She had at least remembered what Albion had told her about the dosages and effects of this particular drug. “This should be enough to wipe everything as far back as coming into the bathroom.”
“If he loses more, it doesn’t matter. As long as he doesn’t remember seeing me.”
Bianca administered the drug. She passed the injector to Adam. “Probably not a good idea to leave this lying around.”
“I’ll put it in the case.” He went back into the bedroom.
“How are you going to get out?”
“I’ll hide on the balcony. As soon as they’re both in here dealing with you and Zykov, I’ll go into the lounge through the other door and just walk out.”
“Easy as that, eh?”
“Hopefully.” He picked up both pieces of baggage and went to the balcony door. “Okay. Get out as soon as you can.”
She gave him a pained smile. “Oh, I will!”
He grinned back, the almost lustful way he bared his teeth unsettlingly redolent of Zykov, then went out onto the balcony. Bianca turned her attention back to the unconscious man, watching him intently for signs of recovery.
Adam crouched with his back against the glass at the corner of the bedroom. “The lounge is clear, Adam,” Holly Jo told him. “You could get to the front door now.”
“I don’t want to risk it,” he replied. “Not until I know where Bragin and Konev are.”
“Who? Oh, the bodyguards.”
“If we’d upgraded the UAV with a microwave radar like I suggested,” added Kyle, “we could see right through the walls and know exactly where they are. Be useful, huh?”
“I’ll bear it in mind at the next procurement meeting,” said Tony drily. “Adam, are you sure you want to wait?”
“If they see me, I’ll have to kill them. Not good for our cover.” He already had the gun in his hand, ready for the worst-case scenario.
“Point taken. Just be careful, then.”
Adam listened for sounds of activity through the glass. When Bianca raised the alarm, the bodyguards would run to the bathroom to help their boss—leaving the way clear for him to head for the exit.
In theory. He squeezed the gun’s grip more tightly …
Bianca’s heels clattered on the tiled floor. He tensed, ready to move. A shrill cry from the bathroom, then: “Oh my God! Hey, help! Help me!”
“They’re coming,” warned Holly Jo. “One guy—no, they’re both coming. Hold on.”
Bianca was still putting on a performance. “It’s Ruslan, in the bathroom! We were in there, and—he slipped and hit his head! He’s hurt, you’ve got to help him!”
He heard the bedroom door open, hurried footsteps. “They’re both going into the bathroom,” Holly Jo continued. “Wait, wait … okay, their backs are to you. Go!”
Adam rose to his feet and strode along the balcony. He opened the glass door and slipped through into the lounge, silently closing it behind him. Without looking back, he headed for the exit. He emerged in the lobby. The concierge gave him a strange look, not recognizing him …
“Privet, kak pozhivaeteg?” Adam said cheerily. The concierge blinked, uncomprehending. “The boss’s date, she is leaving.” He held up his baggage. “I take these downstairs for her, yeah?”
The man nodded. “Would you like me to order a taxi?”
“No, no, is fine.” He went to the elevators, pushing the call button. One of the sets of doors opened. He entered. “Okay, I’m in the elevator,” he announced as it started to descend. “Where’s Bianca?”
She was helping the two bodyguards carry their boss to his bed. “Ruslan, are you okay?”
Zykov put a hand to his head, wincing. “What happened?”
“You slipped on the champagne,” she said. “You hit the floor really hard—I was worried, I think you were knocked out. You should go to hospital.”
“No, no, I …” He sat on the bed and looked at his hand, seeing a small amount of blood. “Oh. I don’t … I went into the bathroom, I gave you a drink, and …” He closed his eyes, then his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t remember.”
“You should definitely see a doctor,” she insisted. “I’ll get the concierge to call someone.”
One of the bodyguards moved as if to block her, but Zykov waved him back. “Yes, do that. I do not feel good.”
“Okay.” She paused at the bedroom door. “I’m sorry the evening had to end this way. It’s certainly been a very interesting night.”
