The Arctic Event

by Robert Ludlum

  Just short of the great bronze doors he paused and knelt, picking up a stony fragment from the pavement. It was a small chunk of concrete, freshly flaked from the facing of the headquarters building. Such disintegration was an endemic problem with much of the old Soviet architecture. Smyslov applied pressure, and the concrete crumbled between his gloved fingers. The Russian officer smiled without humor and shook away the wet, sandy remnants.

  He was expected. After verifying his identification, a respectful sentry accepted his uniform cap and greatcoat, and a second led him deeper into the core of the headquarters. Even this building seemed only partially occupied, with many of its offices darkened and its echoing gray corridors nearly empty.

  Smyslov cleared through a second security checkpoint, and the sentry handed him off to a tense staff officer, who led him on to the innermost sanctum of the complex.

  The well-appointed wood-paneled office belonged to the commanding general of all Pacific Zone Long Range Aviation Forces, but the man seated behind a massive dark mahogany desk had more authority than even that.

  “Major Gregori Smyslov of the Four forty-ninth Air Force Special Security Regiment, reporting as ordered, sir.”

  General Baranov returned the salute. “Good afternoon, Major. As you have no doubt been advised, you never received those orders. You are not here. I am not here. This meeting has never taken place. Is this understood?”

  “I understand, sir, fully.”

  Baranov’s cold gray eyes drilled into his. “No, Major, you do not, but you will presently.” The general gestured to the chair positioned before the desk. “Please be seated.”

  As Smyslov sank into the appointed chair, the general drew an inch-thick folder onto the center of the desk’s black leather blotter, flipping it open. Smyslov recognized his own zapiska, his service record. And he knew what its facing page would say.

  Name: Smyslov, Gregori Andriovitch

  Age: 31

  Height: 199 centimeters

  Weight: 92 kilograms

  Eyes: Green

  Hair: Blond

  Birthplace: Berezovo, Uralsky Khrebet, Russian Federation

  The photograph that accompanied the facing sheet would show a strong, not unpleasant mixture of blunt and angular features and narrow, rather good-humored eyes.

  What else might be contained in the zapiska, Smyslov did not know. It might be his life, but it was the Air Force’s concern.

  General Baranov flipped through a few of the pages. “Major, your regimental commander thinks highly of you. He feels you are one of the best officers under his command, if not one of the best in our service. Looking through your records, I am inclined to agree.”

  The general flipped another page of the file, looking not down at it but into Smyslov’s face, as if attempting to match what he had read with the man behind the words.

  “Thank you, General,” Smyslov replied, carefully keeping his voice neutral. “I have always endeavored to be a good officer.”

  “You have succeeded. That is why you are here. I trust your regimental commander briefed you on the Misha 124 affair and of your duties related to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what were you told?”

  “That I was to be attached to a joint Russian-American investigation team being dispatched to the Misha crash site, as the Russian liaison. I will be operating with a Colonel Smith of the United States Army, and certain other American specialists. We are to investigate the downed aircraft and ascertain if any active biological warfare agents remain aboard it. We are also to ascertain the fate of the Misha aircrew and to recover their bodies. All aspects of this mission are to be held in the highest state of security.”

  Baranov nodded. “I have recently returned from Washington, where I established those mission parameters and arranged for you to be attached to the American investigation group. What else were you told?”

  “Nothing, sir. I was only ordered to proceed here”—the corner of Smyslov’s mouth quirked in spite of himself—“to this meeting that is not taking place, for a final-phase briefing on this assignment.”

  “Very good. That is as it should be.” Baronov nodded with deliberation. “Tell me this, Major. Have you ever heard of the March Fifth Event?”

  March fifth? Smyslov considered, frowning. There was a girl he had known when he’d been attending the Gagarin Academy, the busty little redheaded barmaid. Her birthday had been March fifth, hadn’t it? But that couldn’t possibly be what the commanding general of the Thirty-seventh Strategic Air Army could be concerned with.

  “No, sir. I have no idea what you mean.”

  Baranov nodded again. “That is also as it should be.”

  The general levered himself up from behind the desk and crossed the office to a second door. “Come with me, please, Major.”

  The second door opened on a small, windowless briefing room, a gray steel map table centered in it. A single file folder was, in turn, centered on the table. A diagonal orange stripe ran across the file’s gray cover, with a second bloodred bar down the spine.

  As a security officer, Smyslov instantly recognized the document coding: Ultrasecret. Access by presidential authorization only.

  Smyslov found himself wishing he still had his greatcoat. The office and the briefing room suddenly seemed colder.

  Baronov gestured toward the file. “This is the March Fifth Event. It is possibly the single most critical state secret held by your motherland. Any unauthorized revelation of the contents of this file means an automatic death sentence. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “You are now authorized access. Read it, Major. I will return for you shortly.”

  Baronov departed, locking the briefing room door behind him.

  Smyslov circled the table, the room growing colder still. Sinking into a gray metal chair, he drew the file to him, his mind racing. March fifth? March fifth? There was something else about that date that he couldn’t quite pull in, perhaps from a history class. Something foreboding.

  He opened the untitled file.

