Whirlwind

by Joseph R. Garber

  Komprometiruyushchikh materialakh: compromising materials.

  They called such women little birds; “swallows” to be specific. You earned the job title by going to a very special school. For male officers one of the perks of serving with KGB, now FSB, was to be practice subjects for that school’s students.

  Better still, homework.

  Swallows. Many jokes were made about the word. In Russian or in English, the puns were much the same. Men laughed. Women did not.

  Irina’s skin was clammy cold. Memory is a knife in every human heart; remembered betrayal pierces deepest.

  No! No introspection, no reflection, no reflection on a past that could not be changed! She must, absolutely must, focus her full concentration on the only thing that mattered: escape.

  Eyes flicking left, Irina drove past the house.

  Brosovyy signal? Nyet.

  If the mousetrap was in use, a signal would be visible — something as plain and innocuous as the house itself. Here, the town of Livermore, home of America’s largest nuclear weapons laboratory, that signal was a tricycle near the front steps.

  No tricycle, no danger. The house had not been compromised. She could enter freely. And she, in possession of the Whirlwind computer disk, would have won.

  Although, of course, Charlie would have lost.

  Irrelevant! The fate of a defeated foe is irrelevant! And, curse me, I must stop thinking in English!

  Not daring to use the telephone, the occupant of this simple suburban home would send a runner to the San Francisco Rezidentura, an hour’s drive west. Shortly thereafter, an anonymous car would be dispatched together with a full garderob operativnyy, an entirely new disguise. She’d be spirited out of the country, first to Canada, then on to Moscow.

  Then, at last, she would have won her father’s respect. For what little the respect of such a man might be worth.

  She braked to a halt at the corner, looking left and right for traffic. Good citizen, careful driver, she switched on her right turn signal. Drive three blocks, she told herself, slipping back into English unaware, and leave the car. They will not find it soon, although when they do, Scott will take the blame.

  Unfortunate but necessary blame.

  Four hours earlier Charlie’s son had rented her an aquamarine Toyota at the Chico airport. Understanding that her license and credit cards were compromised, Scott had gotten the car under his own name. He asked no questions, said nothing except that he believed his father would approve.

  Giving her the keys, he smiled. At that moment he did not merely look like a young Charlie, he was Charlie. She kissed him, and he didn’t understand why.

  Neither did she.

  Turning right, eyes watchful of her rearview mirror, she thought about her mad flight from Arizona. A small plane of erratic performance. A broken radio and primitive navigational systems. Nearly seven hundred bumpy miles at a hundred and twenty miles an hour; three refueling stops; the sickening closeness of treetops as an antique engine groaned over the Sierras; Lake Tahoe distant indigo ink; a long slow glide down the mountains’ western slope; Sacramento and its wide river; then farm country, nut orchards, a hot brown landscape, and a small college town.

  She and Charlie’s son had taken rooms at a Best Western. They paid cash, paid in advance. She still had the money Charlie had given her, although that, her wallet, and her father’s pistol were all she had.

  She bought toiletries and a change of clothes at a shopping mall. As she shopped, she laughed, Scott made her laugh, he so much resembled his father in word, and attitude, and appearance.

  Dinner was delightful. It was just like being with Charlie.

  Ah, there. After the next block, anonymous as all the blocks before, the neighborhood changed. Slightly lower on the social scale, its houses had a weary look, tired people with soul-killing jobs. More cars lined the curb. She could slot her rented Toyota between an unwashed Buick and a brown station wagon of indeterminate make.

  Park. Lock. Take the keys. Walk to the mousetrap.

  And heave a sigh of relief because it would be all over, and she would have nothing more to worry about.

  Except that I must worry about Charlie. Scott did not think it safe to call — not to call his doctor friend at the clinic, not to call his sister…what is her name?…Carly. Perhaps I should find a phone. I passed a gasoline station a few miles back. Surely they will have a pay phone. But, no, the lines will be monitored, of that I may be certain, for if I were in command, it is the first order I would issue.

