The Zebra Network

Chapter 4

It was very late at night, but they were flying west so that the dawn for them would be delayed. They were seated alone in the first-class section of Air France’s nonstop service to Paris. Behind them, in coach class, the other passengers were quiet, most of them sleeping, their seat backs reclined, their overhead lights switched off. There was nothing to be seen below, in any event. Since this was an overnight flight out of Moscow a regular meal had not been served; snacks had been made available, and of course drinks. In coach class passengers were served in plastic cups, in first class they were served in crystal. The first class stewardess stepped around the corner from the galley and smiled.

“Care for another drink, Monsieur McAllister?” she asked. her pretty white teeth flashing.

“No. Thanks,” McAllister said tiredly. “I think I’ll try to get some rest. How soon will we be in Paris?”

“A little more than an hour.”

McAllister glanced across the aisle at his two escorts. Langley had sent them out from Washington last week and they had waited around the embassy until he was released. Other than introducing themselves at Sheremetyevo Airport when he had been turned over to them, they’d said little or nothing to him. Now, as before, their reticence was bothersome.

Mark Carrick, seated on the aisle, glanced up from the magazine he’d been reading. “It probably would be for the best if you got some shut-eye, sir.”

McAllister looked up. The stewardess had returned to the galley. “What the hell happened back there? One minute I’m on my way to Siberia, and the next thing I know I’m handed over to you two at the airport. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Believe it, sir. You’re going home.“The other agency legman, Thomas Maas, turned away from the window and stared across at McAllister. His expression, like Lacey’s yesterday afternoon in the courtroom was unreadable. But it wasn’t friendly. “Are you feeling all right now, sir?”

“They were drugging my food. It’ll probably take a little while for the stuff to work itself out of my system.”

“They’ll take care of that in Washington,” Carrick said. “They’re all set up for you.”

“But what happened back there? Was a trade made after all?” Carrick shrugged. He was a heavyset man, with short-cropped gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a no-nonsense air about him. “I couldn’t say, sir. Our orders were to wait for your release and then get you home.”

“You knew about my trial?”

“No, sir,” Carrick said.

“Then who sent you out here? Was it Bob Highnote?”

“Why don’t you try to get some rest, Mr. McAllister,” Maas said. “There’ll be a layover in Paris, and again in New York before we can catch the D.C. shuttle. It’s going to be a long trip.”

“You’re probably right,” McAllister mumbled laying his head back and closing his eyes. He wasn’t thinking straight. Everything had happened so fast, with so much finality. After his trial he had been taken back to the Lubyanka where after dinner the clothing he had been wearing the night of his arrest had been returned to him, freshly laundered and pressed. No one came to see him, or even to remove the dishes from his meal, or the suit he’d worn to the trial, until very late.

He had felt betrayed. Lacey’s disappearance at the end of the trial had deeply shaken him, so when his guards came for him around midnight, he was convinced that this was one predicament that wouldn’t be so easy to get out of. All of his life he had relied on his own abilities; he was responsible for his own well-being and safety. Only this time he had absolutely no control over what would happen to him next.

Walking up the familiar corridors and out into the waiting van, he had gone meekly. You can’t fight the whole Russian Army, boyo. The words came to his mind in a familiar yet distant voice. Survival, that’s the name of the game. Hang on, maybe the cavalry will be coming after all. He wondered what his father would have done in the same circumstances, or how his grandfather would have reacted. They’ll break your will sooner or later, he’d been taught at the Farm. It is inevitable. Your job is to hold out for as long as you possibly can.

But they had his confession. Miroshnikov had won after all. The Soviet system had won. They had finally ground him down to nothing, so that he was even incapable of helping himself or offering anything but a token resistance. Attacking Miroshnikov had been nothing more than the pitiful last-ditch stand of a man totally overwhelmed by the odds.

He managed the slightest of smiles. But, damn, it had been worth it.

Voronin’s face swam into view, and McAllister knew that he was drifting now, half in and half out of sleep, the muted hum of the jetliner’s engines lulling him. Voronin had been the gold seam after all. The mother load, in the parlance.

Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. What did it mean? Where was the logic? Why hadn’t they asked him about Voronin? Why?

He’d been to Moscow, so now the answers were waiting for him in Washington. Did he want to pursue them? Or was it time to step down?

