The Lucy Ghosts Page 11

  Ch. 15

  Georgetown

  Washington. D.C.

  As the mourners left the Dresden cemetery, The Deputy Director of Administration sat down to his meeting with the DDI, Phil Tucker and Carter. Due to the time differences it was still Christmas evening on the East Coast, and the festivities were in full swing.

  Unlike Dresden, Washington is the most modern of cities and Georgetown its cultural and residential jewel.

  Just north of Foggy Bottom, it is the oldest part of the city, having started its life as a tobacco port in 1751. Along its picturesque commercial centre there is a diverse and exciting selection of restaurants and shops designed to entice the many cultured habitants of the area. Mainly those who spend their working hours in the embassies and government agencies.

  The DDA lived near Massachusetts Avenue, the thoroughfare that houses most of the embassies in Washington. Unlike most of his colleagues who lived outside the city, the DDA was never slow to flaunt his position and usually had a house full of guests, many of them diplomats from the foreign missions.

  Christmas Day had been no different. Ostensibly a day for children, the DDA saw it as an opportunity to entertain and impress, an opportunity to pander to the whims of Washington society. Not much had been seen of his children all day. He didn't know they had gone to his wife's mother after lunch and wouldn't be returning until the following morning.

  He had received Nowak's report at eight o' clock that morning. It had stunned him.

  He opened the meeting with that information. There was little said. He knew they wanted time to absorb it before they responded. All except the DDI, who was furious that his colleague hadn't rung him earlier and passed the report on.

  'Anything new on West Wing?' the DDA asked Tucker.

  'Nothing concrete. He got married fifteen years ago, sort'a late in life. Had no kids. Liked his liquor and disappeared on the occasional bender. No idea where he came from, how we got him his identity. That's all locked up in the computer. We searched his home. Found nothing. Except he'd been a Corporal in the Waffen SS during the War. Still had his identity papers. Stashed away in his bedside drawer. We checked back, but there was no war crimes stuff.'

  'Reindeer was in the SS, wasn't he ?'

  'Different outfit. We couldn't find any link between them.'

  'That's all?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Anything on that virus?'

  'No.'

  'I think we should be addressing the point about why someone's knocking out our asset base...as well as the Russians?' interrupted the DDI, changing tack on the discussion.

  'If you believe what they say?' answered the DDA.

  'They always were tricky bastards.'

  'Still can't see what they hope to achieve.'

  'Unless they're after Trimmler.'

  'What for?' asked the DDA sharply.

  'Who knows. But they could've been after him. Christ, he could be a double?'

  ' He's a scientist, not a...I doubt that. We got anything on that Kraut who was shot, whatsisname, uh, Kushmann?' The DDA swung round to Carter.

  'Nothing,' answered the security man. 'Another East German lawyer who moved to Frankfurt. He was important, in a corporate way. But not that important, not enough to be taken out.'

  'And the other guy?'

  'Mitzer. Big industrialist. In defence. Aerospace. Big supporter of us in Germany. He could've been a target for kidnapping by a terrorist faction. But they wouldn't have gone after him in such a public place.'

  Tucker suddenly understood that the security man had been given his own responsibilities, independent and classified from Tucker. He would have to be more careful in future as he realised all his thoughts and actions would be reported back to his superiors. He watched Carter lean back when he had finished and knew he was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

  'Go back on it. Dig deeper into each one. Including the women. And Trimmler. There could be something there, something we missed,' ordered the DDA.

  'Can we get some help on it? I've only two guys here in Langley. There's a lot of legwork that.....'

  'Shit no,' interjected the DDI. 'Even the President doesn't know what's happening.' He realised he had gone further than he should in front of the two subordinates. 'Look, you two better understand where we're coming from. This whole thing is just conjecture. It makes us look bad if we run to the White House with every rumour we come across. All we know for certain is that our computer's partly fucked, which is being dealt with; that we lost two agents, which is now under investigation; and that someone may have tried to take out one of our top scientists. Which is also being investigated. And while we're doing that we're also going to protect him. That's all there is to go on. We don't report this to anyone until we get some more facts. Okay?'

