But there was power in the room, and he liked being a part of it, feeding off the energy. It felt like everyone else was discounting him, and Ellis knew he worked best when he was being underestimated. But this spy stuff was getting out of hand, especially with that fool Cal running off to God knows where. Ellis had a feeling that whatever was happening, the fun and games were gonna end fast.
“General, sir,” Ellis said, finally locating Vandenberg and tapping him on the shoulder. “The Deputy Secretary wants a word, if he may?”
Vandenberg scowled briefly at Ellis, then turned and smiled at the other bigwigs in his circle, excusing himself. He then motioned toward one of the alcoves in the harem’s audience hall. “What is it?” he finally asked when they were out of earshot, brusquely.
“Hooks ain’t responding to the bail-out — he went and followed the Russki. Lodge and Dubinsky went after him,” Ellis said. “We got company, too. May even be a Russian Variant around.”
Vandenberg looked stunned for a moment, then gathered his reserve. “Contact Wallace. Find Hooks ASAP. Then track down the others and provide backup.”
“That wasn’t the plan, sir,” Ellis objected quietly. “That damn… Hooks messed up. The MGB guys may be here. We gotta follow the ops plan. Time to go.”
The general arched an eyebrow at Ellis. “The stars on this uniform aren’t some kind of costume, Ellis. I just gave you orders. Your job is to follow them. Get cracking.”
Vandenberg stepped out of the alcove and walked off back toward the party, leaving Ellis furious, conjuring up images of traditional Southern justice against Cal. But he nonetheless left the hall and went back toward the entrance, down one corridor and the next, past kitchens and security guards, until he came out where the cars were parked.
Danny Wallace was Vandenberg’s driver, boasting the rank and insignia of an airman first class. Between the spectacles and the boyish looks, the Navy officer managed to pull it off.
“Sorry, sir!” Danny said, folding up the newspaper he’d been reading, and throwing it onto the seat next to him. “Is the general leaving?”
Ellis looked around — there was no one in earshot — then leaned in close. “Yushchenko called it off, we sent the bail-out order, but Cal done wandered off. Frank and Maggie went after him. The general told me to tell you, then go back ’em up, but damn if I know where everyone went off to.” He threw up his hands. “INSIGHT passed a note; maybe there’s a Russian Variant around. It’s a fuckin’ mess.”
“A Russian Variant? I didn’t sense…” Danny’s voice trailed off as he closed his eyes a moment, looking as though he were either deep in concentration or just completely asleep — then his eyes flew open and a look like none Ellis had seen before crossed the young officer’s face. “We gotta go. It’s worse than you think.”
Cal kept tapping the key on his radio furiously — four quick bursts, Somebody talk to me — but wasn’t getting a response. It was dark, he was now in some godforsaken basement in a five-hundred-year-old palace, and he was pretty sure the reception on the radio was shot anyway.
Worst part was that Yushchenko was nowhere to be found.
Cal remembered the exercises at Area 51, where he’d follow someone through their little encampment and do his best to stay hidden while keeping the target in view. Back at the base, it’d been easy as pie, but as he now stumbled clumsily over ancient stones in the cellar of this harem, he knew he succeeded in practice only because he’d known the layout of the camp like the back of his hand. Here, in the dim light, he’d spent too much time trying not to fall down on his backside and, in the process, had lost the man he’d been tailing and also realized he hadn’t even been paying attention enough to find his way back out.
Turn, another turn, and another. Deeper, down some stairs. He felt like he was being herded through a maze but didn’t know who was herding or what was at the end. The hallways were lit with dim electric bulbs too far apart to cast enough light to reveal where he actually was. He was grateful not to have seen anyone else, though, since he’d have a hard time explaining why he was down there to begin with. The stock reply was something about a security check, but he knew that wouldn’t hold water for long.
But now, thoroughly lost, that excuse was looking better and better — so long as he could actually bump into someone else to use it on.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Cal heard something that didn’t sound a whole lot like Turkish or Arabic — the two languages he’d been listening to for days now. And then, clear as day, he heard:
“Da. Da, tovarishch.”
Cal didn’t get much in the way of language training at Area 51, but he did remember a bit of basic Russian.
He stopped and thought about his uniform dress shoes — he would have to have a word with that Mrs. Stevens when he got back, because they might as well have been tap shoes on the stones of the basement. Cal moved slowly, and hopefully quietly, as he heard the two Russians — no, wait, three Russians — talking in a room up ahead.
“Harasho. Dasvidanyia.”
Good. Good-bye. That might’ve exhausted all Cal’s Russian knowledge, but it was enough. He looked around and, heart racing now, realized that whoever was in there would have to walk right by him on the way out — and no excuses about security checks would save his bacon. He braced himself as best he could, hoping he could work his Enhancement so that he wouldn’t permanently harm whomever might come out of the room.
No one did.
Sweating and gritting his teeth, Cal edged slowly closer to the room. Only when he ventured a peek around the corner did he see there was another exit on the other side — and a Russian still in there.
Cal quickly edged back out of sight and tried to process what he’d just seen. It looked like a storage room or pantry of some kind. Lots of canned goods there, a bunch of sacks — probably flour or sugar or something like that — and some kind of well. Could be where the palace got some of its water, being that it was pretty old.
But no Yushchenko. He thought for a moment that maybe that fellow inside could let him know one way or the other. He quickly dismissed the notion, knowing that the Soviets, if that was who they were, wouldn’t take kindly to being interrupted for any reason. And if Yushchenko was trying to hand off information or even switch sides, well… it wouldn’t do anybody any good to bring that kind of notice down on him, now, would it?
Maggie said she got a note from Yushchenko. Maybe that would have to do.
Cal was about ready to retreat and try to get back upstairs when he heard echoes of footsteps from somewhere else in basement, followed by a familiar voice from inside the room. “Say, friend, can you tell me where the washroom is?”
Without thinking, Cal’s training kicked in. He whipped around the corner into the room and placed his hand on the Russian’s neck, draining enough life force from the man to exhaust him and put him to sleep without hurting him, thank God. As the man collapsed, he turned to Frank, who was pointing a gun at him — and then quickly pointed it away again. “Christ, Cal! I almost shot you. Where’ve you been? We’re in trouble here.”
Cal eyed the gun nervously until it was back in Frank’s pocket. “Got turned around. Yushchenko’s not here. I lost him. What’s going on?”