The Red Horseman

15

Somebody sold us out.” Toad Tarkington was in a fine fury, his face dark, his eyes narrowed to slits. Unconsciously Jack Yocke took a step backward.

Senior Chief Holley and Spiro Dalworth took the full brunt of Tarkington’s anger. They stood their ground as Toad continued in a low, intense voice: “Someone here in this room told the CIA where the meet was, who was going to be there. They didn’t get it over the phone, they didn’t get it from a wiretap, they didn’t follow anybody there. Someone talked, whispered into a spook’s ear, and because of that, Judith Farrell died.”

Spiro Dalworth’s face was a study as he tried to keep it under control. Toad Tarkington zeroed in, put his face inches from that of the lieutenant. “Somebody broke the faith.” He said the words slowly, like an Old Testament prophet pronouncing the doom of a king. “Somebody betrayed his shipmates, sold out to the spook fucks playing power politics. Why don’t you tell us about it, Dalworth.”

“Commander, I—”

“You shit!”

“Listen, we’re on the same team. I—”

The back of Toad’s hand flicked across Dalworth’s face with a whiplike smack. Dalworth staggered and almost fell.

“That’s enough, Toad,” Jake Grafton said.

Tarkington stepped back and stood glowering at Dalworth, who rubbed the side of his face and looked at the admiral. “Sir, I’m sorry!” the lieutenant said. “I thought—” His voice broke. He was near tears.

“Who’d you tell?” the admiral asked in a tired voice.

“Herb Tenney. We’ve talked before about an agency job when I get out. My naval career—”

“When did you tell him?”

“Before we left to go to the park.”

Jake Grafton looked out the window at the fountain in front of the complex cafeteria. On the other side of the square was the empty new embassy riddled with electronic listening devices. KGB bugs, CIA bugs, maybe Mossad, MI-5, German bugs, you name it. Was there anybody anywhere in this uncertain world who was willing to sleep in blissful ignorance of what the U.S. ambassador said to his aides? Or his assistant? Or his wife?

“Admiral, I—”

“No.” Jake Grafton thought he knew what Tarkington was going to say. Toad would desperately love to go find Herb Tenney and shoot him dead.

Let’s assume Judith was telling the gospel truth. The CIA learned of the Nigel Keren operation through the KGB. And the KGB has just blown up the Serdobsk power plant, contaminating thousands of square miles and killing thousands of people, thereby triggering a leadership crisis that might result in a new dictatorship of the Old Guard, some of whom lead the KGB. Assume also that this development would not be frowned upon by the rogue clique in the CIA that controlled Herb Tenney. In some crazy way it fit. Jake Grafton got that hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach again.

The Middle East, eastern Europe, the horn of Africa, southeast Asia… Every major event effects every person in this interdependent world. The collapse of communism in the Soviet Union upset the equilibrium. No, the collapse of the shah in pro-Western Iran was the triggering event. Like shock waves radiating from the epicenter of an earthquake, these events triggered other events, upset the balance of power that kept a world with too few resources and too many greedy men from coming apart at the seams. And now the seams were ripping.

He turned from the window. “Toad, you and Jack take Farrell’s body back to the park.”

“Why not the Israeli embassy, sir? She ought to have a decent funeral and burial. She deserves that.”

Jake Grafton thought the white-collar crowd at the Israeli embassy would be extremely embarrassed if they received the body of a covert soldier killed in an operation that the government of Israel would deny all knowledge of. He merely repeated his order: “Take her to the park.”

“Aye aye, sir. Come on, Yocke.”

“Senior Chief, go to bed.”

Jake Grafton and Spiro Dalworth were standing alone in the room when Toad Tarkington closed the door.

Out in the car Judith Farrell’s body lay under a pile of jackets on the backseat. Toad got behind the wheel and Jack Yocke got in beside him.

The sky was just beginning to gray when Toad turned the corner and sped south on the wide, empty boulevard that ran toward the river.

Jack Yocke was still trying to fit together all the pieces. “How well did you know her?” he asked Toad.

Toad didn’t answer immediately. “Pretty well,” he said finally.

“Shirley Ross, Judith Farrell…aliases?”

“Yep. And she had others.”

“Do you know her real name?”

“She told it to me once.”

“To die like that…”

“In her line of work it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

As they crossed the Moskva bridge, Jack Yocke asked, “Do you think her team really killed Kolokoltsev in Soviet Square?”

