The Arctic Event (40 page)
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
The cabdriver glanced in his rearview mirror at the tall, quiet man in the Army greens and black beret. Since 9/11 he’d carried a lot of soldiers to the airport, some of them heading home, others heading out to somewhere. From the multiple rows of ribbons on this man’s uniform coat, there had been a lot of somewheres, and from the weariness etched in his face, he’d been to one not long ago. But like most of the best, he wasn’t saying much about it.
The cabbie smiled to himself, looking back on his own somewheres, among them the rice paddy south of Bear Cat where he’d exchanged his right hand for a steel hook.
The Yellow Crown Victoria swept around the great curving reception bay of the terminal building, finding an unloading slot amid the milling streams of traffic. The soldier dismounted, drawing his barracks bag and briefcase out of the backseat. Stepping up to the front window, he reached for his wallet.
The cabdriver reached over with his prosthesis and zeroed the meter. “Forget it, Colonel. This one’s on the house.”
The tall soldier hesitated and then smiled. “If you insist.”
“Damn straight I do,” the cabby called back, pulling into traffic with a blare of his horn. “Eleventh Cav, ’sixty-seven. Good luck, sir.”
The shift manager wouldn’t mind. He was an ex-Marine, and he’d been some places, too.
Jon Smith pushed through the glass doors of the terminal to the ticketing counters, the luggage check-in, and the sluggish shuffle of the security inspection lines. The wait didn’t bother him particularly. At the moment he was in no rush.
He recognized the phenomenon, a combination of the biological backlash of the past week’s extreme exertions and the usual postmission psychological letdown. It would pass. At his last long-distance debriefing with Fred Klein, the director had told him to stand down and take some of his backlog of leave. The director had even waved his magic wand and arranged for it to happen.
The problem was, Smith didn’t feel like going anywhere or doing anything particularly. And back in Bethesda there was only the house that had never had the chance to become a home.
Snap out of it, Smith. You don’t need a leave. You need to get back to work.
But that brought up another point for consideration. Just exactly what was his work now? When he had accepted his position with Covert One, he had viewed himself as a research microbiologist performing an occasional specialist’s assignment for Fred Klein. Now, though, it was feeling more and more as if he was the dedicated operator and his position as USAIMRIID was the filler.
And hadn’t he taken that research slot to begin with specifically so he could work with Sophia? So they could be together? Since the Hades plague that wasn’t going to happen. That idealization was gone forever. Why the hell was he still going through those motions?
The X-ray machine and the security shakedown was a welcome distraction, his uniform and his government ID rating him the most cursory of inspections. He strode on down the concourse toward the United boarding gates. He was early for his flight to Dulles. Maybe he had enough time to get himself a cup of coffee before boarding. Not a drink in the mood he was in, but a cup of coffee.
“Jon, hey, Jon! Hold up!”
Randi Russell was trotting toward him, towing a squeaking piece of wheeled luggage. The white ladies’ gloves she wore contrasted with her comfort-faded denims. Coming to a halt, she smiled up at him, an open, happy, pleased smile, very different from when they’d met across the street at the Doubletree.
“I saw that dermatologist you wanted,” she said, holding up her gloved hands. “He said they might be a little sensitive to cold from now on, but he doesn’t think there will even be any scarring.”
Smith found himself smiling back. “I’m glad to hear it, Randi. Where are you off for?”
She made a face. “I can’t really say. You know the drill.”
He nodded. “I do. I’m glad we at least have the chance to say good-bye. It was good working with you again and just good seeing you again.”
“The same for me.” She hesitated for a moment, glancing around at the other hurrying occupants of the concourse, and then seemed to make a final call on some debated question.
“Could you come with me for a second?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She led him over into a small pocket of privacy behind an advertising kiosk. “I was hoping for the chance to tell you about something, Jon,” she said, “something that happened on the island. I feel kind of strange talking about it. But after thinking about it for a while, I guess it’s something you should know.”
“What is it?”
