grew too long to bear. The camp was dark and quiet when they returned.
Outside her tent she embraced his neck and stood on tiptoe for one more lingering kiss before crossing the threshold.
An image of the ludicrously narrow cot flashed in her mind. They could throw the thin mattress on the tent floor. She broke their kiss, found his hand, and brushed her lips across his palm. Then she pushed aside the tent flap and, still holding his hand, led him in. Runyan stooped to follow her, a small smile playing on his lips.
Chapter 15
Viktor Korolev forged down the sidewalk with long solid strides, his black mood radiating ahead, parting grumbling pedestrians like the bow wave of a ship. They had offered him a ride, but he needed to walk to work off his frustration.
So the Americans had done it! This inconceivable thing. He’d had to lay his proof before the generals. After that, none of his bellowing power could dissuade them from narrow thoughts of retribution. Granted the Americans were formally at fault, this thing was too different to be handled with old-fashioned polarized modes of behavior. Good arguments, to no avail.
Korolev thought of his message to Zamyatin, a meager return for gifts received. The American would rue the day he had proffered his insights, seeking help. Korolev sighed. Had this Robert Isaacs not catalyzed events, the day of reckoning would only have been postponed.
Korolev slowed his pace, frustration waning, pushed aside by the need to develop a constructive response. He began to mentally list others in the power structure to whom he could take his case for moderation, cooperation. Whatever the generals plotted now, he hoped it would involve no loss of life.
On Thursday morning, Isaacs studied each one of the photographs as Vincent Martinelli handed them over. He set one of them aside. All the others ended up in a neat stack of rejects. He picked up the special one and peered at it closely again.
“These are all the possible sites?”
“Every one Danielson gave us.”
“And this is the only one that shows anything but natural terrain and vegetation?” He flapped the photo in his hand.
“The only one.”
“Okay, so I’ll bite. Where is it?”
“New Mexico.”
“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 who figure ‘em 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 Baris on this.”
“Anything else from my side?”
“Not until we know what we’re dealing with here.”
“Okay, give a holler if you need something.”
“Right, thanks for the quick work, Vince.” 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, labor, 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’ 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.
