Covert One 7 - The Arctic Event

But what if this evidence has not been or cannot be destroyed, sir, and what if this Colonel Smith and his people reach it first?

If the Americans learn of the March Fifth Event, Major, then they do not leave the island alive. You and the Spetsnaz platoon will see to this.

Smyslov came out of his chair. You cannot be serious, General.

Word of the Event must not be allowed to reach the world at large, Major, under any circumstances.

Smyslov groped for words, for alternatives. General...I can fully understand the critical nature of the situation, but why not have the Spetsnaz go in immediately to procure this evidence before the Americans can arrive.

Because we are walking on a razorÕs edge here! The Americans know of the Misha 124Õs existence. They have learned it is one of our Tupolev-4s. They know now it was a strategic biological weapons platform. If we committed our Spetznaz team now, they could not help but disturb the crash site! The Americans will know we raced in ahead of them. They will be suspicious! They will know we were attempting to conceal something. They will begin to ask questions that must not be asked!

Baronov lifted his hands in frustration. The world has changed, Major. We need the Americans as allies, not enemies. If they learn of the March Fifth Event, we shall be enemies once more.

Begging the generalÕs pardon, but wonÕt the murder of their personnel by our military accomplish the same thing?

The flat of the generalÕs hand slapped down on the steel tabletop. The elimination of the Americans is to be considered an absolute last-resort contingency, a final option to stave off total disaster! We will be relying on you, Major, to ensure that option need not be exercised!

Baronov sighed a tired old manÕs sigh and leaned back in his chair. But if it must be done, it must be done. It is a matter of proportion and perspective, Gregori Andriovitch. If we find ourselves at odds with the United States again, the Russian Federation may yet survive. But if the world and our own people learn of the March Fifth Event, the Motherland, as a nation, is finished!

Ê

Anacosta, Maryland

The big diesel cruiser materialized out of the Potomac mists and stood in toward the marina, ignoring the bright yellow PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING signs posted on the ends of the finger piers. A pair of marina employees, nondescript, long-haired young men in deck shoes, dungarees, and nylon windcheaters, stood by to accept the cruiserÕs lines as it nosed alongside.

Nothing untoward hinted that both the pier hands carried automatic pistols under their jackets or that the cruiserÕs helmsman had a submachine gun racked out of sight below the lip of the cockpit.

The rumble of the cruiserÕs engines broke into an idling whine as the propeller clutches disengaged and the bow and stern lines were deftly snubbed off. A set of boarding steps were positioned, and the yachtÕs lone passenger emerged from its streamlined cabin.

With a nod to the pier hands, Fred Klein disembarked and strode down the fog-dampened planks of the dock. Crossing the broad graveled expanse of the marinaÕs dry-storage area, past the silent, tarpaulin-shrouded shapes of beached pleasure craft on their trailers and stands, Klein continued toward what appeared to be a large windowless warehouse.

The dark green metal prefab building looked new. It should. It had not been there two years before. In all probability, in another yearÕs time, it or at least its contents would be repositioned somewhere else.

This was the headquarters and operations center of Covert One.

Concealed television cameras tracked KleinÕs approach, and magnetic locks clicked open as he came to stand before the heavy steel fire door.

Good morning, sir. The duty doorman accepted KleinÕs hat and topcoat, neatly hanging them up beside the racked assault shotgun. ItÕs a clammy kind of day out there.

That it is, Walt, Klein replied amiably. Maggie in the shop yet?

About half an hour ago, sir.

One of these days IÕll beat her in, Klein murmured in ritual. He continued down the length of the institutional-buff central corridor. No one passed him in the hall, but an occasional murmur of voices or muffled whine of electronics leaked from behind the double row of anonymous gray doors, hinting at the quiet functionality of the headquarters.

At the far end of the passageway lay the command suite.

The outer office was Maggie TempletonÕs techno-lair. The entire room was a computer workstation, dominated by a large desk with no less than three twenty-one-inch flat-screen monitors positioned upon it. A second set of large-screen displays were inset on the far office wall. Her pet bonsai tree and a silver framed photograph of her late husband served as the sole reminders of Margaret TempletonÕs essential humanity.

The blonde looked up from her master display and smiled as Klein card-swiped his way through the security entry. Good morning, Mr. Klein. I hope it was a smooth voyage today.

It can never be smooth enough for me, Maggie, Klein snorted. Someday IÕm going to hunt down the sadist who came up with the brilliant notion of putting the headquarters of the worldÕs worst sailor at a yacht club.

She chuckled, You have to admit, it makes for an excellent cover.

Not really; my being green and nauseated all of the time could give it all away. What have we got this morning?

Templeton instantly toggled over to her professional mode. The Trent Bravo insertion appears to be going well. The team leader is reporting that his personnel and equipment are on the ground inside of Myanmar and that his point man has successfully made contact with the leadership of the Karen National Union.

Klein nodded. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he polished a few fog droplets from his glasses. Anything new with the Wednesday Island operation?