  She noticed she was thinking in English again. She decided to think in Russian later.

  I believe I should circle the block. Just to be safe.

  How strange to worry about Charlie. He was merely an enemy who had been overcome. There was no debt between them, no bond, no reason why she should think of him at all. His fate was immaterial, was it not?

  I promised I would come to him again. Why did I say that?

  Because he trusted her. Because he put her safety ahead of his own. Because he gave her a computer disk with which she might purchase her life.

  With which he might have purchased his own.

  She almost missed the stop sign. Slamming on her brakes, she jolted to a halt. A shouting woman with a baby carriage stood at the curb. Irina accelerated away.

  They might kill him. That man, that Schmidt, hates Charlie. In the hotel, in the Hilton, they said…he said…he promised to kill him.

  And Charlie mocked him. At risk to his own life, he mocked him to save me.

  Why did he do that?

  Does there have to be a “why”? For a man like Charlie, perhaps there never is. Perhaps the only “why” is because he is who he is, and cannot be otherwise.

  She could see him, oh, that infuriating grin, as he stood on Mitch Conroy’s porch with a bag of Big Macs in his hand. He was still smiling when she chained him to the sink, more amused than worried, and although he was her enemy he was, well, charming. No charm, though, when he faced down Schmidt, one man against ten in a motel lobby, no weapon in his hand, but armament more powerful — bravery that lions might envy. And then…and then…he knew about her father, knowing far more than he said. He knew the worst, she was sure of it, although he was too good a man to speak a truth he surely had deduced. So shrewd, he knew it all, but kept it silently locked within him. Instead he spoke of sailboats, bad enough, and somewhere deep within she understood that he would spare her that other thing, and was grateful to him for that.

  He made her smile. Out of simple goodness, he made her smile, and what man had ever done that? His story, so sweet, a fable of a fairy-tale paradise, a peaceful little village called San Carlos, did such a place exist? Would such a warrior as Charlie lay down his shield and sword, and retire there, no ambition greater than the comfort of cats?

  Oh, Charlie, Charlie, do you think I did not know what you did? Do you think I did not see you drop sleeping pills into my drink? I took them willingly, Charlie, I took all your baits because I thought myself more cunning than you, and was always thinking one step ahead of you. But you were not fooled, were you? I cannot fool you. Nor can you fool me. We share the same mind, Charlie, are the same person. And do you know, I have never felt closer to any human being than I feel to you, and how could I have left you behind?

  Her jaw was clenched painfully tight. She had never thought she’d want any man’s love. Now that she did, she found the emotion unexpectedly sad.

  I have won no victory. I only have been given it, a gift from someone who never was my enemy.

  The medal they would pin on her would not be hers, for she had not earned it. She would stand in uniform on a podium with ribboned officers, a parade of tribute on the field below. After a speech acclaiming achievements that belonged to another, the guest of honor would rise from his seat to affix a medallion to her blouse. Ceremony demanded it. The proper forms must be observed. It was not enough that they give her an award; they would insist that it be presented to her b
y he who made her what she was, a loyal and faithful servant of the state, a daughter who was as much credit to her fatherland as she was to her father. In dress blue uniform and bright brass buttons, he would step forward.

  A cold kiss on either cheek.

  And a salute. A salute! He would salute her not because he honored her but because, at long last, she had become what he wanted her to be. She had become no different from him.

  Bruised and aching, Charlie slammed down the notebook computer’s screen, switching the wretched, balky machine off. The only portable that David Howard, he of the egregiously underfunded Indian Health Service, had been able to scrape up was as slow as molasses and as user-friendly as…Charlie snarled…as Bill Gates.

  The best that could be said was that it got the job done — barely — downloading the documents Israeli experts had sent via the less-than-high-speed lines of the Navajo Phone Company, Inc., another egregiously underfunded operation.

