The Arctic Event

“You spin that line very smoothly, Yuri, and so do my advisors and the State Department, but even if I accept it, I still don’t have to like it.”

“This I can understand, Samuel. I know you to be a man of conscience and honor”-the corner of the Russian’s mouth quirked-“possibly too much so for the realities of our profession. But we need more time. We have to let more of the old Cold Warriors die, and we have to move the fear further into the past. But at least you will have the consolation of knowing the truth will come out in the end.”

“Oh, it will, Yuri. You can bank on it. We’re in agreement that in twenty years’ time all documentation on the Wednesday Island incident and the March Fifth Event will be unsealed and there will be a full joint disclosure by both governments.”

“It is agreed.”

Castilla pressed the point home. “Said pact to be made over our signatures and with the two of us accepting the full responsibility for the secrecy lockdown and the whitewash.”

Potrenko’s eyes flickered toward the tabletop; then he nodded. “It is agreed. Until that day, the members of the Wednesday Island science expedition perished in the tragic fuel dump fire that swept through the station. The members of our Spetsnaz platoon were lost in a training accident. The crew of the Misha 124 will simply not be found, their disappearance becoming one more mystery of the Arctic. And the aircraft itself was destroyed when an old onboard demolition charge was accidentally triggered. All eventualities are covered.”

“I doubt it will be quite that easy,” Castilla replied dryly. “Lies seldom are. No doubt Wednesday Island will become yet another conspiracy theory haunting the Internet. Maybe we can take a page from John Campbell and Howard Hawks and blame it on a flying saucer.”

Castilla took a sip from the glass of branch water sitting beside his place and wished the shot of bourbon were sitting beside it. “Why couldn’t you have told me the truth in the begi

Potrenko continued his silent study of the maroon leather tabletop. “No doubt things could have been managed…more effectively. But I ca

“I daresay they are,” Castilla replied, his voice arch. “Now, there’s one last point for us to cover. When our relief force occupied Wednesday Island, the body of one man was not accounted for, that of Major Gregori Smyslov, the Russian Air Force liaison officer assigned to our inspection team. Do you have any information on him?”

Potrenko frowned. “That need not be a point of concern, Mr. President.”

“Colonel Smith, our team leader on Wednesday, seems to think differently. When I spoke with him, he asked specifically that I inquire about the fate of Major Smyslov. I am inclined to favor his request. What happened to him, Yuri?”

“The major was…injured during events on the island, but he survived. He was evacuated to our submarine. He is now being held for trial on a variety of charges.”

“Stemming from the fact he sided with Colonel Smith and against your government?” Castilla’s voice softened in an ominous ma

“That is impossible!” Potrenko snapped. “Major Smyslov has been charged with mutiny and a massive breach of state security. These are very serious matters! I am warning you, Mr. President, these are strictly the internal affairs of the Russian Federation!”

Castilla smiled back without humor but with some pleasure. “And I just hate having to violate the internal affairs of the Russian Federation, Yuri, but then, I’m having to do a lot of things today that I’m not pleased about. What’s one more?”

“This man is a Russian citizen and military officer of the Federation!”

“Colonel Smith seems to feel the major is also still a member of his team, and as I said, I am inclined in the colonel’s favor at the moment!”

“This matter is not open for discussion!”

“Then forget it!” Castilla half rose from his chair. “The whole deal is off! Upon returning to Washington, I’m calling a press conference and I’m blowing the whole thing: the aborted nuclear war, Stalin’s assassination, the anthrax, the attack on our investigations team, the cover-up-the whole nine yards goes public!”

Potrenko’s face went bloodless. “You’re mad! You would not do this thing! You would not trigger this catastrophe between our governments over the fate of one man!”

Castilla sank back into his chair. “Yuri,” he said, peering coldly at Potrenko over the frames of his glasses, “I’m not a happy camper. Humor me.”

Chapter Fifty-three

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

The cabdriver glanced in his rearview mirror at the tall, quiet man in the Army greens and black beret. Since 9/11 he’d carried a lot of soldiers to the airport, some of them heading home, others heading out to somewhere. From the multiple rows of ribbons on this man’s uniform coat, there had been a lot of somewheres, and from the weariness etched in his face, he’d been to one not long ago. But like most of the best, he wasn’t saying much about it.

The cabbie smiled to himself, looking back on his own somewheres, among them the rice paddy south of Bear Cat where he’d exchanged his right hand for a steel hook.

The Yellow Crown Victoria swept around the great curving reception bay of the terminal building, finding an unloading slot amid the milling streams of traffic. The soldier dismounted, drawing his barracks bag and briefcase out of the backseat. Stepping up to the front window, he reached for his wallet.

The cabdriver reached over with his prosthesis and zeroed the meter. “Forget it, Colonel. This one’s on the house.”

The tall soldier hesitated and then smiled. “If you insist.”

“Damn straight I do,” the cabby called back, pulling into traffic with a blare of his horn. “Eleventh Cav, ’sixty-seven. Good luck, sir.”

The shift manager wouldn’t mind. He was an ex-Marine, and he’d been some places, too.

Jon Smith pushed through the glass doors of the terminal to the ticketing counters, the luggage check-in, and the sluggish shuffle of the security inspection lines. The wait didn’t bother him particularly. At the moment he was in no rush.

He recognized the phenomenon, a combination of the biological backlash of the past week’s extreme exertions and the usual postmission psychological letdown. It would pass. At his last long-distance debriefing with Fred Klein, the director had told him to stand down and take some of his backlog of leave. The director had even waved his magic wand and arranged for it to happen.

The problem was, Smith didn’t feel like going anywhere or doing anything particularly. And back in Bethesda there was only the house that had never had the chance to become a home.

Snap out of it, Smith. You don’t need a leave. You need to get back to work.

But that brought up another point for consideration. Just exactly what was his work now? When he had accepted his position with Covert One, he had viewed himself as a research microbiologist performing an occasional specialist’s assignment for Fred Klein. Now, though, it was feeling more and more as if he was the dedicated operator and his position as USAIMRIID was the filler.