The Istanbul Decision

Two

Within twenty-four hours of receiving Hawk's summons, Carter arrived at the base hospital at Camp Peary. He passed through two of the security checkpoints unaided, one at the gate in front of the hospital and another just outside the elevator on the fourth floor. At the door to ward «C» he was detained while a gruff Marine sergeant made a phone call. In a few minutes a slender, distinguished-looking man in a business suit came out and introduced himself as Dr. Rutherford. He signed the sergeant's book, then led Carter down a long corridor.

Rutherford explained that Camp Peary was where the Company brought its military trainees from foreign governments, also its political defectors and persons in need of stringent protection. It was designed so that persons inside would have no clue as to where they were being kept, neither which country nor even which continent. Security here, the doctor told him, was airtight.

Carter listened patiently although he'd heard it all before. He knew, for example, that Tatiana Kobelev was being held in this very building only two floors above them.

Halfway down the hall the doctor stopped in front of a blank white door. "You'll have to continue from here by yourself, Mr. Carter," he said dryly. "I'm not allowed inside."

"Very well, Doctor. It was nice to have met you," said Carter, putting his hand on the knob and waiting for the doctor to leave.

But he didn't.

"I've told your superior, Mr. Hawk, that I deeply resent not being allowed to participle in the final stages of our little project," he said, an edge of anger in his voice. "These things need a delicate hand or weeks of work may be sacrificed. I told him my security clearance is the highest of anyone in the hospital. And the unusualness of this experiment and the way it was run…"

"If David Hawk said you weren't allowed inside, I'm sure he had his reasons," Carter said, cutting him off. "I've never known him to do anything without good reason. Now if you don't mind. Doctor, I'm expected."

Rutherford scrutinized Carter's rugged features for a second, then realizing his complaints were falling on deaf ears, he abruptly said, "I see," turned on his heel, and left.

Carter waited a few seconds and opened the door. Hawk was sitting in a small swivel chair in the middle of the doctor's examining room, smoking a cigar. Across from him on the examining table sat a young woman in a hospital gown, her entire head wrapped in gauze bandage except for two small slits for her eyes.

"Come in, Carter," Hawk said gruffly.

"Morning, sir," said Carter.

"Good morning, Nick," said the young woman.

"Good morning, Cynthia," said Carter, recognizing her voice.

"Rutherford give you a hard time?" Hawk asked, getting up to make sure Carter had locked the door. "That's the trouble with the whole CIA — too many people think they have the need to know. I wish we could have used our own facilities."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, why aren't we? This organization leaks like a sieve."

"Exactly what I'm counting on, Carter. When the time is right, we want to make sure the right information is being passed on to the target. But this part of it," he said, turning to Cynthia, "must be absolutely secret. We split the face into three different sections and had a different doctor working on each. No one of them knew what the finished product would look like. Here," he said, handing Carter a pair of blunt-nosed nurse's scissors. "Why don't you do the honors?"

"Me, sir?"

"Just be gentle with her."

Carter began cutting the swath of bandage that ran along her neck, then worked his way up the jawline to the temple and across her forehead. The bandage fell away easily, revealing reddened, taut skin that was remarkably scar-free. When the bandage had been completely removed, he stepped back to get a good look at her. "Amazing," he said.

"Uncanny, isn't it?" remarked Hawk, producing a life-size photo of Tatiana Kobelev and holding it up next to Cynthia's face.

"I couldn't tell them apart," marveled Carter.

"Let's hope her father can't either. At least not at first."

"May I see a mirror?" asked Cynthia.

Carter retrieved a small standing mirror from the supply cabinet and handed it to her. She turned her head slowly from side to side, studying it from different angles.

"It's a nice face," Carter offered.

"It's not my face."

"You're still very beautiful."

