Act of God (9 page)

Nekrasov nodded as if in agreement. Personally, he considered these things to be merest drivel and the "findings" highly suspect, but he was willing to humor his pet scientific plotter. Nekrasov knew little in the hard sciences, but like any intelligence man he was interested in any new developments in the field of information gathering and spying. In his younger days, he had made an extensive study of the Soviet parapsychology program, in the hopes of developing a new, apparatus-free means of eavesdropping. He had been disappointed, and had found that the vaunted "discoveries" in these fields were grossly exaggerated to impress the Western press with the superiority of Soviet science. Still, Baratynsky was basically correct: Soviet policy on scientific research was more open to radical ideas. There was still the possibility of achieving a scientific coup in a field that Western orthodoxy declared spurious.

"Men like that," Ryabkin said, "are often disparaged by their peers. But sometimes they can gain a popular following. Look at Velikovsky and Von Daniken. It has happened here as well. Look at what that fraud Lysenko did to us, especially our agricultural programs and our genetics. Is it possible that Ciano could win such attention?"

Baratynsky looked at the KGB chief in exaggerated surprise. "A most astute observation to come from you, comrade." Ryabkin almost came out of his sofa at the insolent, patronizing tone, but Nekrasov made a barely perceptible gesture to calm him. Ryabkin settled back and forced a friendly smile. Time to deal with this impossible fool later.

"What of it, Comrade Baratynsky?" Nekrasov asked. "Could Ciano circumvent his colleagues in the scientific community by going for popular appeal instead?"

Baratynsky leaned back and laced his fingers over his large belly, tilting his head back to study the baroque decoration of the ceiling. "A most intriguing possibility. The Americans have a great fondness for their sensationalist press. Quite aside from the question of Ciano, we could make some use of that ourselves."

"How?" Nekrasov asked, this time without impatience. It was for this kind of thinking that Baratynsky was so valuable.

The scientist took a sip and sloshed it around in his mouth, sucking in air at the same time to build up a heady fume and air mixture, like some kind of human carburetor. "I have made a number of trips to America, and studied a bit of their popular culture. Their tabloid press is similar to that of Britain, France and West Germany. It is luridly illustrated, with large, eye-catching type. There is a very narrow range of subjects, repeated endlessly." He ticked off the subjects on his fingers, "First and greatest, there are the doings of celebrities, film and television personalities preferred, although political figures sometimes appear, if their private lives are messy enough. Second, anything having to do with losing weight. The Americans are fanatics on the subject. They always want to read about a new weight-loss technique, especially if it is instant and does not involve limiting food intake or increasing exercise.

"Tied for third place are miracle cures for cancer and other diseases and the ever-popular paranormal phenomena: ESP, unidentified flying objects, 'proof' of life after death, ghosts, etcetera. Combinations of several of these motifs are popular. A typical headline will involve a dead celebrity speaking from beyond the grave."

Ryabkin shook his head. "How did these people ever become a threat to us?"

"What use might we make of this press?" Nekrasov asked.

"Closely related to the paranormal and miracle-cure subjects," Baratynsky explained, "are discoveries, as they quaintly put it, 'from behind the Iron Curtain.' "

"Damn Churchill," Ryabkin muttered.

"You would be amazed at the things they have attributed to Soviet scientists. I suppose we brought it on ourselves, by looking into subjects Western science refuses to touch. Now, if we leak to these representatives of the 'yellow press,' as it is called for some reason, the information that Soviet scientists are predicting a great increase in meteoric activity, Americans will not only be prepared for such events, they will be disappointed if they do not transpire."

"Unusual," Nekrasov said, "but an excellent idea. Ryabkin, put some of your people on it. Comrade Baratynsky will put together an information package to be leaked to the Western press through the usual channels, with emphasis this time on the lurid tabloids." He considered for a moment. "At the same time, you might as well add Dr. Ciano as one of the subjects of our cleanup mission. The three will probably be traveling together, so there would be little suspicion should all perish in the same accident. After all, one Estonian defector, a CIA man who was already on his way out, and a crackpot scientist would not be missed."

"I'll put the Bulgarians to work on it immediately," Ryabkin said.

"But take no action until I give the go-ahead," Nekrasov cautioned.

