THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ullanov shook his head, carried Dr. Sadka to the car, and bent to place him inside. "Colonel, do you mind if I fix his skull to obscure the bullet wound?"

  "Hurry. We've only thirty‑five minutes."

  Crunching sounds reached their ears through the rain.

  Lofton winced. "Where was I held?"

  "You were a guest in the old Petropavlovsk waterfront town hall, built in 1910. It's now Spetsnaz Brigade HQ. Had you chosen to arrive five months later, you could have stayed in the new KGB building, now under construction. The ELINT Department will be on the top two floors, executive and administrative offices are on the next five. You would have resided in detention cells, interrogation chambers and experimental labora­tories in the sub‑basements."

  Lofton stiffened. "You're Spetsnaz. Were those your men who barricaded the docks around the Kunashiri Maru, boarded her, and cast off her towlines?"

  "No. I just got here. Sadka told me about it, though." He toed a rain puddle with his boot, "Naval Infantry boarded the ship, wrecked her radios, then cast off the dock lines. The rest was a KGB operation." Dobrynyn looked at Lofton. "Did you see what happened?"

  Lofton nodded.

  "Ready, Colonel," Ullanov said.

  The brothers stared at each other.

  Lofton paused. "It was horrible. All those guns blasting away. Those poor people didn't have a chance, there were women aboard, too." He looked down.

  "I really don't understand it," Dobrynyn ventured. "Sinking the trawler was very unusual. I heard even those KGB clods were skittish about it."

  Lofton grit his teeth. "Renkin."

  "Who?"

  "A man back in the US. He--"

  "Colonel?" Ullanov walked up.

  "Go ahead, Josef. We'd better move back."

  The three stepped away about thirty paces. Ullanov drew the flare pistol from his belt. He flipped open the barrel, chambered a cartridge, snapped it shut, took a careful stance, aimed, and fired.

  Ullanov's flare sputtered through a graceful arc, ricocheted off the door post, and landed just outside the car.

  "Another?" asked Lofton.

  "Don't think so," said Dobrynyn.

  The car went up with a bright whoosh. They jumped back from the magnesium bright explosion. Then the fuel tank blew up with a concussive "whack" singeing Lofton's hair. They ran for the embankment. He still felt the white‑hot intensity at his back as he gained the roadway, out of breath.

  They turned and looked back. A sodden tree, its branches hanging over the wreck, had caught fire and threw off steam; it hissed and crackled in the rain. The car glowed orange and red, the tires were aflame, and all four doors were blown open. Nothing inside looked recognizable.

  Lofton thought of his Audi in the Long Beach Marina. It seemed like decades ago. "Thatcher," he said softly.

  Ullanov spat, then picked up his two empty five-gallon gas cans. He would dispose of them later.

  "Let's go," Dobrynyn said, "we're running out of time." They turned north and started up the road into the rain.

  Lofton trotted behind the other two. His ribs ground in pain; he tried the balls of his feet, weight forward. It was a little better, but his chest hurt if he took a step wrong.

  The rain eased, he could see a darkness, the bay, off to his left. How much time? He looked for his Casio. Gone, melted down, along with the poor derelict who last wore it.

  The road curved right. "Nalacheva Tunnel's that way." Dobrynyn threw a thumb, then swung left. They abandoned the road and headed straight for the beach. A large mountain rose through the mist, cliffs plummeted to the waterline where wavelets lapped at the beach. Their feet sank in saturated sand, slowing their progress, as they began to weave among tank sized boulders.

  Dobrynyn slowed to let Lofton catch up. "About five hundred yards, Commander."

  "Brad," Lofton puffed.

  Dobrynyn eyed his brother. "After that, we've got a clear beach. There's a hole in the fence and another two hundred yards to the seaplane ramp. We should just make it."

  Lofton's lungs raged as he frantically scrambled up a large rock behind the other two.

  "How was your obstacle training, Brad?" Dobrynyn tossed over his shoulder. He perched on top of the rock, then jumped a wide gap to another huge boulder.

  "It was--eyuhh." He was dizzy but managed to follow Dobrynyn, over a twenty-foot chasm.

