Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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The ferry shuttled him across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon's Tsim Sha Tsui district. Jeinsen's earlier elation changed when he began to walk through Hong Kong's tourist ghetto. He found Tsim Sha Tsui crowded, energetic, and bright. It was still daylight but already the multitude of neon signs overwhelmed his senses. The streets were full of countless restaurants, pubs, clothing stores, sleazy bars, camera and electronics stores, hotels, and people. Traffic was bumper to bumper and the noise was deafening. Jeinsen suddenly felt his age.

He hailed a taxicab and gave the driver the address. The car went east past the Peninsula Hotel, recognizable by the two stone lions in front, and into what was known as Tsim Sha Tsui East, a more upscale version of its western neighbor. The buildings were more modern and there seemed to be more breathing space between them.

The taxi arrived at the Purple Queen within minutes. Jeinsen paid the driver, got out, and faced the nightclub. It was obviously an elegant establishment. The structure looked no more than ten years old and was surrounded by a series of dancing fountains. A suggestive silhouette of a nude woman was embossed on the side of the building next to the tinted glass doors. The nightclub was closed–a sign prominently read OPEN 5:00 P.M., CLOSE 5:00 A.M. Jeinsen looked at his watch and realized he hadn't reset it for local time. Counting ahead silently, he figured it to be nearly four in the afternoon. Jeinsen tried the front door but it was locked.

He knocked loudly and waited a moment. Puzzled, he started to walk around to the side when he heard the lock disengage. A very large, intimidating Chinese man in a business suit appeared and barked, "Yes?"

"I–I–I'm here to see Mr. Wong," Jeinsen muttered. He was suddenly very nervous.

The doorman glared at him for a couple of seconds and then nodded. He stepped aside and made way for Jeinsen to enter.

"Thank you," the physicist said.

"Mr. Wong back here," the big man said. "Follow me."

The doorman led Jeinsen through the nightclub's main floor. The place was lit as if it were about to open for business. Darkness prevailed but tasteful pin lights in the ceiling accentuated the tables and divans. Strategically placed planters held all manner of tropical flowers and plants. A large aquarium dominated one wall and a spacious bottom-lit dance floor occupied the middle of the room.

Jeinsen gawked at the furnishings as he trailed behind the big man. "Very nice place," he said. "Does Mr. Wong own it?" The doorman ignored him.

They went through a door marked, in English and Chinese, EMPLOYEES ONLY. It opened to a dimly lit corridor lined with four doors.

"Last door on left, please," the man said, pointing.

"Oh. Okay, thank you." Jeinsen smiled sheepishly and went through. The door shut behind him.

Jeinsen apprehensively walked down the hall and knocked on the appropriate door.

"Come in." Jeinsen wasn't sure if the voice belonged to Mr. Wong. Perhaps it did. He opened the door and went inside. The room was obviously some kind of office, but it had been covered in the kind of plastic sheeting that painters use to protect furniture and carpets.

Without warning, someone standing behind the door shoved Jeinsen. The elderly scientist and U.S. government traitor fell forward to his hands and knees. His penultimate sensation was feeling the cold end of a gun barrel on the back of his head.

The last thing his brain recorded was the sound of the gunshot.

5

" NOBODYreads anymore, that's the goddamned problem!"

Harry Dagger drops a stack of books on the floor and surveys the overflowing shelves in his tiny English-language bookshop. He looks at me helplessly.

"Don't ask me what to do," I say.

"I stock more books than I can sell. I swear I'm going to go out of business if I don't move some of these things. Sam, you wouldn't want to buy a couple of cartons' worth and I'll gladly ship them to the States for you?"

"No, thanks, Harry. I'm afraid I have all I need," I say as I sip the glass of Russian vodka he's given me. I know you're supposed to down the thing in one chug but that's not my style. Since Harry's an American I don't feel the pressure to drink like the Russians.

Harry's Bookshop, which is tucked away a few blocks northeast of Gorky Park in Moscow, is really a safe house for American intelligence agents. Harry Dagger has been operating in Moscow for nearly forty years. He was CIA during the sixties, seventies, and most of the eighties, and retired just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Harry set up his bookshop in 1991 and never expressed a desire to leave Russia. Possessing many friends in the government, Harry has managed to keep his nose clean and run a respectable business. The authorities may or may not know he also hosts out-of-town spies and provides them with Moscow intelligence but so far he's never had any trouble.

Now pushing seventy, Harry Dagger is exactly the kind of man you might find running an antiquarian bookshop in any American city. He's fussy, a bit unkempt, and extremely knowledgeable about the publishing business and authors in general. He also knows a hell of a lot about Russian spy networks, the Russian Mafiya, government corruption, and anything else that a lowly Splinter Cell such as myself might be interested in knowing.

He also resembles Albert Einstein, which makes him quite a character.

"But that's neither here nor there," he says, sitting in the chair across the worktable from me. He takes his vodka, neat of course, and downs it in one go. He eyes me nursing my glass and says, "Oh, come on, Fisher, that's no way to drink Russian vodka!"

"Leave me alone, Harry. I really don't likeRussian vodka straight like this."

"Would you prefer a cognac instead?"

"How about some orange juice? Do you have that?"

" Orange juice?Where do you think you are? Miami?" He stands and goes into the back room, where he keeps a refrigerator, a small stove, and a food pantry. Harry lives above the shop and has a full kitchen in his flat but often "entertains" in the store. He returns with a glass of OJ and sets it in front of me.

"Here you go, tough guy," he says. "Better go slow with that stuff. It creeps up on you."

I laugh and thank him. He sits with another glass of vodka for himself and says, "Anyway, as I was saying. This Yvan Putnik is bad news. You really saw him with General Prokofiev?"

"Washington identified him in the photos I sent."

Dagger pulls on strands of his uncombed long white hair. "Very interesting. We've always suspected Prokofiev of playing footsie with the Russian mobs but I guess this clinches it. When I learned for certain he's with the Shop, I still had no concrete proof. Still don't. But all my sources tell me he's one of the four directors. I relayed all this to Lambert last year, you know."

"I know."

"If Putnik is working for the Shop now, it could put your and every other Splinter Cell's lives in danger."

"That's nothing new. Last year the Shop had all the information they needed to take us out one by one. They nearly succeeded, too. Carly's still trying to figure out how the Shop got our names."

"Well, just because the Shop has moved out of Russia and her satellites doesn't mean they're going to stop trying to track you down. I'd say with a guy like Putnik working for them, their odds for success are greatly increased. He's very good at what he does. I'd say he's responsible for some of the most difficult political assassinations that have ever been attempted in this country. He's an expert sharp-shooter and probably very handy with a knife, too. He's known to use a Russian SV-98 sniper rifle with 7.62mm NATO ammunition. If you find yourself facing him, run away."

"I'd never do that, Harry. You know that."

"I know. I'm just saying . . ." Dagger downs his vodka while I take a sip of juice.

"So you have no clue where Andrei Zdrok is now?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "The Far East. That I'm sure of. It could be Thailand, it could be Singapore, it could be Taiwan, maybe Hong Kong or Macau, maybe Jakarta."

"It's interesting that Prokofiev is still here."

"He has to keep up appearances. Prokofiev's a top general." With that, Dagger opens a folder and removes a map. "Okay, since you want to go through with your cockamamie idea, here's where he lives." Dagger points to a spot on the eastern side of Moscow. "Izmaylovo. Actually between Izmaylovsky Park and Kuskovo Park. Quite a lovely mansion in a well-to-do neighborhood. Lives there with his wife, Helena. Children grown and moved out."

"And you've had your people watching the house?"

"Ever since I got your message. He hasn't returned from his 'business trip.' I'd say it's wide open for you to do what you do."

"What about the wife?"

"My watchers claim she goes to bed early and appears to be a heavy sleeper. Maybe she takes sedatives. She and her husband have separate bedrooms. She's a real battle-ax. Kind of looks like Boris Yeltsin in drag. It's no wonder Prokofiev has a mistress in Ukraine. If I were married to Helena Prokofiev, I'd never go home either. She's probably more dangerous than he is."

"Is the house guarded?"

"Only when the general's at home. All other times the place is looked after by their very well trained German shepherd."

"Oh, boy."

"Right. As I understand it, the dog is fearless and will attack anyone it doesn't know unless the general or his wife orders him down. Now. I've prepared something that will help you out in that department." Dagger stands, goes to the back room again, and returns with a small box. Inside are three oddly shaped bullets that look to be the size of ammunition that my Five-seveN takes.

"These are tranquilizers," he says. "Load your handgun with them before you go inside. They won't harm the dog–much–but one will knock him out quickly. Just make sure you shoot him before he sees or hears you!"

Dagger goes back to the folder on the table and removes a floor plan. "This is it, the ground and top levels. Prokofiev's home office is here on the ground floor. As you can see, it's on the opposite side of the house from the bedrooms, which are over here on the second floor. See?"

"Uh-huh."

"What do you think?"

"I think my best bet is to go over the fence to the back and break in through the door here." I point to an opening leading to a courtyard behind the house. "What about the security system?"

"It took some bribing to get the goods from the company that installed it. Inside the door you'll find a keypad. The code to shut off the alarm is 5-7-7-2."

"Thanks." I continue studying the floor plan. "I think once I'm safely through the door, I'll go past this living room area, into the dining room, and down this hallway. From there it's a straight shot to the office."

"Sounds like a plan. What are you driving?"

"Nothing at the moment. I had a company vehicle from the embassy in Kyiv but I returned it."

"I can't let you use my car. The Russians know it. Let me make a call and I'll rustle up something for you. It might be old and used, but it should run."

"Isn't everything old and used in Russia?" I ask.

Dagger's expression turns to mock indignation. "I resent that remark!" he says as he pours another glass of vodka.

HOWcome no U.S. agency can provide a car in Russia newer than 1996? I'm driving a 1995 Ford E-350 van that Harry's friend must have driven to Siberia and back at least six times. There's 167,000 miles on it and it runs with a distinctive clop-clopsound in the engine. But it moves.

They call this part of town Outer East Moscow, but it's still well within the boundary of the Moskovskaya Koltsovaya Avtomobilnaya Doroga, the highway ring that designates the city limits. I've spent a lot of time in Moscow through the years and I've found I enjoy this area. Even in the winter it's scenic. Kuskovo Park was once some important count's huge country estate. It resembles a mini Versailles, with a lot of elegant buildings and formal gardens. Of course right now everything's covered in snow. The district known as Izmaylovo is definitely upper-scale for former Soviet homeowners. It's not surprising that General Prokofiev's private residence is here. Izmaylovsky Park, just south of the region, was once a royal hunting preserve next to an expansive, undeveloped woodland. It's remarkable that this exists within Moscow city limits because it feels as if you're out in the country.

While it's still daylight I do a simple reconnaissance around the general's neighborhood. His estate is set back from the road, surrounded by an iron-bar fence. Snow covers leafless shrubs and trees and I can imagine the place looking magnificent in the spring and summer. The two-story house, what I can see of it, appears to be perhaps seventy or eighty years old but it's well kept. The driveway leading from the gate to a three-car garage runs past the side of the house where Prokofiev's office is located. Unfortunately, it's impossible to tell if anyone is home. I'll just have to return after dark, find a place to park the van, and, as Harry puts it, "do what I do."

NOWdressed in my uniform, this time a black one, I easily climb the iron fence and quietly move through the snow to the back of the mansion. Leaving footprints can't be helped so I deliberately create unreadable tracks; that is, with each step I wiggle my foot to create unshapely holes and walk unevenly. This way it's difficult to say just whatsort of animal went through the grounds.

"Satellite reception is fuzzy, Sam," Lambert says in my ear. "Cloudy sky."

I glance up and reply, "Yeah. Once I'm inside you can watch through my trident goggles."

"As always. Good luck."

I'm now in the courtyard and can see the bedroom windows on the second floor. Perfect timing–the light in the wife's room goes out. Once again I walk like a deranged alien to create unrecognizable prints and make my way to the back door. I remove my set of lock picks from my leg pocket, examine the lock, and determine which picks might work best. The door opens in two tries.

I immediately step inside, find the keypad, and punch in the security code that Harry gave me. It works. I quietly shut the door and stand still for a moment. The house is silent. No sign of a dog anywhere. My night vision goggles are in place and I have no trouble navigating around the furniture in the living room. But as soon as I enter the dining room I hear a muffled ruffin another part of the house. The dog is upstairs. I quickly draw the Five-seveN, already fitted with the flash and sound suppressor, and return to the living room. I can see the staircase beyond an archway at the other end of the room, so I duck behind the sofa. Sure enough, I hear the sound of four paws padding down the stairs. I can see the animal now–he's huge and looks more like a wolf than a German shepherd. The beast halts at the foot of the stairs. He's staring into the living room but doesn't see me. He knows something's wrong, though, for he's growling quietly. The dog moves forward slowly, not sure what it is he senses. The growling grows louder. I have one chance at this, for if he sees me he'll alert the whole neighborhood.

In a smooth, fluid motion, I rise, aim, and squeeze the trigger. The dog spots me but he's so surprised that I think he forgets to bark. The bullet hits him just above the front right leg. He yelps slightly, turns, emits a low ruffagain, and then drops to the floor. The animal is still breathing–he's just stunned. In a few seconds he's sound asleep.

Carly can see everything I can through the trident goggles. "Poor doggy," I hear her say with sarcasm. She can be a kidder when she wants.

The house remains quiet so I stand, go back to the dining room, and find the hallway leading to the office. I find the general's door locked, so I utilize the lock picks again. This one's more difficult than the house door; I guess the general is more protective of his personal things than he is of his wife. It takes me nearly three minutes to open the damned thing because there are two dead bolts on the door along with the standard lock.

I'm finally inside. I shut the door and the first thing I see is an awesome collection of antique pistols and rifles mounted on the wall. I recognize one as an Austrian Matchlock caliver from the 1600s. There's a single-shot muzzle-loading pistol from the early 1800s, probably Russian, that looks brand-new. There's even a Winchester Model 1873 lever-action repeater rifle. Amazing. They must be worth a small fortune.

I move to the desk, which is impressively neat and tidy, and boot up the computer to take a look at the contents of the general's hard drive. Since I don't want to spend too much time in here, I simply plug the OPSAT into one of the computer's serial ports and upload everything onto it. I then beam all of it to Washington; I'll let them sort through the files.

Next I open the desk drawers and filing cabinet but find nothing of interest. I then spot a small wall safe next to the desk and get down on my knees to examine it. Normally I would use one of my disposable picks–lock picks with explosive charges in them–to open a safe. They're quick and dirty, but unnecessarily noisy. When I have to keep quiet, the device I call the Safecracker is the next best thing. It's the size of a cigarette pack and is equipped with suction cups and a transmitter that sends signals to my OPSAT. It records the minute sounds the lock mechanism makes within the safe and then creates a fairly accurate estimate of the combination needed to open it. It doesn't always work. If it's a really complex mechanism, I don't have a prayer.

I attach the device to the safe and set it to work. Four minutes go by before the first number appears on my OPSAT. Damn, it's taking too much time. I'm not comfortable with this. Harry forgot to tell me how long those tranquilizers last. I sure don't want Fido coming in here after me.

Another three minutes and the second number pops up. Just one more and I can see if the Safecracker did its job correctly. But as I'm counting the seconds I could swear I hear something outside the office. I hold my breath, freeze, and listen carefully.

Come on, make another sound. Confirm what I heard the first time.

But there's nothing. I exhale just as the third number appears on the OPSAT. I quickly turn the knob, trying the combination the Safecracker has provided to me.

The safe opens, revealing a few file folders.

I'm able to read some of the Cyrillic and make out that one file is devoted to Russia's nuclear inventory. And China'stoo!

"My God," Lambert says. He can also see the papers through my trident goggles. "That document lists the location of every nuclear device in Russia and China." I don't risk answering him vocally but I continue to study the file. It dates back to the eighties, when the Soviet Union was a bit friendlier with its Asian neighbors, so it could be terribly out of date. The pages go on and on . . . uh-oh. There's a page listing missingnuclear devices. Twenty-two of them. Holy shit. The general has scribbled coded notations beside these entries. There isa date on this page and it's recent.

"Snap some shots of that, Sam," Carly says. "I'll work on making sense out of those notes." I quickly do so with the OPSAT.

Another file seems to concern a Chinese general in the People's Liberation Army by the name of Tun. I've heard of him. He's a controversial figure in China, a real hawk. Tun likes to rile up the government with emotional speeches, inciting them to take action against Taiwan. I'm not sure what kind of power or influence the guy has these days but through most of the nineties he was considered a bit of a crackpot. Prokofiev's file on the man is pretty extensive. Photos, biographical info, and . . . damn, lists of arms that Tun appears to have purchased from Russia. No, wait. Not from Russia. From the Shop! It has to be. These are purchase orders for arms, worth millions of dollars, that Prokofiev has signed off on.

I quickly snap more photos and then carefully place them back in the safe. I close it, spin the combination knob, and stand.

"Good work, Sam. Now get the hell out of there," Lambert says.

That's when the office door opens. A woman, dressed in a nightgown and resembling Boris Yeltsin in drag, sees me and screams like a banshee.

6

Ijump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.

In Russian, I say, "Please be quiet. I won't hurt you!" I mean it, too.

But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.

She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.

"Listen to me!" I shout in Russian. "I work for the government! I'm here to help you."

But it's like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I'm pulling punches and don't want to hurt her, she throws me off of her and manages to get to her feet. I hang on to one leg–it's like hugging a tree trunk–and she pulls me along the carpet back into the office. Damn, she's going for the guns.

"Wait!" I shout, but she pulls the Winchester off the wall, cocks it, and aims it at my head.

I raise my hands. "Mrs. Prokofiev," I say, "please calm down and just listen to me."

"Who are you? What do you want?" she demands. Her voice is deep and hoarse.

"I'm a private detective," I blurt out. "I work for the Russian government. I'm gathering information about your husband's extramarital activities!"

This gets her attention. "What did you say?"

"Please, may I stand?"

She keeps the rifle trained on my forehead. I don't doubt she would pull the trigger if provoked. Only now do I notice that there are curlers in her gray hair and she's got cold cream on her face. Hideous.

"All right, stand up, pig!" she shouts. I do so but I keep my hands high. I'm sure I could disarm her and send her to Dreamland if I wanted to, but I have a better idea.

"My name is Vladimir Stravinsky and I work for the Russian government," I say. "Your husband is in some trouble. I'm here to see what I can find. I honestly thought you weren't at home."

"What did you do to Ivan the Terrible?" she snarls.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ivan! My dog!"

"Oh. He's just asleep. It was a tranquilizer. He's not harmed, I promise."

She squints at me and frowns. "What's this about Stefan?"

Stefan? Oh, her husband. "Mrs. Prokofiev, are you aware of your husband's extramarital activities?"

"His what?"

"May I lower my hands?" I ask as politely as possible. "I can show you some, um, pictures."

She glares at me, unsure whether or not to trust me. Finally, she nods her head but keeps the barrel in my face. "What are you talking about?" she whispers.

"Your husband has a mistress in Ukraine. In Kyiv, to be exact. A fashion model." I decide to rub it in. "She's in her twenties."

The woman's eyes flare. I swear they turn red for a moment. "I don't believe it!" she says.

"It's true. I'm afraid this affair he's having is causing some concern in the Kremlin. The general has been neglecting some of his, er, duties."

"You lie, pig!" She lifts the rifle to her eye, taking a bead on my nose.

"I can show you pictures!" I say.

Mrs. Prokofiev slowly lowers the gun again and jerks her head. "All right. Show me."

I hold out my wrist and reveal the OPSAT. "They're on here. This is like a digital camera. Look." I quickly bring up the shots I took in Kyiv and display them to her, one by one. Her facial expression exhibits incredulity at first and then her pallor changes from white to red, even through that awful cold cream. If she could breathe fire, she would.

"I'll kill him," she mutters. The woman lowers the rifle and commands me to stand. She appears a little unsteady, so she moves to the desk and sits in the general's chair. "What is going to happen to him?" she asks.

"I don't know. I'm just gathering information for now."

"You don't need to do anything," she says. "I'll kill him first."

I figure this is anger and bravado talking. "That's not necessary, Mrs. Prokofiev. I'm sure that–"

But I'm interrupted by the sound of cars moving past the office window. I remember that the driveway leading to the garage is on the side of the house directly next to the office.

"My husband!" she says, standing. "He is home!"

I curse to myself. "I'll have to hide."

She waves her finger at me. "No. Do not hide. Go out the back door. I will keep him occupied when he comes in. Hurry!"

I nod, thank her, and leave the office. Ivan the Terrible is beginning to wake up. He sees me and growls sleepily. I jump over his body and he springs to his feet. When he barks, Mrs. Prokofiev shouts, "Ivan! No!" The dog whimpers slightly and sits. He apparently knows who his master is.

I go out the back door, close it, and step into my old footprints to keep from creating new ones.

"Sam, you're not alone," Lambert says. "Man at three o'clock."

Sure enough, a uniformed guard comes around the house to the back, apparently performing a routine security sweep for the general's arrival home. He sees me and shouts for help. As he draws his pistol, I forget about the footprints and rush him. I slam into him head-on and together we fall into the snow. I punch him in the face as hard as I can but the man is well trained. He plunges his knee into my side, sending a jolt of pain into my kidney. I roll off of him and attempt to get to my feet but the guard whips his arm out and stiff-hands me in the neck. If the angle had been a little better for him, he would have broken it. As it is, I fear he's destroyed my larynx. I struggle for breath but the pain is intense.

The guard stands, draws his weapon, and points it at my head. I'm on my knees, helpless and groveling before him, but I do have the presence of mind to clutch handfuls of snow and pack them together.

The guard says, "I should go ahead and kill you but I think we'll see what the general has to say about you."

Suddenly there's a loud gunshot inside the house. The guard stiffens and looks up. I use the opportunity to throw my slush ball into his face. It's one of Krav Maga's basic tenets–use whatever you have available in order to gain an advantage. I then spring at him, pushing off with my legs like a jack-in-the-box. I ram him in the abdomen, knocking him down once again. His pistol, a Makarov, flies into the air. This time I don't give him a chance to rebound. I jump and bring the soles of my heavy boots down on his head. I twist, land with legs on either side of his temples, and then I give him a solid kick in the right cheekbone.

He stops squirming.

I pause for a second and a half to make sure I'm not leaving anything behind and then I take off toward the side of the house. As I run past the office window, I hear angry voices inside but it's impossible to identify them. And I really don't care. My throat is on fire and I just want to get the hell out of there. I got what I needed, I think.

Sticking to the shadows, I jump the iron fence and sprint down the street toward the van.

7

COLONELIrving Lambert had a bad feeling about the upcoming meeting. Senator Janice Coldwater had called it, which wasn't a good sign. In Lambert's opinion, the good senator was trouble. As the head of a small group of Washington, D.C., officials known by its members as "the Committee," she had the power to tell him and other high-ranking military and intelligence officers what to do.

Lambert felt the burden of his age as he walked down the corridor toward the designated conference room in the Pentagon. The fact that the meeting was being held in the center of all-things-military was also foreboding. He would be facing his counterparts in the other governmental intelligence organizations, as well as the politicians who made the big decisions involving Third Echelon's administrative and budgetary requirements.

Having been in the military intel business since he was a young man, Lambert was well connected in Washington. He could request–and receive–an audience with the president if he wanted. He could initiate covert operations that no one else in the U.S. government knew about–or needed to know about. He often held America's security in his hands–something else that wasn't widely known or appreciated. And yet despite all this, Lambert often felt as if he were the bottom of the bureaucratic totem pole. His colleagues in the FBI and CIA received more respect. The military commanders looked down their noses at him. Only a handful of Congress members knew he existed.

It was no secret that Third Echelon was hanging on to threads. The past year, while productive in terms of crushing certain threats aimed at U.S. interests, had proved disastrous in terms of manpower and cost. The Shop had eliminated several Splinter Cells. How the Shop had obtained the agents' names was still a mystery. Lambert had been ordered to find the leak and plug it up. To date he had been unsuccessful.

Lambert entered the room and was thankful that he wasn't the last to arrive. Senator Coldwater was already in her seat at the head of the table. She gave Lambert a curt nod and went back to the notes she was studying. An easel, covered by a drape, stood at the head of the room next to the senator.

U.S. Navy admiral Thomas Colgan sat to her left. He stared into a cup of coffee, obviously concerned about something. Next to him was a man Lambert didn't know. He appeared to be a civilian–a brainy type with mechanical pencils in his shirt pocket. He was the only one who had removed his jacket and draped it over his chair. Lambert could see that the guy was nervous to be there.

Assistant FBI director Darrell Blake sat to the senator's right. He, too, ignored Lambert and continued to look at printouts that lay in front of him. The head of the National Security Agency and Lambert's boss, Howard Lewis, was the only one who smiled at Lambert. He sat away from the others, holding a seat open. The colonel squeezed Lewis's shoulder and sat beside him.