Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens
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ringing stopped and he heard the voice of the personal assistant. Swiss and efficient.
‘Is he there?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
No enquiring who was calling and no suggestion he might like to leave a message. If he wished either then he would say so.
‘When will he be back?’
‘Probably tomorrow.’
He called Milan.
‘Good afternoon. Is he there?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘When could I speak to him?’
‘Possibly tomorrow.’
There was the slightest hesitation, he thought. Certainly the day after … it was implied, but without conviction, as if the secretary was unsure herself.
It was unlike the fixer. The contact was often away setting things up and meeting people like Myerscough. The two of them tried to meet at least twice a year and to talk at least once a month, even when there was nothing much to discuss, because the two of them had set up the system, and set it up good. So it wasn’t unusual for the Italian to be out and about – that was his job. What was unusual was for him to be out of touch – not phoning his office at least twice a day, even if he couldn’t tell his people where he was and who he was with.
‘Thank you.’
There was no problem, though. All he had to do was check with the bank which would have made the wire transfer to BCI in London, and if the problem had come up before London there’d be no reason to worry about Europe. He glanced at Bekki Lansbridge again and punched the number.
‘Good morning,’ the switchboard operator answered immediately. ‘First Commercial Bank of Santa Fe.’
‘Good morning, may I speak to the president?’
The lawyers were waiting. For forty minutes Brettlaw checked with them the testimony he would deliver to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence that afternoon, then took a working lunch of coffee and Gauloises. The committee was at two. At one-thirty the Chevrolet pulled out the main gate and turned on to Route 123.
At any other time, perhaps, on any other day, he might have sat back and allowed himself thirty seconds to think about Nebulus, about the money going into and through it. Perhaps he was about to. Perhaps he would have told himself there was no need, that it was Myerscough’s job.
The secure telephone rang. The sky above was crystal blue, he would remember later, and the trees were a peaceful green.
‘Red Man.’ The code – even on the encryptor – for Operations. ‘Bonn’s hit the panic button. Nothing more yet. Will keep you informed.’
Nobody hit the panic button for nothing; Ops didn’t inform the DDO unless it was five-star. His mind was calm and ordered. There were two things he could do: order his driver back to Langley, or tell Ops to keep him informed and continue with his schedule. He had been in crises before, that was his job. Had worked out – in the dark of the night, when a man was alone with himself or his Maker – what he would do in certain scenarios. It was how he had survived Moscow, how he had made himself the man he was.
‘Keep me informed.’
The Chevrolet crossed Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and headed east up Constitution Avenue, the crowds in the parks and the bands playing. So why had Bonn hit the panic button, what was happening?
The secure phone rang again.
‘Bonn Chief of Station down. Repeat. Bonn CoS down. No more details.’
Oh Christ, he thought.
Zev Bartolski was Chief of Station in Bonn, and Zev Bartolski was his friend. More than that. Zev Bartolski was his point man in the black projects. Zev Bartolski was Inner Circle of Inner Circle, Zev Bartolski was Wise Man of Wise Men.
‘The DCI knows?’ He sliced through the disbelief and the shock.
‘Yes.’
‘Keep me informed.’
He raised the partition between himself and the driver, and considered what might be happening. Shut his eyes and tried to work out the connections. Sealed off the image of the man, wiped out every trace of Zev’s wife and children, and focused on what the hell might be going down.
Who? Why? How? What was Bonn working on that connected to anything else? At least the CoS hadn’t been kidnapped, at least they wouldn’t have to worry as they had worried over poor Bill Buckley in Beirut. At least Zev wasn’t going to be tortured for what he knew.
The logic divided, separated Zev Bartolski as Bonn CoS from Zev Bartolski in his role in the black projects. The position of Chief of Station almost a cover. For the other side, even for his own people.
A problem with Red River, Costaine had said that morning, certain monies not through on time. Now Zev taken out. The link screamed at him. Except that the two were separate – in personnel and region, in objectives and functions. No connection at all, different and distinct parts. Except they were both black ops.
He keyed in the DCI’s number and activated the Gold Code.
‘This is Tom. I’ve just heard. I’m on my way to the Hill but will return if necessary.’
There was no panic in his voice, not even an edge of excitement or adrenalin.
‘What do you think?’ The DCI had a Texan drawl.
‘No need at the moment. Perhaps the best thing is an even keel, show everyone we’re not panicking.’
‘Agreed.’
The Chevrolet passed by the Washington Memorial. The phone rang again. In Europe it was early evening.
‘Red Man. Bonn CoS was killed when the car in which he was travelling was blown up.’
‘His car?’ Brettlaw asked. ‘How was it blown up? Where was he going and what was he doing?’
Zev’s car was armoured, but even the best armoured cars were vulnerable to a bomb or land mine exploding beneath them.
‘Unclear. The First Secretary has also been killed.’
Brettlaw was still calm, still almost cold. He could speak to Bonn direct, but everyone would be speaking to Bonn. Bonn would be so jammed with communications that they’d be snowed under. Even so he was tempted to call off the session that afternoon and return to Langley.
‘Check on the vehicle the CoS was travelling in,’ he issued the orders. ‘Check whether the First Secretary was killed in the same incident or a separate one. Find out what they were doing and why. Get some indication why the CoS might have been targeted.’
The Chevrolet passed Senate Russell Building and approached Senate Hart. He keyed his secretary’s number and activated the encryptor. Maggie Dubovski was mid-forties, career Agency like himself. One of the warhorses, one of the reliables. When he made DCI Maggie would go with him, would consider it the pinnacle of her career as he would consider it the pinnacle of his.
‘You’ve heard?’ he asked her.
‘Yes.’
He named those officers to be placed on standby. ‘Meeting in my office at five, unless you hear from me before.’
There was one other thing.
‘Find out where Martha Bartolski and the kids are. Make sure they’re okay.’
The driver showed his pass to the policeman on duty at the entrance to the parking area below Senate Hart and drove down into the half-light. The Director of Security for the Intelligence Committee was already waiting. Brettlaw shook his hand and was escorted to the set of rooms known simply as SH 219.
SH 219 housed the most secure room on Capitol Hill.