He glanced at his watch. The next ferry back to Seattle would not leave for another hour, but he felt an overwhelming need to get moving, to escape. He stood up. “I’m sorry. I know what you must be feeling right now. I’m feeling it, too. I won’t rest until I know what’s really going on. I promise you that.”
Peter stared up at him with that same intense gaze. “You’re going to Russia, aren’t you?”
“I’ll go wherever I have to,” King said, trying to dodge the question.
“Can you get us to Moscow?”
King looked back at his father, momentarily dumbfounded. He resisted the immediate impulse to flatly deny the request. “Why? Do you know something, after all?”
Peter shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know anything about this, but I do know where to look. If they did this—”
“They?”
“The SVR. Foreign Intelligence Service. Successors to the KGB’s First Directorate. If someone in Russia abducted your sister and covered it up by faking her death, that is the agency that would have carried it out. If you can get me to Moscow, I can learn the truth of it.”
Before King could answer, Lynn spoke up. “Jack, you need to trust us. But you should also know that, with or without your help, we’re going to go. You can’t stop us.”
King saw the determination in her eyes, Peter’s too, and knew that she was dead serious.
He had anticipated stirring up pain and grief. He had even tried to prepare himself for the gut-wrenching possibility that Julie’s accident was yet another part of their unending spy saga. This was something he had not expected, and yet he should have. Julie was their first-born, and even though more than a score of years had passed since she was torn from their lives, they had a connection to her that time and death could not erase. They were Julie’s parents. If she was still alive, there was nothing they wouldn’t do to find her. Moreover, they had the skills and connections to actually make a difference. And having a pair of Russian-born, Soviet-trained agents on the team might just give them the edge they needed in carrying out the primary mission.
“If you’re going to do this,” he said, “it has to be right now.”
Lynn glanced at Peter who returned a reassuring nod. King felt a twinge of guilt for even contemplating allowing them to put themselves in harm’s way, but it passed quickly. Life was full of hard choices. Peter and Lynn Machtchenko knew that better than anyone.
13
Yekaterinburg, Russia
“Better or worse?”
Knight felt a lump the size of a cue-ball rise into his throat. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
“Sorry. Eye doctor joke. I guess that was in pretty poor taste.”
Knight felt moisture welling up in his eyes. Both of them. Intermittent and uncontrollable lachrymal discharges from his left eye socket had been an ongoing side-effect of wearing a prosthetic eye, but this was not that. He turned to face Aleman. “Lew. I can see.”
To call what was happening in his left eye ‘seeing’ was perhaps an overstatement. But compared to what he had ‘seen’ a moment before the activation of the new optical device, it was like comparing night and day. He had immediately been able to distinguish light, and shortly thereafter, shadow. The longer he looked forward, the more he was able to differentiate shades of gray, textures and depth. The lines and shapes gradually resolved into a hotel room, strewn with equipment and components. He had no trouble at all distinguishing the face of the man who had just restored his sight. Deep Blue, though in this context, he was just plain old Lew. “This is incredible. I’m actually seeing with my left eye again.”
Aleman grinned, and the best part was that Knight could see him do it with both eyes. “Glad to hear it. I didn’t want to tell you about this until I had all the kinks worked out. When Admiral Ward cleared up my supply issues, I was able to get the last few components I needed to get it working. I know it will never fully replace what you lost, but it’s something.”
Aleman was speaking from experience. The tech expert’s own career as a sniper had been cut short by a battlefield injury. After several surgical procedures, he had made a complete recovery. But by that time, he had demonstrated that he was far more valuable to the Chess Team and by extension, to the nation, as a gadget guru than as a field operator. He was also considerably happier in his new role.
“I’ve learned a lot from my mistakes with the Knight-Eye Mark 1,” he went on. “There have been some awesome technological and medical developments since then. But before you go all googly-eyed—pun most definitely intended—there are some drawbacks, too. To begin with, you’re probably only seeing black and white right now, and a little fuzzy, too.”
“I’ll take a little fuzzy any day over zilch,” Knight said.
“The device works by translating light into electrical impulses, just like what your real eye does. Because of the damage to your optical nerve though, those electrical impulses are just sort of randomly shooting into your brain.”
“Uh, okay. When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound so good.” Knight could still vividly recall the searing migraines he’d gotten from the previous optical device Aleman had designed to help him overcome the disfiguring eye injury he’d suffered in the Congo.
“No, that part is fine. You won’t feel a thing. The problem is that your brain has to learn to interpret those impulses. The good news is, it can do just that. The brain is much more plastic and adaptable than we ever thought possible. And your good eye is facilitating the process by helping your brain make sense of the fuzzy black and white blur. Try closing your right eye for a second, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Knight did as instructed and suddenly everything he thought he was seeing vanished, replaced by a murky blob of light and dark. He opened his good eye again and the image quickly resolved. “You said it will continue to improve?”
“I did, but in the near term, you’ll probably feel some mild eye strain. Maybe some headaches, but I promise you, nothing like before. You’ll need to keep both eyes open. And you may have difficulty tracking fast-moving objects. That’s a hardware problem I hope we’ll be able to overcome, if I can build us a new quantum computer.”