  'There is also one other slight problem,' added the DDA. 'We don't know who planted that virus. Which means we don't know how much they've infiltrated our intelligence system. If we start sharing this information with anyone else, including any special advisers to the President, can you guarantee it won't get out?'

  'Anyway, who can we go to? The Puzzle Palace is out.' The DDI referred to America's National Security Agency, the most secret agency within the US government. The NSA has a budget estimated to be far greater than the CIA and has a complex of electronic eavesdropping stations and satellites that cover both America and the globe. Its Director is probably the most powerful executive in the American intelligence community.

  'Why?'

  'Because they could be involved up to their fucking necks and maybe just happened to forget to tell us.'

  'Even they won't be knocking off our own people.'

  'Oh yeah. They're as dangerous as the Russians. They play their own weird games. Yeah, and, just think how easy it would be for them to get access to the computer.'

  There was a silence round the room. At last the DDA spoke.

  'We keep this thing in-house. Carter, you just keep digging as instructed. The DDI and me, we'll follow up on the Russians through our contacts. While that's going on we need to protect Trimmler. Just in case he is a target. As well as chasing this computer thing, I want you to look after that, Tucker.'

  'I've never been in the field, sir.'

  'Just do as we tell you,' countered the DDI. 'I'll bring some of my people across. All you have to do is....'

  'No,' interrupted the DDA. 'Your people are out.'

  'Who says?'

  'The Exec Director.'

  'We were going to keep this in-house.'

  'Except for this.'

  'Why? What's wrong with my people?'

  'All their records are in the computer. Put them in the field and whoever's set this up will know we're protecting Trimmler. We want to use Trimmler as bait. We've already got a tap on his phone. If they're after him, let them think they've got a free run.'

  'So who do we use?'

  'Someone outside the intelligence community.'

  'Cops? You gotta be joking. They've got the biggest mouths in town. They're not used to working alone. We need someone who is.'

  'We appreciate that. And it's not the police.'

  'Who then?'

  'Two people. A professional field man and a partner who's used to sifting information, looking for something that everyone else's missed.'

  'And they're in place?' The DDI's question was harsh, he knew he had been outmanoeuvred in front of the Executive Director by his counterpart. He cursed silently and regretted not moving with his own plan earlier.

  'Not yet. I'd like to clear it with you first.' He lied smoothly to the DDI.

  'So who's being brought in?'

  'Both these people are outside the mainstream of intelligence. They're definitely out of the computer. The first is our woman in San Diego. You already know about her. Recruited by the Agency in the early seventies, when we had regional centres. But things changed, we closed down the centres and most of the staff came to Washington. But because of the natur
e of the Californian campuses, because of the drugs and protest movement, we kept a small unit going in San Diego.'

  'She's a desk jockey.'

  'Collection and Dissemination. She's been doing that ever since.'

  'What's her cover?'

  'She's an IT operative in Mayfair Cab and Taxi. Her office is on the second floor of the cab company.'

  ‘What grade is she?'

  'Clerical.' The DDA didn't add that her section was to be closed down in the near future. 'She's experienced in the operation of computers and she's been looking at our problem with Tucker.'

  'Who else?'

  ‘Someone used to working alone and looking after himself. A soldier.'

  'Special Forces?' The DDI referred to members of the armed forces who were trained for covert and dangerous missions.

  'We wanted someone who no-one could identify. We decided to go outside our normal sphere of operation. We decided...' the DDA knew his colleague was about to explode. Now was as good a time as ever. '...on someone who would be classed as a mercenary. A British soldier. A member of their S.A.S.'

  'You're fucking joking?'

  'One of their best. Used to working underground and part of their intelligence arm. Just finished a tour of duty in Northern Ireland.'

  'You're not fucking joking.'

