' New Mexico ! Good god! Then this thing may have begun in the United States ?'
'Looks like it. We took five shots of New Mexico. That one is in the Guadalupe Mountains to the east of the White Sands missile testing range.'
'Hmmm. Some connection there, you think?' Isaacs asked. 'What is the place?' He waved the photo again.
'Hey, don't ask me.' Martinelli protested. 'You're the smart guys that figure 'cm out.'
'No idea?'
'No, seriously. I came up here as soon as they came out of the print machine. All I've got is the coordinates. They're on the back.'
Isaacs turned the print over. The numbers meant nothing to him.
'I'll get Saris on this.'
'Anything else from my side?'
'Not until we know what we're dealing with here.'
'Okay, give a holier if you need something.'
'Right, thanks for the quick work, Voice.' Isaacs waved a salute as Martinelli let himself out.
Mid-morning was slow time. Esteban Ruiz sat in the guard house at the front gate of CIA headquarters trying to pick a rim of varnish from under his fingernail. A quiet smile reflected his thoughts. Tonight he would put the final coat on the new desk and shelves, and by tomorrow they could permanently set up the small computer he had scrimped and saved to buy his children. It was not the biggest, but it had been on sale, and when he lugged it in the door the children had shouted with surprise. Carlos, the oldest, had grumped a bit that it did not have enough memory, but Esteban's heart swelled with pleasure that his son even knew to question such a thing. Esteban did not know computers, was more than a little frightened of them, but he did know wood. The new shelves, the product of his hands, mind, labour, and love, looked good. He was proud of them and proud of his children who yearned to embrace a world he would never know. Ruiz was not aware of the black limousine until it slid to a quiet stop in front of him. Without quite focusing on detail, he knew what it was.
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's 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 towards 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 dialled 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. Earls 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's with a familiarity born of long comfortable association.
'Here you are, Bob.' He deposited the files on Isaacs's 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's 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 banded 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 Earls had brought in.
'Let me see some of that,' Earls 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 lime to deliver one. Tell them to get that note up here. On the double!'
'Yes, sir!'