"You can have your old face back when this business is over," Hawk said. "Meanwhile, you two've got work to do. I want you to start training together, get to know one another again, think like a team. In the meantime, word will be dropped here that we intend to move Tatiana to the St. Denis Clinic outside Dijon. Supposedly, a French surgeon will be there to do one last operation on her back. It'll be perfect, isolated, quiet. Kobelev won't be able to resist. He'll have to figure that even if it is a trap, it'll be the only time Tatiana will be close enough to the Soviet Union to make a grab for her. What he won't know is that it won't be Tatiana he'll be grabbing."

"You mean…?"

"That's right, toots," interjected Carter. "You're the bait."

Carter didn't see Cynthia again until the following afternoon when they started their training together in a little-used loft in the hospital complex. By this time most of the redness was gone, and her face had returned to its natural color. The resemblance mat had been striking before was now even more remarkable.

"You look just like her," he said when she entered the room. "I had hoped for a reasonable physical similarity, but this is really something. The only way I could tell you apart is your voice."

"I've been working on that," she said, pulling off her robe, revealing her beautifully proportioned body clad in a black leotard. "These Americans might not look like ogres," she said, lowering her voice half an octave and stretching her vowels, British style, "but they have the most bourgeois tastes."

Carter laughed. "That's her to a T!"

"Hawk gave me some tapes to study. I think I've just about got her down pat."

"You could certainly fool me."

"Could I, Nick?" she asked, her expression suddenly serious. "What about her father? Can I fool him as well?"

"You don't have to fool him for long, just long enough for us to take care of him." He smiled. She forced a smile, but the troubled look never completely left her face.

A brief silence descended, but Carter picked up the thread again quickly. "Hawk wanted me to take you through some drills to get you out of harm's way when the bullets start to fly. He says you're a bit rusty."

"Okay," she said with a shrug. She was standing very close to him, and her fragrance filled his nostrils. For a moment he was reminded of the night they had spent together on the desert outside of Teheran. It was a pleasant memory. They had been camped at an oasis. The Ayatollah's troops had lost track of them temporarily, and they had taken the opportunity to make love on a blanket under the stars. When they'd finished, they lay back in one another's arms, and listened to the grunts of the camels and the gentle wind bending the palms. Pleasant. But something else was tangled up with it, another unconscious association not at all pleasant, and it left him with a confused feeling.

"How shall we begin?" she asked. "Do you want to attack me and see how my defenses are? Nick? You with me?"

"I'm here. Just lost in thought for a moment."

"Attack me and I'll see if I can fend you off."

He reached out as if to grab her by the shoulder, but she caught his arm, twisted it, stepped through, and in an instant he was sprawled flat on his back ten feet down the mat.

"Not bad," he said, jumping to his feet. "Now finish me off."

She came toward him, a bullish determination in her eyes, and suddenly he knew what it was that had confused him earlier. The look in her eye, her hair, her face, were exactly the same as Tatiana's the night she had supposedly killed her father in their dacha outside Moscow. The menace and loathing that had seemed to fill her entire being as she came running from the study, knife in hand, and plunged it into her father's chest came back to him in a flash, along with all the hatred and dread he'd felt for her at that moment. Without realizing what he was doing, he lowered his shoulder, grabbed Cynthia by the forearm, and catapulted her into the air. She spun once, awkwardly, like a stuffed doll, and landed on the edge of the mat with a sickening thud.

As soon as he realized what he had done, he ran to her. "You all right?" he asked.

She groaned and rolled on her side, gasping for air.

"Lie back," he told her. "You've had the wind knocked out of you."

For several minutes she lay with her eyes closed, trying to breathe. Then she looked up. "You take… all this… pretty seriously… don't you?"

"It's the way you look," he said, helping her to sit up. "You reminded me of Tatiana and all I went through in Russia."

"That must have been rough." Cynthia said, finally getting a deep breath and feeling her ribs to make sure nothing was broken. "Hawk told me about it in a general way, but I never did get the particulars."