  It took until eleven A.M. Mountain time for him to retrieve the last of the files. Just as the final document dripped byte by tedious byte into his computer, the blue Citation charter jet landed — if “landed” was the right word. “Controlled crash” would be a better description. Putting a private jet down on a stubby dirt runway in the middle of a cow pasture was, at best, an iffy proposition. Getting off the ground again was more so. The damned thing actually dropped below Mitchell Canyon’s rim during its quote-takeoff-unquote and Charlie found himself remembering prayers he’d thought he’d forgotten.

  However, the pilot earned his pay (all cash, and a lot of it). A little more than an hour and a half later, Charlie deplaned at the San Francisco general aviation terminal.

  In a vengeful mood.

  During the flight, he’d studied all the files his Mossad friends had sent him. Everything had come together. Almost everything. There was only one open question: the pricetag.

  The rest of the puzzle was no puzzle at all. Dr. Sangin Wing, head of research for DefCon Enterprises and the brains behind Whirlwind, had gone to a scientific conference in Tokyo, February third through February seventh, just another tax-deductible scholarly boondoggle, a bunch of eggheads from India, England, Germany, Norway, Singapore, and — uh-huh — China, sitting around, chewing the fat. Such conferences were one of the scientific world’s few perks, excuses for hardworking researchers to spend a couple of days away from the lab. Hundreds of them were held every year. There was nothing unusual about DefCon subsidizing Wing’s attendance…

  …nothing except that on February the seventh Dr. Wing didn’t show up for the panel discussion he was supposed to moderate.

  Neither did the gentleman from China.

  According to their hotel receipts, both had checked out two days earlier, and, hey, what a coincidence, the day they disappeared was the same day the People’s Republic announced that Wing’s son had been arrested for espionage.

  The kid was bait. Daddy bit.

  Wing did what the boys in Beijing expected him to do — made a beeline for China in the company of an ever-so-sympathetic fellow scientist, a benevolent and friendly guy from his own profession who claimed to have high-level contacts.

  Which, no doubt, he did, mainly because he moonlighted for the Chinese Ministry for External Calm. A.K.A.: the spook shop.

  It was all there, the whole story, in the travel records the Mossad had shipped to Charlie. He could read it as if it was printed in big bold type: “Oh, Dr. Wing, my esteemed colleague, I am sure this is an unfortunate bureaucratic error. Happily, my cousin Chan is placed highly in the civil service. I am confident that if we — you and I together — explain the situation to him…”

  Yeah, sure.

  And so Wing scampered off to China, and the interrogators were licking their chops. They might not know precisely what kind of research Wing did, but they sure as hell knew it was defense-related. That much was in the public record.

  The stuff that wasn’t in the public record would be what they wanted.

  Legally the Reds had every right to squeeze it out of him. Wing was born a Chinese citizen. Under international law, they had absolute sovereignty over him. They could have, and should have, wrung him dry.

  But behold: rather than tossing him in their deepest dungeon for “intense interrogation,” two days later the Chinese government apologetically set him free. Here’s a guy who has the most valuable secrets imaginable locked in his pointy little head, thought Charlie, and nobody tried to pry them out. Instead, unbelievably, they let him go.

  Unless they didn’t let him go.

  Unless they sold him.

  So who was the buyer? Easy answer: a certain fat-assed national security advisor who boasted of being in charge of both Whirlwind and Chinese diplomacy. Sam was directly accountable for the well-being of the scientist he’d personally appointed to lead the Whirlwind project, and, most conveniently, was in daily contact with China’s highest officials.

  Sam, you insect, you did a deal with them. What did you promise those scum to get Wing back? Dropping tariffs maybe? Letting them import restricted technologies? Or did you offer to share Whirlwind with them? I wouldn’t put it past you. Whatever they asked for, that’s what they got. And when I find out what it was…

  Would he get his presidential pardon? You betchya, and it wasn’t going to bear the signature of President Sam.

  Although — this was odd, this was a new thought — exoneration was no longer his top priority. His first, and if necessary, only priority, was getting a young woman named Irina Kolodenkova to safety.

