Deep Black

84

Rubens slid into the backseat of the director’s car, snapping on his seat belt as the door closed behind him. The Russian “coup”—and Kurakin’s plot to blind the American defense system — had been quashed three days ago, but he was still drained. They’d only stood down from their high-level alert twelve hours before.

The Russian defense minister had gone public with the whole story, not coincidentally announcing his candidacy to oppose Kurakin. The president maintained that it was Perovskaya who was trying to subvert democracy, and claimed that the president’s bodyguards had successfully intervened to thwart an attempt on the defense minister’s life.

There was sentiment at the White House that some of the NSA data should be released, proving that Kurakin was a liar. But Rubens had argued vehemently against that. It would make it clear exactly how extensive the Russian communications network and defense system had been penetrated. Things were always best left murky.

In the convoluted world of Russian politics, it wasn’t clear that Kurakin’s attempt to short-circuit the electoral process would actually harm him. It might even help him. The photos of the defense minister and the young lad had not yet surfaced. It was possible that Kurakin was holding them in reserve.

There were some who wanted to tip Perovskaya off to their existence. Perhaps that would be the play; Rubens had not yet given the matter much thought.

The Russians had protested the strikes on their laser weapons. But since they were loath to admit that they had such weapons — which would have been tantamount to saying that Kurakin had lied when he said they didn’t — all they could do was mutter a few terse words to the secretary of state about the “unexplained” destruction of facilities “east of the Urals.”

The secretary had made sure to look very perplexed as he promised to look into the matter.

Martin’s death made it impossible to know how badly Wave Three had been compromised. Wave Three was too important a technology to keep on permanent hold, but its use now had become highly problematic and would have to be rethought.

As for Martin himself, a full-blown investigation was already under way to determine what damage he had done, and to answer such questions as whether he had been turned or come in as a spy. He was a contract agent, a technical expert recruited for his skills, and not one of Rubens’ Desk Three people — but that was hardly a consolation.

Problems for another day.

“Congratulations,” said Brown as the car started away from the White House. “I think your report was very well received.”

“Yes.”

“A new era in warfare.” Brown smiled as he repeated the president’s phrase. “An exaggeration, but not unappreciated. ‘A new era in covert action and intelligence gathering.’ That was more accurate. Tired?”

“Yes,” admitted Rubens.

“It’s better that it happens this way,” said Brown.

“Agreed.”

“No sudden doubts?”

“No, sir, no doubts at all,” said Rubens.

“I mean, because it’s your cousin.”

“No,” he said, and yet he suddenly wasn’t sure.

“She’ll expect us?” asked Brown.

“Not us, no. But I think it much better if you’re here.”

It had been Brown’s idea to come along. The suggestion could be interpreted as an offer of friendship. Surely it was — his boss seemed to genuinely like him.

Did he, though? Why? What would Admiral Brown, NSA director, get from a friendship with his second in command — a second in command whom he hadn’t chosen?

Ammunition to dump him?

A paranoid thought, surely. But paranoia was necessary to survive. Suspicion was the most important quality a man could have.

Greta was waiting in front of the restaurant just as they had agreed. As the driver pulled up, Rubens pushed the button to roll down the window.

“There you are,” she said.

“You might want to get in,” he told her.

Greta blanched. Nonetheless, she reached for the door. Brown, meanwhile, got out and went to sit in the front. The driver lowered the glass partition as he got in.

“I don’t believe you know my superior, Admiral Brown.”

“By reputation only,” said Greta.

She gave him the sort of smile a politician gives a constituent whose face he can’t place. Brown smiled at her, then said something to the driver. The partition went back up as the driver pulled away.

“I’ve figured out how Greene died,” said Rubens.

Greta didn’t answer. Rubens took this to mean that she knew as well. Probably she had known from the beginning.

“Why would you sleep with a congressman?” he asked.

It was a bluff — Rubens had no evidence of an affair, nothing to back it up. But he also felt strongly that it must be so. It was the only motivation if Greene had in fact been murdered.

Which he believed must be so.

“Oh, it was years ago. Back when I worked at HUD. I was young.”

Rubens let it pass, though he knew she must be lying. Either Greene’s talk about firing her was a smoke screen to cover up the affair, or it was intended as blackmail to keep her from breaking it off.

“I’ve never really been able to control Jack’s passions,” said Greta. “He’s not like us. It’s so — well, he was a mistake, wasn’t he?”

Rubens said nothing.

“How long before this comes out?” she asked.

“There are FBI agents en route to search your house, though I doubt they’ll find anything,” said Rubens. “They’ll question Jack, of course. He should be in custody by now.”

“The media?”

“I couldn’t say. I thought you’d want to be informed.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, smiling as if it might actually be true. “Where are you taking me?”

“Wherever you want.”

Rubens felt an impulse to say something encouraging. Assuming Jack kept his mouth shut, prosecuting the case would be difficult at best, even with all the pressure from Congress. As yet, there was only circumstantial evidence that the guitar had been tampered with. Acting on Rubens’ hunch, however, the FBI had uncovered travel records showing that Jack had been in New York at least once when the band was. They were interviewing possible witnesses there, as well as rein-terviewing people who had been at the party.

The FBI agents had also realized — and Rubens had known, though not made the connection — that the CEO had started his life’s work as an electrical engineer.

An honorable profession, surely, one that supplied much useful knowledge about how to cause freak accidents.

A coincidence, no doubt.

It had taken the coup for Rubens to see it all, though it had happened right in front of him. The misdirection play, the obvious pattern overlooked — intelligence was more a matter of imagination than data. If you couldn’t imagine something happening, you couldn’t understand what you were looking at.

“Maybe you should drop me off back at the office,” said Greta. “I’m going to resign this afternoon. Go out on a high note. Faithful wife, all that.”

And strongly imply that he was guilty. A perfect outcome, surely.

Rubens buzzed the driver, who took a turn back toward the government buildings.

“Did you know about it in advance?” Rubens asked his cousin as they drove.

“You think I’d tell you if I did?”

He smiled. “If I wanted to, I could find out.”

“I bet you could.”