The Ransom of Black Stealth One

FOURTEEN

Karotkin, with deep-breathing exercises, managed to regain his calm before the others reached his office. It was important that he appear unflustered, even bored, in the face of an operation that seemed not so much blossoming as exploding. At the moment, no one could say whether that explosion was showering them with shit or pure gold. Nor, for that matter, whether it would be the KGB that got showered or the GRU, its archrival for Moscow’s favors. Suslov walked in first, trailing the journalist, Yevgeni Melnik.

Suslov sat down with only a dry smile and a gesture as if presenting Melnik. “I need time to finish reading the file, comrade Karotkin,” said Melnik, who had learned of his own involvement in the past half hour. Karotkin agreed, though he was not happy to see the bulk of that file. It was always an error to tell a man more than he needed to know, even a man with a wife and three children in Smolensk.

An excellent interviewer with a decent command of idiomatic English, Melnik knew how to follow a fast-breaking story in the West. His costume provoked an occasional suspicious glance in the embassy because the tanned little fellow with the loafers, wrinkled trousers, quick smile, loose tie, and ever-present Pall Mall looked so much like an American. Melnik usually needed rewriting because having noticed everything, he tended to mention everything; but his debriefings were things of beauty. A genuine print journalist as well as a spy, he was suspected by some Westerners as KGB because his loafers were by Florsheim whereas most Soviet scribblers shopped, if appearances counted, at Goodwill. In short, Yevgeni Melnik was exactly the sort of man who would already be on a CIA list, ready to be branded “undesirable” by the Americans the next time they decided to demonstrate their displeasure in a highly public way. Meanwhile, Melnik was acceptable so long as he did not get in the way more than any other journalist.

Melnik was still speed-reading when Karotkin responded to the buzzer. “You are here only for background, Melnik,” Karotkin said quickly. “Save any questions for later.”

Gennadi Maksimov made his usual entrance, sweeping the room with eyes like gray ball bearings, seeming to invest the room with a military presence as he smiled and nodded. They all knew comrade Colonel Maksimov and the figure he cut even in a three-piece suit. They had known him sober and correct, and they had known him drunk as a muzhik, always joking then. He would not be joking now because the man who entered behind him was Karel Vins.

At the level of colonel and above, a man like Maksimov could be both old soldier and diplomat, no longer required to maintain the physical fighting trim of a commando. But the man they knew as Karel Vins was on the rolls as a major. And majors in the Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlenie, the GRU, were the Soviet elite in military intelligence. An erect, pale-eyed, straight-haired blond of medium height and on the muscular side of forty, Vins might pass as a Finn. He would be good at languages, better at surveillance—and superb at killing.

Maksimov had not said he was bringing his man. To do so without prior agreement was the kind of gesture the GRU could afford, a way of underlining the fact that Soviet military intelligence and its trained killers were above KGB control. Karotkin noticed the comical movement of Melnik’s scalp as the little journalist recognized Vins. That meant Melnik knew his way around.

But still a journalist, as he proved when Karotkin made the introductions. “Vawlk,” Melnik murmured as he was identified to Vins. Without the slightest change of his pleasant expression, Karel Vins made a faint inclination of his chin and then passed his gaze on to Suslov. A very few men in the GRU elite were known by nicknames in Soviet circles. Sretsvah, the remedy, perhaps in London to remedy some imbalance; Grichanka, the Greek, rumored a casualty at last, at the hands of an Albanian; Vawlk, the wolf, whose street name was Karel Vins. Maksimov might know the name Vins was born with; more probably not. What mattered, and what Vins chose to pretend did not matter, was that the vawlk was already a legend even among his KGB compatriots who admired, envied, and feared him.

The trainees of Cuba’s Direction General de Inteligencia, or DGI, had translated his nickname easily as Lobo during his Cuban tour as an “advisor.” Few Soviet field operatives were as well qualified to bring a big operation home in a Latin American country, and the presence of Karel Vins automatically raised the status of the operation. It did not necessarily mean that deadly violence would follow. It meant that a lethal instrument was at hand.