He managed a faint smile. “Maybe I see you again sometime, yes?”
“Maybe you will. Anything is possible.” Suppressing the urge to break into a run, she left the suite. “Mr. Zykov asks if you could call a doctor,” she told the concierge. “He fell and banged his head.”
“I will see to it right away,” he replied, picking up a phone. “And madam?”
She paused at the lifts, worried. “Yes?”
“Mr. Zykov’s man has taken your bags downstairs.”
“Thank you very much.” The lift arrived. The doors closed, and she slumped against its wall. “Oh God!”
“Bianca?” Adam’s voice this time; Holly Jo had connected them. “Are you on the way down?”
“Yes, I am. Finally! God, I need a drink.”
“We’ll have something waiting for you on the plane,” said Tony. “We’re on our way to pick you up at the casino entrance. See you in a minute.”
Adam was waiting for her when the doors opened. He smiled at her. “Ready?”
“Absolutely, yes. Let’s get out of here.” They headed side by side through the glittering lobby.
“You know something?” He was still smiling.
“What?” she asked.
“For an amateur, you make a pretty good spy.”
She laughed. “High praise indeed, coming from the man who’s James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Jack Bauer all rolled into one.”
“Just doing my job.” A man approached them: Lau. Without a word, Adam reached into his jacket and smoothly passed him the two casino plaques as he went by.
“Wait, that …,” Bianca spluttered as Lau headed for the cashiers’ cage. “That was two million dollars!”
“It’s US government money,” said Tony, amused. “Sorry, but we don’t get to keep it.”
They reached the main doors, emerging into the night. “There,” said Adam. The van had pulled up among the taxis. They slipped through the crowd and climbed inside.
Tony, Holly Jo, and Kyle were waiting for them in the back, the latter holding the UAV in his lap. “So,” said Tony, “I wouldn’t say things went smoothly, but we got what we were after.” A cloud crossed his face. “Didn’t we?”
“We did,” said Adam. “I know what Operation Lamplighter is.”
The beach was a grim slate gray, not sand, but gravel and shards of flint. The murky sea beyond was equally uninviting. It was the perfect setting for the objects at the center of the photograph: rusted cage-like steel frames containing squat cylinders painted a sickly institutional green, metal vanes protruding from them. Corrosion-scabbed warning signs were attached to the cages. Most were unreadable to the majority of the observers, written in the Cyrillic alphabet, but one symbol was instantly recognizable. A trefoil, black on yellow.
The international radiation warning.
“This is Operation Lamplighter,” said Morgan, addressing the Persona Project team members gathered in the Bullpen. “This is what Muqaddim al-Rais is willing to spend seven million dollars to obtain.”
“It’s a Russian radioisotope thermoelectric generator,” Tony explained. “Or Soviet, technically, since they date back to the Cold War. RTGs are basically nuclear batteries. NASA uses them in its deep-space probes and the Mars rover. The Soviets used them here on earth. To power lighthouses.”
He clicked a remote, and the image on the video wall changed to a map of Russia. Along the long coastline of the vast country were marked hundreds of dots, each containing a miniature version of the radi
ation trefoil. “They built them on the Arctic shipping lanes when they were free of ice,” Tony continued. “But because large parts of the country are so remote and inaccessible, operating conventional manned lighthouses would have been a logistical nightmare. So they came up with an alternative. Build unmanned lighthouses, plug in an RTG, and then just leave them. In theory, they should have run without trouble for decades.”
“Except, as we all know, theory and practice are two different things when it comes to our former communist friends,” said Morgan. “After the Soviet Union collapsed, there wasn’t the money, or even the inclination, to maintain them as they started to deteriorate. And then there was the human factor.” He nodded to Tony.
Tony switched to a new image. This was another photograph: a makeshift camp in a snowy wilderness, the line of the leaden sea on the horizon. The flattened perspective suggested that the picture had been taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. At the center was the core of an RTG, wrenched out of its protective cage and with several radiator vanes damaged or missing. Part of the case had been broken open, the crowbar and chisels used still lying beside it.