Jon will be linking up with the American members of his team in Seattle tonight and with his Russian liaison in Alaska tomorrow. The equipment set has been pre-positioned, and the helicopter procured from Pole Star.

Any problems with Langley seconding Ms. Russell to us?

Only the usual moaning, whining, bitching, and complaining. Maggie looked up from her screens. If I may make a point, sir. President Castilla is really going to have to make some decisions about our working relationship with our former employers in the near future.

Klein sighed and redonned his glasses. Very possibly, Maggie, but in the words of the immortal Scarlett OÕHara, ÔIÕll think of it tomorrow.Õ Anything else for today?

A planning meeting with the South American Operations group at ten hundred, and you might want to have a look at your ÔFor your considerationÕ file. IÕve compiled a list of known illicit armament dealers believed to have both the potential interest and available resources to deal themselves into the Wednesday Island situation. It makes for interesting reading. IÕve also red-flagged these men and their organizations with all of our available intelligence resources. Any unusual activity on their part is to be reported.

Well done, Maggie, as usual.

Every director should have an executive assistant who could both read minds and foresee the future.

His office, smaller and far less elaborately outfitted, lay beyond MaggieÕs. The few personalized decorationsÑthe framed poster-sized photo of the Earth from orbit, the Elizabethan-era map prints, the large eighteenth-century globe of the worldÑserved him as a reminder of his zone of responsibility.

There was only a single workstation monitor on his mid-grade desk, along with a tray bearing a coffee service for one, a steaming stainless steel thermos, and a single buttered English muffin on a covered dish.

Klein smiled. Removing his suit coat, he draped it neatly over the back of his chair. Settling behind his desk, he poured himself his first cup of coffee and tapped the space bar on his keyboard, calling the monitor to life.

As he sipped, a series of file headings flashed past on the screen. Maggie would have stacked the files in what she viewed as their order of priority.

**KNOWN ILLICIT ARMS DEALERS-MULTINATIONAL-WMD INVOLVEMENT **

**KRETEK GROUP**

**ANTON KRETEK**

A photograph followed, computer enhanced and apparently taken using a long-range telephoto camera. It showed a man, a big, ruddy-featured man, standing on the deck of what appeared to be a large private yacht, scowling in the direction of the camera.

There were many contradictions built into Anton Kretek. The thinning of his rust-colored hair contrasted with the wild profusion of his gray-tinged beard. There was obvious power in his broad shoulders and wiry, long, muscled arms, countered by the furry pot gut of dissipation that bulged over the waistband of his minimal swimming trunks, and while there were thick clusters of laugh wrinkles gathered around his eyes, those eyes were as cold and opaque as those of a hooding king cobra.

Klein decided that this man might indeed laugh a great deal, but it would be at things most normal human beings would not find amusing.

One of Maggie TempletonÕs deft file summaries followed, a distilled essence of the documentation on Kretek, her instincts targeting what Klein would actually want and need to know about the man and his organization:

Interpol and the other Western intelligence agencies concerned with Anton Kretek are unsure if this is the arms dealerÕs true name or an alias. That datum had been lost in the chaos of a disintegrating Yugoslavia. It is known that he is Croatian, from somewhere near the Italian border of that failed nation.

In the tangled eugenic lexicon of the Balkans, a Croat is theoretically a Roman Catholic Southern Slav who uses the Latin alphabet, as opposed to a Serb, who is a Southern Slav following the Greek Orthodox religion and who uses Cyrillic.

Kretek, to the best of anyoneÕs knowledge, follows the tenets of no organized religion. The arms dealer is a rarity amid the deep racial, religious, political and tribal passions of Mittel Europa. He appears to be totally aracial, areligious, apolitical and atribal. As with the true criminal mentality, his own survival and well-being appear to be his sole concern. To date, in this endeavor, he has been eminently successful.

Kretek has boasted of starting his organization with a single car trunkload of rifle cartridges looted from a Yugoslavian Army depot. From this humble origin, over a period of fifteen years, he has built the Kretek Group into a multimillion-dollar criminal smuggling combine involved in the supplying and maintenance of every major and minor armed conflict in the Mideast and Mediterranean Basin.

The Kretek Group is amorphous, like an octopus that is continuously casting off and regrowing its tentacles. It is known that there is a definite head, a tight-knit trusted command cadre clustered around Kretek himself, and an ever-changing network of mercenaries, hirelings, and sub-gangs, drawn into the circle, utilized for a few operations, and then discarded.

The amorphous nature of the Kretek Group is a security measure. In addition, the liaison and contact men between these subcontractors and the Kretek core cadre have a striking history of violent death and sudden disappearance, rendering a court-viable chain of evidence between Kretek and his individual operations difficult if not impossible to establish.

There is also no known fixed headquarters for the Kretek Group. Like many despots before him, he has learned the survivability of mobility. His group headquarters are continuously on the move within the more loosely regulated and unstable of the Balkan states, never providing a sitting target. While still an essential blunt-force operator, Kretek has learned to appreciate and employ modern business telecommunications to keep a grip on his far-flung enterprises.

