It took them nearly forty minutes to do so. When they were done, Dean asked for a break to hit the head.
“Not now,” said Black Suit. “You’re a Marine. Cross your legs.”
Three hours later, Dean’s bladder had displaced his lungs and was working its way toward his throat. It gave him a bit of an edge on the questions about his sexual relationships and carried him through the little game Black Suit and the head-shrink played, peppering him with accusations about how he must really consider himself a failure. But it started to become painful when they began asking him detailed questions about his belief in God.
Dean wondered what part religion might play in his assignment as George Hadash’s photographic memory. Hadash hadn’t been particularly profuse in describing what Dean was supposed to do before sending him up here, saying only that he wanted someone he could trust to take a look at something unpleasant.
Dean had met Hadash years before, back when both were considerably younger. As a Marine, Dean had been assigned to accompany a young Pentagon visitor around Da Nang for a few days. Hadash proved to be considerably smarter than most of the suits who came out to look at what Vietnam was all about. He’d also proven himself relatively brave, if somewhat naive, volunteering to go out in the bush with Dean. Dean took him — a decision that caused him considerable grief with his commander.
But it wasn’t like he and Hadash were best of friends. Hadash got in touch with him a few times after the war, once to tell some students over at MIT what the jungle was like. Until yesterday morning, he hadn’t even realized Hadash was the country’s National Security Director.
“You can take a break, Corporal Dean,” said Black Suit finally.
“Yeah, real funny,” said Dean, who had left the Marines as a gunnery sergeant, not a corporal.
Black Suit smiled — the first time he had for the entire session. “Actually, I thought you might finally pee in your pants.”
“I’ll tell you something truthful. When I was a corporal, that was probably the best time of my life,” said Dean as they unhooked him from the machine. “I should have refused the promotion.”
Dean was taken down the hallway, flanked by two men who accompanied him into the men’s room. They said it was impossible to go anywhere here without an escort, and under no circumstances to lose his badge with its “V” insignia — someone without a badge might very well be shot. He thought they might be exaggerating, but he didn’t intend on testing it.
Dean hadn’t volunteered to help Hadash, exactly. Hadash simply called and told him he had a job he needed done immediately. He just assumed — just knew—that Dean would drop everything and do it.
And Dean, for reasons that included $2 million in a Swiss bank account, agreed.
Bladder finally relieved, he emerged from the men’s room feeling invigorated. He girded himself for the second round of questions as he entered the room, but the shrink and technicians had left. Only Black Suit remained. He looked at the guards and lifted his forefinger. They nodded like a pair of matched robots, then backed through the door.
“Dinnertime?” Dean sat in the wooden chair.
“Not for you.”
“This where you slap me around a bit, ask if I’m going to come clean?” Dean asked. “Or do you toss down a pack of cigarettes and offer to split the loot if I talk?”
“You’re a real funny guy, Sergeant.”
“You know what? I’m not a Marine anymore.” Dean stopped himself from saying that he didn’t really care to be reminded of his days in the service; no sense giving the guy a stick to hit him with. “I’m guessing you were in the Army. I can tell you weren’t a Marine. And you were an officer. Maybe you still are. A major, right? They always had something up their butts.”
Black Suit smiled.
Dean stretched his legs and wrapped his arms across his chest, starting to feel a little cold in his T-shirt. “So all right, you asking me more questions or what?”
“We’re done.”
“Same time tomorrow?”
“No. You’re on the job, starting now.”
“You mean I’m hired?” said Dean sardonically as he got up from the chair. “We going to go meet the boss?”
“You don’t have time to meet anyone,” smirked Black Suit. “You have a plane to catch.”
“Where am I going?”
“Eventually, to Surgut.”
“Surgut?”
“You’re a businessman. Your passport and luggage are waiting for you in the foyer upstairs. Your driver will take you to the airport.”
“Where the hell is Surgut?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just follow the program.”
“Surgut,” Dean demanded.
“It’s in Siberia. But don’t worry; it’s not the really bad part of Siberia.”
