Once A Spy Part 12

'There is one way,' Cranch said. 'Did you happen to notice the coffinlike device Hector and Alberto wheeled into your bathroom?'

'It would have been hard not to.'

'Do you know what it is?'

She allowed her jaw to tighten, as if to counter a chatter. 'No.'

'It's like a polygraph machine, just simpler and more effective.'

Really she knew all about the 'water bed,' including a bullet-points bio of the KGB Mengele-wannabe who'd devised it. The tank's twenty-five-centimeter-deep basin was filled with enough tepid water that an interrogation subject, stripped naked and forced to lie inside, had a mere two centimeters of clammy air to breathe once the casket-style lid was closed. After just an hour, it was common for subjects to fall into a semipsychotic state. Their subsequent interest in responding truthfully to interrogators' questions was like a drowning man's desire for a life ring. Alice had been subjected to the water bed for two hours during her training. As it happened, it stirred fond memories of the sensory deprivation tank she'd enjoyed at a California spa a few years earlier. The KGB's black-out goggles and earm.u.f.fs enhanced the experience, she'd thought.

Regardless, if it came to torture, Cranch might extract the truth from her. No one could withstand every instrument of torture, and surely this character had more where the water bed came from.

'So the thug on the Malecon spoke like a cliche thug,' she ventured. 'Isn't it common knowledge that they all get their lingo from the same television programs?'

'I seem to recall reading something along those lines,' Cranch said. 'And I imagine that Mr. Fielding would grant you that. Actually, it occurred to him that the Malecon episode was staged only after he'd already learned*by a fluke*that you were a spy. What happened was, while you were supposedly spending Christmas with your friends in Connecticut, he came into possession of an audio file with a voice that sounded like yours, except with an American accent. He had it checked. The voiceprint matched. Lo and behold, you spent your holiday in Brooklyn posing as a social worker named Helen Mayfield.'

Shock made Alice feel like she was about to implode. She hid it, but it didn't matter. She'd been caught climbing into the cookie jar.

15.

The pool was a conundrum. Fielding called it a was a conundrum. Fielding called it a pool pool for lack of a better term. There were probably smaller lakes. Through a physics-defying feat of engineering, two of its five sides extended over a high cliff, giving swimmers the sensation of being at the edge of a flat Earth. Its installation had run him more than four million dollars, not including the bribes and headache remedies attendant to half the population of Martinique protesting the bulldozing of a thousand-year-old Carib burial ground. He wondered whether it was worth it. He was, after all, a beach man. for lack of a better term. There were probably smaller lakes. Through a physics-defying feat of engineering, two of its five sides extended over a high cliff, giving swimmers the sensation of being at the edge of a flat Earth. Its installation had run him more than four million dollars, not including the bribes and headache remedies attendant to half the population of Martinique protesting the bulldozing of a thousand-year-old Carib burial ground. He wondered whether it was worth it. He was, after all, a beach man.

His doubt was dispelled this morning, when the sight of the pool knocked his prospective customer's breath away.

The thing could pay for itself today, Fielding thought, several times over.

His prospect, Prabhakar Gaznavi, an Indian real estate billionaire, sat across the antique crystal table in the middle of the pool, atop a level, ninety-five-square-foot coral reef, accessible by the gangway from Captain Kidd's Adventure Galley Adventure Galley. Word was the portly Gaznavi's stomach was the way to his wallet, so the breakfast buffet included twin eggs Benedict (a specialty of the sous chef, with eggs from a native hen and those of a beluga sturgeon), Swiss chocolate waffles with raspberries picked and put on a plane in the Willamette Valley hours ago, and four enormous platters of fresh local fish and a fifth with a nearly-as-fresh salmon from Nova Scotia. Also there were a raw bar; a pile of langoustine tails; an entire roasted rib eye; nine giant silver sh.e.l.l bowls, each with a different tropical fruit, and a tenth with the fruits in a medley; and the usual pastries, along with Gaznavi's reputed favorite, cinnamon rolls, their trails of steam still pointing the way to the oven.

Gaznavi helped himself to just a single cinnamon roll. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I'm on a diet.' Fielding had known that ahead of time too, otherwise he would have had the head chef recalled from vacation so the kitchen could ready the A menu.

'How's your appet.i.te for treasure?' Fielding asked.

'Much stronger,' Gaznavi said.

In the world of treasure hunting, as little as an anchor from a lesser-known shipwreck could net six figures and land the diver on magazine covers. Fielding's in-box brimmed with fat checks written by complete strangers more interested in a share of the glory than investment. They never asked where the money went. There were no regulations beyond taxes, and Fielding paid his taxes in full and without fail. Nowhere in his filings, though, did he mention the gifts certain investors received: illegal munitions.