Someone touched his arm and he opened his eyes and looked up into the smiling face of the stewardess.

“We’re coming in for a landing, monsieur,” she said. “Please, fasten your seatbelt.”

Charles de Gaulle Airport had always resembled, to McAllister’s way of thinking, a space station of aluminum, glass, and acrylic elevators and moving walkways and brightly lit notice boards directing passengers to the various functions and shops. The airport was divided into two sections: Aerogare 1 which served mostly foreign airlines, and Aerogare 2 which was for the exclusive use of Air France.

They carried no luggage, so customs and passport control were accomplished in a few minutes. The airport was very empty at this early hour and what few French officials were on duty were sleepy and inattentive.

McAllister walked with Carrick and Maas across the terminal where they got on one of the moving sidewalks that took them up into the circular Aerogure 1, for the Pan Am flight to New York. They had a little more than an hour to wait. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed, so they went into a small stand-up cafe near the boarding gate and ordered coffee. Maas went off to make a telephone call leaving McAllister and Carrick alone for a few minutes.

The heavyset CIA legman hunched over his coffee, avoiding McAllister’s eyes. Alone now he seemed somewhat ill at ease, nervous.

McAllister studied the man’s profile for a moment or two. Something was going on. Something was definitely wrong. He had felt it at the airport in Moscow, and on the plane, but he had put his apprehensive feelings aside as simple paranoia; a mild form of drug-induced hysteria. He wasn’t so sure now.

“Excuse me a moment,” he mumbled, stepping away from the counter. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Carrick looked up startled. “I’ll go with you.” McAllister stopped and looked directly into the man’s eyes. “What the hell is going on here, Mark?”

“What do you mean?” Carrick asked. He glanced over McAllister’s shoulder into the broad concourse, evidently searching for Maas to return.

“I’m getting the impression that I’m not returning home the conquering hero. What are your orders?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. McAllister. Shit, I’m just doing my job.”

“Which is?”

“Fetch you home from Moscow.”

“And deliver me to whom?”

“We’ll be met at the airport.”

“What else?” McAllister demanded. He was beginning to feel mean. “What else were you told?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you know what I’ve gone through over the past few weeks?” A hard look came into Carrick’s eyes. He nodded, his jaw tight. “You’re in one piece.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carrick shook his head. “Look, I don’t want to get into it with you, Mr. McAllister.”

“Go ahead, get into it.”

Still Carrick hesitated. Again he looked out into the concourse for Maas.

“If I turn around and walk out of here, are you going to stop me?”

“You’re damned right I’ll stop you. So don’t push it.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“It beats the hell out of me, McAllister. All I know is that you were with the Russians for a goddamned long time, and there are some people back home who’d like to know what you talked to them about, and why you came out in one piece, and why they decided at the last minute to release you-without a trade. They released you straight up.”

“So you think I’m a traitor?”

Carrick’s lip curled into a sneer. “Just don’t try to walk away from me. I’ve got my job to do, that’s all.”

McAllister actually got a couple of hours’ sleep on the transatlantic flight, though it wasn’t restful. After his talk with Carrick in the cafe, his two escorts had become almost surly, dropping any pretense of friendship or respect. He was a traitor returning home under arrest. As on the Air France flight out of Moscow they had first class to themselves, and McAllister sat by himself, confused and angry.

He had given everything to the Agency over the past fourteen years.

A legion of cities and faces and dark alleys and letter drops and onetime codes, and nights waiting at some border crossing for one of his madmen to show up, passed through his mind. He could picture each place and each incident in perfect clarity.

At first it had been exciting. Only later had he begun to wear down, tiring at last of the lies big and little, of the betrayals and of the fact that it had been simply impossible for him and Gloria to have real friends. They’d been able only to maintain sham relationships that if he could be honest with himself and even that had began to come apart at the seams) had began to erode the fabric of his marriage as well as his own mental well being.

Perhaps he had been ripe for an arrest. His tradecraft had been slipping.

He opened his eyes, his heart pounding, a slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He was returning home to what? To questions for which he had no answers. For accusations to which he had no defenses. He had been in the hands of the KGB for more than a month (God, could it have been that long?) and he had resisted to the best of his ability. But it hadn’t been enough. Not enough.

What are you doing to yourself?

