Mark held out the papers, and Sanders took them and headed out the door.
Jon Roth was on the phone when Rusty Sanders stuck his head in the inner office door. Roth waved him in and finished the call. Rusty forced himself to sit quietly until Roth looked up from his notebook computer.
“Yes, Doctor?”
Rusty pushed the papers across the desk. Roth thanked him and sat back, examining Rusty.
“Director, the autopsy team will be starting on Helms’s body shortly,” Rusty began. “I’ve asked them to call me immediately if they find symptomatic evidence of viral involvement or not, but the fact is, there’s no way to rapidly determine whether a specific virus was carried in his body. In most cases of high communicability, it can take longer to culture a virus than it does to have other humans catch it. Even if we knew exactly what bug we’re looking for, and even if we were prepared to search for growth of that precise virus, it could take days to weeks. This isn’t like a bacteriological culture that grows in a petri dish in hours.”
The phone rang and Roth motioned for Rusty to wait as he picked it up, acknowledged some request, and replaced the receiver. Roth got to his feet. Rusty rose from the chair as well, but Roth waved him down.
“Stay put, Doctor. I’ll be right back.”
Rusty concentrated on staying in the chair, which was not easy. He needed to roam and move and think.
He sat back in the chair, taking in the open notebook computer on Roth’s desk and the stapled sheets of paper with a familiar format he hadn’t noticed before. He leaned forward and looked at the papers, recognizing them as an international flight plan starting in Keflavík, Iceland. Curious, Rusty thought, that a flight plan for Flight 66 would cross Roth’s desk. That was a task for the Air Force and the airline. Why would CIA care?
Of course! We’d need to look for political threats along the way.
He rotated the flight plan around. The route was almost totally over water down the middle of the Atlantic Ocean for three thousand miles. He looked at the final fixes with the familiar eye of an experienced pilot. It crossed the African coast line about a hundred fifty miles east of the Canary Islands over the tiny Moroccan settlement of Tan-Tan, then over a corner of Morocco into Mauritania. The landing site was at least a hundred fifty miles in all directions from any significant vestige of civilization. Other than the Moroccans—who had a small air force—any threat to Flight 66 would have to travel a long distance in a short period of time to get there from some other part of the Arab world. And so far, he knew, the destination was not public knowledge.
There were footsteps in the hall and Rusty rotated the flight plan back to its original position before Roth reentered the room and sat down heavily in his chair.
“Sorry, Doctor. Message traffic.” He noticed the illuminated computer screen and turned to the keyboard, entering a couple of keystrokes to save the message and return the screen to black.
“All right, Doctor, please continue.” Roth had started drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
Rusty nodded. “Okay. The point is, what if the autopsy team finds zero evidence of infection in his lungs, his heart, his blood? That would prove that Professor Helms wasn’t suffering the overt effects of a viral infection, but it wouldn’t prove that he was free of the virus.”
“And,” Roth added, “it would not remove the possibility that he was able to spread the virus, now would it?”
Rusty sighed and shook his head. “No, sir. I couldn’t tell you categorically that it would.”
“So, Doctor, what’s your point?”
“Well, if I come back to you and tell you there’s no overt evidence, what do we do? I mean, I know we’re not planning to shoot them. They’ll either get sick or they won’t.”
Roth nodded. “I believe you just asked and answered your own question.”
Rusty stared at him, trying to comprehend his thinking.
“In other words, Director, in regard to what we’re going to do with Flight Sixty-six, am I correct that it doesn’t matter what the autopsy shows, because we won’t be able to get a rapid result that could conclusively rule out the virus?”
“That, I believe, sums it up, Doctor. Of course I want to know their conclusions immediately, but it will have no effect on the plan. If no one gets sick, they’ll go home quickly. If anyone gets sick, then as you warned, they’ll all die. In any event, whatever happens will happen in a safe place, with professionals there to care for them.”
Rusty was halfway out the door when Roth called him back, pulling his half-glasses off and obviously searching for the right words.
“Doctor, a question if you please. Tell me honestly, considering the exposure of Helms in Bavaria, the confirmed infection and death of the researcher who apparently fought with him”—Roth was ticking off each point on his fingers—“the requisite forty-eight-hour incubation period corresponding with Helms’s becoming ill on the aircraft, and Helms’s demise, do you really have any substantive doubts? Or are you working from the position of hope and perhaps a bit of denial, considering how terrible this is?”
Rusty reentered the office in surprise. Roth wasn’t posturing, he was genuinely asking—and listening for an answer. Rusty sat down in the same plush chair and clasped his hands as he leaned forward in thought, then met the deputy director’s eyes.
“Well, being as absolutely honest and unemotional as I can be, I have to say I have one final reservation that’s gnawing at me, sir.”
“Which is?”
“Did Professor Helms have any symptoms when he walked on that airplane which are inconsistent with the onset of a coronary? If so, I’d have to agree with you that it’s probably hopeless, though I always try to hope. If not—if each and every symptom could be explained by a coronary episode—then I’d say there’s still reason to believe he might not have been infected, or contagious, and the other passengers might not be infected. I can find no history of any virus which produces only the classic symptoms of a coronary. Maybe this one can, but I’m still troubled that we’re leaping too far in our conclusions.”
