“So what’s next?”
“The virus that Cloud placed inside Langley is, in point of fact, just code. Like all computer code, it makes commands. For example, it tells certain internal Langley communications devices, phones on a specific channel, to transcribe their activities, then send those transcriptions, as they’re occurring, to him. What I need is to somehow hitch a ride on where they’re being sent. If I can do that, I will be able to get a peek at his defenses. His encryption protocols. That is when the real work begins.”
“Without being noticed.”
“Exactly.”
Igor looked up at Katie. She smiled.
“You have a nice smile,” Igor said.
Katie’s smile disappeared.
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“Yes, you were. You have a very hard time taking a compliment, don’t you? You should consider seeing a shrink. I see one.”
“You see one?” Katie asked, a bit surprised.
“Yes. I’m not afraid to admit it.”
“You shouldn’t be,” she said empathetically. “It’s brave to admit it. If you don’t mind my asking, why do you see one?”
“Sex addiction.”
Katie shook her head in disgust and turned to leave.
“By the way, there’s something else,” said Igor.
“What, I have a nice ass?” she asked sarcastically.
“You do have a sweet ass, yes, but no, I meant I found something else inside Langley.”
Katie stepped back to the table.
“Why are you being so mysterious?”
“I might have gone someplace I wasn’t supposed to.”
Katie crossed her arms.
“Inside the Agency?”
“Yes.”
Just then, the door to the library opened. Calibrisi and Tacoma stepped in. Both men looked visibly upset.
“Tommy’s dead,” said Tacoma, referring to Fairweather, an agent both he and Katie had worked with. Katie had recruited Fairweather.
“His plane crashed on approach to Moscow,” said Calibrisi. “A hundred and fifty-five passengers died, all to prevent Tommy from entering Russia.”
Silence took over the room.
“I need to get back to Washington,” said Calibrisi.
“Igor found something,” said Katie. “Inside Langley.”
Calibrisi shot Igor a look.
“You read Agency files?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Calibrisi.
“I scanned Agency logs, archives, directories, stuff that was deleted, you name it. I found a blocked archive. Even with top secret access I wasn’t able to open it. Anyway, I figured out a way around it, of course. It’s a bunch of projects that were apparently the sort of projects you didn’t want anyone to know about.”
“What does it have to do with Cloud?”
“Something happened in 1986. Something involving a Russian nuclear scientist named Anuslav Vargarin. It was a project. They called it ‘Double Play.’ The Agency was recruiting Vargarin. He was supposed to defect and work out of Los Alamos.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. They destroyed everything else.”
Calibrisi took a sip from his coffee cup, thinking.
“There are plenty of Vargarins. How do you know he’s related?”
“He had a son named Pyotr.”
Calibrisi—momentarily taken aback—dropped the cup. It hit the floor and tumbled.
“Are you kidding?” he asked.
“I’m dead serious.”
“Show me the scan.”
Igor pointed at his screen, which Calibrisi quickly read. The file—what remained of it—was only a few words.
PROJECT 818:
DOUBLE PLAY
01/82—07/86
Recruitment of Vargarin, Anuslav, wife Sylvie, son Pyotr
“We need to know what happened,” Calibrisi said. “You need to find that case and decrypt it.”
“The data’s gone, Hector. Poof. Doesn’t exist. What you’re looking at is some sort of catalog key. They got rid of it, perhaps because it’s so old.”
“They didn’t get rid of it,” said Calibrisi. “I know where it is.”
Calibrisi looked at Katie and Tacoma.
“You two, you’re coming with me,” he said.
71
GEORGES BANK
ATLANTIC OCEAN
80 MILES EAST OF PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA
As dawn broke over the horizon, Faqir was already in the galley, making breakfast for the crew. It wasn’t fancy. He brewed a pot of coffee, then cooked oatmeal, which he ladled into six bowls and sprinkled with brown sugar.
At seven, he woke the men.
He left Poldark in his bed. The old professor was now too weak to get up. The night before, when he heard two of the Chechens debating how long it would take for Poldark to die, Faqir had slapped each man viciously across the face, telling them to keep their mouths shut.
Now, even he was beginning to feel the radiation sickness. Though he’d yet to vomit, the nausea had arrived in the middle of the night and hadn’t left. Faqir planned to make breakfast just once on the trip, on this day, a critical day, and now he realized it would probably be a waste. If the others felt anything like he did, they would have no appetite.
When they gathered around the galley table, only one man wanted oatmeal. The others weren’t hungry.
Faqir spoke in Chechen.
“I want every man ready,” he said. “That means weapons in hand, loaded. You wait belowdecks. When the boat arrives, you know what to do. Watch your field of fire.”
“How long until it happens?” asked one of the men.
“Who knows?” answered Faqir. “Could be soon. Could be all day.”
One of the Chechens leaned forward, then placed his head on the table. He groaned.
“What the fuck?” shouted another man.
Suddenly, the man began to throw up, coughing white, thick liquid out in an acrid, chunky splash across the table.
One of the others stood to run.
“Don’t move,” snapped Faqir, “until I tell you you can move. Do you understand?”
“But he just—”
“Don’t talk back either!” yelled Faqir, voice rising in anger. “Shut the fuck up and do your job.”
Faqir stepped to the sick man, grabbed his hair, and jerked him up.
“You too,” Faqir said, his teeth visible as a look of anger crossed his face. “We all feel sick. Either toughen up, or get off the fucking boat.”
“What about the old fuck downstairs?” complained one of the others. “Why isn’t he here?”
Faqir’s eyes moved slowly, deliberately, and hatefully to the young Chechen who’d just asked the question.
“That old man is the only reason any of us are here,” said Faqir.
He paused, then looked at all of the men.
“We’re about to make history on behalf of Allah,” said Faqir. “We will kill as many people as one hundred nine/elevens. You will all be famous. Each one of your names will be known around the world. Your actions today will be studied, hated, and reviled by the West. But they will know you. And where it matters most, you will be loved and honored, forever, by those who matter. Allah will greet you at the fourth gate.”
Faqir paused and stepped toward the man who’d mouthed off. He leaned toward him, an intense look, a savage expression on his face as he stared into the young man’s black eyes.
“Without the work of that old man, you would be nothing. You would do nothing. If any of you say even one word more of disrespect for him, the next thing you’ll know is the feeling of a bullet striking you in the head. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” said the young Chechen, bowing his head. “I’m very sorry.”
Faqir nodded, acknowledging—just barely—the apology.
“Now we begin,” he said calmly. He nodded toward the door. “Belowdecks. And remember, watch your field of fire.”
Back in the wheelhouse, Faqir moved the radio frequency to channel 16, reserved for marine distress calls. He picked up the mike.
“Mayday,” said Faqir. “Mayday. Is there anyone who can hear me?”
Over the next two hours, every minute or so, Faqir repeated the call for help. Finally, a faint, scratchy voice came over the radio.