For young Posmanovich it had been a long night, thanks to the frequent exchange of calls between Washington and Moscow. The calls had concerned both the Saratoga explosion off the coast of Tuxpano and the equally disturbing news that Milo Schubatis had been killed by Chinese terrorists who claimed to be a dissident faction of the Red Army.
Adding to his dismay was the fact that it had been nearly three o'clock in the morning before the Ambassador had finally fallen asleep on the daybed in his office on the second floor. The Ambassador could be a difficult man in times of stress.
Even then, Gurin had been left with explicit instructions. "Wake me up if any calls come through."
Gurin had anticipated a call from the man at the night desk at the State Department, or possibly even a call from the ISA, since a man by the name of Miller had already initiated two earlier calls. But he was caught off guard when the red light began to flash.
"A-42," the voice on the other end snapped.
Gurin riffled through the pages of the receiver code. Finally he managed a none-tooauthoritative "GP-95."
"Prometheus," the caller informed him. "We are using scramble four. Press four and wait twenty seconds."
Gurin's throat tightened when he referenced the code and realized that Prometheus was the code name for the President. "Oh, my God," he blurted. The book dropped to the floor.
"Ambassador Wilson, please," the voice demanded.
"I'll have to wake him, sir," Gurin said, pressing the route-through button to the Ambassador's office.
Wilson's response was groggy, but it cleared the moment Gurin recited the code name Prometheus.
"GP-95, recitation for voice-pattern check," the monitor instructed.
Wilson recited his ident number and repeated his name.
"Pattern valid," the monitor verified. "Go ahead, Prometheus."
"I know it's barely the crack of dawn over there, Frank," Colchin began.
"That's quite all right, Mr. President. I just dozed off here in my office. What's the latest?"
"The Schubatis affair has gotten a bit sticky since we spoke a few hours ago. Our ISA people believe they've uncovered something."
Wilson waited for the President to continue.
"Hospital officials are reasonably certain that the body they recovered from the terrorist attack at Saint Martin's earlier today is not Milo Schubatis. Both the CIA and ISA have rather extensive dossiers on the man, and if our information is accurate, the body at the hospital is not Schubatis."
"I'm not sure I understand, Mr. President."
With Colchin's Texas drawl, the story took even longer to unfold. "We believe the scenario goes something like this. Somehow a group that calls themselves the Fifth Academy, a faction of the Red Army, learned about us trying to slip Schubatis into the country prior to the conference. And, as far-fetched as it sounds, they had this attack so well planned today that they were actually able to substitute a Schubatis lookalike at the site of the attack."
Wilson was mentally trying to put the pieces together. It would be difficult to convince the already suspicious Aprihinen that the Americans weren't up to something. It sounded too contrived even to him. Still, he asked, "What's our plan of action, Mr. President?"
"Tap your local sources for what information you can find, then get to Aprihinen. Tell Moshe what we think happened. See what you can do to quiet him down. He wasn't buying much of what I was telling him in my earlier call."
"Do I hold anything back?" Wilson asked.
"Level with him. Tell him we've got our hands full. I don't need to be looking over my shoulder every twenty minutes worrying whether or not Moshe is getting ready to jump ship on us. Tell him I'll update him as soon as we've got something to go on."
Wilson wondered if there was anything he had overlooked. He did inquire whether the Secretary of State knew of the matter, and Colchin informed him that the Secretary was standing next to him.
When Colchin appeared to have nothing further to say, Wilson mumbled something about the weather.
"Raining like hell," Colchin informed him. Then he cautioned the Ambassador to "stay loose." After that, the line went dead.
Frank Wilson waited a moment, then pressed the button on his telephone a second time. Gurin answered.
"Gurin," the Ambassador said, "remember that little bistro you drove me to last week, the one next to the Ostankino on Botanicheskaya Street?"
Gurin was nodding, even though he knew the Ambassador couldn't see him. "I believe so, sir," he said.
Wilson didn't waste words. "Good. Get the car out. We're going down there just as soon as I make another call."
When he was certain that Gurin had left for the garage, Wilson used the electronic scanner to make certain that no one was monitoring his call. Secure, he dialed the 416 number. When a voice answered, Wilson conveyed his message in three words: "Vilnius, thirty minutes."
There was the usual cryptic response.
"Da".
The death of Zhao Shi in the attack on the Schubatis caravan had not, of course, been anticipated, and Deng Zhen was saddened. Twice he had tried to talk to Tang about it, but the man refused to discuss it. Zhao Shi had been his friendand now he would be alone when Tang Ro Ji returned to Hainan.
Earlier he had told one of his fellow students at Capital that they had been evicted from his apartment and needed the enclosed truck to move his belongings. The ruse had worked. But now there would be the matter of explaining Zhao Shi's involvement in the terrorist attacka fact that would perhaps make his own situation difficult to explain.
For the time being, though, Deng Zhen had to put his concerns aside and do as Tang Ro Ji instructed. He inched the borrowed truck into the narrow alley behind the building housing Lo Chi Lyn's office and turned off the ignition. It was still raining, and in the darkness he was not certain if he was close enough to the loading dock to ease the cylinder onto the freight platform.
When the door opened, the light outlined the slender figure of Lo's nurse. She was holding a flashlight and indicating how close he was to the dock.
Deng Zhen crawled out of the cab, went around to the rear of the truck, opened the doors, and began working the empty six-footsix-inch aluminum cylinder onto the loading platform. Without all of the internal lifesupport mechanisms, it would have been an easy task, but with the heavy steel air tanks installed, the cylinder had become quite cumbersome.
The young woman said nothing as he struggled with the bulky container, nor did she offer to assist him. She had helped to the extent that she opened the freight-elevator door and blocked it. The only illumination was a single sixty-watt lightbulb.
Deng Zhen managed to maneuver the cylinder into position and waited while the door closed. As with Tang, a major element of his concern was that the task of getting Schubatis into the cylinder and to the airport was taking a great deal longer than anticipated. Even though the flight did not leave until the early hours of the morning, the cylinder had to be in the customs compound by midnight. That was when Comrade Mi Po went off duty.
The elevator door opened and Tang Ro Ji was waiting. "Over here," he ordered. He indicated a location next to the gurney containing the unconscious Schubatis.
While Deng Zhen watched, Lo and Tang Ro Ji secured the Russian's body on the support board, temporarily disconnected the silicone rubber tubes from the needles administering the sedative, and placed Schubatis's body in the cylinder. Then Lo put the oxygen mask on the Russian and adjusted the straps. He was still connected to the auxiliary system.
"You are certain of the time interval?" Lo asked Tang.
Tang Ro Ji glanced at the clock, mentally calculating the sequence. "We will seal the cylinder at 2200 hours. The flight leaves tomorrow morning at 0530. Actual flying time, including the stopover at LAX, is about eighteen hours. Long before the thirty hours we have provided for have passed, Comrade Schubatis will be safely in Hong Kong. The flight is scheduled to arrive in Hong Kong at 2300 hours our time."