Vins waited for Maksimov to sit, and then sat at his back without comment. Maksimov adjusted his creases and then, in his familiar strong baritone, said, “I must hear it from your mouth, comrade Karotkin: have we really stolen the Black Stealth craft?”

“It would seem that we have,” said Karotkin, “judging from the communication traffic we are monitoring. True, it happened sooner than we thought. Since your own people ran the Bulgarian connection, you would be the best judge of that.”

“Comrade Major Vins, under Bulgarian cover, had a face-to-face with the American,” said Maksimov, and turned to the man behind him. “Your assessment?”

“Latino, American citizen, former military pilot; real name Raoul Medina,” said Vins softly, as though reading from some dull text. “He is probably what he claims, the test pilot for the stealth craft. Courage of the kind they call machismo, which is the kind that can demand more of a man than he can give. Such a man might commit a great crime ahead of schedule because he feels his nerve running out, or simply because of some unforeseen factor that tells him, ‘now or never.’ His car is parked at the facility in Elmira. I would say he is an unlikely decoy,” Vins ended with the merest trace of humor.

Suslov, who had been thinking exactly that: “Why not?”

“The Americans avoid putting nonprofessionals at risk,” said Vins, to whom there was only one profession. “And American professionals have some tradecraft. This man Medina is clever and determined, but as to professional tradecraft? Aaah,” he said, now smiling as he waved a hand lazily. The smile faded with, “But could Medina be some decoy, a superb actor? We proceed with that possibility in mind.”

Karotkin caught the implication and knew that the GRU had received sanction for the job while the KGB was still wondering. But damned if he would show irritation. “Then we do proceed as planned. You have little time to spare if you intend to meet the American in Mexico, comrade Major.”

“Or,” Suslov put in smoothly, “he may have more time than we thought.” He glanced down at the notebook on his knee, placing the point of his pen on the left-hand margins of three lines as if completing a ritual. “Since dawn this morning, my people have had more traffic intercepts on data collection channels than we can handle. As you know, we can draw many conclusions even when we cannot decrypt a given message.”

Karotkin was annotating and stacking cards, expressionless, probably angry because Suslov had not briefed him in advance. He would have to smooth Karotkin’s ruffled feathers later by proving that there had been no time for it. The others waited politely until Suslov went on. “That Elmira facility is crawling with American operatives. They have a jet-fuel truck on that little runway to handle all the executive jets shuttling in there. Every military aircraft within five hundred miles of Elmira seems to be on alert status—including Canadians, who evidently have been alerted as well.

“Some air national guard personnel have been placed on standby. Each state governor is the commander-in-chief of that state’s national guard, and usually honors requests by the White House. If you can believe this, comrades, some of the traffic from a state governor is by telephone, unencrypted and clear. We intercepted two interesting bits, clear unscrambled English, in Virginia and Kentucky: their Civil Air Patrols were asked to stand by for a search for a stolen aircraft. Believe it or not, they refused.”

“Refused?” It was possible to surprise Vins, after all.

Suslov chuckled. “Their Civil Air Patrol does not take part in law enforcement, nor does it search for a downed aircraft with no flight plan or other known flight corridor. But a governor also alerts the state police, which operates some small aircraft and rotary-wing craft. From what we can determine, everything that flies under military control in that region is on alert status.”

Maksimov snapped, “What region? Black Stealth One is supposed to have transcontinental range.”

“A five-hundred-mile radius from Elmira. Comrade Colonel, they seem to know it will be in that area,” said Suslov. “So far, they have made no statement to the press but as soon as they do, our man Melnik will be in on the chase.”

Maksimov, perhaps the slightest bit amused: “You are waiting for a statement from the NSA? American presidents have grown old waiting for that.”

“We have already telephoned anonymous tips to The Washington Post and Aviation Week, comrade Colonel. The American press will not long be denied,” Suslov joked.

Maksimov stroked his chin. “Why would we want this in their press?”

“Because”—Suslov smiled—“it will create more confusion, while ruining the careers of their most experienced men.”

Maksimov shrugged away this news as if such matters were for bureaucrats, below the notice of a warrior. “I am thinking that the aircraft’s range may be a factor if Medina was forced to liberate Black Stealth One before its long-range tanks were fitted.”