"Of course, Comrade Nekrasov," Ryabkin concurred.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was late afternoon when Sam pulled up in front of Laine's hotel. He glanced at his watch, finding that he was several minutes early. He wondered whether he should go up to her apartment or wait down here. He hadn't seen her or Ciano for several weeks. He'd been persuading people to appear before the Security Council and strongarming the University of Hawaii into giving Ciano indefinite sabbatical leave. To this last end, he got a friend in CIA to put in a word with a major funding agency which in turn called up the Provost's office, causing permission for the sabbatical to appear as if by magic.

Most difficult of all had been lining up an astronaut. They were busy men, even if they no longer were working in the space program. He'd called on an airline executive, a college president, an oceanographer, two senators and a state governor before finding an ex-rocket jock who was interested, believed the problem to be serious, and was willing to get up in front of the Council and the President and say so.

He was opening the car door when Laine appeared in the hotel entrance. He almost whistled but decided that it would be too crass. She was stylishly dressed and impeccably coiffed. Her makeup had either been applied by a professional, or she was taking lessons somewhere. Most of all, her walk was springy and confident, perfectly poised. Gone forever was the fatigued, confused refugee he had met a few weeks before. She smiled broadly and waved as she saw his red-and-white Chevy.

Thoroughly liberated by now, she opened the passenger door without waiting for him to do it. "Sam! It's so good to see you." She slid onto the seat smoothly. Already, her accent was fading. She studied him. "You're looking well, Sam."

He grinned at her. "I could say the same for you." His weight was almost back to normal, and he had worked himself to within a fraction of his top condition. "I see you're adjusting to your new life pretty well." He pulled out into traffic and glanced into the mirror. The white Volvo was still there.

"I'm over the worst of the culture shock," Laine said. "The lady across the hall from me runs a beautician's school and she got me to let her students work on me. Now she's after me to go to modeling school. Do you think I should give it a try?"

"Probably make a hell of a lot more than you would as an astronomer."

She laughed. "I'm not serious. I mean, she really did say I could make it as a model, but I would never do it. It sounds terribly dull."

"Most people think cuddling up to a cold telescope is dull," Sam commented.

"I suppose it's all in the temperament. How was your trip?"

"Overall, it was successful. I'll tell you all about it when we get to Ugo's." He glanced at the mirror again. "Anybody new moved into your building in recent weeks?"

"I don't know," she said, puzzled. "It's a residential hotel, I suppose there may have been several. Why?"

"Just a suspicion. I'm going to have to look into it." He changed the subject and they discussed inconsequential matters until they reached the building where Ciano was ensconced.

They found him sitting amid a litter of papers and empty Wild Turkey bottles. Most of the furniture was littered with more papers and books but an immaculate, late-model computer sat in splendid isolation on a table. He looked up from the surrounding mess. "Welcome home, Taggart. And you, too, Laine."

Sam crossed to a window and looked out onto the street below. "Did you know we're being kept under surveillance?" Sam asked.

Ciano scrambled to his feet and ran over to the window. "No kidding? We got a tail, just like in the movies? Which one is it?"

"I don't see them now, but there was a white Volvo following me from the airport. Question is, are they just dogging me or are they watching the two of you as well? It could be just me, for something that's not connected with our project."

"Don't count on it," Ciano said. He gestured toward a pile of tabloids on the floor. "Take a look at those. They're starting already."

Sam picked up a few of the papers. They were mostly titles he was familiar with, from hundreds of supermarkets, but he could not remember ever having looked into one. "You want to lose weight, Ugo?" he asked. "Or are you just one of those who keeps hoping Elvis is still alive on a UFO?"

"Look closer, dingaling. The stuff about comets and meteors and Russian scientists."

Laine picked up some of the lurid tabloids. "Look at this." She held out a paper which bore on its cover a fuzzy, badly-reproduced photo of a flattened forest. Above it, giant, screaming red letters spelled out: SIBERIAN MYSTERY BLAST DUE AGAIN! Below that, in smaller type: Sov Scientists Say Earth In For More Hits Soon! Is End Near? They thumbed through the stack of tabloids. Every one of them featured a similar story on its front cover, some involving Tunguska, others showing file photos of the big meteor crater in Arizona or pictures of meteorites from museums. The articles were at best semiliterate, full of innuendos and wild distortions.

