by Gayle Lynds
"Excellent." Creighton Redmond nodded. "She's been around long enough to understand that. We'll now have the best—and the most terrified—service of any of her clients."
The two men, father and son, were powerful and clear-thinking. At times their relationship was strained as the balance between them shifted and adjusted. But today they laughed with deep voices, sharing their vision of the future. The world thought they'd lost. The world was wrong.
1:14 PM, FRIDAY
WASHINGTON, DC
In a modern office building on the outskirts of the capital, thirty young job seekers were listening to instructions from a CIA interviewer. The building had been dusted for bugs and was secured against electronic intrusion. The youths were here because they'd applied directly to the Company for positions as intelligence agents, or they'd been approached by "spotters" in businesses and universities—ex-agents or professors who'd passed along a recruitment phone number.
After that, the ordeal had begun: They'd filled out sixteen-page questionnaires, and Company screeners had spent months evaluating them for warning signs like run-ins with the law, money problems, or any hint one might be a foreign agent.
Today the applicants had spent the morning going through three grueling hours of intelligence tests. Now they were in rooms with various interviewers.
Irritated, senior managing analyst Sam Keeline watched through one-way mirrors as he listened to the earnest college graduates vie for lives of what too many wrongly considered romantic adventure:
"Would you mind living in a country with a prolonged rainy season? A long and harsh winter?" Applicants had to be able to adjust to the rigors of clandestine work.
"Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" Those with insomnia might find espionage impossibly high stress.
"Describe your parents." Spoiled children tended to grow into adults who defied bosses or drifted from job to job.
Beneath this probing were the real questions: How careful is this candidate? How fast can he or she think? Spying was like combat—a lot of boredom shot with peaks of terror. Would this person be able to more than handle it, in fact to thrive?
Sam stalked down the corridor, watching and listening. He'd turned his back on all this years ago. He was a thinker, no longer an activist. Samuel Keeline, PhD. And yet . . . he had to admit he felt a strange thrill remembering his first few years in the Company when he'd been a field agent—a spy—himself.
But being here now raised all his hackles and made him think of a hospital disease ward.
He stomped into the staff lounge, stuffed two dollars into a vending machine, and grabbed the tunafish sandwich before it hit the pickup bin. He ripped open the package and bit down hard.
"Not happy, are we?" It was Pink's voice.
Sam swiveled. "You sneaky bastard. I didn't hear you open the door."
"Of course not. Part of the job. That's why you eggheads call us spooks." Grinning, Chester "Pink" Pinkerton filled the opening.
"What in hell are you doing here? Don't tell me you want this job!"
Pink shook his massive head. He was big—six foot six and nearly two hundred fifty pounds of muscle. His was an unfortunate size for an undercover agent—easily recalled and difficult to hide in crowds. But he had something else—the kind of engaging personality that quickly won friends and charmed clerks, secretaries, and higher-ups into divulging secrets they'd forgotten they knew. The loner in a Robert Ludlum novel wasn't the only kind of spy the Company wanted.
Pink said, "Redmond told me about transferring you over here to run this kiddie lab. I thought I'd amuse myself by seeing if three days were enough to make you blow your stack."
Sam was the intelligence officer for Russia and Eurasia in the Company's Directorate of Intelligence, while Pink was an overseas field agent with the Company's Directorate of Operations, at the moment between assignments. There were rumors that Pink had done something off the books and might never be sent out into the field again.
The reason Sam was here was three days ago he'd fought with his boss because he'd ordered changed—"adjusted," as his boss liked to call it—Sam's latest carefully, lovingly, obsessively perfect estimate, which was about a big-time sex entrepreneur in Prague whose tentacles extended deep into Eastern Europe's new mob scene. The most critical photos and documents were provided by one of the entrepreneur's low-level employees, who was also secretly on the Company's payroll. A guy code-named Jiří.
