Walker let his head fall back, his eyes squeezing shut as he enjoyed a moment of quiet amusement. The General Boyds of this world never could seem to grasp the fact that, in the end, everything always came down to money. Of course this was about money-money that should be going to education, to rebuilding America’s crumbling roads and collapsing bridges, to fixing a medical system that was a disgrace to the Western world. The country was flushing itself down the toilet, wasting billions and billions of dollars every month for-what? To wipe the noses of a bunch of ungrateful rag-heads in Afghanistan and Iraq? To prop up Israel? And why? Because that pissant little country was strategic to American interests? Hardly. Walker supposed there were some people who might actually believe that. Much easier to swallow the standard line than to admit that certain individuals with divided loyalties had grown so powerful that they had every politician in America falling all over themselves to kiss their asses-while all the gullible, Armageddon-obsessed Christians just stood around singing hallelujah and waiting for the Rapture. Walker had learned a long time ago that the world revolved around money. It was only dinosaurs like Boyd who thought life was about honor, and loyalty, and service.
“Don’t worry,” said Walker. “No one’s going to notice.”
“Someone might see a pattern.”
“You mean, like the interesting financial transactions that occurred right before 9/11?” Walker took another sip of his juice. “So some conspiracy nut notices and puts up an Internet site. So what? Americans only believe in conspiracies if they’re hatched in a cave in Afghanistan. If you were smart, you’d make some adjustments of your own.”
“I will not profit from what is about to happen.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what: I’m sure as hell not going to suffer because of it.”
“If you jeopardize the mission-”
“I’m not jeopardizing anything. I’m just recouping my costs.” With a little extra, Walker thought. He let his gaze linger on the stretch of turquoise water before him and felt its calming influence. “Relax, Boyd. Things are going better than we ever expected. In less than a week, it will all be over.”
“Really? I’d say that by this time next week, it will have only just begun.”
29
Kaliningrad, Russia: Monday 26 October
9:10 P.M. local time
The flight from Kaliningrad to Berlin smelled of raw onions and vodka and hot, closely pressed bodies. Tobie leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, but she was too exhausted and jittery to sleep.
Jax passed out before the flight even pushed back from the terminal.
Watching him sleep, she knew a welling of frustration that only seemed to grow with each passing minute. In less than a week, an unknown group of terrorists would launch a deadly attack on the United States. She had successfully located the U-boat the men had salvaged. But the true nature of its cargo had turned into an enigma, while the identity of the terrorists themselves remained a mystery.
No one knew better than Tobie the limits of remote viewing. Anything she tried to view from here on out could be dangerously influenced by what she already knew about the case. And tasking herself was always tricky. Without the protocol of an official viewing in place, no one in the intelligence community would give credence to anything she “saw.” But she had to try.
Taking a deep breath, then another, she willed herself to relax, sinking slowly down into her Zone. Her target was a person: the leader of the force that attacked the Yalena Saturday morning and killed its crew. Her target time: now.
The first images were, as always, indistinct. She saw a man. Dark hair. Dark skin. A flat nose. Full lips. Dark jeans. A heavy pullover sweater. She could feel the anger seething within him, combined with a lethal determination that sent a chill down her spine.
She pulled back from him, trying to get a sense of place. She was aware of the pinch of cold. Smelled damp earth and wet leaves. He stood outdoors, in the country, perhaps, or in a garden. In the darkness, trees and bushes were all reduced to indistinct shadows buffeted by the wind.
Pulling back further, she saw the faint glow of a lamp spilling through an uncurtained window. The sulfurous haze of a streetlight shining on wet pavement. A city, but not a crowded city.
What city?
Patiently, she returned to the man standing in the shadowy garden. The house behind him began to come into focus. High gables. Jutting dormers. Steep roof. Mullioned windows. A large house, well cared for, yet quiet.
She shifted her perspective to the street, the images of the neighboring houses becoming increasingly cleaner, stronger. If she were ever to find herself on this street, she would recognize it in an instant. But when she tried to move beyond the darkened houses, to the city itself, her impressions became less distinct and dangerously susceptible to “overlay” by her imagination.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes to stare out the plane’s small window at the darkness beyond. She felt the vibrations of the jet’s engines thrumming through her, and she knew it again, that sense of frustration combined now with a growing urgency. She had seen the man they sought; she was sure of it. She had felt his anger and his dark purposefulness. But who was he?
And where was he?
It wasn’t until their flight hit the runway, bounced, then rattled to a shuttering halt that Jax opened his eyes.
She said, “How do you do that?”
He glanced over at her and yawned. “What? Sleep? Practice.”
“I’m beginning to think I might kill for a bed and a shower.”
“You should be able to get both at the station.”
“The station? What station?”
He got that look on his face, the one he always got whenever she reminded him just how little she knew about espionage or the world of spycraft. “The CIA station at the embassy. Every embassy has one. They’ll probably debrief you there before sending you back to the States.”
She paused in the act of leaning over to pick up her carry-on bag and straightened slowly. “The States? But…I thought we were going to follow up on Baklanov’s contacts in the Middle East.”
“No. I’m following up on Baklanov’s contacts in the Middle East. Your role in this assignment is over.”
She felt a pulse of anger throb through her, making her fingers tingle and her face grow hot. She said, “Why? The U-boat was in Kaliningrad, just like I said it would be.”
“And what did you see in Turkey?”
She looked at him blankly. “I didn’t see anything in Turkey.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood. “Exactly. The woo-woo part of this mission is over.” He didn’t say it, but she knew what he was thinking: Thank God.
She followed him down the narrow, crowded aisle. “You’re going to Turkey?”
“Yes.”
“But…why?”
“Because Kemal Erkan is in Turkey.”
“But Erkan was interested in buying the submarine, not the cargo; I think we should go to Lebanon. That’s where Baklanov was planning to sell the cargo.”
He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Did you see that in your crystal ball, too?”
“I don’t have a crystal ball and you know it.” She waited, but when he still didn’t say anything, she said, “I vote we go to Lebanon.”
He went to stand in one of the long immigration lines. “This isn’t a democracy. I’m going to Turkey. And you’re going to New Orleans.”
They’d just cleared Customs and were pushing their way through the crowd waiting outside the wide double
