by D. F. Jones
Arcasso’s puzzlement increased when he reached Room 439. The tablet on the door read Interdepartmental Liaison Section. That he had never heard of the outfit came as no surprise; he’d been around long enough to recognize an intentionally vague title when he saw one.
Room 439 contained a frosty female, her desk, and four chairs for visitors, arranged along one wall under her cold eye. In spite of his preoccupation, Frank was struck by the bareness of the room. On the desk was a typewriter, a phone, a notebook, and a small cactus which resembled a sea urchin, including spines.
“Oh, Colonel. Please sit down.” The secretary abruptly returned to the typewriter.
Arcasso dug out a cigar. The secretary said nothing, just looked. He compromised, chewing on it, unlit.
Suddenly she said, “You can go in now, Colonel,” her nod indicating an inner door. He wondered vaguely how the trick was done; maybe there was a cue light hidden in the cactus.
The inner room confirmed his suspicions. He’d seen it before. Nylon net curtains did nothing to conceal the fine wire mesh over the window. One wall was curtained from floor to ceiling, and six gray filing cabinets of the latest pattern took up another wall. On four of them, red lights glowed, indication that they were unlocked.
The greeting was warmer than the decor: A tall man in his mid-thirties got up from his desk. “Glad you could make it on such short notice, Colonel.” The Ivy League voice matched his suit. He waved Arcasso to an armchair, pushing a cigarette box and ashtray in his direction.
Sitting down, Arcasso noticed something else: His host had no telephone — a sure sign of a high security area. There could be one in a drawer, but Frank doubted it. A tape recorder, yes, very likely, but no phone. He lit a cigar and waited.
His host smiled unconvincingly. “Call me Smith,” he said. “This desk is manned ‘round the clock; the name goes with the job. First, read this.”
“This” was a letter assigning Frank to “additional duties with the State Department” and signed by his commanding general. Smith smiled encouragingly. “It regularizes your position.” Arcasso was thinking more about the “additional duties,” and Smith knew it. “A major — he’s worked in your section before — is being assigned as your assistant in AI (Tech).”
“Ah,” said Frank guardedly. “But why me?”
“There’s an urgent need for an experienced aviator with a good technical background and with some knowledge of intelligence.” Smith might have been reading from an official handout.
“I could name a half-dozen better, right here in Washington.”
“I doubt it. Grauber recommended you, and he’s regarded as a good judge. He said you had the moral courage to stick your neck out with the F-4 report.”
“We all did that.”
“Yes — but you did it first. There’s another, very important qualification. You already know more than most, and a high-level directive restricts access to this case to a minimum. I won’t waste your time, Colonel. Sorry if you feel railroaded” — Smith’s tone suggested he could live with it — “but that’s the way it is. As of now you’re on Case ICARUS — and even the name’s Topsec.”
“Icarus? That’s a dandy name! His wings dropped off.”
Smith waved that aside. “You’re booked on the Pan Am night flight to London tonight. You’ll be met.”
“London! What in hell for?”
“The Soviet government’s just as keen to talk as we are: Their man’s flying in right now.” He smiled again. “Ironically, this desk apart, he’s the only person with whom you may openly discuss the F-4 incident. In turn, we have their assurance he’ll fill you in on their problem.”
“How did all this come about?”
“A remarkably direct approach by a senior embassy official to someone of importance.” Clearly he gave nothing for free. “He said they had ‘indications’ of the F-4, and also appreciated we had word of the Ilyushin. In the exceptional circumstances, his government felt a frank but very confidential exchange of information would be beneficial to both parties.” He was quoting again. “You represent the U.S.”
“In which case,” said Frank, “may I see the F-4 file? I’d like to refresh my memory.”
Smith crossed to a cabinet and produced the file, now in an unfamiliar folder. He opened it at the AIB report.
Five minutes was enough. Handing it back, Frank said, “There’s one other member of the committee who knows both items.” He named him.
“Thanks, Colonel. I’ll contact him.” Smith stood up, offering his hand. “My secretary has your transportation documents. Good luck, Arcasso — and be quick.”
