But how much? About the Misha 124, obviously. They must also know the anthrax was still aboard the bomber. That would be the minimum that could conceivably justify this afternoon’s airborne assassination attempt. But what other knowledge might they possess?
Smyslov took another heavy drag on his cigarette. The anthrax and the risk of it falling into the hands of a terrorist group would be bad enough. But what if there was something more? What if they knew of the March Fifth Event?
That was a nightmare worth considering. What if someone outside the circle of thirty-two knew about the Event and of the possibility that evidence of it still existed aboard the downed bomber? What if they were striving to prevent the destruction of that evidence and obtain it for themselves?
What if an organization or even a single individual gained the ability to blackmail a major nuclear power? It would dwarf the threat of even a planeload of anthrax to insignificance.
Lost in that dark thought, Smyslov started as a voice spoke nearby. “As a physician I’m required to warn you that smoking is bad for your health.”
Jon Smith’s silhouette detached itself from the shadows down deck and came to lean on the cable rail beside Smyslov. “And now that I’ve performed that duty, please feel free to tell me to go to hell.”
Smyslov chuckled dryly and flipped the glowing cigarette butt over the side. “We haven’t invented lung cancer in Russia yet, Colonel.”
“I just wanted to tell you again, thanks for what you did today.”
Smyslov caught himself before he could reach for his lighter and cigarette pack again. “We were all riding in the same helicopter.”
“So we were,” the silhouette agreed. “So, Major, what do you think?”
“To speak the truth, Colonel, I don’t know what to think.” And it was the truth.
“Do you have any idea at all who might have been behind the attack?”
Smyslov shook his head. Now he would lie again. “None. Someone must have learned that the Misha 124 was a bioweapons platform. They must be acting on the assumption the anthrax might still be aboard the aircraft and are attempting to prevent us from reaching the crash site first. That’s the only thing that would make any sense.”
“You’d think so,” Smith mused. “But someone is certainly committing a lot of resources on a speculation.” He turned his head and looked directly at Smyslov. “The Alaskan authorities are also speculating about the possible involvement of the Russian mafia.”
Good. Smyslov could tell the truth again. “This is entirely possible, Colonel. It would be foolish to deny that certain criminal elements within my country have developed a great degree of power and influence within our government.”
Smyslov grimaced. “The members of our underworld had a considerable advantage over the rest of our nation. They were the one facet of Russian society not controlled by the Communists.”
Smith chuckled in the darkness, and they looked out across the darkened wave tops for a time, listening to the hiss of the hull cutting through the water.
Finally Smyslov spoke. “Colonel, can you tell me if my government has been notified of today’s attack?”
“I really can’t say for sure,” Smith replied. “My superiors have been advised of the situation, and they’ve informed me that all available resources are being put to use to identify our attackers. I’d presume that includes Russian resources.”
“I see.”
Smith hesitated, then continued. “Major, if you wish to speak directly with your superiors about this incident, I can arrange it. If you are concerned about…security, I can offer you my word that you will be able to speak freely. Your communications will not be monitored.”
Smyslov considered for moment. What can I safely say to who? “No, that will not be necessary.”
“As you like. The offer stands.” Smith’s voice mellowed. “So tell me, Major, hearts, bridge, or poker-which is your game?”
Chapter Sixteen
Off Reykjavik, Iceland
In another ocean, half a world away, a second ship sailed.
The captain of the deep-ocean trawler Siffsdottar had thought that his ship’s long run of bad luck had at last come to an end. Now he wasn’t so sure.
The North Atlantic fisheries had been a depressed industry for a long time, and cheeseparing and procrastination on the part of the trawler’s owners had not made matters any easier. Finally, as it inevitably must, the neglected maintenance had caught up with them. Siffsdottar had spent most of last season held up in the yards with a protracted and expensive series of engine room casualties. The owners, as owners inevitably do, found it easier to blame the ship rather than themselves.
Siffsdottar had been facing the breakers’ yard, and her captain and crew the beach when, like a miracle, a last-minute reprieve had appeared: a month-long charter by a film company for enough money to pay off the repairs and poor season both. Only they must sail immediately to meet a production deadline.
For once the owners and crew were in accord. They were happy to oblige.
But when the “filmmakers” had come aboard they had proved to be a gang of twenty extremely tough-looking men, even by the standards of the hard-bitten trawler crew. There had also been a decided lack of camera equipment, just a good deal of electronics and radio gear.
And the guns. Those hadn’t made an appearance until after they had gotten under way. Two of the “filmmakers” lounged at the rear of the darkened wheelhouse now, each of them with an automatic pistol thrust openly in his belt.
They offered no explanation, and the trawlermen decided it prudent not to ask for one.
The leader of the filmmakers, a tall, burly red-bearded man who relayed his orders in strangely accented English, had laid in a course to the west-northwest, their destination being a set of nameless GPS coordinates deep within Hudson Bay. He had also instructed that the trawler’s radio be disabled. His people would handle all communications for the voyage, “for business reasons.”
Siffsdottar’s captain now strongly suspected that his owners had made yet another bad business decision. But as the flashing point light at Iceland’s westernmost land’s end drifted past to starboard, he also suspected that there was little he could now do about it. Instead he would fall back on an ancient Icelandic survival mechanism: strict, stolid neutrality and a hope for the best. It had seen Iceland through a number of the world’s wars essentially untouched. Perhaps it would suffice here.
Belowdecks, the Command Section had taken over the main salon as the operations center. Seated at the big mess table, Anton Kretek splashed three fingers of Aquavit into a squat glass. Taking a slurping gulp, he grimaced. This Icelandic liquor was muck, but it was the muck that was available.
“Do you have the reports from Canada Section yet?” he demanded irritably.
“Downloading now, Mr. Kretek,” the chief communications officer replied from his laptop workstation. “It will take a moment to decrypt.”
The Internet had proven a boon to the international businessman and the international criminal alike, providing instant, secure communications from point to point anywhere on the planet. A dinner-plate-sized sat phone dish, deployed in the trawler’s upper works, linked them into the global telecommunications net, and the finest in commercial encryption programs sealed their Internet messaging away from prying eyes.
A portable laser printer hissed and spat out a series of hard-copy sheets. Pushing his chair back from the communications desk, the communicator passed the hard copy over his shoulder to the waiting Kretek.