4
Eight hours and several time zones later, Charles Dean found himself at the counter of Polish National Airlines in Heath-row Airport, waiting as one of the ten ugliest women in the world pecked his nom de passport into the reservations computer. His handlers had chosen “John Brown” as his cover name, matching it to a cover story claiming he sold metal and plastic fixtures used for filling teeth. Undoubtedly they knew of his fear of dentistry, though if they had really wanted to be perverse they might have given him the first name James and sent him out as a record salesman.
“So, Mr. Brown,” said the reservation clerk. “How long will you stay in Warsaw?”
The woman attempted a smile. Dean realized that his initial assessment was incorrect — she must rank among the five ugliest women in the world.
“Not long.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“I have a brochure of restaurants,” she said, reaching below the counter.
Dean took the pamphlet stoically, unsure whether the woman was moonlighting for the Polish travel board or — and here was a frightening thought — trying to pick him up. When he looked at the pamphlet a few minutes later in the boarding area, he saw that two words separated by several paragraphs in the densely packed jungle of ungrammatical English had been underlined—“King” and “Street.”
His instructions had been to simply use his plane tickets and he would be contacted along the way. This couldn’t be their way of contacting him, could it?
King Street?
But what else could it be?
Dean took the brochure and stepped away from the desk. Was King Street a destination or a code word?
He made a circuit around the mall of newsstands, fast-food shops, and currency exchanges, walking slowly to let anyone interested in contacting him do so. When no one stopped him, he went across to the baggage check-in area, checking the suitcase he’d been given. Upstairs, he cleared through security and walked down the hallway to a duty-free area that reminded him of a massive department store. As he headed toward the airline gate, he realized that “King Street” might refer to a display of some sort — booze or perfume, maybe. So he went back through more carefully, perusing the pyramids of Chivas Regal and Baileys, stopping by the Bulova watches, sniffing the Chanel. The only one who came close to him was a three-year-old German girl trying to escape from her mother. He made his way down the tunnel to the gate, where the stiff plastic seats were about a quarter filled. His carry-on baggage contained sales material relating to his dental cover story; he’d managed to read through it twice on the flight over. He was just debating whether to try a third time when a middle-aged doppelganger for Porky Pig — had Porky Pig worn a goatee — pushed down into the seat beside him. Dean noticed that the man had a wire-bound street atlas of Krakow in his open briefcase.
“Hate Polish National,” said Porky, in what to Dean sounded like a Scottish accent. His light tan loafers were made of thin, expensive-looking leather, but the material of his blue suit pants had begun to pile.
“Yeah,” replied Dean.
“Have you flown it?”
“Never before,” sa
id Dean. “First time to Poland.”
Which was about the only part of his cover story that was actually true.
Porky told Dean that he was a barrister for a reinsurance company, heading to Poland to depose witnesses in a negligence case. He frowned slightly when Dean gave him his fake name and cover. Few people wanted to talk about dental fixtures, though Dean wondered what he would do if he ran into a dentist.
“Staying in Krakow?” asked Porky.
“Just a quick business meeting.”
“Then where?”
“Russia,” said Dean. “It’s wide open for braces. And cosmetic fillings — we have no quality competition. Our crowns are among the best.”
“I’ll bet.” Porky changed the subject to the weather.
As they were talking, a petite Asian woman took a seat across from them. Her pale white hose pulled Dean’s eyes up her legs to a short red miniskirt. Above it she wore a mostly unbuttoned black silk shirt beneath a faded denim jacket. Her milk-white neck and slim face managed to look somehow vulnerable and bored at the same time.
Their eyes met; the woman’s frown deepened instantly. Dean smiled. The woman got up from the seat, shaking her head as she walked away.
“Mostly what I do,” said Porky, who had changed the subject once more as Dean indulged in a little gratuitous lust, “is take depositions. Industrial cases. Defective jackhammers, faulty pressure valves, that sort of thing.”
“Intriguing,” said Dean.
