Tom Clancy Red Winter, page 9
Ritter raised a hand as if in surrender. He paused, then looked up at Ryan with a narrow eye.
“Can I ask how old you are?”
“I’m thirty-four,” Ryan said. Robert Ritter knew full well about the classified work he’d done securing Soviet ballistic missile submarine Red October—and his actions in London against Irish terrorists—but to some, the blush of youth cast a shadow over any past success, making them seem like flukes.
“Thirty-four?” Buckley said. “Holy shit, Ryan! No offense, but we’re talking about East Germany. The honest-to-God Iron Curtain police state of all police states. The Berlin Wall . . . what do they call it, the Anti-Fascist Protection Rampart. Some people over there actually believe this stuff and will happily riddle your spine with lead if you screw up operating over there.”
Greer ignored Buckley and looked at Ritter. “I’m not blind to the fact that Dr. Ryan is an analyst. We’ll need to send someone with significant expertise in hostile area tradecraft.”
“Agreed,” Ritter said.
“I’ve taken the liberty . . .” Greer slid a sheet of paper across the table to Judge Moore. Typed in OCR font, it would be fed into the Optical Character Reader by a cypher clerk, encrypted, then disbursed as Eyes Only to CIA stations and bases in Bonn and both sides of the Wall in Berlin.
Buckley, who’d yet to learn what was on the paper, leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on his front teeth. “I have some ideas about who we could send with him.”
Moore slid the paper draft cable to Ritter, who read it, thought for a moment, then said, “Evidently, so does Admiral Greer.”
“Very well,” Moore said. “Get it rolling.”
Ryan glanced up from his notebook. “Who’s the chief in East Berlin?”
“Jason Newell,” Ritter said. “Steady man. Been there two years—a lifetime in Eastern Europe. He was deputy chief of station in Paris before landing that job. Ambo’s a female. Lois Simon. Career diplomat. Relatively effective . . . as far as diplomats go. You’ll fly in to West Berlin. Skip Hulse is in charge of the base there. He’s also good. I’ve been in some rough patches with him. I have and would continue to trust him with my life.”
Ryan committed the names to memory without writing them down. “I’ll get with the travel office as soon as I leave here.”
“Time is of the essence in this one, Jack,” Greer said. “Did Cathy come with you?”
“She’s still in London with the kids.”
“Good,” Greer said.
It went without saying that Jack shouldn’t mention anything about the assignment to Cathy. Buckley mentioned it anyway, just to show the intel weenie who the operational experts were.
“You’ll want to play this one close to the vest, Ryan. Don’t tell anyone where you’re heading, even your wife.”
“There is something else we have to consider,” Ritter said. “CALISTO is offering intelligence that stands to thwart significant East German and Soviet defense initiatives. If the Stasi or KGB get wind of this—and if there is a leak they already have—then they are going to be working overtime to find out who CALISTO is so they can plug the leak.” He stabbed the table with his index finger to make his point. “And they will not hesitate to put a bullet in the base of your skull if they believe it will help plug it.”
“True,” Greer said. “If you could provide us with some fresh faces for countersurveillance.”
Ritter nodded to Buckley, who finally used his pen to write something down.
“I’ll get a team in from Helsinki.”
Moore pushed his leather chair away from the table and stood, prompting the others to do the same.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “Keep me in the loop.”
“I’m sending someone else as well,” Greer said to Ritter.
“Fine,” Buckley said. “Just have him link up with the team in Berlin.”
Greer shook his head. “I’m not talking countersurveillance. This guy will be for the more hands-on matters, if it comes to that. He can be a bit of a blunt instrument . . .”
Judge Moore raised his hand to stop the discussion until he left the room, happy not to be quite that much in the loop, especially when it came to the messy stuff.
13
A female agent with frizzy auburn hair tied up into a loose bun met Murray at the base of the Learjet’s boarding stairs. She introduced herself as Special Agent Betty Harris from the Washington Field Office. She held a canvas duffel in each hand and had a black ballistic nylon briefcase slung over her shoulder. Her dark blue FBI raid jacket hung open enough to reveal one of the new Smith & Wesson 459s on her hip. Ten years Murray’s junior, it made sense she’d have made the switch to the Bureau’s new firearm.
She looked about seventeen, with a healthy crop of freckles splashed over rosy cheeks. Murray decided she couldn’t have been out of the Academy for more than five minutes.
He paused at the bottom step, eyeing the duffels.
“Dan Murray,” he said. “For me?”
She nodded. “Sounds like a rural assignment. I was told to bring you a change of clothes, boots, socks, toiletries.” She grimaced. “Hope boxers are okay. I figured a briefs guy would be fine with boxers, but if you happened not to like tighty whities . . .”
Murray held up an open hand. “Boxers are swell.”
“Did you know they keep our sizes at the Hoover Building?”
“Yeah, for the issue stuff,” Murray said, taking the bag. “Thanks for doing this.” He reached for the other duffel, but she pulled it away.
“Oh, no, sir,” she said. “These are for me. I’m to come with you.”
