Hilliard bolted upright. “Geezus,” he said. He scooped up his phone and buzzed Cathleen. “I need the DCI — Good — Yes, immediately.” He hung up, raised his brows curiously, and said, “Already on his way.”
A file photo of a Viking S-3A on the ABC monitor got the President’s attention. He used the remote to mute Rather and Brokaw, and listened to Jennings.
The President had an affinity for the ABC anchor. Years ago, Jennings had been given the job prematurely, then axed, but worked hard as a foreign correspondent, and made it back to the top. Hilliard liked that. He liked people with resilience, and he liked Jennings’ thoughtful, urbane handling of international events.
“A U.S. Navy Viking S-3A on a routine flight over the Gulf of Mexico burst into flames and exploded early today,” Jennings reported. “Two of the four-man crew were able to bail out prior to the blast. Lt. Commander Keith Arnsbarger and First Lieutenant Jon Lowell were rescued from Gulf waters by an oil tanker that picked up their Mayday. The names of the other two crewmen are being withheld pending notification of next of kin.”
“Tough to lose two men,” Keating said solemnly.
The President smiled. “We didn’t,” he said, softly. “We considered concocting a story about a special training mission with a reduced crew, but we wanted it to appear totally routine, and decided against it.”
“Jake’s people are providing cover?”
Hilliard nodded. “They’ve put together backgrounds, service records, photos of the ‘deceased’ fliers, and even a distraught relative or two if we need them. You know, Company people who we’ve—” He paused at the knock that preceded Boulton’s entrance.
“Mr. President, Phil—”
“Jake,” Hilliard said. “Been watching the news?”
“Yes, sir, en route.”
“And—”
“Confirmed. KGB agent killed in Rome.”
“What is Moscow saying?”
“Standard denial,” the DCI replied, and anticipating, added, “Company source is irrefutable.”
“What’s the import of that with regard to Geneva?”
“Salient factors suggest purposeful disruption.”
“That’s hard to believe, Jake. You know as well as I do, Kaparov wants this before he kicks the bucket.”
“Premier was seen this day — in transit,” Boulton said pointedly.
The President’s head snapped around. “Kaparov’s recovered? We know that for a fact?”
“Negative sir. Passenger obscured. Positive identification of vehicle only.”
Hilliard mused for a moment, smoothing his auburn beard. “Phil, you think the Kremlin called the shots on this thing in Italy?”
“No, sir. If they did, Pykonen deserves an Oscar for his performance. He was visibly stunned when he was told. I’m sure he knew nothing about it.”
“Prosecution rests,” Boulton said slyly.
“Jake’s got a point. We have an entire Cabinet, the Secretary of the Navy included, who believe one of our Vikings went down in the Gulf with a faulty engine, killing two men. You know, it seems to me all of this is neither here nor there until we get feedback from our men on the Kira. What’s your ETA, Jake?”
“Carrier-based chopper will rendezvous with Kira at o-seven-thirty. DCI will contact Oval Office immediately upon return to carrier — mid-morning.”
“You intend to be aboard?”
“Affirmative. Debriefing of rescued personnel will take place en route to carrier. FYI — the Kira’s captain suggested immediate rendezvous, since he isn’t making mainland port. But—” Boulton smiled cagily, “—ASW declined night landing on deck of unfamiliar vessel, insuring our personnel ample recon time frame.”
“Sounds like the captain wanted to get rid of them,” Keating said. “Like maybe he’s got something to hide.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” the President said.
After confiscating Melanie’s letter, Gorodin and the man with the peaked cap — whom he called Pasha, a respectful and affectionate form of the surname Pashkov — dined at Lastochka, where twenty-five years before Pasha had recruited him for GRU. It had since become Gorodin’s favorite restaurant in Moscow. At the time, Pasha had taken special interest in the young language expert and a father-son type of relationship had developed. Pasha was semiretired now, and worked primarily as a domestic GRU courier.
Yesterday, when Gorodin called from Rome and said he needed a favor, Pasha asked no questions of his former protégé. Indeed, his surveillance of Melanie Winslow was carried out unofficially, and, along with the confiscated letter, would remain between them.
After dinner, Gorodin declined the lift Pasha offered. Instead, he set his fedora at a jaunty angle and walked along the Moskva. He hadn’t worn a hat in years, but resumed the habit, unthinkingly, on returning to Moscow. He strolled the length of the Kremlin wall, across the lumpy cobbles of Red Square, down Twenty-fifth Oktabraya that leads directly to Dzerzhinsky Square and the statue of its namesake, and returned to his office. He was talking with Yosef, who called from Tersk to report on Andrew’s activities, when a driver arrived with orders to take Gorodin to the Kremlin.
The chimes in the Spassky Tower were ringing, and the rococo hands of the big clock were moving onto 11 P.M. when Gorodin walked the corridor to the Premier’s office, knocked, and entered. Deschin, Tvar-dovskiy, Pykonen, Chagin, and Admiral Pavel Zharkov, Naval Chief of Staff, were seated around the leather-topped table.
“Ah, Valery!” Deschin said, embracing him. “Too much pasta,” he joked, holding his arms in a big circle. Then, turning to the others, he added, “We have Comrade Gorodin to thank for keeping the Kira drawings out of American hands. And now, it’s up to us, all of us, to see that SLOW BURN is brought to fruition.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve already made mistakes which endanger it,” Tvardovskiy said. “First off, Andrew Churcher should have never been allowed into the country.”
“He’s here for good reason,” Deschin snapped.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Tvardovskiy said impatiently. “But the plan is unsound. It could backfire!”
“I must respectfully disagree, comrade,” Gorodin said. “Your man in Tersk reports Churcher is behaving as anticipated. I assure you the source of the Kira documents will soon be exposed, and their threat finally eliminated.”
“We’ll see,” Tvardovskiy said. “In the meantime, what about the Americans aboard the Kira? They should have been left to drown like rats!”
“They will be gone by first light!” Zharkov said angrily. “Rublyov made the right decision. You would have caused controversy. Furthermore, the Americans are being watched. And, I have ordered that anyone caught searching the Kira is not to leave her alive.”
“He’s right, Sergei,” Deschin said. “Though I must admit my initial reaction was similar to yours. But now that the decisions have been made, what purpose can possibly be served by rehashing them?”
“Obfuscation,” Chagin said, eyeing Tvardovskiy accusingly.
“Yes,” Pykonen chimed in. “You decry the mistakes of others, Sergei, but forget your own. Everything was going smoothly until this mess in Italy.”
“Then you should have taken action to prevent the talks from being suspended,” Tvardovskiy retorted.
“Dammit Tvardovskiy!” Pykonen erupted. He was a gentleman, not given to outbursts, and startled them. “Your people erred gravely in this matter! They handed the Americans the very thing we had denied them — time to think, and consult, and question and — agghhh!” He threw up his hands in disgust, then shifted his look to Deschin and, lowering his voice, added, “I did what I could, comrade. But the momentum is gone.”