  The general gave the younger officer forty-five minutes. The file was not extensive, but Baranov recalled how, when he had been granted his authorization, he had gone through the documents twice in stunned disbelief.

  In due course, Baranov rose from the desk again and unlocked the briefing room door. Major Smyslov still sat at the table, the closed file on the table before him. His face was pale under his tan, and he did not look up. His lips moved in a whisper. “My God...my God.”

  “It was much the same with me, Gregori Andriovitch,” Baranov said gently. “There are perhaps thirty other men in the entirety of Russia who know of the full contents of that file. You and I are the thirty-first and the thirty-second.”

  The general closed and secured the soundproof door behind him and took the chair across from Smyslov.

  The younger man looked up, mastering himself. “What are my orders, General? My true orders.”

  “Firstly, Major, I can now tell you that the anthrax reservoir is still aboard the aircraft. Obviously, it was never jettisoned. However, that is far from our primary concern in this affair. The March Fifth Event is!”

  Smyslov’s eyebrows arched. “I can see how that could be, sir.”

  “Attached to the American investigation group, you will be our point man on Wednesday Island,” Baranov continued. “You will be our eyes and ears. We will be relying upon you to assess the situation there. But you will not be operating alone. A Naval Spetsnaz platoon, trained and equipped for arctic warfare, is being dispatched to the island by nuclear submarine. They will land shortly before your arrival, and they will deploy and remain in concealment. You will be given means to communicate with them, and they will await word from you.”

  “What...word am I supposed to give, General?”

  “Concerning the March Fifth Event, Major. The Misha 124’s political officer was under orders to destroy any and all evidence of
the event at the crash site. However, he was also to destroy the aircraft and its anthrax warload as well. This plainly was not accomplished. Beyond this, all communication with Wednesday Island was lost before any confirmation of this sterilization was received.”

  “So the Misha 124’s crew was never rescued?” Smyslov asked, his voice quiet.

  “It was not feasible,” Baronov replied with grim simplicity. “It is our profoundest hope that they eliminated all evidence of the March Fifth Event before...Your mission is to verify that this was accomplished. If such is the case, or if you can successfully destroy this evidence yourself, then the joint mission with the Americans to destroy the anthrax can proceed as overtly planned.”

  “But what if this evidence has not been or cannot be destroyed, sir, and what if this Colonel Smith and his people reach it first?”

  “If the Americans learn of the March Fifth Event, Major, then they do not leave the island alive. You and the Spetsnaz platoon will see to this.”

  Smyslov came out of his chair. “You cannot be serious, General.”

  “Word of the Event must not be allowed to reach the world at large, Major, under any circumstances.”

  Smyslov groped for words, for alternatives. “General...I can fully understand the critical nature of the situation, but why not have the Spetsnaz go in immediately to procure this evidence before the Americans can arrive.”

  “Because we are walking on a razor’s edge here! The Americans know of the Misha 124’s existence. They have learned it is one of our Tupolev-4s. They know now it was a strategic biological weapons platform. If we committed our Spetznaz team now, they could not help but disturb the crash site! The Americans will know we raced in ahead of them. They will be suspicious! They will know we were attempting to conceal something. They will begin to ask questions that must not be asked!”

  Baronov lifted his hands in frustration. “The world has changed, Major. We need the Americans as allies, not enemies. If they learn of the March Fifth Event, we shall be enemies once more.”

  “Begging the general’s pardon, but won’t the murder of their personnel by our military accomplish the same thing?”

  The flat of the general’s hand slapped down on the steel tabletop. “The elimination of the Americans is to be considered an absolute last-resort contingency, a final option to stave off total disaster! We will be relying on you, Major, to ensure that option need not be exercised!”

  Baronov sighed a tired old man’s sigh and leaned back in his chair. “But if it must be done, it must be done. It is a matter of proportion and perspective, Gregori Andriovitch. If we find ourselves at odds with the United States again, the Russian Federation may yet survive. But if the world and our own people learn of the March Fifth Event, the Motherland, as a nation, is finished!”

  Chapter Eight

  Anacosta, Maryland

  The big diesel cruiser materialized out of the Potomac mists and stood in toward the marina, ignoring the bright yellow PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING signs posted on the ends of the finger piers. A pair of marina employees, nondescript, long-haired young men in deck shoes, dungarees, and nylon windcheaters, stood by to accept the cruiser’s lines as it nosed alongside.

  Nothing untoward hinted that both the pier hands carried automatic pistols under their jackets or that the cruiser’s helmsman had a submachine gun racked out of sight below the lip of the cockpit.

  The rumble of the cruiser’s engines broke into an idling whine as the propeller clutches disengaged and the bow and stern lines were deftly snubbed off. A set of boarding steps were positioned, and the yacht’s lone passenger emerged from its streamlined cabin.

  With a nod to the pier hands, Fred Klein disembarked and strode down the fog-dampened planks of the dock. Crossing the broad graveled expanse of the marina’s dry-storage area, past the silent, tarpaulin-shrouded shapes of beached pleasure craft on their trailers and stands, Klein continued toward what appeared to be a large windowless warehouse.

