October's Ghost

CHAPTER TWELVE THE TURNING OF STONES

The walk had only been a block and a half in distance, yet they felt as if every eye in the city was on them. But they were now there. To safety.

“Hurry up,” Tomás exhorted. His wounds were minor, just a series of scratches on his face and one nasty gash inside his mouth.

Jorge, though, was really hurting. Something was seriously wrong with his back and neck, forcing him to walk as if someone had taken his spine and twisted it like a piece of soft metal, deforming the outer shell until it resembled some grotesque medieval sculpture in motion. “Man, I’m moving as fast as I can.”

Tomás turned from the sidewalk to the unwelcomely well-lit walkway that ran in front of the rooms, with Jorge a few steps behind. Theirs was at the inside corner of the motel’s L where the two sections of the structure met. From there they had a perfect view of the parking lot and the intersection beyond. The plan now called for getting cleaned up and rested before the courier arrived for the tape. And they still had to somehow get Sullivan, though that could wait for a while. Just a while.

Jorge limped up to the door as Tomás was fumbling through his pockets.

“Come on, open it,” Jorge said, almost pleaded, his face contorted by pain.

Where is it? “I can’t find it. You have it?”

“The key? No. Come on.”

“I can’t… oh, shit!” Tomás softly punched the door as a release. “I left the key in the car. I put it in that tray between the seats. Shit!”

“All right. No big deal.” Jorge would have cursed his partner if the pain hadn’t been so bad, but all he wanted was to get onto the bed. “It’s gone. Nothing will survive the fire, okay? Just go to the night window and tell them we lost it. Okay? Hurry, man.”

Tomás still was pissed at himself for doing such a stupid thing. At least they’d torched the car, which they knew would destroy any fingerprints or other evidence of their identity. And also the key, now. He got a replacement from the not-real-happy-to-be-awakened night clerk and went back to his partner.

“Five fucking bucks for a key!” He shoved it in the hole and opened the door, letting Jorge in first. He immediately fell onto the bed.

“This hurts, man. Have we got any booze left?”

Tomás checked the dresser drawer. “A little Chivas.”

“Give it.”

The remains were gone in a minute, but it would take longer for the effects to be felt.

“Sleep, Jorge. Just take it easy.” Tomás went to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out, checking the gash inside in the mirror. “We’ll find Sullivan in the morning.” The taste of blood was heavy as he spoke.

“I want him, Tomás. I want him dead. Dead! And I want him to feel it. No bullet-in-the-head crap — ahhh!” Jorge writhed in pain. “God, is there any Tylenol or anything in there?”

“None.” Tomás came back from the bathroom. “Sorry.”

“Yeah.” He twisted and bent his body into as comfortable a position as he could. “Sullivan will be, too.”

Art and Frankie pulled up just as the fire department had finished dousing the flames with spray from an inch-and-a-half line. The injured cop had seen Sullivan bail out of the Lumina before it fled from the crash scene, so they anticipated no body would be in the smoking hulk.

“You Jefferson?” the LAPD sergeant asked. He was in a foul mood. It hadn’t been a good night for the force.

“Yeah. Anything?” Art stood back while Frankie began examining the steaming remnants of the Lumina.

“Just looks like they pulled it in the alley and set the inside on fire. From there…”

It was obvious. The bulk of the once pretty car was now just charred bare metal, save the extreme front and back.

“VIN?” Art inquired. The vehicle identification number was stamped on a small dash placard below the windshield in front of the driver’s seat.

“Burned pretty bad. We’ll have to pull it off the firewall.” A second stamping of the VIN was located on the firewall in the engine compartment in a not readily accessible place. That prevented easy tampering, but it also prevented quick access for the purpose at hand.

“We don’t have that much time.” Art scratched his head, his fingers finding more scalp than hair. Life was just grand, wasn’t it?

“Art.”

He walked over to his partner, who was crouched down at the vehicle’s rear. It was basically untouched by the intense heat, other than some blistering on the trunk deck. “Look here.”

Art bent down, the LAPD sergeant behind him shining his light on the area just to the right of the trunk lock. “Scratches.”