Toad said, “You told me that one of the gunmen held the door to the limo open and one stood there cool as a cucumber squirting bullets into the people inside? Well, the shooter for the coup de grace was undoubtedly Judith Farrell. That was the payoff — those people were putting their lives on the line to kill that anti-Jewish hate merchant. You can bet your last kopek that Judith Farrell was right there at the trigger to make damn sure there was no slipup. That was the way she operated.”

Jack Yocke glanced into the backseat, then looked back at Toad. “She was an assassin?”

“She fought for her people.”

“Well…”

“Asshole!” Toad roared. “I killed a man tonight. I am not in the mood for moralizing from the editorial page pulpit. This ain’t a cocktail party in Georgetown! They slaughter people by the millions on this fucking continent! Mass murder is the European sport. Got a social problem, kill another million!”

“Sorry,” Yocke said contritely.

Toad snarled, “They oughta make you the fucking wine editor at the Post.”

The two men sat in the car looking at the park as the night faded into a gray dawn. They had nothing else to say to each other. Each was occupied with his own thoughts.

If there was anyone watching, Toad didn’t see them. Finally he opened his door and stepped out. “Help me with her,” he muttered to the reporter.

They left Judith Farrell under the nearest tree. Toad tried not to look at her face. As he straightened up he could see the body of the man he had shot still lying just as he had fallen.

On the way back to the car Jack Yocke glanced over his shoulder at the body of the Israeli agent. Toad Tarkington didn’t.

A Russian army detail was picking up the bodies around the American embassy compound when Toad and Jack returned. The soldiers were piling the corpses in a large truck. They weren’t carrying weapons.

A marine opened the gate and Toad drove through. As he got out of the car he saw her walking toward him. She wore khakis and a leather flight jacket and her hair was in a bun. When he held out his arms she broke into a run.

“Rita!”

“Hello, Toad-man.” She gave him a fierce hug, then stepped back. “I brought you a present,” she said. She unzipped the jacket and held it open. “Me!”

He took her in his arms. “When did you get here?” he asked finally.

“An hour ago.”

“Why?”

“Admiral Grafton asked for three pilots. I volunteered.”

Toad tried to frown. “I told you never to volunteer.”

“Ah, Toad-man, you do it all the time.”

“Yeah. And look at me. God, I’m glad you’re here.”

The marine recon team commanding officer was Captain Iron Mike McElroy. His broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist and a flat stomach that was probably corrugated like a washboard under his camo shirt. He saluted crisply and introduced himself. He and Jake had just started to get acquainted when Agatha Hempstead came marching across the sidewalk straight at them.

“Ambassador Lancaster didn’t know or approve of this decision to bring in a marine recon team.” She ignored Captain McElroy.

“General Land talked to the president about it,” Jake Grafton said mildly. “The president approved it.”

“Owen — Ambassador Lancaster should have been consulted. This request should have gone through the State Department. We can’t have the military making foreign poli—”

“Ms. Hempstead,” Jake said firmly, cutting her off. “I apologize to Ambassador Lancaster. I did not intend to cut him out of the loop. But time and urgent operational considerations required that I communicate directly with General Land in the Pentagon.”

“What considerations? What considerations do you consider to be nonpolitical? Here in Russia everything is political! Everything! I don’t think you understand Ambassador Lancaster’s position!”

Jake cocked his head and eyed Ms. Hempstead. “You’re the one who seems to be having the difficulty understanding who is responsible for what, ma’am. I suggest we stop this little turf war before it goes any further and start cooperating.”

“What considerations?”

Jake Grafton was ready to use a dirty word or two, but he swallowed it and rammed his fists into his pockets. “The situation here in Russia is a bit out of control. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“The marine guard is quite capable of defending the embassy compound from a riot, Admiral.” Jake had never heard a flag officer’s rank pronounced quite this way. Antipathy, derision, disrespect — Goodbody Hempstead got a lot of mileage out of one little word. “The decision to augment the marines is for Ambassador Lancaster to make. A reconnaissance team armed to the teeth is not going to help matters very much!”

She paused, so Jake said, “The team is not here to augment the marine guard.”

But she was merely marshaling her arguments, not entertaining replies. “I’m sure the Yeltsin government will be making a diplomatic protest within hours. A recon team ready for combat strikes me as a very serious stretch of the military cooperation agreements that we have been operating under these last few weeks. Ambassador Lancaster—”

“Maybe I’d just better have a talk with the ambassador.”

“What are you going to use the team for?”

“I’ll tell it to the ambassador.”

So seven minutes later he was standing in the ambassador’s office. Boris Yeltsin was on television addressing the nation. Jake and Hempstead stood silently while the ambassador listened to a translator. When the broadcast was over, Lancaster muttered, “Well, at least he’s not resigning.”

