Tom Clancy Red Winter, page 18
A seventh man came through the door behind the Helsinki crowd and stood with them at the back of the room. He was tall, looked like he needed a shave. A wool coat was draped over one arm and he clutched a sable hat in his fist.
Billy Dunn, the youthful case officer who’d shown Foley in, leaned sideways. “I agree with Jen. We’re busy enough here without another headquarters asshole dropping in to tell us how to hold our mouths right while we’re doing our job.”
Foley stifled a grin when the man with the sable hat took a half-step forward. “Please don’t wait on the HQ asshole,” Jack Ryan said. “He is present and accounted for.”
Jen North rolled her eyes. Billy Dunn blanched ghost-white, attempting to shrink into the crowd.
Hulse didn’t miss a beat.
“Welcome to Berlin,” he said. “As you all know, we’ve had to bring in outside help for this operation. USBER case officers won’t have direct involvement in making contact with CALISTO. East Berlin Station will be running the radio and monitoring station.”
Ryan perked up, raising an eyebrow at the last. Foley gave a toss of her head, indicating that she would explain later.
At that same moment, the lights on the phone in the center of the conference table lit up and a military policeman escorted in a small man who hummed with so much energy he looked like he might at any moment burst into flames.
“That’s Boone Grissom,” Billy Dunn leaned sideways to explain to Foley. “Ranking official with the State Department. He wouldn’t have clearance for this briefing.”
“I apologize, Mr. Hulse,” the MP said. “He wouldn’t—”
Grissom flicked his hand, shooing the soldier away. “I told him he had to let me past or shoot me. You people need to answer your phones!”
“What can we do for you, Boone?” Hulse said.
“One of our FSOs has been taken.”
Foley frowned. “Taken?”
“New girl by the name of Keller,” Grissom said. “She’s only been here a few weeks.”
Jen North put a hand on the table to steady herself.
29
A Nevada highway patrolman trotted up to Sergeant Allred, hand on top of his Stetson campaign hat to keep it on in the stiff wind that barreled in from the red-rock desert. Pritchard, Murray, Harris, and the sergeant had all driven to the truck stop outside of Mesquite in hopes of finding any little detail from the abandoned child.
At any moment, a Utah Department of Public Safety chopper was supposed to pick up the agents and transport them to the FBI field office in Salt Lake, where they would set up a command center.
OSI Special Agent Gillum had returned to the site of the crash—and the homicides—to see if he could glean any further information that would help them find the UNSUB. At this point, even an entire footprint would be more than they had.
The abandoned rental car at Whitney Pocket came back to a Bob Robertson out of Roswell, New Mexico. They’d found a pistol, reported stolen in California six years earlier, meaning it could have been in a dozen hands between the time of its theft and now. They had the UNSUB’s clothing size. Large and tall. Basically, the same size Murray wore. This guy liked new socks and had a pile of them. Like two dozen. As if he just had to put a fresh pair on every day. To each their own. People were weird. He’d sent out a notice for agents to contact clerks at every department store between Las Vegas and the Canadian border to keep an eye out for a guy with a vague resemblance to Captain Kangaroo’s handsome cousin who came in to buy a shitload of socks.
Cases had been broken on less.
The rest of the car’s trunk was interesting, if not particularly helpful. Three hard-shell cases with foam cutouts—for a large pair of binoculars, a set of Soviet night-vision goggles, and a handheld thermal imager, also of Soviet manufacture, which meant it was the clunky tractor of thermal imagers.
Betty Harris, who was light-years ahead of Murray in the nurturing department, had bought the kid a milkshake and now sat with him inside the store, drawing pictures in Harris’s notebook.
Murray was on the pay phone briefing the deputy director when Sergeant Allred, having just spoken to his subordinate, wheeled in with a smile so large it looked like his cheeks might crack. He gave Murray a big thumbs-up and then pumped his fist, like an umpire might do to call an out on a base runner.
“Gotta go, sir,” Murray said, and hung up the pay phone—checking for change out of habit as he folded open the door.
“What have you got?”
“You’re not gonna believe it,” Allred said. “The kid’s mom is alive! Our numbnuts clunked her on the head and threw her in the back of her own car. Must have thought he’d killed her. Sounds like she used the metal spout on a can of oil she had in the trunk to jimmy open the lid and jump out when our guy stopped to take a leak.”
“She get a good look at him?” Murray asked, feeling hope for the first time in hours.
“No,” the sergeant said. “She was too busy crawling into the weeds.”
“Smart,” Murray said.
“But we got a plate and vehicle description. Gray 1984 Toyota Cressida. My office is putting out a BOLO now.”
Murray glanced through the window at the little boy inside talking to Harris. “How bad is she hurt?”
“Pretty bad,” Allred said. “She took a bad hit. Lot of swelling on the brain from what I understand. Lucky to be alive. They’re prepping her for surgery now.”
On the other side of the window, Harris brightened, and pointed behind Murray. He turned to see the approaching helicopter.
“Wonder if the kid’s ever been on a chopper,” he said. “Be nice to have him there when his mom wakes up.”
30
Richter drove as fast as he dared, keeping to the interstate for a few miles before exiting to take surface streets.