  The rain had stopped, light glowed around the bend. The air base. Maybe another fifty yards of these monstrous rocks.

  Dizzy, rasping, he vaulted for another boulder and stumbled. His hand found the boulder's ridge but granite tore at his fingernails as he slipped, then fell into the blackness.

  He knew he'd bounced; he sat up blinking, his head whirled. Where were the airfield lights? He couldn't see. Where--yes, between the boulders.

  Hands on his shoulders; a face, his own. He squinted. Me? A beard?

  He heard, "Let's wait two minutes, Josef, then we'll carry him."

  He was too winded to speak. Nothing wrong except those damn ribs. They felt broken. Sadka was a quack. He'd pronounced them healed. The man really had been in a hurry.

  "You've been a civilian too long, Brad," Dobrynyn said

  "My...damn ribs..." Lofton sputtered.

  "That's right. I'd forgotten. They're broken. Sadka didn't give a damn. He wanted us to get going right away."

  He looked up. "Us?"

  "Yes. I was to go with you, study you, become you--"

  "Become me?"

  "Yes. They wanted to send me back in your place. Sadka was..." Dobrynyn checked his watch. "Damnit. Come on, Josef, let's go."

  They hoisted Lofton to his feet and guided him through the remaining boulders. Soon, they crunched on gravel. He raised his head and saw the airfield's lights stretching off to his right. Buildings and enormous hangars rose on the other side of the field. A row of sleek, swept‑wing MiG‑29 Fulcrum fighters glistened with rain, their light gray tails probed the sky.

  "Five minutes before Alex starts engines. There, see? You can see his plane through the fence."

  Lofton was too woozy to keep his head up as he stumbled along. They pushed him down; his shoulder scraped on fencing wire.

  Ullanov asked, "How is he going to do a two-mile swim, Colonel?"

  Lofton managed, "No problem, I'll be rested by the time I get there. Immersion suit will give me buoyancy. Float, kick, rest, float, kick.... Just hope for an onshore current." He trudged between them, thankful he was past those enormous boulders.

  "I'll have Alex give him a one-man survival raft. He'll be all right. Look, we're almost there. Alex said he would meet us behind this shed--hold on," Dobrynyn growled.

  They heard the high pitched whine. Lofton peered around the two Spetsnaz. A high gull-wing amphibian squatted on a concrete ramp. Facing them, its port turboprop wound up to full power for a moment, then dropped to idle.

  "No," Dobrynyn shouted. "Where's Alex? He said he would wait for us here, and we're on time." He checked his watch. Both engines were turning. The twin-tailed plane, it looked like an old P‑5M with a thin torpedo‑like radome, sat on its landing gear, its propellers flashing arcs in the soft ramp lights.

  "Look." Ullanov squeezed them into the shed's gloom. Head­lights probed the concrete pad, then a jeep‑type vehicle, spewing mist, ground down the access road, swung a half circle and stopped next to the fuselage.

  A man jumped out. Lofton squinted to see the shoulderboards of a captain second rank, who pounded on the fuselage near a waist‑­high hatch. Propeller blast tore at his overcoat. He held his combina­tion cap on with one hand, the other gripped a shiny briefcase. Something glinted; the briefcase was chained to his wrist.

  Dobrynyn bit his thumbnail and sagged. "A courier, damnit! They must have manifested him at the last minute."

  The fuselage door pushed open against the propwash. Two hands reached out and pulled the scrambling captain through the hatch. The Be-12's turboprops wound up for a moment, it moved forward, th
en braked on its right main and rotated toward the ramp.

  The three stooped in mud as they watched the Be-12's running and landing lights wink on. She waddled down the ramp and splashed into the bay, where her turboprops wound to full power. The Be-12 nosed into the light chop of Avachinskaya Guba and was lost in propwash during her takeoff run. In thirty seconds she was airborne; her navigation lights gracefully skimmed the water for a moment, then gained altitude and blinked toward the channel entrance.

  Lofton watched the Be-12's lights recede over Mys Bezymyannya and the Pacific Ocean. He looked at Dobrynyn.