“These seven people that want to take over, this junta, any mention of them?” Jake asked as the translator left the room.

“No. That’s a good sign, I think. But the situation is very fluid.” Lancaster sat down behind his desk and turned to Jake again. He went straight to the point: “What’s the recon team for?”

“I haven’t decided yet, sir. I thought they might come in handy.”

“Admiral, I don’t want you or Hayden Land starting a war. Before any of those gung-ho special warriors dons his warpaint or steps outside of this compound, I want a complete briefing. In writing.”

“Yessir.”

“We’ll put them in the gymnasium. They can sleep there. But so help me, Admiral, the secretary of state is not going to be a happy little camper. Foreign policy is the prerogative of civilians under our system of government. It’s a tried and true system and we’re going to ensure the United States sticks with it. If Land shoved the president out onto thin ice the shit is going to hit the fan.” The cuss word sounded weird coming from the New England Brahman. Jake would have bet money the old man had never even heard the word.

“Before you even scratch yourself,” the ambassador continued, “I want a complete briefing.”

“I should have discussed my concerns with you, sir, but the press of events didn’t seem to allow the time. I apologize. In a few hours I’m going to steal a couple helicopters from the Russians and fly down to Serdobsk for a look. I want to see that power plant.”

Lancaster sat back in his chair. “They tell me that site is too hot for humans.”

“The marines brought some antiradiation suits. And we probably won’t land. But I want to see what the place looks like and we need to get some better data on radiation levels.”

Lancaster digested that with a sour look on his face. Apparently he came to the conclusion that the less he knew the better. “Steal helicopters?” he asked mildly.

“Steal.”

Jake reached across the desk for an envelope, turned it over and wrote: Today I will steal two helicopters and fly to Serdobsk.

He signed his name, wrote the date, then passed the envelope to Lancaster, who looked at it and sighed. He ran his fingers across his scalp. “You don’t let much grass grow under your feet, do you, Admiral?”

“One other thing you should probably be aware of, sir. I would suggest you and Ms. Hempstead keep this to yourself, not report it to Washington, not discuss it with anyone else on the embassy staff.”

“The ambassador will make that decision,” Agatha Hempstead said tartly.

Jake Grafton shrugged. “Last night my aide and I had a little shooting scrape with a couple armed men near Gorky Park. They were killed. I think they might have been CIA agents.”

“Who were they?” Lancaster asked.

Jake gave him the names.

Owen Lancaster and Agatha Hempstead just looked at each other, then transferred their stunned gaze to the admiral.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Jake said and got to his feet. “I have to go see about those helicopters.” The diplomats watched him go without recovering their voices.

Jack Yocke tapped listlessly on his computer. He had found that having the keyboard under his fingers was therapeutic. When his mind was wandering his fingers merely tapped out disjointed phrases, but when he was thinking about something specific his fingers strung words together into sentences as his thoughts rolled along.

The secret is to think in logical, coherent sentences, which most people don’t do. Yocke did, most of the time. As he witnessed an event or thought about a subject the words scrolled through his mind. If he had a keyboard under his fingers the words became text.

Now he glanced at the screen. “Nigel Keren” was written there.

Ah yes. The headline flashed through his mind and the words appeared on the screen. “British billionaire Nigel Keren murdered by CIA.” That headline could get him a story in every newspaper in the world.

And he couldn’t write the story.

Frustrated, he got up from the computer and went to the window. He was still in Admiral Grafton’s apartment in the embassy complex, and unless he was willing to head straight back to the land of Diet Coke and hot dogs, he was going to have to stay here.

A great end to your first foreign correspondent assignment, Jack! Write one good story that blames a political murder on the wrong crowd, the local secret police, who promptly jump on your case like stink on Limburger.

Maybe he should call his editor. He glanced at the phone and even took a step in that direction, then returned to the window.

Yocke knew his editor. Gatler would pretend to be incredulous, thunderstruck: you’re hiding out and missing the great stories, the big, stupendous, attack-on-Pearl Harbor, war-declared stories — world’s worst nuclear accident kills zillions, democracy collapses in Russia, military dictatorship ousts Yeltsin? If you don’t get a piece of those stories, his editor would shout, you’ll go back on the cop beat for the rest of your natural, miserable life.

Jack Yocke had no intention of informing his editor that he had made a tiny little mistake on the Soviet Square Massacre story. That the KGB were innocent lambs, victims of a foul Israeli plot to besmirch their honor. He wasn’t going to call that one in, even if Grafton gave him permission to print the truth, which he wouldn’t.