“Looks like someone peeled off a sticker,” Frankie observed, looking up to her partner. “Like a rental one, maybe.”

Art turned to the sergeant. “You got a pry bar?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“We’re popping this trunk. Rental companies started putting additional copies of the VIN and the owner information on a little plate under the trunk lining last year.”

The sergeant nodded. Anything to find the perps who caused the deaths of two good cops and the injury of his close friend. “One minute.”

It was less than that. The lock gave way after a few forceful pushes. Art peeled back the soggy carpeting so Frankie could find the placard.

“Got it.” She copied it down and went straight to the radio. Their teams checking rental agencies now had a specific target, and those running down stolens could be redirected. She was back from the broadcast in under a minute.

Art had walked to the front of the car, leaving the sergeant to complete his report.

“Step one,” Frankie said.

Art was silent, his eyes scrutinizing first the damaged front of the car and then the surrounding area. They were in a mixed residential-industrial area southeast of Beverly Hills, though that proximity did nothing for the neighborhood’s aesthetics. The majority of BH was no better, any observer could see upon a short visit. Art had done so on many occasions, each one convincing him that his town house in La Canada was preferable to living in some mansion surrounded by squalor.

The alley jutted off from Rimpau Boulevard, a generous description of the narrow street. Rimpau itself intersected Olympic just a hundred feet from where the alley broke off to connect it with parallel streets. From the spot where he stood, Art tried to imagine where the shooters had gone. Which way?

“Let’s take a walk,” Art led off to the end of the alley — actually its beginning — at Rimpau. Frankie was right with him.

“They came back this way,” Frankie said.

“How do you figure?” Art asked, stopping at the alley’s opening, his eyes scanning the neighborhood.

“Backtrack.” She took a few steps out into the dark street, looking back at Art. “They pulled in this way, probably came up from Olympic.” She pointed down the alley, past the car and in the direction it had been heading. “That way is unfamiliar. My guess is they backtracked out here up to Olympic.”

Art’s head cocked toward his observant and driven partner. “Let’s see what’s up there.”

The walk-up took just a minute. Olympic Boulevard at one in the morning was as deserted as any other major street would be. There were the expected late travelers cruising the street, but very few visible on foot. It was not a safe area, like much of the city, especially after the sun went down.

“And from here?” Art asked.

Frankie looked to the left, toward the east. The street was almost desolate, and there were no pay phones that jumped out at her. None of the familiar blue handset signs. “Not a cab.”

Art thought not. That, aside from being a practical impracticality in this area, would have left a well-defined trail. These guys were too smart, he believed. Too smart to do that. “They didn’t walk.”

“No.” Frankie turned right, looking west, and smiled. “There.”

Coming from the west on Olympic, across the street from the two agents, was the graffiti-scarred traveler of the night. Art and Frankie trotted across the boulevard, holding their shields in the air to flag down the number 28 bus of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority on its last run of the night. The driver pulled his nearly empty coach over on the south side of the street and opened his door.

“Yeah?”

“How often does this line run?” Frankie asked.

The yellow-shirted driver, a small but muscular man whose years behind the wheel had obviously given him the wariness of the streets, narrowed his eyes at the young woman on the first step of his Grumman. Her coat had parted, revealing a gun on her right hip. He wished he could carry one so large, but his was just a little .380 that he kept in a thigh holster despite company and legal prohibitions against doing so. “Every forty minutes after eleven P.M. We went to that schedule two weeks ago.” He cast an almost evil eye at the other agent behind the woman. “I’ve never seen you out here before. LAPD?”

“FBI,” Art answered. The man’s eyes were powerful, and the wispy gray of his mustache and hair added to that to give his dark black face an air of authority.

“How many other drivers on this line tonight?” Frankie probed. She was intimately familiar with the MTA from her many childhood days spent riding from the family’s apartment to the doctor’s office and from her part in an undercover operation that had busted several drivers for trafficking in narcotics.

“Two.” His eyes narrowed almost to slits.

“Did you pick up two guys in the last three hours?” Frankie pulled out her folded copies of the shooters’ composites.

His head shook in response.

“The other two drivers still on the line?”

The driver nodded, wondering just what the FBI wanted with bus riders.

