sleepless nights. He nodded toward one of the chairs in front of the desk, “lake a seat, Fred. I’ll be with you in a second.”
Klein obeyed, watching in silence while his old friend finished skimming a memo. Large, bold red letters stamped across the top indicated that it included top-secret intelligence obtained from U.S. spy satellites. Castilla came to the end, snorted in disgust, and stuffed the document back into one of the folders.
“More trouble?” the head of Covert-One asked carefully.
“In spades.” Castilla ran his big hands distractedly through his hair and then indicated the folders stacked in front of him. “Our satellites and signals intercept stations seem to be picking up signs of Russian military moves and increasing readiness in several frontier districts ?those bordering Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Kazakhstan. But the intelligence is damned sketch), and no one in the Pentagon or the CIA seems willing to place any bets on what may be going on.”
“Because of problems with the data?” Klein wondered. “Or because they’re having trouble analyzing the facts they’ve got?”
“Both,” Castilla growled. He shuffled through the various folders, picked one out, and shoved it across the desk. “There’s an example of what I’m getting. Take a look for yourself.”
It was a Defense Intelligence Agency report on the possible buildup of Russian divisions stationed in Chechnya and along the Caucasus Mountains.
Relying largely on satellite photos showing large amounts of military equipment moving by rail into the areas around Grozny, some analysts speculated that the Russians were building up forces for yet another all-out offensive on the region’s Islamic rebels. Others disputed this conclusion, claiming the rail shipments were only part of a normal troop rotation. A small minority claimed that the tank and motor rifle formations ostensibly being transferred to Chechnya were actually being diverted to other areas, though no one could say exactly where.
Klein flipped through the folder quickly, reading with growing disapproval.
By its very nature, intelligence analysis was an imperfect, imprecise business.
But this report was fuzzier than most. The competing theories were couched in remarkably vague terms, loaded down with so many qualifiers that they lacked any semblance of conviction, and were presented in a jumble, without making any attempt to rank them in order of probability. From the standpoint of a senior policymaker, especially one at the president’s level, the analysis was essentially useless.
He looked up in dismay. “This is second-string material, Sam.”
“Try third-string,” Castilla said grimly. “Our best Russia analysts are either dead or running scared that they’re next. The folks who are next in line just don’t have the same level of experience … and it shows.”
Klein nodded. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff of modern intelligence?garbled fragments of intercepted communications, satellite photos that were difficult to interpret, stray rumors passed along by agents and embassy staffs, and all the rest?was a skill that took years of training and practice to fully develop.
Still frowning, the president took off his reading glasses and tossed them onto his desk. He looked across at Klein. “Which brings us to Covert-One’s assignment, pinning down the cause of this illness. What have you learned so far?”
“Less than I would like,” the other man admitted. “But I have just received an urgent signal from Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin.”
“And?”
“They’ve definitely run into something very nasty going on in Moscow,”
Klein said quietly. He grimaced, resisting the temptation to fiddle with the battered briarvvood pipe tucked away inside his suit coat. “Some of their news ties into those reports you just showed me. Unfortunately, precisely what it may all mean is not yet completely clear to me.”
Castilla listened intently while Klein summarized what his team had reported, including their suspicions about the possible involvement of Konstantin Malkovic and the rumors of impending military action passed on by Oleg Kirov’s contact inside the Russian security service.
The lines on the president’s face grew deeper. “I don’t like the sound of this, Fred. Not one little bit.” He sat back in his chair. “So there’s no doubt that what killed those people in Moscow two months ago is the same disease we’re confronting now?”
“No doubt at all,” Klein told him bleakly. “Smith confirms that the symptoms and test results he saw correlate perfectly with those reported by the CDC and other researchers. But…” His voice trailed off.
“But what?”
“Without solid evidence of official Russian involvement in spreading this mystery illness as a weapon, we can’t expect anyone else?whether in NATO or in the other countries around Russia ?to agree to any serious countermeasures,” Klein continued. He shrugged his narrow shoulders apologetically.
“The Kremlin’s efforts to cover up an epidemic may be regarded as criminally stupid, but our European allies are not going to see that as a justification for possible economic sanctions or for raising NATO’s alert status.”
“No kidding,” Castilla said drily. “I can just imagine the howls of anguish from Paris or Berlin or Kiev if I asked them to take a serious stand against Dudarev and his regime on the basis of one dead doctor’s notes. And they’re sure not going to be convinced by seeing a few iffy satellite photos or hearing second-hand gossip about a possible Russian military mobilization.”
He sighed. “Damn it, Fred! We need facts. Right now we’re just punching at shadows.”
Klein nodded silently.
“I’m going to call an emergency meeting of the National Security Council when we’re through here,” the president decided at last. “We’ve got to tighten our surveillance of the Russian armed forces. At a minimum, we can retarget our satellites and conduct more reconnaissance missions along the border areas.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Castilla pushed back his chair and strode over to the tall windows overlooking the South Lawn. The capital’s evening rush hour was in full swing. In the gathering darkness, the cars inching along distant Constitution Avenue looked like small, crawling beads of brightly colored light. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Have you ever met Konstantin Malkovic?”
“No, I haven’t,” Klein admitted. He smiled slowly. “Hobnobbing with billionaires is well above my pay grade, Mr. President.”
“Well, I have,” Castilla said quietly. “He’s a powerful man. A forceful man.
An ambitious man.”
“How ambitious?”
Castilla smiled thinly. “Ambitious enough to be sitting at this desk in my place ?if he had been born here in the United States instead of Serbia.”
Klein nodded soberly. “We’ll start digging into Malkovic and his business empire. If he is secretly working with the Russians, we might be able to find connections between them that would give us a lead on what they’re planning.”
“You do that, Fred,” the president agreed. Then he shook his head. “But I’m not sure how far you’ll get. The IRS tried to go after him a few years ago ?
on some question of possible tax evasion as I recall. They ran into a solid wall and had to back off. Apparently he’s arranged his finances as an incredible labyrinth of offshore holding companies and private foundations. The Trea-sury and Commerce departments suspect that he also controls a large number of other businesses on the sly, using third-party surrogates to avoid any overt ties that might prove embarrassing or illegal. The trouble is that no one seems able to prove anything.”
Klein frowned. “It sounds like a perfect set-up for running deniable clandestine operations.”
“Doesn’t it just,” Castilla agreed sourly. He swung away from the windows to face his old friend directly. “Let’s talk about your team in Moscow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now that their cover is blown, I assume you’ve ordered Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin out of Russia?”
Klein chose his words carefully. “I have strongly suggested that they leave as soon as possible.”
Castilla raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Only suggested? Hell, Fred, from what you’ve told me, every cop in Moscow is out chasing after them. What on earth can they hope to achieve in those conditions?”
The head of Covert-One shot him a lopsided grin. “You’ve met Jon Smith before, Sam. You haven’t yet met Fiona Devin. But I can assure you that they are both remarkably stubborn.” He shook his head slowly. “In fact,