She hesitated a moment more, then looked into his face, her dark eyes sober. “Remember that night on the north beach when I just about froze to death? You know, when you found me after I’d called out to you?”
“Of course,”
“This is the strange thing. I wasn’t...alone out there, Jon. Sophia was with me. I know it sounds crazy, and maybe I was or am crazy, but for a minute Sophia...came back. She told me to call out for you. She made me call out. If she hadn’t, you’d never have found me.”
She dropped her eyes. “There, now go ahead and call me a nutcase.”
Smith frowned. “Why should I do that? Sophia loved you very much.” He lightly rested his hands on her shoulders. “If you were in trouble and if there were any way in this universe for her to help you, she would. I don’t think it’s crazy, Randi. I’m not even particularly surprised.”
Randi looked up and gave a sheepish grin. “Well, she loved you a whole lot, too, Jon Smith. So don’t be surprised if she shows up for you sometime, too.”
He nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t a displeasing notion. “Maybe that explains why we keep bumping into each other. We’re bonded through her.”
“It must count for something.” She came up on her toes and lightly brushed her lips against his cheek. “I have to run. They’re calling my flight. You take care, Jon, till next time.”
“Till next time.” And he knew there would be a next time.
Smith found his shoulders squaring and his mood lightening as he finished the walk to the boarding gate. It improved further when he found someone else waiting for him at the United jetway.
Valentina Metrace wore heels and a pleasantly snug gray knit dress that matched her eyes, and a number of other male travelers shot disgruntled looks at Smith as she smiled and stood to greet him.
“Hello, Colonel.”
“Hello yourself, Professor.” He set his briefcase down beside her small pile of carry-ons. “Are you bound for Washington?”
“No, I’m pleased to say.” She nodded up the concourse. “I’m on Southwestern a couple of slots farther on. I’m off to Palm Springs for a few days. I find I need to melt a bit of residual ice off my soul.”
“Palm Springs.” Smith nodded thoughtfully. “It would be nice down there this time of year.”
“Oh, it is, I assure you. There’s a swimming pool I know of, shaded by real palm trees and fed by one of the real palm springs. During the day I intend to lie beside it, wearing a swimsuit or less, and at night I will drink champagne and sleep between satin sheets. It will be a life of great beauty.”
She held out her hand to him. “I’ve been thinking . . . it would be nice to share it with someone.”
There was no coquetry in the invitation, no challenge, no dare to her offer, only a hint of wistfulness, an echo from the lonely operator’s existence that Jon knew and understood.
He hesitated for a last moment. Val would be different, so very different from anyone he had ever known before, and so would any roads they might walk down together. But different wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I’ll need to look into something first,” he replied.
“What’s that?”
He drew Valentina in to him. Putting a hand into her thick, rich hair, he kissed her, letting it linger, learning the softness of her lips, the delicate touch contours of her face.
Val’s eyes closed into the kiss and when they opened again he could see that she had been pleased with the result as well. It had been different from one of Sophia’s kisses, but that too was as it should be.
It was time. It was time and past time for a great many new things.
Smith went to change his ticket.
Anacosta, Maryland
The Wednesday Island operation wound down in the screen-lit dimness of Margaret Templeton’s office, coming to its conclusion against the soft purring backdrop of computer cooling fans.
“We’ve done the partial-truth feed to both the Canadian authorities and Interpol,” Templeton said from her desk workstation. “To wit, Anton Kretek and his people were involved in some armaments smuggling venture, the exact nature of which remains unknown, when their chartered helicopter went down in Hudson Bay. There were no survivors, but the appropriate wreckage has been recovered.”
“Is it selling?” Fred Klein inquired, testing the soil of Maggie’s bonsai tree with a probing finger.
“So far. The general consensus seems to be, the man is no great loss to anyone. We’ve also located and cleaned up Kretek’s refueling depots.”
