Deep Black

32

Favors begat favors. In exchange for the information that the consultant provided to the FBI on the guitar — information that would be forthcoming from the FBI anyway — Rubens had managed to obtain access to the local police department’s complete investigation file on the Greene murder.

It was a shockingly easy transaction, though it required Rubens to go to the police station in person. The investigator clearly didn’t know who he was. He had accepted the rather bland declaration that Rubens was “looking into the matter on an informal basis for the administration” far too easily. That didn’t speak well for the quality of the investigation, but then, he’d never thought very highly of them to begin with.

And yet, the file was fairly thorough. The interviews with the surviving band members indicated that the guitarist had never jumped into a pool while playing before, with or without his guitar — but then again, they’d never played anywhere there was a pool. He did do bizarre stuff, no question. Plunking himself into the water, wire and all, was completely in character.

The band members didn’t know much about Greta Meandes and were vague on whether she even worked, let alone what she did. Rubens got the impression that they had been playing up the drugged-out airhead band thing for the police, but in any event they had added nothing of substance. One suggested the guitarist had been “boffing” her; the investigator’s notes said specifically that he doubted it.

The notes suggested there was plenty of opportunity for the guitar to have been tampered with. The detective had attempted to put together a time line, but it was full of gaps. Obviously working on the assumption that it was a freak accident, he hadn’t even bothered to speak to everyone on the guest list, though Greta had provided one.

Rubens’ name, of course, was on it. He had to exert every bit of his self-control not to grab it from the file. He surely would have if the detective had left the room.

Not that it would have done much good. By now the congressional committee would know he had been there, though no one had made an issue of it.

Yet.

It required no imagination and even less paranoia to envision the scene:

By the end of the hearing, the papers would be printing that the death was an NSA plot. They’d have it all figured out.

Rubens, waiting to clear the last check into the Art Room, wondered how he could prove that his cousin had murdered the SOB. That, and only that, would end the investigation.

But there was no proof. If this were a Desk Three mission, he could have such proof manufactured — a security video showing her playing with the guitar would suffice.

Of course, this wasn’t a mission, and it was his cousin he was thinking of railroading. Nor would he break the law by manufacturing evidence.

Still, if he was convinced his cousin committed the murder, if he had real evidence, he’d definitely give it to the police. That was his duty.

Especially if it would ward off potential embarrassment.

Not that it wasn’t embarrassing to have a cousin accused of murder. But that was preferable to being accused yourself.

Rubens cleared the matter out of his head as he waited for the computer to admit him to the Art Room, substituting his yoga mantra instead. He needed to clear his mind so he could focus on the Russian coup and his plan to thwart it.

If he could only prove Greta did it, he’d save everybody a lot of grief.

Not everybody, but definitely himself.

The Art Room door opened. Telach looked like she was about to explode.

“Martin’s alive,” she blurted. “We have his voice pattern at Veharkurth.”

“Martin?”

“The Wave Three op. Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Matches exactly. We have a possible location. We have the facility sketched out, but we’re going to update. We’ll have a satellite on-station in twenty minutes.”

Rubens’ skepticism grew as Telach detailed the situation. The voice they thought was Martin’s had spoken only for a minute or so, saying a short prayer apparently to himself. Analysis put it in one of two buildings about equidistant from the bug’s location in the northwestern corner of the facility.

“Is it a prison or what?” asked Rubens, looking at the satellite details.

“It’s two things,” said Telach. “One is a base for a Marine unit that Defense Intelligence says is attached to a Black Sea naval force.”

“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.