“There is a basic problem here. I see a
dangerous pattern I don’t understand. My government is not behind
it and neither, I’m convinced, is yours. But to launch a full-scale
investigation requires hard evidence, and that is lacking. I have
certain plans to gain more evidence, but I don’t feel at liberty to
reveal them.”
Isaacs paused to collect his thoughts.
Zamyatin watched him carefully.
“Look,” said Isaacs, “I know the real reason
for this meeting. You would have received any hard facts as a
bonus, but you’re really here to take my measure face to face.
You’re asking yourself, is this really a man who is carrying on a
legitimate crusade outside official channels?”
This time it was Isaacs who caught the
narrowing of eyes that said he hit home.
“There is nothing else I can say to convince
you at this point; you’ll make up your own mind. But if you decide
to believe me, hear this. We face a common, unknown danger. Whether
I succeed or fail in my efforts, it’s to your advantage to push
your own investigation in any way you can. Listen to Korolev. He’ll
know what to do.”
Zamyatin studied Isaacs’ face carefully for a
long moment. Then, still holding his gaze, he gave a small motion
with his right hand. The limousine immediately braked to a gentle
halt.
The Russian extended his hand again. His
voice was polite, but cool.
“Good-bye for now, Mr. Isaacs. And good
luck.”
Isaacs pumped the hand once and let himself
out. As he closed the door to the limousine, Vassilev pulled up
behind in his Mercedes. Isaacs paused for a moment with his hand on
the handle of the limousine door. Then he responded with
uncharacteristic spontaneity to an inner voice. He yanked the door
open again and leaned down to peer in.
“Yes?” Zamyatin was startled.
“Nagasaki. Tonight. 9:13.”
Isaacs slammed the door and strode rapidly
back to his own car. Vassilev saw him in and shut the door behind
him. Isaacs threw the car into gear, then pulled quickly out and
around the limousine, causing Vassilev to step back out of the way.
Isaacs looked about him, recognized where he was, and headed for
his house a few blocks away.
The appliance store van cruised slowly across
the intersection behind the limousine. It turned at the next
corner, accelerated to normal speed, and headed away from the site
of the rendezvous.
*****
Masaki Yoshida leaned on his taxi horn in
frustration. He had free-lanced for the CIA for several years. He
expected to know only a minimal amount about operations to which he
was assigned, but the description he had received from his contact
yesterday was the most ill-defined he had seen yet. He was supposed
to cruise a several square block area of warehouses near the harbor
and keep an eye out for some unspecified form of trouble.
His contact had said nothing about the jam of
cars and trucks that crowded the streets and loading docks, making
it nearly impossible to move. He had spent five minutes edging the
last half block. Earlier he had maneuvered his cab up onto the
sidewalk only to find a truck unloading and blocking his way. It
had taken him ten minutes to force a gap in the creeping traffic
and return to the street. He sounded the horn again. There could be
a riot a block away, and he would not know a thing about it!
Immediately ahead of the erstwhile CIA agent
were two cars and then an open bed truck, which blocked his view on
down the street. As Yoshida leaned out the window in an attempt to
see past the truck, the asphalt of the road between the truck’s
front wheels buckled downward slightly and a small hole appeared in
the center of the depression. A hole was pierced in the bottom of
the oil pan just as the third piston advanced on its exhaust
stroke. Then, as if by the action of a ragged drill, a gash ripped
the base of the piston rod where it joined the crank shaft. The rod
cracked and the piston flew unimpeded up the cylinder. Another
series of holes appeared in the block, the head, the air filter,
and finally in the thin sheet metal of the hood, all aligned with
those in the asphalt and the broken rod. The piston ruptured the
engine head atop the cylinder, then punched a second, larger hole
in the hood. The piston and fragments of engine arced thirty feet
over the road before crashing loudly into the galvanized steel wall
of a warehouse. The mortally wounded engine shuddered to a stop
with the shrieking sound of twisted, grinding metal. Hot water shot
through the upper hole in the block, filling the engine compartment
with steam. This in turn billowed out of the seams, the hole
ruptured by the piston, and in one dainty vertical stream. Beneath
the motor a pea soup green mixture of oil, water, and antifreeze
poured out of the hole in the oil pan, collected in the underlying
dent in the pavement and then slowly drained down the hole in the
middle.