Roth was nodding slowly and studying him.
“Doctor, call the airplane again. Question that lead flight attendant one more time, and anyone else who dealt with the professor. Can you do that quickly?”
“You bet!” Rusty replied, getting to his feet.
It took more than twenty minutes to reach Quantum 66’s cockpit satellite line. All the passenger lines were busy with outgoing calls to relatives, but the one line held open for the crew had also been in rather constant use.
Finally the circuit transmitted a ringing sound.
Rusty explained what he needed, and held on while Brenda was summoned to the phone to begin answering questions. She was in shock over what had happened to Lisa Erickson, but she struggled to focus. No, there were no new illnesses to report, except for some worrisome swelling in the broken leg of a young man in coach.
Rusty asked her about the condition of Ernest Helms when he came on board. Could she remember any more details? There was silence on the other end.
“Ah, Brenda? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me again with great precision and in as much detail as you can each and every symptom the professor had when he came aboard, and when he had the attack.”
She talked slowly and steadily for several minutes, not stopping to hear a reaction. When she had finished, there was silence on the Washington end.
Rusty Sanders took a deep breath. He’d felt his heart sink as she spoke.
“Brenda, you said he was coughing deeply?”
“Yes.”
“And he apologized about it?”
“Yes. He said he’d been coughing for the last few hours and couldn’t seem to stop. It was a deep, croupy cough.”
“Okay. I see. Thanks very much.”
“What does that mean, Doctor?”
“Oh, probably nothing. I was just trying to make sure o
f our facts.”
He disconnected the call, feeling ill himself. A deep cough by itself was nothing, but it was unlikely to have any logical connection with a coronary event. Something besides heart disease was at work on Professor Helms as he came aboard in Frankfurt.
Roth had probably been right all along. Apparently, everyone aboard was infected, making Flight 66 a pariah—and a major threat to the rest of the world.
KIEV, UKRANIAN REPUBLIC—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23
Yuri Steblinko left the meeting arranged by his early morning caller and walked briskly toward the heart of Kiev’s downtown district, his mind rapidly working through the tasks ahead. He had recognized the Russian operative who showed up at the appointed place and time as “Alexander.” He was a capable agent, and formerly one of the KGB’s sharpest men in the Middle East. It was not surprising to find him here.
What his client wanted was possible, but it was going to take a rapid series of telephone calls and a lot of cash.
Alexander had given him a briefcase containing the equivalent of a hundred thousand American dollars in rubles. Alexander would have more for him by noon, he said, when a second bank opened—if Yuri needed it. Bribes were expected. They could access whatever funds he required to get the job done.
What Yuri wanted now was a telephone in a totally private place. His own apartment was out of the question. His normal instincts had always been to keep Anya ignorant of the details of his covert activities and never to use his own telephone line. It was safer for her—and for him—if she knew nothing. She understood this. She never asked questions.
Yuri allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of Anya, an expression that caused two people walking toward him to stare curiously.
I’m out of practice. I’m not supposed to wear my feelings on my face.
He headed for the office of a friend who ran a struggling export business. His friend did not act surprised when Yuri handed him twenty thousand rubles to take his employees and get lost for a few hours. A big aviation deal, he explained. The man knew Yuri’s KGB past. He merely winked and cleared out with his four employees. Twenty thousand rubles was more than he used to make in a year.
After double-checking to make sure he was alone, Yuri began a marathon of calls.
First he enlisted the aid of two trusted friends to check the availability of operational MIG-25’s or -29’s or any other Air Force hardware that, for a price, could be made instantly available, explaining he was acting as broker for a rich Western businessman. He knew the source to call for brokering heavyweight military equipment, a man he detested named Yvchenko. But even Yvchenko couldn’t produce an airplane that fast—and there was the problem of range.
What he really needed was something with a range of close to four thousand miles.
But there were no fighters in the former Soviet inventory with that sort of reach. Only big, lumbering bombers requiring many pilots and engineers.
There would be a solution, of course, Yuri assured himself. No matter what the odds, life had taught him that there was always a solution. But the odds against finding the right equipment in time were overwhelming.
He put down the phone and sat back in a creaky chair in the drafty second-floor office and tried to concentrate. Such a mission ordinarily required months of planning, even with the full cooperation of the Air Force. Without the official connection and with himself acting as a free agent, he could do it with money and time, but all he had was money.
Very well, what do we have, and what do we need? I need an airplane with a four-thousand-mile range. I need the right weapons and a carefully thought out flight plan. I need an escape plan, appropriate documents, and maps and charts. And I need it all immediately!
Yuri shook his head and smiled to himself. What was that American phrase he had liked so much? Oh, yes: “The improbable we do immediately, the impossible takes a few hours.” He would adopt that as his credo if he pulled this off. When he pulled it off! There could be no question of succeeding. It meant a new life for Anya and him, and it would make him an instant legend in the intelligence community—if they ever found out.
Enough! he cautioned himself. Focus on the aircraft first.