  'The Exec Director's already spoken to London. They're playing ball. He speaks German. Served some time out there. Could help with Trimmler.'

  'I should've been brought in on this earlier.'

  'Well, that's how it is.' The DDA turned to Phil Tucker. 'He'll be over in the next few days. Adam Nicholson. That's his name. I suggest he flies straight to San Diego. You'll need to be there to brief him. And the girl.'

  'This computer's going to need a lot of my time.'

  'Delegate someone. Everyone knows there's a virus. Put pressure on but I don’t want anyone opening a drawer and working out how serious this problem is.'

  'I need to know my responsibilities. And how to progress the situation.' Tucker thought of Jean and the pressure he would be under at home. She had been married to an army officer before they met and hated the life, the constant separation. After nine years of marriage, he still hadn't spent a night away from home. He suddenly dreaded going home, remembered the foul mood she had been in when he left to come to this meeting. To return and tell her he was going to San Diego and God knows where else for an undetermined period would cause havoc in the household. At least they had tomorrow, he would take them all out for the day.

  'We'll meet in the morning and work out the logistics on this thing. Eight a.m. My office.' The DDA's words were like a death sentence and Tucker groaned silently.

  'How much information do we give this guy?' demanded the DDI, now aware that he had lost control of the situation. It wasn't his baby any longer. 'Fuck Administration!' he thought.

  'As little as we can get away with. Leave it till tomorrow.' The DDA slid his chair back and stood up. 'I suggest you all get back and enjoy what's left of Christmas. See you in the morning.'

  Two minutes later they were out on the street, standing below the period lamp stand that splayed its yellow light down onto the snow covered sidewalk.

  'Wanna lift?' the DDI asked Carter, signalling across to the chauffeur driven government car that was parked across the road.

  'Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate that,' answered Carter keeping his eyes away from Tucker.

  'Good. See you tomorrow, Tucker. Sorry I can't give you a lift but we're going the other way.'

  'No sweat. See you tomorrow.' Tucker stood back as the car pulled up at the kerb. Carter opened the door for the DDI, and after he had climbed in, followed him and shut the door.

  Tucker watched the car drive off towards Massachusetts Avenue. The more he knew Carter, the more he disliked him. He was probably selling his soul to the DDI right now, in the back of the Company car. He would always go to the highest bidder. Another fucking pension-sucking whore.

  He started to walk towards the main street, wished he had brought the car. Jean had kept the station wagon in case she took the kids out. He sure as hell wasn't going to find a cab easily at this time of night on Christmas Day. He couldn't even ring Jean, she'd have the kids in bed by now.

  'Christ, I'm a fucking communications executive, not a fucking secret agent,' he shouted to the cold night.

  Nobody heard. Nobody cared.

  Ch. 16

  Moscow.

  'Thank you, Dimitri Dimitrovitch. This has put a new slant on the situation. You must keep alert and concentrate your efforts on this matter. If there is any change, contact me immediately.'

  Rostov put down the phone and looked out of the window. The snow was thick outside, the street blocked off with the latest heavy fall. The late afternoon sun shone brightly as he looked up, the glare from the window reflection making him squint. He tried to remember a document he had seen, a glimmer of everyday information that hadn't seemed important at the time but could tie in with what Dimitri Sorge had told him on the phone.

  He heard one of the children, probably his youngest daughter, laugh from the living room. Then came the stronger tones of his wife admonishing her. Someone was being naughty. It warmed him, he loved the family, loved the days away from the office. He looked down at the phone. Not true, he was always at the office.

  They may have driven the Jews out of Russia, but they and their religion had some good points. The Sabbath. They always switched off their phones on a Sabbath. It was a day of rest. He wished he could switch off the phone.

  He picked up the receiver and dialled 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. When the operator answered he asked to be put through to the Director. He knew he'd be there.

  He grinned as he waited.

  He was certain the Director didn't believe in Santa Claus.

  Ch.17

  M1 Motorway

  Southbound carriageway

  Luton

  England.

