Man on Edge

by Humphrey Hawksley

  ‘Much of my work is classified, sir,’ he said. ‘I make a point of not speaking about any of it, so I don’t mix stuff up.’

  Whyte drew a tablet from his case. ‘Says here you inspected defenses at the Tin City Long Range Radar, the Eareckson Air Station on the Aleutian Islands, Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks, the Acoustic Measurement Facility at Ketchikan, and a couple of others. At Ketchikan, you identified a vulnerability that intruders did later try to exploit. If it were not for your work, they may have succeeded.’

  Whyte had the tablet on the table. Rake read the list. He hadn’t heard of the breach at Ketchikan, a place in southern Alaska that recorded the unique signature sounds that every submarine emits through noise from engines, propellers, ventilation, and the rest.

  Whyte slid across a letter that carried the Alaska National Guard logo, authorizing Major Rake Ozenna to ‘liaise’ with General James Whyte on matters of national importance. Rake didn’t recognize the signature.

  ‘I will need to speak to Camp Denali,’ Rake said, referencing the Alaska National Guard headquarters.

  Whyte tapped the letter. ‘Your orders are here, Major.’

  ‘The authorization needs to come from the Brigadier-General. This isn’t his signature.’

  Whyte’s face was like rock. He didn’t look at Rake. His eyes bore into a black-and-white framed photograph of old Washington on the wall behind him. His hands were clasped, resting on the table. The US military, like rival agencies, was a bed of sharpened knives. Each arm competed for budgets and glory. Each career officer planned for a stamp on history. Each had a different definition of national interest and patriotism.

  So, what was Whyte in all this and how did he know about Rake’s classified work in testing vulnerability at small bases? His first had been on an outpost in Ghazni, in southern Afghanistan, remote, less than fifty men. The landscape comprised arid scrub, dried earth, and clusters of bushes. From the way the sun fell and clouds hung at that time of day, Rake identified sloping ground that could be a threat. He sensed it more than knew it. He tested himself by setting up a sniping position, which, when the sun was dropping, became invisible from the base watch posts.

  Back in the US, he was sent to inspect Tin City across the water from Little Diomede and then the others that Whyte had listed. Next, he was being asked to lecture. They came up with a category for his skills, Environmental Situational Awareness.

  ‘Watch how the birds fly,’ he would tell his audience. ‘See if they move differently. Note how wildlife moves, where it goes for safety, how it seeks out danger; where the wind comes from and what a gust exposes and hides; how the rain falls and where it floods and drains; how the snow lies and where it blocks and melts. Nature is unusual, changing all the time. When you look for a hidden enemy, you automatically look for something unusual. Change your mindset. Everything around you is unusual. Look for the usual. The more normal something looks, the more dangerous it could be.’

  The media people loved the usual–unusual line. They told him it was counter-intuitive and high concept.

  ‘So, you’re telling me you need to confirm these orders?’ said Whyte.

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘You gave the right answer, Major.’ Whyte’s rigid face creased into the edge of a smile. A flicker of humanity came into his eyes. He shut down the tablet and pulled back the letter. ‘I run counter-insurgency operations in Asia. We’re looking at Papua New Guinea, East Timor, and in the South Pacific, Fiji and Vanuatu, small, isolated, vulnerable. A handful of troops. Some ours. Some local. I want you to work your magic and help keep them safe.

  ‘I’m a cold-weather soldier, sir,’ said Rake.

  ‘A cold-weather soldier who has done remarkable work in hot climates.’

  ‘Who is the enemy?’

  ‘China has a long record of sponsoring insurgencies. We expect the Chinese to stir up rebellions, whatever it takes to weaken us, and that’s where you come in, Major. If they don’t get successes against our forces, we can hold our ground. If they do and body bags come back with an American flag draped around, we’ll end up handing Asia to the communists.’

  The cry to bring troops home had skewed Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, given Syria to Russia and Iran. ‘I’m a soldier, sir,’ said Rake. ‘If I’m needed for this work, of course, I will do it.’

  Whyte’s chair scraped back. ‘We leave at 13:00 tomorrow, after our panel. You’ll have the general’s letter by then.’ Whyte slid his tablet into his case and hitched it onto his shoulder. He left Rake in the desolate dining space.

