“What is it about this guy?” Spencer continued in answer to Oliver’s question. “Well, it’s several things, really. For one thing, he seems to be working on his own. Like some kind of hired gun. He’s not listed in any of the official Ukrainian registries as a government employee. He has no official position. Yet, we see him continually with some of the highest officers within the Ukraine, both military and civilian. And outside of the country as well. He shows up here, he shows up there. Last week he was down in Panama with Carlos Salinas just before the guy got knocked off. And he was involved with the transfer of some huge sums of money. Now, doesn’t that seem a little odd? I mean, why would the Ukrainians be popping Columbian drugs kings and stealing their money?”
Oliver Tray didn’t answer. It did seem kind of strange, but not horribly out of place. It was obvious the guy was up to something, going about his old trade, but with the situation deteriorating so rapidly between Russia and Ukraine, he seriously doubted it was anything to be much concerned about. If this Morozov guy was working again, his target almost certainly was not the United States. Not with almost two million Russian soldiers camping along the Ukrainian border. They, not the U.S., had to be his only concern.
Tray walked up to his ball and studied his lie, then pulled out his eight iron and practiced a couple swings, cutting his club through the drying grass. It was getting late, and the sun was low on the horizon as he squinted toward the flag. The pin had been placed well back on the uneven green, sloping away from the center. He would have to place his ball right on the forward edge of the green and hope for a reasonable roll.
“And get this,” Spencer continued once again, disregarding Tray’s effort to concentrate on his ball. “This is the real kicker.” Tray gave up trying to ignore him and turned to face his friend.
“We’re looking back through some of our old files. Going back over the past year, when we find something that’s nearly impossible to believe.”
Oliver Tray raised his left eyebrow, only half-interested and less than half-listening. He wished his friend would shut up. He wanted to finish the game.
“We found out that Morozov has been in this country,” Spencer said. Tray’s ears perked up. That was interesting news. “He was here,” Spencer continued. “Maybe as many as three times. All within the past year. We’ve got pictures of him going through customs in L.A. back in June. And a possible ID from a computer search of passports that have come into Dallas. Can you imagine? The guy was here. Now, why do you suppose that might be?”
Tray could hardly believe it. Here! In the U.S.! Now that was far more than merely intriguing. That was worthy of some real thought. Spencer knew his friend would be fascinated by this little piece of information. It was sure to distract him. That’s why he told him before he took his shot.
“L.A. and Dallas, huh?” Tray wondered. “Why do you think he entered the country there? Were those cities his final destination in the U.S., or only his port of entry, and then he moved on from there?”
“To be honest, we don’t know. We have a few theories. A few ideas, but nothing set in concrete. I’ll tell you this, though. He’s after some kind of computer technology. Some of the most advanced and cutting-edge stuff. he was posing as a computer technician when he passed through customs in Big-D. We know that because the customs agent made special note when Morozov insisted on hand-carrying his luggage onto the aircraft and asked that it not be X-rayed through the security machines. So, of course the bag had to be searched. The customs official logged the contents as computer equipment, specifically, hard drives and mass storage devices. We have that on record. Morozov left the country with a bag full of twelve-inch computer drives.”
Tray nearly dropped his club. His mouth went suddenly dry, as his heart started to race. “And, uh, I don’t suppose you know where he went after he left the U.S., do you?” he stammered. “Did he fly to Europe? Where was his flight going to from here?”
Spencer frowned as he thought. Where had Morozov flown to after he left the United States? He remembered and then answered, “He went to Helsinki. Took a direct flight. We lost him after that. Don’t know when or how he got back to Kiev.”
Tray’s mind started racing. Helsinki! Could it be?!
He thought of the stolen computer equipment. He thought of the missing hard drives. He thought of the State Department’s investigation into the request from the rogue computer company in Helsinki who wanted to import the aviation simulation programs. Could it only be a coincidence, he wondered. If it was, it wouldn’t have been the first time that a promising lead had suddenly turned sour. After all, it was such a big world. There was so much going on. What were the chances that he and Spencer had stumbled on to something? What were the chances that they each held a piece to the puzzle? Probably not very good.
But then again, maybe he was wrong.
Oliver Tray and Buddy Spencer never finished their round of golf. Instead, at Oliver’s urging, they left the course immediately, walked the half mile back to the clubhouse, threw their clubs into the back of Spencer’s car, and drove quickly over to the USCOM building where they spent the next eight hours in a secure room, comparing notes. At 12:30, they left Tray’s office and went home to get a few hours sleep. By five the next morning, they both were back at work, only this time they met at Spencer’s cluttered office at the National Security Office.
By midmorning, they had gone over everything no less than five times. Yet, still, they didn’t have any answers, or even know if they were asking the right questions. They were like a couple of hounds in the forest, sniffing here, chasing there, circling around a few trees. The best they could hope for was to shake things up a little bit and see what fell out. That was about all they could do.
“Do you think he’s coming back?” Oliver asked as he leaned back and sipped at a warm bottle of spring water. “Would he chance another trip to the states?”
Buddy shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Hey, we don’t even know why he came here in the first place. I reckon that is the key. If we knew what he was after, we might guess if he’d chance coming back.”
“We need more surveillance,” Oliver muttered. “We need to have people out watching. Every international flight into Dallas and Los Angeles would have to be monitored. Is that even possible? Or is that too much to ask?”
Spencer only smiled. Apparently Lt Col Oliver Tray was not familiar with the power that the National Security Agency held. He picked up his phone and had a talk with his boss, who then had a talk with the watch supervisor. By five o’clock that afternoon, the surveillance was underway. From that time on, every passenger passing through customs in either LA or Dallas was secretly photographed on videotape. The video was then sent to the NSA’s main office in Washington, D.C., where it was digitized and compressed for easier viewing. The next morning, two young and eager agency interns, both of them college seniors at George Washington University, began the tedious task of viewing the compressed images on computer, looking for Ivan Morozov.
FIFTEEN
The National Security Advisor, Milton Blake, handed the report to the President (code name Backdog) with trembling hands. Blake had had only three hours sleep in the past two and a half days and it was beginning to show. His face was gaunt, and dark puffy flesh surrounded his eyes.