THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The shock was enough. Renkin agreed to be responsive to any future summons, knowing the boy's existence might be used against him, especially if he rose to prominence in adulthood.

  Renkin returned to the U.S. and proceeded to earn two Ph.D's, almost back to back. One was in political science, the other in international finance. After serving three years at RayTran Corporation, a think tank based in Washington D.C., he taught for another two years at the U.S. Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California, in matters of national security.

  The young instructor lived in the BOQ and rarely strayed, not wanting to mingle with (Borodine remembered the direct quotation in Renkin's dossier) "Californians and suffer their free-thinking, undirected, cow college mentality." His impatience with outsiders and passion for study served him well. A major step in his career came when he met Dr. Fulton Dowd, a fifty-five-year-old electronics and first-generation computer sciences expert who taught Navy communications programs. Like Renkin, the reclusive Dowd stayed close to his books and slide rules. Renkin learned that Dowd had ideas for the U.S. Navy's proposed Extremely Low Frequency (ELF) communications program, a strategic program to communicate with submerged Polaris ICBM submarines anywhere in the world.

  The submarines, Dowd explained, needed a "bell-ringer." Something that would tell the submarines's captain to rise near the surface at his discretion, where he could safely receive a more high-speed, conventional message via high frequency or satellite link. At seventy-six hertz Dowd's ELF could "bell-ring" any sub­marine in the world at any depth. All he needed were favorable rock form­ations in the US that could accommodate an antenna twenty-eight miles long. Under those conditions, Dowd could produce a wavelength not measured in millimeters or centimeters or even meters. His wave­length would be two thousand, five hundred miles long! Renkin, sensing an opportunity, pitched in and discovered the perfect site near Grovers Mills, Wisconsin.

  Their collaboration flourished. They completed their teaching contracts and formed FLR Industries (Dowd, a modest individual, had no desire to have his initials as part of the logo), a con­sulting company specializing in secure defense communications. Renkin shrewdly took options on contiguous real estate near Grovers Mills and knocked on doors in the Navy Department while Dowd hovered with slide rules in a rented one-room office in Silver Spring, Maryland, refining specifications.

  FLR won a large second-tier consulting subcontract, meaning the prime contractor had to put up the money and suffer the risk while conforming to FLR specifications. The major problem, ironically, was not in the technology or funding or development. It came when Renkin exercised the real estate options he had signed over to the Navy. The populace of Grovers Mills became angry when they learned the U.S. government intended to tear up their pastures and forests to lay miles and miles of cable, all protected with miles and miles of chain-linked fence and security patrols. Renkin worked eighteen hours a day with residents and local government officials to insure the Navy had its way. His weapons included logic, patriotic appeal, and hard negotiations. A few gave in to payoffs. Two were evicted on trumped-up court orders.

  Renkin's efforts won him the recognition of Congress's House Armed Services Committee in addition to the Navy Department's gratitude. Dowd's plans for a more efficient system, one with a fifty-six-mile-long antenna, were virtually complete when he died at his desk of heart failure in late 1968, six months too soon to witness the first successful test of his ELF system in Grovers Mills. It functioned as expected and U.S. ballistic missile submarines trailing long, neutrally buoyant antennas no longer had to approach the surface to search for instructions.

  But Renkin needed to expand. Larger ELF orders were coming in and he needed capital to hire staff and build testing laboratories. His problem became acute when the bankers capped his credit line, saying they had problems extending so much money to a company working on "black programs" of which they had only a vague under­standing.

  In desperation, he approached his KGB control in Washington D.C., about the same time the KGB were thinking of awakening him. Borodine remembered the year a matured, far more stable, and far more valuable Renkin worked out his agreement. It was 1969, eighteen years after he'd been recruited. A bargain was struck and the KGB provided a "loan" through a legitimate U.S. venture capital group. The loan payments, less interest, reverted to Renkin when the venture capital company made deposits to a series of offshore bank accounts the Soviets had set up for Renkin's access. In turn, Renkin turned over plans for the fifty-six-mile antenna system the Navy was building in Michigan. The irony was that the Soviet Union, with ideal geological conditions in several locations, didn't have its ELF system func­tional until 1986 because of technical and cost problems.

