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Ivan Lazovic touched his magnetic ID to the scanner and entered the Russian Consulate’s communications center. The center handled all transmissions in and out of the Consulate, including coded military messages. Like its larger counterpart at the Russian Embassy in Canberra, the center had its own independent power supply and circuitry, plus a system that filtered the air and maintained a constant temperature of twenty-one degrees, Celsius. Its radio frequency shield was a transparent, metallic film over the door and walls, including the large, double-pane, argon-filled plate glass window that separated the room from the corridor.
Ivan nodded to one of the technicians, who strolled over to a slowly rotating reel of magnetic tape on a floor-to-ceiling recording unit. In one of the soundproof booths across the room was Katia, a stern woman in her early forties. Katia was the executive assistant to the vice-consul. Through the window, Ivan could see she was in deep conversation on one of the scrambler phones, her hair pulled back in a bun so severe it had to hurt.
Ivan sat down at a terminal. As one of the Consulate’s IT experts, he was able to enter the system anonymously through a back door, whereupon he reached the mainframe’s “elevator shaft,” which was a digital thoroughfare whereby one could gain access to any of the numerous “floors” of data, each of which was a labyrinth of storage rooms, directories, and individual files. Ivan knew that he had to appear as though he was going about his normal duties. If he were caught helping Talanov, his career would be over. Or worse, if Talanov was right.
Ivan took out his handkerchief and blotted perspiration from his brow. Calm down, he thought to himself. In one corner of the darkened screen was a blinking cursor. He adjusted his glasses, and after a deep breath, entered the name Tango Blue.
Like a key inserted into a lock, the password was recognized and channeled at the speed of light across a network of electronic neurons. The mainframe processed the command for four seconds before lighting up the screen with rows of alpha-numerically coded entries scrolling rapidly down the screen. The reflection in Ivan’s glasses was a pulsating strobe of blue, white, and green. Ivan watched the sequence in petrified shock, his mouth agape, his mesmerized eyes hardly blinking.
What in God’s name . . . ?
Talanov had been right. Tango Blue was a password into a hidden network. But there was no telling where the primary database was located. With the speed of today’s satellite connections, a telephone call from Australia to Moscow took but four seconds, meaning the primary database could be anywhere on Earth. For an entire minute the screen flashed the coded listings before suddenly going dark.
Ivan could not move. What had he found? Were these the numerical identities of Second Thirteen agents around the world? If so, how extensive was the conspiracy? Was Kharkov the one in charge? Were there others involved here in the Consulate? How high did this go? Realizing he had been nervously holding his breath, Ivan jumped when he noticed Katia observing him over the top of his cubicle.
“You do not look well, Ivan,” she said. “Are you all right?”
Ivan managed a smile. “Just a little tired from all the long hours.”
“You should take care of yourself or you will become ill.”
“I’m fine, really I am.”
“Perhaps you should see a doctor?”
“Seriously, I’m fine. But thanks.”
“As you wish.”
After Katia had disappeared down the corridor, Ivan entered a print request. A password was required and he entered Tango Blue.
Incorrect Entry.
“Damn,” Ivan mumbled to himself as he made a few notes before exiting the system. He then stood and looked at his watch. Talanov would be calling soon.
______________________________
Speaking on an airline telephone in First Class, Ambassador Kharkov was put through to the office of the vice-consul.
“Where is Ivan Lazovic?” he asked Katia, who had just returned to her desk. “He’s not answering his phone and I was told he’s in the building.”
“He’s using the mainframe, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Is the vice-consul in?”
“No, sir, and I do not expect him until tomorrow.”
“Then I need you to do me a favor.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Put me on hold and call Ivan’s secretary on one of the intercom lines. Ask her if Ivan’s had any contact from Aleksandr Talanov. If my recollection is correct, Ivan’s father, Dmitri, was one of Talanov’s mentors. Naturally, neither of you should say anything to Ivan about this.”
“Right away, Mr. Ambassador,” said Katia, placing Kharkov on hold. In less than a minute, she came back on the line. “There have been no calls from Talanov.”
“It’s possible he could have used an assumed name,” Kharkov replied, while a steak dinner was placed in front of him by the flight attendant. “Ask her if there have been any unusual calls, or multiple calls from the same individual.”
Again Kharkov was put on hold. Again, the wait was not long.
“The only instance she remembers was from Mr. Lazovic’s cousin, Yuri, who is visiting here in Australia.”
“Yuri Lazovic?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Run a complete history on Ivan’s family and find out if he has a cousin named Yuri. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing,” said Kharkov. “Call Fiona Zinyakin and tell her she has our full support. Talanov will pay for what he did.”
