The analyst clicked to the next video. This one was better quality. More light and much more clear.
“Pause, Roddy,” Swanson ordered.
By the time Roddy paused the video, the crane had already lifted the mobile launcher from the railroad car and was midway to the ship.
Swanson rose from his chair and took a step toward the screen, shoving his glasses higher on his nose. “What the hell.”
“I figured this might be important, sir,” the Russian analyst said.
Glancing to the military expert, Swanson asked, “What do you think, Bob?”
“It’s hard to be certain because of the lighting,” the weapons man said.
“Speculate.”
“I’ll have to verify the size based on the length of the standard Russian railroad car and the crane. But If you’re putting me on the spot, I’d have to say that’s an SS-20 Saber.”
“That’s impossible,” Swanson said.
The Russian analyst looked confused.
Bob, the military expert, said, “The SS-20 was supposed to have been destroyed under the INF Treaty signed in Eighty-Seven by Reagan and Gorbachev.”
“We must be sure,” Swanson said. “Could this just be a static display they’re moving?”
“Doubtful,” Bob said. “That’s a transporter erector launcher, and it appears to be an operational missile.”
“Which means the Russians are in violation of the INF Treaty,” Swanson concluded.
“Not necessarily,” the military analyst said. “We’ve heard rumors of a new SS-20 Saber with a new solid fuel rocket with a range of more than four thousand miles.”
“What was the old range?”
“About thirty-four hundred. Now, the Russians have the Topol-M or SS-27, with a range of about sixty-eight hundred miles. But that’s a lot bigger than what you have in Murmansk. The Russians might have simply modified the SS-20, boosting the range out of that prescribed by the INF Treaty.”
That’s what the Director of Operations was thinking. But why? And where were they transporting the missile? “Where did we get the video?”
The Russian analyst cleared his throat and said, “A new officer assigned to Murmansk for immersion training at the university.”
“They’re not supposed to do any direct mission work,” Swanson instructed.
“I understand, sir,” Roddy said sheepishly. “But this one is a special case. This man worked extensively with Army Intelligence before he was recruited directly by the former DCI.” The Russian analyst clicked his remote and an image of a man in his mid-twenties appeared on the screen. He was a handsome man with a strong jaw and intense eyes. The man had a smirk on his face, as if he knew far more than anyone would expect.
“I met him,” Swanson said. “He graduated first in his class more than a year ago. He’s the son of Jake Adams and Toni Contardo.”
“Yes, sir. Karl Adams.”
Swanson took off his glasses and tried to clean them with the bottom of his shirt, giving him time to think. Finally, he put the glasses back on and said, “From what I hear, he might be better than either of them, and they were legends in the Agency.”
“Plus, he’s a polyglot,” the Russian analyst said.
“Which languages?”
“Not sure, sir. In formal training in high school and college he learned Spanish and Russian. The Army also sent him to Russian at DLI in Monterey. We sent him on a refresher course, but the instructors released him early, calling him a native speaker. His immersion is required but probably not necessary.”
“What other languages?”
“Italian, French and Portuguese. But I hear he also knows Romanian and can get by in Czech and Ukrainian.”
“What? No Belarusian?”
“Sorry, I missed that one, sir.”
“I was kidding.” Swanson shook his head. He barely got by with his French and English, and couldn’t understand those who could know so many languages. “I see why you used him. I heard how he helped us in the Baltics not so long ago.”
“Yes, sir. He was in Vilnius when his father was shot. That’s when Mister Jenkins recruited him.”
Swanson sat back in the swivel chair and smiled. “I knew his mother better than his father. She was a fine woman. A great officer. But the father has always been a bit of a rogue.”
“When I was assigned to handle Karl, I tried to background Jake Adams,” the Russian analyst said. “But most of his file is still classified. For a man retired, he sure seems to get pulled back in to work with the Agency a lot.”
Swanson smiled again. “Back in the day, Kurt Jenkins worked for Jake Adams. Adams trained him. Literally saved his life. So, they had history.”
The Russian analyst nodded his head before saying, “I’ve had to recall Karl Adams from his immersion.”
“Why?”
Clicking back to the video, the analyst said, “Two men confronted Adams and a girl in a park near the train station. They got into a bit of a scuffle and the men stole the drone and Karl’s backpack, which included his cell phone.”
“Not the SAT cell.”
“No, sir. Adams was immersed as a Spanish exchange student. He had a Spanish version phone. But it was scrubbed except for a few texts and the recent call history.”
Swanson considered this and finally said, “It was smart to recall him. Who do you think nabbed the drone?”
The analyst cleared his throat. “If I had to guess, I’d say either the FSB or the GRU.”
“I’m thinking the GRU,” Swanson surmised, “since this is a military operation.”
“Good point.”
“Where is the ship?”
“The Magadan is working its way down the Kola Bay toward the Barents Sea.”
“Did any vessels leave their Northern Fleet base at Severomorsk?”
“We’ll have to check on that, sir.”
“All right. Keep me informed.”
“What do we do with Adams? He was scheduled to stay there a few more months.”
“You think his immersion is complete, right?”
The Russian analyst nodded.
“Where was he scheduled to be assigned?”
“We didn’t have a follow-on assignment ready. But probably either Moscow or St. Petersburg.”
“Let me sleep on that.” Swanson left the two analysts and went back toward his office. He had to play this one right. He had a feeling that the DCI had something lined up for this rising star. Which was why he hated legacy officers. They came in with a natural advantage. Privileged bastards.
3
The next morning, Karl Adams and his friend Maya went out for coffee and a scone down the block. Being Saturday morning, they agreed to meet up later that day to eat a proper meal.
“I have to get a new phone,” Karl said.
“And a laptop,” Maya reminded him.
“That will have to wait,” he said. “I must have one with a Spanish keyboard and software.”
She nodded understanding and then put her hand on the side of Karl’s head. “The bump has gone down.”
Truthfully, he had forgotten about the blow he had taken the night before. He felt the bump and it gave him very little pain. “I’ll live.”
Maya smiled. “I think you might have snapped that man’s knee. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I had an uncle in Madrid who taught me some moves,” he lied.
“It really turned me on,” she said, her green eyes drifting below his belt.
“I noticed last night,” he said. “You seemed to be a bit of a maniac yourself.”
“I was mad. I hate thieves.”
He hated to hold back the fact that those men were more than just thieves, but that was the nature of the game. She would never know the true nature of what he did for a living.