Fighters were everywhere and easily “bought” with a bribe, but even if it had the range, he couldn’t just roar out of town in a fully armed MIG-29 and casually drop into various international airfields to refuel without attracting a lot of attention. And there would be no time to paint over the military markings.
Appearance was important.
With an American airliner carrying a hated ambassador friendly to Israel, the world would come to a quick, logical conclusion that Aqbah was involved, and create a feeding frenzy for information about the shadowy but technically awesome organization. He must do nothing to diminish the impression that a full-time Aqbah team had executed the plan. He was like a ghost writer that way, his contact had explained. He did the work, someone else got the credit, giving his clients the ability to project themselves worldwide with minimal risk by using freelance operatives.
Yuri remembered a quiet briefing two years before in Tehran from an Iranian intelligence contact. Aqbah walked a delicate line, the Iranian had said. Unlike more hysterical terrorist organizations, which took credit for even the sloppiest acts, Aqbah cultivated the art of the suspected connection, greatly multiplying the fear factor.
“Let the evil West come to their own conclusion that a given murderous act was Aqbah’s doing—perhaps with a little help from phoned-in tips to news organizations,” the man had explained. “But never take open credit.”
Okay, Yuri thought, other than MIG-29s, what was instantly available?
On one of his phone calls a longtime friend had laughed at the idea of finding the right plane the same afternoon.
“Yuri, Yuri, the only way you’re going to get a plane that quickly is to steal one. This is Russia, after all!”
“It’s the Ukraine, Pavel.”
“Same difference. Nothing moves fast here.”
Steal a plane indeed. Yuri Steblinko, a decorated colonel of the Soviet Air Force.
There is no Soviet Air Force anymore, idiot! he reminded himself.
He had laughed at Pavel’s suggestion. Now he came forward in his chair, his mind racing through the rationale.
WAIT a minute!
That was consistent with Aqbah’s style. They didn’t have an air force of their own. Of course they would steal what they needed, and he didn’t need to check with the client to make sure it was an acceptable solution. It was the only solution!
The excitement faded. All well and good to decide to steal the equipment, but there had to be something to steal, and so far he was drawing a blank.
Yuri almost chuckled at the idea of sneaking up on a Russian Air Force base and simply flying off by himself in a Bear or Bison bomber. He was a fighter pilot. He could handle a MIG-25 or -29, but he couldn’t even start a Bear without help, let alone fly the beast.
What I need is a long-range business jet.
The image of the beautiful blue-and-white Gulfstream IV he had test-flown a month before danced across his mind, and a smile began to spread across his face.
Of course!
What a lovely aircraft that had been to fly! Two powerful turbofan engines, a custom-made wood-trimmed cabin, and an up-to-date glass cockpit of flat-panel electronic instruments crammed with satellite communications and navigation equipment, satellite television and radio links, and a defense system.
That had been his role—to test-fly the hidden defense systems. The Saudi prince who owned the Gulfstream had become a raving paranoid about being jumped by Iraqi or even Israeli fighters. He refused to be a sitting duck. He wanted protection, and the only protection he could imagine was a perpetual fighter escort, which King Khalid refused to let him have.
“Why not arm your Gulfstream?” an acquaintance had suggested. “There’s a place in the Ukraine that can get air-to-air missiles and modify your a
irplane to carry them on retractable racks.”
With the price no object, the prince had done just that, paying the equivalent of three million dollars in hard cash for the added tactical and threat radar, plus all the necessary modifications. What he would fly back to Saudi Arabia would have four air-to-air missiles, chaff dispensers, antimissile electronic countermeasures for confusing a missile’s radar, as well as the ability to tell if a fighter was painting him with targeting radar.
Secrecy was paramount, Yuri had been told. The prince was very concerned that someone in Iran or Iraq would find out about the equipment.
Oh my God! When is the delivery date?
Yuri realized he was standing and his heart pounding. Where was the aircraft right this minute?
Let’s see, it was to be delivered on … the twenty-sixth of December. He lunged at a calendar on the adjacent desk before realizing he already knew the date.
It was Saturday, December 23.
The Gulfstream IV would still be sitting on the tarmac at Kharkov, several hundred miles to the east. An airplane with a four-thousand-mile range. A nondescript business jet with the ability to launch four air-to-air missiles, and a communications system able to tune in any other aircraft and even eavesdrop on other satellite channels.
And an airplane he knew how to fly—and knew how to steal.
He shook his head.
It was almost too ironic. Aqbah steals the cherished airplane of what Tehran would consider an enemy of Islam, a hated Sunni Muslim and member of the Saudi royal family, and uses it to strike the West.
He sat at the battered desk and looked at the phone.
To this point it had all been planning, but once he began the calls necessary to trick the modification center into fueling and arming the plane, he would be lighting a fuse and committing to a mission that turned his stomach.
He thought of his investigation of the Sakhalin Island fighter unit that had brought down the Korean Airlines 747 in 1985. He had been a major then on special assignment as an accident investigator for the Soviet Air Force. He was part of the KGB’s frantic attempt to help the General Secretary decide which Air Force commanders were to be executed for the worldwide embarrassment they had caused the U.S.S.R.
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