The corpse of his native Yugoslavia provided Kretek with profitable early pickings. In the Kosovo Province, Serbian militiamen and Albaniko guerrillas slaughtered each other with ordnance provided without prejudice by the Kretek Group, and Kretek was rumored to be the primary intermediary in the covert arms dealings between the dictatorships of Slobodan Milosevic and Saddam Hussein.

With Milosevic unseated and with NATO forcing peace down the throats of the various Balkan combatants, Kretek has expanded his range of endeavor, the combatants of the Sudanese civil war and the terrorist factions of the Mideast becoming his new primary clients.

A more critical and immediate concern are the indications that Kretek is no longer content with the profit margins to be made with conventional munitions. There are now indications the Kretek Group is seeking a market entry into the ABCs: atomic, biological and chemical arms. It is feared that Anton Kretek might make as great a success of this new field of operation as he has his other criminal enterprises.

A brief segment had been highlighted at the end of the brief.

Personal Notes to the Director:

A: In the opinion of the Executive Assistant, the Kretek Group is a prime example of the kind of organization that would view the Misha 124 as a golden opportunity. They are fluid, highly adaptive, risk taking and totally ruthless.

B: Beyond the perameters of the current Wednesday Island situation, it should be pointed out that the Kretek Group is currently very much a one man operation. The elimination of Anton Kretek would, in all probability, lead to the direct dissolution of the Kretek Group and an increase in stability within a number of U.S. spheres of concern. Again in the opinion of the EA, this makes Anton Kretek a valid subject for a sanctioning operation, should a lock on his position ever be established and should suitable wet assets be available.

Klein smiled grimlyÑthe female of the species was deadlier than the male. Maggie Templeton was probably correct. This was the face of the potential enemy. Men like Anton Kretek would view two tons of loose anthrax as a glittering possibility.

And Maggie was probably correct about something else. The world would likely be a better place without its Anton Kreteks.

Ê

The Eastern Coast of the Adriatic

The tides were out, the seas were low, and stars glittered through a broken cloud cover above a broad strip of dark, hard-packed sand. Above the beach lay the dunes, anchored by a hogÕs hairÐthin scattering of rank grasses and studded with a row of crudely made concrete pillboxes. Long left to the nesting seabirds, the abandoned fortifications were a physical manifestation of the paranoid delusions of the late and unlamented government of Enver Hoxha.

Beyond the dunes brooded the sullen, forested hills of Albania.

Gears ground in the night, and two vehicles, an elderly, blunt-nosed Mercedes truck and a smaller and newer Range Rover, jounced slowly down the rutted beach access road, driving by the dim glow of their parking lights.

At the mouth of the access, the little convoy paused, and two men in the baggy trousers and rough leather jackets of the Albanian working class dropped from the tailgate of the Mercedes and took up positions to cover the road. Each man carried a Croatian-made Agram submachine gun with a heavy cylindrical silencer screwed to its stubby barrel.

It was highly unlikely that anyone would venture down to this desolate stretch of seaside in the small hours of the morning. But if they did, policeman or peasant, they would die.

The trucks ran half a mile up the beach to the broadest, straightest reach of sand and halted. Half a dozen more armed men disembarked from the Rover and the truck cab, setting about a long-practiced drill.

As two of the men lingered beside the hood of the parked Rover, watching the sky, the others fanned out, creating an airfield.

Chemical glow sticks were broken and shaken into life, their butt ends inserted into short lengths of copper tubing. The men then spiked the sticks into the sand at spaced intervals in a long double row. In minutes, the flare path of an ad hoc runway glowed a dim blue-green in the night, invisible from beyond the dunes but readily apparent to anyone passing overhead.

The men fell back to the vehicles and waited, fingering their pistols and SMGs.

As watch hands crept to the appointed hour, the drone of aero engines became audible, and a winged shadow swept past, paralleling the beach, its running lights extinguished. The leader of the party, a big red-bearded man in corduroy trousers and a thick Fair Isle sweater, aimed an Aldis lamp and blazed it at the aircraft. Two short flashes, a pause, and two short again.

This was another of Anton KretekÕs survival mechanisms: to stay in the field and personally supervise as many of his operations as he could. It was a good way to know whom to trust and whom to purge.

The plane, a Dornier 28D Skyservant STOL transport with twin engines and a high-set wing, ran another circuit around the beach airstrip and came in to land. With its engines throttled back to an idling mutter, it flared and settled between the rows of glow sticks, its fixed landing gear kicking up a thin, hissing spray of wet sand.

Kretek aimed and flared his Aldis lamp again, guiding the plane in to a halt beside the trucks. The DornierÕs propellers continued to flicker over, but its side cargo hatch swung open, disgorging a single figure.

The man was small, dark and slender, and nervous with the world. A Palestinian Arab, his eyes moved constantly, trusting neither his environment nor his company.

Good evening, my friend, good evening, the larger red-haired man called over the sound of the aircraft engines. Welcome to beautiful Albania.

You are Kretek? the Palestinian demanded.

So I have often been accused, Anton Kretek replied, setting the lamp on the hood of the Range Rover.