With his head out the window, Yoshida clearly
heard the explosion as the piston blew and saw it rifle into the
warehouse wall. Forgetting his mission, he rammed the shift into
neutral, let out the clutch, and hauled on the parking brake. He
ran to the truck and yanked open the driver’s door. The man inside
sat stupefied, but apparently unhurt. Yoshida stepped up and helped
the man out and over to the sidewalk.
The truck driver sat on the curb and in a
reaction to shock, began to jabber his innocence of any
wrongdoing.
Yoshida attempted to calm him and then
noticed a stinging in his eyes and burning in his lungs. His first
reaction was to glance at the truck. Then he whirled as he heard a
shouting tumult behind him. A hundred yards away drivers were
pouring out of their cars, and people were running frantically in
both directions from a warehouse on the other side of the street.
Many held handkerchiefs to their mouths or covered their eyes.
As Yoshida had been helping the driver from
the truck, a window had shattered in the skylight of the warehouse.
Below, an array of large cylindrical storage vessels held chlorine
gas. Almost instantly, twin punctures appeared in the top and
bottom of the cylinder directly beneath the skylight.
Jets of bilious yellow-green gas shot toward
the ceiling and mushroomed out onto the floor. Within seconds a
heavy layer of gas blanketed the warehouse. In a small office at
the rear of the warehouse an employee was roused by the sound of
cascading glass. He stepped out and was immediately assailed by the
billowing fumes. In a panic he charged for the front door, his way
blocked save for aisles among the huge containers. He tripped and
fell, the pain of contact with the floor causing him a sharp intake
of breath, a poisonous draft. He regained his feet and stumbled to
the door, flinging it open and collapsing on the walk outside in a
spasm of coughing. The dense gas flowed out the door and seeped
around the choking figure.
Down the street, Yoshida could not identify
the particular agent that assaulted his eyes and lungs, but he
reacted to the shouts of gas! He joined the fleeing crowd racing
among the stalled cars and trucks toward fresh air.
Thursday morning Isaacs raced into the
office. There was a cable. Something
had
happened in
Nagasaki! The reports were vague, fragmented. A gas leak. One
person dead. He didn’t know what he had expected, but not this
tantalizing irrelevancy. It was the right time and place; it had to
be connected. But what did a gas leak have to do with their strange
signal? Was there some puncture, like the Novorossiisk? He stole
some moments with Danielson, and they agreed they had to concoct
some way to get more information on the specifics. What had leaked?
How? He felt a rise of panic. He needed time to think, to
assimilate this, to plan, but there was none.
He returned to the mass of data culled from
the signal intercepts of the Russian laser and hunter-killer
satellites. He was supposed to be thinking like a Russian,
anticipating them, but his mind was swimming with thoughts of
Nagasaki when Kathleen put through the call from the Director.
It froze him to his chair, an ice storm
raging through him.
He had been found out!
They knew everything. QUAKER. Nagasaki.
Somehow McMasters had gotten onto him.
He was to report to the Director’s office at
nine the following morning. His hand shook as he replaced the phone
on the hook.
Isaacs fought to quell the churning in his
bowels. He had not been so angry and frightened at one time since
he’d been hauled before the principal in the third grade. He and a
friend had been throwing rocks during recess, in violation of one
of the strictest rules. His friend had broken the window, but he
had run, leaving Isaacs to be caught with a stone in his hand. This
was no schoolyard prank, however; this was the big time. He turned
the knob and entered the room.
The Director of Central Intelligence motioned
curtly for him to take a seat across from his desk. Isaacs did so,
avoiding the venomous green eyes of McMasters who was already
stationed at the opposite corner of the desk.