Also beside it were four bodies.
The Arctic cold had preserved them to an extent—enough to show how their faces had been burned and blistered, the skin a savage, molten red. From their agonized expressions and contorted positions, the men’s deaths had been far from painless.
“August 2004,” said Tony. “This is an island in the White Sea, northwest Russia. These men decided to break into one of the lighthouses and strip it of everything valuable. They got more than they bargained for. Either they didn’t know what the warning symbol meant, or they didn’t care. But when they busted open the core, they got a lethal dose of radiation, enough to kill them in minutes.”
“And this is not the only instance,” Morgan added. “There have been more than forty reported cases of raiding or vandalism of RTG-powered lighthouses in the past ten years—in one case, a stolen core was found at a bus stop in a town in Leningrad Oblast. Then there are the accidents. At least nine RTGs have been dropped from helicopters during transport or were aboard ships that sank, and have never been recovered.”
“And these are just the ones the Russians have admitted to. Our intelligence sources have found out that as many as six RTGs have … disappeared.” Tony brought up another map, the same as the first—except that half a dozen of the dots, scattered along the Russian coast, were now circled in red. “Teams went to check on the lighthouses, and found that their RTGs were gone. No trace, no dead looters, no signs of excessive radiation in the vicinity.”
“They’re out there, somewhere,” said Morgan ominously. “But our operation in Macao has given us a lead on one of them. Ruslan Zykov is acting as an intermediary between al-Rais and a Russian army officer, Colonel Kirill Makarovich Sevnik.”
A new picture came up, a computer-generated facial composite of a middle-aged man, every deep line in his thin, tired face seemingly etched with a chisel. “We don’t have a photo of Sevnik, but Adam used Zykov’s persona to produce this,” said Tony, with a brief sidelong glance at Adam on the group’s periphery. “It seems he’s had enough of serving in Siberia and wants to take early retirement somewhere tropical. The RTG is his retirement plan. Zykov will take a big cut, of course, but the deal will still give Sevnik five million dollars—and al-Rais a new terror weapon. He won’t be able to use it to build a bomb, but at our minimum estimate, the RTG contains enough radioactive strontium 90 to lethally poison two million people if it were released in a major city.”
A shiver of concern ran through the assembled group. “Adam learned from Zykov that the deal has been agreed,” he went on. “Zykov hasn’t met al-Rais in person yet, but will be doing so soon to make the exchange. NSA’s now monitoring all Zykov’s phone and Internet use to find out when and where it’s going to happen—a job we made a lot easier for them by giving them all his passwords, by the way.” The comment eased the tension slightly. “Once we know that … we can catch al-Rais.”
“Fuckin’ A!” said Kyle under his breath, though still loudly enough to draw a disapproving glare from Morgan.
“Will we be involved in the mission to capture him?” asked Holly Jo.
“That hasn’t been decided yet,” Morgan replied. “But considering the value of the information we got from Zykov, even if there were some, ah, hitches”—Bianca, standing near Tony, looked uncomfortably at her feet—“I’d say we will be involved, yes. I want everybody to prep for an operation on that assumption. Once Zykov makes his move, we might not have a lot of time to react. So, get to it. Oh, and one more thing,” he added as the meeting began to disperse. “Good work on the last mission.”
“Yes, good work, all of you,” added Kiddrick, stepping forward. “What the Persona Project has done is bring us one step closer to smashing al-Qaeda. Excellent work, everybody.”
“Boo-yah!” Kyle pumped a triumphant fist, the sympathy shared more subtly by others in the room. Everyone started to head back to their posts. Kiddrick was about to leave when Morgan took him aside, his expression stern.
Tony joined Bianca. “Martin really doesn’t like it when people take credit for something they had no part in,” he said. “Kiddrick will have a metaphorical boot print on his butt for a week.”
“Shame it’s not a real one,” she said.
“Yeah. So, how did you like being a field agent?”