Still trying to get his head wrapped around what was happening, Murray gave her a polite smile and decided not to worry about things over which he had no control. If the big brains at the J. Edgar Hoover Building wanted to send a teenager to assist him on . . . whatever this was, that was their issue.
Her baby face notwithstanding, Special Agent Harris was tall, nearly six feet, and had to stoop as much as Murray as they climbed onto the plane. Sleek and fast, the C-21 was well appointed with leather and teak, but it was not particularly roomy. Seating was configured business-jet-style, vis-à-vis, with small tables that folded up from below the windows. Murray sat with his back to the cockpit. To her credit, Harris took a forward-facing seat on the other side of the plane so they could talk but didn’t have to battle for legroom.
She unzipped her briefcase and took out a leather folio and a yellow legal pad. “I’ve never been on a plane that smells this good,” she said. “It’s like a saddle shop.”
“I was going to say new car,” Murray said. “You spend a lot of time in saddle shops?”
“Yes, sir,” Harris said. “My family has an Arabian horse ranch in southern Utah, not too far from Mesquite, Nevada.”
“Ah,” Murray said. Now he understood why she was here. “You must be coming along to provide knowledge of the local terrain.”
“I imagine you wanted someone older to partner on this,” Harris said. “Someone with more experience.”
“To tell you the truth, Harris,” he said, “I’m not even sure what ‘this’ is. Please fill me in.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I assumed you’d been briefed. We’re looking for a fugitive.”
She passed him a folded USGS topographic map that she’d stuck between the pages of her legal pad. An area below Virgin Peak was marked with a red X. Judging from the topo lines, it was near vertical.
“At a crash site? What’d he do, shoot down the plane?” Murray wasn’t joking. CIA provided Stinger missiles to the mujahideen to use against the Russians in Afghanistan. The Bureau was on constant alert that some version of a man-portable antiaircraft device would find its way into the hands of a terrorist in the United States.
“No,” Harris said. “Theft of some super-classified tech from the crash. They wouldn’t tell me exactly which piece of tech. I’m assuming we’ll get the rest when we get there. The special agent in charge had an Air Force four-star in his office when I came in to work out this morning. Next thing I know, I’m told to take my winter go-bag, get one for you from HQ, and then meet you here.”
“We have a name for this fugitive?” Murray asked. “A description?”
Harris opened the folio to reveal the beginnings of a very sparse case file. A sheet of flimsy thermal paper bearing a black-and-white facsimile of a police sketch was on top, still curling from rolling off the fax machine.
“Not sure how much good this will do us,” she said. “But it’s all we have until we get there.”
Judging from this specimen, fax image quality had taken a giant step backward since 1924 when a photo of Calvin Coolidge was transmitted to London via wireless radio signal. This one looked more like a Rorschach test than a drawing of anyone in particular. It depicted a male, white, Murray thought, with a wide face, a mustache, and a pageboy haircut.
“According to this, we’re looking for Captain Kangaroo.”
“Yeah,” Harris said. “I think that’s supposed to be a wool hat, not bangs. We’ll need to meet with the witnesses ourselves once we get there.”
Murray leaned back and closed his eyes. He folded his arms across his chest, trying hard to keep from gritting his teeth. “This isn’t going to work.”
“I’m no Betty Bureau Blue Suit,” she assured him.
Murray’s eyes flicked open, but the rest of his body stayed completely still. “I’m not talking about you.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But you need to know I’ll pull my weight and then some. I guarantee you’ll find me a valuable asset to the team if you give me a chance.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“We have a team?”
She slumped in her seat.
“So far it’s just you and me.”
Murray closed his eyes again.
“Do you work hard?”
“Absolutely.”
“Are you smart?”
She paused.
He prodded. “Don’t be modest.”
“Then yes,” she said. “I’m extremely curious, which, I believe, has made me smart.”
“Okay, then.” Murray leaned forward and rubbed his hands together, ready to roll up his sleeves and get started. “That’s all I ask of anyone who works with me.” He was quiet for a beat, then added, “Oh, and can you shoot?”
“What? Yes. I’m a decent shot.”
“Shooting skill is far less important than brains,” Murray said. “Until it’s not.”
An Air Force major in a green Nomex flight suit bounded up the air stairs and leaned in to the cabin. A female aviator stood behind him.
“Major Buck Smith, 458th Airlift Squadron,” he said, left hand flat on his chest while he hung on to the teak bulkhead with the right. “I’m your pilot in command today, and this is Captain Donna Everette, one of the first female graduates of the United States Air Force Academy.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Class of . . .”
“1980,” she said, smiling modestly.
Special Agent Harris gave the captain a vigorous thumbs-up in solidarity—both successful women in jobs that were steeped in testosterone.
“And she’s a hell of a pilot,” Major Smith said.
One of the downsides of being the first female at anything was the fact that it became etched into every introduction, sometimes overshadowing more pertinent things.
Smith gave a quick preflight briefing on emergency procedures and the important things, like the location of the coffee and the whereabouts of the potty—which was hidden under one of the seats. It could be closed off if the need arose, a strong possibility on cross-country flights. Like most pilots, his voice grew especially animated when he began to describe his aircraft.