The Arab was in no mood for jocularity. You have the material?

ThatÕs why we are both here, my friend. The arms dealer started toward the Mercedes truck. Come have a look for yourself.

By the beam of a single flashlight, heavy cases of dark, waxed cardboard were being unloaded from the rear of the truck, the cases marked in the Cyrillic alphabet and bearing the international bomb-burst warning symbol for high explosives. Indicating that one case was to be set aside, Kretek flicked open a folding-bladed hunting knife and slashed through the yellow plastic strapping.

Lifting the lid revealed tightly packed brick-sized blocks wrapped in waxed paper. Opening the wrapper revealed a dense, smooth puttylike material the color of margarine.

Military-grade Semtex plastique. Kretek gestured at it. Twelve hundred kilogramsÕ worth, all of it less than three months old and completely stable. Guaranteed to kill Jews and send your dedicated volunteers on to their seventy-two virgins with smiles on their lips.

The ArabÕs head jerked up, a spark of anger in his dark, expressive eyes. The anger of the fanatic confronted with the shopkeeper. When you speak of the holy warriors of Muhammad and of the liberators of the Palestinian people, you will speak with respect!

The arms runnerÕs eyes went opaque and cold. Everyone is liberating something, my friend. As for me, I liberate money. You have your merchandise; now I will have my paymentÑand Muhammad and the Palestinian people be damned.

The Arab started to flare but then noted the circle of grim Slavic faces drawing in around the pool of flashlight. Sullenly he took a fat manila envelope from inside his jacket, tossing it down atop the open case of explosives.

Kretek caught up the envelope. Opening it, he counted the neat strapped bundles of euros, verifying the denominations. It is good, he said finally. Load it.

The ton and a half of high explosives went aboard the transport plane, the DornierÕs crew balancing and tying down the lethal cargo. In a matter of minutes the last case was stowed and the Arab payoff man scrambled after it without a parting word or a look back. The fuselage doors slammed shut, and the planeÕs propellers revved to taxiing power, blasting the arms smugglers with its sand-loaded slipstream.

Again the Dornier raced down the faint flare path. Lifting into the black sky, it executed a climbing turn out over the Adriatic, its engines growing fainter with distance.

KretekÕs men dispersed once more to collect the glow sticks. In an hour or two, all evidence of the landing would be erased by the incoming tide.

Kretek and his lieutenant trudged back to the Range Rover.

IÕm not sure if I like this, Anton, Mikhail Vlahovitch said, slinging his Agram over his shoulder. Squatter and balder than Kretek, the pan-featured exÐSerbian Army officer was one of a very elite cadre within the Kretek Group permitted to call the arms dealer by his first name. You play a risky game with these people.

Vlahovitch was also one of an even smaller cadre who had the ultimate privilege of questioning one of Anton KretekÕs command decisions without being killed for it.

WhatÕs to be concerned about, Mikhail? Kretek chuckled fatly, slapping his second in command on his free shoulder. WeÕve met their airplane. WeÕve delivered the merchandise as we promised. We received the payment agreed upon, and they flew away. We have fulfilled our contract completely. As for what happens afterward? Who can say?

But this will be their second shipment lost. The Arabs are bound to be suspicious!

Pish, pish, pish, the Arabs are always suspicious. They are always certain everyone is out to persecute them. This can be a good thing. We can make use of this.

Kretek paused beside the passenger door of the Range Rover. Reaching in through the lowered window, he popped open the glove compartment. When we negotiate our next series of arms sales to the Jihad, we will simply place the blame where it properly belongs. We will tell them that Israeli Mossad agents are operating in the Balkans and are attempting to interfere with the flow of armaments bound for the Mideast. Beyond hating everyone else, Arabs love to hate the Jews. They will be happy to blame them for the loss of their munitions.

Kretek straightened, holding a gray metal box the size of a carton of cigarettes. He extended a telescoping aerial from the top of the box and flicked on a power switch, a green check light glowing in response.

You will tell them about the Jews, Anton? Vlahovitch questioned skeptically.

Why shouldnÕt I? ItÕs the truth, isnÕt it? The Jews are responsible. Our terrorist friends are excellent clients. They pay us good money in exchange for the weapons and explosives we sell to them. They deserve to know the truth... Kretek flipped a safety guard up and off the central key on the transmitter. ...just not quite all of it. ThereÕs no need to mention all of the good money the Mossad is paying to see that those weapons and explosives never arrive.

Kretek pressed with a calloused thumb. Out in the night a receiver-detonator carefully grafted inside a doctored block of Semtex reacted to the electronic impulse.

There was a flash like ruddy heat lightning over the Adriatic, and the distant thud of a massive explosion as the Dornier and its crew vaporized.

This is the secret of doing good business, Mikhail, Kretek said with satisfaction. You must always do your best to please as many clients as possible.

The ancient stone-walled farmhouse had been built before the birth of Napoleon and had been occupied by successive generations of the same family for almost three centuries.

In the United States this would have made it a historic landmark. In Albania this made it just another weary, overused building in an overused land.