  The ELF contracts lead to related submarine programs, including follow-on strategic evaluations of major SOSUS (underwa­ter list­ening arrays that detected submarines' movements and transmitted the data to shore bases) updates. Other consulting assignments followed: RDSS, an air-dropped deep-water listening barrier and FDS, a fixed distributed system as a successor to SOSUS with vastly improved fiber-optic upward looking sensors.

  Renkin recruited the best scientific minds to carry on Dowd's tradition. He was hard pressed to find committed recluses like Dowd and ruthlessly fired those who didn't work twelve-to fourteen-hour days, including Saturdays. He overpaid those who did. The Soviets never overpaid Renkin for information on deployment and technical characteristics of SOSUS or RDSS or FDS. They just paid well. And Dr. Renkin didn't marry, absorbed by building FLR Industries to a seventy-five-million-dollar, staff-intensive organization, which he took public in 1972.

  FLR's reputation become impeccable as Renkin met all projects on time and on budget. His reputation also grew on Capitol Hill, where he testified in behalf of the Navy and his prime contractors with a staccato highly informed precision. His direct, no-nonsense approach, quick mind, and limitless energy won the attention of elected officials and political appointees, especially Justin Cromwell, the director of defense policy for the National Security Council.

  Renkin's file had been specific about their approach. It was straightforward, Borodine remembered. They met at the Burning Tree Country Club where Cromwell stated the National Security Council needed an individual of Dr. Renkin's education and government know-how. Simply put, the National Security Council could use a man of his skills to keep the Congress off their backs and let them do their jobs. Would Dr. Renkin mind, he asked, taking a two- year sabbatical from FLR and acting as director of a new office entitled special projects? He would be privy to full disclosure of the council's affairs so that he could properly anticipate and deal with congressional problems.

  Renkin accepted in 1977. Two years later, he received his permanent appointment, director of congressional liaison, and sold his FLR stock. The proceeds from that, of course, remained in U.S. banks but didn't come close to approximating the large balances he had well-hidden overseas.

  In 1984, Renkin came to the public's attention when he was tasked with placating a budget-conscious Congress about cost overruns on the MX missile. The press dis­covered Renkin was the one solidly contributing to the idea of shifting arms control goals from limiting the number of vehicles to limiting the number of warheads. Selling this plan to Congress helped obtain approval for MX funding. It was more difficult pacifying an irate Capitol Hill during the Iran-Contra affair, of which, ironically, he knew nothing. In that case, he could only act as an information conduit, hoping the matter would burn itself out. It didn't, but the nation's attention quickly shifted to the principals, and that left Felix Renkin with a job and an unscathed reputation.

  Borodine had inherited Renkin from the KGB two years before and, proud of his unique challenge, initially spent more time overcoming Belousov's reluctance than effectively working the asset. After a review of both the twins' careers, an opportunity became clear to Borodine, and he lost patience with those who failed to immediately grasp his vision. In a flurry of messages,
Borodine presented the concept to Belousov; a concept that would have been a masterstroke for the KGB had they been smart enough to identify and exploit it; a concept that would elevate Borodine quickly in the Soviet naval hierarchy.

  Lofton.

  Belousov endorsed the Lofton concept, as it became known, after an exasperating six months and Fleet Intelligence in Moscow took another two months to approve it.

  Borodine was finally able to put it to Renkin. "We would like you to look into the possibility of recruiting your son, Bradley Lofton. You both have strong knowledge of naval matters and some day perhaps you could pass the torch when you retire."

  Renkin balked. But Borodine pressed, saying Lofton's back­ground was perfect. He had graduated cum laude from the University of Michigan's School of Naval Architecture in 1971 and served with distinction in Vietnam as a SEAL. And since 1977 he had been with the Marine Systems Division of Jenson Industries.

