way you stuck to your guns this morning. If you’d let me in without a thorough security check, you’d already be on your way to someplace that makes Thule appear a pleasure garden by comparison. What I would like to know is why are they leavi
ng those computers sitting on tables where anybody can run in and snatch them?”

  Wilma Korfman opened her desk drawer and began fishing through her files. “First of all, Mr. Keesley,” she responded frostily, “not just anybody can get into Hangar 18. As you know, visitors are closely watched. If you’d tried to snatch one of those CLEO computers, my men would have shown no hesitancy in shooting you.”

  “I’m thinking more of an armed incursion,” Lazarus countered. “Given a reasonable element of surprise, several heavily armed men could overcome the minimal guard you have on duty in the hangar during off-hours.”

  “Mr. Keesley,” Wilma replied, “please remember that we’re in the middle of Nevada, in the United States of America. We don’t have armed incursions here.” She laid a document on her desk.

  “So?” Lazarus gave her a questioning look.

  “So I just enforce security policy; I don’t get to make it,” she told him as she handed him the letter. “I wrote this memo when I first arrived here. If you’d read it, you’ll see that I requested the same security enhancements that you are now demanding. My request was turned down as being unrealistic and too confining for those working on the project.”

  Lazarus Keesley reached for the memo and read it. A chill ran down his spine while he read. The scenario she played out was almost identical to what he had imagined, and her recommendations to prevent the loss of the CLEO computers to a raiding party included locking them in the vault. He read on slowly, analyzing each of her recommendations in turn, until he reached the last page. Scribbled across it was “You’ve got to be kidding” and a signature Lazarus couldn’t decipher.

  Lazarus reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his fountain pen. He crossed out the original comment and wrote “Approved, as per Presidential Executive Order 439.” Then he signed it.

  “Well, Captain,” he announced, handing the memo back, “you’ve got your approval. Now, go do it. You’re working for the man, himself.”