35 LOGIC
CIA Headquarters
10:45 P.M.
DDI Forbes sat in his wheelchair behind piles of paperwork neatly stacked on his massive oak desk. He looked up as Pink entered.
“Good God, Pink. You look like hell in a hand basket. Rough day?”
“Yes, sir.”
It had been. But not for the reason Forbes believed. In reality, Pink had spent the entire day wrestling with Carlton’s information. He had still not heard back from the Justice Department lawyer, despite leaving him several additional voicemail messages.
The dead South African agent’s intelligence report was all the independent evidence he had. And all the evidence implicated Scott Fress. Not some pencil-pushing, bean-counting, 10-to-4 bureaucrat, but Scott Hugh Fress III, Esq., the White House Chief of Staff. How many more in the federal government could Waterboer have corrupted along with him? The Justice Department. The FBI.
The CIA?
The suspicion went against everything Pink knew about the DDI. And so Pink’s all night battle had raged, eating him alive. He had to tell Forbes. Regardless of the consequences. And so he did. Exhausted, Pink fell into a leather chair and came clean. He told Forbes everything. Carlton. The phone calls. The postcard. Confirmation of the account number. When he had finished, he exhaled deeply. The knot of stress in his stomach loosened.
“Why didn’t you tell me when you first figured it out? Why keep it from me?”
“Sir...” Pink groped for words. “I had to verify the—”
“Why?”
“Forgive me, sir, but if Fress was...compromised...”
Forbes’ eyes opened wide. “You didn’t really think...”
Pink squirmed. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Forbes squinted. His upper body began to shake uncontrollably. “You son of a bitch! Two paralyzed legs. Two Purple Hearts. A Congressional Medal of Honor. You bastard! How dare you think for a second I could be involved with that political shit Fress? And for what motive? For money? I could buy and sell Fress out of petty cash, dammit!”
Pink lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Forbes lit a fresh pipe. “Never—ever—even think such a thing.” He took a deep breath, removed his pipe from between his teeth, paused for a long moment, and regained his patrician composure and WASP stiff upper-lip.
“I think your analysis is correct about CIA as a whole, though. There has to be someone inside. Someone close. That leads to a much bigger problem. The reason you were unable to see me earlier this morning was because I had to give my weekly intelligence briefing to the president. We discussed a host of issues. Iraq, Afghanistan, the Middle East, Pakistan, China, North Korea.” He waved. “The usual. Fress was there, of course. As always. I noticed he looked a bit more concerned than his usual self. But it was when we started discussing Russia generally, the diamond contract with Waterboer specifically, that Fress became unglued. Quite palpably unglued. He tried to hide it at first, but when I presented your findings, he turned white.”
“My findings, sir?” Pink asked, shocked by the possibility Fress knew his name. It would be a death warrant.
“Not as gospel truth. Just as a theory. I didn’t use your name. The last thing I need is to have my people killed or corrupted. No use in sticking one’s neck out for the president only to have it chopped off by Fress. Anyhow, I hinted the Russian diamond stockpile delivered to Waterboer was only a part of the total stockpile, that the fire at Mirny was not an accident but a raid, that some group may have secretly taken over Mirny to sell its diamonds to Waterboer.”
“Fress went mad. Stark raving mad. He contradicted everything I proposed. Asked how I could have such ignoramuses—his word, not mine—working for me. He even called me names, the little shit. Then, quite suddenly, he cut the conversation short. Calmed down. Sat down. Even apologized.” Forbes waved a hand. “But enough of that. We know what’s what now.” He paused.
“On the way back to Langley, I rehashed the briefing with Hiroshi Yamato, Debbie’s counterpart in the East Asian section. I’d asked Hiro to come along to brief the president on the North Korean situation. He said something totally off the cuff that made me freeze. He said he’d had no idea the mafiya was behind the Mirny raid.”
