“Not a problem,” said Karr.
“So you know who I am — who are you?”
“I wouldn’t tell him jack,” said Lia.
“Why not?” said Karr.
Lia didn’t answer.
“Relax, Princess. Dean’s straight up or he wouldn’t be here. Right, Charlie?”
“Yeah.”
“I came to Desk Three from the men in black, security team. Actually, I have an engineering degree, but I haven’t used it in, I don’t know, a million years.”
“He designed toilet seats,” snickered Lia.
Karr ignored her. “They told me they wanted me for the degree, but I think it was because I’m bigger than the average bear.”
Karr laughed.
“You’re pretty young to have an engineering degree,” said Dean. “Isn’t that a master’s?”
“Very good, Charlie. I got into RPI when I was fifteen. What sucked, though, was that I missed the high school baseball team. I’d screwed up my knee anyway.”
“So what are you, twenty-five?”
“Charlie’s writing a fucking book,” said Lia.
“Twenty-three. How ’bout yourself?”
“Twice that,” answered Lia. “Just about.”
Dean, suddenly feeling defensive about his age, let the error stand. “So what are we doing?” he asked.
“I’m kinda getting to that,” said Karr. He took off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. Not only did he consider looking where he was going optional, but he wasn’t doctrinaire about having his hands on the wheel, either. “Basically, we have this problem. We lost an airplane the other day, and we’re not entirely sure why.”
“Maybe it broke,” said Dean.
“It wouldn’t have just broken,” said Lia.
“Maybe it broke,” said Karr, putting his cap back on and returning his hands to the wheel. “Anyway, what we have to do, number one, is make sure it was fried to a crisp on the way down. That’s mission one — look for one major crispy critter in the tundra. Mission number two — maybe — is see if there’s any clue about who or what shot it down.”
“Why maybe?” asked Dean.
“Well, because if the plane really was burned to a crisp, there shouldn’t be any clues left, you follow?”
“Your fancy gizmos can’t figure it all out for you?” said Dean.
“Meow,” said Lia.
“You a Luddite, Charlie?” asked Karr.
“I’m not a Luddite.”
“Technology,” said Lia in a sententious voice, “is a force multiplier, not a replacement for human intervention.”
She began to laugh uncontrollably.
“She’s making fun of the boss,” explained Karr.
“Who do you really work for?” asked Charlie. “The CIA?”
Lia’s laugh deepened.
“I figure you’re the Special Collection Service, CIA working for the NSA,” said Dean.
“Wow, he knows his history,” Karr told Lia.
“I know Division D,” said Dean. Division D was the CIA group charged with assassinations. He had worked with two members of it back in Vietnam and immediately afterward, though only as a “trainer” in sniping techniques. If the truth be told, the men he worked with knew at least as much as he did. Dean was a bit hazy on the connection between the Special Collection Service and Division D, but he believed that the Special Collection Service was an arm of Division D. Or vice versa.
“Well, listen, Charlie, if it makes you feel more comfortable, think of us as Special Collection on steroids,” said Karr.
He turned around and stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the club.”
Not sure if the kid was kidding or not — he seemed to be — Dean took Karr’s hand and shook it quickly, hoping he’d turn back around and pay attention to where they were going.
“We’re one big happy family,” said Karr.
“Pull-ease,” said Lia.
“Except for the Princess. She’s a loaner from Delta Force.”
“I didn’t know they let women in,” said Dean.
“They don’t. She’s a transvestite.”
“Hardy-har-har,” said Lia. “A lot’s changed since you were in the service, Charlie Dean. Who was your commanding officer, George Washington?”
“I think it was U. S. Grant.”
They had come to an intersection, the first Dean had noticed. Karr stopped the truck. “Okay, Princess, you need freshening up or what?”
“No.”
“Charlie, you got to take a leak?”
“No.”
“Good. Then we’ll go straight to Numto.”
Karr threw the truck back into gear and kicked onto the road, spitting mud and gravel as he did. Dean had learned by now to hang on, and managed to keep his balance as Karr steadily and quickly brought the van to cruising speed. Dean couldn’t see the speedometer from where he was, but he figured they must be going eighty at least.
And that was miles per hour, not kilometers.
“What’s in Numto?” Dean asked.
“We think a piece of our plane. Actually, it’s about ten miles beyond Numto,” added Karr. His voice had become subtly more serious. “We’ll stop in an hour or so and get some food. It will taste like shit, but you’re going to want to eat it. After that, you want to try and catch some sleep back there. We work mostly at night, except when we work during the day, so your body clock is going to be fried, if it isn’t already. Makes some people grumpy. Unless they were born that way. Oh, one more thing. I have a request.”
“What’s that?”
Karr turned around and grinned. “Don’t get bumped off, okay? I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dean told him.
“Good man.”
9
William Rubens shifted on the ornate seat in the White House Map Room, doing his best not to glance once more at his Rolex. This was the reason he hated meeting the president, especially here; overbooked, Jeffrey Marcke ran perpetually behind schedule.
