The Miko - 02 (78 page)

In fact, orderliness to a degree a normal human being would find intolerable was Tony’s way of life. The clutter of his office was evidence enough of that. His idea of orderliness resided in his computers’ memory banks and in his own genius mind.

For Theerson was aptly nicknamed. No one else on this side of the Atlantic had any chance of deciphering the Soviet Alpha-three ciphers except the Boy Wonder. They were absolute ball-breakers which, not coincidentally, was Tony’s designation for the highest difficulty codes he was given to crack.

And like other geniuses of his ilk, Theerson was thrown by factors either unknown to him or inexplicable. His whole life was a crusade to make the unknowable knowable.
Logic rules
! said a brass plaque in his office.

Thus when he finally cracked the most recent of the Alpha-threes, when the English words swam upward onto his terminal screen from the belly of his own private farm of beasts, he assumed that a glitch had sprung up. He cleared the screen and called up the program from scratch.

And got precisely the same message.

That meant no glitch, but he rechecked his functions back down the line until he reached each and every input. The result was still the same: no glitch.

For a long time he sat staring at the message. It was like reading Martian. It made no sense, it had no logic. Just like, he thought, the lyrics to a rock and roll song.

“It’s bad,” he said after the melody had faded off his lips. “It’s very, very bad.” He was abruptly aware of how shaken he felt.

With that, he punched for a hard copy. When it clattered out he folded it up and wiped the screen of words. It was time, he thought, to see Minck.

When Theerson found him, Minck was contemplating the end phase of his vendetta against Viktor Protorov. In fact he was enormously pleased with himself. Sending Tanya Vladimova in against his archenemy was a step he had longed to take years ago but could never bring himself to do. The entrance of Nicholas Linnear into his life had changed all that.

In the innermost sanctum of his mind, Minck tended to think of himself much like the god Wotan that Richard Wagner had depicted in the
Ring
cycle—one-eyed and full of pride, and thus flawed; a loving god, and a vengeful one.

It would never have occurred to him to go after Protorov in any direct fashion. It would have been unthinkable, for instance, for him to board a plane for Japan himself, a Webley pistol in hand to hold to his enemy’s head and pull the trigger.

That was not at all because Minck was a coward; he was far from that. Battle did not faze him, hardship, both emotional and physical, had been a way of life for him for many years. Rather he saw this kind of personal revenge as being overshadowed by his duty to Red Section, to the people who worked for him and thus depended on his skills to guide them and keep them whole in a world that wished to blow them apart; duty to his country.

Much of this was indeed true; however, it was to Minck’s benefit not to dwell too deeply on the other—baser—motivation. He suspected now that he was perhaps closer to feeling like a god of Wotan’s stature than he had realized. The Valhalla syndrome afflicted many of his kind throughout the world, for it was Minck’s firm conviction that he possessed a power fully as great as the spear Wotan had fashioned out of the World Ash Tree, the spear by which he controlled all creatures, even the giant Fafnir, the spear by which he need only touch someone to end their life. The agents of Red Section were Minck’s spear; they were his power.

Tanya Vladimova was part of that, to be sure, but he loved her too much to be able to commit her to entering the den of a lion of Protorov’s cunning. Oddly, he loved her in just the way Wotan loved his daughter, Brunnhilde; she was closer to him than any other human being in the world. With her, he played out his plans, he spun his variegated web. He could not bear the thought that he might send her to her death at the hands of his enemy. He had held back, waiting as patiently as any Japanese for the right moment. Which was now. Already she must be landing in Tokyo, his weapon against the fall of night.

Abruptly, he looked up, aware that someone was standing in the open doorway to his office. Few had clearance onto this level of the building, fewer still were allowed to roam unescorted through the set.

“Yes, Tony,” he said, switching off his train of thought as he would a faucet, “do you have something for me?” A flicker in the Boy Wonder’s manner alerted Minck and he beckoned with his hand. “Come in, come in.” All his senses were questing now.

Theerson came across the bare wood floor and sat in a cane-backed chair in front of Minck’s desk. “I just cracked the latest Alpha-three.” The paper in his hand wafted back and forth, lifting and falling in his grasp.

