The Zebra Network

Chapter 18

Robert Highnote was careful with his driving. With all the snow that had fallen in the night the roads at this hour of the morning were extremely slippery. The dawn had brought an uncertain gray light. Traffic was very heavy on the Capital Beltway around the city, and cars still drove with headlights on.

The telephone call he had received a scant hour ago had come as a complete surprise, as had the peremptory tone Paul Innes, the U.S. associate deputy attorney general had used.

“A few of us are getting together for breakfast at my place this morning, Bob. We want to talk to you.”

Highnote hadn’t slept well. He glanced at his bedside clock.

It was barely six. “A hell of a time to be calling. What’s this all about?”

“I won’t discuss this on an open line. But I want you here as soon as possible. We’ve all got extremely tight schedules this morning.”

“I’ll just give Van a quick call…

“Already been done. We’ll be expecting you within the hour.” Van was Howard Van Skike, director of central intelligence. Whatever was going on at Innes’s house this morning had to be very important. “I’ll be there.”

Highnote got off the highway at the U.S. Department of Agriculture Research Center and took Baltimore Avenue south into College Park adjacent to the University of Maryland. A good deal of Washington’s workaday business was conducted at such breakfast meetings. A lot of interservice liaison was accomplished without the red tape attendant to normal office hours meetings. Innes had been the prosecutor on the O’Haire case, and on reflection Highnote had a feeling what this morning’s meeting would be about. He turned off the main road and headed up a long, sloping driveway through the trees. His only questionwas how much Innes knew and who else would be present this morning.

The snow had eased up, but several inches lay on the ground and as Highnote got out of his car in front of the huge three-story colonial house, he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. He turned around as a very large man, dressed in boots and a white parka came around from the side of the house.

“Good morning, sir,” the man called out as he approached. Highnote’s heart skipped a beat. He stood beside the car waiting until the man reached him. FBI was written all over his face and bearing.

“Are you armed, Mr. Highnote?”

The question was extraordinary. “No, of course not.”

“Very good, sir,” the man said glancing into Highnote’s car. “Just go right in, they’re expecting you.” There were no other cars here, though there were tire tracks leading around to the back of the house. Crossing the driveway and mounting the stairs to the front door Highnote had the impression that he was being watched. He rang the doorbell. When he turned around, there was no one behind him.

They were waiting for him in the breakfast room at the rear of the house. Large bay windows looked out over what in summer was a lovely rose garden, sprinkled here and there with a collection of ornately carved marble fountains.

Three men were seated around a glass-topped wrought-iron table.

On the left was Paul Innes, who got to his feet when Highnote entered. “Thanks for coming this morning on such short notice,” Innes said shaking hands. He was a thick-waisted man with pitch-black hair and heavy eyebrows. His grip was firm. Like Highnote he had come out of Harvard, serving with a prestigious New York law firm before becoming assistant district attorney for New York State. He’d served on the bench as a federal judge in the Seventh Circuit before being called to the Justice Department during Reagan’s first year in office. The man was a survivor. He’d been one of the few who had somehow managed the juggling act of appearing to support his boss Edwin Meese while maintaining a very low profile with the news media. Introductions were unnecessary. Highnote knew the other two men very well. Across from Innes was Alvan Reisberg, deputy associate director of the FBI, and during the past six months also acting assistant director of the Bureau’s Special Investigative Division-two hats which he wore exceedingly well. With his nearly obese figure and bottlethick glasses, which gave him a permanently bemused air, he was often mistaken for an academic, when in reality he was the nation’s top investigative officer. He looked up and nodded.

To Innes’s left, opposite the empty chair, was Melvin Quarmby, general counsel for the National Security Agency, and former assistant dean of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Quarmby was almost Spanish in his aristocratic bearing and manner. In addition to his law degree he held Phd’s in physics and chemistry and was said to be a competent electronics engineer and computer expert. He half stood up, holding his napkin in his lap with his left hand, while reaching across the table with his right to shake Highnote’s hand.

