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Authors: Margaret Truman
Tags: Fiction
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Grail SA-7.”
“Those missiles were introduced, what, more than thirty years ago.”
“I thought you might appreciate things improving with age, Max.”
Pauling smiled. Barton had his cute moments. “The Russians are shooting down our commuter airlines with nearly obsolete missiles?” Pauling said.
“Somebody is, and if this initial evaluation holds up, they’re using weapons out of the old Soviet Union.”
Pauling lowered himself into a chair and slowly, pointedly exhaled. “Same with the other two accidents?” he asked Barton, who’d relaxed into parade rest, adopting what would pass as a starched slouch.
“Undetermined as yet.”
“What do you want me to do in Moscow?”
“Be there in case you’re needed.”
“Just ‘be there’?”
“On hand. First, pick up on some of your former contacts with Russian businessmen, more specifically, arms dealers.”
“What makes you think Russian arms dealers sold these particular missiles, Colonel? Thousands of vintage Grail missiles have been manufactured and sold to every dictator, so-called freedom fighter, and head case in the world. They could have come from anywhere.”
“And there’s usually a trail. With bits of paper. What’s the saying—‘Follow the money’?”
“What about domestic terrorist groups?” Pauling asked. “No one’s taken credit for the attack?”
“If the Bureau knows, it’s not sharing it with us—yet.”
“Who do I report to in Moscow?”
“Your old friend, Lerner.”
“At the embassy?”
“You’re back wearing your trade and commerce hat, which should make you happy. You’ve been grousing ever since you got here about sitting behind a desk. No one knows how this event is going to play out, Max. Whether the planes were brought down as part of a conspiracy by a domestic terrorist group, or this represents the actions of a foreign power, the ramifications are immense, especially if it involves the Russians. If those missiles came out of Russia, and their so-called government played any role, no matter how tangential, Congress and the administration will want blood.”
“The Russian government may be screwed up big-time, Colonel, but it’s not dumb enough to sanction the sale of missiles to terrorist organizations here.”
“Of course not, but those missiles had to find a way out of the country. A skid somewhere had to have been greased. First task: Find out who greased it.”
Pauling stood and went to the door, turned, and said, “You’re right, Colonel. I hate sitting behind a desk. I’ll send you a postcard. I’ll leave right away.”
“No, Max, check in with Tom Hoctor at the CIA first.”
“Hoctor? I thought I was reporting to Bill Lerner.”
“You are, but Hoctor’s running the show from here. I spoke with him an hour ago. He expects you at Langley at ten tomorrow morning. You’ll get a briefing from the missile guys, the arms trade, the rundown on what’s been going on in Russia recently.”
“There hasn’t been any good information coming out of Moscow since I left.”
“Your modesty is overwhelming, Pauling.”
“Anyone
else
I’ll be working for? I don’t like reporting to a committee.”
“Ten in the morning, at Langley. Thanks for coming in.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.”
8
That Afternoon
George Washington University
Jessica Mumford tried to get her students in post-Soviet Russian-U.S. relations back on track but was losing the battle. By the time they’d arrived at the three o’clock class in GW’s School of Diplomacy and International Relations, the only thing on their respective and collective minds were the day’s airline tragedies and the unconfirmed reports that missiles had been involved. Professor Mumford could have dictated an end to that discussion and insisted upon returning to the subject of the lecture— the Duma, Russia’s lower house, and the new structure of power within it—but she decided doing so would only result in the students
“Those missiles were introduced, what, more than thirty years ago.”
“I thought you might appreciate things improving with age, Max.”
Pauling smiled. Barton had his cute moments. “The Russians are shooting down our commuter airlines with nearly obsolete missiles?” Pauling said.
“Somebody is, and if this initial evaluation holds up, they’re using weapons out of the old Soviet Union.”
Pauling lowered himself into a chair and slowly, pointedly exhaled. “Same with the other two accidents?” he asked Barton, who’d relaxed into parade rest, adopting what would pass as a starched slouch.
“Undetermined as yet.”
“What do you want me to do in Moscow?”
“Be there in case you’re needed.”
“Just ‘be there’?”
“On hand. First, pick up on some of your former contacts with Russian businessmen, more specifically, arms dealers.”
“What makes you think Russian arms dealers sold these particular missiles, Colonel? Thousands of vintage Grail missiles have been manufactured and sold to every dictator, so-called freedom fighter, and head case in the world. They could have come from anywhere.”
“And there’s usually a trail. With bits of paper. What’s the saying—‘Follow the money’?”
“What about domestic terrorist groups?” Pauling asked. “No one’s taken credit for the attack?”
“If the Bureau knows, it’s not sharing it with us—yet.”
“Who do I report to in Moscow?”
“Your old friend, Lerner.”
“At the embassy?”
“You’re back wearing your trade and commerce hat, which should make you happy. You’ve been grousing ever since you got here about sitting behind a desk. No one knows how this event is going to play out, Max. Whether the planes were brought down as part of a conspiracy by a domestic terrorist group, or this represents the actions of a foreign power, the ramifications are immense, especially if it involves the Russians. If those missiles came out of Russia, and their so-called government played any role, no matter how tangential, Congress and the administration will want blood.”
“The Russian government may be screwed up big-time, Colonel, but it’s not dumb enough to sanction the sale of missiles to terrorist organizations here.”
“Of course not, but those missiles had to find a way out of the country. A skid somewhere had to have been greased. First task: Find out who greased it.”
Pauling stood and went to the door, turned, and said, “You’re right, Colonel. I hate sitting behind a desk. I’ll send you a postcard. I’ll leave right away.”
“No, Max, check in with Tom Hoctor at the CIA first.”
“Hoctor? I thought I was reporting to Bill Lerner.”
“You are, but Hoctor’s running the show from here. I spoke with him an hour ago. He expects you at Langley at ten tomorrow morning. You’ll get a briefing from the missile guys, the arms trade, the rundown on what’s been going on in Russia recently.”
“There hasn’t been any good information coming out of Moscow since I left.”
“Your modesty is overwhelming, Pauling.”
“Anyone
else
I’ll be working for? I don’t like reporting to a committee.”
“Ten in the morning, at Langley. Thanks for coming in.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.”
8
That Afternoon
George Washington University
Jessica Mumford tried to get her students in post-Soviet Russian-U.S. relations back on track but was losing the battle. By the time they’d arrived at the three o’clock class in GW’s School of Diplomacy and International Relations, the only thing on their respective and collective minds were the day’s airline tragedies and the unconfirmed reports that missiles had been involved. Professor Mumford could have dictated an end to that discussion and insisted upon returning to the subject of the lecture— the Duma, Russia’s lower house, and the new structure of power within it—but she decided doing so would only result in the students
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