Klein nodded absently, adding a jet of water to the little planter from the squeeze bottle beside it. He was seated beside Maggie’s desk, watching the bank of flat-screen displays on the far office wall. His features were softened by a faint haze of gray beard, and his tie had been loosened a couple of casual inches. It was the end of another average twelve-hour day. “What about the getaway trawler?”
“Successfully dealt with, sir. The USS
MacIntyre
placed a SEAL team on board the vessel. The Icelandic crew were essentially hired help. Likely they were viewed by Kretek as a disposable asset. They knew nothing about the true nature of the Wednesday Island operation. Accordingly they have been released to the Icelandic authorities.”
“And Kretek’s men?”
Maggie’s even-featured face was worthy of a championship poker table. “An operational accident. While they were being taken across to the destroyer, the whaleboat carrying the arms smugglers capsized in a rogue wave. The guards and the coxswain were wearing antiexposure suits and lifejackets and were rescued; Kretek’s men weren’t. Hudson Bay is a very dangerous body of water, sir.”
“Very much so, Maggie. Here’s hoping we won’t have to work up that way again for a while.” Klein snugged his tie tight once more. He and Maggie would finish this up and then, for certain, call it quits for the night. “How are our people doing?”
Maggie’s hands danced across her keyboard, the file photos of Jon Smith and Valentina Metrace windowing up on the wall screens. “Physically, they are recovering from exhaustion, exposure, and a variety of minor injuries. Psychologically, they appear to be stable and still comfortable with operating. Given a reasonable period of rest and recuperation, I feel they will be deployable again. In my opinion both Jon and Professor Metrace continue to be valid mobile ciphers.”
Klein nodded. “I concur. I’m pleased with the way they seem to work in harness together. I’ve always been a bit concerned about Metrace, she tends toward being a bit of a cowboy at times. I think Jon’s a steadying influence on her. The chemistry’s good.”
In the screen glow, Maggie’s lips quirked into a slight smile. “In a number of ways. They’ve spent the last week together in Palm Springs.”
“Indeed.” Klein frowned, not in disapproval, but in consideration. “Normally, I don’t like to see off-mission fraternization between our prime ciphers, but in this instance I think we’ll make an exception. If Jon’s good for Metrace, I think Metrace may be good for Jon.”
“I agree, sir. Now, there’s one other personnel point I’d like to bring up.”
“What’s that, Maggie?”
His executive officer’s fingers clattered across her keyboard again, and a third wall screen lit, filling with the image of Randi Russell. “I think we had best declare this young lady radioactive. I don’t think we should ever tap her as an outside asset again.”
“Why so, Maggie? According to Jon’s report, Ms. Russell’s actions have been exemplary. She has a history of successful operations with him.”
“Yes, sir, but she’s CIA, and the Agency knows Covert One is out here now. They don’t know exactly who or what we are yet, but they don’t like our authority and the way we keep tapping their assets. They’re starting to sniff around, hunting for a line on us. Ms. Russell can bore-sight two of our prime ciphers, and we could get some comeback through her. I think we need to keep her distanced in the future.”
Klein shook his head. “I disagree. I believe we have another option.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“We don’t distance her. We absorb her. We bring her all the way in.”
Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “We recruit her as a mobile cipher?”
“Why not? Ms. Russell has the package. She has an excellent set of skills. She has the experience, and she doesn’t have any connections or attachments.”
“Except to the Agency.”
“We can work around that.” Klein smiled to himself, like a fencer flexing a new foil. “In fact, we may be able to make use of it.”
“As you wish, sir.” Maggie sounded dubious. “Do you want me to set up a recruitment approach?”
“No...not quite yet. But let’s keep an eye on her. Silver-flag her file and redesignate her as a special asset; then have her placed under a loose assessment surveillance. We’ll wait for another opportunity to team her with Smith and Metrace, and then...we shall see what we shall see.”
“Very good, sir.”
A silver border blipped into existence around Randi Russell’s photo. Fred Klein leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped, his expression intent. “Welcome to the firm, Ms. Russell,” he murmured to the blonde woman’s image.