Now Lowell and Arnsbarger paced anxiously in “The Tank,” a secure conference room in K building’s TSZ, waiting for Boulton. They snapped to when he, and the aide who had been at the meeting with the President, were shown in by the ranking naval intelligence officer. The same one who had transmitted the KIQ response.
The DCI was a commanding presence in a flight suit. “As you were, gentlemen,” he said smartly. “Sacrifice of free time appreciated.”
He glanced sideways to the intelligence officer.
“Carry on, colonel,” Boulton said, dismissing him. “I’ll reestablish contact before departure.”
The colonel had expected to be included in the meeting. The thought of having appeared presumptuous in front of the DCI unsettled him. He banged his knee on a chair, making a less than graceful exit.
Boulton didn’t react.
Arnsbarger and Lowell surpressed smiles.
“Take seats,” the DCI said. He went on to brief them on his meeting with the President; specifically, the need for immediate visual inspection of the Kira to ascertain the existence of a compartment carved out of her hold, and its contents — or lack thereof.
“Mission objective — satisfy Commander in Chief’s primary KIQ,” he concluded. “Supersecret classification dictates four criteria. One — highly unorthodox scenario. Two — minimum personnel exposure, which means inclusion on need-to-know basis only. Colonel will be briefed eventually to handle ASW liaison during execution. Three — zero equipment profile.”
“In other words, we’re talking hardware that’s compatible with operational climate,” Arnsbarger said, sensing where the DCI was headed.
“Affirmative,” Boulton said. “Enemy vessels expect Viking S-3A overflights. No stigma attached. Four — the import of one through three. ASW data initiators become optimum mission candidates.”
“We’re honored, sir,” Lowell said smartly.
“Seconded, sir,” Arnsbarger said. “We can have our bird on the flight line by—”
“Negative, Captain,” Boulton interrupted. “Mission hardware will be supplied.”
“Perhaps, I misunderstood, sir,” Arnsbarger said. “I thought the Viking was the key to creating the appearance of routine, details not withstanding.”
“Affirmative, Captain,” the DCI replied. “Bird supplied will be a Viking S-3A envelope — minus TACCO and classified airborne navigational equipment.”
“Gutted,” Lowell said.
“Gutted,” Boulton echoed. “Operational climate is high risk. Lead time, minimum. Support negligible. Acknowledgment upon completion unlikely. Logic will become manifest upon briefing. Briefing contingent upon — confirmation of enlistment by personnel.”
Boulton had just given them a chance to change their minds. He leveled a look at Lowell, then flicked his eyes to Arnsbarger.
“Enlistment confirmed, sir,” Lowell said evenly.
Arnsbarger nodded crisply. “Count me in.”
Boulton smiled and nodded to his aide, who stepped forward with briefing materials.
“For openers, gentlemen,” the aide began, “you’ll be taking several refresher courses designed to polish and tune skills essential to the success of this mission — you’ll start with jump school.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Andrew was exhausted when he returned to the Hassler from the Soviet Embassy, and slept soundly. The next morning he was laying in bed half awake, wondering if he’d imagined it all, when Fausto arrived and reported that one of his airport contacts had seen a Soviet citizen, “A woman who had taken ill on a business trip,” put aboard a flight for Moscow. Andrew was angry, but not surprised. It was time to get back to business. The drawings of the tanker were in the Soviet Union, and a thick file of orders for Arabians was his visa.
At Piazza dei Siena, Andrew went about working the balcony, the stables, the private boxes, wherever breeders gathered. And though Borsa wasn’t there to provide an entreé, as sole representative for Soviet Arabians, Andrew had no trouble writing orders. The horse-trading took place over bidding authorizations to fill those orders at Soviet auctions — a “not to exceed” limit negotiated with each client. Andrew knew the elitism, the perfectionism that drives breeders, and he played the quality and scarcity of Soviet stock against it. However, one American, new to horse breeding, presented a unique challenge.
“Russian Arabians?” the man said with patriotic fervor. “I don’t buy Russian horses. I don’t buy Russian vodka. I don’t buy Russian anything!”
Andrew knew from studying the files that the wealthy fellow owned a number of professional sports franchises, a baseball team among them, which gave him an idea. “Well, it was a little before my time—” Andrew began, “—but I heard people used to have a similar attitude about baseball. Then somebody changed their minds. I think the guy’s name was Jackie — Jackie Robinson.”
The fellow studied Andrew for a moment, impressed by his shrewdness. “You’re telling me the Russian Arabians are the best available,” he challenged.
“I know they are,” Andrew replied, undaunted. “You think Dr. Hammer’s franchise would have paid a million dollars for Pesniar if they weren’t? Muscat, a recent U.S. National Champion, was Russian bred, too.”
The fellow thought it over for a moment. “I need a franchise maker,” he confided intensely. “You find me a Fernando, a Gooden, a Reggie Jackson, and I won’t care what that stallion costs me.”
“You’ll have him,” Andrew said earnestly, adding, “especially if that wasn’t just a figure of speech.”
The client confirmed the unlimited authorization. Throughout the weekend, Andrew convinced many others to do the same. This meant he would have little trouble turning the orders into purchases, and handsome profits for Churchco’s Equestrian Division.
Rome’s streets were once again gridlocked, the air filled with honking horns, expletives, and exhaust fumes. It was morning on Monday.
Fausto was sitting in the black Maserati, parked in Piazza dei Cinquecento in front of Stazione Termini, Rome’s classic, postwar train station.
Andrew was in one of the public SIP transatlantic booths, talking to McKendrick on a phone that he correctly assumed wasn’t tapped.
“Twenty million in four days,” Andrew reported.
“Orders are only as good as the authorization-to-bid that backs ’em,” McKendrick challenged.
“Unlimited good enough?” Andrew replied coolly.
“Damn well is, Drew.”
“Thanks. How’re you doing?”
“Real good,” McKendrick enthused. “Been walking for over a week; jogging starts tomorrow.”
Almost three weeks had passed since the shooting, and McKendrick had been moved to a room in the Medical Center’s rehabilitation wing. He sat next to a window, squeezing a rubber ball in his left hand as he talked.
“Hear anything more about my father?” Andrew asked.
“Chief Coughlan wrangled a look at the preliminary FAA report. Those pieces of debris were jagged and charred, which means something made that chopper go boom.”
“Try the Russians.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Did you know my father had a mistress?”
“Raina—”
“Yes. She contacted me as soon as I got here. She was giving me important information when they grabbed her. For all I know, she’s in the Gulag by now.”