  FOURTEEN

  On the first ring, neither asleep nor registering the real world, Carrie imagined her phone was buzzing with her mother at the other end of the line. It was two twenty in the morning. She glanced through the window toward the Watergate building, where a blizzard raged. Her mind had been swirling with the injured cyclist. She couldn’t erase the image of the thin steel rod protruding like a bent flagpole from his neck, mixing up against her argument with Perkins in the hospital. Less an argument. More her sharp, answer-back words. Stupid. Losing it like that. Why pick a fight, risking her job the first day? Well done, Carrie! Not as smart as you think. Your first real attempt at making a career for yourself and you— Jesus, woman!

  The buzzing came not from her phone, but the internal apartment block intercom. ‘Yes?’ She kept that single syllable, soft, measured, a middle-of-the-night voice of normality.

  ‘Dr Walker. A Mr Harry Lucas in the lobby for you.’

  ‘OK. Right!’ Relief drained through her voice. ‘I’ll be down.’

  ‘He says better if he came up.’

  Carrie’s studio was fine for visitors when the bed was turned back into a sofa, the white cover brushed down, the colored cushions arranged nicely, clothes neat in the closet, table polished and uncluttered, no bra hanging on the back of a dining-room chair, no red T-shirt on the maroon and orange patterned carpet from Herat; no denim jacket, one sleeve pulled out as it caught on her wrist when she took it off; no trail of a single woman, living alone, undressing by dropping garments as she walked around fixing herself coffee, cruising playlists. ‘Tell him to come up in ten,’ she said.

  Lucas could have called, and she would have said ‘no’; she would come to his place again. Five minutes away. He must need to be here. Turning up was a smart move.

  Carrie dressed quickly, running a brush through her hair, smoothing down a fresh blue shirt, buckling her jeans, while picking up clothes and tidying the dining-room table like a secretary. She topped up water in the coffee machine, refilled it with freshly ground beans, and turned it on. The door buzzer went.

  Looking like a mix between a lawyer and a television-repair guy, Lucas wore a dark woolen overcoat, no hat, and carried two large briefcases. With overnight stubble and determination streaking through bloodshot eyes, he bore shades of a guy who had just walked out of a bar, except he hadn’t because there was no trace of alcohol on his breath. He walked past Carrie, put his cases on the floor by the table, squatted down, flipped combination locks, and opened them. Not alcohol, but an alcoholic’s obsession.

  ‘Mind telling me—’ she began.

  ‘In a moment.’ Lucas opened computers, trailed wires, plugged in phones, set up on the dining table. Carrie poured them a coffee, put his on a mat on the table, large cup, black, no milk, no sugar. He sipped it while setting up a work-station which resembled a compact version of what he had in his apartment, two keyboards, two screens, boxes, colored lights as strange to Carrie as operating-room equipment would be to anyone outside of medicine. He pulled chairs up for them both. He brought the schematics of a building onto one screen and a coastal city map on the other. On both, there was a slow flashing blue dot.

  ‘This building is an apartment block for high-ranking military officers in the closed city of Severomorsk on the Kola peninsula on Russia’s Arctic coast,’ he explained. ‘It’s the base of the Northern Fleet, on the Barents Sea. See here
is the huge statue, the Monument of the Heroes, and over here are Russian warships and a couple of submarines. This is where your uncle’s phone is. He could be there now.’ He paused, looking across to her. ‘It’s mid-morning, 10:48. I need you to call him, Carrie. Do not mention your previous conversation. He will know it’s you so don’t identify yourself. You are calling on behalf of the British Ambassador—’

  ‘Why British? He’s expecting the Americans.’

  ‘For us now, with the Brits, it’s easier. Less red tape and Steph’s involved because you called her, so she gets a slice of the action. Say you are calling on the chance that he might be in Moscow on Thursday and, if so, might he be free to go to the Ambassador’s residence at lunchtime for an informal scientific and technology discussion on climate change and the Arctic. Ambassador Lucas would be delighted if such an eminent figure could find a few minutes to share his ideas.’