Knight thought he heard a hint of grief in Aleman’s voice at the mention of the quantum computer. When they had been operating out of the former Manifold Alpha facility in New Hampshire, Aleman had built a beyond-state-of-the-art supercomputer. It had utilized the phenomenon known as quantum superposition, in which a subatomic particle could literally be in more than one place simultaneously. Unlike digital binary processors, quantum superposition allowed for instantaneous computation and data transfer. Aleman’s quantum computer had enabled him to create gadgets that would have made James Bond’s Q-section green with envy. Glasses with a retinal projection system, networked to the sights on their weapons had allowed for multiple target tracking, and adaptive camouflage had made them very nearly invisible on the battlefield.
That computer and everything it had made possible, including the first version of a replacement eye for Knight, was gone now. It was all a casualty of the full-on assault that had very nearly destroyed the Chess Team. But the technical know-how to build the computer anew had not been lost. Aleman was already working on a new and improved design, but as he had told Admiral Ward, many of the components he needed to make it a reality were not available for civilian use. It would be several weeks, perhaps even months, before it was up and running, which meant they would have to go ‘old school’ for the current mission to Russia.
But at least Knight would be able to go in with both eyes open.
“I did manage to add a couple of special features to this one,” Aleman said. “Focus on something. Anything. Doesn’t matter what.”
Knight glanced around the room. He finally settled on a notice sign posted on the door. The optical device did not have sufficient resolution for him to differentiate the letters, but he could see that they were there, black ink on white paper. He squinted
and was surprised when the sign, and the surrounding door, suddenly got bigger. Now, he actually read the fine print on the hotel fire evacuation map. “Magnification. Nice.”
“Ha. You spoiled my first surprise. But yes, squinting will automatically increase magnification. It’s an intuitive system, kind of like autofocus on a camera. Now, relax your eye to go back to normal perspective, then very quickly, blink twice.”
Knight did as instructed. When he opened his eyes the second time, he saw a tracery of red around the door. Floating in front of it, also in red, was the display. ‘4.3 m.’
“A rangefinder,” Knight said with a grin. “In metric, even.”
“Of course. I can change that to standard measurements if you prefer. Now, the rangefinder doesn’t work very well with the magnification optics or with an external device like a scope or binoculars. So if you can’t see the target with the naked eye, it won’t be of much use. Hopefully, that’s something else I can address in the next update.”
“Cool.” As Knight looked away from the chair, the display faded and returned to normal vision. “Anything else?”
Aleman leaned close and spoke in a low whisper. “Okay, you should probably keep this next feature a secret. It could cause…friction.”
Knight was intrigued. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Blink three times slowly.”
On the third blink, his sight abruptly dimmed to a slate gray hue. After a few seconds, images began to resolve, but they were nothing like what he had been seeing before. He looked at Aleman, but the question on his lips died when he realized that he was looking through the man. In his right eye, he saw Lewis Aleman’s lean, smiling face and tousled blond hair, but in his left, he saw what looked like a skeleton made of black mist.
“X-ray vision,” Knight said, incredulous. “Un-fucking-believable.”
The skeletal form shook with laughter. “Just like those glasses they used to advertise in the back of comic books, only this really works.”
“This thing isn’t going to cook my brain or give me cancer, right?”
The skull bobbed from side to side. “It’s a passive backscatter receiver. Uses background radiation. Cosmic rays. Radio waves. Stuff that’s all around us all the time. Stuff that can pass through solid objects. The device is able to render an approximate image based on the diffusion rate, which basically means that bone shows up because it blocks more radiation than flesh or clothing.
“Like with regular vision, your brain will learn to distinguish exactly what it is you’re seeing the longer you use it. The range depends on the density of the objects you’re looking at…er, through.”
“Could I see through walls?”
“Depends on what the wall is made of. You would probably be able to see shapes. You’d be able to see the outline of a person standing behind a closed door, but you wouldn’t be able to tell who it was. And, of course, as you can tell, it’s not much good for ogling.”
“So why did you advise me to keep it on the down low?”
“If people think you can see through their clothes, they might get a little nervous around you.”
“Our little secret then.” Knight grinned, but he knew it wasn’t a secret he would be able to keep for very long. Chess Team was effective because each member—each piece—knew the capabilities, strengths and weaknesses of the others. Keeping an ability like this from the others might have fatal consequences.
“Backscatter mode can also function as a sort of night vision, though not quite as well as NODs. Just blink again to return to normal mode.” He paused a beat, and then added. “Seriously. Turn it off. You’re creepin’ me out.”
Knight laughed and blinked, restoring the eye to normal function. “I can’t thank you enough, Lew.” Even that somehow felt insufficient, but a knock at the door spared him the need to reach deeper. He swiveled his head toward it and activated the backscatter function, to reveal two spectral figures—one at least a full seven inches taller than the other. “Rook and Queen,” he said.
