Deep Black

53

Sherlock Holmes once used the absence of a dog’s bark to solve a crime. One of Bib’s teams had used the absence of communications to provide another list of possible ringleaders of the coup, presenting it to Rubens on his return to Crypto City.

Unfortunately, the technique worked better on the page than in real life. The analysis pegged two possible military leaders as the top choices. But neither had made the earlier lists of likely conspirators — Oleg Babin, the equivalent of an American four-star general in the Far East command, and Ilya Petrosberg, a defense ministry official who had been with the Marines.

Rubens still favored Vladimir Perovskaya, the defense minister himself. So did the CIA and nearly everyone else who had an opinion.

They could plan to freeze out all of the top suspects, but that would spread their resources. And there was always the problem of inadvertently freezing out loyalists who might be useful.

Rubens stared at the paper on his desk. As so often in intelligence, the problem wasn’t so much getting information — there were reams and reams of it. The problem was sorting through and analyzing it, then making the right guess on what to do about it.

He had no choice. He’d freeze everyone on both the main list and this new one. In the meantime, he’d give Bib another push. Had they looked for patterns in the use of ciphers or communications devices? Something had to stand out.

There were other developments. British MI6 was starting to make discreet inquiries. The damn Brits were 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.