Frankie turned to her partner, her eyes asking. Well?

“I want you to contact your dispatchers and have them get a hold of both buses to find out if these guys were on either of them.” Art looked to Frankie, but she was already across the street on her way to get the car.

The driver picked up his handset, which was a duplicate of that used on telephones. “Dispatch, this is Forty-Five on the Twenty-Eight, bus number Eighty-six Thirty-nine.”

The dispatcher acknowledged the driver’s call and listened to his relay of the agents’ request. Two minutes later, just as Frankie pulled the Chevy ahead of the bus, their answer came back.

“Yeah. The one two ahead of me remembers two guys just like that.”

Yes! “Where’s that bus now?”

It took a minute to get the answer. “Olympic and Alvarado, deadheading back to division.”

Art gave a quick thumbs-up to Frankie in the driver’s seat. “Tell your dispatcher to hold that bus there. We’re on our way.”

“Well?” Frankie asked, anticipation in her voice and eyes.

“Olympic and Alvarado. Go. Go. We may finally have a trail.”

Frankie floored it back into the traffic lanes. It would take only a few minutes to travel the distance, but she wasn’t going to waste any time. Trails could grow cold very quickly, and this was just about all they had at the moment. “What about Sullivan?”

“Let’s hope he’s passed out on a barstool, nice and safe-like.”

“I think we can count on that.” Frankie accelerated through a series of greens going east on Olympic. “Hang on.”

The bartender looked at the newcomer and pointed to the clock. “Closing soon, buddy.”

Sullivan looked up, but the numbers were unintelligible. He’d have to take the bartender’s word for it. His second drink was barely touched, which amazed him because he’d been there for more than two hours. For some reason the booze just wasn’t calming him. In fact, it was hard to even swallow. There was no relaxation coming from this round of drinking, and that scared him. Really scared him. “Yeah. Okay.”

He had come in pretty juiced, and he was not one of the regulars, so the bartender immediately had laid a protective eye on him. Two drinks, he’d decided. That was it. No more. It was his liquor license on the line if the guy walked out in front of a truck or something, not even considering if he got behind the wheel. That he had made sure was not a possibility. The guy only had a motel key on him. That was a smart move, though it really wasn’t close. Well, the walk would do him good.

Sullivan had that key in one hand and his still-full drink in the other. He stared down at the large plastic tab attached to the key. It had all he needed, all the police would need. Address, room number. He could call 911 right now, and the guys would be caught. He’d be safe again. No more worrying about his life.

Just the future… What was he going to do about that? No job. His house was wrecked. His eyes went down to the glass of liquid. Was it just that? Liquid? Was that all it was? Just something to quench his thirst?

Then why can’t I…? His fingers tightened on the object that safely held his friend. That was it! It was his friend. It was that. When all others were gone he still had his…booze.

It was really all he had.

No. His grip on the glass released, and the hand came up to his mouth, covering it for fear that he would vomit. He felt as though he would, and he wanted to drink the—What is it? Bourbon? JB? He couldn’t remember. But he still wanted it desperately. It was just that he couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

He again looked at the key and just as soon realized what had been presented to him. It was as clear and simple as that. It was a choice. Prove yourself, George, or drown in the booze.

The glass was still there, still full, still calling him to drink. To just take it in. To just drink.

He turned away. The key was in his hand, and the grip that had held the glass tightly a moment before now squeezed his only hope. It was his only hope. It was the chance to prove himself. He didn’t want to die, not this way. Not now. Not like this.

Give me the strength, Sullivan asked silently, the request directed nowhere in particular. He doubted that God had any time left for him. He was on his own, determined to do what he had to, despite what he and others had thrown before him in the way of obstacles. He had little left of value in his life, just the memory of what he had been. And what he could be. What I have to be.

“Hey,” Sullivan said, drawing the bartender’s attention. “Take this away.” He pushed the glass down the bar. “Coffee.”

The bartender smiled at the request, but George didn’t notice. His attention was focused on the key in his hand. More specifically on the tab. In the morning it would be his starting point. His test. His mission. He was a reporter, a finder of facts, a newshound. It was his job, regardless of the lack of an employer. Some men had to do things for themselves, and sometimes without remuneration for their efforts in mind. This just had to be done.