The pair of very solid-looking pistol shapes resting on either side of the taller person’s rib cage confirmed that identification. Knight didn’t know how Rook had contrived to smuggle in his Desert Eagle XIX semi-automatic hand cannons—which he had lovingly nicknamed, ‘the girls’—but if past experience was any indication, everyone would probably be glad he had.
Aleman stepped in front of him. “Ixnay on the X-ray,” he said, then he turned to admit the pair.
Queen stepped inside. Without preamble, she said, “FRAGO.”
The term was military shorthand for ‘fragmentary order’—an adjustment to an ongoing mission that did not necessitate a change to the overall objective. Or as most soldiers put it, ‘a change to the mission, but the mission doesn’t change.’
“King just called,” she went on. “He’s making a detour to Moscow. He wants Bishop to meet him there. The rest of us will head out and start preliminary recon.”
Knight frowned. “King and Bishop running their own op? What a surprise.”
“I know, right?” Rook said. He crossed over to the bed, and sat down heavily on the corner. “It’s getting to be a bad habit with those two.”
“Stow that talk,” Queen said. “King knows what he’s doing, and we’ve got work to do. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and an even longer hump into the wilderness. Hope you packed your long-johns. I want to roll out by eighteen-hundred hours.”
Eighteen hundred. Knight shot a look at his wristwatch. It was almost fifteen-hundred now—three p.m.
The sudden change of focus momentarily confused his new optical implant, making everything fuzzy for a few seconds. It was a none-too-subtle reminder that he was far from one hundred percent battle-ready.
But who really ever is? he thought.
14
Moscow, Russia
Moscow in winter looked like something out of a fairy tale. The ornate and colorful buildings in Red Square—most notably St. Basil’s Cathedral and the Kremlin Palace—looked like confectionery sculptures, liberally dusted with powdered sugar.
Appearances were deceiving. What the postcards sold in airport gift shops and street corner kiosks could not adequately depict was the bitter cold.
It had been a moderately chilly sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit in Dubai. In Moscow, it was minus six degrees—almost forty degrees below freezing. Catherine Alexander felt certain she would never get used to the frigid winters. The nickname her mentor had given her was a private joke about her ability to be coldly logical, even ruthless, when they played chess together. It was most certainly not an indication of her love for the long dark winters of her adopted homeland.
No wonder this place makes such hard people, she thought, though in fact, she was really thinking only of him.
The car he had sent to meet her at the airport kept most of the cold at bay, as did the sheltered portico where she transitioned from the limousine to the magnificently domed Kremlin Senate Building. Once inside, she doffed the heavy sable coat and matching Zhivago-style pillbox hat, handing them to a waiting aide.
“Take me to him,” she said in an imperious tone, just as her mentor had instructed her. The subservient class will not respect your kindness, he had told her. They will mistake it for weakness and begin looking for ways to destroy you. She knew he was right, but learning such disdain for other people had not come naturally to her.
The aide, knowing her reputation for long quick strides, fairly ran ahead of her. They bypassed the security station—no one would dare accost her—and negotiated the corridors of the Senate building to the modest office of Catherine’s mentor, the President of the Russian Federation.
The President looked up from behind the simple wooden desk, met her gaze with his own piercing eyes, and then turned to the aide. “No interruptions,” he said simply.
The man nodded and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. The Russian President returned his stare to her but said nothing.
While the Kremlin complex was still the seat of power for the Russian Federation, the President had in recent years transferred his official presence to his primary residence, an elegant 19th century estate situated to the west of Moscow. Ostensibly, it spared him the ordeal of daily commutes through heavy city traffic, but Catherine knew there was a more compelling reason for his decision. Here in the Kremlin, he was exposed. Exposed to the ministers of Parliament, who understood that access to the President gave them political power. Exposed to his critics, who sought ever to trick him into admitting that he was not a constitutionally legitimate ruler, but a dictator, intent on establishing himself as the head of a perpetual autarchy. Exposed to the scrutiny of the world. As Operation Perun gained momentum, building to its world-altering climax, that level of exposure was increasingly dangerous.
He ignored the casual inquiry. “I need you in Volosgrad. The Firebird must be ready within the week.”
“Within the week? Is that even possible?”
“You will make it possible.”
“Me?” The order stunned her. She had spent years creating the Consortium, almost single-handedly bending the leaders of nations and corporations to their will. And now, instead of rewarding her, he was demanding more. Demanding the impossible. She could not snap her fingers and produce the Firebird out of thin air, nor was it simply a matter of working the scientists harder. Threatening and cajoling them would not change the laws of physics, any more than it would magically increase the limited supply of organic material necessary for the research to continue. “Forgive me, but I must ask. Why? What has changed?”
“One of the supply stations was hit yesterday.”
Catherine’s eyes went wide. The supply stations were among her greatest accomplishments. With the wealth and influence of the Consortium behind her, she had personally overseen every aspect of the creation of the supply stations. There were eight of them in all, ringing the American capital city. From establishing the shell corporations that owned the properties, to hand selecting the Spetsnaz soldiers who would provide security for the sites, she had done it all. “That cannot be. How did they learn of it?”
Empire (A Jack Sigler Thriller Book 8) Page 11