The woman must have gotten out when he stopped to piss. It was brilliant using the oil can spout to pry open the latch. Just. Plain. Brilliant . . . And disastrous.
That was an hour ago, meaning the police could have all his information by now. They surely already had a description. Now they knew not only what he was driving, but his direction of travel. He began to hyperventilate, thinking he might as well go straight to the nearest office of the FBI and turn himself in.
He shook it off. No. This wasn’t over. And he began to see that staying on the smaller streets was stupid. Traffic on the interstate was horrible, which was a good thing for him. Easier to get lost. He needed to disappear until transportation was arranged.
A police car passed him on the left, lights on, speeding toward some unknown emergency.
Gut churning, he got off the interstate again. It was time to part ways with the vehicle. He had his coat, his duffel, and a portion of an extremely secret American aircraft. From this point on, it would be safer to get out and walk. It was probably safe to take a taxi, as long as he did it quickly. It would take some time for the police to spread the word. He’d killed for this piece of metal, and he would kill again if he had to. Whatever it took to get it out of the country. Until then, he needed a place to hide, out of sight, where the authorities would not think to look.
31
Clark made it a habit not to sleep deeply when on an operation. Though dog-tired, his eyes flicked open to the sound of soft footfalls on creaking wood, moments before a knock at the bedroom door. The knock relaxed him. Threats rarely announced themselves on flimsy interior doors. Next came the smell of baking bread, which relaxed him even more. He glanced at his watch—four a.m.—and gave a long, groaning stretch, replaying the events of the previous night. He’d taken the time to brush his teeth and load the Glock, then passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Four hours of uninterrupted horizontal sleep in an actual bed was a godsend after the past few days.
Lotte Cobb’s muffled voice carried into the room. “John, I am sorry to wake you, but we have cable traffic coming in.”
Cold seeped in through a gap in the window frame, so he’d slept in a T-shirt and sweats, allowing him to roll out of bed and open the door.
“Good to go, ma’am. What’s up?”
With her silver hair braided and coiled into a tight bun, Lotte Cobb stood in the doorway drying her hands on a tea towel as if she’d just stepped away from the kitchen.
“We’ve received a standby order,” she said. “Someone at the embassy has gone missing. There is a strong possibility that it is an abduction.”
Lotte’s light pink T-shirt, faded high-waisted Levi’s, and a ruffled apron belied the troubling news. It was difficult to imagine that she’d lived through the horrors of World War II Berlin, until you looked at her eyes.
“Who?” Clark asked.
“No name was provided,” Lotte said. “But the brief says it is one of the embassy staff. You are to await further instructions, which should be forthcoming within the next two hours.”
It made sense. An abduction of someone at the embassy would throw a wrench into any plans Foley and Ryan had worked out. It was also unlikely to be a coincidence. The bosses at USBER and Bonn and D.C. and Langley were surely in a full-bore panic right now, rethinking strategy and getting ready to punt.
Clark’s gut reaction was to rush to USBER to help track down the missing person—and deal with those responsible. But his mission parameters kept him on the outside of things, an unknown face in the crowd. Any attempt to contact officials at Berlin Mission directly would rob him of the anonymity he needed to protect Foley and Ryan.
“In the meantime,” Lotte said. “I made you breakfast.”
Clark checked his watch again. “You must have—”
“Sleep . . .” Her voice trailed off, punctuated by a little shrug. “. . . eludes me.” She toyed with a lock of hair. “Come down and eat when you are dressed. That way you will be ready to go when the time comes.”
Ten minutes later, with no further orders from Berlin Mission, Lotte Cobb sat Clark down to a table piled high with fresh rolls, assorted meats, and a platter of golden-brown potato pancakes.
Clark smiled, hand on his belly. “I’m not sure I—”
“Nonsense,” Lotte said. “If I learned anything during the war it is to eat when there is food. You never know when you might be fed again.”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel stuffed into the waist of her apron and began to fill Clark’s plate.
“Where is Mr. Cobb?” he asked, taking her advice and slathering a roll with butter, suddenly hungrier than he’d imagined he would be.
“At the newsstand,” she said. “We need the morning paper to unscramble any cable traffic that comes in after noon.”
“Of course.” Clark raised his coffee cup. “I really appreciate the hospitality, Mrs. Cobb. I am in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” Lotte said again. She turned to the same rolltop desk where her husband had retrieved the ammunition the night before and came out with a small wooden box. “I want to give you something else.”
Clark wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushed away from the table.
Lotte lifted the lid to reveal a small blue steel Browning Fabrique Nationale 1910 pistol in .32 ACP. Black Hand assassin Gavrilo Princip had used a similar gun chambered in .380 ACP to murder Archduke Ferdinand, kicking off the First World War.
She pushed the box toward Clark.
“Please,” she said. “It is no fancy new Austrian Glock, but I believe it may be of some use to you if you find yourself in need of a pocket gun.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Please, John,” she said. “It would make an old woman happy to see her pistol put to good use.” She pulled her chair close to his and grabbed a potato pancake, holding it in both hands to nibble while she talked. “I killed many Nazis and more than a few Russian pigs with this.”