For the past fifty-odd years, a variety of governments had promised the occupants of the farm electricity soon, but only now had it arrived, in the form of the snarling Honda generators of the Kretek GroupÕs headquarters.

The straw pallets and crude homemade furnishings had been emptied from one of the damp sleeping rooms, replaced by the folding field desks, satellite phones, and civil sideband transceivers of the communications section. The guard force had made a billet of the barn, and their camouflaged pickets had the farm isolated from all contact with the outside world, from within or without, and the transport section had their vehicles concealed in the other outbuildings.

The members of the headquarters unit were accustomed to such temporary quarters. They never remained in the same location for more than seven days at a time. One week in a resort villa on the Rumanian coast, the next on the rented top floor of a luxury hotel in Prague, the third aboard a fishing trawler cruising the Aegean, or, as now, a dank stone farmhouse in Albania.

Never give your enemies a sitting targetÑthat was yet another of Anton KretekÕs survival precepts. The temptation to relax and wallow in the good life provided by his successes was strong, almost overwhelming at times, but the arms merchant knew that to be a road that led to disaster.

It was also beneficial for the lads to see that the Old Man still had a sharp eye and a stone fist and that he wasnÕt afraid to get it bloody. It was good for discipline.

How did it go, Anton? KretekÕs chief of communications asked as the arms dealer pushed through the low doorway into the farmhouseÕs combined kitchen and living room.

No difficulties, my friend, Kretek growled amiably. You may contact the Palestinians and tell them their shipment is on its way. Whether it will arrive... Kretek mugged a blank look and shrugged his broad shoulders.

The men seated around the rough central table knew they should laugh.

Barring the single glaring bulb of a safety light hung from an overhead beam, the room itself might have been a museum tableau from the eighteenth century with its low ceiling, its dingily whitewashed stone walls, and the broad fireplace that served for both cooking and heating, a vine-cutting fire smoldering on the blackened hearth. The puncheon plank floors were worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, and the outside entrance was a low-set, high-silled, skull-cracker doorway designed to slow the initial attacking rush of bandits and family enemies.

It served as no defense to bandits invited into the house, however. The farmÕs owner and his fourteen-year-old daughter stood silently near the fireplace, relying on the ancient peasantÕs defense of unobtrusiveness.

Ah, Gleska, my sweet, you awaited your knightÕs return, and with hot tea. Just the thing for a cold morning.

Unspeaking, the girl lifted the kettle from the fireplace crane and brought it to the table, filling one of the grime-opaque glasses with powerful twice-brewed black tea. Kretek dropped into the free chair beside the glass, squeezing the girlÕs buttocks through her cheap cotton skirt. Thank you, my love. I will warm myself with your good tea, and then in a little bit, when I have finished my work, I will warm you.

With a ferocious mock growl, he drew her in and buried his face between her almost non-existent breasts, eliciting another volley of coarse laughter from his men.

At the fireplace a flare of impotent fury flashed in her fatherÕs eyes, only to be masked instantly. He had been pleased when he had rented his farm to these men for more money than he could make with five years of hard labor. He had not known then that he would also be renting his only girl child. But he was Albanian, and he understood the rule of the gun. The men with the guns make the rules, and these men had a great many guns. The girl would survive, and they would survive as Albanian peasants had always survived: by enduring.

Releasing the girl, Kretek poured sugar into his tea from the cracked bowl on the table. Anything new come in while I was delivering the shipment, Crencleu?

Only one e-mail, sir. The communications chief passed a single sheet of hard copy across the table. On your personal address, in your house code.

Kretek flipped open the sheet and studied the message. Slowly a wolflike smile broke through the brush of KretekÕs beard.

ItÕs good news from the family, my friends, he said finally. Very good news, indeed.

The pretense of joviality passed, and he looked up, eyes distant and intent. Crencleu, advise our Canadian point men that the arctic operation is on and that they are to proceed with preparations with all speed. Call in the selected force team and have them rendezvous at our point of departure in Vienna. Mikhail...

Yes, sir, his executive officer spoke crisply. It was obvious the old wolf was on the track once more, this time for the richest prize in the groupÕs history. Vlahovich had been unsure a few days before, when he had first heard of the arctic plan. It had seemed extreme, a wild long shot. But if it could be made to work, the payoff could be astronomical. Now even the dour Serb began to catch the fever.

Inform all headquarters sections to load and prepare to move out. I wish to be on the road in... Kretek paused, and his eyes flicked toward the fireplace and the slim, silent figure standing beside it. The Albanian race had never been known for producing great beauties from among its women, and this little chit wasnÕt much even at that, but she was here and she was young and she was paid for. ...an hour and a half.

He might as well get his moneyÕs worth out of little Gleska before she and the rest of her family perished in their tragic house fire.

Ê

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

Fall meant fog in the Pacific Northwest. The landing lights of the jetliners sweeping in to the runways cut like slow comets through the sinking overcast, and the tops of the hotels along the airport strip faded out of existence in the gathering dusk, illuminated windows diffusing into a golden glow within the mist.

