Op Center 02 - Mirror Image Read online

  The forty-three-year-old Director of Op-Center was sitting in his large office at the high-security facility. Deputy Director General Mike Rodgers was seated in an armchair to the left of the desk, and Press Officer Farris was sitting on the sofa to the right. Hood's itinerary for his trip to Southern California was on the computer.

  "Sharon wrests a week off from her boss, Andy McDonnell, who says his cable show can't live without her cooking-healthy segment," Hood said, "and we end up at Bloopers, the antithesis of healthy eating. Anyway, that's where we'll be the first night. 'Me kids saw it on MTV, and if you page me there I probably won't hear it."

  Ann leaned forward and patted the back of his hand, her dazzling white smile even brighter than the yellow designer kerchief she wore in her long brown hair.

  "I bet if you let your hair down you'll have a blast, she said. "I read about Bloopers in Spin. Order a pickledog and French-fried pie. You'll love them."

  Hood snickered. "How about putting that on our agency seal? 'Op-Center-making the world safe for pickle-flavored hot dogs."'

  "I'll have to ask Lowell what that would be in Latin," Ann smiled. "We'd want it to at least sound lofty."

  Rodgers sighed and both Hood and Ann glanced over. The two-star General was sitting with his leg across a knee, shaking it briskly.

  "Sorry, Mike," Hood said. "I'm letting my hair down a little too early."

  "It's not that," Rodgers said. "You're just not talking my language."

  As a press director, Ann was accustomed to listening for the truth behind soft-pedaled words. She detected both criticism and envy in Rodgers's voice.

  "It's not my language either," Hood admitted. "But one thing you learn with kids-and Ann will back me up-is that you've got to adapt. Hell, I find myself wanting to say the same things about rap music and heavy metal that my parents said about the Young Rascals. You've got to roll with these things."

  Rodgers's expression was dubious. "Do you know what George Bernard Shaw said about adaptation?"

  "Can't say that I do," Hood admitted.

  "He said, 'The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.' I don't like rap and never will. More than that, I won't ever pretend to."

  Hood said, "What do you do when Lieutenant Colonel Squires listens to it?"

  Rodgers said, "I order him to shut it off. He tells me I'm being unreasonable-"

  "And you quote Shaw," Ann said.

  Rodgers looked at her and nodded.

  Hood raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. Well, let's see if we can all agree on what has to be done over the next few days, anyway. First, my schedule."

  Hood shucked his boyish smile and was all business as he looked back at the computer screen. Ann tried to wink a smile out of the Deputy Director, but didn't get it. The truth was he rarely smiled, and only seemed genuinely happy when he'd been out hunting boar, totalitarians, or anyone who put their careers before the safety of fighting men and women.

  "I'll be doing the Magna Studio tour on Monday," Hood continued, "and Wallace World Amusement Park on Tuesday. The kids want to surf, so Wednesday's a beach day-and so on. If you need me, I'll have the cellular with me. It won't be a problem getting to the nearest police station or FBI office in case you need me on a secure line in a hurry."

  "It should be a quiet week," Ann said. She had dumped Intelligence Officer Bob Herbert's morning update into her powerbook before coming to the meeting, and now sheflipped up the lid. "The borders in Eastern Europe and the Middle East are relatively cool. The CIA was able to help Mexican authorities close down the rebel base in Jalapa without incident. Things are calm in Asia after the near war in Korea. And the Ukrainians and Russians are at least talking again about who owns what in the Crimea."

  "Mike, will the outcome of the Russian elections affect that?" Hood asked.

  "We don't think so," Rodgers said. "The new Russian President, Kiril Zhanin, has crossed swords with Ukrainian leader Vesnik in the past, but Zhanin's a pro. He'll extend an olive branch. In any case, our projection is for no Code Reds during the coming week."

  Hood nodded. Ann knew he put little faith in what he called the three Ps-projections, polls, and psychobabble-but at least he was pretending to listen to them now. When he first came to Op-Center, Paul and staff psychologist Liz Gordon got along like Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan.

  "I hope you're right," Hood said, "but if Op-Center is called in on anything over a Code Blue, I want to be the one who signs off on our activities."

  Rodgers's leg stopped moving. The light brown eyes that usually seemed golden appeared dark. "I can handle it, Paul."

  "Never said you couldn't. You showed everyone what you could do when you stopped those missiles in North Korea."

  "So what's the problem?"

  "None," said Hood. "This isn't about ability, Mike. It's about accountability."

  "I understand," Rodgers insisted in his courtly way. "But the regulations allow for this. The Deputy Director is allowed to okay operations when the Director is away."

  "The word is 'indisposed,' not 'away,"' Hood pointed out. "I won't be indisposed, and you know how Congress gets about foreign adventures. If anything goes wrong, I'm the one who'll be hauled in front of a Senate committee and asked to explain why. I want to be able to tell them because I was there, not because I read about it in your report."

