Deep Black

50

Rubens strapped himself into the seat as the helicopter’s blades whipped into a frenzy. The Sikorsky — a civilian version of the Blackhawk — was detailed to Admiral Brown, who was sitting across the aisle checking his “clean” or unsecure E-mail. It tipped forward and pulled into the sky, headed back to Crypto City.

Rubens had gotten what he wanted — complete operational control of the mission. It was an important victory, even a historic one. But it did have certain risks. The CIA could be counted on to harp on any failure. Blanders was definitely on the road to becoming an ally, but he still had axes to grind, especially on this. And as covert operations of any nature always carried with them a high potential for failure, there was an enormous downside.

But this was what Desk Three had been established to do. This was the direction they’d been heading in all along. This was the way wars would be fought in the future. Collins was simply a distraction.

Rubens had boxed her out fairly well, actually. But she would no doubt return another day.

The Russian president was going to owe his life to William Rubens when this was all over. What a deliciously ironic thought.

The most pressing order of business now was to finger the coup leader. Bib and his people had to do better. Had to.

Rubens took out his own small computer and pulled up the E-mail program. He’d be spending all his time over the next few days in the Art Room; best to get the routine driftwood squared away. He’d have to run out to his house, button it up for an extended absence.

No time. Use the phone program. That’s what it was there for.

Karr and his people — he needed them in Moscow. He shouldn’t have let Karr stay out in Siberia to look for Martin.

Good God, he’d completely forgotten about Martin!

Panic overtook him for a moment. What was it Pound had said in the Cantos? “I am not a demigod — I can’t make it cohere.”

Rubens took a breath. Of course he could make it cohere. This was why he wasn’t in banking or lounging around some silver beach in the Caribbean. This was the highest intellectual pursuit possible. He was master of the most powerful forces in the most powerful nation in the history of the world.

Pound was a schizophrenic anti-Semite and no one read his goddamn poetry anyway.

“It went very well,” said Brown. “A historic moment.”

“Yes.”

“I expect Central Intelligence will be out to scuttle us. That Collins — she seems to have it in for you. There’s a history there?”

“Yes,” said Rubens, trying to make his voice sound noncommittal. “She was with the Special Collection Service.”

“She ran it, didn’t she?”

“A few years ago — before your time.”

“And she would have preferred if Desk Three were set up the same way, with a CIA officer in charge. Preferably her,” said Brown. Then he added, “There is a personal element as well.”

Rubens smiled before answering. He was starting to actually like his boss, or at least believe him competent.

“I think Ms. Collins is professional enough to overcome any personal difficulties when dealing with situations as they develop,” Rubens told him.

“Nice answer,” Brown said. “We’ll hold them off. I expect the DDO will end up working for you.”

“She’d quit first.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“The hearings into Congressman Greene’s death are set to begin next week,” Brown said after checking through a few more notes on his handheld.

“Yes.”

“They won’t interfere with this.” Brown said it as a statement, not a question.

“Certainly not,” said Rubens.

“I assume you’re doing a little checking into the situation.”

Was it a trap? The death of a puny congressman — what was that next to this operation?

Or did Brown think Rubens was somehow responsible?

Preposterous.

Though of course if he had truly wanted Greene dead, well, then he could accomplish it, surely.

“I have been, well, somewhat busy with this,” said Rubens noncommittally.

When Brown didn’t say anything else, Rubens decided to change the subject. He hadn’t had a chance — more accurately, he hadn’t taken the opportunity — to inform the admiral that Martin might still be alive. He did so now.

“I thought we were sure he and others died,” Brown said.

“Reasonably sure,” said Rubens. To him this was a major distinction, though the admiral frowned. “But we picked up a voice and we’re looking into it. If he is alive, we’ll try and recover him.”

Brown’s brow knotted. The compartmentalization of the agency and the operating rules for Desk Three gave Rubens the authority to proceed on the mission without informing Brown; nonetheless, the admiral’s expression made it clear he would have preferred an earlier update.

“Can we get him back?”

“Certainly. If it’s him,” said Rubens.

“He’ll have compromised Wave Three,” said Brown.

“To some extent,” admitted Rubens. “We had already begun to revise the program as a precaution, however. One way or another, we have to assume it was compromised.”

“Powers survived the U-2 hit,” said Brown. “Despite everything.”

He was referring to the infamous shootdown of a U-2 flown by Gary Powers on May 1, 1960. According to agency lore, the U-2 (which was part of a CIA program at the time doing NSA work under the Green Hornet program, which captured radio and signal intelligence) had been rigged with explosive gear that was supposed to make it impossible to survive a bailout.

“We’ll debrief him thoroughly,” said Rubens. “If it’s him.”

Brown nodded, though it seemed a very reluctant gesture.