“This C-21A is a brand-new airplane, fresh off the line at Lear. We were supposed to be taking her to her new home at Scott Air Force Base with a couple three-stars when we were diverted to pick you up. Y’all must have a heck of a lot of juice to bounce not one but two lieutenant generals.”
“Someone does, I guess,” Harris said, looking at Murray.
“Anyway,” Smith continued, “the Lear 35 shares enough in common with the Swiss P-16 ground attack fighter to be its kissing cousin—with a few extra seats. Her two Garrett turbofan engines will, excuse my French, kick us in the ass. I give you that warning because I have received word from on high that Captain Everette and I are not to spare the horses.” He winked. “So buckle up. Should be a straight shot to Nellis, where another chopper will transport you from there.”
Smith and Everette went forward to the cockpit, which was open to the rest of the cabin, and began their preflight procedures.
Murray leaned sideways, holding the Motorola’s rubberized antenna against the plane’s window to get a signal, and then punched in the phone number scrawled across the bottom of the atrocious police sketch.
“Trooper Stone,” the man on the other end snapped, as if he were in the middle of something far more important than a phone call. His voice was distant, like he was at the bottom of a well.
Murray introduced himself and ran down a quick list of orders, couched as requests to make them more palatable. The FBI didn’t outrank a local officer or trooper by any means, but they did have fifteen thousand agents and a shitload of resources. Someone had to be in charge, and that duty often fell to the FBI, who sometimes led by what Murray’s Navy grandfather had called “right of way by tonnage.”
Instead of arguing or even putting up a fight, the trooper said, “Hang on. I’ve got one of your guys right here.”
Murray listened to a muffled game of telephone hot potato on the other end before a tentative voice came on the line.
“This is Pritchard.”
The engine whine grew louder. The pilots released the brakes and the little jet shuddered, throwing Murray against his lap belt as they began to roll to the taxiway.
“Where you from, Special Agent Pritchard?”
“RA in St. George.”
Murray established his bona fides with the fact that he was being sent by the director. Pritchard could call his SAC in Salt Lake if he had any questions. He wasn’t one to name-drop, but in fugitive cases time was of the essence. The proverbial dragnet needed to be set up right damn now, not after Pritchard got permission or Murray arrived on scene to make his case in person. You couldn’t spell bureaucracy without Bureau, and sometimes the wheels needed a little grease.
Pritchard explained that the special agent in charge of the Salt Lake field office was out with emergency gallbladder surgery.
“Right now, it’s me, some locals, and a bunch of Air Force OSI agents and security forces. The military guys are keeping the locals on the perimeter before they get clearance from their brass. This whole shitshow is classified SCI code word clearance. We have roadblocks set up fifteen and thirty miles out on the main roads and Bureau of Land Management four-wheeler trails. It’s about two hours until daylight. The Air Force has two helicopter gunships in the air now with FLIR capability. The OSI guys seem squared away, but I’m not sure these security forces have ever faced a homicide suspect before—”
“Hang on, now,” Murray said. “What do you mean ‘homicide’?”
“Double homicide,” Pritchard said. “The pilot saw our guy push a woman into a deep crevice. It’s, like, fortysomething feet down and she’s wedged in there pretty good. They’re going to wait until it gets light to get the body.”
“Double?”
“One of the UFO watchers,” Pritchard said. “Looks like he may have confronted our guy when he was on his way off the mountain. Caught a knife in the chest for his trouble.”
Murray ran a hand over the top of his head. “Shit. That adds a new wrinkle to things.”
Harris looked up at him, interested.
“I’m sorry,” Pritchard said. “I thought you were already aware.”
“First I’m hearing of it,” Murray said. “Sounds as though you’re doing things right, though. What county is that?”
“Clark.”
“Any Clark County sheriff’s deputies barking about whose homicide cases these are?”
“Only that the Air Force isn’t letting them near anyhow,” Pritchard said. “To be honest, I don’t think their bosses want the headache. It’s federal land anyway, so we have no issues regarding jurisdiction.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it handled,” Murray said.
“Thank you, sir,” Pritchard said. “But I’m not sure we’re going to be very effective. This area is awfully porous. Lots of old mines and hidey-holes to get lost in. Even worse, you can’t throw a rock in these mountains without hitting a lookie-loo or UFO hunter. Security forces are keeping them back from the actual crash site, but they’re digging in around the perimeter like some kind of siege army. The SAC from Vegas should be here anytime.”
“Good,” Murray said. “I know Jimmy McCoy. He’s a hell of a fugitive hunter. What about all the UFO watchers you mentioned?”
“I’m not sure we can just kick people off public land.”
“We don’t want to,” Murray said. “In fact, you need to keep the witnesses on-site until we get there.”
“Roger that,” Pritchard said. “What’s your ETA?”
Murray covered the receiver and leaned around the bulkhead to look over his shoulder and check with the pilots before relaying the information to Pritchard.
“Five hours, give or take,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do if they decide to leave? I’m telling you, Murray, these people are out of their minds. They’re already spinning all kinds of conspiracy stories about secret government programs—you know, cover-ups and shit like that.”
“Are they wrong?”