“Mr. Isaacs,” Drefke began. “I can’t express
how shocked I am at the charges that have accumulated against you.”
He spread his hand on the folder on his desk. “A man of your status
and record. This is not petty malfeasance. I don’t want to
overreact, but some of your recent behavior could be regarded as
verging on treason.”
This word brought a wisp of smile to
McMasters’ lips.
Drefke opened the file and scanned down it.
“Unauthorized use of restricted computer data. Unauthorized
consultation with Jason. Unauthorized access to field agents.
Unauthorized use of photoreconnaissance facilities.” He looked hard
at Isaacs, then clenched his fist in frustration. He wanted to work
with the President on global issues, not to be involved with
awkward disciplinary questions. Why had McMasters let these
internal affairs get out of hand? What the hell did Isaacs think he
was doing?
“Good Lord, man,” he spoke aloud. “Do you
realize that on this basis alone I have virtually no choice but to
ask for your resignation? And not just you, but Deputy Director
Martinelli and this woman, uh, Danielson? They’ve conspired with
you. Have you any idea of the turmoil in the Agency if I’m forced
to let you all go?”
Isaacs started to speak, but his voice caught
in his throat.
“What’s that?” demanded Drefke.
Isaacs tried again. “I said you can leave
Martinelli and Danielson out of this. I coerced them.”
“You may want to leave them out now, but it’s
too late,” McMasters’ voice was cool and smooth in his victory.
Isaacs refused to look at him. “They allowed themselves to become
involved. They must suffer the consequences.”
Damn my eyes, thought Isaacs. Danielson was
bad enough; her low status is some protection since I can say I
ordered her. But I shouldn’t have involved Martinelli. Photos from
the U-2’s altitude relayed from a special scanner by satellite link
showed virtually nothing useful anyway.
Drefke had his hand over his eyes, looking
inward to struggle with the enormity of the final issue.
“How could you,” he removed his hand to stare
at Isaacs in pain and anger, “how could you meet with them, the
head of the Washington KGB, for chrissake, to reveal the
President’s tactics in the confrontation over the new laser in
Cosmos 2231? What could possibly induce you to sell out? To put the
whole future of our control and use of space in jeopardy? And in
such an obvious way?”
“Have you been one of them all along?”
McMasters asked calmly.
Drefke glared at him and Isaacs exploded.
“No! Goddamnit! I’m not one of them! I’ve sold out nothing! You
don’t understand!”
“Understand?” asked McMasters quietly. “We
have the interchange with Zamyatin on tape. It’s quite
damning.”
Tape! So the bastard had me under
surveillance, Isaacs thought. He continued to speak to Drefke. “If
you recorded that session in his limousine then you know that whole
crazy episode was Zamyatin’s idea.”
“The recordings are incomplete for technical
reasons,” McMasters purred, “but there was enough to show your
perfidy. You failed to report the contact. There is nothing to
suggest you were not a willing accomplice in this conspiracy. We
have only your word for that.”
“But you have my word,” Isaacs shot the oath
at McMasters, looking directly at him for the first time. McMasters
stiffened, but could not summon the strength of mind to voice a
contradiction.
Isaacs used the opening.
“Sir,” he addressed Drefke, “you said
yourself the meeting with Zamyatin was an absurd way to sell out.
Surely it’s obvious that if I were really cooperating with the
Soviets, I wouldn’t do so in so stupid a fashion?”
Drefke gave a small nod. He didn’t
understand, but he knew that if a man like Isaacs turned, he would
be damned difficult to catch. He certainly would not be hitching
rides with the local KGB to exchange tidbits.
Isaacs continued, “I won’t deny that my
actions precipitated the meeting, but it was all Zamyatin’s idea.
He didn’t think I could or would respond through official channels.
Whether he thought or cared that I would be in hot water if he
snatched me off the street, I don’t know.
“If you will hear me out, I would like to try
to explain. You recognize that my recent behavior is not only at
odds with Agency policy, but also with my own record and methods.