*
Arcasso had no choice. An embassy official met the plane. By 8:30 A.M. they were in a Heathrow hotel drinking coffee.
“You meet in the British Museum. The Soviets have a soft spot for the place,” the embassy man said chattily, “no doubt because Karl Marx wrote a good deal of Das Kapital in the reading room.”
“When?” Frank was in no mood for chat.
“Ten o’clock — when it opens. I’ll drop you off at the main entrance. Inside, you’ll find a king-size staircase on your left. Go up one floor, at the top of the stairs there’s a Roman mosaic floor. That’s the pickup point.”
“Identification?”
“You’ll both have a copy of the London Times sticking out of your left-hand pocket — here’s yours. D’you know the museum?”
“No.”
“Well, he does, and he’ll lead. When you’ve finished, go back to the point where I’ll have dropped you. I’ll be waiting. How long do you expect to be?”
Frank shrugged. “Hour, hour and a half.”
“Okay, I’ll take your grip. Not that you’ll be needing it. We’ve got a seat reserved for you on every Washington flight between four o’clock and midnight. You’re really getting the treatment.” He added an afterthought. “If you have to give a name, make it Smith.”
*
The contact went smoothly. “What do I call you?” The accent was by no means perfect, but the Russian spoke fluent English.
“Smith,” said Arcasso, with no conviction.
“All yes,” the Russian smiled faintly. “A ver’ popular name, Smit. I am Lebedev.” With a polite inclination of his hand, Lebedev, a short, thick-set man in a bulky overcoat, led the way. They paused at the entrance to a long gallery for a quick inspection by the Russian, then sauntered in, passing an aged custodian, who after one brief glance resumed his contemplation of the infinite.
“I often wonder what they think about, day after day. There is remarkably little interest in early Islamic pottery.” He stopped beside a glass case, through which they had a commanding view of the empty gallery.
“First,” Lebedev spoke softly, “it has been agreed that you tell me of the F-4, then I give you the — er — lowdown on our Ilyushin, yes? One moment — ” He fumbled in an inside pocket. “My recorder … ” His tone changed. “Case ICARUS” — he smiled slightly at Arcasso’s expression — “Statement by U.S. official Smit.” He raised an eloquent eyebrow.
As Arcasso talked, the Russian’s mouth hardened. The account completed, he moved slowly to another display, hands deep in his overcoat pockets, thinking.
“You permit one or two questions, Mr. Smit?” His chief interest lay in the time relation of the disappearance and reappearance on radar and radio contact. Other questions about the fuel state and the fatal stall revealed he had a considerable knowledge of the F-4. Switching off his recorder, he confirmed Arcasso’s hunch. “I have not, of course, anything like your experience, Mr. Smit, but I have some hours in a F-4. It is a fine machine: I feel your pilot must have been, how you say, out of his mind.”
“I told you the inquiry found the accident due to his error,” said Frank shortly.
“I do not mean to be offensive,” replied Lebedev soothingly. “Your aviators are superbly trained, the plane handles well and this man had combat experience, and yet — ” He shrugged. “One
wonders if he was injured.”
“As I said, he reported only a compass failure. I don’t think he was injured — he was scared, confused. The bodies were too badly mutilated to reveal anything.”
“Yes.” They moved on; the gallery was still empty. “Now if you are ready, I talk.”
The aircraft, he said, an old feeder-line machine hauling freight, had been lost in March, 1976. It returned in mid-January, 1977, suddenly appearing over the Arctic Ocean west of Novaya Zemla, height three thousand meters heading east. Intercepting fighters escorted it to Vorkuta, where it landed safely. Here Lebedev gave his view of the difference in pilot reaction. Because of the higher latitude at appearance — and roughly at the same time of day on the same base course — the Soviet pilot did not; have the traumatic experience of the sun’s relocation. And he was not alone on the flight deck; he had a copilot, could see and touch another human. The American flyer had faced a much more urgent situation, alone in his cockpit, his observer only a voice.