“Have you eaten?” Innes asked as they sat down. “Just coffee,” Highnote said, and Quarmby passed the sterling server.

“I’ll be brief, as I expect you gentlemen will be,” Innes began. “I spoke with the President at five o’clock this morning. It was he who suggested this initial meeting.”

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Highnote asked. Innes looked at him cooly. “Before we get started, I want it stated for the record that this meeting is being taped. I want no doubt of that afterward in anyone’s mind.” He turned to Reisberg. “Alvan?”

“Alvan Reisberg, FBI, I understand.”

“Melvin Quarmby, National Security Agency, so advised.” Innes turned again to Highnote.

“Robert Highnote, CIA. I understand these proceedings are being recorded, but I have not yet been advised of the nature of this meeting.”

“Thank you,” Innes said. “This morning the President appointed me as special prosecutor in the matter of David McAllister, a man whom in a manner of speaking you are all familiar with… in Bob’s case, intimately.”

Highnote was stunned. “This has been an internal matter, and it’s a damned sight premature to be talking about prosecution.”

“I can’t agree,” Innes said. “Especially in light of what happened last night.”

“You’ve obviously seen my report. We damned near had him. But I think he showed remarkable restraint under the circumstances in avoiding any civilian casualties.”

“We’ll certainly get back to that, Bob. But for now I’m speaking about another incident.” Innes glanced at the NSA man, Quarmby. “This will probably not come as a surprise to you.”

“Like the others, I’m here and I’m listening,” Quarmby said. “Last night James and Liam O’Haire were murdered at the federal penitentiary at Marion, Illinois. Their bodies were found in a trash container ready for shipment off prison grounds. They’d been stabbed at least one hundred times.” Quarmby’s eyebrows rose. “If you understand the significance that act has for the NSA, then I commend you on your range of information.”

“The President handed me everything this morning. There will be no secrets among us in this room. I can’t stress the importance of this business too strongly.”

“None of us expected the O’Haires to last very long in a generalpopulation prison,” Highnote said. “But evidently I’m missing something of significance.”

“Yesterday afternoon a National Security Agency communications intercept unit at Fort Meade recorded a high-speed burst transmission emanating from Moscow and directed to an as yet unknown location here in the Washington area,” Innes said.

“Our guess, of course, would be the Soviet Embassy,” Quarmby added.

“A portion of that message was decoded last night. Unfortunately it came too late to be of any use. Two names showed up in the message: McAllister and O’Haire.”

“McAllister couldn’t have killed them, if that’s what you’re driving at,” Highnote said.

“That’s right,” Innes said. “But the message does prove, or at least strongly suggest, a connection.”

“You’ve no doubt read all my reports. You must know our assessment.”

“You’re talking about his arrest and incarceration at the KGB’s Lubyanka center?”

“They had him for more than a month, Paul. God only knows what they did to him there, how they… altered him.”

Innes nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve spoken with him twice. Face-to-face. You tell me how he appeared to you. Was he deranged?”

“He’s driven, I can tell you that much. And yes, he is changed.

At the very least they gave him massive doses of drugs, and possibly some torture. He admitted just about everything to them. William Lacey, our charge d’affaires in Moscow, was given a copy of his confession. There was a lot of fallout.”

“Fallout?” Innes asked. “What exactly is meant by that?”

“McAllister named a lot of names. Many of them were still active behind the Iron Curtain. There wasn’t much we could do to help them, because of the timing. The Russians had the information, at least some of it, for weeks before we were given a chance to see his confession.”

“There were arrests?”

Highnote nodded. “Arrests, trials, and in some cases executions.

In other instances there were… accidents.” Innes’s eyes narrowed. “Our people were simply assassinated?”

“Yes,” Highnote said.

“And what are we doing about this?”