Regardless of the outcome.

Mrs. Carroll had obviously done a good job describing the suspects to the Bureau computer artist, as the driver waiting at Olympic and Alvarado needed only a quick look at the composites to make an I.D.

“Yeah. Those’re the guys.” He handed the folded paper back to Frankie.

“Do you remember where they got off?” Her fingers tapped the tip of the pen on her notebook. Come on. Please.

“Sure do. Olympic and Vermont. One of the guys walked funny, like his back was hurt.” He laughed sympathetically. “I popped an L4-L5 disk myself, so I know the way it looks and feels.”

“South side of the street?”

“Yeah. Nearside before Vermont.”

“Did you issue a transfer?”

One eye cocked at that suggestion. “This time of night? No way.”

“Remember which way they went?” Frankie waited while he thought back.

His head shook apologetically. “Nah, I don’t. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Thanks.”

The driver closed the door as soon as the agents were off his empty bus. He was already thirty minutes late getting back to division, but it hadn’t been all a waste. The lady cop was a looker, after all.

“What do you think?” Frankie asked, facing her partner. His eyes were focused to the side of her, his mind in high gear. It was a face she had come to know and respect.

“No car. They take the bus to Olympic and Vermont.” Art’s eyes finally met Frankie’s, his head shaking the barest bit. “Not a great area,” Art commented. “One of them sounds like that collision might have messed him up.”

“I doubt they were walking too far,” Frankie said. “This obviously wasn’t the way they planned this to happen, so they probably were just trying to get back to their hole. Especially if one of ‘em’s injured.”

“A lot of motels along Vermont right there, aren’t there?”

“You mean rent-a-sheets?” Frankie answered cynically. She had been in the City of Angels long enough to learn that its holy moniker was no guarantee of saintly behavior. “Tons.”

“All right, we set up an OP,” Art said, the preliminaries of a plan forming in his mind. An observation post was a necessity to watch for the shooters in the area they’d last been seen in. “I want Rob Deans and Hal Lightman on it. Hal’s an eagle eye.”

“Okay.” Frankie was noting the assignments to be called in.

“I want it set so they can monitor foot traffic up and down Vermont from Olympic. Then I want a listing of every motel or hotel in a twelve-block area.”

She mentally recoiled at the size of that area to cover. “How are we going to keep an eye on that from one OP?”

“One team at the OP,” Art said. “We’ve got plenty others to use as rovers.”

“Yeah, but with that much presence the suspects are sure to know we’re out there?”

Art smiled. “Exactly. I want them seen. I want our shooters to know we’re out there. I want them scared.”

“But if they know there’s a net out there for them, they’ll stay put,” Frankie observed, not seeing the fullness of her partner’s plan.

“That’s what I want.”

“What?”

Art had learned not only the limits of prudence in his line of work, but also the value of it. “We’re taking these guys on our terms, when we want them, and how we want them. They have to be in that area, probably in one of those motels.”

“But we have to find them, and I thought the operative word was ‘fast’.”

“We will,” Art assured her, his surety motivated by determination. “We just have to do it right.”

“How?”

Art turned and headed back to the car, accepting the fact that cautious behavior didn’t always lend itself to easy answers. “I’m working on it.” No screw-ups this time.

And that meant for his partner either. “I’ll get it set up while you go catch some sleep.”

What? “But…”

“No buts,” Art said sternly. “If you want in on this, then you need sleep. It’s been a rough past few days, and I know what can happen to someone when they push it too far. Remember me — super Art? You’re not going to end up like me, so consider yourself off duty until seven A.M. Go home, get a few hours shuteye, and kiss Cassie. Once for me, too. Tell your mom I said hi.”

There was no arguing with her partner. He was right, and she hated it. She had a little girl who needed to see her once in a while, something she had worked her life around. Until the past couple of days. And she still hadn’t told her that Uncle Thom was…was… “Drop me back at the garage?”

“Sure will. Then you go get some sleep.”

That she could do with little problem. It was what came after that that scared her.