He resumed his narrative. The crew was promptly detained by the KGB for interrogation — he made no bones about that; they were still in custody. Although both had been questioned repeatedly, nothing of substance had been discovered. The pilot’s only contribution of possible significance concerned the quality of light: he had had an “impression” that for a fraction of a second, about two hours into the flight, the sky had seemed to darken. Until questioned he had given it no thought, for within seconds he had realized the plane was ten degrees off course, and about five hundred meters above the current flight level. Startled, he had immediately cut out the auto, assumed manual control, and corrected course and level. It didn’t make much sense, but he could only conclude he had dozed off and there had been a malfunction in the autopilot — what else?
The second pilot had nothing to offer, admitting he had had his eyes shut at the vital moment. Neither had observed anything remarkable outside the plane: unbroken cloud a thousand meters below, clear sky above. Both said they’d been practically dumbstruck at the appearance of the fighters and the order to shift frequency to Vorkuta approach control for landing instructions. Although they’d had thirty minutes to adjust, the landing they made had been far from steady.
The airplane had been examined exhaustively, including the landing wheels; traces of tarmac that had been recovered matched the surface of the Moscow runway from which the plane had taken off; no unidentified material had been found.
The scant evidence was not conclusive, but there were no signs to suggest the plane had landed anywhere. In another incredible way the story was the same as the F-4’s. Fuel and oil consumption fitted a correct flight, and the aircraft clock and the men’s watches were wrong, both having the same error.
But there were two other features which could not have been noted in the F-4 case. Neither pilot nor copilot needed a shave or a haircut. And something else. Seven holes, each about two millimeters in diameter, had been found in the flight deck section of the fuselage. Distribution appeared to be random, their cause unknown; but two possibilities could be eliminated. In no case could any two holes be related as entry and exit points; all were uniform in diameter. Neither man had any injury, and no foreign matter had been found. That, concluded the Russian, ruled out any theories of cosmic particles or micrometeorites.
*
Red-eyed, exhausted, Arcasso sat sleepless on the return night flight, staring unseeingly out his window. Out there, beyond this tiny man-made capsule, something inexplicable had happened …
Abruptly he drew the shade, gulped the lukewarm drink he’d clutched for an hour, and ordered another. It wouldn’t do much good, but —
It was as if the stopper had been pulled from Sinbad’s flask. Black, formless clouds filled his imagination, clouds from which he feared, to the very depths of his being, a baleful genie would emerge …
For Arcasso, the stopper in the flask was the seven tiny holes, circular and perfectly smooth in the dural skin, insulation, and plastic cladding of the Ilyushin’s cabin. That they existed at all was bad enough, but the fact that they had been found only in that area — not in the freight deck, the wings, tail plane, or engine cowlings — was significant.
Significant and very sinister.
VI.
The staggering news of the Russian plane made surprisingly little impact in Washington, for one very simple reason: ICARUS had the tightest security wrap in history.
Only ten Americans knew the details of both Events, and four of them were members of the ICARUS committee. The committee was chaired by Joseph Langbaum, a top CIA man, and included one representative from the State Department and one from the FBI, plus Arcasso. Their directive: to evaluate Case ICARUS material, and to report their findings and recommendations directly to the President.
They met the day Arcasso returned from London. The first question was whether they believed the Soviet report; they did. They also knew that neither the U.S. nor NATO had any hand in the Ilyushin incident, and believed the Soviets had nothing to do with the F-4 — even supposing either side had the ability to engineer such bizarre and pointless action. That agreed, the similarities of the two Events were all too evident. Whatever agency had been responsible for the F-4 had to be responsible for the Ilyushin affair also. At that point progress ceased. The four men stared at one another blankly. Among them, they had access to all the intelligence of the Western world, plus that of the KGB, and no one had even the ghost of a rational explanation. Arcasso, who had lived the nightmare longer than anyone, urged they forget that for the moment. What had happened twice could happen again — if so, what action should be taken?
Late into the night the four men hammered at the problem; the more they thought about it, the worse it got. An Event might occur anyplace, anytime; but even if they came up with a contingency plan, security would not permit its implementation until the Event happened. And so they shelved that one, too, and with a sense of relief got down to organizing themselves.