He sat down beside her. "Your friend Kobelev has come a long way since the days he was a cipher clerk. He's still ruthless as ever, but his plots have taken on a new ingenuity — an ingenuity bordering on sheer genius for death and destruction. We'd been watching his progress as a case officer, then administrator in Department S for some time. Then when they transferred him to Executive Action, we got worried, but he was still something of an unknown quantity. All that changed with the Akai Maru incident. By that time we'd realized things had gotten out of hand."

"Akai Maru?"

"A Japanese oil tanker. We found oil drums aboard that Kobelev had irradiated with strontium 90, one of the most toxic substances in the world. Our estimates said that if that shipment of oil had ever been delivered, the incidents of cancer in California would have increased fifty percent."

"That's insanity! It goes beyond espionage. It's an act of war."

"That's why he has to be stopped. Shortly after that we learned Kobelev, or the Puppet Master as they call him, was in line to become chief administrator of the entire KGB. If that had happened, his power would have been limitless. He's already professed a desire to see our two countries at war. He has some half-baked idea of seizing power in the aftermath of a nuclear confrontation."

"Is he crazy?"

"He may very well be. You wouldn't know it to talk to him, but he must be. Crazy the way Hitler was crazy."

"You talked to him?"

"I did more than that. I 'defected. Tried to become his chief lieutenant. Hawk developed a plan for assassinating the son of a bitch by convincing the Russian intelligence I was a disgruntled CIA caseworker who wanted to work for the KGB. The idea was to get me close enough to put a bullet in him, then get out of the country somehow. We figured Kobelev knew me from the Akai Maru and that he might be interested in having me on his side if he thought I was sincere."

"How'd you manage to convince him?"

"By giving them files of sensitive material we knew they wanted. Real files. We turned over some valuable information, put some agents' lives on the line, but we felt it was necessary to get me close enough to kill him. You see, we had a time factor. Another few days and the Presidium was going to make his appointment official. After that, as chief administrator, he'd have been under such heavy security we never could have gotten to him."

"Then I take it the mission failed."

"You might say that." Carter's face darkened. It was clear he took it as a personal defeat. "I was about to pull the trigger when Tatiana, his daughter, suddenly rushed in and stabbed him. I found out later it was all an act. She only pretended to stab him. It looked real and it sure convinced me — so much so I even helped her get out of the country to avoid prosecution for patricide, which turned out to be exactly what they wanted."

"It was all an act," Cynthia said, marveling at the scam.

"Every bit of it. We think even the promotion from the Presidium was phony. He set us up to get his daughter into this country so she could kill the President. And she damn near succeeded."

"Where did this happen?"

"In New York. Outside the UN."

"You mean it was Tatiana Kobelev who tried to kill President Manning in New York? I thought it was what's-her-name, Millicent Stone, the one who died. They published her diary and everything."

Carter shook his head. "The FBI fabricated the story. They had to. Tatiana is a Russian national, don't forget. If it had gotten out who'd really pulled the trigger, it would have strained things between our countries forever. It may have even called for a military response."

"So Kobelev had it planned from the beginning. Lure you to Russia to provide legitimate entry for his daughter so she could kill the President. Amazing."

"The man is diabolical. He has to be stopped at any cost."

"Poor Nicky," she said, gently running her fingers through his hair. "You look as if you're taking all this on yourself."

"I had a chance to kill him in Moscow and I blew it. He'd contrived this fencing match between us, thinking he'd humiliate me in front of his wife and daughter. He didn't know I was an intercollegiate champion for four years in a row. I could have run him through, but I didn't. I thought I'd get another chance. But if I'd skewered him then as I should have…"

"If you'd killed him in front of his entire family you never would have gotten out of Russia alive, and our side would have lost one of the most valuable agents it has. Don't be so hard on yourself, Nick." She leaned over and kissed him. It was meant to be a reassuring peck, but her lips lingered a few extra seconds, savoring the sensation.