As the bubble elevator climbed the exterior of the Doubletree Hotel tower, Jon Smith watched the sharp edges and details fade from the night. He wore knife-creased army greens, and he was alone for the moment. That would change presently. He was en route to link up with the other members of his team, one a stranger and the other not exactly a friend.

He couldnÕt blame Fred Klein for his personnel selection. The directorÕs choice had been a logical one. HeÕd worked with Randi Russell before. They had been thrown together on a number of missions, almost as if fate were perversely entangling their life paths. Smith recognized her as a first-class operator: experienced, dedicated, and highly intelligent, with a weirdly diverse set of talents and a useful capacity for total ruthlessness when required.

But she came with a penalty.

The elevator doors split and rumbled apart, and Smith stepped out into the dusty rose-and-bronze-themed entry of the rooftop restaurant and lounge. The hostess looked up from her podium expectantly.

My name is Smith. IÕm here to join the Russell party.

The hostessÕs brows lifted, and there was a momentÕs open and curious appraisal. Yes, sir. Right this way, please.

She led Smith across the low-lit lounge. Silenced by the dark carpeting underfoot, their steps didnÕt break the murmur of subtle music and soft conversation. And then Smith understood the hostessÕs flash of curiosity.

Randi had selected a table in the sunken rear corner of the dining room, an isolated setting partially screened from the other patrons by a decorative planter wall. It was a table intended for privacy, suitable for the quiet planning conference to come.

But it would also serve as a very suitable loversÕ rendezvous, and Smith was meeting with not just one exceptionally beautiful woman but with two.

Smith smiled wryly to himself. He hoped the hostess would enjoy her mŽnage ˆ trois fantasy. She would have no idea how totally wrong she was.

Hello, Randi, he said. I never knew you could fly a helicopter.

She looked up from the table and nodded coolly. ThereÕs a lot about me you donÕt know, Jon.

The first few seconds were never easy. The old twist in the guts was still there. Although Dr. Sophia Russell had been the older sister, she and Randi had been like twins. With the passage of time, the resemblance had grown almost eerie.

He wondered sometimes what Randi saw when she looked at him. Likely nothing pleasant.

Randi wore black suede tonight, a jacket, skirt, and boots outfit that matched the flare of her good looks and complemented the multitinted gold of her hair. Her dark eyes held his for a fraction of an instant, then darted away. Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, this is Professor Valentina Metrace.

These eyes were gray under a glossy fringe of midnight-colored hair, and they met his, level and interested, with a glint of humor in their depths. The professor was in black as well, black satin evening pajamas that molded to a slim yet pleasantly curved figure, hinting that there was not a great deal worn underneath them. Checking into a motel must be hell, she said, extending her hand to him. Her voice was low, with a hint of something like a British accent.

The hand was held palm down, not to be shaken but to have its slender fingers lightly clasped as a blood royal might accept the touch of a courtier.

It was apparent that Valentina Metrace was an attractive woman who thoroughly enjoyed being an attractive woman and who enjoyed reminding men of the fact.

The tension broke, and Smith took the offered hand for a moment. The spelling of the first name helps, he deadpanned.

Smith ordered a pilsner to match RandiÕs white wine and Professor MetraceÕs martini. All right, he said, pitching his voice so it couldnÕt carry to the next occupied table. This is the word as it has been given. Tomorrow weÕre out of here on the eight forty-five Alaskan Airlines flight to Anchorage. Our equipment kit and our helicopter are being pre-positioned there. We will also be joining up with our Russian liaison officer, a Major Gregori Smyslov of the Federation Air Force.

From Anchorage weÕll fly ourselves to Sitka. There we rendezvous with the USS Alex Haley, the Coast Guard ice cutter that will carry us within range of Wednesday Island.

Who are we? Randi inquiredÑa peculiar question for anyone not in their peculiar trade.

The cover story established for this operation will permit us to pretty much maintain our own identities, Smith replied. As Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, MD, IÕll be acting as the mission pathologist, attached to Department of Defense graves registration. My primarily concern will be with the recovery and forensic identification of the bodies of the aircrew.

Professor Metrace will also essentially be who she is, a civilian historical consultant working under contract with the DOD. Supposedly, her job will be the identification of the aircraft itself, should the wreck be of a U.S. Air Force B-29. Again, supposedly, Major Smyslov is to perform much the same duty should the plane prove to be a Russian TU-4. WeÕll be maintaining the fiction that the bomberÕs origins are still unknown, at least until we reach the crash site.

YouÕre the tricky one, Randi. As of this moment you are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. The Wednesday Island expedition is a multinational scientific project, and NOAA and the U.S. Coast Guard are providing the logistical support. That includes the insertion and extraction of the personnel. You and the Alex Haley are being sent up there to pull the expedition out before the onset of the polar winter. Your own name is probably safe, and appropriate cooked documentation will be provided with the equipment kit.

Her gaze dropped away to the tabletop for an instant. Is it possible for me to know who IÕm actually working for?

Smith regretted the answer he had to give. You are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration.

