Deep Black

always sticking their toes in where they didn’t belong.

The direct line to the Art Room buzzed. Rubens picked up the phone.

“Boss, we got him,” she said. “Martin. Tommy and his guys are bringing him back.”

“I’m glad he’s alive,” said Rubens, though of course the exact opposite was true. However, if he had to have survived the crash, it was far better that they had him than the Russians. It would be easier to assess the damage to the program with his account.

“He claims he didn’t tell the Russians anything about Wave Three,” added Telach.

Even Rubens had an extremely difficult time stifling a laugh of derision. Of course Martin had been broken; it was absurd to think otherwise. It was just a question of how much time the Russians had had to interview him.

“I will be down shortly,” he told Telach. “Have Karr and his people arrived in Moscow yet?”

“They’re en route.”

“Tell them to move more quickly.” Rubens hung up and glanced at his watch. There were seven minutes left until the scheduled hourly update on Bear Hug. The update involved a secure conference call with the NSC, agency, and military leaders connected with the operation. While he could take the call in the Art Room, he’d never make it through the security chamber in time. He’d have to take the call here, then go downstairs.

He thought again of the things that needed to be cared for at his home. The African violets must be watered, and he should change the thermostat and phone settings. He’d also want to put on the random lighting pattern that made it seem as if the house were occupied.

Rubens picked up the gray phone and called home, where the house’s central computer system could be accessed through its phone mail system. He hated using the gadget. The phone menu was exasperating, and not too long ago he’d managed to tell the lawn sprinkler system to keep itself on 24/7; he returned home just in time to prevent a mud slide.

The machine answered on the first ring, indicating he had a message. Rubens hit his code to check. The machine greeted him and then began playing a message from his cousin Greta.

“Hi, Bill, I hope you’re well. Call me, OK?”

It had been left a few hours before.

Call her?

She never, or almost never, called to chat. It had to be the investigation. Was something going to come out?

Was that what Brown had been getting at earlier?

There were no other messages. Rubens hung up, then punched his cousin’s number. The phone rang three times, four — he started to hang up, not sure what sort of message to leave. He couldn’t tell her to call him here.

“Hello?”

“Greta?”

“Bill?” Her voice sounded tentative, very un-Greta-like.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh yes, I’m OK. Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“There’s going to be an inquiry into Congressman Greene’s death. There’s a special congressional committee.”

That was it?

“I had heard that, yes,” said Rubens. “Are you concerned?”

“Concerned? Of course I’m concerned. I’m worried.”

Maybe she did do it, he thought. Perhaps she felt pressure to confess.

That would end the rumors and contain the potential damage. A good solution.

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” he said in his most soothing voice. “If you need anything, I’ll help any way I can.”

“Thanks.”

“You expect to be called as a witness before the committee?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

Rubens thought of the scene playing on Fox. They’d cut from the live feed to the studio, where one of the commentators would point out that her cousin was William Rubens, the most important spymaster since…

He was not a spymaster.

Most important since whom?

“They’re all grandstanding,” said Greta. “They have their own agendas.”

She stopped speaking, probably on the verge of tears. As Rubens thought of what to say next — as he considered what formula might get her to gush out a confession — something odd occurred to him, something unprecedented.

He felt sorry for her.

“I feel like I’m in a vise,” she said.

“Washington is like that,” Rubens told her. He glanced at the small clock on his desk — it was almost time for the conference call.

“Do you have anything to worry about?” he said. It was blunt and crude, but with the time constraints it was the only way to proceed.

“What do you mean, William?”

“I mean that, unless you’re ashamed of something, I wouldn’t worry about all this,” he said, backtracking. “It’s nonsense.”

“I’m not ashamed of anything.”

“See?” Rubens pitched forward in his chair. Better to leave things in as positive a light as possible. “It’ll work out. Look, Greta, I have to go. Do you need anything? Anything at all? Do you want to just talk?”

“No, thanks. Thanks. I appreciate your support.”

“It’s nothing. If you want to talk, let me know. I’m busy, but I’ll help. I promise.”

“It’s good to have family.”

Rubens hung up, feeling more guilty than he would have cared to admit.

54

Malachi Reese cursed and slammed on the brakes about halfway down the parking lot aisle in Lot 2D. Some stinking SOB had parked in his spot. He threw the Honda into reverse without bothering to figure out whose car it was; security would do that, and besides, he was running late as it was. The problem now was where the hell to park.

The handicapped section. There were sixteen spots in the lot, mandated by federal law — even though no one with a handicapped license had clearance to park here.

Sixteen other scumbags had gotten there first. This really was a serious alert.

Malachi wheeled back, the heat shield in the Honda clattering as the engine jerked on its mounts. He almost parked on the sidewalk but at the last moment saw a spot near the fence. He raced a Neon for it—as if—leaving a good patch of rubber on the hot asphalt as he screeched in. Out of the car, he ran to the facility entrance, trotting in place as the security guards — who had seen him leave only a few hours ago — wanded him and did the retina thing.

Inside, Malachi dialed his MP3 jukebox to the Clash’s “London Calling.” The hunt for a parking spot had made him feel particularly nostalgic.

There was an extra set of security guards downstairs in the hallway leading to Conference Room Three, where he’d been told to report. Malachi didn’t know them, which meant they dished major hassle over his MP3, making him put it under an X-ray and then passing it through the bomb sniffer gate twice. By the time Malachi finally entered the briefing room — a small auditorium with thirty seats, about twenty of them filled — they were