She listened to the message again, rewound it and listened once more. She could have listened to the tape a thousand times, but the message wouldn’t have changed.
After listening to the tape for the third time, she turned the machine off. She left the kitchen and walked through the apartment’s small living room. As she passed by the front door, she slid the dead bolt closed, then hurried down the hall into the bedroom.
Opening the closet, she rifled through the clothes until she found what she was looking for, shoved in the back of the closet under an old umbrella and yellow raincoat. It was an old flannel shirt. She hadn’t worn it in years.
She took out the shirt and fingered its worn flannel as she walked over and sat on the bed. It was a man’s shirt and much too big for her, but it was the most valued piece of clothing she owned. She fumbled with the shirt until she found the left breast pocket, which was buttoned closed and hard to get open. Finally she undid the button and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
She carefully unfolded the paper and looked at it for the first time in over a year. It had a line drawn down the middle, with words written on both sides in tiny but legible writing. She studied the paper closely, reading it one line at a time. It contained twenty lines of code words and phrases, along with their deciphered meaning. Quickly, she scanned down the paper, not finding what she was looking for until she got near the bottom of the page. She sucked in her breath just slightly as she began to understand what Ammon was trying to tell her.
After reading the paper, she folded it up again and put it back into the shirt pocket. Picking up the phone, she dialed a number and spoke in a pleasant voice. But she only talked for a minute. After hanging up the phone, she stuffed the flannel shirt into the one travel bag that she would take. Within minutes Jesse had packed and showered. On the way to her car she stopped at the manager’s office and asked him to check her mail. There’s been a sickness in the family, she explained. She would be gone for a few days. Maybe even longer.
In the attic above Jesse’s bed was a small black electronic box about the size of a large pack of gum. It was attached to a crossbeam by four small screws and lay immediately on top of the ceiling drywall. It had been placed there by a man named Valori Antonov. For three weeks it had lain dormant.
Nine hours before Jesse came home from her morning walk, a tiny red light on the side of the box shone for the first time. Silently, a microphone the size of a pin was forced through the ceiling and into the room below. Only one eighth of an inch of metal was exposed on the bedroom ceiling, but that was enough to pick up even the quietest whisper, no matter where it was spoken in the apartment. The box had already picked up and broadcast in a digital format the message that Jesse received on her answering machine. While Jesse was busy packing, three voice recognition analysts were trying to determine who had made the call.
FOUR
Richard Ammon was in his life raft less than an hour before he heard the sound of an approaching boat. He peered into the darkness, but could see nothing but the faint outline of the horizon against the star-covered sky. The approaching sound was deep and throaty and seemed to come from all around him so that he couldn’t determine in which direction to look. He thought for a moment about shooting off one of his flares but immediately decided against it. He knew the tanker was still somewhere overhead and he couldn’t take a chance.
Out of the darkness emerged the shadow of a black speedboat. It appeared to be about thirty feet long, but its low profile made it difficult to see. It was heading directly for him, and for a moment he thought it would run him over. Just before reaching him it turned sharply and cut its engines. The wave and splash from its wake sent Ammon’s small raft reeling and once again, he found himself in the water. As he sputtered to the surface, a rope was thrown over his head and a voice yelled to him in Russian.
“Ti ponimayesh yesheho rodnoi yazik, tovarisheh? Do you still understand your native tongue, my comrade?”
After a long pause Ammon responded in English. “Who are you? Can you help me? I need your help.”
He didn’t recognize the voice, and the man had not given the proper code.
For a second the only sound Ammon heard was a gentle laugh. Then the voice responded, this time in English. “It’s a cold night for such happenings.”
“Yes, especially for this time of year.” Ammon called back. As he pulled himself alongside the boat, a massive pair of hands reached down and pulled him from the water. Shivering and exhausted, Ammon found himself staring into a bearded face he had never seen before.
“Who are you?” Ammon asked, once again in English.
“I am Amril. But no time to talk now. Your American helicopter friends are only a few minutes away. They want so much to be heroes, so we must go. I will answer all of your questions soon. Very soon.”
Ammon didn’t move. His eyes narrowed in the darkness. “Who arranged for this little accident?” he finally said dryly. “I could have been killed! You fools are lucky you’re not pulling a waterlogged corpse from the sea.” Ammon paused, then, slipping into Russian, he continued, “It was a stupid idea,” he said flatly.
“No, no, it was not,” Amril shot back. “It was a stroke of near genius, little man, so be quiet and do as I say.”
The distant sound of the circling tanker pulled Amril’s eyes toward the sky. Turning away from Ammon, he yelled as he ran to the front of the ship. “Quickly! Pull in your raft and take off your flight suit. Do it now! We don’t have much time!”
Ammon hesitated just a moment. The night wind began to stir, cutting through his wet clothes and leaving him chilled to the bone. Overhead, the sound of the circling aircraft drifted across the open ocean. Four-foot waves slapped at the bow of the boat as it bobbed in the water. A high overcast was beginning to form, stealing the light from the moon. Ammon shivered once again, his jaw stammering from the cold, then moved to do as he was told.
Bending over the railing, he reached over the side of the boat and pulled on the lanyard that was attached to his life raft. The raft was light and easy to pull from the water. He hauled it aboard and dropped it on the narrow deck of the boat. He then turned and, leaning against the brass railing for support and balance, he slipped off his parachute harness and wet flight suit, letting them drop to the deck beside the raft.
Meanwhile, Amril was pulling a black canvas bag from under the forward bow. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a small bundle of canvas and rubber. It was a rubber raft identical to the one Ammon had just pulled from the sea. He gave a quick tug on its activation cord and with a hiss and crackle, it began to inflate. But only on one side. The air chamber on the left side of the raft had a broken valve and would not hold any air. Later, when the investigation of the missing F-16 was complete, the accident investigation board would determine that the faulty valve on Ammon’s raft was at least partially responsible for his death.
With a jerk, Amril took Ammon’s raft and read the serial numbers that were painted under the lower rim. Working quickly, he took out stencils and a can of yellow spray paint and painted his raft with the identical numbers. He knew that the Air Force would easily confirm that this was the life raft from Ammon’s jet, once the serial numbers had been traced. Then turning to Ammon, he said, “I need some blood. Lay down and lift up your arm.”