  Borodine purred that Lofton didn't have to know who his father was right away. Renkin could decide when the time was right.

  Renkin gave in, having really no choice. He looked for an obscure program where it would be possible to observe Lofton closely. He decided on the X-3 project in San Diego and had him assigned as soon as the NSC took over. Borodine was pleased and didn't press for immediate information on the X-3. Perhaps Lofton, a naval architect with program management experience on the 688 attack and Ohio ICBM class submarines, could provide data once he agreed to work for his father.

  Borodine finished his salad and sat back. In the final analysis it was a man's motivation that concerned him. Renkin's profile was perfect, very American. In essence, it consisted of money, manipulation, and flexible ethics. In Doctor Renkin's case, money easily became greed, and the means to gain power. Manipula­tion came from his intelligence and the fact that he was a tireless worker who took advantage and demanded the best from those around him. His ethics were heartless rationalizations designed to accomplish his distorted goals.

  Borodine sighed. Felix Renkin was heir to ancient and immutable traits. Through the ages, somebody was always available. He hoped Lofton would be as easy.

  The gate guard smiled. "Yes, Mr. Hatch, you're expected. Please go right in." Directions to Oakmont Lane were given, the button was pushed, and the barrier silently raised. It was 3:56.

  Borodine discovered Oakmont Lane was not a narrow, tree-shrouded dirt road as the name implied. The safe house lay nestled among trees, all right, but was accessible via a meticulously maintained cul‑de‑sac complete with speed bumps and large, beaut­iful homes, which looked out on fairways. Security signs were posted through­out.

  His shriveled foot, the right one, was tired and he'd had to drive with the left for the past fifteen minutes. He braked at the bottom of the hill, with both feet. Pins and needles shot up his right leg.

  Number twelve was a low, sprawling one‑story house with dark wooden siding and large decorative tropical shrubs. He got out and stood for a moment while circulation returned to his leg. Then he walked to the double entry doors and pushed the button.

  Silence. He looked for the TV camera that was sure to be hidden: ah, there, nestled among the eaves. He held his head down, wishing he'd worn a hat.

  Finally, the door eased open and Carrington, with a bandage over the side of his head, stood in the entry. "Hello, Mr. Hatch. This way, please."

  Borodine followed through a tastefully appointed living room and down a long, silent hallway to another double-entry door. Borodine waited as the man knocked. There was a muffled reply, then both entered a high-ceilinged master suite done in pastels, which contrasted well with a pleasing oriental bedspread and matching furni­ture fabrics.

  Perched in the middle of the king‑sized bed was his asset, Felix Renkin. To Renkin's right was a PC with a laptop keyboard. Books, papers, huge directories, and volumes surrounded him. He wore a light blue terrycloth robe and sat erect. His nose was heavily bandaged and both eyes were very black. Shiners, as they said in American Westerns, as if he'd been in a barroom fight.

  Borodine took the initiative. "Good afternoon, Dr. Renkin." He looked about. "You were right. This is a nice place to talk."

  The man accepted the handshake lightly. Borodine fixed on Renkin's eyes. They were cloaked behind thick gold‑rimmed glasses, which did nothing to obscure the shiners.

  "Thank you for coming. Please sit down." Felix Renkin pushed aside a yellow pad and pencil. "How was your flight? Do you need anything, a drink perhaps?"

  Borodine selected a deep comfortable club chair and shook his head.

  Renkin looked up and nodded. "That's all for now, Carrington." The man turned and walked out. The door clicked behind him.

  Borodine moved ahead. "What happened to your face, your nose, Dr. Renkin?"

  "I was struck twice within a week's time by your Mr. Lofton."

  Borodine picked up on "your Mr. Lofton." He realized it would serve no purpose to say anything about kinship at this point. "Yes?"

  "He and his accomplice also beat up Carrington." Renkin waved a hand toward the oak-paneled double entry, "and killed one of my best assistants. Lofton is one of the reasons we're meeting today."

  Borodine feigned sympathy with clicked teeth. "Why did Lofton do that to you?"

  Renkin explained.