It was agreed that all intelligence on any missing plane would be flashed to Arcasso. From his seat in Air Intelligence he could easily cover all U.S. and NATO aircraft, civil and military. The CIA would report all it learned of other nationalities; Langbaum would establish mouth-to-mouth contact with the KGB and seek its cooperation. And on the side, Alvin Malin for the FBI offered anything the bureau might turn up. There the meeting broke up.
*
Next morning, Langbaum flew to Vienna, meeting by arrangement Arcasso’s London contact. Naturally, both covered their true identities, not wishing to cause a major flutter in the international intelligence hen house.
Joseph Langbaum, known on the committee as “CIA Joe” became “Smith”; the Russian remained “Lebedev.” They met in a cafe on the Ringstrasse, and “Smith” had a hard time concealing his surprise. He knew a great deal about the KGB organization, and he recognized Lebedev — a relatively new star in the uncertain KGB firmament, but already rated among its ten most powerful men. He had risen with extraordinary speed to the very top of an outfit numbered not in thousands but in hundreds of thousands. Lebedev was first chief directorate, responsible for KGB interests in North America — and he had dropped everything and come running for this meeting with no notice at all. It was obvious that the Russians weren’t playing games.
They exchanged amenities. Waiting for coffee, both men glanced casually about them. Smith knew very well that the cafe was as good as Soviet territory, but this was no time for protocol. At least he was certain that the table the Russian had selected was unbugged. He noted too that while the cafe was only half full, large men predominated, and no table in their immediate vicinity was occupied. Of course, some of the men were his, just as others were certainly Lebedev’s.
The Russian caught his gaze and smiled. “Satisfactory, Mr. Smit?”
“Sure,” said Smith. “Look … ” He explained what he wanted.
Stirring his coffee, Lebedev listened. He said, “You are prepared to reciprocate?�
�
Smith smiled gently. “We are wide open — but if you need it … ”
Lebedev smiled back, revealing some gold-filled teeth. “It would save time.”
Smith nodded. “Okay. We’re treating ICARUS as Top Secret plus; I imagine it’s the same with you. To give you an idea what that means to us, only ten people in the U.S.A. are cleared for this material.”
“So many?” replied Lebedev politely. “For us it is seven.”
“Democracy has its faults.”
Both men laughed unconvincingly. Smith said, “I suggest we pass material through our stations right here in Vienna. Prefixed ICARUS it will reach me in a matter of — well, very quickly.”
Lebedev nodded. “Agreed.”
Smith was impressed. In his experience a Soviet man, no matter how high up the tree, usually needed time to refer back to home base.
For all intents and purposes, the meeting was over, but Lebedev snapped his fingers and brandy was served. Smith sensed the Russian had something on his mind, but failed to prompt him, and the moment passed. They drank a formal toast and parted.
Intent upon the details of ICARUS, he had not been sufficiently receptive. Lebedev had wanted to say something, but he had needed encouragement, understanding. He was desperate to talk to someone out of the Soviet orbit, to say things that if discovered would inevitably ruin his life, land him in a KGB mental hospital, classified instantly as “schizophrenic.”
In the long run it would not matter, but at that point CIA Joe had certainly missed a trick.
After ten days of intensive work, the committee came up with a plan, and it was quickly approved by the President. It included instructions for air traffic controllers, airport managers, and all government agencies, civil and military, in every state in the Union. The orders were sealed in containers that were not to be opened, under any circumstances, without an OK from the Oval Office.
Those who held the containers knew that in certain undisclosed circumstances they would receive a code word and a telephone number. They were to call the number immediately, acknowledging receipt of the code word. Once the container was unsealed, Envelope One was to be opened. This gave the recipient general instructions that varied according to his job. It added that detailed orders would be obtained by calling the same telephone number. There were also Envelopes Two, Three, and Four, none to be opened without additional authority. The beauty of the system was this: Up to and including the opening of Envelope One, neither the recipients nor the telephone control would know more than the simple fact that an air emergency existed. Should it turn out to be a false alarm, no great damage would be done.