Greg Drummond cleared his desk and laid the map of the area surrounding Cienfuegos flat on it. Mike Healy weighted the corners with assorted items just removed from the DDI’s work surface. The map was one of the plethora produced by the Defense Mapping Agency, using geological and satellite surveys to create representations of the land and its features that were the most highly detailed available on earth. This one, of startling detail, was not even one of the newer digitally produced maps that the DMA had started to turn out. Everything was going to computers, even the fine old art of cartography.

In addition to topography, the map had been prepared with the notable facilities denoted as blocks of dark gray. A corresponding notebook or computer database gave precise information on any and all of the man-made landmarks. This particular map had been produced for the Agency’s survey of Cuba’s industrial capacity, giving it a heavy emphasis on that type of structure. Cuba had developed quite an industrial base in its heyday as a member of COMECON, the economic bloc headed by the former Soviet Union with the goal of fostering development and trade among its signatories and outside countries. Chief among these industries were sugar production, various light industries, and, as a home-grown necessity, oil refining. The refineries at Cienfuegos and Los Guaos were denoted on the map by small, crisp blocks and dots of gray that signified the various buildings, cracking towers, and holding tanks. That was on the east side of the bay. On the western shore were three small manufacturing plants — all closed — and one of Castro’s follies, the never-completed nuclear-power plant that COMECON had financed. When the subsidies from the now-dead East bloc dried up, the huge complex had simply been abandoned, just two years shy of completion, despite an offer of funding from the People’s Republic of China. It was just one in a string of failed ventures that Castro had attempted over the decades to bring his island nation into the technological twentieth century.

But the symbols on the map also pointed out the daunting task that the two Agency executives had before them. Finding buildings was easy. Finding a missile was not.

“So Vishkov is supposed to be here,” the DDO said, pointing at the southwestemmost tip of the Bay of Cienfuegos from his upside-down vantage point. Drummond slid to the side, motioning for him to come around.

“Castillo de Jagua.” The DDI recalled the few visuals he’d seen of the eighteenth-century fortress that had once guarded the narrow opening to the bay. “It appears that Castro wanted Vishkov isolated as well as incarcerated. Have you ever seen it?”

Healy shook his head.

“I think the word is imposing. Lots of stone. Lots and lots of it. It looks like it belongs somewhere along the Thames.”

The thought had occurred to them that Vishkov might be valuable to snatch. He would likely know the precise location of the missile. But any attempt to wrest him from his fortress prison would require a battalion of troops at least, and would blow the secrecy that was vital to finding and securing the weapon. Besides, as Castro had proved through the years, he had little need for those whose usefulness had been exhausted.

“So he’s there.” Healy leaned over the desk, both fists resting on the map. “Now where’s the missile?”

Drummond surveyed the landscape. Hiding places were numerous, but one just didn’t pull a thirty-year-old missile out of a warehouse and fire it. It needed a stable launch surface, just as the Russians had built when first bringing them to the island. Fueling equipment would also be required. A missile did little by itself without support. “Take your pick.”

“Any longstanding structures?” Healy wondered aloud, checking the DFS (Date First Sighted) notation of the facilities in the area.

“Other than dwellings”—Drummond joined in the search—“none.”

“I just thought that if something had been around since the time of the crisis, we could assume it might be a long-term hiding place.”

It was a possibility, but not the best one. None of the older structures could be considered secure, and Castro had demonstrated that he was conscious enough about secrecy that he was willing to employ hit men on U.S. soil. That wasn’t proven, Drummond knew, but it was a bet he’d lay money on.

“It couldn’t be at the Castillo with Vishkov,” the DDI said. “There’s very little open area inside the grounds, and the ceilings wouldn’t be high enough.”

“How high are we looking at?” Healy asked.

“The analysts back then figured a minimum of ten feet for the SS-4 on its TEL. They had to run down all kinds of rumors after the Russians pulled out, that there were still missiles left there hidden in caves and places like that. Problem was, there were no caves with the proper dimensions to hold an SS-4 or the components of it.” Drummond saw that Healy was taken aback at that. “No, there weren’t folks running around peeking in caves. It just turned out that the Agency had access to pretty complete speleological surveys of the island done before the commies took over. As for the other places, nothing panned out.”