  "Tomorrow night," Dobrynyn muttered. "We'll try it then."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  At 1:45 P.M., Ted Carrington's green Jaguar XJ-S pulled from the brick house in Kalorama Circle and turned on Mas­sachusetts Avenue. It eased through light traffic and headed downtown.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach the Executive Office Building, a gray, Civil War era structure on the White House grounds at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Seventeenth Street. Carrington parked his Jaguar a block away and pushed through the early afternoon crowd.

  Inside the EOB, he pinned his ID to his breast pocket, chatted with the lobby guard as he signed in, and caught a packed elevator to the third floor.

  He walked to the office. The door's brass lettering announced:

  Dr. Felix L. Renkin

  National Security Council

  Department of Congressional Liaison

  Suite 386

  With a nod to the receptionist, Carrington walked through a paneled double door to a large, well‑appointed anteroom. Renkin's secretary eyed him, then went back to her word processor.

  "How long, Martha?" Carrington stood before a Queen Anne sofa and thumbed a copy of Fortune.

  "Soon. He's finishing with Senator Phillips. I just buzzed him."

  "I need twenty minutes."

  "Five."

  "Martha, it's important."

  "Five, Ted. He's due at the Pentagon in half an hour to meet with General Marquette."

  "I'll drive him. He doesn't know it yet, but we have to stop by the house."

  "OK, ten minutes. But first I need him for three minutes myself."

  The door opened and young Senator John Phillips's well‑tele­vised six-foot-five-inch frame and shock of prematurely white hair filled the entrance. Behind him walked a sport‑coated aide. Felix Renkin, ever the friendly host, managed to nudge his guests through the foyer with small talk.

  Renkin looked at Carrington. They nodded curtly. Carrington casually dropped a large manila envelope on the coffee table, turned his back, and flipped through his magazine.

  Senator Phillips's face angled down toward Renkin. "This has been most helpful. I really appreciate your time, Dr. Renkin, and--what?"

  Phillips's aide whispered in his ear.

  "Oh, yes. A minor thing, I almost forgot. The V-22 Ospreys. Are you aware of the situation?"

  Renkin nodded.

  "Well, the issue still isn't settled. There just has to be a better way. I may be new at this, but Armed Services wants a complete accounting of your op‑plan, and I under­stand GAO has asked the same thing. Plus, we have to know, must know, what the president's intentions are. We've gone along with you so far, but there are too many contingencies."

  Renkin took a half step back and folded his arms. "For example?"

  The senator's eyes darted to Carrington, then to Martha. She avoided his glance, tapping at her word processor. His voice lowered as he put his hands on his hips. "Well, why do you want the V‑22s in the first place? That's supposed to be a Marine program and we still haven't funded a production run. DoD may kill the program without us and yet you have a coproduction order with...with..."

  Phillips's aide whispered in his ear.

  "--Federal Technologies for three of them. Do you plan to napalm a Central American jungle?"

  "You told us to buy them, Senator."

  "What?" Phillips's face colored. He dropped his hands.

  "Yes, that's right," Felix Renkin said mildly. "Your committee recommended last year that we buy five, not three, as a loss leader, even though it was evident we didn't need them. We have plenty of hovering equipment."

  Phillips looked at his aide.

  The man nodded slowly.

  "I wasn't aware." Phillips took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling. "Is it too late to rescind the pur­chase?"

  "No, of course not, but it will take full council action to reverse the process. The V‑22s have been committed to clients."

  "Which clients."

  Renkin smiled slightly and shook his head.

  "All right." Phillips ran a hand through his hair. "Will a recission require the president's vote?"

  "Not in this matter. And as far as the National Security Council goes, only a deputy or an authorized representative from each department would have a voice in this situation. That includes," Renkin ticked off his fingers, "the Departments of Defense Policy, Intelligence, National Security, Geographic Areas, and Legal Counsel. Also, the president's assistant for national security affairs has to review the action, along with an under­secretary from the Departments of State and Defense. But those are just confirmations, endorsements so to speak."

  Renkin looked up to the senator. "You understand, John, that those slots more or less form our administrative quorum. Of course, I'll be glad to carry the ball here for you at the Congressional Liaison Department." He palmed the senator's elbow, and the aide snapped the door open. "If it were of an operational or threat analysis nature, John, then each of the directors would have to vote on the action, along with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the director of the CIA and, oh, yes, the president." A smile drew across Renkin's lips, light caromed off his baldness.

