Ghost Force am-9 Read online

  "Tough," replied the President. "Russians love 'em. I've had 'em in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Anyone who can't eat 'em can have an extra shot of apple pie if they need it."

  "Very well, sir," replied the butler, suspecting, from vast experience, that Arnold Morgan himself had been somehow in the shadows advising Paul Bedford. The tone, the curtness, the sureness. Morgan, not Bedford.

  As it happened, there had been one short conversation when the Oval Office called Chevy Chase to check in on the menu content. "Give 'em American food," Arnold had advised. "Strictly American. Big A A A. The food this nation eats. We don't need to pretend sophistication to anyone, right?"

  "Right."

  And now, with the apple pie just arriving, the Strolling Strings, a well-known group of U.S. Army violinists, began to play at the rear section of the room. It was a short mini-concert, comprising all-American numbers, such as "Over There!"…"True Love" (from High Society)…a selection from Oklahoma…"Take Me Out to the Ball Game"…and concluding with "God Bless America."

  Finally the President rose and made a short speech extolling the virtues of the Russian President and the new and close trade links developing between the nations.

  The guest of honor then stood and echoed many of the Presidents' statements, before responding with a formal toast "to the United States of America."

  At this point the entire room stood up and proceeded toward the door that led out to the Blue Room, where coffee would be served, followed by entertainment in the East Room, and then dancing to the band of the United States Marines in the White House foyer.

  Everyone was on the move now, except for one guest. Mikhallo Masorin, the senior minister from the vastness of Siberia, which fills one-twelfth of the land mass of the entire earth, had suddenly pitched forward and landed flat on his face right in front of Arnold, Vitaly, Olga, and Kathy.

  In fact, the huge Russian Admiral had leaned forward to break his fall. But he was a fraction of a second too late. Mr. Masorin was down, twisted on his back now, his face puce in color, gasping for breath, both hands clutched to his throat, working his jaws, writhing in obvious fear and agony.

  Someone shouted, "Doctor! Right now!"

  Women gasped. Men came forward to see if they could help. Arnold Morgan noticed they were mostly Americans. He also considered Mr. Masorin was very nearly beyond help. He was desperately trying to breathe but could not do so.

  By now two or three people were shouting, "Heart attack! Come on, guys, let the doctor through…"

  Within a few minutes there were two doctors in attendance, but they could only bear witness to the death throes of the Siberian head honcho. One of them filled a syringe and unleashed a potent dose of something into Mr. Masorin's upper arm.

  But there was no saving him. Mikhallo was gone, in rapid time, dead before the Navy stretcher bearers could get to him. Dead, right there on the floor of the State Dining Room in front of his own President and that of the United States.

  President Bedford asked one of the doctors if the Siberian could be saved if they could get him to the Naval Hospital in Bethesda.

  But the answer was negative. "Nothing could have saved this man, sir. He was gone in under four minutes. Some heart attacks are like that. There's nothing anyone can do."

  Of course, only those few in the immediate vicinity realized that one of the Russian guests had actually died. More than 120 other dignitaries quickly became aware than someone had been taken ill, but were unaware of the fateful consequences of the heart attack.

  And the evening passed agreeably, although the White House Press Office did feel obliged, shortly before eleven p.m., to put out a general press release that the Chief Minister for the Urals Federal District, Mr. Mikhallo Masorin, had suffered a heart attack at the conclusion of a State Banquet, and was found to be dead on arrival at the United States Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.

  Admiral Morgan and Kathy made their farewells a little after midnight, and Arnold's driver picked them up at the main entrance and headed northwest to Chevy Chase.

  "Terrible about that poor Russian, wasn't it?" said Kathy. "He was at the next table to us, couldn't have been more than fifty years old. Must have been a very bad heart attack…"

  "Bullshit," replied Arnold, not looking up from an early edition of the Washington Post.

  "I'm sorry?" said Kathy, slightly perplexed.

  "Bullshit," confirmed the Admiral. "That was no heart attack. He was writhing around on the floor, opening and shutting his mouth like a goddamned goldfish."

  "I know he was, darling. But the doctor said it was a heart attack. I heard him."

  "What the hell does he know?"

  "Oh, I am so sorry. It entirely slipped my memory I was escorting the eminent cardiovascular surgeon and universal authority Arnold Morgan."

  Arnold looked up from his newspaper, grinning at his increasingly sassy wife. "Kathy," he said, formally, "whatever killed Masorin somehow shut down his lungs instantly. He could not draw breath. The guy suffocated, fighting for air, which you probably noticed was plentiful in the State Dining Room. But it was beyond his reach. Heart attacks don't do that."

  "Oh," said Kathy. "Well, what does?"

  "A bullet, correctly aimed. A combat knife, correctly delivered. Certain kinds of poison."

  "But there was no blood anywhere. And anyway, why should the CIA or the FBI or whatever want to get rid of an important guest at a White House banquet?"

  "I have no idea, my darling," said Arnold. "But I believe someone did. And I'll be mildly surprised if we don't find out before too long that Mikhallo Masorin was murdered last night. Right here in Washington, DC."

  CHAPTER ONE

  0830, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 2010

  Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe, assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, had both his feet and his antennae up. Lounging back in his swivel chair, shoes on the desk, he was staring at an item on the front page of the Washington Post.