Sam had zeroed in on one of the photos because it showed the front-runner in the U. S. presidential campaign, Douglas Powers, climbing into a limousine with the entrepreneur and one of his sex queens while a group of little boys watched from the curb. There were also copies of ledger pages that showed the candidate's name next to dates, rates, and prostitutes' names. But Sam's boss had decided against including the ledger pages and photo in the report, because his father—Creighton Redmond—was the other presidential nominee, and it might leak out. If it hit the newspapers, it could easily look as if the son were pushing information that could help his father win the election.
What concerned Sam was it could have a nasty effect on the presidency if the front-runner, Doug Powers, got elected as expected. Blackmail against the president could rear its unpleasant head at some point in the future. On the other hand, Sam had a gut feeling the data could've been faked, and he'd told his boss that in no uncertain terms.
So Sam was left with a lousy taste in his mouth: Not only was his estimate "adjusted" and toned down, data that should've been investigated was shelved instead.
There'd been a couple of earlier incidents of this nature, and they disturbed Sam a lot. The Directorate of Intelligence was a primary information source for the president, Congress, and hundreds of other government officials. If Company analyses were wrong, U. S. policy could go way off track.
Without much diplomacy, Sam had pointed that out to his boss—Vince Redmond, the deputy director for Intelligence, the DDI. At which point Redmond had exploded and sent Sam here to become the new manager of what the Company fondly called Hell Week.
Sam prowled across the lounge, eyeing his friend Pink. Sam was about six feet tall, muscular, and casually athletic, one of the benefits of being a dedicated weekend sports warrior. Plus, he admitted occasionally to himself, being in shape was a good leftover from when he'd been an agent himself. When you're out there skulking around the alleys and outlaw dens of the world's criminal class, it paid to be ready for an emergency.
Sam growled, "Bullshit. What're you really doing here?"
Pink had a cup of coffee—his usual, almost white with cream and probably scummy with sugar, too.
He drank, and Sam watched warily.
Pink said, "Okay, you got me. Just to show how much I adore you, I'm going to tell you the truth. I'm supposed to convince you to go back to Langley and behave yourself. Redmond is having second thoughts. He feels as if he and you both went off half-cocked. He makes no promises, but if you're an obedient son, do what you're told, and don't screw up by going off on another one of your wild-goose chases, you may get to keep your desk job, although God knows why you'd want it in the first place."
" 'May'?"
Pink shrugged, and his huge chest shimmied in response. "That's as good as it gets, Sam. No promises. Redmond gives an inch, he expects an inch-and-a-quarter from you. That's called an employer-employee relationship."
Sam glared. It was a matter of principle, for chrissakes."
"Well—" Pink scratched his head "—since I don't know the particulars, I can't address that. But seems to me if you and he had a disagreement, he gets to win. Again, another prerogative of being the boss. Look, the guy wants you back. Sending me to get you is an apology. That's a huge compliment, and it's all because you're one of his stars. Don't be such a damn hardhead, Sam. Give the poor guy a break."
Sam considered again what had happened between him and Vince Redmond. His voice grew frosty. "No, something else is going down here."
Pink
was genuinely puzzled, his broad, handsome face a map of confused fissures. "I don't know what you mean."
Sam leaned forward, and his sandy hair fell toward his eyes. He poked Pink's chest with a hard finger and his voice rose. "Redmond knew I'd never agree to a permanent job here in kiddie hell. So why'd he send me? It wasn't just because of this one fight. No, it was because he wanted me to taste purgatory. Now he figures I'll do what he wanted all along—stop digging, mind my manners, and be a good, regular grind. Then he sent you to give me a kick in the pants in case I didn't get the point."
"That sounds smart. I don't see your problem."
Sam took a huge bite of his sandwich and stalked away. "What's wrong is the bastard didn't tell me straight. After thirteen years of busting my butt for the Company, of an apartment with no food or furniture, of playing basketball or baseball on the weekends with strangers so I'd get a break from all the espionage fruitcakes who populate our world . . . he thinks he has to trick me into doing what's probably for my own good and the good of the Company."