“Do you think some of the rumors could have been a product of this missile?” The DDO kept hoping that all this affirmative talk would somehow be negated by the findings in Moscow, but he didn’t really believe it would.

“No. Don’t ask me why, ‘cause it’s just a feeling. I think Castro had this planned out pretty well, including the storage of it.”

Healy had to agree. “Then where?”

The DDI rubbed his eyes and sat down, pulling his chair forward to the desk. “Let’s see. It would need a big area, solid footings. Level, too. Access to roads, yet far enough away that casual observers would notice nothing.”

“It’s times like this that I wish we’d had more luck getting people into the upper echelons of the PCC,” Healy said. The Partido Comunista de Cuba was the singular force in Cuban politics and government, headed, of course, by Fidel Castro as first secretary. The Agency had been unable to penetrate the higher ranks of national politics in Cuba, despite assistance from exile groups and the expenditure of huge sums of money. The DGI, Cuba’s equivalent of the KGB and CIA, had been unbelievably effective in keeping the power apparatus of the PCC free from foreign influence, even that of so-called “brother countries” from the defunct East bloc.

“Well, now would be a great time to turn back the clock,” Drummond said. “S and T have that time machine finished yet?”

Healy chuckled. “Next week, I hear.”

The DDI ran his finger along the outline of the bay, trying to pick out those areas that would fit the bill. “Here.”

The DDO bent closer to the map. “Let’s see, that’s…” He paged through the data book that had accompanied the map. “Recio Machine Works. Built in ’72 by an East German company. Light and heavy machine tools — mostly high-speed lathes. Armaments, it says. Cannon barrels.” It had amazed him and many of the analysts that Cuba had never fully exploited its weapon-building capability. The barrels produced at Recio had been shipped promptly back to the East for assembly into full weapons systems. “Closed in July of ‘92. Lack of fuel.”

“I’d call that one possible.” The DDI went on, checking several other sites against the background intelligence. “Jesus, there could be ten or eleven possibles on the west side of the bay. I’m not even thinking about the eastern shore.”

“Don’t. I doubt they’d have Vishkov traveling all the way over there.”

“It’s too close to Cienfuegos,” Drummond observed, his finger touching the outline of the city of a hundred thousand. “Too many people move around that area.” His eyes fell on the old Soviet sub-support facility that was never completed because of U.S. pressure in the late seventies. It was pretty much demolished and rebuilt as housing and various small buildings, none of which would support what they were looking for. Another failed construction project. The DDI wondered if any world leader was as good at starting something and as inept at finishing.

Drummond’s attention went back to the western shore, about five miles inland and close to the marshes that spread east from the Zapata Peninsula. It was there, and it was huge. Far enough from any habitations. The people had probably been forced to move. But did it make sense? “Mike, what about the plant?”

“What…the nuclear plant?” He carefully studied the lay of the land as best one could from a flat projection. “Sure, it would work, but the rest doesn’t add up. The Russians helped build it, and they’d be the last ones Castro would want anywhere near the thing. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been there, but there’d have to be signs. Besides, construction didn’t shut down until a couple years ago.” The DDO stood back up, stretching his back and arms.

“Right. But they could have kept it going.” Drummond’ s head turned left, looking up at his counterpart. “The Chinese, remember?”

Healy’s thoughts wandered off to mull that over.

“So?”

“So why didn’t Castro take them up on it? He had them all over that proposed space-launch complex he dreamed of building out by Holguín. Why not accept their help and finish the plant? We know he could have used the power output. What was it supposed to be — four hundred megawatts off each of the four generators? That would have saved him almost a third of his oil imports! And this is something he knew he’d need. The Soviet Union was a dead dog already when he stopped construction and turned away from the Chinese. Plus, if he’d taken the assistance and proceeded, it would have come under closer IAEA scrutiny.” The International Atomic Energy Agency had approved the plans for the plant and would have begun a complete-inspection regime once it was substantially complete.

The DDO turned to the corresponding page for the Juragua Nuclear Generating Plant. “Greg, it’s a big sucker.”

“I can see that.”

