As Isaacs headed home Wednesday evening he was concentrating on the upcoming event in Nagasaki, only a few hours away, a little after eleven in the morning Japanese time, July 8, allowing for the International Dateline. Would they learn anything useful? And, if so, for god’s sake what? What were they dealing with? He replayed in his mind the interchange in La Jolla. Russians? Extraterrestrials? Damn it all anyway! He failed to notice that he had been following the same dark sedan all along MacArthur Boulevard nor did he notice the limousine that pulled in behind him as they neared Georgetown.
The sedan pulled into the quiet narrow street Isaacs always took to get home, and Isaacs followed. Part way along the block the sedan braked, and Isaacs also did so mechanically. The sedan’s back-up lights came on, and it reversed to within a few feet of Isaacs’ bumper. He felt a momentary hint of irritation at the delay and then looked back over his shoulder, preparing to back up himself to give room. All he saw was the hood of the limousine. At the same moment, someone opened his door and he jerked around with surprise.
A tall figure in a dark suit was silhouetted in the doorway. The man bent down, revealing a broad-featured face that was vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Isaacs?” The voice was slow, working methodically with an alien tongue. “Mr. Zamyatin would like a word with you.”
Mr. Zamyatin was it! Isaacs’ eyes followed those of the man back to the limousine. Colonel Grigor Zamyatin was well known in the Agency as the head of the KGB station in the capital, a position that gave him immense power throughout the country, not to mention his own homeland.
Isaacs fixed his eyes on the man again, recognizing now the face from the Agency file on the embassy staff. Yegor Vassilev, a “secretary” in the visa section.
“Zamyatin be damned,” he said with some heat. “You can’t accost me like this on a public street in my own country!”
“Please, Mr. Isaacs,” Vassilev replied in a placating tone, “Mr. Zamyatin said to mention Academician Korolev.”
Isaacs stared. What the hell did that mean? It was on the record that Isaacs had submitted the report suggesting meteorite damage to the Novorossiisk. A report that Korolev had rejected. But this forced liaison was unlikely to have arisen from such an interchange. They must have intercepted his personal letter to Korolev. Resignation mingled with a strong dose of curiosity drove Isaacs out of his seat. Could Zamyatin conceivably be turned to an ally in this bizarre situation?
As he stepped onto the pavement, Vassilev mumbled, “I will operate your vehicle,” and slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes.
The rear door to the limousine opened and Isaacs stepped in and sat. Someone outside closed the door, and a deep hush settled into the interior of the car. In a moment they began to move ahead gently.
A half block away an anonymous tan Oldsmobile Cutlass was parked in a driveway. The driver lowered the compact camera he had been using and spoke softly into a microphone. He watched as a van from a Georgetown appliance store pulled around the corner and closed to within a half a block of the limousine. He then backed out and headed in the opposite direction.
In the limousine, Grigor Zamyatin reached across, extending a hand.
“Mr. Isaacs,” he said in a carefully developed Midwestern accent.
Isaacs, examining the neatly combed grey hair, the friendly peasant face, the shrewd black eyes, hesitated a moment. Then he took the hand in a firm grip. No sense insulting the man before the cards were on the table. He felt some protest was deserved, however.
“Colonel. I trust you have good reason for this bit of piracy. You could get me in quite a jam. The Agency frowns on unauthorized clandestine meetings with the opposition.”
“Come, come, Mr. Isaacs. I think you will agree we need a quiet, frank chat, man to man. Surely you would not want me to make an official request for an audience. How would you explain that to your Mr. Drefke—or to your Mr. McMasters?”
Damn! thought Isaacs, even the KGB knows he’s on my back.
“In any case,” said Isaacs, “here we are. What’s on your mind?”
“Your role in the Novorossiisk affair, Mr. Isaacs. Simply that.”
Isaacs looked at him silently.
“You wrote a very persuasive memo concerning the possibility of a meteorite striking the carrier. Your premise had already been considered, tested, and rejected. Nevertheless, your sincerity, if I may use that word, made a deep impression on Academician Korolev.”