  Lucas handed Carrie headphones with an inbuilt microphone. He pointed to a segment of the left-hand screen. ‘Keep an eye on the voice recognition. Green indicates he is calm; red that he’s nervous; shades in between.’ He tapped keys. Fingers poised above the keyboard, he fixed his gaze on Carrie, waiting for her to indicate she was ready. She didn’t reveal the cascade of questions splashing through her thoughts. How would it work? Why can’t someone else make the call? Why Harry Lucas, in her apartment in the middle of the night? Why not a secure government bunker with backup plans and trained people with ID passes and salaries? An ambulance siren flared on Virginia Avenue below. Lucas got up, closed the window, and pulled down the blind.

  ‘We’re a go,’ he said.

  Carrie’s heartbeat rose. She breathed in slow and long. A ringtone sounded through the headset. Then a click and voice. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Vice-Admiral Semenov,’ Carrie said in Russian. ‘I am calling from the British Embassy in Moscow.’

  Not an immediate answer. A guarded man who understood security.

  ‘This is Semenov,’ he said.

  ‘Ambassador Lucas would be delighted if, on the off chance, you might be in Moscow and able to attend a lunch discussion on Thursday on climate change and the Arctic.’

  ‘A very interesting global issue.’ A cautiously confident tone reflected in the pale green of the voice software.

  ‘And share with us your thoughts on changes in sea-traffic technology due to melting ice.’

  ‘I am honored that you ask.’

  ‘Ambassador Lucas would be most grateful. The seminar runs from two o’clock, but come at one, if you have time, for a light lunch.’

  ‘Could it be for just an hour? My late afternoon schedule is full.’

  ‘Of course. It is at the Ambassador’s residence on Sofiyskaya Embankment, 14, between Kammenyy and Moskvoretskiy bridges.’

  ‘I know it.’ A change of tone. ‘This is the British not the Americans?’

  The reading showed hesitation. When Semenov had asked Carrie to tell ‘them’ he would have assumed she would go to her own government.

  Carrie improvised, ‘Yes. That’s right, Vice-Admiral. These lunchtime seminars rotate. I believe next month the US is hosting, or it might be India.’

  ‘I am in Moscow again next month,’ said Semenov. ‘Perhaps it would be better to wait for the next one.’

  The final cadence at the end of Semenov’s sentence indicated fear and uncertainty. Undulating lines traversed from pale green to maroon.

  ‘Give him wriggle room,’ said Lucas through her earpiece. ‘Someone could have come into the room.’

  ‘That’s fine. These seminars are very informal,’ said Carrie. ‘Please come if you are free.’

  ‘Tell your ambassador I will try.’

  Semenov cut the call. Carrie took off the headset. ‘What does that mean? He wants us to handle it, not the British.’

  ‘Let’s go through it.’ Lucas pushed back in his chair. ‘You fudged by telling him the US was doing something a month from now, and he went for that, but treading water for a month doesn’t match the urgency of the burner phones and his call to you.’

  ‘Is it that he doesn’t trust the British?’

  ‘It has to be more than that. He could have asked if the Swiss or the Norwegians were holding these seminars.’

  ‘He only wants the US?’

  Lucas replayed the conversation. Semenov’s cadence remained stable at the beginning, a dark side of green, but measured, the usual contours of a businesslike phone conversation. The algorithm detected change after Carrie’s directions to the Ambassador’s residence and Semenov’s words I know it.

  ‘Did he realize that we knew where he was?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘He should have assumed. He didn’t mind the British Embassy,’ said Lucas. ‘He got cold feet over the Ambassador’s residence, or more precisely the route to the residence.’ Lucas stood up. ‘But who in the hell knows, Carrie? Betraying your homeland is never a straight path. You can be burying regrets into your grave.’

  Carrie stayed quiet. This was Lucas’ territory. She couldn’t second-guess him. Then, to their surprise, Semenov rang back. Lucas sat down again. Carrie put the headphones on. There was a clear incoming call signal. Lucas opened the line.

  ‘Carrie. You must help me.’

  ‘I’m here, Uncle Art. What is the problem? Is it the British?’

  ‘Why did they change it, Carrie?’

  She told him straight. ‘Ambassador Lucas is a personal friend. That is why I contacted her.’

  ‘But why not the Americans?’

  ‘You called me, Uncle Art. You need to trust me.’