“Are you going to show it to me or just use it as a fan?” Minck saw the Boy Wonder wince and his heart beat fast. What was wrong? “You’d better let me see that,” he said, holding out his hand.

Almost reluctantly, Theerson passed it over. He sat staring at his hands in his lap. He felt useless and impotent.

Minck’s gaze went from him down to the sheet of paper. This is what he read:

NEWEST PENETRATION VIA LINNEAR, NICHOLAS. AMATEUR STATUS. WARNING: HIGHLY LETHAL. OBJECTIVE: TENCHI; YOUR DEATH. SANCTIONED BY THIS OFFICE. ACCESSED FILE ON LINNEAR FOLLOWS. AM LINNEAR’S BACKUP. WILL ADVISE ON ARRIVAL TOKYO.

VOLK.

Volk
, Minck thought. A wolf in the fold. His mind had gone numb with the thought that Tanya Vladimova, his Tanya, was a Dig Dug. A Soviet plant. But how? Oh, Christ!

He slammed his fist down on the desk with such force that Tony Theerson jumped as if struck with a needle. “Get out of here,” Minck growled. “Get out of my sight!”

The Boy Wonder jumped up and retreated across the room. He had seen Minck in a fury twice before and had no desire to get in the way of it now.

At the door, Minck stopped him. “Hold it!”

Reluctantly, Theerson turned to face his master. “There’s something I don’t understand. Tanya knew that you were working on the Alpha-three codes; she knew you were the best at breaking them. Why in Christ’s name would she use them?”

The Boy Wonder shrugged. “For one thing, I don’t think she had a choice. The Alpha-threes are still by far the most secure ciphers the Soviets have.” He shuddered when he said the word
Soviets
; he still could not believe the truth. “She knew that my success was spotty. In fact, not too long ago we spoke about it. Now that I think about it, she even asked me how I was coming on the latest one.” He nodded. “That would have been this one here. I told her it was the worst yet. I didn’t think I’d crack it. Maybe twelve hours after that I got the first breakthrough; it came like a bolt of lightning. After that it was just a matter of a lot of donkey work, much of which the computers did.”

Minck contemplated the Boy Wonder. He had not even bothered to say something as fatuous as “There must be some mistake!” He knew Theerson too well; the man just did not make mistakes. He might not be able to break every Alpha-three but when he did he knew whereof he spoke.

“You did a fine job, Tony.” His voice was as bleak as a winter’s day.

Theerson nodded sadly. “I’m sorry. Really I am.”

Minck waved him mutely away. When he was again alone, he rose and, taking the hideous message with him, went into the now windowless room next door. Dhzerzinsky Square greeted him, as ugly as all Russian architecture was to him. Above, the dark, crepuscular sky. Across the square, Children’s World, where gift wrapped presents were presented. Back across the square, the black Zil entered the rat’s hole of Lubyanka. He had returned, running for his life through the
snyeg,
all sound muffled, all life stifled.

How much information had he unwittingly provided the Russians? How many steps ahead of him was Viktor Protorov? For the message was clear enough:
Volk
reported to him. Tanya and Protorov. How had he done it?
How?

Minck ground his teeth together. He was having trouble breathing. How the Wolf must have laughed at his idea to send her in to back up Linnear; and how she must have panicked on learning that he had sent Linnear in against her master.

He could see her face clearly at the moment she had learned what he had done, how he had so cleverly improvised. How he had misread her concern! What perspectives the truth lent reality.

He paced the room, Moscow all around him cloaked in winter’s dank and frosty grip. He did not want to see the changing of the seasons there; like his burning hatred, he wished only to see the city’s immutability.

What to do now? he wondered. How in God’s name could he salvage the operation? He had not heard from Linnear. Certainly he could send no other agent in after her; she would be instantly alerted; a call from him, an order home would have the same effect. She knew there was nothing on the boards—there could not be—as important as
Tenchi
and Protorov.

Like a parent at the moment of parting with his child, he felt utterly betrayed. Yet he could not bring himself to hate her. Nothing she could do to him could destroy his love.