He had to do something, move, anything. Unbuckling his seatbelt he got up and before Carrick or Maas could come after him he went forward to where the two stewardesses were seated across from the galley. They looked up.

“Can’t sleep,” McAllister said.

“May I get you something, sir?” one of the girls asked, concerned. “Maybe a drink. Brandy?”

“Sure,” the stew said. She got up and stepped into the narrow galley where she opened a cabinet and took out a couple of small bottles of brandy, and from another cabinet a glass.

“No ice,” McAllister said, taking the drinks from her. “May I take them up to the lounge?”

The girl looked over his shoulder. Carrick stood right behind him. “Sure,” she said.

“Thanks,” McAllister mumbled, and he turned, brushed past Carrick and went back to the circular stairs that led to the 747’s upper level.

The lounge was deserted and dimly lit at this hour. During the daytime and early evening transatlantic flights it would have been filled with first-class passengers drinking and talking. McAllister slumped down at one of the tables as Carrick appeared at the head of the stairs. Opening one of the small bottles, he poured it into the crystal glass, then sat back.

“What are you doing up here?” Carrick asked. McAllister raised his glass. “Care for a drink?”

“No. And with the shit that’s probably still in your system, you shouldn’t have another either.”

“Your concern is touching,” McAllister said. “Look, McAllister..

“No, you look. If you want to talk to me straight, then go ahead. Otherwise keep your mouth shut.”

Carrick said nothing.

McAllister swirled the liquor around in his glass. “I’ve had enough bullshit thrown at me over the past thirty days to last a lifetime. And I’m going to get more of it when I get home, so I don’t need yours now.”

“I didn’t ask for this job.”

“But I did,” McAllister said softly. He took a deep drink, the brandy rebounding in his stomach, and then settling, warmth rising up into his head. “It’s like Nam all over again. No returning hero this time either.”

“None of us were,” Carrick said. “I know what you mean.” In the distance McAllister could hear the mob screaming below on the streets as they tried to break down the embassy gates. There was a lot of small-arms fire through the city, and all night the rockets had come in from every direction. One by one the choppers came in, touched down on the roof and took a load. McAllister and some of the others were among the last to leave. They’d spent most of the night destroying papers and crypto equipment, trying to swallow, as best they could, their deep sense of shame that they were leaving, that they were giving up. God, what a waste. What a terrible waste.

“What happened back there?” Carrick was asking. McAllister focused on him and shrugged. “They say they extracted a confession from me, and I signed it, but I don’t remember doing it.”

“Shit.”

“Have you ever been on an interrogation team?” Carrick shook his head. “No.”

“Neither have I,” McAllister said. “I wonder how we handle the poor bastards we haul in.”

“Better than they treated you,” Carrick said, studying McAllister’s face. “I hope.”

McAllister managed a tired smile. He’d been overreacting again of course. The KGB had had him for a month, Langley would have to know what went on; how much information had the Russians been given-inadvertantly or advertantly. He knew so many names and dates and places; knew about so many operations current as well as past. All of Moscow operations would be in a shambles now, everything would have to be changed. The fallout would already have been tremendous. It would still be happening. Someone was going to have to answer for it. The problem was that there was very little he could tell anyone because he simply could not remember the details of his questioning. They said they had his confession, but what exactly was it he had confessed to? How much information had he given them? The only things he could remember in detail were Miroshnikov’s persistent questions about the Scorpius network, and about Tom Murdock’s whereabouts these days. There’d been nothing about Voronin, or about current Moscow operations, so far as he could remember. Had Miroshnikov been clever enough to read his mind? They’d released him without a trade. A Soviet court had found him guilty of espionage. Why hadn’t he been sent to Siberia? They’d sent a message to Langley by handing him over to Carrick and Maas at the airport, but what exactly was that message?

McAllister opened the second bottle of brandy and emptied it in his glass.

“Maybe you should cool it on that stuff,” Carrick said. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be touching down at JFK pretty soon.”

“It’d be a hell of a deal if you delivered me drunk.” Carrick sat forward. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said earnestly. “We both know that you’re going to be in for a bad time.”

“I’ll need all my wits about me.”

“Well I’ll be damned if I’m going to deliver a drunk,” Maas said at the head of the stairs, a scowl set on his face. He came across the lounge and reached over the table for the glass. McAllister held it out of his reach.