He had been summoned without explanation, though Rubens suspected it was for an update on the mission to check the Wave Three plane’s wreckage. Two senators had made a polite though terse request to the CIA for information on the Russian laser system that had been Wave Three’s target; the request had undoubtedly been kicked over to the White House, where the president himself would make the final call on what to tell the legislators.
A mountain of projects awaited Rubens back in Crypto City; Third Wave was the most prominent but hardly the only one. To have to kill a half hour sitting across from ancient but nonetheless tacky furniture and shellacked maps did more than waste Rubens’ time — it offended his sense of aesthetic balance.
George Hadash entered the room, sweating so badly that he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Decided to hold a press conference on the new Energy Bill,” said the National Security Director. “What a nightmare. Come on.”
Hadash led Rubens around and out to the south lawn, past a cordon of aides and Secret Service agents, and down to the horseshoe pit, which was not far from the tennis court. The president had doffed his coat and tie but was otherwise still dressed in his standard work clothes: well-tailored suit and broadcloth shirt with sturdy-soled, rather plain black shoes. The pit dated back several presidencies, though it hadn’t gotten much publicity until Marcke remarked in a Time interview soon after taking office that tossing the iron around was as therapeutic as “punching a wall.”
Which apparently he regarded as a special pleasure.
“Naturally,” said Marcke as his last horseshoe fell away from the post. “How are you, Billy?”
“Fine, Mr. President.”
“Better than me, I suspect.” Marcke smiled wanly, then retrieved his horseshoes. He pitched all four — he played without an opponent — before speaking again as he walked back to the other end of the pit. “We’re waiting for Bob Freeman.”
“Oh,” said Rubens nonchalantly.
>
Freeman was the head of the FBI. Meeting with him could mean any of a number of things — most deliciously, that the Bureau was trying to track a double agent in the CIA and needed technical assistance.
Of course, it could also mean that a member of his own agency had gone bad, but Rubens dismissed the far-fetched notion out of hand.
Marcke let the horseshoe fly, nailing a ringer. “Have we recovered Wave Three yet?” asked the president, sizing up another toss.
“Still working on it, sir.” He didn’t bother correcting the president’s misstatement — the mission was not to recover the Wave Three plane but merely to make sure it was sterile.
The president’s shot sailed high, bouncing at the end of the box.
“Here’s Mr. Freeman,” said Hadash, pointing back toward the lawn.
“Very good.” The president continued to pitch his shoes.
Rubens was surprised to see that accompanying Freeman was his own boss, Admiral Brown. Brown had just returned from South America. Rubens wasn’t sure whether he had been summoned to the meeting as well or was just stopping by to report on the trip.
Probably the former, Rubens decided. Undoubtedly Freeman had gone to him first, not realizing the way things truly worked.
“Mr. Freeman, hello,” said the president as the horseshoe clanked against the metal pole. “Admiral Brown — you’re back from your trip.”
“This morning,” said Brown. He nodded to Rubens.
“Did you catch the press conference, Bobby?” asked the president.
Freeman said something about how remarkably well it had gone.
“Very nice of you to lie,” said Marcke. He tossed another ringer. “It went over like a fart in church. They’re going to hammer me on the Energy Bill. Not a doubt about it. Bob, you know Billy Rubens, right?”
Rubens grimaced — the president’s use of “Billy” would now make Freeman feel as if he were entitled to use it as well.
“Mr. Rubens.” Freeman stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Freeman.”
“I’m a great admirer of the NSA,” said Freeman.
“The FBI does a fine job as well,” said Rubens.
The president retrieved his horseshoes. “Now that that’s established — Mr. Hadash?”
“There have been some questions raised about Congressman Greene’s demise,” said Hadash, starting in an unusually roundabout way. He paused to add a few qualifiers, then said something about Congressman Greene’s contributions to the country.
Rubens folded his arms across his chest, utterly surprised by the topic, though naturally he endeavored not to reveal anything except boredom. He listened with half of his brain and turned the other half to self-examination: How could he have allowed himself to be blindsided?
Obviously because the matter was absurd. The accidental death of a congressman, even from the president’s own party, was hardly a ripple on the ocean compared to the weighty matters the administration faced.
But surely that was one of the earliest lessons he had learned — Washington ran on absurdity. He should have anticipated this.
“What George is getting at,” said the president, cutting him off, “is that some people don’t think Greene’s death was an accident.”
“Nonsense,” said Rubens.
“You were there, Mr. Rubens?” asked Freeman.
It was obvious that he already knew Rubens had been there, and the obsequious note in his voice undoubtedly registered with the others as totally bogus. There was therefore no need to underline it.
“Greta’s my cousin,” said Rubens. “It was her daughter’s communion. I saw the guitarist jump into the pool,” he added, cutting to the inevitable chase. “It was an accident. Bizarre, freakish, unfortunate — but definitely an accident.”
“You weren’t there when the police arrived,” said Freeman.
“Really, do you think I should have stayed?” Rubens let his contempt peek out, ever so slightly. “There were plenty of other witnesses.”
The president’s horseshoes clunked against each other. He’d scored four ringers in a row.
“There are some legitimate questions,” said Freeman. “Reporters have theories. You know what happens.”
“Why don’t you spell them out?” said Brown.
