“Shredder, will you cool it? I've been playing games with Ivan for almost twenty years. I've intercepted more Bears than you've had pussy. We're not tactical. I just wanted to fly back here and get a look at their formation. Ivan over there decided to come up to look at us. He's being neighborly about it.” Robby edged his stick forward, taking his aircraft down a few feet. He wanted to eyeball the Russian's underside. No extra fuel tanks, just the four missiles, AA-11 “Archers,” NATO called them. The tail hook looked flimsier than the one the Americans had on their planes, and he remembered reports of landing problems the Russians had experienced. Well, carrier aviation was new to them, wasn't it? They'd spend years learning all the lessons. Other than that, the aircraft looked impressive. Newly painted, the pleasant gray the Russians used instead of the high-tech infra-red-suppressive gray that the US Navy had adopted a few years ago. The Russian version was prettier; the USN paint was more effective in concealment, though it did give the planes a painfully leprous appearance. He memorized the tail number to report to the wing intelligence troops. He couldn't see any of the pilot. The helmet and visor covered his face, and he wore gloves. Fifty-foot closure was a little tight, but not that big a deal. Probably the Russian was trying to show him that he was good, but not crazy. That was fair enough. Robby came back up level and waved to thank the Russian for holding a steady line. Again the gesture was returned.
What's your name, boy! Robby thought. He also wondered what the Russian thought about the victory flag painted under the cockpit, under which was printed in small letters, MiG-29, 17-1-91. Let's not get too cocky over there.
The 747 landed after its long trans-Pacific flight, much to the relief of the flight crew, Clark was sure. Twelve-hour flights must have been a bitch, the CIA officer was sure, especially flying into a smog-filled bowl at the end of it. The aircraft taxied out, then turned and finally stopped at a space marked by a military band, several rows of soldiers and civilians, and the customary red carpet.
“You know, after that much time in an airplane I'm too dogshit to do anything intelligent,” Chavez observed quietly.
“So remember never to run for President,” Clark replied.
“Right, Mr. C.”
The stairs were rolled up, and presently the door opened. The band struck up something or other — the two CIA officers were too far away to hear it clearly. The normal TV crews flitted about. The arriving Japanese Prime Minister was met by the Mexican foreign minister, listened to a brief speech, made a brief one of his own, walked past the troops who'd been standing in place for ninety minutes, then did the first sensible thing of the day. He got into a limo and drove off to his embassy for a shower — or more likely, Clark thought, a hot bath. The way the Japs did it was probably the perfect cure for air travel, a long soak in hundred-plus-degree water. It was sure to take the wrinkles out of the skin and the stiffness out of the muscles, John thought. Pity that Americans hadn't learned that one. Ten minutes after the last dignitary left, and the troops marched off, and the carpet was rolled back up, the maintenance people were summoned to the aircraft.
The pilot spoke briefly with the head mechanic. One of the big Pratt and Whitney engines was running just a hair warm. Other than that he had no beefs at all. Then the flight crew departed for a rest. Three security people took station around the outside of the aircraft. Two more paced the interior. Clark and Chavez entered, showing their passes to Mexican and Japanese officials, and went to work. Ding started in the washrooms, taking his time because he'd been told the Japanese were particular about having spotless latrines. It required only one sniff of the air inside the airplane to note that Japanese citizens were allowed to smoke. Each ashtray had to be checked, and more than half of those required emptying and cleaning. Newspapers and magazines were collected. Other cleaning staff handled the vacuuming.
Forward, Clark checked the booze locker. Half the people aboard must have arrived with hangovers, he decided. There were some serious drinkers aboard. He was also gratified to see that the technical people at Langley had guessed right on the brand of scotch that JAL liked to serve. Finally he went up to the lounge area behind the cockpit. It exactly matched the computer mock-up he'd examined for hours prior to coming down. By the time he'd finished his cleaning duties, he was sure that bringing this one off would be a snap. He helped Ding with the trash bags and left the aircraft in time to catch a dinner. On the way out to his car, he passed a note to a CIA officer from Station Mexico.
“God damn it!” Ryan swore. “This came in through State?”
“Correct, sir. Director Cabot's orders to use a fax line. He wanted to save transcription time.”
“Didn't Sam Yamata bother to explain about date-lines and time-zones?”
“'Fraid not,”
There was no sense swearing further at the man from the Japan Department. Ryan read through the pages again. “Well, what do you think?”
“I think the Prime Minister is walking into an ambush.”
“Isn't that too damned bad?” Ryan observed. “Messenger this down to the White House. The President's going to want it PDQ.”
“Right.” The man left. Ryan dialed up operations next. “How's Clark doing?” Jack asked, without preamble.
“Okay, he says. He's ready to make the plant. The monitor aircraft are all standing by. We know of no changes in the PM's schedule.”
“Thanks.”
“How long are you going to be in?”
Jack looked outside. The snow had already started. “Maybe all night.”
It was developing into a big one. The eastbound cold-weather storm from the Midwest was linking into a low-pressure area coming up the coast. The really big snow storms in the D.C. area always came in from the south, and the National Weather Service was saying six-to-eight inches. That prediction was up from two-to-four only a few hours earlier. He could leave work right now, then try to fight his way back in the morning, or he could stay. Staying, unfortunately, looked like the best option.
Golovko was also in his office, though the time in Moscow was eight hours ahead of Washington. That fact did not contribute to Sergey's humor, which was poor.
“Well?” he asked the man from the communications-intelligence watch staff.
“We got lucky. This document was sent by facsimile printer from the U.S. Embassy Tokyo to Washington.” He handed the sheet over.
The slick thermal paper was covered mainly with gibberish, some discrete but disordered letters, and even more black-and-white hash from the random noise, but perhaps as much as twenty percent was legible English, including two complete sentences and one full paragraph.
“Well?” Golovko asked again.
“When I delivered it to the Japanese section for comment, they handed me this.” Another document was passed. “I've marked the paragraph.”
Golovko read the Russian-language paragraph, then compared it to the English—
“It's a fucking translation. How was our document sent in?”
“By embassy courier. It wasn't transmitted because two of the crypto machines in Tokyo were being repaired, and the Rezident decided it was unimportant enough to wait. It ended up in the embassy bag. So, they are not reading our ciphers, but they got this anyway.”
“Who's working this case…? Lyalin? Yes.” Golovko said, almost to himself. He next called the senior watch officer for the First Chief Directorate. “Colonel, this is Golovko. I want a Flash-priority to Rezident Tokyo. Lyalin to report to Moscow immediately.”
“What's the problem?”
“The problem is, we have another leak.”
“Lyalin is a very effective officer. I know the material he's sending back.”
“So do the Americans. Get that message off at once. Then, I want everything we have from THISTLE on my desk.” Golovko hung up and looked at the major standing in front of his desk. “That mathematician who figured this all out — good God, I wish we'd had him five years ago!”
“He spent ten years devising this theory on ordering chaos. If it's ever made public, he'll win the Planck
