“The major problem with Bugzapper from the beginning,” Sundowner was saying, “was that for the shield to be effective, the energy fields erected between the various satellites had to be constantly active. The power drain would thus be enormous. And since the satellites would have to possess the capacity to recharge themselves in outer space, solar energy was the only possibility. But it was impossible until recently to find a sufficient power storage capability.”
“Don’t tell me,” quipped George Kappel. “You’ve discovered a way to lay cable connecting your satellites with the sun itself.”
“Not exactly,” said Sundowner, “but close enough.”
The red phone buzzed twice and the President leaned forward over the table and lifted the receiver.
“Yes?” he said, holding it to his ear. His lower lip dropped as he listened attentively, his face seeming to grow progressively paler. “And that’s it?” he asked at the end. “I see…. No, we’ll handle it from here…. Yes, tell them to keep monitoring.” Lyman Scott turned to the men before him, still clutching the receiver to his ear. “We’ve been contacted in Turkey again; same channel, same code.”
“Sir?” one of them raised, speaking for all, hoping to learn the contents of the communiqué just received.
But the President simply looked toward Sundowner. “Lay your cable, Ryan. And lay it fast.”
The two figures sat alone in the rearmost row of the Bangkok movie house, the light cast by the celluloid images barely reaching them.
“I am instructed to require your name and status before any further discussion can take place,” said the smaller of the two.
“My name is Katlov and my status is renegade,” said the other softly, turning enough so a patch over his left eye was visible in the darkness. The rest of his features were indistinguishable.
“Strange for a renegade to seek out a KGB station chief.”
On the screen an American western, dubbed in Thai, was nearing its climax.
“To me you are simply a messenger, Station Chief.”
The KGB man grunted. “I am a busy man.”
“And a small one.”
“Get to the point.”
“You will deliver a message for me to Moscow.”
“Really?”
“You will tell them that I can give them Raskowski.”
The KGB man’s mouth dropped.
“You will tell them I have no time for games or delays. The world has no time. I will meet their emissary here.”
“This is my station,” the KGB man said defensively.
“There are terms you will not be able to meet.”
“But—”
“I won’t have this!” Katlov snapped. “I will give you the key we used for the Turkish channel. That will be all the proof they require. It will show I am what I claim to be.”
“I know nothing of such a channel’s significance.”
“They will know, you fool! You will relay to them my instructions. You will stress the importance of immediate action and that I alone hold the means to end this madness.”
“What madness?” the station chief asked, pensive now.
Katlov made a motion to rise. The KGB man restrained him gently.
“Please. I’ll … do as you say.”
Katlov settled back in his chair.
Chapter 5
New York’s famed diamond district occupies only one block, West 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. From across the street, at first glance, Earnst’s Gem Parlor looked small and unassuming, its narrow shape squeezed between a pair of larger and more openly aggressive merchants. But at second glance, McCracken reckoned from his position fronting the jar-filled window of Kaplan’s Delicatessen, it stood a cut above the others in class as well as clientele. The fact that it need not stack its front windows with rows of diamonds revealed this, as did a front entrance cubicle complete with armed guard.
McCracken and T.C. had taken Eastern’s nine A.M. shuttle from Boston. She had insisted on accompanying him and he had reluctantly agreed only after she promised to do nothing but remain in her room at the Waldorf and wait for his call. The cab dropped them both off at the hotel, and Blaine walked the short distance to Earnst’s.
He should have used the opportunity to check for tails but he was distracted by thoughts still lingering from the night before. T.C. had left him at the Copley Plaza just past one A.M. but called as soon as she got back to her crumbling townhouse, and they talked for another hour. Blaine didn’t know which he regretted more: the fact that she wasn’t lying beside him then or that she had broken off their relationship all those years before. He slept fitfully, dreaming of her, and hating it once he awoke because only in dreams could he bring her as near to him as he wished.
With those thoughts chasing him again, Blaine dashed across the street through westbound traffic. Seventy West 47th was embroidered in plated gold over the entrance. McCracken stepped through the first door and faced the uniformed security officer squeezed behind a counter.
“Good morning, sir,” the guard said cheerfully. “I’ll need an I.D. card to hold while you’re inside.”
Blaine produced one of his many driver’s licenses and handed it over. The guard fumbled beneath his counter, finally locating the entry button. There was an ear-scratching buzz, and Blaine watched the inner glass door snap electronically open. He passed inside and found himself within the long, narrow, and elegantly appointed confines of Earnst’s. A crystal chandelier cast shimmering light over the whole quiet scene, reflecting off the many glass counters and display cases. Instead of standard stools behind the various counters, Earnst’s were covered in rich velour that matched the color of the carpeting.
McCracken ambled past a series of display cases and was surprised not to see any hidden wires strung through the glass. Then he realized that it was not here but on the upper levels of the store that gems of greater value were kept and traded. Access to these was limited, and strictly by appointment.
“Can I help you?” a clerk asked him as he stood before a case layered with diamond sapphire necklaces.
“I’m here to see Mr. Earnst. He’s expecting me. Tell him it’s Blaine McCracken.”
“One moment.”
The clerk turned and disappeared up a set of stairs situated behind one of the counters. A minute later he returned with an older man by his side.
Erich Earnst must have been closer to eighty than seventy. His thinning white hair was wild, and his flesh was grayish. He walked with a slight limp. Blaine moved forward to greet him.
“Mr. McCracken,” the old man said gratefully, extending his hand. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Please, let’s go upstairs.”
Blaine freed himself from the old man’s surprisingly strong handshake, aware that the rapid shifting of Earnst’s eyes was due more to fear than age. T.C. had said her grandfather was in danger and that was good enough for him. Given the vast sums Earnst dealt with every day, anything was possible. Blaine owed it to T.C. to follow every lead.
“We’ll talk in my office,” Erich Earnst said as they moved behind the counter to the staircase he had just descended.
Blaine followed the older man up the stairs. At the top they had to turn right and directly before them rose a high security steel-and-glass door. Earnst slid an electronic entry card into a slot and the door snapped open.