Highnote sat back in his chair and looked at the others. “There hasn’t been much we could do about it. As I said, by the time we got this information, it was already too late.”

“But surely once McAllister had been arrested by the KGB, you must have suspected that they would get that information from him. Certainly you are aware of their methods, of that technology. You must have known that McAllister could not have held anything back. Why weren’t your networks rescued, or at the very least warned off”

Again Highnote hesitated for a moment, his thoughts ranging far afield. “I think we’re getting into an area here that I don’t have the authorization to speak about. There are certain sensitive ongoing projects.”

“I appreciate that,” Innes said. “But as I’ve told you, I have the President’s complete confidence in this matter. Nothing is to be held back. Nothing.”

“I’m sorry, but some of what you are asking this morning has no bearing on McAllister.”

“The President is waiting for your call,” Innes said without blinking. “Any of you may speak with him before we proceed.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I do,” Innes said. “I will not be lied to, nor will I be sidestepped.

If need be you will be subpoenaed to appear in camera before the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

“Perhaps that would be for the best,” Highnote said, starting to rise.

“I think you wouldn’t find it so.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Highnote asked coldly. “From what I understand, McAllister is your close personal friend. Has been for some years now. I would hate to think that you would seriously consider obstructing justice here.”

“I won’t stand for this,” Highnote roared. “My service record is there for anyone to see.”

“Then cooperate with this investigation.”

“To what end? This continues to be an internal matter.”

“I can’t agree, and neither does the President,” Innes said. “The President wants to offer McAllister amnesty if he will come in and tell us what happened to him in Moscow, and what has been happening to him since his return.” Highnote was stunned. He sank back in his chair and looked dumbfounded across the table at the Justice Department prosecutor.

“It’s going to be up to us this morning to figure out exactly how to accomplish that.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Highnote said. “His time at Lubyanka is blank in his memory. He told me that.”

“He knows something,” Innes said. “There are enough inconsistencies here for us to at least consider the possibility. Too many people have already lost their lives-we want to stop it.”

“You’re talking about a trap here,” Highnote said.“No.”

“Yes, he’d be shot to death coming in.”

“You have my word that wouldn’t happen.”

“You’d be out there in the field? You’d lead him in by the hand, is that what you’re telling me?” Highnote looked to the others for support. None was forthcoming. “I’ve spoken with him. I’ve seen him twice. You can’t imagine how desperate he is, how driven. At the least sign of trouble he’ll run and when he does someone is bound to get hurt.”

“We want to avoid that at all costs, Bob. Believe me when I tell you that we want nothing more than to sit down and talk to him.”

“He won’t trust you.”

Innes leaned forward earnestly. “That’s why you’re here. You’re his friend. He trusts you. He’s come to you before, and he’ll come to you again. But we need your cooperation.”

“He knows that I called Security last night. I doubt if he’ll trust me again.”

“He could have shot you, but he didn’t,” Alvan Reisberg said softly. “Another inconsistency.”

Highnote focused on the FBI cop. “What are you talking about?”

“McAllister is, as you say, a driven man,” Innes broke in. “But who is driving him? And why?”

“We know that someone is trying to kill him,” Reisberg said. “How do you know that?” Highnote asked apprehensively. “Because he told us.”

The dark-blue Jeep Wagoneer pulled up and parked at the corner of 31st Street and Avon Lane in Georgetown. A lone, well-dressed, goodlooking man sat behind the wheel, his heart pounding. No time. There was no time left and yet it was up to him to put this ultimate insanity into motion. God in heaven, how could anyone be expected to do such a thing?

Once in you will be along for the duration, he’d been told. Some of it will not be pretty and certainly not pleasant. But all of it will be teriibly necessary. Expediency is the watchword. His orders had been crystal clear. The source, unimpeachable. But Jesus Christ, if something wentwrong; anything, even the slightest hitch, everything would blow up in their faces. He thought about Dallas and Los Angeles and Beirut and a dozen other places around the globe over the past twenty-five years or so. Such a terrible waste. Such risks. Was it worth it? Had it been worth the price paid?