  Borodine sat forward. "You killed Lieutenant Commander Thatcher? Why? I heard about that in Washington."

  "Thatcher assumed too much, Mr. Hatch, and he was correct in his assumptions. He figured it out from the disks aboard the X-3. I had no idea the man was that intelligent. He was a mustang, up from the enlisted ranks. During his trip back from the Kurils he had time to pull the disks and back into a solution that told him the CAPTORs were live, and that I had ordered them to be laid automati­cally."

  Borodine crossed his leg over his knee and propped his chin on a fist. "Interesting, this X-3. A fuel cell submarine. Revo­lution­ary, if you come right down to it. Can you give us details?"

  "Of course."

  "Thank you." Borodine leaned forward. "Shall we return to the business at hand?"

  "Yes. The CIA has an asset in Petropavlovsk--"

  "Yes, the message--"

  "--who wants to defect."

  Borodine recrossed his leg. The right one was falling asleep. Soon he would have to stand and walk around. "That, of course, interests us. Who is this man?"

  Renkin shook his head slowly and pursed his lips. "I don't know. The CIA reports to us are terribly sanitized, just like ours to them. We don't trust each other. What I do know is that the man is military, he's stationed in Petropavlovsk, and is aware of both of the Ivy Bells/Jet stream operations. He wants out and the CIA has promised to extract him via one of their people on a Japanese trawler that fishes near Kamchatka regularly."

  Yuri Borodine sat back, at a loss for words. The matter was worse than he had anticipated.

  Renkin caught it, and his shoulders straightened. "Apparently the CIA has an asset, a native Japanese, on the trawler. The asset has been in contact with your defector. They plan for the trawler to offload fish at the Petropavlovsk commercial dock. The defector is supposed to jump aboard and hide, and the trawler, the Kunashiri Maru, will put to sea." Renkin looked down, then said slowly, "The Kunashiri Maru is to rendezvous with the USS Truman and transfer your man, er, the defector, near the Kurils."

  Borodine stood and tried to pace. It was hard at first, those needles in his leg distracted him. He had to concentrate as Renkin explained the rest of the CIA transfer plan.

  Renkin ran a finger over his bandaged nose. "But then Thatcher figured out that the CAPTOR was a live drop. He also figured out the targets and rendezvous, and now that idiot Lofton has the X-3 and has the potential to screw everything up. He's a SEAL, he knows how to disarm those CAPTORs. That's why I need your help."

  Borodine sat down again. "Dr. Renkin. Have you thought about what could happen if Lofton is successful?"

  "With your assistance, he won't be."


  Borodine nodded. "But, we're concerned. What if he is? What if something else happens? What would you do?"

  "You mean if it came to..."

  "Yes."

  Renkin looked about the room and waved his arms. "Come to you, I suppose."

  Borodine sensed from the tone of Belousov's message that that wouldn't be acceptable. "Have you thought of retirement?"

  "Absolutely not. I--ah. You're worried about my cover being blown. About what would happen on an, ah...executive level."

  "Mmm. That and public opinion. Yes."

  "We have some other business to finish, Mr. Hatch. Perhaps we should conclude those proceedings, then speak of retirement?"

  Borodine stroked his chin, knowing Renkin dangled a carrot. He thought it over and decided to take the chance. Fortunately, Lofton's impetuous run to Petropavlovsk could be easily nullified. But Belousov would have to know right away so they could authorize the counteroperation he had in mind. He mused over pressed palms. "All right. We'll wait for the time being. What else do you know of this defector?"

  "The information is very sketchy. All I know is what I told you; that the candidate defector is military, that he knows of both Ivy Bells and Jet stream."

  "Well that narrows it down somewhat." Borodine rubbed his leg, the needles went away, it felt better. "Petropavlovsk. A military man there with knowledge of both operations would be one of a select few."

  "Fleet Intelligence, perhaps?" Renkin grinned slightly.

  "Perhaps. Also, it could be someone in the KGB. They're responsible for land line signals." He paused. "But then, this will be our job to find out."