Pink was riveted but somehow he had missed a step. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”
“You see, in the briefing with the president, when I suggested the Mirny fire might not have been an accidental fire at all but a raid by some nongovernmental group, one of Fress’s enraged comments was I had no evidence of the army or the FSB or the mafiya carrying out such an operation. The army and the FSB would be logical potential participants in a raid on Mirny. But the mafiya? Why would Fress say that? Mirny is not a major diamond depository.”
“That’s exactly right. It’s only a processing center.”
“So why would the mafiya take such a huge risk attacking a facility in the middle of the Siberian wasteland if there are just a few thousands carats for them to steal? You see my point? It’s an old trick. Sooner or later, someone who tries too hard to cover something up forgets what he has said and lets something slip. That’s why the police ask suspects to repeat their stories so many times.”
Forbes touched the pipe stem to each finger of his left hand as he spoke. “So, the fire at Mirny was a raid. It was a raid by an organized group. After the raid, the army was sent to replace the garrison that perished in the fire. The—”
“That must be it, sir,” Pink interrupted excitedly.
Forbes arched his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. But the army. You said that after the raid, the garrison was replaced. But if the mafiya didn’t take over Mirny to steal diamonds, it must have had another reason for the raid. Which means the mafiya and the army must have organized the raid together.”
“Marshal Aleksakov?”
“One of the reports mentions he traveled to Siberia. Perhaps he met Molotok. Maybe about the purchase of the Tacit Rainbow missiles we discussed. Ogarkov was in charge of the Siberian forces, and he’s killed right before the Mirny raid? Too much of a coincidence. Who would assassinate Ogarkov?”
“Could be a variety of groups, really.”
“In terms of motive, yes. But who would actually pull the trigger?”
“A mafiya hired gun.”
“Exactly.”
“So you think Aleksakov and Molotok are working with the mafiya just to get diamonds? With that muscle group of his, the Volki?”
“And Waterboer. It’s not so far-fetched. After all, the Russian mafiya isn’t like the American or Sicilian Cosa Nostra. The Russian godfathers, the krestnii otets, they’re former apparatchiki. Former managers and directors of the old system. The collapse of communism changed nothing. They still control everything. Transportation. Communications. Food. Fuel. And that’s just the legal stuff.”
“It certainly would explain why Fress became so nervous. If he’s being paid off by Waterboer and knows about its connection to Molotok’s Russkost, he would try to steer U.S. foreign policy attention away from Russkost. Which is exactly what he did in the briefing. Q.E.D.”
“How can a president as squeaky clean and sharp as Douglass appoint a Chief of Staff like Fress? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Squeaky clean and sharp, yes. Politically shrewd, no. That’s what made him so attractive to the voters, remember. Douglass was an Army general, then a preacher. He’s knowledgeable, charismatic, and dead honest, rare for a politician. He has great strategic acumen, but for the big stuff, not the little stuff. He has neither love nor experience in day-to-day political dogfights. Fress did him a big favor during his campaign, tantamount to submitting a resume, as Machiavelli did with the Borgias. Douglass was impressed and felt he owed Fress a debt of gratitude. So you see? It does make sense.”
“Right.” Pink shifted gears. “But if Russkost, Molotok, the Volki, the mafiya—if they are going after diamonds, they’re probably tied to
Waterboer.”
“And if they’re tied to Waterboer, they’re doing what Waterboer wants. And if they’re doing what Waterboer wants, what they’re really looking for is the stockpile. And if they had it...”
Pink finished the sentence: “They would sell it to Waterboer, take the money, and run. There wouldn’t be a reason to attack Mirny, risk exposure. Which tells us that none of them knows where the stockpile is. Waterboer almost found out, but Pyashinev was killed first. And now, Waterboer still wants it, but neither they nor the mafiya nor Russkost know where it is.”
“They only have the information our GRU contact just sent us. Comrade Pyashinev’s deathbed note, apparently.” He handed Pink the information downloaded from Klimov’s Timex.