Considering the consequences, he thought, his eye on the brownstone house halfway down the narrow side street, there were no other alternatives. He’d known that too, when he’d signed on.

He reached inside his coat pocket, feeling for his gun, then shut off the car’s ignition and got out as a bus rumbled by. He went around the corner and hurried down the street, crossing to the other side in midblock. There was very little traffic about, for which he was grateful God only knew what explanation he could give for being here like this, if someone recognized him) and what passed paid him absolutely no attention as he mounted the steps to McAllister’s house and unlocked the door.

He was just another man coming home. He looked as if he belonged in the neighborhood. No eyebrows would be raised. No one would question him, unless he was recognized.

Just inside the stairhall he closed and relocked the door then stood and listened, conscious of his heart hammering in his chest. Time. There was precious little of it. And even now they might already be too late.

The house was silent. He looked toward the head of the stairs. They were here. He knew that for a fact. This was the last place anyone would think to check. McAllister wasn’t coming back, and his wife was safely ensconced at Robert Highnote’s home in Arlington Heights. Nothing could possibly go wrong at this end, and yet everything could go wrong.

“It’s me,” he called out, starting up the stairs, his right hand trailing on the banister. Halfway up he stopped again to listen. A car horn tooted outside, but the house remained absolutely still. The hall smelled faintly musty, unused, as if the house had been closed up, unlived in for a long time. Which in fact it had. The McAllisters had been in Moscow for nearly three years. They would never be returning here. At the top he turned right and went into the living room. A thin, attractive woman stood to one side of the window, a faint smile on her lips, as if she had just heard an amusing, slightly off-color story.

“Hello, Don,” she said.

He pulled up short, startled that she knew his real name. “Where’s Royce?” he started to ask, when he detected a movement out of the side of his eye, just to his left and behind him. He started to turn when the barrel of a silenced pistol was pressed against his temple. His insides immediately tightened.

“Did you come alone?” the man whispered harshly. “Yes.”

“You were not followed?”

“No.”

The woman turned to the window and barely parted the drapes enough so that she could see down into the street. “Where’d you park your car?” she asked.

“Around the block, on Thirty-first.”

“The blue Jeep?” she asked. “Yes.”

“How does it look?” the man with the gun asked, his voice soft, his accent flat, perhaps midwestern.

The woman turned away from the window, letting the curtain ease back into place. She wore a dark-gray sweater and blue jeans. “It’s clean.”

“Very well,” the man behind Donald Harman said, withdrawing his gun and stepping aside. “We’re here. What have you got for us this time?”

Harman turned and looked at the man. It was the first time he had ever seen Royce Todd’s face. Very few people had, and lived to describe it. Harman was struck by his eyes. They were empty. There was no bottom to them, and he shivered. Todd and the woman, whom he knew as Carol Stenhouse, had come highly recommended. They were simply the best in the business, professional in every sense of the word.

“We have a very large job for you,” Harman said finding his voice. “But it must be done immediately, this morning. In fact within the next hour.“Royce glanced at the woman. She nodded slightly, her lips still parted in a half smile.

“There won’t be time for the usual confirmation from Geneva that our funds are in place,” Todd said.

“You’ll have to trust us on this one. It’s the reason I came in person.” Harman glanced at the woman. He thought she looked like a wild, nocturnal animal. Someone you would never willingly turn your back on. “We’re paying five hundred thousand. Each.”

The woman’s left eyebrow rose slightly. It was the only reaction either of them displayed at the mention of a fee that was five times more than they’d received for Sikorski.

“You have our undivided attention.” Todd said. “And since time is apparently of the essence, I suggest you get on with it. Whom do you want us to kill, how do you want it done, and what provision have you made for our escape afterward?”

“I have it all here,” Harman said pulling a thick envelope from his pocket.