  The dark green metal prefab building looked new. It should. It had not been there two years before. In all probability, in another year’s time, it or at least its contents would be repositioned somewhere else.

  This was the headquarters and operations center of Covert One.

  Concealed television cameras tracked Klein’s approach, and magnetic locks clicked open as he came to stand before the heavy steel fire door.

  “Good morning, sir.” The duty “doorman” accepted Klein’s hat and topcoat, neatly hanging them up beside the racked assault shotgun. “It’s a clammy kind of day out there.”

  “That it is, Walt,” Klein replied amiably. “Maggie in the shop yet?”

  “About half an hour ago, sir.”

  “One of these days I’ll beat her in,” Klein murmured in ritual. He continued down the length of the institutional-buff central corridor. No one passed him in the hall, but an occasional murmur of voices or muffled whine of electronics leaked from behind the double row of anonymous gray doors, hinting at the quiet functionality of the headquarters.

  At the far end of the passageway lay the command suite.

  The outer office was Maggie Templeton’s techno-lair. The entire room was a computer workstation, dominated by a large desk with no less than three twenty-one-inch flat-screen monitors positioned upon it. A second set of large-screen displays were inset on the far office wall. Her pet bonsai tree and a silver framed photograph of her late husband served as the sole reminders of Margaret Templeton’s essential humanity.

  The blonde looked up from her master display and smiled as Klein card-swiped his way through the security entry. “Good morning, Mr. Klein. I hope it was a smooth voyage today.”

  “It can never be smooth enough for me, Maggie,” Klein snorted. “Someday I’m going to hunt down the sadist who came up with the brilliant notion of putting the headquarters of the world’s worst sailor at a yacht club.”

  She chuckled, “You have to admit, it makes for an excellent cover.”

  “Not really; my being green and nauseated all of the time could give it all away. What have we got this morning?”

  Templeton instantly toggled over to her professional mode. “The Trent Bravo insertion appears to be going well. The team leader is reporting that his personnel and equipment are on the ground inside of Myanmar and that his point man has successfully made contact with the leadership of the Karen National Union.”

  Klein nodded. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he polished a few fog droplets from his glasses. “Anything new with the Wednesday Island operation?”

  “Jon will be linking up with the American members of his team in Seattle tonight and with his Russian liaison in Alaska tomorrow. The equipment set has been pre-positioned, and the helicopter procured from Pole Star.”

  “Any problems with Langley seconding Ms. Russell to us?”

  “Only the usual moaning, whining, bitching, and complaining.” Maggie looked up from her screens. “If I may make a point, sir. President Castilla is really going to have to make some decisions about our working relationship with our former employers in the near future.”

  Klein sighed and redonned his glasses. “Very possibly, Maggie, but in the words of the immortal Scarlett O’Hara, ‘I’ll think of it tomorrow.’ Anything else for today?”

  “A planning meeting with the South American Operations group at ten hundred, and you might want to have a look at your ‘For your consideration’ file. I’ve compiled a list of known illicit armament dealers believed to have both the potential interest and available resources to deal themselves into the Wednesday Island situation. It makes for interesting reading. I’ve also red-flagged these men and their organizations with all of our available intelligence resources. Any unusual activity on their part is to be reported.”

  “Well done, Maggie, as usual.”

  Every director should have an executive assistant who could both read minds and foresee the future.

  His office, smaller and far less elabor
ately outfitted, lay beyond Maggie’s. The few personalized decorations—the framed poster-sized photo of the Earth from orbit, the Elizabethan-era map prints, the large eighteenth-century globe of the world—served him as a reminder of his zone of responsibility.

  There was only a single workstation monitor on his mid-grade desk, along with a tray bearing a coffee service for one, a steaming stainless steel thermos, and a single buttered English muffin on a covered dish.

  Klein smiled. Removing his suit coat, he draped it neatly over the back of his chair. Settling behind his desk, he poured himself his first cup of coffee and tapped the space bar on his keyboard, calling the monitor to life.

  As he sipped, a series of file headings flashed past on the screen. Maggie would have stacked the files in what she viewed as their order of priority.

  **KNOWN ILLICIT ARMSDEALERS-MULTINATIONAL-WMD INVOLVEMENT **

  **KRETEK GROUP**

  **ANTON KRETEK**

  A photograph followed, computer enhanced and apparently taken using a long-range telephoto camera. It showed a man, a big, ruddy-featured man, standing on the deck of what appeared to be a large private yacht, scowling in the direction of the camera.

  There were many contradictions built into Anton Kretek. The thinning of his rust-colored hair contrasted with the wild profusion of his gray-tinged beard. There was obvious power in his broad shoulders and wiry, long, muscled arms, countered by the furry pot gut of dissipation that bulged over the waistband of his minimal swimming trunks, and while there were thick clusters of laugh wrinkles gathered around his eyes, those eyes were as cold and opaque as those of a hooding king cobra.

  Klein decided that this man might indeed laugh a great deal, but it would be at things most normal human beings would not find amusing.

  One of Maggie Templeton’s deft file summaries followed, a distilled essence of the documentation on Kretek, her instincts targeting what Klein would actually want and need to know about the man and his organization: