"I'd rather not." The long dark vehicle swung around the circular drive and stopped in front of the stone steps of the pillared Georgian mansion that was the focal point of the estate. "Let's go," said Mo quietly, stepping outside.
The sculptured white doors, the rose-colored marble floors and the elegant winding staircase in the great hall all combined to furnish a superb cover for the work done at Sterile Five. Defectors, double and triple agents, and field officers returned from complex assignments for rest and debriefing were continuously processed through its various agendas. The staff, each with a Four Zero clearance, consisted of two doctors and three nurses in relay units, cooks and domestic attendants recruited from the foreign service-in the main, overseas embassies-and guards, all with Ranger training or its equivalent. They moved about the house and grounds unobtrusively, eyes constantly alert, each with either a concealed or an unconcealed weapon, except for the medical personnel. Visitors without exception were given small lapel pins by the well-spoken, dark-suited house steward, who admitted them and directed them to the locations of their scheduled appointments. The man was a retired gray-haired interpreter for the Central Intelligence Agency, but he suited his position so well in appearance he might have come from Central Casting.
Naturally, at the sight of Peter Holland, the steward was astonished. He prided himself on committing to memory every schedule at Sterile Five. "A surprise visit, sir?"
"Good to see you, Frank." The DCI shook hands with the former interpreter. "You may remember Alex Conklin-"
"Good Lord, is that you, Alex? It's been years!" Again hands were shaken. "When was the last time? ... That crazy woman from Warsaw, wasn't it?"
"The KGB's been chuckling ever since," laughed Conklin. "The only secret she had was the recipe for the worst golumpki I've ever tasted. ... Still keeping your hand in, Frank?"
"Every now and then," replied the steward, grimacing in mock disapproval. "These young translators don't know a quiche from a kluski."
"Since I don't either," said Holland, "may I have a word with you, Frank?" The two older men walked off to the side speaking quietly as Alex and Mo Panov held their places, the latter frowning and sporadically breathing deeply. The director returned, handing lapel pins to his colleagues. "I know where to go now," he said. "Frank will call ahead."
The three of them walked up the curving ornate staircase, Conklin limping, and down a lushly carpeted hallway on the left to the rear of the enormous house. On the right wall was a door unlike any of the doors they had passed; it was made of thick varnished oak with four small windows in the upper recessed panels and two black buttons set in an outlet casing beside the knob. Holland inserted a key, twisted it and pressed the lower button; instantly a red light appeared in the small stationary camera mounted on the ceiling. Twenty seconds later there was the familiar muffled metallic clanking of an elevator coming to a stop. "Inside, gentlemen," ordered the DCI. The door closed and the elevator began its descent.
"We walked up to go down?" asked Conklin.
"Security," answered the director. "It's the only way to get where we're going. There's no elevator on the first floor."
"Why not, may the man with one foot missing ask?" said Alex.
"I'd think you'd be able to answer that better than me," retorted the DCI. "Apparently all accesses to the cellars are sealed off except for two elevators that bypass the first floor and for which you need a key. This one and another on the other side; this takes us to where we want to go, the other leads to the furnaces, air-conditioning units and all the rest of the normal basement equipment. Frank gave me the key, incidentally. If it doesn't return to its slot within a given period of time, another alarm goes off."
"It all strikes me as unnecessarily complicated," said Panov curtly, nervously. "Expensive games."
"Not necessarily, Mo," interrupted Conklin gently. "Explosives can be concealed pretty easily in heating pipes and ducts. And did you know that during the last days of Hitler's bunker a few of his saner aides tried to insert poison gas into the air-filtering machinery? These are just precautions."
The elevator stopped and the door opened. "To your left, Doctor," Holland said. The hallway was a glistening pristine white, antiseptic in its way, which was altogether proper, as this underground complex was a highly sophisticated medical center. It was devoted not only to the healing of men and women, but also to the process of breaking them down, crippling their resistance so that information might be revealed, truths learned that could prevent the penetration of high-risk operations, frequently saving lives as a result.
They entered a room that was in stark contrast to the antiseptic quality of the fluorescent-lit hallway. There were heavy armchairs and soft indirect lighting, a coffee urn on a table with cups and saucers; newspapers and magazines were folded neatly on other tables, all the comforts of a lounge designed for those waiting for someone or something. From an inner door a man in a white medical jacket appeared; he was frowning, looking uncertain.
"Director Holland?" he said, approaching Peter, extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Walsh, second shift. Needless to say, we didn't expect you."
"I'm afraid it's an emergency and hardly one of my choosing. May I introduce you to Dr. Morris Panov-unless you know him?"
"Of him, of course." Walsh again extended his hand. "A pleasure, Doctor, also a privilege."
"You may take both back before we're finished, Doctor. May we talk privately?"
"Certainly. My office is inside." The two men disappeared through the inner door.
"Shouldn't you go with them?" asked Conklin, looking at Peter.
"Why not you?"
"Goddamn it, you're the director. You should insist!"
"You're his closest friend. So should you."
"I don't have any clout here."
"Mine disappeared when Mo dismissed us. Come on, let's have some coffee. This place gives me the proverbial creeps." Holland went to the table with the coffee urn and poured two cups. "How do you like it?"
"With more milk and sugar than I'm supposed to have. I'll do it."
"I still take it black," said the director, moving away from the table and removing a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "My wife says the acid will kill me one day."
"Other people say tobacco will."
"What?"
"Look." Alex pointed at the sign on the opposite wall. It read: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.
"That I've got enough clout for," announced Holland quietly as he snapped his lighter and lit a cigarette.
Nearly twenty minutes passed. Every now and then one or the other of them picked up a magazine or a newspaper only to put it down moments later and look up at the inner door. Finally, twenty-eight minutes after he had disappeared with Panov, the doctor named Walsh reappeared.
"He tells me you know what he's requesting and that you have no objections, Director Holland."
"I've got plenty of objections, but it seems he's overruled them. ... Oh, excuse me, Doctor, this is Alex Conklin. He's one of us and a close friend of Panov."
"How do you feel, Mr. Conklin?" asked Walsh, nodding at Alex as he returned the greeting.
"I hate what he's doing-what he wants to do-but he says it makes sense. If it does, it's right for him and I understand why he insists on doing it. If it doesn't make sense, I'll pull him out of there myself, one foot and all. Does it make sense, Doctor? And what's the risk of damage?"
"There's always a risk where drugs are concerned, especially in terms of chemical balance, and he knows that. It's why he's designed an intravenous flow that prolongs his own psychological pain but somewhat reduces the potential damage."