Healy read further. “A hundred and twenty separate buildings — the Russians never were good at building things compact, except for crew quarters on their ships and subs.” He had thought quarters were cramped during his stint in the Navy, but not after seeing intel on Russian vessels. “Damn, the whole thing is a slab of concrete, it looks like.”

“It could launch off the TEL anywhere there.”

“Ten thousand acres.” Healy looked up from the book. “Over sixteen square miles of buildings, construction, and all kinds of places to hide something like a missile.”

The DDI looked to the northernmost part of the map. Didn’t the intel from the past day say the Cubans were retreating to the south? “Mike, I think we may be onto something here. The government forces are all backing into this relatively small part of real estate with no value other than…”

It fit. “I see. What’s there to protect? Swamp? And it damn sure ain’t an example of great defensive tactics. Our DOD liaison nearly fell off his chair when he saw the report.”

The thought of thousands of Cuban troops being ordered to defend the area in a desperate setup caused the DDI to shrink away from the map. He eased back in his chair, the DDO turning and resting against the desk, facing his colleague.

“Greg?”

Drummond looked up, his eyes exhibiting a fear his friend had never seen before. “Mike, if Castro is willing to defend the thing, willing to sacrifice those troops, then it means he’s just buying time.” His voice cracked on the last words, the memories of his youthful experience with Armageddon assaulting his perception of the here and now. “He really has it, and he’s going to use it.”

Healy looked past the DDI to the drawn shades. The sun would be rising soon, and for the first time in his life, he wondered, really wondered, if he might not see it. This was more serious than even the crisis thirty years before that had made it possible. This was really going to happen. One of the goddamn things was in the hands of a desperate man, and he was going to use it. “What are we going to do?”

The DDI searched the emptiness of his brightly lit office for the magical answer that would make it all better, the same kind of wish he had made when his child walked in front of the ice-cream truck two years before. It hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t work now. Skill had saved his son’s life then, and skill this time was all they had.

“Say a prayer and get to work pinpointing it,” Drummond said, adding that which he believed had really saved his son and hoping that the Man upstairs would help him return the favor by saving a few himself.

Tunney found it amusing that it took the poet Pushkin’s use of the thirty-three-character Cyrillic alphabet, known as the “modified civil alphabet,” in his writings to bring about an unofficial standard that gave the Russian people a true national language. Before that it had been a contest of usage between the Cyrillic used by the Orthodox Church and that introduced by Peter the Great. State versus the power of God. And a poet had settled it!

The Russian language itself was much more difficult for Tunney to master than the mere act of memorizing the stylized Cyrillic alphabet, which he did with ease. He had learned the language with some difficulty after joining the Agency, through courses sponsored by the Department of State. Conversational use of a language was a far cry from committing important phrases to memory, and, though he could easily ask for the bill in one of Moscow’s dreadful restaurants—Dai’te, pazhah ’lsta shshot—he still had trouble understanding the rapid-fire practice of the language that the locals were adept at.

Thankfully this assignment would require no verbiage. Just a comparison of what he saw with what he remembered. His territory.

The stacks of file cartons were surprisingly well organized considering that more than seventy years of military death and prisoner records were stored in such a small space. Actually that made his job easier this day, for all he had to do to put himself in proximity to the area of his interest was to feign disgust with the cramped work area and carry an armful of folders to where he wanted to be.

Once there, it was just a matter of time to locate the Red Army death records for the year of 1962, paying close attention to those departed soldiers whose service jackets showed assignment to artillery units. Two hours into his workday he had found what his superiors had requested. It was time to report.

“Anna.”

She turned to see her co-worker gripping his stomach. An ‘I told you so’ look followed. “The bliny and caviar, huh? What did I tell you?”

“I’m sorry,” Tunney apologized, assuming the required stooping position to simulate severe cramping. “Can you get me a car back to the embassy? Please?”

The woman stomped off, swearing under her breath that she was not going to let any more of her team members eat in the city until the job was done. Now she’d have to pull Patrick’s share of the load today. The only justice was that he’d be throwing his guts up back at the embassy.

Tunney followed dutifully, using the skills he’d acquired as a child to fool his mother, but had an almost impossible time holding the laughter in as he thought of asking the chief of station for a note explaining his sudden illness. That would be worth framing!