“To be honest?” she said. “Not much.” She took a moment to reconsider. “All right, parts of it were almost enjoyable. The parts where I could pretend I was a glamorous international super-spy.”
“You weren’t pretending,” he pointed out.
That caught her off guard. “Wow. I suppose I wasn’t, was I?”
“No. And you know something else?”
“What?”
He grinned. “You did okay.”
“Well, except for the part where I completely cocked things up by injecting Zykov too soon.”
He pretended to wince. “Yeah, that had us worried! But everything worked out okay. We got the information we needed from Zykov, and he doesn’t even know we have it. He’ll lead us right to al-Rais.”
“So what now?”
“Like Martin said, we wait for Zykov to make a move—and the president to decide whether we stay involved. I think we probably will be—in fact, I hope we are. I want to see this through.”
“Well,” said Bianca, “can I stay in the van rather than needing Adam to rescue me?” She glanced in Adam’s direction, expecting to see him retreating into the Cube, but instead found him still standing there, watching her thoughtfully. Wondering what was on his mind, she looked back at Tony. “It seems a lot less stressful.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He checked his watch. “So, do you have any plans for this evening?”
“Nothing beyond lying around in my hotel room …”
Tired from what she had been through in Macao and the long flight back to the States, it took her a moment to pick up on his subtext. “Why, do you have a suggestion?” she asked, with a hint of mischief.
Tony, on the other hand, got her meaning immediately. “Well, it occurred to me that you haven’t had a proper chance to experience Washington yet. Maybe you’d like someone to show you around?”
“That might be nice,” she said, flattered by his attention. It was certainly preferable to Zykov’s. “Although I really am exhausted after the last couple of days, so—”
“Bianca?” Adam appeared beside her as though he had teleported there, taking her by surprise. “I wondered if you’d like to go for a drink with me this evening.”
She didn’t quite know how to react. Tony was equally startled by the proposition. “Er … what, after work?” she finally managed.
“Yes. I’d like to talk to you. Not about the mission,” he clarified, seeing that both Morgan and Kiddrick had now taken an interest. “About … other things. Something that came up the other night, wh
en you had that problem with your car.”
She was intrigued, but before she could answer, Kiddrick bustled over. “No, no, that’s absolutely out of the question,” he said, interposing himself physically between Adam and Bianca. “I can’t allow that. This is a US government intelligence operation, not speed dating.”
While Adam’s expression was normally inscrutable, it was now perfectly readable: disdain. “Is that an order?”
“Yes, yes it is,” Kiddrick replied huffily.
“Well, Nate,” said Adam, surprising everyone again with the unveiled sarcasm in his tone. “First: As the project’s scientific adviser, you don’t have the authority to give me orders, or anyone else for that matter. Second: What I do in my free time is my business, not yours.”
Kiddrick now resembled a beached fish, eyes wide and mouth uselessly gawping. “Martin!” he finally protested. “You tell him!”
Morgan was clearly still annoyed with the scientist. “Tell him what? He’s not a soldier; he’s not confined to barracks when he’s off duty.”
“But you know that—” He clammed up.
Bianca couldn’t resist. “Know what, Nate?”
Her use of the diminutive annoyed him even more. “Martin!”
Morgan gave Kiddrick a stern look over the top of his glasses. “I know what you’re saying, but I don’t see how that applies here. Or are you suggesting Adam can’t be trusted to have one drink without bellowing national secrets down the length of K Street?”
“No, but—alcohol could cause complications,” he blustered. “We don’t know.”
“It never caused me any trouble,” said Tony. His expression told Bianca that while he was somewhat annoyed by Adam’s unexpected usurpation of his social offer, he wasn’t going to block it. “And so long as it doesn’t affect security, I don’t see any problems.”
“Security!” exclaimed Kiddrick, seizing a lifeline. “That is an issue. As an intelligence operative, Adam is strictly prohibited from unauthorized meetings with foreign nationals. And she”—he pointed at Bianca—“is a foreign national.”