Panic Switch полностью

Meanwhile, the submarine USS New Jersey was being prepared for its run north to linger outside the Kola Peninsula submarine bases, to trail the Belgorod, and if need be, put it on the bottom. The raging debate was how to provide the new submarine with a crew, since her crew had spent three years building her, with only a few weeks of sea trials, and were considered incapable of a top-secret special operation.

In other news, the previous project submarine USS Vermont was considered a wreck after a disastrous fire in the forward compartment while in drydock, and plans were being drawn up to mate Vermont’s aft compartment to the new USS Massachusetts’ forward compartment, restoring the Vermont to operational status in six months or less. Vermont would be renamed, according to the article, since it was soon to be half Massachusetts. The Navy announced plans to rename it to be the USS New England, in honor of the two states forming her hull. That left the aft portion of the former Massachusetts, to be mated to a repaired Vermont front end, and which so far hadn’t been renamed. American Party Senator Michaela Everett had floated the idea of naming the submarine the USS Michael A. Pacino. Allende smiled at that, wondering what Pacino would think of that. He’d probably hate it, she thought, smiling to herself.

After the drinks were carried away, she and Catardi were served a light dinner. Allende took a sleeping pill, downing it with a sparkling water, put on a sleeping mask, leaned her leather seat far back, and tried to sleep. It was insane, she thought, how when she needed to sleep, sleep evaded her. But when she needed to stay awake? She could sleep ten hours.

Finally she fell into an uneasy slumber, seeing the imagined scene of the chalet and the Russians they’d be meeting, and in the craziness of the dream, she, Rob and the two Russians were trying to decide how to get rid of a dead body.

She finally woke when shaken gently awake by the steward. “We’re descending into Geneva, ma’am,” he said.

Catardi looked at her with amusement. “You talked in your sleep,” he said, smirking. “Probably not the best thing for the CIA director to be sleep-talking.”

“Oh God, what did I say?” she asked.

“You kept saying ‘Michael, I have the body.’ There are several interpretations one could make of that,” he laughed.

Allende rubbed her forehead. “Now I have a headache.”

They landed gently at Cointrin Geneva Airport, taxied to the general aviation building, and climbed out. On the tarmac, a black SUV waited. The steward loaded their luggage in the back and handed Allende a heavy parka. “May as well have this with you in the car, ma’am. It will be chilly on the way to the chalet.”

The drive to the chalet went quickly, although it was a hundred kilometers from the airport, through a winding mountain road. At the higher altitude, the ground became snow-covered, blinding from the glare of the morning sunshine.

Eventually they arrived at the chalet, a huge log affair overlooking a wide and deep valley. The roof and grounds were under several feet of snow, and the air was crisp and cold. The front door opened and a hostess smiled and invited them in, taking their coats while the driver brought in their luggage. Allende looked at her overnight bag, thinking that if this went the way she hoped, she’d never need it, and they could return to the airport that same day.

“Are the other guests here yet?” Allende asked.

“They phoned from the road, ma’am,” the hostess said. “You can set up in the living room if you’d like. We’ve had a fire built for you, per your request.”

“No conference room?” Catardi asked Allende.

Allende shook her head. “I figured the less formal this meeting, the better.”

The hostess served coffee and set up a tea service on the coffee table for the Russians, with two bottles of Jewel of Russia vodka and four glasses. Allende could hear noise from the foyer, the arrival of the Russians.

They walked into the room then, the tall, slender and well-built figure of the SVR Chairman Lana Lilya and behind her, Vice Admiral Pavel Zhabin, the chief of staff and first deputy commander of the Russian Navy, technically their number three man, but the deputy commander, Mikhail Myshkin, had died the week before and the chief commander of the Navy, Admiral Anatoly Stanislav, was fighting pancreatic cancer — unsuccessfully — and had just been admitted to hospice care in Moscow. With Stanislav sick and Myshkin dead, Zhabin was by default the commanding admiral of the Russian Navy. If Admiral Zhabin was Catardi’s equivalent, SVR Chairman Lana Lilya, as head of the foreign intelligence service, was Allende’s.

They shook hands and introduced themselves, finally sitting around the coffee table. Catardi spoke first.

“Admiral Zhabin, I’m sorry to hear about Admirals Stanislav and Myshkin,” Catardi opened.