We are all involved in some very odd circumstances. These peculiar
circumstances have forced me to extreme lengths. I think the peril
was confirmed two days ago in Nagasaki, but we still don’t
understand—that’s the major problem.”
“Ah, Nagasaki,” Drefke leaned back in his
chair. “Perhaps you can tell me what the hell went on there.”
“I can tell you the background. The details
are in this memo.”
Isaacs extracted an envelope from his pocket
and pushed it across the desk to Drefke.
“Mr. McMasters has a previous version of
it.”
“Oh? I wasn’t informed of that.”
“In my considered opinion,” McMasters said
uncomfortably, “Mr. Isaacs has constructed a tissue of fantasy.
What little merit there was to the case was not Agency business. I
did not and do not believe there was any rationale to violate
Agency regulations in the manner summarized there.” He nodded at
the file on Drefke’s desk.
“I see,” said Drefke. He didn’t, but he was
beginning to.
“Mr. Isaacs, may I ask why you did not
proceed according to regulation if you had some concern?”
Isaacs looked him squarely in the eye.
“I was ordered not to.”
“By McMasters here.”
“That’s correct.”
“His request was ill-considered and
inappropriate to the function of the Agency,” McMasters said
stiffly.
“Mr. McMasters is your superior,” Drefke said
to Isaacs.
“Yes, sir.”
“You not only disobeyed him; you violated a
number of Agency regulations to do so.”
McMasters relaxed a little. Precisely so, he
thought.
Drefke regarded the two men before him,
sensing the tension between them. McMasters ran a tight ship on
internal affairs. That freed Drefke to concern himself with the
large issues. Isaacs had risen rapidly with an excellent record.
Two such men could come to legitimate disagreement on occasion. In
this business, McMasters was acting true to form, but Isaacs’
behavior had been bizarre, completely out of character. Was Isaacs’
aberrant behavior to be stopped short and penalized for the greater
good of a smooth-functioning Agency, or did he actually see
something that McMasters, the narrow-minded authoritarian, couldn’t
perceive? If McMasters were right, Isaacs was a damnable nuisance.
If Isaacs were right?
“You were going to tell me about Nagasaki,”
Drefke said to Isaacs. McMasters shifted uncomfortably.
“This all goes back to the Soviet carrier,
the Novorossiisk,” Isaacs said.
“The Novorossiisk?”
“That’s right. You know what followed from
that. An escalating conflict in space.”
“If you’re implying all that has been Agency
business, I’m quite aware of the fact, thank you,” said Drefke
drily.
“But you don’t know what happened to the
Novorossiisk. What started it all.”
“No,” Drefke said slowly. “But does it matter
now?”
“It matters for two reasons. An understanding
of the origin of these affairs may help put a cap on them. And what
happened to the Novorossiisk may be the greater question.”
“Greater than nuclear or beam warfare in
space?” Drefke asked incredulously.
“Ridiculous,” McMasters said, backing him
up.
“I have no proof yet, but I’m sure Nagasaki
and the Novorossiisk are closely linked. Nagasaki is another clue
to the ultimate problem. The current danger is the unknown. The
Soviets feel that, too. They don’t know what happened to the
Novorossiisk either.”
“Why did Zamyatin pick on you anyway?”
Isaacs paused. This could be crucial, if it
weren’t already on the tapes.
“I wrote a letter to Academician Korolev,”
Isaacs said, “describing my fears about the Novorossiisk.”
“You what?” Drefke almost shouted.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” McMasters blurted
simultaneously.
“You’ve got to see we’re on the same side on
this one,” Isaacs protested.
“But you can’t go discussing Agency affairs
with the top brains in the Kremlin!” Drefke said, exasperated.
“According to Mr. McMasters, this wasn’t an
Agency affair,” Isaacs said.
“Well, any security matter then,” Drefke
said, but he calmed down, granting Isaacs the point.
“I felt something had to be done,” Isaacs
persisted. “I sent a memo to Korolev similar to the one I gave Mr.