  They white police car, its red and blue lights busily flashing, spotted him in the heavy traffic and chased him for nearly two miles before pulling him into the soft shoulder.

  'In a rush, are we?' was the sarcastic policeman's comment as Adam climbed out of the Ferrari F40. He added, 'Sir,' with the customary arrogance that is traditional in such situations.

  'Not really,' smiled Adam.

  'You were doing nearly a hundred.'

  'Was I?' Adam knew that a hundred miles an hour normally meant a ban in most traffic courts. Which is why he'd held it ninety miles an hour.

  'The limit's seventy.'

  'I know the highway code.'

  'Then you should stick to it.' Once more the sneering, 'Sir. Would you follow me, please?'

  Adam followed the officer to the patrol car where the second policeman was waiting.

  'Mr Nicholson?' asked the second officer.

  'Yes.'

  'Would you get in the front, please.' He opened the door for Adam to slide into the passenger seat, then walked round and climbed into the driver's side. He leant over and picked up the radio telephone. 'I've got him here.' he said, then handed over the telephone to Adam.

  'Nicholson,' said Adam.

  'Where've you been this time in your little toy?' came the official voice that Adam recognised as his contact officer.

  Adam put his hand over the receiver and turned to the policeman. 'Would you excuse me?' he asked politely. 'Official secrets and all that.' The policeman shrugged and climbed out, annoyed at being asked to leave his own car. 'What do you want?' he asked into the receiver once the door had been closed.

  'I wish you'd follow orders.'

  Adam didn't reply. He'd spent the day at the Ferrari Owners Association at Castle Donington Racetrack in Leicestershire. He'd come second in the unlimited class race and was still savouring the enjoyment of the speed and precision of the racing circuit.

  'Anyway, we need you down here. Immediately.' went on the voice.

  'Is this an operation?' Adam asked, sud
denly excited with the possibility of action.

  'So it would appear.'

  'Where?'

  'We'll tell you that when you get down here.'

  'In my toy.'

  The radio phone went dead. Adam put it down and stepped out of the police car. 'Thank you.' He walked towards the F40.

  'Watch your speed, will you? Sir.'

  Adam nodded and climbed into the Ferrari.

  The police car followed him till the next turnoff and he cheekily kept the speed at eighty five. He knew they wouldn't stop him, not when they knew he was important enough to be stopped on the motorway and given a message.

  When they'd gone, he gunned her up to a hundred and twenty and drove his little red toy into London.

  Ch. 18

  San Diego

  Southern California.

  The big British Airways 747 is the only scheduled jumbo that lands at San Diego's Lindbergh Field.

  Flight BA 285 flies direct from London Gatwick to Los Angles, and then, once it has discharged the majority of its passengers and burnt up most of its fuel, carries on for the short hop into San Diego. Lindbergh's 09 eastbound runway is only 9,400 feet long and the lightly loaded Boeing jumbo can be landed safely because of its lack of weight.

  The approach to runway 09 is over the mountains that leap up to the west of the city. It is an exacting approach for any pilot, leading down to the runway which is close-by to the downtown area. It juts out into the most spectacular bay and to watchers on the other side it appears that aircraft descend into the heart of the city, into the heart of the corporate skyscrapers that are clustered together as a beacon of a modern and prosperous San Diego.

  Adam was one of fifteen passengers left on flight BA 285, and the only one still in First Class. He had fought the usual bureaucratic battle with the Admin boys who had insisted he use a travel warrant that only entitled him to an economy class seat. In the end he had simply agreed because he realised he was wasting his time arguing with the form fillers who were blindly carrying out their orders. As soon as he left them he called British Airways and bought a first class ticket on his American Express card. It was his usual way; he simply reported that he had lost his travel warrant and claimed the economy fare back from the form fillers on his return. There would be the usual caustic remark about 'Lose your head next time' or some similar comment that the form fillers always seemed to dredge up from the safety of their filing cabinets and wooden government issue desks.