Deep Black

19

When he reached his office, Rubens found a note on top of the blanket he routinely threw over the desktop to cover any classified material inadvertently left there. It was from Admiral Brown, in his usual shorthand—“Me ASAP.”

It meant Rubens should see him immediately. Rubens folded the note and then inserted it into one of his shredders; it was an unnecessary reflex.

There was a whole list of calls to make, projects to check; each was undoubtedly more important than whatever his superior wanted, in Rubens’ opinion. But demanding an immediate audience was his superior’s prerogative, and so Rubens left his office and went down the hallway, sticking his head through the portal so the admiral’s administrative assistant could see him.

Connie Murphy had served under three different directors and probably knew more about the agency than anyone else. She also was pushing seventy, at least.

“Mr. Rubens.” Connie sounded like a third-grade teacher nipping off trouble in the back row. “We’ve been waiting.”

“I just saw the note.”

“You were paged.”

“I was in the Art Room.” The security precautions prevented the paging system from reaching him there; the system would have automatically rerouted to his voice mail.

“Yes.” She picked up the black handset on her desk and tapped on the intercom.

“How’s the bingo?” asked Rubens, waiting for the admiral to pick up the line.

“Proceeding,” she said. “Five cards yesterday evening.”

Rubens wasn’t sure whether that meant she had won on five cards or merely played them. “Is that good?”

“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.”