'The gift that I hope will persuade you to invest in the Treasure of San Isidro Expedition, LLC,' he told Gaznavi, 'is a Soviet-made atomic demolition munition.'

'I'm interested,' said the Indian, who was the chief benefactor of the United Liberation Front of the Punjab, a violent Islamic separatist group. But he seemed no more interested than he was in his cinnamon roll*he'd taken only a token nibble. His droopy eyes and sagging cheeks were set so that, even when jolly, he appeared sullen.

This guy must clean up at poker, Fielding thought.

Fielding snapped into salesman mode. Smiling to warm the table a degree or two, he said, 'It has a ten-kiloton yield and and it's portable. During the Cold War, the Soviets' invasion plan for Europe called for deployment of these babies at bridges and dams, to keep defending armies at bay*that sort of thing. And if the West came East, the Russkies had ADMs waiting in underground chambers*think nuclear land mines.' it's portable. During the Cold War, the Soviets' invasion plan for Europe called for deployment of these babies at bridges and dams, to keep defending armies at bay*that sort of thing. And if the West came East, the Russkies had ADMs waiting in underground chambers*think nuclear land mines.'

Squinting through shimmering bands of light projected by the pool, Gaznavi asked, 'Is it one of the Karimovs?' He was referring to the two bombs Uzbekistan's President Islam Karimov admitted had gone missing during the Soviet Union's dissolution.

Fielding saw an opportunity to impress with his expertise and, at the same time, discredit his compet.i.tors. 'Actually, there are no Karimovs,' he said.

Gaznavi flicked a speck of frosting off his lapel. 'I saw the speech myself.'

'President Karimov's speech?'

'It was on CNN.'

'I saw it too. He said a couple of nukes had been misplaced.'

'I'm confused, Mr. Fielding.'

'Call me Nick. If I had friends, they would.'

'Nick, if you if you heard him say nukes had been misplaced *?' heard him say nukes had been misplaced *?'

'If a politician in that part of the world says something on the record, that proves it's untrue,' Fielding said.

Gaznavi emitted a phlegmy chuckle.

Pleased, Fielding added, 'There's no way that a nuclear weapon could be misplaced misplaced, if you think about it.'

'I don't know. Hundreds upon hundreds were transported from the outlying republics on ancient coal-powered trains and Russian trucks that stall every other kilometer. For all to have made it home safe and sound would be an unprecedented logistical feat*and the Russians are famous for tripping over their own red tape.'

'Except when it comes to a nuclear warhead. Losing one would be tantamount to NASA forgetting where it parked one of the s.p.a.ce shuttles.'

'What about the three suitcases?' Gaznavi said. He meant the three suitcase-sized nuclear bombs reportedly pilfered from an undermanned Eastern European storage facility in the late 1990s by members of a Russian organized crime family, then sold in the Middle East.

'A fairy tale, Mr. Gaznavi. What chance is there that over ten years, as little as a firecracker would go undetonated in the Middle East?'

'Please call me Prabhakar,' Gaznavi said, tearing into his cinnamon roll. 'Now tell me this, Nick: You make it sound impossible to obtain a Russian nuclear weapon. So how'd you obtain one?'

'A little while back, a Moscow military insider sold me AK-seventy-four bullets from the Ukrainian stockpiles for ten cents each. He put them on the books as vended to a private party at eight cents apiece' and pocketed the difference, which added up to a hundred million rubles. Then he tried to buy himself a summer place in Yevpatoriya and found that, real estate exploding like everything else there, a hundred-million rubles could no longer buy much more than a peasant's izba.'

'So he started thinking bigger than bullets,' Gaznavi said through a mouthful.

'Exactly. The trouble with nukes is there are extensive records for each one, including serial numbers for even the most insignificant screw, plus the Russians keep Bible-length logbooks. We made every last bookkeeper wealthy enough to afford a seaside home in Yevpatoriya. As a result, a two-hundred-kilo crate of artillery sh.e.l.ls at the storage facility in*Dombarovskiy, let's say*now has the curriculum vitae of a uranium implosion Aftscharka Aftscharka Model ADM. And I have a two-hundred kilo crate that really contains the Model ADM. And I have a two-hundred kilo crate that really contains the Aftscharka Aftscharka.'

'An awful lot of work.'

'If only being a b.u.m-kneed, middle-aged surfer paid as well.'

'So what is the number that you have in mind?' Gaznavi asked. He appeared more interested in the handle of his teaspoon.