"They all appeared in the same week," Ciano explained. "You really gotta start keeping your eyes open, Taggart. What this means is, they leaked it all at once, and they went straight to the tabs, every one of them."

"I don't understand," Laine said. "Why these publications?"

"Its subtle," Sam said. "If you'll remember, Ugo suggested something like this that first evening, but I never expected anything this thorough. Who do you think is behind it? Tarkovsky?

Ciano shook his head. "Naw, he's strictly a science man. I got a suspicion, though. There's a guy I've met at a few international conferences; a big, tall, fat guy named Baratynsky."

"Never heard of him," Sam said.

"I've seen him," Laine said. "He's some kind of high-up administrator in the space program. He visited Tsiolkovsky Center a few times. He was always trying to corner me in a vacant room on his visits. I took to calling in sick when I knew he was coming down. Tarkovsky detests him."

"That's our boy," Ciano agreed. "He's ten percent scientist, ninety percent politician, and a hundred percent son of a bitch. Knows his space science, though, and he keeps up on military and civilian applications. I think he'd've defected years ago for the sake of higher pay, but nobody'd have him."

"So," Sam said, "if this man Baratynsky is playing Dr. Strangelove to Nekrasov—"

"Then we're in first-class trouble," Ciano finished for him.

Sam glanced through one of the tabloids as he crossed to the window. He never ceased to be amazed at what people would believe if they saw it in print. Still no Volvo, but he knew it was out there, or another surveillance vehicle might have taken over. He saw a tall but foreshortened figure striding toward the entrance. "Here comes Fred," he announced.

"So at last we meet the mysterious Fred." Laine said."

"I hope she's more interesting than those other guys your boss put on the team," Ugo interjected.

"What were you expecting?" Sam demanded. "James Bond, for Chrissake? These people are toilers in the vineyard of national security. In this business we prize anonymity. Fred's a little different, though." He was holding something in, and Ugo eyed him suspiciously.

There was a knock on the door and a female voice asked: "Sam, are you in there?"

Ugo crossed to the door, opened it and then looked straight up. The woman in the doorway was over six feet tall, with curly blonde hair and a face from a Mayan temple sculpture. She looked down and stuck out a hand. "You must be Ciano."

Ugo took her hand and said with awe: "Lady, where did you get them genes?"

Fred looked down at her pants. "These? At Saks."

"No, I mean the ones in your cells. The double-helix stuff. Hell, don't just stand there, come in. Have some Wild Turkey. I know I got a clean glass around here somewhere." He wandered off toward the kitchen in a half-daze.

"Fred," Sam said, "this is Dr. Laine Tammsalu."

Fred smiled and took Laine's hand. She had the largest, whitest teeth Laine had ever seen on a woman. In her strange, dark face they looked perfect. "I'm very pleased, Dr. Tammsalu. Sam briefed me on the project in Hawaii a couple of weeks ago. He was very enthusiastic about you and I can see why."

Laine blushed fetchingly. "He's been very mysterious about you. I think he was saving you for a surprise."

"He does that sometimes." She walked to the window and looked out. "Sam, about two blocks from here there's a white Volvo—"

"I saw it. It followed me from the airport to Laine's and then here. Anybody we know?"

She turned back. "When I walked past it, the guy on the passenger side tried to turn away fast, but I made him first. Remember the Bulgarian I deep-sixed in Rome two years ago?"

"Right. What was his name? Debelianov?"

"That's the one," Fred confirmed. "Well, this one was his partner, Liliev. I couldn't make the driver."

"Bulgarians?" Ciano said, returning from the kitchen. He handed Fred a glass full of straight Wild Turkey. "Here. This one didn't take much cleaning. Did you say Bulgarians? Ain't they the hatchetmen for the KGB?"

Laine smiled. Hatchetmen. Sam was a hatchetman.

"That's right," Sam confirmed. He went to the telephone and punched a number, then spoke into the phone. "Paula? Sam here. See if you can find anything on a Bulgarian KGB man named Liliev." He spelled the name. "Don't dig for his whole file, just see if he's been reported here in the States lately."

While Sam waited Ciano protested. "Hey, Sam, if those people are watching us, this phone might be bugged!"

Sam looked at him, "Sure. So what?"