Clark hefted the little gun, pulling back the slide to make sure it was unloaded. It was not.
She nodded, took the weapon, cleared it, and handed it back. “When I was a young girl, our guns were always loaded. We had to use them often.”
“You were German resistance,” Clark ventured, aiming the empty gun at the floor. The sights were minuscule, a needle-fine front almost impossible to see in the tiny rear notch. This was a weapon for close quarters, a get-back gun for fighting your way to something bigger. Though, even as a die-hard proponent of the venerable .45, Clark had to admit a 60-grain .32 slug through the noggin could ruin someone’s day.
“Yes,” Lotte said. “I fought in the resistance alongside members of the British Special Operations Executive. Have you heard of them?”
Clark gave her a knowing smile. “SOE? Oh, yeah. Commandos and saboteurs working behind enemy lines.”
“Just so,” Lotte said. “That’s how I met Richard. He was with the U.S. Office of Strategic Services, Special Operations.”
“I can tell from the way he carries himself,” Clark said.
The OSS had been extremely effective in gathering intelligence, breaking codes, and spreading disinformation and chaos throughout Axis powers during the war. To John Clark, operators like the Cobbs were giants, mythical gods.
He smiled. “So, the two of you worked together.”
“For a short while,” Lotte said. “I was only seventeen, but a war rears her young quickly. My time working alongside Richard was the finest two weeks and three days of my life up to that point. Then he was sent off by his commanders to fight some other battle. The war ended and I found myself a German woman in the smoldering ruins of a Berlin ‘liberated’ by Soviet troops. I assumed Richard Cobb had forgotten me.”
“I see,” Clark said, bracing himself for the rest of the story.
“You know,” Lotte said, nibbling on the potato cake, “the first group of soldiers who came through were brutal but professional. They simply lined up all our men and boys, shot them dead, and moved on. The second echelon . . .” Lotte looked as though she wanted to spit. “They were the monsters. Most were younger, less experienced in combat, cooks, logistics support, even women. I heard it said that no German female eight to eighty was safe . . . but even that is not right. Those dogs took anyone and everyone. If a girl resisted at all, she was shot in the neck . . . and then raped.” Lotte gazed at nothing, reliving the horror. “Some girls’ fathers hanged themselves out of shame. Mothers gave their raped daughters stones and told them to go drown themselves in the river . . . which many did. I knew my way around guns and knives, and I killed as many Russians as I could . . . Eleven that I am sure about. Three more who may have survived their wounds . . .”
Clark started to say something, but she raised her hand, needing to finish.
“Eventually,” she said, “I ran out of ammunition and hid the gun. The assaults were so frequent that . . . I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that I was forced to find a protector. Mine was a Soviet colonel named Andreyev, a pig who climbed on me only once a day and then pretended he was doing me a favor. He was, I suppose, because it kept me from being raped many times each day by roving gangs of soldiers.”
Cobb’s voice came from the front hallway. “Needless to say, I didn’t much care for Colonel Andreyev. I gutted the bastard and left him to rot in a ditch as soon as I learned what was happening.” Cobb dragged a chair across the dining room and sat down next to his wife. “No word?”
Lotte shook her head. “Not yet. But he is ready to go when we hear.”
Cobb listed sideways, touching shoulders with his wife, then looked at Clark. “I’d been sent on assignment in Italy but came back as soon as I could to find Lotte.”
“That was before the Wall,” she said. “Richard took me with him to the American sector, where he had friends.”
“And you stayed here,” Clark said.
Cobb grabbed a potato pancake and a slice of beef, making a sandwich out of it.
“We did. I got out of the Army and started a lucrative trading business on the black market . . . not necessarily in that order. Turns out running a black-market operation gins up some useful information for the Agency—especially when over half my customers were Russians.” He took a bite of his pancake sandwich, eyeing Clark while he chewed. “Ended up raising our boy here . . . How about you, son? The wife and I have pretty much vomited up our life stories. Don’t tell us anything classified, but I deal with so many damned spooks, it’s good to talk to another operator once in a while. Greer said we are to trust you completely. That’s enough for us.”
“You know Admiral Greer?”
Lotte gave a soft smile. “He has stayed many times in the same room where you slept last night. A good man.”
“That is very true,” Clark said. There were some things he’d never divulge, like the fact that he’d grown up as John Kelly, but Jim Greer had seen enough potential in him to give him a new identity and let him start over.
Jim Greer never did anything without a reason. Sending Clark here, to these two particular contacts, had obviously been his idea of a reward . . . or therapy.
He considered telling them more about himself, but the habit of silence was just too ingrained. To their credit, they did not quiz him further, accepting him instead on Greer’s word . . . and what they had seen firsthand.
Not one to sit idly for long, Clark rolled his neck, wincing at an old injury from when he was John Kelly.
Cobb saw it and gave him a tight smile. “Take it from me, someday you’re going to look back and remember that scrap you had with the Russians last night in crimson detail and say to yourself, So that moment is why this rib feels like shit . . .”
A light above a door in the hallway illuminated and a soft chime sounded, indicating incoming traffic on the communication equipment in the closet.