“Yes.”
Porky started detailing his current case, concerning a railroad company that was being sued by passengers, or rather the survivors of passengers, after a coupling failed on a brake system, with horrific results.
The story was about as interesting as dental fillings. Was this guy the agent who was supposed to contact him?
Dean interrupted a finely wrought description of pneu- matic couplings to ask if he could look at the street atlas in Porky’s briefcase.
“Sure.” Porky’s sandwich-sized hands jammed against the sides of his briefcase as he unwedged it. The atlas had a few pages creased over, but Dean got the distinct impression the creases had been added to make it look used. He studied the city.
“Maybe I can help,” said Porky. “What are you looking for?”
Dean said, “King Street,” and waited for Porky to tear himself out of his fat suit and reveal himself as an American agent. But he did neither, instead scratching his thumb against his temple. “King in English or Polish?”
“Don’t worry. Somebody’s meeting me at the airport,” said Dean.
He glanced at his watch, then decided he’d hit the gents’ before boarding the Polish plane. Excusing himself, he wandered across the waiting area to the hall with the rest rooms. He entered the men’s room and was just positioning the strap of his carry-on against his shoulder when someone else came in; the sharp click of heels against the floor caught Dean’s attention and he glanced over his shoulder.
It was the Asian woman.
“Hey,” he started to say.
“Into the stall,” she said.
“What the hell?”
The woman leaned toward the sink and waved her hand in front of the faucet. Its motion sensor clicked and water spewed from the tap.
“The stall,” she said, pointing.
“Wait up.”
The door opened once again. As Dean glanced toward it the woman took two quick steps to him and wrapped herself around him, her mouth seeking his.
Even if her accent hadn’t given her away as an American, Charlie Dean was hardly the sort to forgo a kiss, even if it was offered in a men’s room. Still, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation.
Nor was the man who’d come in to use the facilities for their intended purpose. He retreated hastily, the door slamming behind him. In the meantime, the woman had begun pushing Dean backward toward the last toilet stall.
“Uh, what’s go—”
She slapped him.
“Idiot,” she hissed, reaching over and waving her hand in front of the flush sensor.
“What the hell’s the story?”
“Idiot,” she repeated. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small, round makeup case. “Here.”
Dean took the case. He turned it over and then opened it. There was nothing inside, so he started to give it back. She grabbed it from him, opened it, then pushed it in front of his face.
“What, my five o’clock shadow?” he asked.
“Just shut up.”
Something about the mirror wasn’t right. The woman tilted it slightly, clicked something on the back, then frowned and shook her head as she pocketed it.
“Retina scan?” he asked, finally catching on.
“Did they recruit you off the street?” the woman asked. “Or is it just that you’re from Texas?”
“Do I sound like I’m from Texas?”
“You sound like you’re from the planet Moron,” said the woman.
“Well, don’t let that stop you from explaining who the hell you are,” Dean told her.
“Santa Claus. Now why the hell are you talking to a Russian agent?”
“Who?”
“You idiot. The fat boy sitting next to you in the waiting area works for the Russian Security Service.”
“He does?”
“Listen, do me a favor and go home, okay? I don’t have time to baby-sit an NSC wanna-be.”
“Fuck you.”
“Gee, Chuckie, what a clever comeback. That wow ’em back in Houston?”
“I don’t come from Texas.”
“I know where you’re from.” She glanced toward the door of the rest room, as if she heard someone coming. “Yeah,” she said to herself. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Okay.”
Dean strung his carry-on bag over his shoulder. Except for the fact that she obviously knew who he was, he might have thought the woman psycho.
Not that those were mutually exclusive propositions.
“Just go catch your flight,” she told him, turning back around and pointing. “When you get there, in the terminal, go to Gate Two. Gate Two — you can count that high?”
“Ha-ha.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I don’t have a ticket beyond Poland. I’m supposed to be going to Surgut, but no one gave me a ticket.”
“You are from Texas. Just buy a ticket on the first flight on the board.”