"Do that again and I might not be able to control myself."

She put her arms around him, her hand resting on the nape of his neck. "What do you think I've been waiting for?" she asked huskily. Gently she pulled him down with her onto the mat. He smiled and followed her without the slightest hesitation as she brought her leg up around his, and pressed against his body.

For all her strength, she was incredibly soft, and in a few moments they were both nude, and Carter was kissing her neck, and her lovely breasts, her nipples hard now as her chest rose and fell.

"Nicky… oh. God, Nicky," she moaned softly, her fingernails beginning to scratch his back.

And then he was inside her, and they moved in an easy, graceful rhythm, like two athletes or a pair of dancers, their passion mounting, but gently.

She cried out in the end, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, at the same moment Carter thrust deeply one last time.

They finished their workout around eight o'clock. Cynthia put on her robe while Carter stood staring out the large arched window at the end of the huge room.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, coming up behind him and looping her arm through his.

"I was thinking how nice it would be right now to go out and eat Chinese. I know a nice little place not far from here."

"I can't leave."

"I know, but every now and then I get a yearning to lead a normal, everyday sort of life."

She squeezed his arm, and together they stared down at the puddles glistening in the streetlight at the far end of the parking lot.

It was raining over the entire eastern seaboard from Stowe, Vermont, to Charleston, South Carolina, but out over the Atlantic the clouds dissipated, and in Paris at this particular moment, the weather was crisp and dry.

With six hours of time difference it was already two in the morning Paris time, and in spite of the fabled "nightlife Parisienne," the city's streets were practically deserted. Even the legendary Champs-Elysee's traffic was light — a taxi, a private car, and of course, every now and then, a truck.

One such truck, a squat white one, pulled out of a narrow alley onto the famous avenue. Ahead was the Arc de Triomphe and a dozen streets to the east the Palais de l'Élysée, where at this hour the president of France lay sleeping.

Two men sat in the truck: Jean, the driver, a wiry little Parisian whose looks greatly belied his august physical strength; and beside him, Guillaume, older and heavier, his sailor's watch cap pushed to the back of his head and a Gauloise eternally stuck to his lower lip.

They turned left on the Avenue General Gallieni and crossed the Seine on the Pont Alexandre III. Here the city began to change, subtly, but significantly all the same. The streets became cleaner, the shrubs better trimmed, the sidewalks in perfect repair.

Jean turned in at the rue Avignon and slowed. The street was quiet, not a soul stirred. Under a line of chestnut trees Mercedes, Peugeot, Citroen, and Cadillac limousines were wedged next to the curb bumper-to-bumper. Beyond these were the house fronts, cold gray stone with thick wooden doors behind screens of wrought-iron filigree. Bronze plaques identified each: Ambassade d'Espagne, Ambassade d'Italie, Ambassade d'États-Unis. At this last building Jean cranked the wheel, and the big truck lumbered down the long driveway toward the back.

The row of refuse cans stood against the north wall surrounding the compound. Jean stopped the truck with a bounce and a hiss of air brakes, ground the shift lever into reverse, and when the rear bumper of the truck was within a few feet of the cans, stopped it again.

The two men climbed out, pulling on thickly soiled gloves, and began dumping the cans. They were halfway down the line when the sound of someone clearing his throat forced Guillaume to turn around. Standing at the edge of the truck's rear was a uniformed figure, his flat-topped hat making his head seem disproportionately large in the darkness. At his hip was a revolver.

"How you boys doin'?" the figure asked.

"Comme çi, comme ca," Jean said offhandedly. He picked up another can, slung it onto the back of the truck, banged it empty, and replaced it.

"Where's your partner, Estaban?"

"Sick," said Jean. "Mal à l'estomac." He made a face and a hand motion around his middle to indicate how poorly Estaban was feeling.

"Who's this guy, then?"

"Permettez-moi… mon ami, Guillaume." Jean said.