Pink read it: Rossiya, trieti sloi. Nie dopustit im wziat eto. “Russia, third layer. We can’t let them get it’? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, but neither do they. The bottom line remains the same: We’ve got to find the stockpile. What Carlton unearthed is important, of course. Fress is a murderer and a traitor. He’s got to go, and he will. But his ending up in the slammer making big ones into little ones, it won’t stop Molotok and Russkost from unleashing some insane civil war with the money from selling the diamond stockpile to Waterboer.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Airing Fress’s dirty laundry in the press will only make all of those parties nervous, the stockpile even more difficult to find.”
Forbes allowed silence to fill the room, swiveled his wheelchair toward the window. Pink reclined in his chair, his mind racing around the problem of the missing diamond stockpile. “Still, there is a much bigger problem at work here, Pink.”
“A bigger problem than not having any leads, sir? I can’t—”
“You’re pure, Pink.” Forbes swiveled back toward Pink, smiled bitterly. “You see intelligence problems in terms of how to find what you’re looking for before the other side does. Nothing wrong with that, of course. It’s your job, after all. You do it well. But it’s only half the job. The other half is my job.”
“Sir?”
“Politics, Pink. Politics,” he repeated. “It’s not just that we have to find the stockpile before Molotok and Waterboer do. We’ve got to find it without them knowing we’re even looking. Which means without Fress knowing we’re looking. Fress is Chief of Staff. He controls the president. Not literally, but he controls his meetings and his schedule. He controls the president’s stream of information. Fress may be a traitor and a first-class bastard, but he’s sharp as a tack and he’s a consummate politician. He has flunkies all over the federal landscape. FBI, Justice, even here.” He leaned closer to Pink, lowered his voice. “Who do you think convinced the president to appoint the present DDO?” He referred to the Deputy Director of Operations, the second arm of the Agency.
“You can’t swing a dead politician in Washington without hitting one of Fress’s cronies. Which means we have to rule out support from the White House and from any other federal agency, including the military. Even from this Agency. Forget the intelligence committees on the Hill. Congress leaks like a sieve.” He breathed deeply. “It’s simple, Pink. Nothing about Carlton or the Russian stockpile can find its way to Fress or any of his moles until this mess is over.”
“Sir.” The word came out as a crackle. “Is this what I think it is?”
Forbes nodded once. “It is, Tom. A black op. Totally covert. We’re on our own. No White House. No Congress. No Court. No federal agencies. Not even ours. What if Fress has approached some of our clandestine service officers here at CIA with a special anti-terror mission for the president, told them that it was to remain secret, even from me? It really can be only you and me. You because you brought me the information. Me because I’m ordering this mission.” He paused to let it sink in.
“Now you understand what the media and other critics refuse to understand. Why some operations have to be totally covert. Totally black.” He paused. “I’d love to have the president and Congress and everyone else sign off on this, be part of the team. But on this, that can’t happen.” He stared hard at Pink.
Finally, Pink nodded.
Forbes lifted his index finger, pointed it at Pink.
“Sir?”
“You’re the only one.”
Pink’s eyes grew. “Oh no, sir. I’m an analyst. I have absolutely no training for this sort of thing. You know that.” He waved his copy of the cryptic Cyrillic words scrawled by Pyashinev moments before his death. “Not only do I have absolutely no idea what this means, I have absolutely no training for this.”
Pink sifted through documents and photographs for a living. Now Forbes expected him to go out in the field. Alone. Not that Pink hadn’t dreamed of it during those endless post-Cold War nights, sitting at his desk before piles of satellite photographs and decoded transmissions. Was he simply afraid? The man who sat across from him in the wheelchair was a war hero. He had lost the use of both of his legs in combat. And Pink was afraid of going into the field to find information? He was ashamed, but the feeling of fear remained.
“I read your file. I know you’re dying to do covert field work. All those manuals on your shelves. All those techno thrillers and posters in your office. Remember the saying: Be careful what you wish for, you may just get it.”