“That’s going to take me to Surgut?”
“Buy a ticket on the first flight on the board.” She pushed open the door to the stall. “Good-bye.”
The door to the men’s room opened before Charlie could grab her. “Ooo-la-la,” said the newcomer, watching her leave.
“Yeah, ooo-fucking-la,” said Dean.
5
Rubens straightened and walked down the narrow aisle behind the row of consoles, glancing toward the back of the room where the technical people were monitoring relevant intercepts and other real-time intelligence. Jeff Rockman, who was assigned to communicate with the field agents on the operation, leaned from the station Rubens had just been hunched over.
“You were right,” Rockman told Marie Telach, who as watch commander was supervising the mission. “She went into the men’s room.”
“Did she dunk his head in the toilet?”
“No.”
“She must like him,” said Rubens acerbically. Lia DeFrancesca — shanghaied from the Army Special Forces Delta unit — was one of his best field agents but had a personality that the Wicked Witch of the West would have admired. “And what’s with the miniskirt?”
“Tools of the trade,” said Telach.
“Which trade is that?”
“Boss.” Telach gave him the same look a teenager’s mother might use to ward off an overprotective father.
“All right,” said Rubens. He turned back to Rockman. “The Russian take the flight?”
“They’re just boarding,” said Rockman. One of his computer screens showe
d the Polish flight’s manifest, which was being updated passenger by passenger as they boarded. “There goes Dean.”
“One of George Hadash’s best men,” sneered Telach.
“We can leave Mr. Hadash out of this,” said Rubens. “Dean is doing us a favor, even if he doesn’t know it.”
“Classic deer caught in the headlights,” she answered.
“He’s not that bad.” Rubens had reviewed Dean’s file again. He had been a competent — maybe more than competent — Marine sniper, no mean feat. He had nothing but disdain for the CIA operatives he’d worked with, which made it extremely unlikely he would knowingly help Collins. And the fact that he hadn’t just decked DeFrancesca spoke well for his self-control.
“All right, they’re aboard,” said Rockman. He began pumping the keys on one of his computers. “You want to listen to the plane and tower?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Rubens. “What about Lia?”
“Just made her flight,” said Rockman. “Gave one of the male attendants a wedgie.”
“No doubt.”
Located on subbasement three of OPS 2/B in the heart of the Black Chamber, the Art Room was the center of operations for Desk Three. An improvement over the original War Room — officially known as OPS 1 Room 3E099—the Art Room allowed a small group of specialists and former field agents to run operations all across the globe. Sitting at three banks of consoles, Rubens’ people — called runners because they “ran” the field agents — could access real-time data from satellites and other sensors. If their own library of scripts and programs couldn’t get them into target computers or security systems, they could call on Desk Three’s hacking operation, which was housed in a separate facility. Besides tying into the Defense Special Missile and Astronautics Center (DEFSMAC), which maintained an array of satellites, they had their own satellite and UAV (unmanned aerial vehicle) force available, controlled from a bunker down the hallway.
Rubens had handpicked the runners from former CIA as well as NSA officers. (With the exception of Collins, Rubens had a high opinion of the agency and most of its ops.) The majority of the runners had some science or technical background as well as experience in the field. Jeff Rockman, for example, had started with the NSA as a cryptographer. Assigned to the Moscow embassy, he had begun working with some CIA agents there and helped turn a low-level field clerk into a major conduit of Russian cipher keys. Loaned to the agency, he’d distinguished himself in Afghanistan before returning to Crypto City to help Rubens set up some of the procedures for Desk Three. Telach had led a clandestine mission into North Korea, sabotaging a nuclear research facility during the Clinton years. She had then come back to the NSA and helped work out the bugs in Predator 2.1 and Predator 3.0, two programs that Rockman could unleash with hot keys from his station. (The differences in the versions had to do not with the basic coding but with the ways the programs disguised themselves. Depending on the configuration, both programs could either act as sniffers, gathering data, or simply destroy the targeted computer.)
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