"Well, I don't mind telling you I was a little flustered to get a call from the Director himself this morning," said Tedesco, "telling me to hightail it down here and report to you people. I've been told to give you whatever assistance you need."
Strand was relieved. "Good. Now then, Agent Tedesco, sit back and relax. I have something to tell you which you simply are not going to believe; but it's important that you do believe it. And quickly:"
For the next twenty minutes Strand crisply related the Intrepid affair, while Kelly poured coffee and watched the G-man's eyes get bigger and bigger. Finally, when they looked as if they would pop from their sockets, Tedesco bolted out of his chair and began pacing back and forth.
"This is incredible! Absolutely incredible! It's a thousand times worse than the Walker spy ring. I know. I worked on that case when I was stationed in California." He continued pacing back and forth, like Ditka on the sidelines, working himself up. He stuck out his sledgehammer fist. "Don't you worry, little lady. I'll take it from here. I'll have twenty agents on this case inside of an hour and we'll start ripping apart everything you've got on these people…"
Oh, terrific, thought Strand. They had to send me a Mr. Macho.
"…1 promise you by this evening we'll have—"
"No," stated Strand.
Tedesco was knocked off balance. "Pardon?"
"I said no," she repeated.
The agent was stunned. "What the hell do you mean, no? We've got to find out what happened. Did it occur to you there may be more than one person involved? He may have an accomplice right on this base. Under your very nose. We've got to—"
"Agent Tedesco," said Strand firmly, "please listen to me carefully. First of all, I am in charge of this investigation, by order of General Whittenberg. Until you hear otherwise, you are working for me. Secondly, if you unleash your SWAT team and start turning everything topsy-turvy, people are going to start asking questions about why we're asking questions. That means the press probably gets involved. If there is an accomplice, I don't want him flushed out before we're ready, and a newspaper story will do that in a second. Additionally, everything we're doing is highly classified. So from this point it's just the three of us. We use our brains and proceed with discretion. We talk only to those people we need to talk to. If there's a screw-up, it's my head, not yours. Now if you have a problem with any of this, just say so. I '11 have my boss call your Director and we'll secure a replacement for you without delay."
The G-man was chastened. He gulped and murmured, "Uh, no… I, uh, don't think that will be necessary."
Kelly covered a smile with his hand. The FBI agent wasn't the first man he'd seen the major cut down to size. So much for the young lady's fear about not being up to the task at hand.
Suddenly there was a glimmer of recognition in Tedesco's eyes. "Say, weren't you that woman pilot on the space shuttle a couple of years back? I remember a write-up in Newsweek."
"Yes," she acknowledged. "That was me."
As if Strand had passed some litmus test, Tedesco said, "Oh, okay."
"Fine," she replied. "Now then, here are the three personnel files. I want your recommendation on how we should proceed— given the restrictions we face."
With twenty-two years in the bureau, a good chunk of it in counterespionage, Tedesco knew where to start. "After I review the files, we start going backward — in time, that is. We go through their living quarters and look for any physical evidence. Talk to relatives, friends — discreetly, of course. We'll have to develop some type of cover story. Look at bank accounts, credit card accounts — anything that might leave a paper trail to something out of the ordinary. And that means we start wearing out shoe leather."
"All right," agreed the major. "Each of us will take one of the crew. Agent Tedesco, I want—"
"Call me Walt."
"Okay, Walt. You take Rodriquez — that's spelled with a Q, not a G. I'll get you an office so you can review his file in detail. I guess you could say he looks the shakiest to Tim and me— sorry to say. His quarters are in Houston, though. He was a civilian with NASA. We can arrange for your transportation. Come to think of it, we may need some extra support from your bureau to check out immediate and extended family to make sure they're safe. That could be another facet to our extortion scenario."
The agent nodded. "No problem there. We'll take care of that right away — and be quiet about it, too. I presume family addresses, et cetera, are in these files."
"Correct," she said. "Tim, you take your fellow Irishman, Mulcahey. He lived on base at Peterson. He was the only one with a wife and kids. Maybe you'd better get over there and make sure they're okay. If they are all right, see what you can find out about Frank — in an oblique way. Go easy when you talk to his wife, Katy. On second thought, I know Katy. Maybe I…"
"No, Major." This time it was Kelly who was firm. "I know Frank and Katy myself. Not well, but I do know them. I'll be careful."
Strand heaved a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Tim. You'll have to play it by ear on how much to tell her. As Walt said, we'll dream up a detailed cover story later."
"Understood."
Finishing up, Strand said, "I'll take Iceberg. He lived in the BOQ at Peterson."
"Who?" asked the G-man.
"Iceberg — radio call sign for Kapuscinski. Sort of a nickname."
"I see," said Tedesco. "We'll need some warrants, too. I'll take care of those on an in camera basis."
"A what basis?" asked the major.
"In camera. Lawyer talk for 'secret in the judge's chambers.' " A few moments passed before Tedesco started laughing. "I'd love to see the judge's face when the U.S. Attorney tells him the probable cause on this one."
The long black hose began winding into the backside of the KC-135 tanker aircraft, yanking the fuel cone off the Tomcat's intake nozzle. Navy Lt. Mike "Blackjack" Pershing hit a toggle switch and watched his fighter's small fuel intake arm retract into place at the base of the cockpit canopy. When an F-14 ran on afterburners it consumed fuel at a prodigious rate. It was the Tomcats' second midair refueling on this trip, and they had one more to go before reaching Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington, D.C. It was an unusual way to travel, but it allowed them to finish the transcontinental journey in a littie over three hours.
Pershing watched the tanker bank to starboard, then radioed to his wingman in a jocular voice, "We be all full up, Sweet Thang." He raised his left hand to flash a thumbs-up sign.
The wingman raised a thumb in reply. "Roger that, Blackjack. Ready whenever you are."
Pershing hit his intercom switch.' 'How 'bout you back there? You ready?"
Havelichek was definitely not ready. He wished he was back at Livermore shooting down Russkie ICBMs on the computer. After leaving Waverly's office, he and Garrett Sharp had been whisked away by the helicopter to Alameda Naval Air Station in San Francisco Bay, where they'd donned flight pressure suits and been plunked into the backseats of two high-performance interceptors. Next thing they knew, they were streaking across the Great American Desert at Mach 2.
"Say," asked Pershing, starting to become concerned. "You okay back there?"
"Uh… yeah, I think so," replied Havelichek in a quavering voice. "It's just… I, well, I think we left my stomach back in Oakland."
Pershing laughed. "Hey, don't sweat it, Rice Check." Havelichek had already been anointed with an aviator call sign. "I'll get you there with all your internal organs intact. The old man said it would be my wings if I screwed up playing taxi on this mission. I don't know who you guys are, but you must be some kinda heavy-duty dudes. I'll bet we're setting a record for prolonged afterburner flight."