There must be an answer, he thought furiously. I have pulled victory from the edge of defeat many times before. Why should this be any different. But he knew the answer to that. Never had he been faced with a disaster of this magnitude.

To have a Dig Dug within his own Red Sector was, for him, intolerable. It was to him other agencies came to ferret out just such dangers within their own hierarchies.

No answer came to him. Tanya, by her very position within Red Section, knew all of its personnel. Individuals from agencies allied with the Family would never get to her. And besides alerting her, there was another danger in going outside his own organization. He’d never live the infiltration down. No one must know of Tanya Vladimova’s heinous betrayal.

He was becoming frantic, his mind racing from one possibility to another, discarding each one almost as soon as he had thought of it. Why hadn’t Linnear used the access number?

His intercom buzzed. He ignored it but the sound would not go away. He wanted no interruptions now and reached out for the disconnect button. He hit the on switch instead and the floor receptionist’s voice rang in the room.

“Someone here to see you, sir.”

“I want to see no one, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. But the gentleman will not leave. He insists on—”

Oh, for Christ’s sake! Minck thought. “Does this ‘gentleman’ have a name?”

“Yes, sir. He says you know him. His name is Detective Lieutenant Lewis Croaker.”

His body was a mass of bruises where Protorov and Koten had beaten him. The first three fingers of his right hand were broken and badly swollen. The pain, however, was no problem; he knew how to control that.

He walked gingerly over to Protorov’s desk, turned on the paper shredder, and fed the coded sheets into it. Now the information existed only in his head.

He crawled back to where Protorov lay and continued his deep breathing. He stared down at his bloated fingers and knew there was no help for it; he could not leave them in this condition.

At the Tenshin Shoden Katori he had learned
koppo
, the sub-specialization of
ninjutsu
which dealt in the breaking of bones. In fact he had applied some of those techniques when he had gripped Protorov. Now he needed to reverse the process on himself.

Using only thumb and forefinger, he gripped one finger at a time and began to explore. Just as a safe’s tumblers will somehow convey to the trained ear when they are about to fall into place, so Nicholas reached a moment in each exploration when his body told him the spot had been found. More investigation revealed to him the precise angle he would need.

A Westerner would grit his teeth, tense his muscles against what his mind told him was coming, thus increasing the pain. Nicholas relaxed his body and mind, decreasing the pain. He floated in
getsumei no michi
as his body healed itself.

When his eyes returned from middle distance he saw that his fingers were set. Ripping off a length of cloth from Protorov’s dress blouse, he wound the coarse, heavy material around and around the line of breaks until it was thick enough to act as a temporary splint. He used his teeth to tie it off, mindful of not cutting off local circulation.

Then he took stock. It was not good. He was in a strictly shut-ended situation. He had been lucky up until now that no one had entered to see what Protorov was up to. That could not last much longer, he knew. He was in the center of a veritable fortress, in a room with one doorway, thick as a bank’s vault. He glanced upward. This room, by its very isolated nature, had an oversized ventilation system. It would have been entirely possible for him to get up to one of the vent ports high up near the room’s ceiling and exit that way had it not been for his broken fingers and the residue of the drug.

He needed help but he had no allies for many miles around. Therefore he would have to create one.

Using
ichi
, he gave as accurate an approximation of Viktor Protorov’s voice as he could summon up, calling out for Russilov. When the lieutenant appeared through the doorway, he heaved Protorov’s limp form at him face first.

Russilov’s reaction was predictable. The first autonomic reaction of throwing his hands up to protect the body was quickly followed by a stunned cry as he recognized the identity of the corpse.

The combination was enough to paralyze him for the amount of time Nicholas needed to rush him and make him prisoner. He touched Russilov’s chest and the Russian felt his heart stutter. He sagged a bit, feeling abruptly faint and unable to breathe. He might just as well have ingested a toxic substance. All color dropped out of his face, and cold sweat appeared on his upper lip and at his hairline.

Still his head whipped around to get another look. “Impossible!” he cried. “You’re dead!”

“Then we have just proved that there is life beyond the grave!” Nicholas hissed in his ear.

There was blood on Russilov and, fastidiously, stupidly, he tried to brush it off.