Zamyatin watched closely as he used that name. He saw a slight lifting of the chin. He faced straight ahead and continued.
“You have probably guessed that we are aware of the contents of your personal letter to him.”
“What I don’t know is whether he even received it,” said Isaacs, attempting to take the offensive. “I’ve had no reply.”
“Oh, he received it. Indeed he did.” Zamyatin glanced sideways at Isaacs. “He has referred to it in some very high circles, and some lowly ones. I myself recently had opportunity to discuss it with him.”
Isaacs ignored the feigned modesty.
“You might be interested to know,” Zamyatin continued, staring ahead over the shoulder of the chauffeur, “that your letter played a small role in recent events. As you are very aware, an unfortunate series of circumstances has followed from the attack on the Novorossiisk. The decision of your President to confiscate the Cosmos 2112 was a terribly unfortunate and provocative act. His response to our launch of Cosmos 2231 perhaps even more so. These events have taken on a life of their own. The Soviet people do not lightly regard an attack on the sovereignty of our Union, whatever the motivation.”
Zamyatin shifted his gaze to fix on Isaacs.
“But the Soviet people also have a deep concern for truth and justice.”
And the Russian way, thought Isaacs, despite himself. Could all this be an elaborate ruse, he wondered, to further masquerade Soviet complicity in a scheme he could barely fathom?
“If your country were blameless in the case of the Novorossiisk, this is a mitigating circumstance to be considered in any action we might take during subsequent events,” Zamyatin continued.
“Academician Korolev has argued strenuously, using your letter and report as evidence, that your country knows nothing of the attack on the Novorossiisk. This was a factor in the decision not to escalate our response to your recent provocations.”
But what does your country know about the Novorossiisk that you’re not telling me? Isaacs asked silently. He chose his words carefully.
“If that is true, then I won’t deny some satisfaction. But this rendezvous was not arranged for my pleasure.”
“No,” Zamyatin agreed flatly. “There is concern at the highest levels in our government to understand the fate of the Novorossiisk. We have gathered some fragmentary evidence of our own for this curious signal you described to Korolev. I am authorized to ask you some questions, that we can better understand the situation.
“Many of my colleagues reject your story. They are convinced of the culpability of your government beginning with the events on the Novorossiisk. They demand to know what you did to the Novorossiisk, and why you, personally, were selected to propagate such a rooster—pardon me, cock and bull story, eh?—about mysterious effects in the Earth.”
“Lord deliver me from fools of all persuasions,” Isaacs blurted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Look,” he said heatedly, “I have no proof to give you, but I do give you my word of honor. No one in my government has a clue to what happened aboard the Novorossiisk—or the Stinson, I remind you. But it’s the thick-headed idiots in your government and mine who can’t see the true threat here who are leading us close to catastrophe.”
“Sir! Sir!” Zamyatin held up a hand in protest. “Let me stipulate that I personally accept both your word and that there is a more subtle problem here to be understood. We must know the position of your government. What is being done to clarify this matter? What have you learned?”
“Preciou
s little,” Isaacs replied in disgust. “If it were otherwise, do you think I would write that letter to Korolev?”
“But if the situation is as mysterious and potentially serious as you say, surely it becomes the center of a major investigation?”
Isaacs looked closely at the Russian. Careful, he cautioned himself. If the Russians aren’t responsible, then, properly cultivated, Zamyatin could prove useful, as Korolev apparently had been. What irony to find allies in the Soviet camp even as the confrontation overhead escalated. He must have some hint of the problems with McMasters, but now was not the time to take this man fully into his confidence, not when he could not extend that confidence to even his close friends in the Agency. He shifted to face Zamyatin more squarely and spoke with sincerity.
“There is a basic problem here. I see a dangerous pattern I don’t understand. My government is not behind it and neither, I’m convinced, is yours. But to launch a full-scale investigation requires hard evidence, and that is lacking. I have certain plans to gain more evidence, but I don’t feel at liberty to reveal them.”
Isaacs paused to collect his thoughts. Zamyatin watched him carefully.