What Sam also thought but didn't say was it was also probably because Redmond hated to fire anyone—angry ex-employees might blab secrets. Which made this kiddie-lab job perfect. It got Sam out of the information loop but with higher pay and a promotion in hopes of soothing his irritated feelings.
"Well, Sam, I'd feel more sympathy if I didn't know about all your women. They've got to be of some comfort to you." Pink never mentioned the girlfriend from East Berlin. No one did. After she'd been killed, Sam had transferred out of the field and into analysis back home at Langley. It was too bad. He'd been a great agent.
"That's not the point—"
"True. I'm just trying to keep you honest." Pink gave Sam one of his enormous, engaging smiles, the kind that showed about sixty shiny white teeth and disarmed foreign nationals into giving away secrets, their motivation greased of course with U.S. greenbacks. He chuckled. "Sam, my boy, your old gray cells are as acute as ever. I believe you're right about Redmond. Wish I'd thought of it myself. But then, thinking's your specialty. Or at least that's what all those diplomas in your office claim. However, I still suggest you take Redmond up on his offer."
Sam blinked. He sighed. "Maybe I will."
Pink grinned, expansive in victory. "He said you should start back first thing Monday, but you could surprise him. You've gotta be sick of this joint. Go ahead, Sam. Take off. The prodigal son returns to the nest. He'll welcome you, if not with open arms at least with an it's-about-time. Hey, that's better than no welcome at all. I'll cover for you here."
Sam stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth. "Sure. Why not."
"Your enthusiasm warms the cockles of my old, jaded heart."
For the first time Sam smiled He strode to the door, amused at himself. Vince Redmond was smart, and he'd read Sam perfectly. "Ah, Pink," Sam said, "you're as bad as I am. We've been with the Company too long to do anything else. I may not be jumping for joy about going back this way, but dammit the Company's still home. None of my self-righteous complaining can change that. And you're right—Vince Redmond knows it. He's also smart enough to use it. He's got what he wanted from me all along—compliance. At least until the next time."
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Sam was whistling as he arrived back at his office in the sprawling CIA complex just eight miles from the White House. He stopped for a sack of M&M's in the commissary and ripped it open. He was particularly cheered by the blue ones, his personal favorites, because the sack seemed to contain an unusually large quantity.
Sam headed toward his office, eating the M&M's. The mail kid was pushing his cart along the hall, so Sam grabbed his stack and headed toward his office. He was whistling "The Star-Spangled Banner," which seemed an appropriate choice for the occasion. He examined his mail as he walked. It was the usual correspondence, brochures, and magazines from university professors and others in his speciality—Russian and Eastern European affairs.
Plus there was a small packet.
It was wrapped in brown paper and sealed with tape. His curiosity piqued, he studied it. The writing was spidery, as if by a drunk or someone with tremors. There was no return address, but the postmark claimed it was mailed in Armonk, New York. Originally it'd been sent to:
Dr. Samuel Keeline
Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, VA
No zip code. Sam noted Langley, VA, had been crossed out and Washington, DC 20505 added in different ink and a firm writing style. No doubt courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service.
But it meant the package probably had been delayed and maybe lost for a while, since the little crossroads known as Langley had no post office. Sam figured it must've gone first to nearby McLean, and since the McLean branch was too small to handle the CIA's load, it'd been forwarded to Washington where all CIA mail was X-rayed. Then it'd been trucked to Langley's loading dock, where it'd been X-rayed again, supervised of course by the CIA's Office of Security.
Sam opened it, and a small piece of what appeared to be a hard, yellow stone fell onto his palm. He frowned. He held it up to the hall's fluorescent light. The rock was translucent, with a warm, golden glow. He hefted it, considering. He checked it in the light again. It'd been polished to a high sheen.
As soon as he decided what it was—amber—his temperature shot up. He read:
Dear Dr. Keeline,
You do not know me, but you will want to.
We have something crucial in common, the Amber Room. Perhaps you would like to know where it is. . .