  ‘It has to be them.’

  ‘I’m a doctor. I am not them. I contacted the one person I trust more than any other.’

  Semenov’s tone flattened. ‘Will it work?’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘I don’t know, Carrie. Why don’t you come with your mother?’ The voice recognition showed a bright red.

  ‘I can ask her.’

  ‘Don’t tell her why. Just suggest a visit to Moscow.’

  ‘How long will you be there?’

  ‘Three days. Then I go back to Severomorsk where it is difficult.’

  ‘I’ll see if Mom can come.’

  ‘Thank you. See you soon, Carrie.’ Semenov ended the call. The voice color of his last two sentences flitted between light and dark orange, more indecisiveness than fear.

  Carrie took off the headphones, stood up and reopened the window to a blast of cold air and the rumble of a truck passing underneath.

  ‘You can’t involve your mother,’ said Lucas.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said.

  Lucas’ expression transformed from worry to surprise. ‘No way. Moscow knows exactly who you are.’

  Carrie leaned on the table, both hands flat on the surface. ‘I go as someone else.’

  ‘Not that simple. Fingerprinting at the airport. All sorts of shit.’

  ‘The hospital will be happy to see the back of me for a few days.’

  Lucas looped his hands behind his head. He was working it through. Carrie had planted an idea. ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’

  ‘My uncle needs a familiar face.’

  ‘You’re not trained.’

  ‘More than my mother, I am.’

  Lucas unplugged his equipment. Carrie rinsed coffee cups in the kitchen. Neither spoke until Lucas had locked the two briefcases. ‘I’ll get you a passport. You go via Europe and take a feeder flight.’

  ‘I meet him and take him to wherever you need him to go,’ said Carrie. ‘It’s not brain surgery.’

  Lucas picked up his coat and smiled: ‘You’re right. It’s not.’

  Within Harry Lucas’ trade, what Carrie had suggested was higher risk than the consequences of failed brain surgery. Far more than one life was stake. Carrie needed to go to Moscow with a safe passport. That meant no British, American, and most Europeans. Carrie’s fair skin and blonde hair ruled out much of the world, which is why just before dawn Harry took a cab
three miles north along Connecticut Avenue toward International drive, the neighborhood of many embassies, including that of Israel where a young Mossad agent whom he had never met handed him an Israeli passport and wished him well. An hour earlier, the friend in Tel Aviv who had arranged the passport fixed a hack into the Russian immigration database done in a single undetectable nanosecond. Carrie’s fingerprints and other data were matched to Dr Sarah Mayer, aged thirty-six, consultant physician from Haifa. As a tourist, she could travel visa-free for ninety days, plenty of time to handle her nervous uncle.

  FIFTEEN

  Severomorsk, Murmansk Oblast, Russia

  Vice-Admiral Artyom Semenov removed the headset he had used for the call with Carrie Walker. Ruslan Yumatov gave him distance and time to think. He kept his back to the room and studied Semenov through a reflection in the high windows of the apartment that had a view befitting a senior naval officer with an unblemished record of loyalty to his government. Over his decades of service, Semenov had broken boundary after boundary in submarine stealth technology such that the Americans now openly accepted that they had fallen behind. His large living room overlooked the dark, sullen figure of a fifteen-meter-high sailor holding an automatic rifle, standing on the sculptured conning tower of a submarine. The statue symbolized the city of Severomorsk’s pledge to defend the Arctic from all enemies. Beyond it lay the wintry Barents Sea and along the coastline were docked Russian warships and submarines.

  Even though Semenov was at the end of his career he retained an engaging curiosity about how things worked and how they could be made better. In the months that Yumatov had befriended him, Semenov tested ideas about Russian naval operations in Syria, a more efficient defense in the Atlantic, and how military departments could be organized with less rivalry. He was a likeable old man with a welcoming face, a full head of gray hair, and thick-lensed glasses. He had none of the pomp and arrogance carried by so many less capable senior officers. He wore his uniform with pride but scruffily. Semenov was not a parade-ground officer. He preferred books, science, and conversation, and he cherished his role in safeguarding Russia and restoring its lost greatness. His specialty was to give Russia the quietest and most disguised submarines.