Freeman told him that there were rumors that Greene had been preparing to use his influence to have Greta fired as committee counsel.
“So she picked up the guitarist and threw him into the pool?” asked Brown.
Freeman held up his hands.
Rubens looked through the trees toward the south fountain, its white water furled into a rectangular mist by the wind. It was counterproductive to say anything; his boss had actually done an admirable job defending him.
Perhaps that was intended as a blind, though. Perhaps Brown had put Freeman up to this.
Paranoia. Rubens realized he was overreacting because he had been taken by surprise. It was important not to overcompensate.
“Congress is concerned about the circumstances of Congressman Greene’s death,” said Freeman. “And there’s likely to be a call for an independent investigation.”
“I’m sure it will prove to be a freak accident,” said Rubens.
“One of my pathology experts says there should have been no electrocution,” said Freeman.
“Then I suppose it was poisoning that he died of,” said Rubens dryly. “Just like the media to get it wrong.”
“My point is, maybe the guitar or pool was tampered with,” said Freeman.
“By whom?” asked Brown.
Freeman shrugged. Rubens knew that as ridiculous as this all was, it could not be summarily dismissed. During the Clinton administration, the media and antagonistic congressmen had made quite a hash of Vince Foster’s suicide, basically accusing the president of pulling the trigger. At the time, Rubens was a young buck in the collection operations area, but he remembered the controversy well. If such a controversy tainted him, he would undoubtedly be asked to resign. The NSA depended on its image.
A thought occurred to him: This must all be the work of Collins, the CIA DDO, trying to make a power play for Desk Three. She had all sorts of media and congressional contacts, and she wanted his job. It was even conceivable that she had set the whole thing up. She’d murder her mother to move ahead.
More paranoia. But not necessarily misplaced.
Marcke threw his last horseshoe — another ringer — and then walked a few steps up the hill. He held out his hands and a member of the White House staff ran down with his suit jacket.
“Our problem here is crazy rumors,” said the president. “We all know that this was an accidental death. But in Washington, the more bizarre something is, the more plausible it becomes in the public mind.”
“There were rumors that Congressman Greene pressed for information about NSA operations and was denied,” said Freeman.
“Baloney,” said Brown.
“Actually, if you recall the hearings, he did make a bit of a fuss,” said the president, pulling on his coat. He looked directly at Rubens.
Surely the president did not believe that Rubens would assassinate a congressional opponent rather than let him join the Intelligence Committee.
However tempting that might be. Besides, Greene was hardly an opponent.
Now, someone like Senator Katherine Hilton…
“Anything else, Mr. Freeman?” Marcke asked the FBI director.
“We would like to interview Mr. Rubens informally.”
“Not a problem,” said Rubens. “If I can help the Bureau in any way, I’d be glad to.”
It was an immense lie, as most lies in Washington were, and Freeman accepted it with a smile twice as phony. “Very good.”
“Next appointment?” the president asked the man who had helped him with the coat.
“Education secretary for lunch.”
“I’d like him roasted and turned on a spit, with maybe a light gravy on the side,” said Marcke, sta
rting back toward the White House. Freeman, walking beside him, gave a forced laugh.
“Take this seriously, Billy,” hissed Hadash, who had taken hold of his jacket to hold him back.
“It’s absurd and obnoxious,” said Rubens.
“Agreed. But if the press finds out you were at the scene of a crime and then left, there will be fallout.”
“Please,” said Rubens, though he knew Hadash was in fact correct. Still, it would have been bad to be there when they arrived.
Rubens turned back to find Admiral Brown frowning at him.
“Make this go away,” said the admiral, starting toward the front.
10
Malachi Reese unclipped his MP3 player from his waistband and held it in his hand as the chemical analyzer took its sample in the torture chamber leading to the Remote Piloting Chamber down the hall from the Desk Three Art Room. The sniffer was ostensibly designed to detect the small range of chemicals involved in the manufacture of explosives; Mala-chi figured that it was actually intended to keep cyborgs out. Which was why he had thumbed “Cyborg Trash,” an XeX2 tune, into the player and cranked the sucker to 10.
The black suits didn’t catch the irony, but that wasn’t their thing. Malachi stepped forward as the green panel flashed near the door and entered the empty room, which looked like a cross between a flight simulator and a dentist’s examining room. Dull blue lights in the floor led to the control seat, which was canted back about twenty degrees from vertical. Sensors snapped on soft yellow lights from the side of the room as Malachi sat in the chair, adjusting it to his preferences — he liked to sit upright, as if he were at a desk.
Which, in a way, he was. The controls in front of him included three keyboards as well as an oversize flight stick, which he wouldn’t need for this mission. At the front of the room was a large, configurable plasma screen; immediately in front of the seat were three large LCD panels. At the left of the seat were several smaller, dedicated tubes with an assortment of affiliated knobs, sliders, and dial controls. On the right were two more screens. The top tied into the Art Room down the hall, feeding either a general shot or a picture of whoever was speaking to him over the dedicated circuit. The bottom tied into either SpyNet or whatever was on the main screen at the Art Room; a simple toggle switch chose the view.
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