The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Although Lazarus Keesley didn’t care for Machiavellian tactics, he had to admit that the occasional public execution of an obstructive bureaucrat did wonders—at least for a short period of time. However, that was all he needed. The transformation of the junk-filled vault into a clean, well-lighted laboratory for Jeff Anderson and the CLEO computers took mere hours.

  “Hi, Jeff,” he called as he entered the vault. The smell of fresh paint still hung heavily in the air.

  “Mr. Keesley,” the young man responded enthusiastically and rushed to greet his visitor. “I thought you had gone back to Washington,” he said while he shook Lazarus’ hand.

  “Not until this evening,” Lazarus replied, gazing around. He hardly recognized the place; all the junk had been removed, and the once-bare cement walls were now painted a pleasant tan color. Most of the room was filled with computer equipment of various kinds, and the back wall was lined with shelves loaded with computer tapes. And, most important, the three CLEO computers now resided on steel workbenches placed against the side wall.

  “You can program all of these?” Lazarus inquired, pointing to the computer equipment.

  “Certainly,” Jeff replied with a puzzled expression. “If you can learn to program one type of computer, you can learn to program them all.”

  Lazarus Keesley nodded while he ran his finger across the screen of a terminal similar to the one in his office.

  “I’m glad you dropped by,” Jeff said in an effort to be polite. “I wanted to thank you for all you did. You should have seen this place earlier,” he laughed. “Captain Korfman stormed in here with about twenty people and told them they had four hours to get this place cleaned up and ready for Cleo and her sisters, or they’d all be transferred to somewhere where they’d be looking forward to R and R in Thule. Boy, she can be one tough lady.”

  Lazarus chuckled, imagining the scene in his mind.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Keesley,” Jeff said respectfully. “If there is anything I can ever do for you, please let me know.”

  Lazarus waved for the young man to follow him to the corner of the room farthest from the open vault door and the armed guards standing just outside.

  “As a matter of fact, Jeff,” he whispered, “there is a favor you could do for me. But first, where are you from?”

  The young man looked at Lazarus in puzzlement. “I’m from Bozeman, Montana. Why?”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Vadim, ostorozhno!Vadim, be careful!” Iosif whispered as he grabbed Vadim’s shoulder.

  “Ya v rot ego ebal!Fuck him!” Vadim snarled, scanning the area with his night-vision telescope. “He’s out there somewhere, and I’m going to kill him.”

  “But he’s a blackass, or at least as good as one,” Iosif warned.

  “I’m better,” Vadim growled in a whisper. “I’ll kill him. Just keep your goddamn mouth shut and don’t make any noise.”

  Iosif nodded although Vadim was already headed toward the ridge line. Vadim moved carefully, not even dislodging the loose gravel scattered along the trail. Silently as possible, Iosif followed, barely believing what was happening.

  Roger Fontaine noiselessly rewound the film in his camera and then slipped the roll of film into his jacket pocket. He pulled down the flap covering the pocket and carefully buttoned it. He didn’t want to have to come back to take more pictures just because he lost the roll of film.

  Satisfied that the film was safe, he laid the camera on the ground; it had served its purpose and was now worthless dead weight. Finally, he hung his binoculars around his neck and screwed a cylindrical object onto the muzzle of his pistol. He would shoot his way out if he had to, although he hoped to lose himself in the confusion that was bound to break loose any moment when the reinforcements he expected finally arrived.

  Puzzled by the silence, the Indian glanced around and wondered where were the helicopters that should by now be ferrying in reinforcements. It was as though no alarm had been given. With a shrug, he ran back the way he came, being especially careful to remain low when he recrossed the ridge line to avoid silhouetting himself against the sky. Then he headed downhill toward safety.

  Vadim searched the dark hillside through his telescope. His heart leaped when he saw what looked like a man standing by a large rock, peering back at him through binoculars. Then, like a phantom, the man was gone.