  Rodgers's high-ridged nose, broken four times in college basketball, dropped slightly. "I understand."

  "But you still don't agree," said Hood.

  "No. Frankly, I'd welcome the chance to take on Congress. I'd give those seat-warmers a lesson in government by action, not consensus."

  Hood said, "That's why I'd like to be the one to handle them, Mike. They still pay the bills around here."

  "Which is the reason men like Ollie North do what they do," Rodgers said. "To get around all the Deputy Directors' Coordinating Committees. The milksops who take proposals under advisement and sit on them for months and finally give them back too diluted and too late to matter worth a damn."

  Hood looked like he wanted to say something and Rodgers looked like he wanted to hear it and lob it right back. Instead, both men regarded each other in silence.

  "Well," Ann said jauntily, "that gives us control over those tense, single-hostage Code Greens and multiple-domestic-hostage Blues, and puts the easy, overseas-hostage Yellows, and state-of-war Reds on your shoulders." She closed the lid of her powerbook, looked at her watch, and rose. "Paul, you'll send your schedule to our computers?"

  Hood looked at the computer. He touched Alt/F6 on his keyboard, then hit PB/Enter and MR/Enter. "Done," he said.

  "Great. Will you try to have a wonderful and relaxing trip?"

  Hood nodded. Then he regarded Rodgers again. "Thanks for your help," he said, rising and shaking Rodgers's hand across the desk. "If I knew how to make this better for you, Mike, I would."

  "See you in a week," Rodgers said, then turned and walked past Ann.

  "I'll see you too," Ann said to Hood, giving him a little goodbye wave and an encouraging smile. "Don't forget to write ... and relax."

  "I'll send you a postcard from Bloopers," he said.

  Ann shut the door and followed Rodgers down the hall. She elbowed around coworkers and hurried past the open office doors and the closed doors of Op-Center's intelligence-gathering departments.

  "Are you all right?" she asked when she fell in beside him.

  Rodgers nodded.

  "You don't look all right."

  "I still can't strike the right note with him."

  "I know," Ann said. "Sometimes you think he's really got a handle on some kind of larger worldview. The rest of the time you feel like he's trying to keep you in line, like a smarty-pants school monitor."

  Rodgers looked at her. "That's a fair assessment, Ann. You've obviously given this-him-a lot of thought."

  S
he flushed. "I tend to reduce everybody to sound bites. It's a bad habit."

  To change the course of the conversation, Ann made a point of emphasizing the "everybody." She knew at once that that had been a mistake.

  "What's my sound bite?" Rodgers asked.

  Ann looked at him squarely. "You're a frank, decisive man in a world that has grown too complex for those qualities."

  They stopped beside his office. "And is that good or bad?" he asked.

  "It's troublesome," Ann replied. "With a little bit of give, you could probably get a lot more."

  Without taking his eyes off Ann, Rodgers entered his code in the keypad on the jamb. "But if something isn't what you want, is it worth having?" he asked.

  "I've always felt that half is better than none' " she replied.

  "I see. I just don't agree." Rodgers smiled now. "And Ann? Next time, if you mean to say I'm stubborn, just come out and say it."

  Rodgers flipped her a little salute, walked into his office, and shut the door behind him.

  Ann stood there for a moment before turning and walking slowly toward her office. She felt bad for Mike. He was a good man, and a bright one. But he was fatally flawed by his desire for action over diplomacy, even when that action disregarded little things like national sovereignty and congressional approval. It was his reputation as a fire-eater that had caused him to be passed over as Assistant Secretary of Defense, landing him here as a consolation prize. He accepted the post because he was first and foremost a good soldier, but he was never happy about it ... or about reporting to a nonmilitary superior.

  But then, she thought, everyone's got problems of some kind. Like her, for example. The problem to which Rodgers had indiscreetly alluded.

  She was going to miss Paul, her good and honorable cavalier, the knight who wouldn't leave his wife however much she took him for granted. Worse than that, Ann couldn't help but fantasize about how she would make Paul relax if it were she and her son going with him to Southern California instead of Sharon and the kids ....

  FOUR

  Saturday, 2:00 P.M., Brighton Beach

  Since being smuggled in from Russia to America in 1989, handsome, dark-haired Herman Josef had worked at the Bestonia Bagel Shop in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. Here, he was responsible for covering the still-warm dough with salt, sesame seeds, garlic, onions, poppy seeds, and various combinations thereof. Working near the ovens was miserable in the summer, delightful in the winter, and pleasantly unchallenging throughout the year. Most of the time, working here was nothing like working in Moscow.

  Owner Arnold BeInick buzzed him on the intercom. "Herman, come to the office," he said. "I have a special order."

  Whenever he heard that, the slender, thirty-seven-year-old Muscovite was no longer unchallenged. Old instincts and feelings came to life. The need to survive, to succeed, to serve his country. They were skills honed in ten years of working for the KGB before it was transformed.