Sam's heart pounded with excitement. His mouth went dry. The fabled Amber Room! He'd figured it was gone from his life forever. It was a unique and priceless art treasure—a glittering room paneled with so much of the rare fossil resin that just the amber alone had inestimable value. It'd all vanished more than a half century ago, mystifying entire nations and giving rise to silly stories in Russia and Eastern Europe about "the curse of the Amber Room."
He reached his office and opened the door. All he could think about was reading more. He had to know what the letter and the other sheets of paper said—
A voice grumbled, "Jesus Christ, Keeline, you opened it!"
His matchbox office was piled with papers, books, newspapers, magazines, cassette tapes, regular photos, and long rolls of satellite photos on every surface. The stacks over-flowed like Victoria Falls onto the floor, which was the way he liked it. He knew where everything was and where everything belonged.
Except now in the center of it sat Dick Urbanske, Vince Redmond's fifty-year-old, by-the-book assistant.
"I'll take that." Urbanske leaned over the desk and grabbed the packet. "I was waiting for this, dammit. What're you doing here? You're supposed to be at Hell Week. God, Keeline, you've done it again, and I'm not taking the heat for this, you hear?"
"Hold it." Sam's temper was boiling up. "What are you doing in my office? Since when does Redmond send people to intercept my mail?"
"Not your mail, just this package."
"Why?"
"How do I know?" Urbanske stood and headed for the door, a slight man with a large nose and worry on his face. "I've got to get this to Redmond."
"Not you. We. Guess what, pal. I'm coming along."
5
Sam was furious. He strode down the hall beside Dick Urbanske, who carried the packet clamped to his side. It was only with the greatest self-control that Sam had given the piece of amber to Urbanske and not grabbed the letter back to read more. Because he wanted to know everything in it. Every speculation, lie, rumor, and questionable truth. Maybe there'd even be some actual facts, and when he considered that possibility he inwardly groaned. He had to get the packet away from his boss.
As he passed analysts, agents, scientists, technicians, and secretaries hustling along the wide corridor, all he could think about was the Amber Room. It floated before his eyes, shimmering like a dream. He had an old book at home his grandfather had given him, and in it was a copy of the jewel-
box room's only surviving color photo. More than a hundred candles lighted the chamber, the illumination reflecting in the rich gold surfaces of the amber and sparkling in the mirrors, gilt, and mosaics.
His grandfather had told him that in the rays of the setting sun the exotic room glowed as if by some secret inner light. Sam had always wanted to see that
For nearly two centuries it'd been the crowning glory of the Catherine Palace outside St. Petersburg. Many hailed it as the Eighth Wonder of the World. But during World War II, in 1941, the Nazis had stolen it. They'd dismantled and shipped it back behind their lines to a castle in Königsberg—now Kaliningrad—where just four years later, in the war's chaotic end, it'd vanished. Apparently forever.
Sam had been introduced to the Amber Room stories by his grandfather, who'd spent childhood summers before the Russian Revolution in the Catherine Palace—now a museum. The old man's colorful tales about those long-ago days when luminaries flocked from around the world to visit the priceless chamber had riveted the boy. And so had the idea of its disappearance. It must've been a spectacular feat, because the sixteen-foot-high panels together weighed about six tons.
You'd need huge diesel trucks for that.
Sam shook his head. As he walked, he forced himself back to the present. He'd spent a lot of his career as a researcher, and he'd seriously searched for the Amber Room several times. He had an inexplicable need to right the wrong. He had a theory that the Amber Room still existed. If he was right, it should be available to the world to view and savor. But he'd never gotten close to finding it. Now an opportunity had just dropped into his eager hands. And apparently out again.
Sam preceded the sweating Dick Urbanske into Vince Redmond's spacious office, where sweeping views showed the wintry Virginia countryside and the steel blue Potomac River. The panorama of naked trees, brown earth, and dying grasses was bleak, desolate. Inside the office, the atmosphere was seldom warm either. Redmond's desk was neat, with papers and files stacked with military precision. On the immaculate white walls, the photos in their matching ebony frames never varied an inch. The air was tinged with the faint odor of expensive cigars, enhancing the scents of power and authority that Redmond unconsciously radiated.
