Anna Chutesov's voice carried a passionate intensity that was more damning than her shouting. She looked about the room. The men avoided her eyes. Their scheme, which had seemed so magnificent, so brilliant, in the research-and-development stage, had been laid before them in all its embarrassing idiocy.
"What then?" Anna repeated.
The General Secretary broke the silence. His voice was low and disturbed. " 'What then' cannot concern us now. It may be that the Sword of Damocles was an imperfect idea. Later, we shall have that discussion. Now we must recover or destroy the Sword before its secrets are laid bare. I have sent a formal letter of protest to the United States, demanding the immediate return of the Yuri Gagarin and its crew."
"They will ignore it," said Koldunov bitterly.
"They have already answered. They admitted that the Gagarin landed at Kennedy International Airport in New York City. They insist that it took off again after picking up an unidentified person, possibly an American."
"This makes no sense," Anna said. "Who is flying that craft, if not one of the crew?"
"Three men went up on the Gagarin. A fourth has taken over. We cannot discount any possibility, no matter how incredible. It will be your task, Anna, to resolve this crisis. You have done good work in America before. I am calling on you once again to serve Mother Russia. You will have all the resources of the KGB at your disposal."
"We can land a commando team near New York, by submarine," said the KGB head confidently.
"Weren't you listening?" Anna said acidly. "The Gagarin is no longer in New York City. It flew away. And no bold military maneuvers, please. They give me a headache. I will fly to New York City. I have a contact high in the infrastructure of the American Intelligence apparatus. This contact will be the first one they will send to investigate the Gagarin's landing. I know how they work over there. I will find my contact and he will lead me to the Gagarin."
"What about my role?" demanded the KGB head.
"Your people will enter America quietly. Fly to Mexico. Dress your men-a small team, please-in peasant clothes and have them walk across the border dressed as migrant workers."
"That will not do. If they are seen, their equipment will give them away."
"They will not carry weapons, idiot. Why do you always have to do something so predictable? In America, weapons are as plentiful as rubles. They cross as unarmed workers, Assemble them in a place we will decide on later and await my contacting them. If I need KGB help-which I deeply, sincerely hope will not come to pass-I will supply the weapons. If I do not, they will sneak back over the border without the Americans ever suspecting they were in their country. Submarine landings by moonlight!"
The General Secretary nodded his implicit agreement. "Anna's plan is sound. It is quiet and I see no serious problems in its implementation. Of course, Anna, you will fly into America under diplomatic cover."
"Immediately," said Anna Chutesov.
The General Secretary looked about the room. "Any objections?" he asked.
There were none. But then, the others all understood it was a rhetorical question. Objections were seldom voiced around the General Secretary. And he so much preferred it to be that way.
Chapter 5
The guard at the entrance gate to Graystone State Prison was not being cooperative.
"Visiting hours are over," he told Remo Williams, who had just sent away the taxi which had brought him from Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
"I don't want to visit one of the regular prisoners," said Remo. "I want to see Dexter Barn."
"Barn? He was paroled last month," said the guard. He was a beefy black man with a baritone bellow and a lot of gold edging his front teeth.
"I heard he was back."
"Who told you that?" asked the guard in a suspicious voice.
"Cheeta Ching," said Remo, running sensitive fingers along the edge of the electronically controlled gate. At the touch of a button from within the guardhouse, the steel-mesh fence would roll aside on a track. The fence would not stop a speeding truck, but it would slow it down long enough for the gate guards to splinter the cab with their automatic rifles.
"That right?" said the guard. "She a friend of yours?"
"No. I heard it on her program."
"Shit!" said the guard. "That wasn't supposed to get out. "
"Well, it is out and I'd like to see the man, if you don't mind." Remo smiled politely because he knew that smiling automatically sent calming signals to an opponent that put him off his guard.
"You're not a relative."
"How do you know?"
"If that guy was related to me, I wouldn't want anyone to know it. Ergo, you're not a relative."
"Nobody seems to want him," Remo suggested confidentially.
"Yeah, they threw him out of Centralia first," said the guard. "They gave him a cover identity, got him a job and everything. He had more fake history that somebody in the Federal Witness Protection program. But the fool hadda wear that stupid fisherman's hat of his. Everybody recognized him. Damn near ran him out of town on a rail. So they sent him to Snohomish. That lasted all of two days. He was only a day in McMurray. They hadn't got him into his motel room when it was all over the six-o'clock news. They hadda send in an armored car to keep him from being lynched. They even threw him out of Nooksack. Hell, they'd let anybody live in Nooksack. Not Barn, though."
"So they brought him back here," said Remo.
"What else could they do? Every time they tried to parole him, folks rose up like a tidal wave. And if the people didn't, the city councils did. Can't say I blame them. You know what he done?"
"Yes," said Remo grimly. "I know what he did."
"Then why're you here, buddy? You don't look like the Welcome Wagon."
"I'm here to kill him," said Remo matter-of-factly. The guard stared at Remo through the wire mesh. He tilted his blue cap back off his shiny forehead.
"Not a bad idea. You know, they gave the guy a house trailer. Set it up on the grounds. He's not a prisoner anymore. He's free to come and go. Acts like he owns the place. Sets my blood to boiling."
"How about opening the gate?" Remo asked.
"You know the warden lets him have women visitors," the guard said slowly. "Hookers, of course. No self-respecting woman would be around him."
"That's insane," said Remo.
"The warden figures if you don't let the hookers in to see him, he'll go off and attack some girl and it'll start all over again. Only this time the warden will be blamed. Our warden, he's a practical man."
"He's a fool," said Remo.
"That, too."
"The gate," said Remo.
"Look, buddy. You got balls coming up to the gate like this and stating your intentions, righteous as they may be, but I'll lose my job if I let you in."
"So don't let me in. Just look the other way while I climb over the fence."
The guard laughed. "That ain't just razor wire up there, pal. It's electrified. The combination will slice and fry you like fast-food bacon."
Remo looked up. Barbed wire coiled along the stone wall of the prison perimeter in big double loops. Double strands of electrified wire ran through the loops. A man climbing the smooth face of the wall could not top the wire without entangling himself or touching the electrified line.
"Why don't you get yourself a cup of coffee and let me worry about that?" Remo offered.
The guard considered briefly. "Tell you what. If you can get in on your own, I'll look the other way. But if you're spotted on the grounds, I gotta do what I gotta do to stop you." He patted his automatic shotgun for emphasis.
"Fair enough," said Remo. "And thanks."
"It's your funeral," the guard said, turning his back.
"It's someone's," agreed Remo.
The guard returned to the gatehouse and busied himself with a clipboard. Every once in a while he could not resist peering through the glass enclosure to see if the skinny guy with the deep, empty eyes was anywhere in sight. He was not.