McMasters, outlining the series of circumstances that led to my
concern. Zamyatin saw that letter. I told you they’re still worried
about the Novorossiisk. That’s what we talked about.”
“You talked about the Cosmos 2231 and our
nuclear deterrent,” McMasters said meanly.
“Only briefly, and in a completely different
context from what you’d like to believe,” Isaacs snapped. He turned
to Drefke.
“Korolev has used my letter to argue that we
did not initiate the Novorossiisk business. Zamyatin told me that
my letter convinced the Soviets to keep a cap on the confrontation
over the Cosmos. That’s all we said about it. And Zamyatin did most
of the talking.”
“So they’re worried,” Drefke said.
“Yes, they are.”
“You still haven’t told me what exactly
happened at Nagasaki.”
“Pat Danielson assembled a variety of data
that have shown that some force or influence is moving through the
Earth in a very regular way. I think that influence damaged the
Novorossiisk, sank the USS Stinson that was sent by the Navy to
investigate the phenomenon, and did the damage in Nagasaki.”
Drefke started to speak, but Isaacs continued
intensely.
“We don’t know what’s going on; that’s what
frightens me. That’s what has caused me to do all these things you
think are so crazy. But this thing is dangerous. It’s real. It’s
predictable. Pat Danielson predicted where and when there would be
damage in Nagasaki. She has predicted a similar fate for Dallas in
a little over two weeks. This thing, whatever it is, will keep on
causing death and destruction until we determine what it is!”
Isaacs leaned back, spent.
Drefke tried to absorb this diatribe. He
didn’t understand at all. But Isaacs was either sincere and
committed, or he was insane. Could his insanity be contagious,
caught by the Russians? What the hell was going on? Was this a good
man gone around the bend? Or was here an issue of great magnitude
on which he could truly serve his President? He would have loved to
kick the whole thing to McMasters, but he perceived that, in ways
he did not yet fully comprehend, McMasters was part of the problem.
Besides, the involvement of the Russians smacked of truly global
issues, not simple internal bickering. The only good decision now
was no decision.
“Mr. Isaacs, I don’t understand all that you
have been trying to tell me. Not by a long shot. And the fact
remains that there is a
prima facie
case against you for
violating Agency regulations as well as good common sense.” He
paused and picked up Isaacs’ memo.
“But I think perhaps I should read this
document of yours before deciding what to do about you and the
others.”
The tone of dismissal hung in the air for a
long moment until Isaacs and McMasters finally shuffled their
chairs and got to their feet. There was an awkward moment at the
door as they each tried to ignore the other, which prevented
signals as to who should go first. Finally, Isaacs stepped back and
gave a brief gesture. McMasters charged through. Isaacs waited
until McMasters passed the outer doorway and then slowly closed
Drefke’s door behind him.
Drefke got up and walked to the window. He
looked out for a long time, hands clasped behind his back. Then he
took his seat and pulled the typewritten pages from the envelope
Isaacs had left him. He began to read.
Robert Isaacs resigned himself to the fact
that the situation was out of his hands. Under the terms of his
partial suspension awaiting the outcome in Dallas, he could not
engage in policy decisions, so for the next two weeks he busied
himself with routine things neglected in the recent press of
events. To his relief the confrontation with the Russians cooled.
The fragile status quo held. On the final weekend before Dallas, he
arranged for his daughter Isabel to stay with a friend and
convinced Muriel to spend the time with him sailing on the
Chesapeake.
Pat Danielson spent the two week period in an
agonized limbo. She, too, went about her duties, but the upcoming
event that would profoundly affect her career was never very far
from her mind. Some mysterious force would push through the Earth
six hundred times, she mused, while she chewed her nails, waiting
for it to hit Dallas. In a way, she was glad that Drefke had
explicitly forbidden both Isaacs and her from going to Dallas, as
well as from exercising any other connection to Project QUAKER. She
recognized the great likelihood of futility, but knew that if the
trip were not proscribed she would have gone to Dallas to try to
see something, anything, that would give a clue to the force that
would erupt there.