He had been awakened earlier than usual by the sound of a heavy predawn rain hammering against his bedroom window, a rain steady enough and intense enough to convince him to forgo the pleasures of his usual morning jog and the equally predictable coffee and bagel breakfast at Furman’s. Worse, as far as Miller was concerned, weather forecasters were calling for the rain to turn to snow later in the day. If the snow materialized. Miller realized his entire daily routine would be in jeopardy.
Now, with the morning paper spread out on his desk and a cup of lukewarm vending machine coffee in hand, he was doing his best to salvage what was left of his quiet time before the rest of the staff arrived.
He had just turned to the editorial page when he heard the bell on his computer. When the seven-digit intra-agency code appeared on his screen, he put down his coffee and keyed in his own code. The message was time-dated 0459. He glanced down at the slip of paper taped to his telephone.
It contained the two names Packer had scratched down during his conversation with Mikos Asonokov. The first of the names appeared on his screen.
Subject: Taj Ozal Born: 06/06/55, Gratis. Turkey.
Father: Colonel, Tactical Reconnaissance Turkish Army.
Mother: Professor of Mathematics, Technical Institute of Istanbul.
Educated: Belediye Institute (2 years).
Occupation: Unknown.
Current Status: Deceased.
Miller read the message through twice, picked up the phone, and dialed the Resources Section.
“Amy Sabato, please.”
Amy Sabato was the supervisor of the Resources Section. Miller considered the veteran twenty-one-year keeper of ISA’s files and records one of his most reliable tools. Like him, she was a workaholic. Unlike him, she was gregarious and had a keen sense of humor. Despite the hour, when she picked up the telephone, she sounded her usual upbeat self.
“Good morning, Robert,” she said.
“The girl who answered the phone recognized your voice. What’s up?”
As usual, Miller dispensed with the small talk.
“I’m double-checking your rundown on message 447M41A date-coded 0459 this date.”
Miller could hear the woman’s fingers promenade across her keyboard while she retrieved the data.
“Referring to Taj Ozal. Right?”
“I’m double-checking the last line,” Miller said.
“It says here that the subject is deceased. Can you verify or add anything to it?”
There were more sounds from Sabato’s end of the line, phones ringing, background conversation, and an indication that she was working her keyboard. Finally she said, “Just how dead do you want him to be, Robert?”
“Dead enough not to be up, walking around, and chartering helicopters.”
“I’m scrolling back. Ginny said she found this in a recap report dated 12/07.”
Miller took a sip of his coffee and waited.
“Ah, here it is. The deceased’s body was found in an apartment fire. No autopsy. Cause of death sounds pretty evident to me. Apparently four other people died in the same fire. Let’s see what else it says.” There was another delay.
“Here it is.
Suspected cause of fire, arson. What else do you need?”
“That’s it,” Miller said. It was his first coup of the day. He was proud of himself. He even remembered to thank the woman before he hung up. He had penned the relevant dates on a scratch pad and now he reviewed them.
Thirty minutes later Packer strolled into the office.
He still had his raincoat on when Robert Miller walked into his office and closed the door. His greeting was cursory at best, but for once he was smiling.
“Chief, you know those names you wanted me to check out?”
Packer nodded.
“What about them?”
“Tell me again about the one named Ozal.”
Packer finished taking off his coat, moved around his desk, sat down, and looked over his notes from his meeting with Asonokov.
“Let’s see, he’s Turkish, lives in Istanbul. No apparent occupation other than he seems to get around, knows everyone, has good contacts, and is known to travel extensively. He capitalizes on his connections. Why?”
“That’s a fairly ambitious agenda for a man that died in an apartment fire several weeks ago.”
Packer’s frown was apparent.
“What do you mean, died?”
“I came in early this morning and read the Resources report on the two names you told me to track down. Amy Sabato assures me Taj Ozal died in an apartment fire. Cause of fire, arson.”
“Impossible. Ozal is the one who made arrangements to get T. C. and Banks into the NIMF compound in Ammash.”
Miller shook his head.
“I don’t think so, Pack.
I’ve already talked to the authorities in Istanbul.
They verified everything in our files. They were, however, quick to point out that Ozal isn’t all that unusual a name. The problem is, everything Banks gave us in the way of background information matches up with what we were able to come up with in our data files: birthplace, background, education, even the bit about no specific occupation and no discernable source of income.”
Packer sagged back in his chair.
“Damn,” he muttered. “First, there’s this screwy situation with the downed helicopter, and now we discover this guy Ozal may be a counterfeit. What the hell is going on?”
Miller waited. He knew the old man’s pattern.
First came denial, followed, of course, by gradual acceptance of the information, and finally, a t decision on what he wanted done. At the moment he was still in the denial stage.
“I don’t suppose we’ve heard anything from Langley yet?”
Miller shook his head.
Despite the fact that Josef Solkov had been awakened from a sound sleep by the arrival of the communique in the middle of the night, he was elated at the news. The coded message from Ammash was more complicated than usual and had taken him an unusual amount of time to translate.
When he finished, disregarding the hour, he immediately phoned Grenchev and arranged a meeting in the small cafe across from the Sakarya Caddesi.
Despite the nature of the news, he had agreed to a meeting time an hour later than he had hoped for and now, as he sipped his cok sekerii, he repeatedly checked his watch and watched for Grenchev’s arrival. When Solkov wasn’t checking his watch, he occupied himself watching the workers scurry through the city’s chill air. Grenchev was running late, a not wholly unexpected occurrence.
Solkov suspected that the perpetually late Petr Grenchev had probably been late for his own birth.
Finally, though, Grenchev appeared. He stepped from the bustling entrance of the train depot with his coat collar turned up and hat pulled down. Solkov watched him thread his way through the hopeless tangle of Istanbul’s traffic, and when he entered the cafe, he caught Solkov’s discreet wave.
“I came as soon as I could, Comrade,” Grenchev complained as he wormed his bulk into the chair across the table from Solkov. He waited until he was seated to take off his hat and gloves.
“So what is this news that is so important you could not tell me over the telephone?”
Solkov reached inside his overcoat pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper.
“You will know what is so important, Comrade, when you read this.” He handed the paper across the table and Grenchev put on his glasses. The contents were in Russian and Solkov waited for his comrade’s reaction.
A cumbersome smile encased Grenchev’s craggy face as he read the contents of the communique a second time. By the time he finished, there was a look of relief on his face.