Holy Mary, Mother of God! he exclaimed to himself. Russians! He stepped quickly from the gate house, right palm on the butt of his service revolver, and tried to adopt his most gruff manner, but his voice shook, betraying his shock.
“Hold on there! Where do you think you’re going?”
He addressed himself to the stolid faced driver, but received no reply. Instead, the rear window whisked down in response to an inner button.
“We don’t intend to go in, Sergeant,” Grigor Zamyatin used his most appealing tone. “But I have an urgent message for Mr. Isaacs, your Deputy Director of Scientific Intelligence.”
He put a core of steel in the next words. “I must see that he receives it.” Then he spoke smoothly again. “Could he possibly come here to the gate and receive it directly?”
Ruiz could not help the edge of respect that crept into his voice. His hand slipped off his pistol butt. The driver of the limousine surreptitiously shifted his body and relaxed slightly as well.
“Sir, I can’t comment on specific personnel. If you have a message, I’ll take it.”
Zamyatin smiled slightly at this expected, but cumbersome subterfuge. No one knew who worked at the CIA except every spy in the world, and anyone else who cared to check. He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the sealed envelope with Isaacs’ name carefully handwritten across it. He extended it to the guard, but kept his grip as Ruiz reached for it. Zamyatin locked eyes with him.
“This is extremely urgent. It must be delivered to Mr. Isaacs, and no one else.”
“I’ll see that it is put into the proper channels,” Ruiz said noncommittally, but his voice rang with sincerity.
Zamyatin would have preferred to deliver the envelope personally to Isaacs, but this was the most he expected. He was confident Isaacs would have it within the hour. He released his grip on the envelope, and the window swished shut. Ruiz stepped back as the limousine backed up, performed a U-turn and accelerated out of the entry drive toward the Washington Parkway. He stepped back into the gate house, placed the envelope gingerly on a shelf, and grabbed the phone.
“Ralph? This is Steve at the east gate. Damn car full of Russians, embassy types, just dropped off an envelope they say has to be delivered to Mr. Isaacs. I think you’d better send somebody from the bomb squad down here. Right. You bet your ass I won’t!” He punched the button disconnecting the phone and cradled the receiver on his shoulder while he flipped through the directory and ran his finger down the page until he came to the Office of the Deputy Director of Scientific Intelligence. Then he dialed again.
Bill Baris left the document section with as much material as he could conveniently carry in both hands. He walked rapidly down the corridor, intent on his destination. Baris was in his late forties, sharp-featured with thinning blond curls. He rarely stopped to ponder the fact that he was good at what he did. He just continued to do what felt right. This felt right, he thought of the material in his hands. Isaacs had nailed it.
He passed through Kathleen Huddleston’s office giving a nod to her and barged into Isaacs’ with a familiarity born of long comfortable association.
“Here you are, Bob.” He deposited the files on Isaacs’ desk.
“What have you got?” Isaacs inquired.
“It’s a private lab, about two years old. Strictly devoted to weapons research subcontracted from the Los Alamos National Laboratory.”
There was something very familiar about that description. Isaacs couldn’t quite place it.
“Who runs it?” he asked.
“Guy name of Krone.”
“Paul Krone!” Isaacs slammed his fist on his desk, remembering Zicek talking about Krone in La Jolla, suggesting he be brought in. Looks like he was already in, Isaacs thought grimly.
“Sir?” Kathleen spoke over the intercom.
“Yes! What is it.” Isaacs was more abrupt than he intended.
“Sir, I just got a call from the guard at the front gate. Apparently a car from the Soviet embassy dropped off a note they insisted be delivered to you. It’s being processed through security.”
Isaacs’ mind raced through the possibilities.
“From the embassy, you say. Did the guard recognize anyone?”
“Not specifically. The car was an embassy limousine. There was a chauffeur and some official in the back seat who handed over the note and did all the talking.”
Isaacs had a vivid mental image of looking out through his rear window and seeing nothing but the grill and long hood of Zamyatin’s limousine.
“Ask security to have him check some mug shots of embassy personnel. Make sure one of Colonel Grigor Zamyatin is among them.”
“Yes, sir.” Kathleen rang off.
What could Zamyatin want? Isaacs asked himself. Why would anyone else in the Soviet embassy hand-deliver a note to him? He put these questions aside and picked up the pile of material Baris had brought in.
“Let me see some of that,” Baris requested. “I only took time to skim it.” He riffled through the pile of folders looking for some specific ones; then they settled down to read. Isaacs paused occasionally to make notes on a pad. Ten minutes passed in silence broken only by the shuffle of paper in the folders. Then the intercom buzzed again.
“Sir, Sergeant Ruiz, the guard, identified Colonel Zamyatin. He, Colonel Zamyatin that is, was very adamant that you get the note quickly and personally.”
“Where is it then?”
“Sergeant Ruiz said someone from the bomb squad picked it up.”
“The bomb squad!”
“Well, yes, I suppose they were concerned about letter bombs, that sort of thing.”
“Letter bombs are anonymous. Not likely that the Colonel would drop by in his official limo to deliver one. Tell them to get that note up here. On the double!”
“Yes, sir!”
Isaacs waved his arms at the ceiling in a gesture of desperation. “What a world,” he exclaimed.
“So what kind of picture do we have here?” he asked rhetorically, addressing Baris. “Krone Industries set up this lab to do research on contract to Los Alamos. They’ve done work on particle beams and lasers, particularly using them to implode material to high density and temperatures, just as Zicek said. That could be directly relevant.”
“It’s not just Krone Industries,” said Baris. “I’ve been reading quarterly reports the lab submitted to Los Alamos. Krone himself is chief man on the spot, devoting himself one hundred percent to the effort.
“And not just his time,” Baris continued. “Out of curiosity, I got a list of the companies in Krone Industries and looked up their financial reports.” He hefted one of the folders he had selected. “That lab is not just running on its consulting contract with Los Alamos. Every one of these companies under Krone’s thumb has diverted significant portions of their resources to the lab. There’s an immense effort going on there. Far more than required by the government contract.”
Isaacs leaned back in his chair to digest this information and looked up at a rap on the door. Kathleen opened it and ushered in an energetic young man with close-cropped hair. In his hand he clutched a mangled envelope.
“Mark Burley, sir. From counteractivity. This is the note delivered to you half an hour ago. We processed it as quickly as we could.” He handed over the envelope.
Isaacs took it and raised a sceptical eyebrow. The envelope was crudely ripped open and both the envelope and the portion of the enclosed note, which was exposed through the ragged flap, were wrinkled.
“You opened it?”
“Yes, sir,” Burley replied with deep sincerity. “We determined it was not a letter bomb by certain physical tests, but we wanted to check the contents for contaminants. Contact poisons. If we’d had time we could’ve opened it so you’d never have noticed.” A small, proud smile came and went quickly. “As it was, we did the most thorough job we could, in the shortest time.”