“Better than would be expected.”
The admiral finally picked up on the other end. She said one word—“Rubens”—then looked up at him. “You may go in,” she said.
Inside, he found that Brown already had someone in his office — Collins of the CIA.
Rubens was too well practiced to reveal his true feelings to the DDO, though she undoubtedly knew what they were. He bowed his head graciously to one side.
“Ms. Collins, so nice to see you today. Admiral.” Rubens helped himself to a chair. As a gesture of strength, he pushed it so close to hers that it nearly touched. She repositioned her legs — which were in rather ordinary blue pants — as he sat.
“The CIA has a theory,” said Admiral Brown. “The deputy director came here to explain it in person. They believe a coup is being planned in Russia.”
Here was a dilemma. Rubens and George Hadash had discussed the possibility of a coup just a week ago when analyzing the frustration of the hard-liners in the Russian parliament. Rubens thought it not only possible but perhaps even probable; in fact, he had had a team sifting the tea leaves for evidence that they were right.
Evidence that had thus far eluded them.
To admit this, however, could be interpreted as saying that the agency not only was correct but also had beaten him to the punch. On the other hand, denying the possibility of a coup would be arguably worse, most especially if his own people did come up with evidence.
The straight play was to admit everything. But he dared not do that with Collins until he fully understood her agenda.
Rubens straightened his shoulders, then moved his legs, momentarily brushing Collins. He felt her jerk back.
“Hard evidence?” he asked.
“There are… indications,” said Collins.
“Hmmm,” said Rubens.
They had nothing more than guesses, he decided.
Or was she being coy?
“We’re going to the president with an estimate tonight,” she added.
“Of course,” said Rubens, who now had to assume that they did have evidence. “Can we see it before then?” The estimate would be a high-level intelligence summary of the situation.
“It’s not ready. The team is working very close to deadline. I’m here to ask for more help.”
“If it’s in my power, it’s yours,” said Rubens. He couldn’t help but sweep his arms.
“Thanks.” There was just the slightest twinge of sarcasm in her voice. “Amy Gordon and Bill Kritol are with the Sigint and Collection people.”
“Sounds like you have it under control,” said Rubens.
“I do.” She rose. “Mr. Director, William, thank you for your time.”
Rubens watched her leave. Whatever her age, she had the hips and butt of a twenty-year-old swimsuit model. Even in pants.
“Pretty cold,” said Brown.
You’d be surprised, Rubens thought. But he simply nodded.
“What do you think?”
“It has been a concern. I discussed it with George Hadash last week in an offhanded way.”
Brown’s eyebrow shot up involuntarily.
“It was purely theoretical,” added Rubens. “We are, however, looking at intercepts. The normal thing.”
“Collins was practically gloating,” said Brown. “She thought she had stolen a march on you.”
Rubens smiled. Anyone else would have denied it, shaken his head, said, “Absolutely not.” But the feigning humility was considerably better. It was a gesture people remembered and valued.
“She may have beaten us,” said Rubens, confident that Brown would think exactly the opposite. “Did you two have a long chat?”
“Hardly.”
There was no subtle way to get him to elaborate, and so after a suitable pause to make sure the admiral had nothing else to say, Rubens rose and said good-bye.
“Is she always that… frigid?” Brown asked, having trouble finding the right word.
“Not always,” he said. “Not nearly.”
20
By the time Dean heard the truck coming, Karr had already begun walking toward the road. Dean trotted up to him, A-2 rifle parallel to the ground. Karr put his hand out to lower it. “Ours,” he said.
Maybe it was, but it looked like a Russian Ural-375, the ubiquitous 6X6 that was to the Russian Army what the M35 series once was to the U.S. It had rather garish red stars on its dull white cabin, and a canvas top flapped loosely over the slatted sides. The truck stopped on the road, then backed off toward Karr, stopping when the muck reached halfway up the deep treads of the tire.
“Gotta load it on the highway,” said Karr.
The truck whined and groaned as the driver ground the gears and shoved it forward to the drier ground, stopping on what passed for a shoulder to the narrow two-lane road. The cab door opened and Lia jumped out.
“Find anything?” she said, going to the back.
“One hit, up near the edge of the swamp,” said Karr. “A little metal there. Nothing beyond that.”
“They must’ve been fried. The sniffers aren’t that sensitive.”
“Hmmph. Maybe. One definitely. Maybe two.”
“You’re getting too paranoid. You’re going to be like Rubens soon. Show me where it is.”
Karr pointed to the area where the sniffer had registered something. Lia climbed onto the tail end of the truck and hauled back the canvas, disappearing inside. When she returned, she had a large boxy device that looked a little like the leaf blower a parks maintenance worker might use.
“High-tech vacuum,” Karr explained to Dean. He held him back. “Damn thing’s louder than hell. Just let her do her thing. When she’s done, we’ll load the pieces into the truck. Then you take them back for analysis.”
“Back where?”
“The farm,” said Karr. “Home.”
“Home being the States?”
“Who says you’re slow, Charlie Dean?”
The vacuum revved up. Dean’s eardrums rattled so badly he put his hands over them. Karr, meanwhile, went around to the front of the truck. He returned with a brown paper bag, from which he took out a pair of sandwiches. Before Dean could unwrap his, Karr had swallowed the other whole.
A metallic oily smell filled Dean’s nose as he opened it.
“Some kind of sturgeon they stick in oil,” explained Karr. “Goes good with the egg. Beer, too, but we don’t have any.”
Dean looked at the sandwich doubtfully. He brought it up to take a bite, then thought better of it. Just the smell was enough to wrench his stomach.
“It’s good,” insisted Karr, even as he took the sandwich back.
When Lia finished her vacuuming, Dean helped Karr cut the long pieces of blackened metal so they could be easily piled into the truck. The metal had obviously been burned by a serious fire; pieces of plastic and other material had adhered to it, and in sections were thicker than a phone book. This, along with scattered clumps of congealed plastic and metal, was all that remained of a top-secret elint-gathering section that had been part of the aircraft.
Karr, though he professed to know nothing of the mission, said that the high-tech gear would have been rigged to self-destruct if anything went wrong, incinerating itself. There would have been no way out for the pilots