“How badly do you want it?”

“Enough to take you apart, you sonofabitch,” Maas hissed. “Then come and get it, otherwise stay the hell away from me.” Maas started around the table, but Carrick jumped up and shouldered him aside. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Tom?”

“The bastard has cut himself off. He was shaking with anger.

“Is what?” McAllister asked. He didn’t know why he was goading the man, except that he felt battered and he wasn’t going to take much more of it.

What was happening? Where had it gone wrong? Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. He could accept his arrest and his interrogation. He could even accept the inevitability of his trial and conviction. But after that everything had been turned upside down. Had he become a traitor? Is that what had happened to him in the Lubyanka? “You know,” Maas said, backing off. Yes I do know. And yet I know nothing.

McAllister sat back and raised the glass of brandy to his lips as he stared up into the hate-filled eyes of Tom Maas, and the concerned face of Mark Carrick.

At altitude the eastern sky was already beginning to lighten with the dawn, but when they touched down at New York’s JFK Airport it was still dark, the white runway lights giving way to the blue as the giant airliner turned onto the taxiway, Manhattan beyond Queens glowing with a million pinpoints of light.

He was home. It seemed like such a terribly long time since he had been here last, and now he was anxious to get down to Washington to straighten everything out and get on with his life. He was worried about Gloria; how she had been holding up these past weeks, what she had been thinking, and what, if anything, she’d been told. It must have been hell for her. He resolved that he would try again to work on his marriage, to make it better for her. It was time, in any event, for him to get out of the Company. Time to try normalizing his life. Time, as she’d often said, to join the human race.

When they reached the Pan Am terminal, the aircraft’s cabin lights were switched on, the curtain separating first class from coach was pulled aside, and the other passengers began streaming tiredly by. Carrick motioned for McAllister to wait. From his window he could see the boarding tunnel that led into the terminal. A pair of ground crewmen dressed in white coveralls stood at the base of the stairs. One of them was smoking a cigarette, which McAllister found odd.

After all the passengers were gone, McAllister fell in between Carrick and Maas as they got off the plane. Instead of going down the boarding tunnel, Carrick opened the outside door and they took the stairs down to the tarmac. The air was very cold and smelled strongly of burned jet fuel. The 747’s engines had been shut down. On the opposite side of the plane the baggage handlers had opened the cargo bays and were off-loading the luggage, the engine of the baggage train clattering noisily in the crisp air.

“We have a car coming for us,” Carrick said over his shoulder. “What about customs?” McAllister asked. “Forget about it,” Maas said from behind him. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, McAllister looked for the two ground crewmen he’d seen from the plane, but they had disappeared.

Carrick looked at his watch. “They were supposed to be here by now,” he said. “What the hell are we supposed to do, stand out here freezing our balls off?”

McAllister glanced up at the terminal windows. Two New York City cops stood talking, their backs to the window. Something was not quite right. It was the cigarette the one crewman had been smoking. Tiredness, or his internal warning system?

He turned to say something to Carrick when the legman started to swing left as he reached inside his coat. McAllister caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and he began to turn at the same moment the two crewmen he’d seen before, came out of the shadows, big pistols in their hands, silencers on the barrels.

Both men opened fire at the same time, the noise of the silenced gunshots lost to the sounds of the baggage train’s engine.

Carrick was shoved violently back, off his feet, his head bouncing on the pavement. Maas had pushed McAllister aside, and was pulling out his gun when he went down, taking at least three bullets to the torso, his body crumpling in a heap on the boarding tunnel’s stairs.

McAllister, on his hands and knees, scrambled to Carrick’s body and pulled the dead agent’s gun out of his hand, then rolled left, snapping off two shots as he came around. He was sure that he had hit one of the assassins, but then they disappeared into the maintenance basement of the terminal.

It had all happened in a second or two, and as McAllister jumped to his feet he glanced up at the window. One of the cops was looking down at him, a walkie-talkie raised to his lips, a frantic expression on his face. McAllister stepped back a pace, realizing that he was holding Carrick’s gun, and what it must look like to the cop who could not have seen the two gunmen who had never stepped out from beneath the overhang.

His head was spinning from the remnants of the drugs still in his system, and from the alcohol he had consumed on the flight.

They thought he was a traitor, and now there was at least one witness who would swear that he was a killer.