Action was better ary. This time, however, he wanted nothing to happen.
At least not yet. Was he getting old? Slowing down? Or had he simply become more of a realist who understood that in this dangerous world no news was almost always good news? The telephone rang, and it was a mark of his expectations that he didn’t flinch. He finished his wine, put the glass down, and picked up the telephone on the third ring. “Yes”
“This is Special Agent Tom Sills, I have been authorized to call this number”
“Yes, go ahead” Trotter said, keeping his voice even. His heart was beginning to accelerate. “You know who I am and where I’m calling from, sir”
“Yes, I do”
“Well, sir, we’ve got a possible situation developing out here. I thought I’d better give you a call”
“Is the house secure”
“Yes, sir, for the moment. But we were overflown three times this afternoon by a civilian helicopter operated by Bekins Real Estate in Alexandria. A team went out there to talk with the pilot, who told us that he had shown some property to two men from Xavier Enterprises, a Washington company-“
“Go ahead”
“Sir, that company is flagged by our Counter Intell people. It’s a Russian front organization. Most likely KGB”
“Damn” Trotter swore half to himself. “You say the property and the subject are secure”
“Yes, sir”
“Just hold on, I’ll come out there myself. Should be able to make it within the hour”
“Shall I call for help”
“Not yet. Just keep your eyes open”
“Will do, sir” Trotter broke the connection and dialed the Georgetown House number McGarvey had been given as a contact. “Trotter” he said when the man answered it. “Run down McGarvey and Potok. Tell them there may be something developing at Falmouth. I’m on my way down there now”
The joke was that Lt. Col. Bob Rand was at forty one the world’s oldest computer hacker. But of the nonmalicious variety. Once, on an evening two years ago, a number of his friends were at his house in Arlington Heights when he tapped into the bank’s computer system for a captain from the Strategic Planning Pool. With a few touches of his keys he transferred an even one million dollars into the captain’s checking account. For a few hours the captain was rich. In the morning, before the bank reopened, Rand retransferred the money out of his account, leaving the bank officials in happy ignorance. In the main, however, Rand was a loner, had always been a loner, taking his solace in his studies. He had become, at Force, a rank which ten years later he still held, not because he didn’t deserve a promotion but because his superiors understood that Rand was in the perfect job. To promote him would be to lose him. He had always been a man with a bitter edge. The world had passed him by in looks-he was very short, with a thin, almost emaciated torso, a ridiculously oversized head, and watery, myopic eyes-it had passed him by with women who would not look twice at him-and even the Air Force had passed him by with promotions. But he had become a defector in the beginning not because of any dislike for his own government, but merely for, he liked to think, the ultimate in hacking.
He told the Russians what they wanted to know about US. weapons systems, and in the doing gained rare insights into what the Soviets were most frightened of. Because of his unique, intimate knowledge of the enemy’s fears and weaknesses, he had become the Stephen Hawking of strategic weapons planning. But now, for the first time in his life, he was frightened. It wasn’t a game any longer, and someone was watching him.
He had tried two months ago to tap into the FBI’s computer system, but had failed to come up with anything specific about himself, except that the Bureau believed there was a Soviet spy within the Pentagon whom they had code-named FELIKS, after the cat he supposed. Over the following weeks he had come to believe that he was the FELIKS they were searching for, and he understood that there was no simple way out for him. Tonight he was convinced of it. It was nearly ten in the evening.
He sat in his tiny office in one of the sub-basements of the Pentagon staring at his computer screen. Normally he was home by six in the evening, when he would check his computer message service. If he was going to be late, he would bring up his home system on his office machine to see if anything was waiting for him on the amateur network.
This evening he had forgotten until now.
was a message, @from a man new on y as Jo, at TS Industries in California’s Silicon Valley. A complicated series of formulae filled his screen, describing the effects on a computer’s bubble memory system as it began to reach absolute zero, where all electrical resistance disappeared. In reality it was a message from his Soviet control officer. By running the formulae through a complex series of transformations, Rand could come up with a date, time, and grid reference for the city of Washington. The date was today, and the time was 2230, barely a half hour from now. Rand pulled up the street map of Washington, overlaid the grid reference, and picked out the meeting location. It was odd, he thought, meeting in a hospital parking lot, but then their meetings had been held at odder places: the Lincoln Memorial, Union Station, Gallaudet College. No way out, he thought again. He had gotten a kick out of the movie. But in real life things like that simply didn’t happen. He’d gotten the latest information they’d wanted, it was stored now in his home computer, and he would give it to his control officer tonight. But he was also going to give the man something else.
Something the Russians simply couldn’t refuse. Erasing the incoming message, Rand shut down his computer, pulled on his uniform blouse, and, briefcase in hand, took the elevator up to the security gate. “Working late tonight, Doc” one of the guards said as Rand turned in his security badge. He managed a tight smile and a shrug, laid the briefcase on the counter and opened it. Besides a few computer magazines, and a couple of nonclassified reports, there was a Police Special .38 revolver in a standard military issue holster. “You going partridge hunting” the guard asked a little too sharply. Again Rand managed a little smile.
“They want me to qualify by Monday, but I haven’t shot the damned thing for two years. ure,(orders he had worked up for himself, directing him to the range officer for pistol qualification on 26 June. The guard relaxed. “Watch out you don’t shoot your foot. “They’d probably qualify me on the spotrand quipped. “It would be the first thing I’d ever hit”
Outside in the parking lot, Rand tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat of his panel van and got in. Swiveling his seat toward the back he flipped on the van’s computer system, which was connected by cellular telephone to his house, and within seconds the data the Russians had requested from him was being transferred onto a floppy disk. Reaching over, he opened his briefcase, took the pistol out of its holster, and laid it on the seat next to his right leg. Oh, yes, he thought, smiling. He was definitely going to give the Russians something they couldn’t refuse. When the disk drive stopped, he swiveled forward, started the van and pulled out onto the highway.
Arkady Kurshin stood in the corridor a few feet from the emergency room watching the elevator going up. His car was parked just outside, and no one had given him a second glance as he had entered the hospital through the staff entrance. He was dressed in surgeon’s blue scrubs, including the booties and cap. Schey was in the fourth-floor ICU. He had gotten that information easily from the hospital switchboard. The elevator passed the third floor but instead of stopping at the fourth continued up to the fifth. He had punched the buttons for both floors. They had the elevator blocked on four, which left two stairwells, both of which would be watched. They wanted him to come here. They were waiting for him upstairs. McGarvey was waiting for him. He could almost feel the man’s presence in the air go to the range.