“Look,” said Isaacs, “I know the real reason for this meeting. You would have received any hard facts as a bonus, but you’re really here to take my measure face to face. You’re asking yourself, is this really a man who is carrying on a legitimate crusade outside official channels?”
This time it was Isaacs who caught the narrowing of eyes that said he hit home.
“There is nothing else I can say to convince you at this point; you’ll make up your own mind. But if you decide to believe me, hear this. We face a common, unknown danger. Whether I succeed or fail in my efforts, it’s to your advantage to push your own investigation in any way you can. Listen to Korolev. He’ll know what to do.”
Zamyatin studied Isaacs’ face carefully for a long moment. Then, still holding his gaze, he gave a small motion with his right hand. The limousine immediately braked to a gentle halt.
The Russian extended his hand again. His voice was polite, but cool.
“Good-bye for now, Mr. Isaacs. And good luck.”
Isaacs pumped the hand once and let himself out. As he closed the door to the limousine, Vassilev pulled up behind in his Mercedes. Isaacs paused for a moment with his hand on the handle of the limousine door. Then he responded with uncharacteristic spontaneity to an inner voice. He yanked the door open again and leaned down to peer in.
“Yes?” Zamyatin was startled.
“Nagasaki. Tonight. 9:13.”
Isaacs slammed the door and strode rapidly back to his own car. Vassilev saw him in and shut the door behind him. Isaacs threw the car into gear, then pulled quickly out and around the limousine, causing Vassilev to step back out of the way. Isaacs looked about him, recognized where he was, and headed for his house a few blocks away.
The appliance store van cruised slowly across the intersection behind the limousine. It turned at the next corner, accelerated to normal speed, and headed away from the site of the rendezvous.
Chapter 10
Masaki Yoshida leaned on his taxi horn in frustration. He had free-lanced for the CIA for several years. He expected to know only a minimal amount about operations to which he was assigned, but the description he had received from his contact yesterday was the most ill-defined he had seen yet. He was supposed to cruise a several square block area of warehouses near the harbor and keep an eye out for some unspecified form of trouble.
His contact had said nothing about the jam of cars and trucks that crowded the streets and loading docks, making it nearly impossible to move. He had spent five minutes edging the last half block. Earlier he had maneuvered his cab up onto the sidewalk only to find a truck unloading and blocking his way. It had taken him ten minutes to force a gap in the creeping traffic and return to the street. He sounded the horn again. There could be a riot a block away, and he would not know a thing about it!
Immediately ahead of the erstwhile CIA agent were two cars and then an open bed truck, which blocked his view on down the street. As Yoshida leaned out the window in an attempt to see past the truck, the asphalt of the road between the truck’s front wheels buckled downward slightly and a small hole appeared in the center of the depression. A hole was pierced in the bottom of the oil pan just as the third piston advanced on its exhaust stroke. Then, as if by the action of a ragged drill, a gash ripped the base of the piston rod where it joined the crank shaft. The rod cracked and the piston flew unimpeded up the cylinder. Another series of holes appeared in the block, the head, the air filter, and finally in the thin sheet metal of the hood, all aligned with those in the asphalt and the broken rod. The piston ruptured the engine head atop the cylinder, then punched a second, larger hole in the hood. The piston and fragments of engine arced thirty feet over the road before crashing loudly into the galvanized steel wall of a warehouse. The mortally wounded engine shuddered to a stop with the shrieking sound of twisted, grinding metal. Hot water shot through the upper hole in the block, filling the engine compartment with steam. This in turn billowed out of the seams, the hole ruptured by the piston, and in one dainty vertical stream. Beneath the motor a pea soup green mixture of oil, water, and antifreeze poured out of the hole in the oil pan, collected in the underlying dent in the pavement and then slowly drained down the hole in the middle.
With his head out the window, Yoshida clearly heard the explosion as the piston blew and saw it rifle into the warehouse wall. Forgetting his mission, he rammed the shift into neutral, let out the clutch, and hauled on the parking brake. He ran to the truck and yanked open the driver’s door. The man inside sat stupefied, but apparently unhurt. Yoshida stepped up and helped the man out and over to the sidewalk.
