As soon as it pulled to a stop, ground crewmen checked the wheels, while others brought up the boarding ladder. Otto, wearing a dark blue flight suit, was first out. He scrambled down the ladder, peeled off the flight suit and got his small bag from a crewman, who’d retrieved it from a locker forward of the swept-back port wing. He no longer wore the sling on his arm. He gave the pilot a wave, then walked across the tarmac to a line of parked cars. He got into the passenger side of a light gray RAV4 SUV, which immediately backed out and headed to the main gate. Yemm caught a glimpse of Louise Horn in her air force uniform behind the wheel. She’d lied to them. She’d known where Otto had gone and when he would be returning. It’s why she hadn’t sounded all that shook-up about his disappearance. There was no real reason to follow them. Louise would either drive back to their apartment in Arlington first, or she would take Otto directly to Langley. Either way he’d show up out there sometime today. Yemm headed back to his office, even more depressed and confused than he had been earlier. Otto was a friend who might finally have gone around the bend. A lot of geniuses did. The problem Yemm was having the most trouble with was Louise Horn’s involvement. A woman would do anything for her man. But treason and murder?
TWENTY-FIVE
When Otto Rencke entered his office, Louise was immediately placed in a safe corner of his head. Sometimes during the day, when he was troubled, he would take her out, look at her beauty, think about how much he loved her, replay a favorite conversation they’d had, then put her back safe and sound. She had become his escape mechanism, a safety valve. He was back, and she had helped him with that much. He didn’t want to place her in any further danger. He laid the case with his laptop computer on the cluttered conference table and let his eyes roam around the room. Everything was as he had left it. No one had screwed with his things this time. It was a Baranov operation. Otto was sure of at least that much. First General Gennadi Zhuralev, who had been Department Viktor chief of operations in the seventies, had been killed in Moscow. Then Vladimir Trofimov was shot to death in public in front of the Louvre just days ago. He had been Department Viktor chief of staff and Baranov’s personal assistant after Zhuralev had departed.
And Dr. Anatoli Nikolayev, who had worked as a Department Viktor psychologist, left Moscow on the very day General Zhuralev was murdered, and was in France on the day Trofimov was gunned down. It made Nikolayev the key. But no one knew where he was, even though he’d left his calling cards in plain sight for anyone to see. Each spy had his or her particular style of tradecraft; how he ran, his preferred means of conveyance, his weapons, his methods for hiding money trails, his phone calls, letter drops, secret codes. All of his methods taken as a whole marked him as an amateur or a professional, and identified him as surely as his fingerprints or DNA record. Every good spy had two ways in which he or she disappeared. The first was the most complete. One moment he was there, on a downtown street in front of an office complex in Moscow, and in the next moment he was gone. One day he maintained a household: telephone and credit card accounts, banks, book clubs, favorite restaurants and clubs, e-mails, favorite websites.
The next day he disappeared right under everybody’s noses. The second method, more subtle in many ways, was when the spy wanted to be found, but found by the correct people. This disappearing act was like the magician’s lady and the tiger in a locked steamer trunk. The tiger went in, the curtain was raised, and when it was dropped seconds later the lady came out. Now you see it, now you don’t. Except if you had really been on the ball all the clues were there to see. It wasn’t magic, it was nothing more than legerdemain. Otto brought his monitors up. The screens showed the deepest shades of lavender so far. He started pulling up his primary search engines. Spies, like magicians, left clues. Calling cards. In Nikolayev’s case he’d all but taken an ad in a Paris newspaper that he was there. Trofimov’s residence was listed on police reports. His landlady, who was distrustful of cops but fond of money, described the older, white-haired gentleman asking about Trofimov. It cost Otto one hundred francs. She told him about the same book of Louvre tickets she’d told Nikolayev about on the very day that Trofimov had been shot to death in front of the museum.
Nikolayev, using four different aliases, but fitting the same description, had reserved cars at four separate car hire firms, but never showed up. He’d bought tickets at Orly for a flight to Washington, and at Charles de Gaulle for New York. But no passenger manifest showed his name. He’d purchased train tickets to four destinations all over France, from the Gares du Nord, d lEst, de Lyon and d’Austerlitz. But he’d been in a hurry by then. Instead of spreading out around the city as he might have done to muddy his trail, he’d picked pairs of stations that were within walking distance of each other. Four trips in the time of two. Nikolayev was in France, and he wanted to be found by the right people for some reason. People who by now had figured out that he was on the run from Moscow, but not from the West. But why? At each of the car rental offices, airline ticket counters and lost and founds in the train stations, Otto left the same message: Found the novel by B. that you are looking for. He included a secure telephone number. If the Russians or someone else picked up the message and made the call they would learn nothing except that someone else was interested in Nikolayev’s whereabouts. Each of Otto’s special search and analysis programs had its own wallpaper. When the programs were running, but not open for view, the background took on the color of the search, in this case lavender, with a pattern. For Operation Spotlight, his overall analytical program working the Nikolayev problem, the pattern was tombstones that moved in a counterclockwise helical figure. But the pattern was different now. Every fourth tombstone was nipped forty-five degrees out of alignment with the others. Someone had tried to get in. Otto brought up his capture program with shaking hands. Whoever had tried to get into the system had today’s CIA passwords, which allowed them to go from the opening menu all the way into the Directorate of Operations. Then they’d tried to enter SPOTLIGHT. Otto stared at the screen for a long time, trying to envision who knew about that specific operation. It had to be someone on the inside. Right here in the computer center. He glanced at the door. Someone in one of the research cells. But who were they working for? When the intruder had entered the Spotlight directory his search engine was frozen by Otto’s capture program. But they’d been smart enough to not only back out, but to break the link. The intrusion had been made from off-site, from a cell phone calling from outside the building. The in-house telltale was not tipped over. The prefix and first two numbers came up before the connection had been terminated. Otto brought up the one hundred possible numbers, which not surprisingly all belonged to the CIA. Currently, seventy-eight of them were assigned, the bulk of which were used by the Directorate of Science and Technology, which included Computer Services. The others were spread throughout the Agency’s other three directorates.