He could feel RandiÕs tension ramp up. By now, her superiors must have surmised that there was a new player in the covert operations game. A new elite outfit, working outside LangleyÕs authority but with the pull to tap the CIAÕs resources at will. From past personal experience Randi must also have surmised that he, Smith, was part of that new organization. It would rankle a veteran operative to be left out of the loop in this fashion. Jon had no choice in the matter. Covert One remained need to know, and to put it bluntly, Randi Russell did not need to know, just to obey.

I see, she continued stiffly. I gather I will be taking my orders from you in this operation.

From me or from Professor Metrace.

Randi snapped her head around to stare at Metrace. The dark-haired mobile cipher operative merely lifted an eyebrow and her glass, taking a final sip of her martini.

This situation was simply getting better and better. Being positioned as the junior member of the team could only further ruffle RandiÕs feathers. What had his mountain warfare instructor warned him of the other day, that he was forgetting how to command? Well, by God, he had better start remembering right now.

Professor Metrace is to be considered my executive officer on this operation. Should I not be available, she has full decision-making authority on all aspects of the mission. Is that understood?

RandiÕs eyes met his again, expressionless. Fully, Colonel.

Their meal came and went in near silence; Smith had the salmon while Randi Russell ate lightly at a dinner salad. The only one who truly seemed to enjoy her food was Valentina Metrace, consuming her steak and baked potato with a dainty, unconcerned fierceness.

She was also the one who dove back into the mission over their after-dinner coffee.

One of our Keyhole reconnaissance satellites got a clear-weather pass over the Misha crash site, she said, removing a set of photo prints from her shoulder bag. It gives us a much better look at what weÕre dealing with than the ground photography from the science expedition.

Smith frowned at his copy of the overhead imaging. It could clearly be seen that the downed bomber was indeed an exact clone of a B-29. The slender, torpedolike fuselage and the lack of a stepped cockpit were unmistakable.

Are you sure this is one of theirs? Randi asked, mirroring SmithÕs thoughts.

The historian nodded. Um-hum. Most of the insignia paint has been storm scoured away, but you can just make out the red star on the starboard wingtip. ThereÕs no doubt; itÕs a TU-4 Bull. Specifically itÕs the TU-4A strategic-strike variant, intended for the delivery of atomic or biochemical weapons. WhatÕs more, this one was an America bomber.

Smith glanced up. An America bomber?

An aircraft specifically configured for attacks on targets in the continental United States. ItÕs been stripped and lightened to maximize its range. Reaching across the table, Valentina traced a manicured fingernail down the spine of the aircraft. You can see how all of the defensive gun turrets except for the tail stingers have been removed and the mounts fared over. Most of the armor will have been removed as well and auxiliary fuel tanks installed in the wings and aft bomb bay.

She looked up from the photo. Even so modified, the TU-4 had very decided limitations as an intercontinental delivery system. Striking over the pole from the nearest Soviet bases in Siberia, they could just barely reach targets in the northern-tier states. And the missions would all have been one-way. There would have been no fuel left for a return flight.

Missiles with men inside, Smith mused.

Essentially, but they were what Stalin had at the time.

And how did he get his hands on them in the first place? Randi asked in puzzlement. I gather these were our best bombers during the Second World War. We certainly didnÕt just give them to the Soviets.

We did, but inadvertently, the historian replied. Early on during the strategic bombing campaign against the Japanese home islands, three B-29s were forced to land in Vladivostok because of battle damage or engine failure. The crews and aircraft were interned by the Russians, who, at the time, were neutral in our war against Japan. Eventually, we got our aircrews back, but the bombers were never returned.

Instead Stalin ordered Andrei Tupolev, one of RussiaÕs greatest aircraft designers, to produce an exact copy of the B-29 for Soviet Long Range Aviation.

She smiled ruefully. It was the most incredible reverse-engineering project in history. Aviation historians whoÕve had the opportunity to closely examine examples of the Soviet Bull were always puzzled over a small round hole drilled into the leading edge of the left wing. They could never figure out what it was for. When the Russians were asked about it they stated that they didnÕt know what it was for, either. It had just been there on the B-29 airframe they had broken down for blueprinting.

Come to find out, it had probably been a bullet hole made by the machine guns of a Japanese interceptor. But Stalin had specified that he wanted an exact copy of the Superfortress, and what Uncle Joe wanted, he got!

Her finger continued to trace the outlines of the wrecked bomberÕs wings. She obviously hit flat and skidded across the glacier on her belly. And given the way these propellers are bent, all of her engines were still running when she went in.

Smith scowled. If she still had all of her engines, what forced her down?

Valentina shook her head. I, and the experts IÕve consulted, havenÕt a clue. There is no indication of a midair structural failure, battle damage, or a collision. All of the control surfaces are present and accounted for, and thereÕs no sign of a fire before or after the crash. The best guess is that they were running out of fuel and the pilot set down on the island while he still had power for a controlled approach and landing.

Then wouldnÕt they have had plenty of time to send a distress call before going down? Randi inquired.