Fielding wasn't fooled. Not only was Gaznavi's sentence clumsy, it was also the first in which he'd pa.s.sed up the opportunity to contract verbs, indicating that he'd scripted and rehea.r.s.ed the line in his head, maybe even in front of his mirror this morning.

'Nothing,' Fielding said. 'It's free*if you invest just ninety million dollars in the treasure hunt.'

'I am interested,' Gaznavi said.

Despite the dispa.s.sion*again Gaznavi's delivery was as flat as the pool*Fielding heard the words as a song, in large part because Gaznavi ate the remainder of his cinnamon roll in one gulp, then helped himself to another.

All that remained was the inspection. Gaznavi had brought along a crack nuclear physicist, who was currently in the arcade, wowing the staff with his PlayStation prowess. Fielding was about to suggest they fly right now to the bomb's hiding spot, when Alberto set a latte before him, a signal*Fielding never drank any sort of coffee.

Fielding decoded the message on the accompanying napkin, two sentences penciled in tiny letters on the border. He told Gaznavi, 'I can take you to the Aftscharka Aftscharka but not until tomorrow morning.' but not until tomorrow morning.'

Gaznavi's brow fell in such a way that there was no mistaking his disappointment. 'The more minutes minutes I spend here, the greater the chance of actionable intelligence that can be used against the ULFP.' I spend here, the greater the chance of actionable intelligence that can be used against the ULFP.'

'Not to mention against good old Trader Nick,' Fielding added. His much greater concern was that Gaznavi's feet would get cold.

'You must have one hot date,' Gaznavi said.

The devout Muslim would regret his words a short while later, when one of Fielding's a.s.sistants revealed to him that the delay was due to the death of Norman Korey, who'd been a father figure to Fielding.

Korey was a beloved husband, father of four, grandfather of eleven, championship Little League coach, and a district vice president of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks. He had succ.u.mbed to pneumonia at eighty-eight. His funeral service would fill the First Baptist Church in Waynesboro, Virginia.

Fielding had never heard of him. The news of the funeral resulted from the a.s.sistant's search of today's Virginia area services that were crowded enough that Fielding could lose Gaznavi's people and anyone else keeping tabs on him.

His actual engagement was forty miles away, in Monroeville.

16.

Although he had a Pilates physique and the latest scruffy-chic haircut, the waiter's frilly blouse and loose-fitting knickers gave him the appearance of having just stepped out of the eighteenth century. He led two men in contemporary business attire into the tea parlor and over to Isadora's table. With a start, Charlie recognized the pair as the too-jolly gunman and the pale driver last seen at the intersection of Fillmore and Utica in Brooklyn. had a Pilates physique and the latest scruffy-chic haircut, the waiter's frilly blouse and loose-fitting knickers gave him the appearance of having just stepped out of the eighteenth century. He led two men in contemporary business attire into the tea parlor and over to Isadora's table. With a start, Charlie recognized the pair as the too-jolly gunman and the pale driver last seen at the intersection of Fillmore and Utica in Brooklyn.

'Officers Cadaret and Mortimer of the Defense Intelligence Agency,' the waiter said by way of introduction.

'Glad to meet you,' Drummond said cheerfully.

So much, Charlie thought, for his hope that the recollection of the day Isadora left had triggered Drummond into battle readiness.

'We've met, actually,' Charlie told the waiter. He locked plaintive eyes with Isadora on the remote chance of stirring her maternal instincts*if she had any. 'If you hand us off to these guys, Mom Mom, you'll be discontinuing our existence.'

'It's not like that at all,' she said.

'They've already shot at us, like, fifty times.'

'In an effort to halt a ten-thousand-pound stolen truck. I'm aware of all of it. They just need to find out what you know.'

'If I knew anything, why the h.e.l.l would I have come here?'

'I've been a.s.sured that if you answer their questions, you'll be let go.'

'Where? To the target end of the shooting range?'

The waiter interrupted with a pointed clearing of his throat. From his breeches he produced a distinctly modern pistol. With it he directed Charlie and Drummond out of the tea parlor and into a wide, white marble hallway. And what choice was there but to proceed? Mortimer and Cadaret fell in behind, and Isadora brought up the rear.

Just down the hall, the party came upon a taproom, which, if not for electric bulbs in the sconces and modern contraptions behind the bar, could be a London public house circa the Crimean War. A smattering of patrons ate and drank in secluded mahogany booths and at a pewter-topped bar. Of course no one blinked at the pistol pointed at Charlie and Drummond, not even the helicopter pilot or the paramedics.

