“I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.”
Martinelli contemplated his visitor. He had known Isaacs to work around McMasters before, but not in a matter like this when consultation with him was explicitly mandated.
“This is important to you?”
“Vince, I think I’m onto something that may help explain the Novorossiisk event and get us out of this whole mess it has led to. I can’t prove it yet. I need more evidence, including your photos.”
“You want to tell me what it is?”
“You’ll be sticking your neck out as it is if you do this. I think we should leave it at that.”
“And you need to steer clear of McMasters?”
“He’s got me between a rock and a hard place. The less said about that the better for now, too.”
Martinelli let out a sigh. “Let’s see whether what you’re asking is even feasible. You have the coordinates?”
Isaacs withdrew a small sheet of notepaper from his pocket and handed it to Martinelli.
“I’ll check with the scheduling office. Hang on a bit.”
Martinelli left Isaacs in the office. Isaacs rose and paced the floor. He severely disliked involving Martinelli in this way. He could not even be sure the photos would be useful, but some steps had to be taken to reduce their level of ignorance. He wanted to bring to bear as many means as possible. He had cabled the consulate in Nagasaki and arranged for an observer to cover the area, hinting at the possibility of some political turmoil. Again he was operating out of channels since his office was not directly responsible for covert intelligence. He had gambled that any request from central headquarters would elicit a cooperative response and had apparently been correct.
Martinelli returned in a few minutes.
“The satellite time is tied up tight. There’re troop movements in southern China, near the Vietnamese border. On the other hand, we’ll have a U-2 flight returning from the same area at about the time you want. I can’t give you an hour, but maybe we can get him to save a few frames in his magazine and circle Nagasaki for ten minutes. Any longer and the Japanese will get suspicious. We’re allies, remember. They don’t appreciate us taking spy pictures of them. At least we try to be subtle about it,” he grinned.
“Ten minutes is cutting it very close. But if it’s ten minutes spanning that time,” Isaacs pointed at the slip of paper in Martinelli’s hand, “that may do the trick.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thanks, Vince, I owe you one.”
“Wait till you see if we get anything.”
Isaacs spent most of the next twenty-four hours as he had the last, in the frenzied analysis of Soviet signal intelligence, searching for clues that the deadlock in orbit might be broken. Danielson had used Szkada’s sonar data to refine her estimate of the several block area in Nagasaki where she predicted the seismic event would encroach on the city. Isaacs had cabled the revised information to the consulate and passed it on to Martinelli. Martinelli had confirmed that they could get some aerial photos of the area.
As Isaacs headed home Wednesday evening he was concentrating on the upcoming event in Nagasaki, only a few hours away, a little after eleven in the morning Japanese time, July 8, allowing for the International Dateline. Would they learn anything useful? And, if so, for god’s sake what? What were they dealing with? He replayed in his mind the interchange in La Jolla. Russians? Extraterrestrials? Damn it all anyway! He failed to notice that he had been following the same dark sedan all along MacArthur Boulevard nor did he notice the limousine that pulled in behind him as they neared Georgetown.
The sedan pulled into the quiet narrow street Isaacs always took to get home, and Isaacs followed. Part way along the block the sedan braked, and Isaacs also did so mechanically. The sedan’s back-up lights came on, and it reversed to within a few feet of Isaacs’ bumper. He felt a momentary hint of irritation at the delay and then looked back over his shoulder, preparing to back up himself to give room. All he saw was the hood of the limousine. At the same moment, someone opened his door and he jerked around with surprise.
A tall figure in a dark suit was silhouetted in the doorway. The man bent down, revealing a broad-featured face that was vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Isaacs?” The voice was slow, working methodically with an alien tongue. “Mr. Zamyatin would like a word with you.”
Mr. Zamyatin was it! Isaacs’ eyes followed those of the man back to the limousine. Colonel Grigor Zamyatin was well known in the Agency as the head of the KGB station in the capital, a position that gave him immense power throughout the country, not to mention his own homeland.
Isaacs fixed his eyes on the man again, recognizing now the face from the Agency file on the embassy staff. Yegor Vassilev, a “secretary” in the visa section.
“Zamyatin be damned,” he said with some heat. “You can’t accost me like this on a public street in my own country!”
“Please, Mr. Isaacs,” Vassilev replied in a placating tone, “Mr. Zamyatin said to mention Academician Korolev.”
Isaacs stared. What the hell did that mean? It was on the record that Isaacs had submitted the report suggesting meteorite damage to the Novorossiisk. A report that Korolev had rejected. But this forced liaison was unlikely to have arisen from such an interchange. They must have intercepted his personal letter to Korolev. Resignation mingled with a strong dose of curiosity drove Isaacs out of his seat. Could Zamyatin conceivably be turned to an ally in this bizarre situation?
As he stepped onto the pavement, Vassilev mumbled, “I will operate your vehicle,” and slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes.
The rear door to the limousine opened and Isaacs stepped in and sat. Someone outside closed the door, and a deep hush settled into the interior of the car. In a moment they began to move ahead gently.
A half block away an anonymous tan Oldsmobile Cutlass was parked in a driveway. The driver lowered the compact camera he had been using and spoke softly into a microphone. He watched as a van from a Georgetown appliance store pulled around the corner and closed to within a half a block of the limousine. He then backed out and headed in the opposite direction.
In the limousine, Grigor Zamyatin reached across, extending a hand.
“Mr. Isaacs,” he said in a carefully developed Midwestern accent.
Isaacs, examining the neatly combed grey hair, the friendly peasant face, the shrewd black eyes, hesitated a moment. Then he took the hand in a firm grip. No sense insulting the man before the cards were on the table. He felt some protest was deserved, however.
“Colonel. I trust you have good reason for this bit of piracy. You could get me in quite a jam. The Agency frowns on unauthorized clandestine meetings with the opposition.”
“Come, come, Mr. Isaacs. I think you will agree we need a quiet, frank chat, man to man. Surely you would not want me to make an official request for an audience. How would you explain that to your Mr. Drefke—or to your Mr. McMasters?”
Damn! thought Isaacs, even the KGB knows he’s on my back.
“In any case,” said Isaacs, “here we are. What’s on your mind?”
“Your role in the Novorossiisk affair, Mr. Isaacs. Simply that.”
Isaacs looked at him silently.
“You wrote a very persuasive memo concerning the possibility of a meteorite striking the carrier. Your premise had already been considered, tested, and rejected. Nevertheless, your sincerity, if I may use that word, made a deep impression on Academician Korolev.”
Zamyatin watched closely as he used that name. He saw a slight lifting of the chin. He faced straight ahead and continued.
“You have probably guessed that we are aware of the contents of your personal letter to him.”
“What I don’t know is whether he even received it,” said Isaacs, attempting to take the offensive. “I’ve had no reply.”