  “Yidi v zhopu, govnyuk!Kiss my ass, you shitass!” he swore. “He’s down there, about a hundred meters, Osya.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Da!”Vadim acknowledged. “He’s wearing camouflage, but I saw him next to that rock. He’s running for it. Come on!”

  Vadim picked up his rifle and ran behind an outcropping of rock. Iosif could barely see his moving form in the moonlight that filtered between the gaps. Anxious to keep his partner in view, Iosif trotted after him.

  The continued lack of reinforcements bothered the Indian as he moved quickly downhill. He knew that he should have heard the whumping of helicopter blades by now. Eventually, he realized that, for some reason, the two men chasing him hadn’t yet raised the alarm.

  Perhaps they want all the glory for themselves,he thought.In that case, I’ll see that they get it—posthumously.

  When he reached open ground, ground well lighted by the moon overhead, he veered to the right and headed for a pile of boulders.

  Vadim was moving more slowly now, permitting Iosif to catch up, although it wasn’t his reason for doing so. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood erect, like a barometer of danger. He stopped when he came to a clearing in the rocks, scanning the area with his night-vision device.

  Iosif rushed by.

  “Osya, Ostanovbtes!Osya, stop!”

  “V chyom delo?What’s the matter?” Iosif responded. “He’s getting away!”

  “Stop, Osya!” Vadim begged. However, Iosif simply continued to jog down the foot trail and into the middle of the clearing. In desperation, Vadim followed, running as fast as he could to catch up with his friend.

  Phwet-tu-tu. Phwet-tu-tu.

  Iosif screamed and went down, spinning in anguish as his rifle fell from his hand.

  Phwet-tu-tu. Phwet-tu-tu.

  Fiery pain shot through Vadim as something hit him hard on his right shoulder. His momentum carried him forward another two meters before he tripped and fell hard onto the trail.

  “Vadim!” he heard Iosif shout. “I’m hit! Help me.”

  Roger Fontaine considered finishing off the two Russians. He quickly decided against it; it would simply be wasting time on two wounded men who could no longer chase him, but might be able to defend themselves if he approached. He trotted down the trail, holding his silenced pistol in his right hand while he ran.

  “Vadim? Kak pozhivaesh?Vadim? How are you?”

  “Zakroy yebalo, mudak!Shut the fuck up, you fucking fool!” Vadim snarled as he crawled toward his partner. “You ran right into an ambush, you asshole.”

  It took Vadim less than a minute to crawl the ten meters to Iosif, who was lying on his back with both hands clamped on his leg.

  “I hope it hurts,” Vadim sneered while he checked his friend. “Let go of your leg, and let’s see if you’re losing much blood.”

  He carefully shielded his flashlight to examine his partner.

  “It’s not bleeding much, Osya,” he commented with professional detachment. “You’ll live, you stupid asshole.”

  “Vadim,” Iosif cried in alarm, “your shoulder!”

  Vadim instinctively reached for his right shoulder and felt the warm sticky touch of blood.

  “That blackass got me too!” Vadim grunted when he felt the first searing pains shoot through his shoulder. “I thought I ran into a rock or something. I didn’t even hear the shots.”

  “He was using a silencer,” Iosif said. “I heard a sound like one being fired. It came from over there, by those rocks.”

  “Thatzalupa is gone by now,” Vadim declared, checking his equipment.
“So is the night-vision telescope. It’s smashed. Where’s your Dragunov?”

  “Over there, I think.”

  Vadim flicked his flashlight toward the sniper rifle and saw that its night-vision scope was smashed as well.

  “So much for technology,” Vadim muttered and staggered to his feet. “I think you can take care of yourself, Osya.”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Iosif demanded.

  “Hunting,” Vadim replied. He picked up his AK-47 with his left hand.

  The Indian moved carefully, still mystified by the lack of a general alarm. Wary of an ambush, he kept to the rocky areas and out of the moonlight as much as possible.

  Vadim moved quickly, staying on the open, moonlit trails wherever possible. He had spent three weeks on this hill, patrolling it every night and so knew it as well as the proverbial back of his hand. He also knew that he had but one chance of catching the blackass who shot him and Iosif, and that was by out-thinking him.

