“The GRU is not as stupid as you would like to think,” Chyort said. “They have moved up the timetable while keeping a train on the original schedule as a decoy. They hope to move the bombs before anyone can plan anything. I suggest you call that big Navy ape of yours.”
“I can handle it.”
“You have the papers on the weapon’s location?”
“Yes.”
“And the computer program to run the weapon?”
“Yes.”
The egg dropped back into its holder. The room seemed to expand again to normal size as the shadow disappeared. Oma’s anger at being told what to do had never even had a chance to get started. She was simply grateful the demon was gone.
Oma sat still for several moments, reflecting on the conversation. It was something her husband had taught her how to do many years ago. To always go over every encounter or conversation immediately, to sift through and find the hidden meanings, the things said that had not been meant to be said. And what had not been said.
She didn’t know who the creature was. For all she knew, he was Chyort, the devil, but as she’d told him, she didn’t believe in such things. The first time he had appeared in her office, three months ago, it had taken all her considerable willpower to control her fear. Chyort was the name he had given himself or someone had given him. She had had some of her people make inquiries, and they had learned of a myth in the army, a myth about a creature with such a name that dated back to the war in Afghanistan. But there was nothing more than those vague rumors. She had them checking further, trying to uncover the truth behind the myth.
The only thing she held on to was that Chyort wanted something. And he needed her help to achieve his goal. That told her his power was limited. She had long ago learned that every relationship, whether it be personal or business, was a rope that pulled both ways. So far, Chyort had done all the pulling, but in doing so he had firmly handed her the other end of the rope. Oma smiled. She would wait and pull when it was most opportune for her own goals.
She didn’t know exactly what Chyort’s objective was, but each encounter they had she learned something more. Another thing he had said today that she found curious was the comment about the “Navy ape.” That meant he knew about Leksi, which was not surprising— everyone knew Leksi worked for her; what was more interesting was the way he had said it. She had picked up a note of derision. She considered that. Afghanistan and dislike of the Navy. That pointed to an army man, someone who was in an elite unit and thus able to sneer at Leksi’s naval commando background. That meant Spetsnatz, the Russian version of the American Special Forces. Oma marked that mentally for further investigation.
She hit a number on her phone and it automatically summoned who she needed. Then she leaned back in the comfort of her chair, feeling the ache in her spine as she continued to consider what she had learned in this latest encounter. She was still pondering that when a green light flashed on the edge of her desk. She pushed a button and the wood-paneled steel door slid open.
The man who walked in drew attention wherever he went. He was just shy of seven feet tall, and his head was completely shaved, revealing a jagged scar running from the crown down the left side, disappearing inside the black turtleneck he wore. He was not only tall, he was wide, his broad chest and thick arms indicating extreme strength. He walked to the front of her desk and halted, waiting, his manner indicating his military training.
“We must move up our timetable,” Oma said.
Leksi waited.
Oma’s left hand moved, writing the information Chyort had given her onto a piece of paper. She slid it across the desk. One of Leksi’s massive hands reached down and carefully picked it up. He peered at the Cyrillic writing, read it a second time, then handed it back to her. She tossed it in an opening on the left side of her desk and there was a flash, destroying the paper.
“I know it is not much time, but the window of opportunity grows tighter. You must accompany Barsk on Phase Two first. Then you must immediately return and complete Phase One.”
Leksi still had not said a word, a trait that Oma valued. He was a former naval commando, an expert in weapons and martial arts. But more importantly, he would do whatever she asked, without the slightest hesitation. He was not particularly imaginative but he was thorough. She had already gone over the plan for this operation with him several times and felt secure that he would follow it through to the letter. Today’s news only changed the timetable and the order of events, not the mode of execution.
She held out the papers. “This is the location you must go to for Phase Two.”
He took the papers.
She slid the CD-ROM across the desk. “Take that. I will supply you with the man who knows how to use it.”
Leksi put the CD-ROM in his pocket.
“Go,” she said.
Leksi went out the way he had come, still not having spoken a single word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in her high aerie.
A door slid open twenty feet up and food was thrown down, the first indication to Vasilev that he wasn’t really in a metaphysical hell. There were only torn pieces of bread and some meat that was suspicious at best, but Vasilev wolfed it down.
When he was done, he was disappointed with himself. He should have eaten more slowly. What else did he have to do?
The air crackled. Vasilev rose to his feet, swaying from weakness. The two red-coal eyes appeared. Vasilev squinted but all he could sense in the darkness was a deeper shadow in the black of the pit.
Vasilev waited, not saying anything, but the eyes only watched him for a while. Finally the voice came.
“You should have died.”
Vasilev blinked. “What?”
“You should have died with the others. You were as guilty as those who did die.”
Vasilev swallowed, trying to get moisture to his dry throat. “I don’t know— ”
“Special Department Number Eight.”
Vasilev’s throat seized and he could only make a strangling noise.
“You must pay for what you did.”
Vasilev fell to his knees, curling into a ball, whimpering his apologies, his sorrow for what had happened over thirty years ago.
“You will do what I tell you to do and forgiveness will be yours. Only then will you know peace. Do you understand?”
Vasilev could only nod, while his mouth moved in half-articulated apologies.
Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the red eyes were gone and he was alone once more.
Chapter Seven
Dalton was surprised the embryonic solution was warm. It felt like molasses as his feet sank into it. He resisted the urge to shake his head; the TACPAD helmet weighed heavily on his neck, and his vision was blocked by the pad of the cyberlink completely covering his eyes and wrapping around his head. The helmet was fastened on very securely, the location determined after four hours of fitting by two members of Hammond’s staff in a white room that was completely sterile. They had told him the location had to be exact, within one hundredth of a millimeter. And they had only been able to do that after doing complete MRI, CAT, and PET scans of his brain.
As they worked, the two technicians had talked in a lingo that Dalton had not understood. They had sent cry-oprobes and thermocouples into his brain to test locations, reading results off a bank of machines and then making adjustments to the inside of the TACPAD. Hammond had been right— the insertion of the little wires had caused no pain, or any other sensation for that matter. Still, it had been disconcerting to simply lie there, knowing that they were penetrating directly into his brain, over and over again.
Just putting the fitted TACPAD on had taken forty-five minutes, with another thirty of testing, before they had strapped him into the lift harness in the main experimental chamber and lifted him into the air and swung him over the isolation tank.