  Throwing his apron on the counter and turning the bagel-finishing process over to Belnick's young son, Herman ran up the groaning old stairs two at a time. He walked right into the office, which was lit by a fluorescent desk lamp and the light coming through a dirty skylight. He shut the door, locked it, then stood beside the old man at the desk.

  Belnick looked back at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Here," he said, handing Herman a paper.

  Herman looked at it, then gave the paper back to Belnick. The round, balding man put it in the ashtray, touched the glowing tip of his cigarette to it, and set the note afire. Then he dumped the ashes on the floor and ground them to powder.

  "Any questions?"

  "Yes. Will I be going to the safe house?"

  "No," said Belnick. "Even if you're being watched, there's no reason anyone should connect you with the event. "

  Herman nodded. He had been to the place on Forest Road in Valley Stream before, after killing a Chechnyan rebel who had come to raise funds for the secession. It was a safe house operated by the Russian mafia for its operatives. From there, it was just a fifteen-minute ride to JFK International Airport, or a twenty-minute ride to Jamaica Bay. Either way, it was easy enough to get operatives out of the country if things got too hot. Otherwise, when the trail got cold, he could return to Brighton Beach and the Bestonia.

  Herman went to a locker in a comer of the room, removed the false back, and reached in. And as casually as if he were gathering salt or poppy seeds, he began removing the things he'd need.

  FIVE

  Sunday, 12:00 P.M., St. Petersburg

  His trusty old Bolsey 35mm camera slung around his neck, Keith Fields-Hutton purchased a ticket in a kiosk outside the Hermitage, near the Neva, then walked the short distance to the sprawling, gold-domed museum. As always, he felt humbled as he walked through the white marble columns on the ground floor. He experienced that every time he entered one of the most historic buildings in the world.

  The State Hermitage Museum is the largest museum in Russia. It was established in 1764 by Catherine the Great as a separate area of the two-year-old Winter Palace. It quickly grew from the 225 pieces of art she bought for it to the current collection of 3 million pieces. The museum houses works by Leonardo da Vinci, Van

  Gogh, Rembrandt, El Greco, Monet, and countless masters, as well as ancient artifacts from the Paleolithic, Mesolithic, Neolithic, Bronze, and Iron ages.

  Today, the museum consists of three buildings side by side: the Winter Palace; the Little Hermitage, located directly to the northeast; and the Large Hermitage, situated northeast of that. Until 1917, the Hermitage was closed to all but the royal family, their friends, and aristocrats. Only after the Revolution was it opened to the public.

  As Fields-Hutton entered the great main hall, with its ticket takers and souvenir stands, he considered how sad it was that he was here. When Catherine established the museum, she'd posted some very sensible rules of conduct for her guests. The first and most important was Article One: "On entering, the title and rank must be put off, as well as the hat and sword. "

  She was right. The experience of art should ease personal and political squabbles, not conceal them. But both Fields-Hutton and Leon believed the Russians had broken that compact. In addition to the death of the six workers and the shipments of material, there were increased levels of microwave radiation. Leon had come over before his employer's arrival and used a cellular phone in different areas around the museum. The closer he got to the river, the more the reception broke up. That might explain the tarpaulins. If the Russians had established some kind of communications center here, below the waterline, the electronic components would have to be insulated from the moisture.

  The fact that they may have set up a communications center in the museum made strategic sense. Art was as negotiable as gold, and museums were rarely bombed in wartime. Only Hitler had violated the sanctity of this museum by bombing it. However, the citizens of what was then Leningrad had taken the precaution of evacuating their treasures to Sverdlovsk in the Urals.

  Did the Russians build a center here because they were anticipating a war? Fields-Hutton wondered.

  Fields-Hutton consulted the layout of the museum in his Blue Guide. He had memorized it on the train but didn't want to arouse the suspicion of guards by appearing to know where he needed to go. Each guard was a potential Ministry of Security freelancer.

  After glancing at the map Fields-Hutton turned to the left, to the long, columned Rastrelli Gallery. Every inch of floor space was exposed, leaving no place to hide a secret room aboveground or a hidden staircase that could lead underground. Strolling around the wall that separated the Rastrelli Gallery from the East Wing, he stopped when he spotted what had once apparently been a custodial closet. There was a keypad beside the door, and he smiled when he read the printed sign on an easel to the left. It said, in Cyrillic letters:

  This is the future home of Arts for Children, a television service that will broadcast the treasures of the Hermitage to stu
dents in schools throughout the nation. Maybe, thought Fields-Hutton, and maybe not.

  Pretending to read his Blue Guide while he watched the guard, Fields-Hutton waited until the man turned away, then hurried over to the door. There was a security camera above it, so he made sure not to look up from his book or show his face. He pretended to sneeze, covering his face with his hand and stealing a look at the lens. It was short, under twenty millimeters. It had to he a wide-angle lens, covering the door as well as the area well to the left and to the right, but not on the bottom.