“Who?”
Rhodes read Jack’s face again. A lie now was a risk, but burning Zvezdev would be even riskier. “Doesn’t matter. Probably not his real name, anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. So I worked out an arrangement with this contact. He was desperate for computer chips, which I provided, and I was desperate for intel, especially on KGB activities in the region, which he fed me at regular intervals. The only problem was that the intel was weak, and not very interesting to Langley. My COS put a lot of pressure on me to up the ante or kiss my career good-bye.”
“Where did you get them?”
“My official cover at the embassy was the U.S. and Foreign Commercial Service. I had access to department money, and I knew someone in Silicon Valley who supplied them to me through a shell company.”
“And your COS approved of this?”
“He had no idea about it.”
“Then you were breaking the law.”
“Sure, but I didn’t care. I was desperate.”
“You were selling high tech to our enemies.”
“Trading, not selling. And not all that high tech — CPUs for personal computers, mostly. It was a calculated risk. My Bulgarian contact couldn’t get enough of them. Of course, it was actually the East Germans that wanted them, and the bastard I was giving them to was actually selling them to the Germans. Making a killing doing it, too. I didn’t care. I just needed the intel he was giving me, and when my chief threatened to ship me back to the States and kill my career, I confronted my contact. Told him I knew he was selling those chips to Berlin for a profit, and that he’d be shot by his KGB handlers if they knew what he was up to. I told him if he didn’t help me to pull off a really big score, I’d not only cut off his chip supply, I’d turn him in to Moscow.”
“Where did Paul come into all of this?”
“About a week after I confronted my contact, I received a very late call. My Bulgarian friend was on the other end, very excited and scared at the same time. He promised me the biggest intelligence coup of my career — maybe anybody’s. He said he had a high-level defector who wanted to come over. The only problem, it had to be done within the next two hours. And to come alone.”
Jack frowned. “Sounds like a setup. Why did you believe him?”
“Because he was all about the shekels. He said it would cost me twenty thousand dollars. He knew I couldn’t raise that amount of cash on such short notice, but we’d done business together, and he told me he trusted me to get it to him within the week. It sounded legit, so we set a place and time for the meet.”
Jack checked his watch. “You’ve got about a minute, at most.”
“For what?”
A look fell over Jack’s face. It chilled Rhodes to the bone.
“So, where was I? Oh, yes. Paul. Truth is, I hardly knew him. I think we met once or twice at some interminable staff meeting. We were both with the Company, but he was just an accountant working in a shabby little office in the basement. Well, when I got the call that set the meet, I scrambled downstairs to the basement to grab keys for an old Lada we used for undercover work. The locker where the keys were kept was just outside Paul’s office, and there he was, burning the midnight oil, and—”
Rhodes glanced out the window. Two black SUVs pulled up to the curb. Doors opened. Men and women in coats and armored vests marked FBI scrambled out. Rhodes stood, leaning on his desk, panic on his face.
“Jack—”
“What?”
“There must be a way.”
“Afraid not.”
Rhodes’s eyes flitted to his desk for an instant. Jack followed his gaze. The Kimber .380 was only inches from Rhodes’s manicured hands.
Jack slid his coat jacket back, revealing a pistol on his hip. “I’m begging you. Pick it up.”
“I think not.”
“Coward. Pick it up.”
Rhodes took a step back from his desk, palms up. “I can’t shoot you, Jack. I need you.”
“Need me? What for?”
“You’re my insurance. This whole affair — you’re up to your eyeballs in it. So is your father. Defense contractors? Spies? North Koreans? Your father would never risk the scandal. It would ruin his administration. Call him. Call this whole thing off, now, before it’s too late.”
Two FBI agents marched into the study. One of them held a sheaf of papers in one hand. “Senator Rhodes?”
“Jack? Trust me, this can all go away. Make the call.”
Jack shook his head and smiled. “You really don’t know my dad, do you? He called the attorney general himself.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I was hoping I could save the taxpayers a few dollars.”
“Weston Rhodes, this is a warrant for your arrest.” The FBI agent tossed it on the desk as the other agent approached Rhodes with a pair of handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent.”
75
Jack stood at the guest book in the foyer of the old Lutheran church, patting his pockets.
“Lose your pen?”
Jack turned around, surprised. “Yeah.”
President Ryan handed Jack his own Zebra F-701 stainless. “Do I want to know how?”
Junior didn’t say a word, but Senior recognized the look. Jack took the pen and signed his name on the register. He turned back around and held the pen out to his dad.
“Keep it, son. In case you need it.”
“I saw Mary Pat inside. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Security wouldn’t let me tell you,” Senior said, nodding at the two Secret Service agents standing behind him.
“It’s usually a three-ring circus when you come to town. How’d you manage to keep this quiet?”
Senior smiled as he signed the register. “The press plane was accidentally delayed a few hours by an unexpected mechanical inspection.”
The first few notes of an old Hammond organ began to play in the sanctuary.
“It’s time,” Senior said.
The pastor concluded his brief homily and introduced President Ryan, seated in the front row, along with DNI Mary Pat Foley, CIA director Jay Canfield, Gerry Hendley, John Clark, and Jack Junior.
Junior recognized several other retired dignitaries from the IC community farther back in the chapel. He was surprised at their turnout. Was it just a courtesy to his dad?
The doors were closed and guarded inside and out by Secret Service agents as helicopter rotors beat the air above the small country church, keeping overwatch. The President’s handlers weren’t taking any chances after Mexico City.
President Ryan stepped forward. He paused briefly, laying a hand on the closed casket that stood in front of the altar before ascending the three short steps to the pulpit.
He glanced out over the small gathering of fifteen or so people, mostly gray-haired farmers and dairymen with their sturdy wives, all dressed in their Sunday best. They stared at the President, skeptical and surprised.
Junior felt underdressed in his short-sleeved shirt and tie, but with his arm in a cast and a sling, he couldn’t manage a suit. His bruises had all turned to purple and yellow, and his scratches had scabbed over. He looked like he’d fallen through a hay baler. He wondered if these farmers thought so, too.
“It is my honor and privilege to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of Paul Brown with you today,” the President began. “You all knew Paul better than I did, but I doubt that anyone here owes a greater personal debt of gratitude to him than me and my family, and I wanted to express that publicly.” He turned toward the casket. “Thank you, Paul.”