"Steak dinner says I can guess what your Kyrgyzstan news is."
"You're on."
"Bolot Omurbai isn't dead."
There was a solid five seconds of silence, and then she said, "What? What are you talking about?"
"I think I'm sitting in Omurbai's temporary mausoleum."
21
" YOU'VElost me, Sam," Grimsdottir said. "Hold on, let me patch in the colonel . . ."
Lambert came on the line: "What've you got, Sam?"
Fisher repeated what he'd said to Grimsdottir, then added, "If I'm not mistaken, Omurbai's mother used to call him 'little Soso'--after Stalin's childhood nickname."
"Checking," Grimsdottir said. "Yeah, that's right. What about the letter?"
"March 1967, University College London. He would have been . . ."
"Eighteen or nineteen," Grimsdottir answered. Fisher could hear keys tapping in the background; after half a minute, she came back. "Omurbai studied there--economics--for a year before he dropped out."
"Speculate," Lambert ordered.
"Omurbai was there years and years ago," Grimsdottir replied. "Long before he took over the country."
"Or the letter is new, and whoever the Kyrgyz government killed was one of Omurbai's body doubles." He told them about the blue-ink doodle on the back of the envelope. "Plus, this room is untouched--almost a shrine. I doubt it would've been kept like this if Omurbai had visited before his rise to power. He would have been just another fellow Kyrgyz to Bakiyev. And the laminated map--the copyright reads 2007."
"Let's play this out," Lambert said. "Omurbai escapes Kyrgyzstan, leaving a body double in his place and telling his commanders to fight on until he returns. From there, with the help of Tolkun Bakiyev he makes his way to Little Bishkek, where he hides out, licks his wounds, and regroups--"
"And makes friends with the North Koreans," Fisher added.
"Right. And uses their advisers, their weapons, and their money--and Bakiyev's network--to plan his return to power."
"That sounds about right," Fisher replied. "A lot of unanswered questions yet, but it's plausible. The biggest question is: What're the North Koreans getting out of the deal? What does Omurbai have to offer them?"
"Speaking of Omurbai's big comeback," Grimsdottir said, "that's the other news. The latest reports show the Kyrgyz government on the edge of collapse. There's fighting inside Bishkek now; the rebels are pushing in."
"They always had the numbers but not the direction," Fisher said. "Without Omurbai they were aimless--a gaggle of warlords that couldn't agree on what kind of tea to serve at meetings, let alone wage a war."
"And now," Lambert said, "maybe they have their rudder back."
22
THEYtalked for a few more minutes, then Fisher signed off and returned to the third floor. He checked in on Pak and found him lying in bed reading, so he moved to Stewart's room, picked the lock, and slipped inside. He stood motionless for a few moments, pressed flat against the door, listening. He started side-sliding along the wall, following the contour of the room, checking the security camera's detection cone on the OPSAT as he went, until he was standing directly beneath the camera itself.
He studied the camera's underbelly. He saw no signs of a microphone, but he did see a manufacturer's name and model number. He relayed them to Grimsdottir. "I need an encode for a loop switch."
While both Fisher's SC pistol and rifle were EM jammer capable, he used the feature sparingly. His concern wasn't about whether or not the jammer was effective (it was), but rather about the intangible part of the equation; that is, the human part: what a security guard does when one of his or her monitors turns to static for no apparent reason only to resolve itself seconds later. And what do they do when another camera displays the same static, then another. Human judgment is an unpredictable beast. Some guards will write off the interference; some will not. It was those who worried Fisher, so whenever possible he preferred the now-antiquated and admittedly more tedious "loop switch" method.
"No problem. Stand by." She came back ten seconds later. "Got it. Encoding now."
On his OPSAT screen, a series of seemingly random numbers and letters were marching across the screen. They disappeared, and in their place was the word READY. From his web belt Fisher withdrew a loop interrupter switch--a loop switch, for short--a six-inch length of UTP Cat6 cable with a miniature C-clamp on each end. On the inner side of each clamp was a ring of sharp, tiny connector teeth; inside the cable itself, a microprocessor; and jutting from the center of the cable between the clamps, an infrared port.
Fisher aligned the loop switch's IR port with that of the OPSAT's.
CONNECTING . . .
CAPTURE . . .
ENCODING . . .
DONE.
Fisher reached up, lightly placed one clamped end of the loop switch to the camera's feed cable, and the other a few inches away. Satisfied with the setup, Fisher tightened both clamps simultaneously. He then again aligned the loop switch's IR port with the OPSAT's and read the screen: LOOP ESTABLISHED. If there were eyes watching Stewart's camera, now all they would see was a replayed loop of him sleeping.
Fisher crept to the bed and knelt down beside it. He placed a hand on Stewart's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Calvin. Calvin, wake up."
Stewart groaned, and his eyelids fluttered open. It took a few seconds, but he focused on Fisher and then said, groggily, "Sam."
"How're you holding up?"
"Well, I've got a bed. That's an improvement."
"Still with the jewelry, I see."
Stewart glanced at his cuffed hand. "Day and night."
"Let me see your thumb." Stewart extended it, and Fisher examined the fake nail. All looked good. "We pinned down the identity of your minder. He's a North Korean agent."
"Any clue what they want with me?"
"We're working on it. Anything on your end?"
"Same questions, different angles. It almost feels like a job interview--like they're trying to decide if they've got the right guy."
"Encourage that."
"Why?"
"A couple reasons," Fisher replied. "One, the more useful you are to them, the more valuable you are. And two, if they're convinced you can do the job for them--whatever that is--they'll send you farther down the pipeline, and I can track you. Hopefully to the source of all this. Hopefully to the PuH-19."
"God, how long is this going to last?"
"I don't know, Calvin. Not much longer, I would bet. Hang in there. As soon as it's safe to pull you out, I'll do it."
"I guess I don't have much choice but to trust you, do I?"
"Well," Fisher said with a half grin, "it just so happens you're in luck: I'm a trustworthy guy. You're doing fine, Calvin. Get some sleep. I won't be far away."
FISHERreturned to Pak's door, and in the flexicam's lens he could see the North Korean had turned out his light and now appeared to be asleep. Fisher watched for another five minutes; Pak didn't stir. Fisher lightly scratched at the door with his fingernail. Nothing. Another scratch, this time louder. Still, Pak remained motionless.
Fisher withdrew the flexicam, then picked the lock and slipped inside. On flat feet, he crept to the edge of the bed. Pak lay on his right side, facing away from Fisher. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically. To be on the safe side, Fisher drew his pistol, removed a Level 1 dart from the magazine, then moved to the end of the bed. Pak's bare left foot poked out from under the covers. Fisher knelt down below the footboard and scratched the sole of Pak's foot with the dart. Pak stirred slightly, then turned onto his left side and went back to sleep.