"You being a lady, I can't tell you how I'd like to get rid of the problem," Powell said. He waited for her to smile and then went on, "So what do I do?"
"Depending on what Jartmann's got for you-and I think he's got something-when you're finished go out the back door with him. Go to Photo Analysis. I'll transfer important calls to you there, and I'll let you know when I'm through with her."
"Jesus!" Powell said and then, "Okay, Mary. I again defer to your wise judgment. Bring Harry on."
Mrs. Leonard went to the office door, opened it, and announced, "The DCI will see you now, Mr. Jartmann."
When Harry Jartmann, a tall, tweedy, thin man with unruly hair, came into the office, she closed the door from the inside and leaned against it, watching and listening.
"Good morning, Mr. Director," Jartmann said.
"Good morning, Harry. What have you got for me?"
Jartmann held up a manila folder and wordlessly asked if he could lay it on the director's desk. Powell gestured for him to do so. Jartmann unwound the cord holding the folder closed, took out a sheaf of photographs, and spread them on the desk.
"What am I looking at?" Powell asked.
"These are fresh from Fort Meade. That's satellite imagery of the airfield at Zandery, Suriname," Jartmann said, "at oh-seven-oh-five this morning. That's probably the 727 we're looking for."
"Probably won't cut it, Harry," Powell said.
"There was early morning fog," Jartmann said. "These have been enhanced, but, obviously, they're not what we'd like to have."
"Have to have, Harry," Powell clarified. "What makes you think this is the airplane?"
"Well, it's a 727, for one thing. We're sure of that. And while we can't read the registration numbers, we made out enough of the paint scheme to compare it with the known paint scheme of Air Suriname."
He paused as Mrs. Leonard walked across the room to the director's desk, picked up a telephone, and punched one of its buttons.
"Mary Leonard," she said, softly. "The DCI would like to see you right now. Come in the back door."
"And?" Powell said to Jartmann.
"Eighty percent probability that it's the same."
"If we don't have the registration numbers, all that proves is that an Air Suriname 727 is on an airfield in Suriname," Powell said, very softly.
He looked at Mary Leonard.
"He's on his way," she said.
Ten seconds later, the private door to the DCI's office opened and a man who could have been Jartmann's younger brother came in. He was J. Stanley Waters, the CIA's deputy director for operations.
"What's up?" Waters asked.
"Tell me about our assets in Suriname," Powell said.
"Off the top of my head, not very much," Waters said. "If memory serves, we have a guy just out of the Farm there, under cover as a vice-consul. Sort of first assignment, on-the-job training. What do we need?"
"There's a 727 sitting on the airfield at: where, Harry?"
"Zandery," Jartmann furnished. "Zandery, Suriname."
" That 727?" Waters asked.
"That's what we're trying to determine," Jartmann replied. "There was a ground fog this morning:"
"Through which we can't see the registration numbers," Waters said.
"Right."
"How long before we can get another satellite over Zandery, Suriname?" Waters asked, pronouncing each syllable.
"Reprogramming has begun," Jartmann said. "Probably an hour, hour and a half. Figure another thirty minutes to get the downloads here."
"Can we get our man out there and get the numbers sooner than that?"
Powell asked.
"How much will be compromised if I get on the telephone?"
"Just tell him to get out to the airport and get us the registration numbers of any 727 on the field. We don't have to tell him why."
Waters picked up one of the telephones on Powell's desk.
"Get me the American embassy in: Jesus, what the hell's the capital of Suriname?"
"Paramaribo," Powell furnished in a quiet voice, suggesting to Mrs. Leonard that he was about to lose his temper.
"Paramaribo," Waters told the operator. "Put the call in to the ambassador "All right, the consul general. But I'll talk to anybody. I'll hold."
He looked at Powell.
"No embassy. Consulate general."
Powell nodded but said nothing.
Thirty seconds later, Waters ended the call with a stab of his finger to the switch hook and quoted, furiously, " 'Good morning, this is the consulate general of the United States. Our office hours are:' Goddammit!"
He slammed the handset into its cradle and picked up another and punched several keys.
"This is Waters," he said. "We have a man in Paramaribo, Suriname. I don't know his name. I need his home phone number. And while you're at it, get me the home phone of the consul general-I don't know his name, either. I'll hold. But I'm in the DCI's office if we get cut off."
Mrs. Leonard looked at DCI Powell. He was looking at the satellite imagery.
"Ground fog!" he said, very softly. "Fucking ground fog!"
"Mr. Peterson," Waters said, two minutes and thirty seconds later. "My name is J. Stanley Waters. You know who I am? "If I told you I was calling from Langley, Virginia, would that give you a clue? "Yeah, that J. Stanley Waters. Now listen carefully. Just as soon as you hang up the phone, I want you to get out to Zandery airfield and get me the numbers, the registration numbers, of any Boeing 727 you see sitting out there "It's an airliner, three engines, one of them in the vertical stabilizer-the big fin in the back. I'm sure you've seen one of them. Now, don't take pictures, just get the numbers, write them down, go back to the consulate general-do you have satburst capability? "Then get on the telephone and call Langley. Ask for me or Mrs. Mary Leonard. The switchboard will be expecting your call. Got it? "Good. Now, how long do you think that's going to take you? "Why the hell should it take two hours? "Then break the goddamned speed limit! You've got diplomatic immunity! Jesus H. Christ! Get your ass out to the airport and get those goddamned numbers and get them now!"
He slammed the handset in its cradle.
"The airport is thirty-five miles from Paramaribo," Waters said. "And there's a strictly enforced thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit."
"Mr. Director," Mrs. Mary Leonard said. "Why don't you go with Mr. Jartmann and see if they can't do something to further enhance the photos we have? Or maybe there will be some others they can work on."
The DCI looked at her and said, very softly, "I think that's probably a very good idea, Mrs. Leonard."
He stood up and walked deliberately to the private door of his office and went through it. Jartmann followed him.
"I'll deal with the switchboard," Mrs. Leonard said to Mr. Waters.
"What that dumb sonofabitch is likely to do is take his camera with him-just to be sure-and get himself arrested for photographing a Suriname military installation. I'm sure they're concerned with terrorists in Suriname."
"He'll get you the registration numbers, Stan," Mrs. Leonard said with a conviction she didn't at all feel.
Waters walked to the outer office door. Mrs. Leonard walked behind him. He continued to the corridor, which he took back to his office.
Mrs. Leonard smiled at Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson and said, "I'll be with you in just a minute, Mrs. Wilson."
Then she closed the door and called the chief switchboard operator and told her there would be a call, probably within the next two hours, from a Mr. Peterson in Suriname. It was to be routed to Mr. Waters's private line first and then to hers, but under no circumstances to the DCI. "He's got too much on his plate this morning to be bothered with this," she explained.
Then she went and opened the door to the outer office.
"Would you come in, please, Mrs. Wilson?"
Mrs. Wilson put on a dazzling smile and walked into the office. When she saw that Director Powell was nowhere in sight, she looked at Mrs. Leonard, curiously.