“Sir, with all due respect, wanting to do field work and knowing how to do field work are two different things.”
Forbes looked up from his pipe, stared at him silently, the slight smile now gone. Pink heard himself breathe.
“Don’t you think I know that? Do you really think I would trust this kind of work to some paper-shuffling weenie capable of nothing but desk assignments? I know you haven’t been trained for this type of work, but it’s not as though you were going to infiltrate a country’s security organs, run agents, or kill people. This is analysis more than anything else. Analysis in the field. The most important thing in the field is the most important thing in analysis. It’s all up here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “Smarts. You’ve got ’em big.”
Pink didn’t know what to say, but he knew he had to say something. “But I’ve got no...I mean, going from a cryptic note to capturing a diamond stockpile is...especially alone.”
“Alone? Why do you assume you’re alone?”
Pink’s face contorted in an expression of complete confusion. “Sir?”
“What makes you think you’re alone?”
“Well you said it yourself, sir. This has to be a completely covert. Black.”
“It does.” Forbes smiled. “I said this has to be a covert op from the point of view of the Agency. Of the administration. Of the intelligence community. But an op isn’t run only with intelligence personnel. We’re the intelligence who know, but others, civilians, are already deeply involved.”
“Civilians?”
“Your guy Carlton. He’s already up to his ears in this mess.” He shrugged. “You help him, he helps you.”
“Sir, I don’t know where he is. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
Forbes lifted a thick manila folder from his desk, handed it to Pink.
Inside were copies of all of Carlton’s computer files on disk, all of the telephone numbers dialed to and from Carlton’s home, cellular, and office telephones, up to and including the day before. Pink looked up at Forbes. “How...? Never mind.”
“You’re not alone. Insulated, yes. But definitely not alone. Carlton may be the only one who knows what he told you other than us, but he got help and information from others. They’re assets. Resources. MacLean, for one. Do what you do as an analyst. Track them down and use them.”
“Carlton may be wily and MacLean rich and connected. But there is only so much civilians can—”
“I realize that. But don’t forget, these are Russian diamonds. We may want to prevent them from falling into Russkost’s hands. But they still don’t belong to us. As much as we’d like to keep them, that secret wouldn’t last long. The diamonds belong to
Russia. And Orlov’s government has one heck of a motivation to recover them.”
“And?”
“Which means that Orlov has one heck of a motivation to help us.” He puffed on his pipe, looked at his watch, rolled himself to his desk, and hit the intercom.
“Yes sir?”
“Get Lavrenti Yagoda on the horn.”
36 FLIGHT
Northbound
The Beltway (1-395)
Virginia
11:10 P.M.
Carlton raced toward Bolling Air Force Base, the nearest military installation. He kept one eye on the road, another on his cell phone keypad, which he punched furiously. Wenzel was nowhere to be found. He called information, asked for MacLean’s number. Unlisted. He dialed another number.
“Yes.”
“Lieutenant Carlton for Lieutenant JG Whitecloud.” Carlton slalomed through sparse traffic, waited for the duty chief. Faced with Fress, Waterboer, their allies inside the federal government and who knew where else, he felt like the proverbial David against Goliath. But at least David had a slingshot and stones. Right now Carlton had bupkus. There was one last asset he hadn’t used, the U.S. Navy. But if Fress knew enough about Carlton to get to his apartment, they knew he was Navy. It was a compromised resource. He couldn’t rely on it long-term. But he could use his contacts inside it.
“Whitecloud.”
“Bob, it’s Pat Carlton.”
“Hi ya, Pat. What’s—”
“I need the number, the private phone number, for Max MacLean. In L.A. Right away.”
“What’s it for?”
“I can’t explain. Just please get it for me.”
“Your word’s good enough for me.” He paused. “It’s unlisted.”
“Of course it’s unlisted. Why would—”
“Relax, relax. I’m just yanking your chain.” He gave him the number. Carlton knew they were probably tracing and listening to his cell phone calls, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 25
