LANGLEY, VIRGINIA; CIA HEADQUARTERS
Thursday, January 24; 9:15 P.M.
Harley Shue’s eyes burned with fatigue, and he had turned off all the lights in the office except for a small, recessed spotlight in the ceiling above his desk. Now he sat quietly, half in and half out of the night, staring into the darkness beyond the sharply circumscribed circle of light.
He had sat, virtually unmoving, in the same position for close to an hour and a half, but his mind had been far from idle. All of the physical preparations he would be responsible for in the event of an affirmative decision by the President had been completed. Now he was thinking about the things that would have to be done in the days, weeks, months, and years following an invasion of San Sierra.
If there was to be an invasion.
There was a soft knock at the door. Harley Shue pushed a button under his desk that activated the lighting in the rest of the room. “Come in, sir,” he said, getting to his feet.
The door opened and Geoffrey M. Whistle strode into the room. His normally handsome face was now gaunt with fatigue and tension, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. “It’s a go, Harley. We have a directive. If Salva’s assassinated, we move into San Sierra. State files on their talks with Salva are a foot thick. That’s our propaganda weapon. As you suggested, our rationale for world consumption will be that Salva was most certainly killed by a Russian agent as a prelude to a full-scale Soviet invasion: we’ll be forced to act. Goddamn.”
“Yes, sir,” Shue said mildly. “Goddamn.” He had purposely kept himself emotionally distanced during the long, draining hours of waiting and preparation. Now he realized that he had expected this decision all along; it was too right, too logical, too necessary to disregard. He did not resume his seat, nor did he suggest that his superior sit. He sensed that that CIA Director preferred to stand, as he did.
“Where are we, Harley?”
“We’re in place, Geoffrey. On your order, COMSAT will begin feeding a worldwide update on Russian troop positions and movements on the half hour to wherever the President wants it. Beginning at six-thirty tomorrow evening there’ll be a constant readout. As far as the assassination site is concerned, I consider it unsound to rely solely on ABC’s broadcast signal, so I’ve made arrangements for a specially outfitted U-2 to be in the air over San Sierra all during the boxing matches. The plane will be equipped with two high-resolution television cameras and other sensory equipment.”
“Very good, Harley. Is everything on the Orange list checked off?”
“Yes, sir. In addition to the U-2, I’ve added seventeen other items that I thought pertinent to this particular operation.”
“I’ll look at them later.”
Shue drew himself up. “The agency is ready to go, sir.”
“You have a gunner?”
“Yes. He’ll be threaded into San Sierra by way of the unions. He’ll be there as a gaffer with the standby electrical crew that leaves for Angeles Blanca tomorrow morning. He’ll be very close to the action.”
“Good man?”
“I can’t vouch for him personally, Geoffrey, but we’ve used gunners from this source before and they’ve always proved reliable. He has very specific instructions and, of course, he’s deep-insulated. He has a clear description of each of his targets, and he thinks he’s carrying out a Mafia contract. Indeed, he is carrying out a Mafia contract.”
Whistle ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “It’s too bad Alexandra Finway has to be taken out with Peters. Christ, she’s a civilian who wouldn’t even be there if she didn’t think she’d been tasked by us. Harley, is there any way we can let her out of the net?”
“Yes. I can change the gunner’s orders any time right up until the moment he leaves in the morning; after that there would be considerable security risks in trying to contact him.”
“What do you think, Harley? Can we let her go?”
“The problem is that Alexandra Finway has information that could prove very damaging to our national security. She knows that the CIA was aware weeks ago of a plot to kill Salva. At the moment, there’s no reason to suspect that she will not remain reliable; she could carry what she knows with her to the grave. But there is no guarantee. As you know, I believe our action is crucial to the interests of the United States and our allies. We’re looking into the next century. As long as Alexandra Finway lives, she’ll possess information that could undo much of what we’re trying to accomplish. Our propaganda offensive and the deniability of certain facts will continue to be of critical importance for years. As much as I hate recommending this action, I simply do not believe that the nation can afford to be hostage to Alexandra Finway’s continuing mental stability or political reliability.”
Whistle grimaced as though he had been hit. “Well, Harley, we get paid for making decisions like this, don’t we?”
“I believe so, sir, for making sure that other people don’t have to make such decisions.”
“Shit! You’re right, Harley. Alexandra Finway’s a loose cannon we can’t afford to have rolling around. She has to go.”
“By the way, sir,” Harley Shue said evenly. “The gunner has instructions to take out one other civilian. John Finway. It’s been confirmed that he’s in San Sierra with his wife and Peters.”
Whistle blinked rapidly, frowned. “John Finway?! What the hell is he doing there?!”
“I have no idea, sir. In fact, by now he may be on his way back to New York. The same source who reported Agent Beeler’s death says that Finway is leaving the tour.”
“John Finway,” Whistle said absently as he began to pace. “Why? What the hell has been going on over there?!”
“We have no way of determining that, sir. Finway’s a wild card. For obvious reasons, he’s more dangerous to our mission than his wife. Perhaps infinitely so. He may know everything his wife knows—which could explain why he’s in such a hurry to come home. Given half a chance, Finway will try to destroy the agency.”
Whistle abruptly stopped pacing. “Why hasn’t he told the Sierrans?”
“I don’t know, sir. He may be trying to protect his wife, but that’s a guess.”
“He definitely has to be taken out.”
“If he remains in San Sierra, he’s on the gunner’s list. I have two men at Kennedy Airport in case he comes home.”
“Who’s at the airport? Gunners or our men?”
“Our men. I need you to give me some direction on that end.”
“Are they good?”
“The best, Geoffrey. Totally reliable.”
“Jesus,” Whistle said, angrily shaking his head. “We can’t have Finway walking around over here; he’s sure to go straight to the Washington Post or the New York Times. Tell your men to pack him safely away, with instructions to take him out only on your order.”
“Yes, sir. Those were the preliminary instructions I gave them, subject to your approval, of course.”
Whistle stared intently at the other man, respect and admiration clearly reflected in his eyes. “Thank God you’re on our side, Harley.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Geoffrey. The same could be said for you. But the fact of the matter is that the KGB also has excellent personnel. What happens tomorrow is only a beginning. We’re in for a very long struggle.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey Whistle said distantly.
“I’ve had rooms prepared for all key agency personnel, sir. The coded list is in your safe. I’m going to my room to rest now. May I suggest that you do the same? You look very tired.”
Whistle nodded absently. He seemed to stagger slightly as he turned and walked to the door. He paused, said, “Harley, do you think there’s any way the President, the Joint Chiefs, or the NSC could know about the dragons?”
“I’d say it’s impossible, sir.”
“Strange,” Whistle said, his voice muffled by his close proximity to the door. “The Joint Chiefs have code-named the invasion of San Sierra ‘Operation Saint George.’”