Professor Metrace shrugged slim shoulders. YouÕd think so, wouldnÕt you? But radio conditions around the Pole can be tricky. They could have encountered a magnetic storm or a dead zone that killed their transmissions.

Their low-keyed discussion broke as a waitress approached and refilled their coffee cups. When it was safe to resume, Randi inquired about the planeÕs crew.

They lived, at least for a time. Once more Valentina tapped the photo print. This was an entirely survivable landing. The crew must have gotten out. ThereÕs even evidence to that effect. The cowling of the starboard outboard engine has been removed. You can see it lying on the ice beside the wing. It was probably done to drain the oil out of the engine sump for use in a signal fire.

But what happened to them? Randi insisted.

As I said, Ms. Russell, they must have survived for a time. They would have had sleeping bags, arctic clothing, and emergency rations. But eventually... Once more the professor shrugged.

The fog swirled thickly beyond the restaurant window beside them, a chill pang pulsing through the glass. It would not have been a good death, castaway in the cold and eternal polar darkness. But then, Smith knew of few good ways to die. How large would the crew have been?

For a stripped TU-4, at least eight men. In the nose youÕd have the aircraft commander, the copilot, the bombardierÐweapons officer, who would also have served as the planeÕs political officer, the navigator, the flight engineer, and the radio operator. Then, in the tail, youÕd have the radar operator, possibly an observer or two, and the stinger gunner.

A thought swirled momentarily behind ValentinaÕs steel-colored eyes. IÕd fancy having a look at the ammunition magazines of those tail guns, she murmured, almost to herself.

YouÕll get the chance, Professor, Smith replied.

Make it Val, please, she responded with a smile. I only use ÔprofessorÕ when IÕm trying to impress a grants committee.

Smith gave an acknowledging nod. Okay, Val, is there any indication of the anthrax still being aboard?

She shook her head. Impossible to tell. In a bioequipped TU-4A, the reservoir would have been mounted here, in the forward bomb bay. As you can see, the fuselage is intact. The containment vessel itself would have been made of stainless steel and would have been built like a bomb casing, sturdy enough to survive at least a moderate crash impact.

Could it have leaked? Randi inquired. The reservoir, I mean. Could the crew have been exposed to the anthrax while in flight? Maybe thatÕs what forced them down?

Smith shook his head. No. That couldnÕt have been it. Bacillus anthracis is a comparatively slow-acting pathogen. Even with a high concentration of inhalational anthrax in a closed environment, the incubational period would still be at least one to six days. Anthrax also responds well to massive doses of prophylactic antibiotics. By 1953 the Russians would have had access to penicillin. A biowar crew would have been equipped to handle an accidental exposure. Anthrax only gets ugly if you arenÕt set up to deal with it or if you donÕt recognize it for what it is.

How ugly?

Very. Without immediate treatment, the mortality rate for inhalational anthrax is ninety to ninety-five percent. Once the germinated spores infest the lymph nodes and start to elaborate toxins, even with full antibiotic and supportive medical care, thereÕs still a seventy-five percent probability of death.

Smith sat back in his chair. Needless to say, IÕll have enough doxycycline in my kit to treat a small army, along with a serum that can give a short-lived immunity. Working at USAMRIID IÕve also been inoculated with the anthrax vaccine. Have either of you?

The two women looked at him, wide-eyed, shaking their heads.

Smith smiled grimly. Oh, well, if you see any fine, grayish-white powder lying around, better let me deal with it.

Valentina Metrace lifted her elegantly sculpted eyebrows. I wouldnÕt think of denying you, Colonel.

My preliminary briefing indicated that there might be two metric tons of this stuff aboard that plane, Randi said. ThatÕs over four thousand pounds, Jon. What would that translate to in area effectiveness?

LetÕs put it this way, Randi. You could carry enough anthrax spores in your purse to contaminate the entire city of Seattle. The Misha 124Õs warload would have been adequate to blanket the entire East Coast.

Given a perfect distribution pattern of the agent, that is, Professor Metrace interjected. ThatÕs always been the problem with any biological or chemical weapon. They tend to clump on you, and you end up wasting ninety percent of it.

The historianÕs high-fashion appearance contrasted radically with her topic of discussion, but the absolute surety with which she spoke left little doubt as to her expertise. The Russians used a dry aerosol dispersal system with the TU-4A. Essentially the bomber was a giant crop duster. Ram airs in the engine cowlings would scoop up and compress the slipstream, channeling it through ductwork to the reservoir manifolds. There the airflow would strip the powdered spores from the containment vessel and spray them out through vents under the wings.

A crude system with poor metering control as compared to wet dispersal, but it had the advantages of being simple and comparatively light in weight. Depending upon your drop altitude and the prevailing winds, a strip of land a dozen miles wide by several hundred long could have been rendered lethally uninhabitable for decades.

For decades? Randi looked startled.

Valentina nodded. Anthrax spores are tough little bastards. They love organic, nitrogen-rich environments like common garden-variety dirt, and they remain virulent for a positively obscene length of time.