Kay turned and then smiled at everyone in the room. "And I'm happy to say that our prototype is complete and ready for testing."
There were some murmurs of congratulations but no applause.
"So let me get this straight," Cooper said. Kay turned his attention to the CIA man. "You're telling us that thing can carry weapons? We could put a nuclear device on it and deliver it to a coastal city with utmost discretion?"
"Theoretically, yes," Kay answered.
"Then that's pretty sharp," Cooper said.
"Yes, we're all pleased with how it turned out." Kay returned to his seat. "We're hoping that the test runs can commence as soon as possible."
Admiral Colgan regained the floor. "That said, we've come here to alert the Committee that tests cannot commence due to what may be a serious security breach with regard to the MRUUV program."
The rest of the group waited for the admiral to continue. Colgan eyed Kay again and nodded.
Kay cleared his throat and swallowed. "The problem is that the lead physicist on the project, Professor Gregory Jeinsen, has been missing for a week. He didn't report for work last Monday. When an investigation was made, Professor Jeinsen was nowhere to be found."
"I've never heard of this Jeinsen," Morris Cooper said. "Who is he?"
Colgan answered. "Professor Jeinsen is an East German scientist who defected to the U.S. in the early seventies. He's worked for the Pentagon in various capacities but mostly in weapons development."
"I knew him personally," Kay said. "And worked side by side with him, of course. He's an honest and brilliant man. An American citizen."
"And what's been done to find him?" Cooper asked.
"The D.C. police searched his apartment. It looked completely normal. It appeared that Professor Jeinsen had simply got out of bed one morning, left the place, and never returned. His things are still there. Nothing is missing, as far as the police can tell. If there's a suitcase or some clothes gone, it's difficult to say. The police have a missing persons bulletin out on him but there are no clues yet."
Darrell Blake spoke up. "Our agency was alerted two days after the professor didn't show up for work. The FBI is now on the case and is looking into every possibility. We can't rule out that Professor Jeinsen met with some kind of foul play. I'm afraid it's beginning to look like that is what indeed has happened."
"You mean he's been kidnapped?" Lewis asked.
Blake shrugged. "I don't know."
Colgan continued. "What troubles us is not only the good professor's safety but also the fact that Professor Jeinsen had complete access to the MRUUV program. He was the man in charge of it. If the professor happens to find himself in enemy hands, well, the results could compromise our work on the project. It could be a very serious blow to our defense strategies."
The senator spoke next. "Thank you, gentlemen. A file has been prepared on the professor. You will all receive copies before we leave here today. I'd like all of you to look into this. The FBI is already doing what they can. I want the CIA and NSA to give this situation top priority. This is an order that comes from the president himself. Find Professor Jeinsen."
8
HOMEagain.
The day after my nocturnal visit to General and Mrs. Prokofiev's house in Moscow, Lambert ordered me to come back to the States. My job in Russia and Ukraine was finished.
It turned out Mrs. Prokofiev wasn't kidding when she said she'd kill her husband. She certainly tried. As soon as he walked in the front door, she shot him with the Winchester rifle. The bullet entered his body just below the Adam's apple and severed his spine on the way out. For good measure she shot him again in the head. The general was rushed to the hospital but it's looking as if we can write him off. He'll live but only as something akin to a rutabaga. Poor Mrs. Prokofiev was arrested and will no doubt go to prison or perhaps die for her crime, but her words to the police were that "the bastard deserved it." Hopefully at the very least she will gain some personal satisfaction from her deed.
Oskar Herzog, the Shop director who was with Prokofiev at the Obukhiv hangar, has disappeared. He's probably gone to wherever Andrei Zdrok and Anton Antipov are hiding. I'm sure when Lambert finds out where they are, that will be the destination of my next "business trip."
In the meantime it's good to be back in Towson, Maryland, where I live in a town house much too large for a single man in his forties. I have three floors in which to spread out and I must say it's pretty nice when one leads a solitary existence. I indulge myself in a few simple pleasures such as a supersized flat-screen television and a decent collection of DVDs. I prefer old westerns and war movies. I keep a library of reference material in the lower floor and that's also where my home office is. I don't read a lot of fiction. I mostly study the countries of the world, trying to keep abreast of everything that's happening politically and economically, especially in the so-called hot spots. Knowing who's really on your side and who's not is a primary task when you're out in the field. So every day I try to learn something new about a place. It keeps me on my toes.
I'm conveniently three blocks away from I-695 and can do most of my food shopping at a market a block away on York Road. My Krav Maga class meets in the same strip mall. My instructor, Katia Loenstern, left me an intriguing message on my answering machine.
"There's going to be a special class on Thursday and I'd really like you to be there," she had said. "Please."
Well, it's Thursday, so I change into my jumpsuit for the workout. I grab a small gym bag to carry a towel and an extra T-shirt, and I'm ready to go. It's still winter in Maryland so I wear a slick red ski jacket and set out on the five-minute walk from my subdivision. But before I shut the front door and lock it, I hear the house phone ring. I keep two phone lines--one has an unlisted number that's for personal use. Friends and family--what little of them I have--use that number. The other phone is a secure line to Third Echelon.
Since not many people have my home number, I can usually bet that a caller is not a telemarketer but instead someone I don't mind talking to. I rush back inside and grab the phone in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor next to the front door.
"Fisher," I answer.
"Dad!"
I feel my smile stretch across my face. It's worth turning around and coming back into the house to get a phone call from my daughter, Sarah.
"How are you, honey?"
"I'm fine. It's cold here. You got snow?" In my mind's eye I picture her at five or six years old, which isn't the case anymore. It's hard for me to accept the fact that she's no longer a little girl.
"No, it's melted but it's cold outside. I was just about to walk over to my gym class. How's school?"