“Or perhaps the aircraft will not take off with those tanks full,” Vins said. “It would not be the first time a military design in the field failed to meet the designer’s hopes.” His tone suggested that he had faced the same problem more than once.

Karotkin had kept his silence until he had something to add. Now he said, “If that search area expands geometrically before the day ends, we can guess that Black Stealth One does not have long-range ranks, and is being refueled on the ground.”

“The one thing that bothers me is that our thief expects to refuel it while the country’s entire body of law enforcement is chasing him.” The notion offended Suslov’s sense of order, of propriety. “The man is insane.”

“Not chasing him, but searching for him. I am not sure you fully appreciate the difference, comrade,” said Vins in that deceptive soft murmur. To the KGB men this was a goad because, as was well known, GRU field operatives trained for years to elude pursuers and, more important still, to avoid being spotted in the first place.

“In any case, comrade Major Vins will be on a commercial flight to Mexico City in two hours,” said Maksimov quickly, with a glance at Vins which might have been a warning about manners. “He will need time to brief the team we are bringing in from Cuba. Unless Black Stealth One is much faster than the American search pattern indicates, they will be in place in western Mexico with time to spare. The rendezvous with the American is an old airstrip bordering a coastal swamp down the coast from Mazatlan, near a village called, ah, Llano Mojado. An ideal spot to load an aircraft onto an ocean-going cargo craft.”

Karotkin’s fingers scuttled for fresh cards as he said, “I should think we could simply fly it to a safer place.”

“Several problems there,” the colonel sighed. “We dare not risk crashing it before we have thoroughly examined it, and that cannot be done in a Mexican swamp. Besides, the Llano Mojado rendezvous is politically more expedient if the operation becomes a proval, a calamity. Let us say the American has worked out some way to hold on to his ransom money. We do not want him to know how or where we propose to move the aircraft.”

Karotkin: “And how does a naval vessel move through a swamp?”

“An air-cushion cargo vessel,” Maksimov smiled. “The team is all plausibly deniable except for two naval officers. If faced with capture, they know what is expected of them. And from there to a Nicaraguan hangar”—he shrugged—“is a matter we need not burden you with.”

“Of course,” Karotkin said curtly. “You seem to have accounted for all eventualities, comrade Colonel. My compliments; but as long as you have the sanction, I hope you are not counting on KGB for five million dollars’ worth of Swiss francs in ransom money,” he finished with some smugness.

“That small detail is already in flight by diplomatic courier,” Maksimov replied, “to avoid any possible questions.” Every man in the room knew that it was no small detail. The sum was wildly in excess of the usual payments made by the Soviet government to thieves. “Comrade Major Vins will sign for it in Mexico. That and certain other implements of his own choosing,” he added with a heavy attempt to be droll.

Suslov: “You speak as though the payment were real. Surely—”

“Surely the GRU would not risk losing such a monster fish by using an artificial lure,” Maksimov said easily. “We do not know what clever tricks this man Medina may have to satisfy himself before he makes the trade. We do know that our bait is real. Traceable by transmitters in the banding seals, but real.” Maksimov saw only disbelieving stares from the KGB men, and now he spoke bluntly as if to children. “Do we want Black Stealth One more than we want the money? Yes? Then we pay its ransom!” More gently, then: “Of course, many things may happen to a thief after he runs with his ill-gotten money, comrades. Mexico is still a wild country, where a running man might be overtaken and eaten by wolves.”

“Those, ah, other implements,” Suslov said, the barrel of his pen raised. “Will they include two-way communication links?”

“The equipment would be too heavy,” Karel Vins replied, “but I will carry a flashlight adaptable as a burst transmitter. What I need from you is a schedule of uplink windows.”

Suslov nodded and stood up. He would have no difficulty providing a schedule listing the times, or “windows,” when atmosphere-grazing Soviet satellites would be staring down at Western Mexico. And certainly Suslov was not about to comment on the fact that the vawlk could choose to transmit progress reports during this operation, but not to receive instructions. If Colonel Maksimov trusted him with millions in cash, surely Vins was on an inside track to the top. And one did not question the loyalty of such a man in his own presence.