Panic Switch полностью

“What do we have?” Pacino asked, sipping the coffee, the brew hot enough to burn his tongue.

“Good news first. The vice president was able to plant our bug in Vostov’s office during her visit with him after his wife’s funeral.”

“Excellent,” Pacino said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Allende said. “We expected her to sit in a chair at Vostov’s desk, which is how he likes to receive official visitors. It always sounded like a power play to me, like a senior person addressing a subordinate sitting in the seat in front of his big desk. But instead, he took the meeting in a set of club chairs by his massive fireplace. A much more intimate setting, but we think we’ll only harvest a fraction of the intelligence we wanted.”

“Wouldn’t a bug sweep locate that in a day?” Pacino asked.

“New tech,” Menendez said. The deputy director favored colorful Hawaiian shirts under a dark blazer with his habitual dark fedora hat, which he’d placed on the table, which irritated Pacino. U.S. Navy unwritten rules, dating back to the 1700s, strictly prohibited hats on tables — unless the owner of the hat had been to the north pole. On that basis, Pacino had always casually tossed his officers’ cover onto whatever table he’d sat at, since he’d been to the pole twice. But he sincerely doubted Menendez had. The rule had been crafted with the thought in mind that no one in the Navy had been or would ever go to the north pole, and then submariners who’d returned from “ICE-EXs” started tossing caps on tables.

“The Russians might find it in a month,” Allende said. “By then they won’t know who placed it. They could blame the British or French.”

“They always blame us,” Pacino mused. “So the intel will be less, but who knows, maybe Vostov conducts his most sensitive conversations in those club chairs.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Allende said.

“You said there were two areas,” Pacino said.

“Yes. The modified special purpose sub, the Omega II, the Belgorod. We still think it’s headed up north under the icecap. And it’s delayed by at least a week, maybe two.”

“Well, that’s definitely good news,” Pacino said. “That gives us time to get our project submarine up there.” He tried to keep his expression neutral, but he was apprehensive about Anthony being assigned to New Jersey, which would be ordered to get into position to trail the Belgorod and find out what the hell it would be doing. At least this wouldn’t be as dangerous as the Panther mission, he consoled himself.

“Oh, there’s more, Patch,” Menendez said, smiling, seeming pleased with himself. “Belgorod is taking aboard four comfort women. Must be a long mission they’re anticipating.”

“That sounds odd,” Pacino said. “I know the Russians. When they’re forward deployed, they often arrange to bring comfort women in their R&R ships or even on their sub tenders, but comfort women on the boat itself?” Comfort women were essentially prostitutes employed by the Russian Navy, their job to keep male morale from collapsing.

“Oh, that’s not the good news,” Allende said. “The good news is that one of them is ours.”

Pacino sat back and stared at Allende. “You’ve got an asset onboard the Belgorod?”

Menendez beamed. “We do indeed.”

“That is good news. What’s the bad news?”

“We haven’t figured out a way for her to communicate with us. We might not be able to get any data from her until Belgorod comes back to base.”

“Oh,” Pacino said. “Perhaps a hack into the radio antenna, like the Blue Hardhat operation you did to the Yasen-M boats?”

Allende shook her head. “We were forced to leak that to the Russians, and now they’re absolutely paranoid about their submarine masts and antennae. We don’t think we could get away with that now, which is why we’re using one of their comfort women. Human intelligence almost always trumps electronic intel, but not if there’s no way to pass us a message.”

“Well, keep working on it,” Pacino said. “The president has taken a personal interest in this operation, like he did with Panther.” As National Security Advisor, Pacino’s rank in the administration was near that of a cabinet officer and Carlucci treated him as if he were Allende’s boss. He wondered if the president knew about Pacino’s personal relationship with the CIA director. Probably did, Pacino thought. Spying on the spies was big business in Washington.

“I’ve got to get back to Langley. Good to see you again, Admiral,” Menendez said, collecting his hat, standing, and shaking Pacino’s hand. After he left the room, Allende poured them more coffee.

“Margo, you said there was something else?” Pacino checked his old, scratched Rolex. “I’ve got to brief the president in half an hour.”

“I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this one, Patch,” Allende said. “The vice president is seriously sick. Late-stage rectal cancer. It’s metastasized throughout her abdomen. Looks like all her major organs are affected.”

“Oh, no,” Pacino said. “She looked terrible at that Status-6 briefing.”