Hungrily eyeing the servings of bangers and mash set before that trio, Drummond asked, 'Are we having lunch here?'

'We'll be continuing down the hall,' the waiter said.

Charlie proceeded with the feeling that his legs were sinking into the floor*the same heaviness felt in nightmares when there's no choice but to face the horror ahead.

The hallway terminated at a fifty-foot-long ramp covered in Persian carpet. The group descended, coming into a narrow corridor with the antiseptic scent and fluorescent colorlessness of a hospital.

'First room on the left,' the waiter said.

The bra.s.s plaque beside the doorway was engraved CONFERENCE ROOM. Through the open door, Charlie took in a spartan table and chairs, bare brick walls, and a rubber flooring possibly chosen for the ease with which blood could be wiped off.

The entrance to the conference room was blocked, briefly, by a man in surgical garb, wheeling an instrument cart. He pushed through the swinging, steel-plated door directly across the corridor, revealing a full-sized operating room with a mult.i.tude of beeping monitors and machines. Seven members of a surgical team hovered around the operating table. On it lay the man who'd been carried off the helicopter, now apparently under general anesthesia.

The scene momentarily captured the attention of everyone in the corridor.

Except Drummond. He shot a hand into his half-opened fly, withdrew the rock he'd been fidgeting with on the terrace, and threw a fastball. It struck Cadaret in the jaw with a crack that caused everyone but the patient to jump.

While the others reeled, Charlie realized, with a rush of euphoria, that Drummond was on on.

Cadaret collapsed, banging the operating room door inward. Drummond pounced on him, pried the gun from his shoulder holster, then rolled onto the operating room floor. He bounced up into a kneel, sighted the weapon, and squeezed out a shot. The report was thunder in the windowless chamber. A red starburst appeared on the front of the waiter's frilly blouse. Gun still in hand, he fell dead, revealing matching splatter on the corridor wall behind him.

In the operating room, the surgical masks were puckered by expressions of alarm. Everyone looked to the surgeon. 'Evacuate to recovery,' he said as if it were self-evident.

In the corridor, Isadora wheeled herself into a position so that the left side of the thick steel doorframe shielded her from Drummond's fire. Pressing himself against the right side of the doorframe, Mortimer reached his gun into the operating room and fired three times in rapid succession. The unsilenced shots seemed to shake the building.

The first bullet kicked up a strip of linoleum from the tile on which Drummond had been kneeling. Drummond leaped away, to the patient's left, vanishing behind a fireproof cabinet with the proportions and bulk of an industrial refrigerator.

Mortimer's second round hammered the metal-plated face of the cabinet, at Drummond's chest level. The bullet ricocheted, toppling an instrument stand and causing surgical instruments to ring against the floor tiles. The dense cabinet or its contents absorbed the third shot.

Charlie thought he could retrieve the fallen waiter's gun. While Mortimer and Isadora were preoccupied with Drummond, he would dive for the weapon, s.n.a.t.c.h it, and roll to the safety of the conference room. Taking a deep breath in preparation, he was struck bodily from behind.

The next thing he knew, he was being propelled into the operating room by Mortimer. Although his shoes remained in contact with the floor, he had the feeling of being thrown off a building.

'What are you thinking?' Isadora screamed from the corridor.

Ignoring her, Mortimer shoved Charlie ahead.

They rounded the big cabinet, bringing Drummond, who knelt behind it, into view. With uncanny calm, Drummond tracked Mortimer through his gun sight. Charlie realized that he was being used by Mortimer as a shield.

'Put the gun on the floor,' Mortimer ordered Drummond. He gathered Charlie closer for emphasis.

Drummond fine-tuned the barrel and tightened his squint.

He wouldn't dare shoot, Charlie thought. William Tell wouldn't.

Drummond pressed the trigger. Mortimer too. The booms and the flashes were indistinguishable.

Mortimer's bullet struck a side of the bulky cabinet, denting the heavy-gauge metal, then it bounced off and disappeared unceremoniously through the door to the dressing room. Drummond's bullet tore the air inches to the side of Charlie's jaw and knocked Mortimer off his feet. He keeled backward, hot blood from his jugular spraying Charlie, then slammed to the floor and lay on his back, unmoving. The angle of his neck declared he wasn't playing possum.

Charlie was left awhirl in shock and stupor and, mostly, umbrage: How could Drummond have taken such a risk? Through it all he saw a faint gleam pa.s.s over Mortimer.

Drummond appeared to see it too. He spun toward the doctors and nurses, now transporting the patient by gurney through swinging side doors into the recovery room. Drummond fired at them, eliciting screams of horror.