"I don't understand," said Whittenberg. "Explain what you mean by this term 'deep plant.' "
Tedesco took another breath before continuing. "The Bureau, I'm sure just like the Air Force or any big agency, gets more than its share of crackpot phone calls. Like every once in a while some psycho will call us up and claim J. Edgar Hoover is still alive and running things from the basement of the Bureau building. Well, I remember one crazy story that circulated around the Bureau, oh, ten or fifteen years ago. Some guy had walked into our TWsa office off the street. Said his parents immigrated to the United States from Bulgaria after the war, but that they were really Russian agents. Claimed they tried to indoctrinate him when he was a kid — wanted to turn him into a lockstep
Communist. He said that after his parents died he was contacted by someone who professed to be with the KGB. But this 'walk-in' said he renounced his parents, told the KGB contact to go to hell, and decided to contact the Hilsa FBI office to let them know he was a good American."
Tedesco sipped some coffee. "Well, as you might imagine, the walk-in was dismissed as just another wacko. But in view of this Russian connection with Kapuscinski, it looks like he might have been for real."
Sir Isaac was rubbing his eyes when all of a sudden he jerked bolt upright in his chair. "McKenna!" he exclaimed.
Tedesco eyeballed the brigadier and was puzzled. "Who is McKenna?"
Strand explained. "Jarrod McKenna was on the Intrepid?s original flight manifest as mission commander. Four days before lift-off he came down with intestinal flu — at least that was the diagnosis. Iceberg was the backup pilot and took over." Strand shook her head ruefully. "Intestinal flu. Pretty damned convenient if you ask me. I'd bet the family farm that Kapuscinski laced McKenna's shrimp salad with something that made it look like he had the flu."
Sir Isaac nodded. "I'll have the medical people test McKenna. See if there's a trace of whatever Iceberg gave him."
A wave of bitterness swept over those present as they realized that for years they had been hoodwinked and betrayed by a traitor in their own midst. The amount of damage that could have been inflicted by Iceberg — even without the Intrepid— was nothing less than devastating.
"I can guess what you're probably thinking, General," comforted Tedesco. "But something like Kapuscinski is, well, unprecedented. There really is no defense against a penetration like this."
Whittenberg sighed. "It's kind of you to say so, Mr. Tedesco. I only hope Admiral Bergstrom and the President will be as understanding." He picked up the phone.
Lt. Gen. Likady Popov was in the cavernous Flite Control Centre, leaning over the mission commander's shoulder. The stocky general was trying to enlist the blond-haired Malyshev into his plan, but the young colonel was resisting — and sweating. Philosophically, Malyshev agreed with his general, but the omnipresent KGB henchmen floating around the room caused him to waver.
"Listen to me, Oleg," implored Popov with a whisper. "Hijacking a shuttle is one thing. Deliberately shooting one down is quite another. Do you want more blood on our hands? There is no way to predict how the Americans will react. If they do launch a rescue shuttle from their Florida cosmodrome, you will be in charge of firing the antisatellite weapon. All you have to do is hesitate for a few seconds before hitting the activation button. That will give the American rescue shuttle enough time to pass out of range. We must stop this madness."
The Slavic-looking Malyshev was about to give a slow, careful nod when the door opened and in walked the KGB Chairman, along with a tall, spidery man who wore a Vandyke beard.
"General," announced Chairman Kostiashak, "I believe you know Comrade Pirdilenko."
Ivan Pirdilenko took off his gloves and fur hat, while a KGB corporal stepped up to help the scientist with his coat. "Yes, yes, of course," said Pirdilenko. "Popov and I have known each other for many years, have we not, General?"
Popov nodded a grudging acknowledgement.
"In view of Comrade Pirdilenko's credentials as an expert with our antisatellite weapon, I thought it would be, ah, helpful, to bring him here from Plesetsk. Perhaps you could turn the antisatellite preparations over to him. That would allow you to concentrate on launching our own cosmonauts from Baikonur.'' The little Chairman's smile remained fixed.
Pirdilenko didn't give Popov a chance to respond. "Of course, I'm certain the General would be delighted to turn these matters over to me. Is that not correct, Popov?" Not waiting for an answer, Pirdilenko bored right in. "Now then, who is in charge of monitoring the American shuttle's flite path and activating the arming sequence?"
Slowly, Popov pointed at Malyshev, the mission commander.
"Ah, very good," said an enthusiastic Pirdilenko. "It is not often that we are allowed to put one of our weapons to a genuine test. Is that not correct, General?"
Popov said nothing. He only looked at the little KGB chieftain with the gaze of a defeated man.
After explaining the incredible discovery of the Stalin notebook in a Chicago warehouse to Admiral Bergstrom, the Secretary of Defense, and the Vice President, Whittenberg was now relating the story for the fourth time to the President over the phone.
The chief executive was in the living quarters of the mansion, and his mood was disbelief. "I know you have to respect the evidence, but still — Joseph Stalin?"
"Yes, Mr. President," replied Whittenberg, "that's what it appears to be. I am having the original text of the notebook flown out to Professor Brennan at Columbia so he can verily his initial findings, but given the rarity of these kinds of documents, it would appear his preliminary conclusions are on the mark."
"Jesus. Every time I think this Intrepid business can't get any crazier, it does. It's damn well gone over the edge. A renegade shuttle. A Russian ambassador and a couple of Politburo members who haven't a clue what's going on. A mysterious satellite. And now a link to Joseph Stalin? This is insane."
"I quite agree, Mr. President. But we have to face facts, and the facts indicate Kapuscinski is the traitor. How or why he came into possession of Stalin's own notes is beyond me, but it establishes an irrefutable link with the Soviet Union. A link that cuts through everything else and gives credence to Agent Tedesco's thesis."
The chief executive shook his head. "Well, if the turncoat is
Kapuscinski, then what do you suppose has happened to the other two crew members? Mulcahey and Rodriquez?"
There was a pause on the other end while Whittenberg took a deep breath. "Dead… most probably."
The President shuddered. "Has there been any change in the Intrepid's behavior?"
"No, sir. Orbit unchanged."
"So, if the Intrepid is, in fact, damaged as you suspect, that means the Russians still have to go up and get it. Right?"
"Yes, sir," replied Whittenberg.
"Any activity on their launch pads?" asked the President.
"We've been keeping an active surveillance on all Soviet cosmodromes. Except for the mystery satellite that was launched twenty-one hours ago from Plesetsk, we've seen no activity. But I should point out that the Soviets are able to roll out and launch their boosters in very short order — as they did with that mystery satellite out of Plesetsk."
"Do you have any idea what that thing is?" The chief executive's face betrayed his concern.