The truck driver sat on the curb and in a reaction to shock, began to jabber his innocence of any wrongdoing.
Yoshida attempted to calm him and then noticed a stinging in his eyes and burning in his lungs. His first reaction was to glance at the truck. Then he whirled as he heard a shouting tumult behind him. A hundred yards away drivers were pouring out of their cars, and people were running frantically in both directions from a warehouse on the other side of the street. Many held handkerchiefs to their mouths or covered their eyes.
As Yoshida had been helping the driver from the truck, a window had shattered in the skylight of the warehouse. Below, an array of large cylindrical storage vessels held chlorine gas. Almost instantly, twin punctures appeared in the top and bottom of the cylinder directly beneath the skylight.
Jets of bilious yellow-green gas shot toward the ceiling and mushroomed out onto the floor. Within seconds a heavy layer of gas blanketed the warehouse. In a small office at the rear of the warehouse an employee was roused by the sound of cascading glass. He stepped out and was immediately assailed by the billowing fumes. In a panic he charged for the front door, his way blocked save for aisles among the huge containers. He tripped and fell, the pain of contact with the floor causing him a sharp intake of breath, a poisonous draft. He regained his feet and stumbled to the door, flinging it open and collapsing on the walk outside in a spasm of coughing. The dense gas flowed out the door and seeped around the choking figure.
Down the street, Yoshida could not identify the particular agent that assaulted his eyes and lungs, but he reacted to the shouts of gas! He joined the fleeing crowd racing among the stalled cars and trucks toward fresh air.
Thursday morning Isaacs raced into the office. There was a cable. Something had happened in Nagasaki! The reports were vague, fragmented. A gas leak. One person dead. He didn’t know what he had expected, but not this tantalizing irrelevancy. It was the right time and place; it had to be connected. But what did a gas leak have to do with their strange signal? Was there some puncture, like the Novorossiisk? He stole some moments with Danielson, and they agreed they had to concoct some way to get more information on the specifics. What had leaked? How? He felt a rise of panic. He needed time to thi
nk, to assimilate this, to plan, but there was none.
He returned to the mass of data culled from the signal intercepts of the Russian laser and hunter-killer satellites. He was supposed to be thinking like a Russian, anticipating them, but his mind was swimming with thoughts of Nagasaki when Kathleen put through the call from the Director.
It froze him to his chair, an ice storm raging through him.
He had been found out!
They knew everything. QUAKER. Nagasaki. Somehow McMasters had gotten onto him.
He was to report to the Director’s office at nine the following morning. His hand shook as he replaced the phone on the hook.
Isaacs fought to quell the churning in his bowels. He had not been so angry and frightened at one time since he’d been hauled before the principal in the third grade. He and a friend had been throwing rocks during recess, in violation of one of the strictest rules. His friend had broken the window, but he had run, leaving Isaacs to be caught with a stone in his hand. This was no schoolyard prank, however; this was the big time. He turned the knob and entered the room.
The Director of Central Intelligence motioned curtly for him to take a seat across from his desk. Isaacs did so, avoiding the venomous green eyes of McMasters who was already stationed at the opposite corner of the desk.
“Mr. Isaacs,” Drefke began. “I can’t express how shocked I am at the charges that have accumulated against you.” He spread his hand on the folder on his desk. “A man of your status and record. This is not petty malfeasance. I don’t want to overreact, but some of your recent behavior could be regarded as verging on treason.”
This word brought a wisp of smile to McMasters’ lips.
Drefke opened the file and scanned down it. “Unauthorized use of restricted computer data. Unauthorized consultation with Jason. Unauthorized access to field agents. Unauthorized use of photoreconnaissance facilities.” He looked hard at Isaacs, then clenched his fist in frustration. He wanted to work with the President on global issues, not to be involved with awkward disciplinary questions. Why had McMasters let these internal affairs get out of hand? What the hell did Isaacs think he was doing?
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