The fact is that he had been set up by someone who knew just how much truth he could uncover and how to twist it into the story she wanted told. Now he knew, and he couldn’t tell. Wouldn’t tell, even if he could.

But everyone manipulates the press, don’t they? Politicians and cops, athletes and movie stars do it all the time.

Moscow seemed quiet out there beyond the brick wall topped with two strands of barbed wire. Yocke could see the marine opening the front gate and letting cars go in and out.

As he watched he saw Toad Tarkington, Rita Moravia and Spiro Dalworth pile into a car with a couple of marines armed with M-16s. Two more marines and the other two pilots got into a second car. Away they went, out the gate. His curiosity piqued, Yocke wondered about their errand and destination.

When the second car turned the corner and was out of sight, Yocke turned back to his computer.

No, the story he wasn’t getting was KGB blows up Serdobsk reactor! Zillions Die! Now that would be a story that would make Jack Yocke as famous as Michael Jackson, a story to launch a hell of a career, a story to get him his own column, maybe even an investigative team like Bob Woodward had. And what did Woodward dig out from under his rock? Richard Nixon with a coverup dripping from his fingers — a popcorn fart compared to this little beauty.

But he hadn’t missed it yet. Oh no! Jake Grafton had it and no other reporter was going to get a sniff. Sooner or later Jack Yocke would mine that ore. He could feel it in his bones.

Zillions die. Not zillions, but maybe tens of thousands.

The import of those words struck home as Yocke stared at them on the computer screen. Tens of thousands, men, women, children — the lame, the halt, the blind, the virtuous, the guilty, the oh so very human. All. Everyone in the fallout zone.

And that Mossad killer Judith Farrell told Jake Grafton the KGB did it intentionally. On purpose. Murder. Political murder. The ends justify the means. Kill them all.

Was she lying again?

Suddenly Yocke had had enough of the computer. He turned it off and went to the window and looked out for a while.

Then, since he was tired, he laid down and tried to sleep.

After a while he did.

Jake Grafton was also thinking about the people in the fallout zone, thousands who were already dead or dying or sick as a human could be. If this were America or western Europe there would be no helicopters to steal. Those machines the networks hadn’t commandeered to carry their insta-cams, satellite feed gear and blow-dried reporters would all be in use for evacuation and relief efforts. If this were America or western Europe.

One of the interpreters was watching Russian television and periodically summarizing what she heard, and she had not gotten a single hint that any relief efforts were under way.

“It’s too early,” Captain Collins said uneasily. “It’ll take them a while to figure out what they need to do, then another while for anyone to decide he has the authority to set things in motion, then a third while for anybody to get off his ass and actually do something. The only certainty is whatever they do will be too little, too late, and completely ineffective.”

Jake nodded. He had had only an hour’s sleep last night and was very tired. He tried to concentrate.

“How hot is the fallout zone?” he asked Collins.

The nuclear engineering officer just shrugged. “At one of these Russian nuke facilities a few years ago,” he said, “they didn’t know what to do with the hot waste, so they dumped it into a pond a hundred feet deep. Kept doing that. Then one summer the pond partially dried up and the mud turned to dust and blew away. Contaminated an area of four hundred eleven square miles. Contamination level of six hundred roentgens an hour, which is a fatal dose. Spend one hour anywhere in that area unprotected and you’re history.”

“So what did the Russians do after Chernobyl?”

“They lied about the extent of the accident, they lied about the radiation dosages people got and the number of victims, they ordered in troops to clean up the mess and lied about the dosages they got, they lied about the extent of food contamination, the relief money was stolen by corrupt officials, they misdiagnosed the cancers…they basically fucked it up from end to end.”

Collins searched for words. “Maybe lie is the wrong word. These people have always operated on the premise that no one should ever be told bad news, so they are incapable of effectively dealing with any problem at any level. Bad news doesn’t go up the ladder and doesn’t come down, which means that no one ever knows the truth.”

On that note Collins felt silent. When Jake failed to ask any more questions, Collins had a question of his own. “What do you want me to do with Dalworth, Admiral?”

“Did he tell you about the fracas in the park?”

“Yessir. And about whispering to Herb Tenney.”

It was Jake’s turn to shrug. “Don’t do anything.”

Collins picked at a discolored place on his uniform trousers.

“Did Dalworth tell you those two guys we killed were CIA?”

“Uh, yessir.”

“I may need Dalworth,” Jake said slowly. “I don’t know what the hell Herb Tenney is up to, but whatever it is, it’s going to get him burned. I intend to light the fire.”