  Forcing himself into the role of an intruder, he tried to map out the best escape route for himself; then he headed for it.

  Roger Fontaine studied the trail with his binoculars. It appeared to be clear with no signs of life. After a five-minute wait, he committed himself and began to move cautiously along the path, his pistol at the ready.

  Vadim Savechenoko waited with his back pressed against a large boulder. He dared not look, lest his adversary see him. He knew instinctively that the blackass would come this way. All he had to do was wait.

  Crack.The twig snapped under the Indian’s weight. It wasn’t much of a sound but it caused his heart to skip a beat. Silently, he swore at himself, warning himself to be more careful.

  Vadim tensed when he heard the sound. It could have been a deer or just a dead branch of some bush breaking under its own weight. Yet Vadim knew who it was. His gamble had paid off. The blackass was coming toward him. Holding his rifle in one hand, Vadim swung out from his hiding place.

  The Indian was just ten yards from the boulder when the man appeared. Holding an AK-47 awkwardly in his left hand, the man was dressed in a Russian camouflage jumper and the peaked hat typical of border guards. He struggled to aim the weapon using just one hand. Vadim pulled the trigger. Nothing—not even a click. He finally realized he hadn’t cocked his rifle. Frantically, he ducked back behind the tree.

  Phwet-tu-tu. Phwet-tu-tu.

  Roger Fontaine fired two three-shot bursts at the fleeing figure.

  Vadim struggled with the cocking bolt, but quickly realized that he couldn’t get a good grip on it with just one good arm. Anxiously, he peeked around the rock and saw the blackass running toward him with the silenced pistol held out in front of him. The man paused.

  Fontaine took aim at the helpless Russian while he continued to struggle with his AK-47. A cruel smile formed as he pulled the trigger.

  “What!” he exclaimed when he realized nothing had happened. He glanced at the pistol and saw that the slide was locked back. The magazine was empty; he had used all eighteen shots. Frantically, he began changing magazines.

  “AIYEAAA!”

  Sergeant Vadim Mikhailovich Savechenoko charged, screaming at the top of his lungs. Holding his rifle by its barrel and waving it over his head like a club, he ran the last few meters to his adversary.

  Years of practice served Fontaine well as his hands and arms worked almost automatically to drop the empty magazine and insert a new one in one fluid motion. The Russian started his swing even as Roger Fontaine’s finger pressed the barrel slide’s release.

  Click! CLACK! THUNK!

  The pistol’s slide snapped shut just as the butt of Vadim’s rifle crashed onto it, smashing the Indian’s right hand and knocking the pistol away.

  Roger Fontaine didn’t feel the pain of the impact, but he saw the pistol fly out of his hand and off to his left. Responding automatically, he kicked at the Russian and landed a hard blow to Vadim’s abdomen. However, Vadim’s forward momentum caused him to crash into the American.

  Winded by the kick, Vadim doubled up as the Indian struggled to his feet. Vadim reached out and grabbed Fontaine’s ankle. Fontaine kicked at the Russian and tried to recover his pistol. Finally, he broke free and sprinted the few steps to where it lay on the trail. Vadim crashed into him heavily and tackled him.

  The two men struggled desperately for possession of the pistol. First one and then the other was on top, as they rolled back and forth in the trail. A hand touched the weapon, then another. One hand had it in its grip as it lifted the heavy pistol, only to be blocked by the other hand. Primordial grunts and groans filled the night as the two men fought, thrashing and twisting as they rolled over each other on the dark, barren hillside like two wild animals.

  Phwet-tu-tu.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Lazarus Keesley emitted a little sigh of relief as the presidential Boeing 747 rolled down the runway and took off from Groom Lake— one less burden to worry about. Whatever security problems that may have existed in Hangar 18 were now in the capable hands of Captain Korfman. He made a note to himself to lobby for her promotion to major, if not lieutenant colonel; it was the least he could do for her help. Still, the problems remained of uncovering the mole and thwarting Grigori Sechenov’s incessant efforts to steal the CLEO computer system.