  Assuming she wasn’t already under the protection of the Russian legation.

  Bad karma, that. He was sure, damned sure, he’d won her over. But then he’d been sure Schmidt’s men wouldn’t shoot him. He’d been sure he could provoke Sam into losing both his temper and discretion. He’d been sure Mitch Conroy wouldn’t be harmed. He’d been sure, he’d been sure, he’d been goddamned cocksure too many times in his life.

  And now he was sure that a Russian spy in possession of a priceless secret would abandon her own side, come over to his.

  Pick one from column A or one from column B: (A) Irina goes home to Moscow with that disk. Or, (B) Johan Schmidt gets his hands on her. If it comes down to that, do I honestly know which I’ll choose?

  Hell, yes, I do.

  Entering San Francisco’s general aviation terminal, favoring a wobbly leg, Charlie chewed his lip. No choice, he had no choice. The only way out of this mess was to retrieve the disk and spirit Irina out of harm’s way. Sam’s noon deadline had expired. Irina was an open contract with a price on her head. He had to find her, damnit, had to. Obligation, duty, commitment, call it what you will, she was his responsibility, and there was no one else to protect her.

  Only problem: he didn’t know how.

  However, he did know that, for starters, he had to make a phone call.

  His cell phones were long gone, lost in a war bag hurled into a canyon along with two fine handguns, plenty of ammo, and all the greenbacks he hadn’t been able to stuff in his money belt. Doc Howard was leading a search party to find the bag, and as far as Charlie was concerned, he could spend every penny he found upgrading his clinic.

  Not that money was important at this present time. The only important thing was a Russian girl, a girl good enough to be Mary’s daughter — good enough to be Mary’s twin, goddamn it — and the rest of the world could go to hell because he was going to bail her out, and that was that.

  Charlie glared around the small general aviation terminal. No surprise: a couple of dozen expensive suits loafed around, briefcases in one hand, mobile phones in the other. The private jet business had boomed after the destruction of the World Trade Center. No chief executive could afford the two or three hours it took to check onto Continental, American, Delta, or any of the other passenger carriers. Everyone who was anyone flew charter.

  He spotted a kiosk near the end of the terminal, four pay phones next to a newsstand. Not much priv
acy. If he was overheard, he would be in serious trouble.

  But then he was in serious trouble anyway. Calling a foreign spymaster from a civilian telephone — eavesdroppers on every line — couldn’t make his situation any worse.

  Pumping four quarters into a slot, he dialed a number no honest American should have known. A guttural voice answered. Charlie cut him off at the first syllable. “Mikhail, this is Charlie McKenzie, listen close —”

  “Charlie! Is good to hear you! But also is not so good. Some people, Charlie, some people they say they got a problem with you.”

  Hellfire and damnation, Sam and Claude have gotten to him first. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a problem with them too.”

  “They solve problems for keeps, Charlie. You watch your back, okay?” He was a big guy, Mikhail was, broad shouldered, with a barrel chest. He less spoke than boomed like a kettle drum.

  “Always. Look, Mikhail, I don’t have time for polite chitchat —”

  “From what I hear, you got no time at all. Charlie, I give you some good advice: wherever you are, go somewhere else.” He’d been a first-rate enemy, one of the best, always honorable. Charlie thought of him as a friend. God knows, once the Soviet Union had collapsed, they’d gone out drinking often enough.

  “I will, but first I have to talk to you about one of your agents —”

  “This would be Kolodenkova. She is not my agent anymore. This is made very clear to me. Mikhail, they say, if she knocks, you don’t open the door. Persona non grata. Stripped of her citizenship. A woman without a country. I got a personal call, Charlie, personal. Straight from the Kremlin. The big boss himself. Somebody in Washington leans on him pretty hard. So he leans on me pretty hard too. He leans on me about Kolodenkova. Then he leans on me about you.” There was a note of sadness in that last sentence. “You know what I’m saying, Charlie?”

  Charlie knew. “If I contact you, you have to…well…”