Guillaume bowed his head uncertainly, watching Jean for his cue out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah," said the guard. "Ain't you boys workin' a bit early this mornin'?"

Jean made several gestures to indicate he'd like to explain but couldn't because of the language barrier, then finally pointed to Guillaume and said, "Moonlight."

"I see," said the guard. "He has another job during the day?"

Jean smiled expansively and nodded. Guillaume, meanwhile, had moved behind the guard, had pulled out a piece of knotted piano wire, and was winding it around his hand.

"Sa femme," explained Jean, making a big stomach with his hands.

"I get it," the guard said. "His wife is pregnant and he has to work two jobs. You poor son of a bitch." The guard put his hand sympathetically on Guillaume's shoulder as he turned and headed back to the house. "Well, try to keep the noise down, boys. Got people sleepin' upstairs."

Jean shot a glance at Guillaume. He shook his head.

In a few minutes they'd finished the last of the barrels, closed the truck, and were heading back up the driveway to the street. As he turned the corner and recovered the wheel, Jean slapped his companion brusquely on the shoulder. "Give it to me," he said harshly, holding out his up-turned palm.

Reluctantly Guillaume produced the piano wire he had in his pocket and gave it to Jean.

"You idiot," Jean said as he tossed it out the window.

Guillaume sighed to let Jean know he was restraining himself with only the greatest of difficulty, turned away, and spent the rest of the short trip staring sullenly out the window.

Jean turned left toward the Seine and crossed the Pont Alexandre III. Soon Paris became Paris once again. Narrow winding streets littered with bottles and scraps of paper, utility poles plastered with handbills. As they passed, the lights of the Cafe du Rive Gauche winked out. A drunken shout came to them over the engine noise, and a fight spilled out into the street. Jean steered deftly around it, then took a left into an alley and stopped at the far end of it at a green doorway lit by a single, unshaded bulb.

The two of them got out, put on their soiled gloves a second time, and began shoveling the used containers, bits of paper, and garbage from the back of the truck into three large wooden boxes that stood by the door.

As they worked, the green door opened and an angular man stepped out, as thin as one could imagine a human being to be and still stand erect. On his gaunt face was a pair of large, perfectly round eyeglasses which gave him a peculiarly bug-eyed look. A thick cigarette hung in his mouth, and a narrow column of smoke wound its way along the ridges of his face as he watched the two men work.

"Trouble?" he asked.

Jean stopped shoveling. "He is the trouble," he said with a nod toward Guillaume.

Guillaume shrugged, and the thin man smiled wanly.

When they had finished filling the first of the boxes, they carried it inside and placed it on the floor next to a white screen roughly six feet square that had been laid out in the center of the room. Guillaume, who had been to this place many times but had never before been allowed to come inside, took the opportunity to look around.

The walls of the room were painted stark white with a black, acidproof countertop running around its perimeter. On the counter were various modules of electronic equipment, some with screens, some with only buttons and dials. Stacked on the floor below these were boxes, presumably with more electronic equipment. In one corner stood an enlarger for making photographic prints.

"Seen enough?" the thin man asked pointedly, coming up behind him.

Guillaume swept his eyes over the smaller man's emaciated frame. It wouldn't take much to crush him like a piece of scrap paper.

"Your job is to bring in the garbage. You're a garbage collector. Don't forget it."

Guillaume grunted and left. When he and Jean returned with the next box, the thin man had overturned the first load onto the white screen and was picking through it on his hands and knees.

After they'd gone, the thin man walked to the phone and dialed. As it was ringing, he snuffed his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Hello?" said a voice.

"Charles."

"Hello, Charles. Find something?"

"Yes. Tell the man I think I may have found what he's looking for."

"Excellent, Charles. And the men driving the truck?"

"Jean and Guillaume."

"They will be taken care of."

Charles hung up the phone and scrutinized the image on the screen of the projection microscope again. He smiled.