  Night had fallen. It was time to sleep.Sleep, Lazarus thought wistfully, praying that it would come, yet he knew that sleep would most likely elude him once again that night. Even after dozens of years of nearly incessant air travel, Lazarus had yet to learn the secret of sleeping on a plane.

  He looked over the selection of DVD disks in the rack next the entertainment console and picked up a favorite,My Fair Lady . Old, but a classic. Then, realizing that he and Bea had watched it just a week before, he put it back.

  “Perhaps if I stretch out on the president’s bed in back,” he mused. Deciding to do just that once his chores where done, Lazarus unbuckled his seat belt, got up, and walked to the front of the jetliner. He had some radio messages to send; the most important of which was to Moscow.

  Grigori Sechenov arrived in his office at precisely 0700 hours, as was his custom. His croissant, coffee and morning mail awaited him on his desk. Grigori unbuttoned his uniform jacket, poured his first cup of coffee for the day, sat down behind his desk, and opened the folder that contained his mail and messages. He froze when he saw the address on the envelope lying on top. It was merely addressed toPochtony Yashchik 1278-9 , Mail Box 1278-9.

  There was but one place from which the message could have originated. Grigori was certain of that, for he himself had invented the number and given it to Lazarus Keesley years earlier as a way of sending messages directly to him. Slowly, he reached down and picked up the envelope. With a sudden surge of apprehension, he ripped it open. The message, now decoded, contained just three words: “Segodnya vecherom, kriticheski.Tonight, critical.”

  “Why the hell can’t you tell me more about what the hell is bothering you, Lazarus?” Grigori swore. He crumpled the message in his hand.

  The telephone rang just as Lazarus was falling asleep. Dazed by fatigue and disoriented by the dark, Lazarus fumbled around for the phone next to the president’s bed on the Boeing 747.

  “Is that you, Lazarus?” a tinny voice asked. Although distorted slightly by the encryption device in the telephone, Lazarus immediately recognized the voice of the president.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he replied.

  “What’s the situation at, ah, where you were?” he inquired. Lazarus smiled at the president’s caution. Ever since he had learned that the Russians had tapped into the main satellite communications channels to Europe, President Hayward always spoke cautiously over the telephone, even a telephone certified to be secure.

  “They had the situation under control by the time I got there, sir,” Lazarus told the president. “However, there were one or two details that needed attention. I turned those over to Captain Korfman.”

  “What? A ca
ptain?”

  “Captain Korfman is an extremely capable officer, sir.”

  “But a captain? You turned all those responsibilities over to a mere captain?”

  “You might consider promoting her to a colonel, sir.”

  “Her?”

  Lazarus smirked, imagining the expression on President Hayward’s face. “She had a security plan already drawn up by the time I got there, Mr. President,” he explained. “It included every problem I spotted, plus several others I’d missed. Because I agreed with her recommendations, I approved them and gave her the authority to implement them.”

  “But she’s a woman,” the president protested.

  “Women are better at intrigue than men,” Lazarus retorted. “And I’m still recommending her for the rank of colonel.”

  “Lieutenant colonel,” President Hayward countered, admitting defeat on the issue, but still demanding a price for his pride.

  “I’m certain that it would take the entire Russian army to get by her and her troops now, sir,” Lazarus remarked as straight-faced as possible. He had to fight to suppress a chuckle while he savored his victory.

  “When will you arrive in Washington?” the president asked gravely.

  The tone of the president’s voice sent a chill down Lazarus’ back. “About two a.m., your time, sir.”

  “I need to have a meeting with you, ASAP.”

  “Sir,” Lazarus responded. “I have a six a.m. flight to Europe. I have a critical meeting with the SVR. Perhaps I can get to the bottom of this thing at Groom.”

  “How about that damn valley in Iraq?”

  “That too, sir.”