“Black Sea?”
Telach smirked. “Obviously, something’s wrong somewhere. Look at the right side of the complex. Serious SAM defenses.”
“Unit protection?” asked Rubens.
“Well, I wouldn’t rule anything out,” she said. “But this deep in Russia, not, as far as we know, connected to the standard defense network.”
“Not connected?”
“Doesn’t show up in our inventory,” she said. “Again, not to jump to conclusions.”
“So what else do they do there?” Rubens asked.
“My bet is it’s a lab or a research facility connected to their laser operation,” said Telach. She reached to the console and punched up a new set of satellite photos on the main board. The series showed a thin blue rectangle along roads and wasteland. “There’s a dedicated fiber-optic line between one of the Wave Three targets and the facility.”
The NSA had studied the possibility of breaching the network linking the laser facilities nearly a year before, ultimately deciding that it could not be penetrated without detection. Rubens did not remember this site as part of the network, though of course he could not expect to.
“There were no Marines here then,” said Telach. “Not when the line was built. It was originally tagged as a supply depot and possibly a backup laboratory. I have a call in over to the laser specialists; they may be able to fill us in.”
Rubens looked at the situation map. The Wave Three aircraft had been shot down nearly three hundred miles away; the plane’s target was another hundred or more to the south. The actual weapons facilities were between the Marine base and the Wave Three target. Four other buildings believed to house associated research facilities were within the same grid. The project had probably been scattered to increase physical security.
Obviously, they had a lot of work to do. The connection between the Marines and the laser project was intriguing and had to be fleshed out. But the coup took precedence.
“How are we going to get Martin out?” said Telach.
“It can’t be him,” said Rubens.
“It is.”
“No. There’s no way he got out of the plane.”
“Boss, it is,” said Rockman, from his station. “Trust me.”
“It’s not a matter of trust,” Rubens told them. “It’s physically impossible for him to have escaped from the Wave Three package.”
“The voiceprint is perfect.” Rockman’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp and loud. “He must’ve gotten out before he hit the self-destruct. And you know as well as I do that the contract people on some of our aircraft have packed parachutes. Martin probably did as well. And the pilots.”
It was, regrettably, true.
“Karr found traces of human remains in the wreckage,” added Rockman. “So obviously someone went down with it. But not Martin.”
“We have to get him out,” said Telach.
“If it is Martin, I agree,” Rubens said. “But we need more information. And regrettably, we have something of a higher priority. I need the team in Moscow.”
Telach started to object.
“No, I need them in Moscow,” said Rubens. For the moment, he couldn’t explain why. “We don’t have anything definite and I really need them in Moscow. Tell them to pack up and get out there.”
“If that’s Martin, we have to get him,” said Telach. “And we’re there now.”
“The team isn’t there,” said Rubens, who pointed to the locator map that showed them a good twenty miles farther south.
“Boss, I’m begging you,” said Telach.
Rubens clamped his lips together. He was not an unreasonable man. And truly if Martin was alive, retrieving him was very important. But the coup was more important, ultimately.
Still, he could not appear to be unmoved by his team’s plea. It would undermine their effectiveness.
“Six hours to gather more information,” said Rubens. “Anything beyond that needs my personal authorization. I want them in Moscow.”
“Thank you,” said Telach.
There was so much relief in her voice that Rubens decided to leave quickly, before she had a chance to do something foolish — like rushing over and kissing him.
33
Dean felt her moving toward him even before he heard her. He kept his face down on the bed, turned away from her.
For a second he let himself fantasize that she was coming to slip into bed with him. His desire surprised him, not least of all because he knew she wasn’t coming to slip in beside him.
He opened his right eye, the one closest to the pillow. The lights were still on and the sun shone through the nearby window.
She touched the end of the bed.
“Can’t resist me, huh?” he said. He pulled himself up.
Instead of a torrid comeback there was a shriek. A maid stood near the end of the bed, her face blanched in surprise. A stream of Russian — the tone showed it was not necessarily an apology — left her mouth as she backed from the room.
Lia was gone. The cushions from the seats and the curtains from the windows were piled next to him on the bed, which might have explained why the maid didn’t realize he was there. Light streamed through the windows; it was now past eight o’clock, according to his watch.
Lia had taken all their gear from the room. She didn’t answer when he knocked on the other door. Unsure what else to do, Dean walked out to the lobby area, slowly enough so the clerk could stop him if there was a message but, on the other hand, not trying to look as if he were expecting one. He went outside; the truck was gone.
A small building next to the motel looked like a restaurant. Inside, Dean took a place at a small table; the rest of the room was empty. The woman who came out from the back frowned when she saw him. Somewhere in her rapid-fire greeting he thought he heard a word similar to
“I’m just a dumb American,” he told her, shrugging. “Bring me what you got.”
The woman didn’t laugh, but her answer didn’t seem particularly belligerent, either. She tried her question again, this time speaking very slowly.
Dean nodded, having no clue what he was agreeing to.
The woman shook her head, then retreated into the back.
“Saying you’re a dumb American rarely works, because they figure it’s pretty much a given. You know what I’m saying?”
Dean slid around in his chair, trying not to look surprised as Karr walked over with his big grin and pulled over a chair from a nearby table.
“When did you get here?” Dean asked.
“Couple of hours ago.” As if to emphasize that he’d had little sleep, Karr rubbed his eyes with the middle finger of each hand. It looked like a not-so-subtle obscene gesture, the kind kids might make to a teacher soon after learning the significance of the middle finger. “Some shit irritated my eye,” said Karr. “Think the damn eye duct’s clogged or something.”
“Looks red.”