  Carrington grinned to himself and switched to a copy of Time.

  Senator Phillips walked through the door. "Thank you, Dr. Renkin. I'm glad we don't have to bother the Oval Office with it."

  Renkin gripped the knob. "I appreciate your coming over, Senator. Say, how are you and Gladys enjoying Washington? Are you settled yet? We should have dinner at the Jockey Club some evening."

  "Well, yes. We would enjoy that."

  "Fine John. Let's do it soon."

  The door closed. Renkin stared at it, his hands behind his back. "Yes, Carrington."

  "We have to talk, Doctor. I have the research."

  "Can it wait?"

  "I don't think so, sir."

  "Martha?"

  She spun in her chair, "You're due at General Marquette's in twenty‑five minutes. And I need--"

  "Call over there and postpone for an hour." Renkin waved Carrington into his office, followed him in, and shut the door. "Go ahead. What is it that won't keep until this evening?."

  "This, Dr. Renkin. I finished a little while ago and it has me concerned." Carrington drew a thick report and handed it over. "This operation has a lot of loose ends. I've been worried from the start and now--"

  "I don't have time to go through all that."

  "Just the three marked sections, sir."

  "Very well. Please sit."

  It was an extensive clinical document. Renkin flipped pages quickly while Carrington took the sofa. "Yes, the studies of identical twins separated as infants." He eyed Carrington, turned to the summary section, and sat in a leather armchair. He reached over his desk, poured water from a silver carafe, and sipped.

  Carrington had highlighted a section that stated: "identical twins raised together develop traits to establish individual identities between themselves. Those raised apart have nothing to inhibit their genetic behavioral preferences and turn out with strikingly similar personalities and predilections."

  Renkin looked at Carrington and flipped to the next marked page. The highlighted section asked: "Is our behavior influenced primarily by our culture? Our environment? Our creeds and nation­alities? Or is our behavior influenced by our genetic structure as these studies suggest?"

/>   Renkin looked at his watch and lay the report on his desk. "I'm due at Marquette's office. What's on your mind?"

  "Two wingnuts. Not one. Lofton's double, his brother, will be exactly like him: unreliable. He may pull something like Lofton did in San Diego or even Long Beach."

  Renkin snapped, "Yes, but they grew up in totally dissimilar countries. Don't you think they would have overriding cultural differences?"

  "Possibly, sir. But we don't know how vast the diffe­rences are, or for that matter, how similar. We do know the other twin is a Spetsnaz. And Lofton's a SEAL. To me that goes in line with what the report is saying about 'genetic preferences.' They're dangerous and unpredictable."

  Renkin rubbed his chin.

  "And that's not the worst part."

  "Yes?"

  "I almost missed it. Chapter Three, as marked. It says that twins' fingerprints are not identical--"

  "What? Hatch assured me his people said there were no problems in that area."

  "I realize that. This happened so fast, my guess is they were careless and missed it. But when I saw that," Carrington waved a hand at the report, "I put a call in to an FBI friend. He just called back and confirmed that identical twins do have distin­guishing fingerprints. The differences are small, but subtle, so there is a way to tell them apart. That would trigger any decent security check, especially the Jenson Industries security force. They're top-notch."

  Carrington exhaled loudly. "My recommendation is that we get out and cut our losses. Tell Mr. Hatch to get rid of Lofton. Now. The twin should be killed, too, if he's spent any time with Lofton. Something could get back to us." Carrington sighed, his shoulders sagged. "Besides, this genetic stuff has me worried. It's a weird feeling. Lofton could become close to his brother. If one dies, retribution, maybe? We don't need that."

  Renkin muttered, "Two Loftons. The Soviet could be as intractable as his brother."

  "Yes, sir." Carrington crossed a leg. He imagined closed eyes behind Renkin's glasses; the mind would be superactive.

  Renkin sat forward, bent his head, and massaged his temples. "You were right to come. The switch must be called off. I'll go home and draft a message to the art dealer."