“I’m touched,” Cartwright said dryly. “I had no idea our mutual employer was such a people person.”
Ultimately, Tekhwerk was owned by Kevin Martindale and his private military corporation, Scion — though that fact was hidden from the Kremlin by a byzantine chain of holding companies and investment firms. Revenues earned by the company’s day-to-day business deals paid for intelligence-gathering and covert-action operations inside Russia itself. Better yet, the need for frequent travel between its scattered offices and associated enterprises provided convenient cover for Scion operatives disguised as Tekhwerk executives and employees…
…such as Scion field agents Samantha Kerr and Marcus Cartwright.
At Cartwright’s invitation, Sam dropped gratefully onto a leather couch with a spectacular view of the Moscow skyline. She’d been on the move for what seemed like days — ever since Martindale briefed her on this new assignment. Almost from the moment the Energia heavy-lift rocket launched, Cartwright and his small team of operatives had been working around the clock to collect intelligence on Moscow’s new space program. Sam’s orders were to assist them, by any means necessary.
Cartwright took a seat across from her. “Quite frankly, I’m very glad you’re here. We desperately need a fresh pair of eyes.” Now that he was off his feet, the big man looked almost as tired as Sam felt. “So far, the best thing I can say about this operation is that none of my people are dead or in an FSB interrogation cell. Not yet, anyway.”
“That sounds ominous,” Sam said lightly.
“Hyperbole and I are not old friends,” Cartwright said grimly. “We’ve hit roadblocks at every turn. Both the Plesetsk and Vostochny launch sites are completely locked down, totally off-limits to anyone without special high-level security clearances. The same goes for Star City, where rumor says there’s a very hush-hush cosmonaut training program going on.”
Sam leaned forward with a frown. “Locked down in what way, exactly? Roving police patrols and checkpoints?”
Wearily, Cartwright shook his head. “More like minefields, barbed wire and bunkers, searchlights, mechanized infantry units, T-72 and T-90 tanks, helicopter gunships, and antiaircraft batteries. There’s no way I can sneak a black-bag clandestine team past that kind of security. Nothing bigger than a butterfly has the slightest chance of getting within ten kilometers of any of those places without being detected, intercepted, and killed.” He looked her right in the eye. “I’ve seen nuclear-weapons storage depots and ICBM bases with weaker perimeter defenses.”
“So forced entry isn’t an option either,” she realized.
“Not unless Mr. Martindale can whistle up a team of those Iron Wolf combat robots for us,” Cartwright agreed dourly.
Sam sighed. “That might be considered just a tad unsubtle.”
Almost against his will, the big man smiled. “I suppose so.”
“You said entry to Plesetsk, Vostochny, and Star City required special security clearances,” she said slowly.
“Correct.”
“Can we forge the necessary IDs?” Sam asked. It was a tactic the two of them had relied on in the past, all the way up to masquerading as officers on Russia’s general staff. Scion’s false document section had a justly earned reputation for working miracles.
“No,” Cartwright said bluntly.
Now there was a surprise, Sam thought. She stared at him. “Why not?”
“Because we don’t even know what the damned things look like,” the big man told her. “Security clearances for what we think is called ‘the Mars Project’ are issued only to those on a special list tightly controlled by Gryzlov himself.”
She frowned. “Tricky.”
“That’s not all,” he said gloomily. “From what little we’ve been able to confirm, there’s yet another layer of security — beyond those special ID cards. Even with the right documents, no one gets past the perimeter of any of those sites without positive biometric confirmation of their identity.”
“Do tell,” Sam murmured. “Well, that certainly suggests the Russians have something worth hiding. Something very big and very nasty.”
Cartwright nodded. “No question there.”
She leaned back against the couch, pondering the problem further. As a first step, they needed to focus their efforts. The Vostochny and Plesetsk launch sites were remote and difficult to reach from Moscow. They were also tight-knit technical communities devoted to a common purpose, firing off rockets into space. Strangers would stand out, no matter how good their forged documents. More importantly, U.S. reconnaissance satellites could easily monitor any new Russian spacecraft rolling out for launch. That was the sort of data-driven espionage America’s official intelligence agencies had mastered long ago, from the earliest days of the Cold War.
The trouble was that this was primarily a human intelligence problem, Sam decided. Learning that Moscow had developed more powerful rockets meant little unless they could also figure out how the Russians planned to use them. All of which led her back to Star City and its rumored top secret cosmonaut training program. Finding out what these brand-new cosmonauts were being trained to do would answer a lot of questions. So figuring out how to penetrate the security around Star City was where the Scion team should devote its time, energy, and resources.
Cartwright nodded when she explained her reasoning. Then his broad face darkened. “But there’s the rub, Sam,” he pointed out with regret. “The equation’s damnably simple: no special ID card and biometric confirmation, no access. So we’re right back where we started: stuck outside the Star City security perimeter without a way in.”
“So we take this one careful step at a time,” Sam said dispassionately, concealing her own doubts. Seeing a veteran operative like Marcus Cartwright so spooked by Gryzlov’s new security measures was not a confidence builder. “And the first step is taking a closer look at one of those new Mars Project identity cards.”
The big man frowned. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid. As far as we can determine from distant surveillance, nobody with Mars-level clearance goes anywhere without an armed escort. Pulling a snatch job to grab one of those IDs would be messy as hell—”
“And end up triggering Russian security service red alerts from here to Vladivostok,” she finished in disgust.
Cartwright nodded gloomily.
Now what, genius? Sam asked herself silently. Scion didn’t recruit field agents who froze at the first hurdle. Obstacles, Martindale often said coldly during debriefings, were there to be overcome — not used as an excuse for failure. Sure, it was the kind of rear-echelon motivational bullshit that tempted a lot of people to strangle him… but that didn’t make it any less true.
Thinking hard, she stared out toward the twinkling lights that marked Moscow’s crowded city center, distantly noting her own reflected image superimposed on the darkened glass. During the last half hour the summer sun had slipped below the horizon. Somehow, she knew, they needed to lay their hands on a Mars Project ID. Which was manifestly impossible. So how was she supposed to untangle this particular Gordian knot?
Something about the way her own face stared back at her from the window tugged at her mind. And then, quite suddenly, Sam saw a path forward, or at least its first tentative, faltering steps. She looked back at Cartwright. “Okay, we don’t try to steal a Mars Project ID card itself,” she said cheerfully. “We just steal its soul.”
Seeing the puzzled look on her colleague’s broad face, she laughed. “Remember what some cultures think will happen to them if someone takes their picture with a camera? We don’t need a physical copy of the identity card. We just need a good, solid image. At least as a start.”