"Well, hell," Ciano said, "I don't know, I just thought that—"

"Relax," Fred told him. "The Bulgarians know they've been spotted. It makes no difference what they hear on that phone. Hell, I almost leaned in the window and said hello to old Liliev. It seems like old times with him around."

"You said you 'deep-sixed' his partner," Laine said. "Does that mean what it sounds like?"

Fred took a substantial sip of the high-proof whiskey. "Exactly. I caught him drawing a bead on a person very important to us whom I'm not free to name except he's a close adviser to a man often seen in a white hat on a balcony overlooking Saint Peter's Square on Sundays. I shot the son of a bitch right off the Sant Angelo bridge."

"Hey," Ugo said enthusiastically, "just like the movies!"

So, Laine thought. Fred was a hatchetman, too. Hatchetwoman? Hatchetperson. "Do you think we are in danger?" she asked.

"Maybe," replied Fred. "All we know so far is they're tailing Sam. Could be for something else entirely, though I doubt it. There's an outside possibility it's me they're after and they got word Sam was supposed to meet me today. Most likely it has something to do with you two, though." She nudged a pile of tabloids with her toe. "I've been seeing those stories lately, since Sam briefed me." She looked at Ugo. "Germany and Mexico," she told him.

"Huh?" Ugo said. "Oh, the genes. How'd you get that mixture?"

"My father was German. He managed a bank in Yucatan. My mother was Indian from Cozumel."

"Now that's a genetic mixture," Ciano enthused.

Sam hung up. "Liliev arrived in D.C. last week, under a diplomatic passport."

"You two gonna do something about him?" Ugo asked. "Go take him out or something?" he suggested hopefully.

"Take him out?" Sam said. "Have you been watching TV or what?"

"Well, hell," Ciano fumed. "He's the enemy, ain't he? One of the bad guys?"

"He's just a guy doing his job," Fred told him, shrugging. "Just like Sam and me."

"That's right," Sam said. "If he makes a move for one of us, I'll ice him, or Fred will. Until then, he's got diplomatic immunity. You stick to the scientific stuff. Leave the rough work to Fred and me."

"I'm still waiting to hear about your blue-ribbon panel recruiting drive," Laine said.

"I'm starving," Sam said. "You want to continue this at a good restaurant somewhere?"

"And have those creepy Bulgarians following us everyplace?" Ciano complained. "I'd rather send out for something. There's a good pizza joint a couple blocks from here."

"I have to watch my sylphlike figure," Fred said. "I vote Chinese."

"Pizza sounds good to me," Sam said. "With pepperoni and anchovies and jalapenos and—"

"Sausage and onions and pepper and all the rest," Ciano said.

"I'd prefer Chinese," Laine maintained stoutly.

They compromised. Forty-five minutes later arrived a lavish Chinese dinner in paper cartons and two thirty-inch pizzas with everything. "There's beer in the fridge," Ciano announced, balancing two flat, cardboard boxes of pizza on one hand while Sam trailed behind him with the Chinese food.

Fred got up and went into the kitchen. "Dos Equis! Bless your little heart, Ugo!"

Eventually, they all sat in a circle on the floor, Ciano as close to Fred as he could manage within the bounds of decorum, discussing their problem.

"Not a bad bunch of scientists," Ciano said, studying the list Sam had ended up with. "Damn near everyone is a friend of mine, and that's no coincidence. Did you bag us an astronaut?"

"That was the coup of the whole operation," Sam said, complacently. "Do you remember Colonel Bart Chambers?"

"Do I?" Ciano said. "The guy has a profile like Mount Rushmore. He was one of the early ones; I think he was on the moon. They got his portrait blown up billboard size right across town at the Air and Space Museum! You couldn't get a better man!"

"I had to work my way through a bunch of them before I got to him," Sam admitted. "Most are too busy, or they have political careers and don't want to rock the boat, but Colonel Chambers spends his time these days as a volunteer administrator in the Veteran's Administration. He was a hotshot fighter jock in Korea when he was about twenty, remember? I walked into his office and started my spiel but he already knew about it from colleagues who'd turned me down. Unlike them he's pretty sure that there's something to this. He'd read that Heinlein book you showed me and he knows damn well that rock and ice are viable weapons when they come from space. He'll be ready to talk to the NSC."