  TOP RUSSIAN OFFICIAL DROPS DEAD IN WHITE HOUSE

  Siberian political chief suffers fatal heart attack

  "Poor bastard," muttered the American-born but Australian-sounding Intelligence officer. "That's a hell of a way to go — in the middle of the bloody State Dining Room, right in front of two Presidents. Still, by the look of this, he didn't have time to be embarrassed."

  He read on, skimming through the brief biography that always accompanies such a death. The forty-nine-year-old Mikhallo Masorin had been a tough, uncompromising Siberian boss, a man who stood up for his people and their shattered communist dream. Here was a man who had brought real hope to this 4,350-mile-long landmass of bleak and terrible beauty, snow fields, and seven time zones — one-third of all the land in the Northern Hemisphere.

  Mikhallo was adored in Siberia. He was a politician who stood up fiercely against Moscow, frequently reminding his Russian rulers that the oil upon which the entire economy was built was Siberian. And it was the natural property of the Siberian people. And he wanted more money for it, from Central Government. Not for himself, but for his people.

  The Urals Federal District is one of the three Siberian "kingdoms" that make up the huge area. The others are the Siberian Federal District, thousands and thousands of square miles between the Yenisei River and the Lena River, and then the Russian Far East. The Urals Federal District is easily the most important because that's where most of the oil fields are located.

  Mikhallo Masorin was a towering figure, standing stark upon those desolate plains of Western Siberia, the freezing place that the locals claim was "forgotten by the Creator," but beneath which lie the largest oil fields on earth.

  And now Mikhallo was gone, and Jimmy Ramshawe's hackles rose a lot higher than his shoes on the desk. "Streuth," he said quietly, taking a swig of his hot black coffee. "Wouldn't be surprised if a bloody lot of people were glad he died. None of 'em Siberian."

  At times like this, Lt. Commander Ramshawe's instin
cts of suspicion, mistrust, misgivings, and downright disbelief sprang to the fore. And a few harsh lessons issued to him by the Big Man fought their way to the front of his mind…whenever a major politician with a lot of enemies dies, check it out…never trust a goddamned Russian…and never believe anything is beyond them, because it's not…the KGB lives, trust me.

  "Wouldn't be the biggest shock in the world if the old bastard calls on this one," he said, refilling his coffee cup. And he was right about that.

  Three minutes later his private line rang. Jimmy always thought it betrayed an irritable, impatient tone to its modern bell when the Big Man was on the line. And he was right about that too.

  "Jimmy, you read the Washington Post yet? Front page, the dead Siberian?" Arnold Morgan's tone reflected that of the telephone.

  "Yessir."

  "Well, first of all, you can forget all about that heart attack crap."

  "Sir?"

  "And stop calling me ‘sir.' I'm retired."

  "Could've fooled me, sir."

  Arnold Morgan chuckled. For the past few years he had treated Jimmy Ramshawe almost like a son, not simply because the young Aussie-American was the best Intelligence officer he had ever met, but also because he both knew and liked his father, a former Australian Navy Admiral and currently a high-ranking airline official in New York.

  Jimmy was engaged to the surf goddess Jane Peacock, a student and the daughter of the Australian Ambassador to Washington, and Arnold was very fond of both families. But in Jimmy he had a soul mate, a much younger man, whose creed was suspicion, thoroughness, tireless determination to investigate, always prepared to play a hunch, and a total devotion to the United States, where Jimmy had been brought up.

  He might have been engaged to a goddess, but Jimmy Ramshawe believed Arnold Morgan was God. Several years ago Admiral Morgan himself had been Director of the National Security Agency, and ever since had continued to consider himself in overall command of the place.

  This suited Admiral George Morris, the current Director, extremely well, because there was no better advice available than that of Admiral Morgan. And the system suited everyone extremely well: the ex — Carrier Battle Group Commander George Morris, because Arnold's input made him look even smarter, and Jimmy because he trusted Arnold's instincts better than he trusted his own.

  When Admiral Morgan called the NSA, Fort Meade trembled. His growl echoed through Crypto City, as the Military Intelligence hub was called. And, essentially, that was the way Arnold liked it.

  "Jimmy, I was at the banquet, standing only about ten feet from the Siberian when he hit the deck. He went down like he'd been shot, which he plainly hadn't. But I watched him die, rolling back and forth, fighting for breath, just like his lungs had quit on him. Wasn't like any heart attack I ever saw…"

  "How many you seen?"

  "Shut up, Jimmy. You sound like Kathy. And listen…I want you very quietly to find out where the goddamned body is, where it's going, and whether there's going to be an autopsy."

  "Then what?"

  "Never mind ‘then what.' Just take step one, and call me back." Slam. Down phone.

  "Glad to notice the old bastard's mellowing," muttered Jimmy. "Still, Kathy says that's how he's talked to at least two Presidents. So I guess I can't complain."

  He picked up his other phone line and told the operator to connect him to Bill Fogarty down at FBI headquarters. Three minutes later the top Washington field agent was on the case, and twenty minutes after that Bill was back with news of the fate of the corpse of Mikhallo Masorin.

  "Jimmy, I walked into a goddamned hornet's nest. Seems the Russians want to take the body directly back to Moscow tomorrow afternoon. But the Navy is not having it. Masorin is officially in their care while the body's in the USA. He died on American soil, and they're insisting the formalities are carried out here, including, if necessary, an autopsy."

  "What do the Russians think about that?"

  "Not a whole hell of a lot," said Bill Fogarty. "They are saying Masorin was an official guest of the President in the United States, and they should be afforded the diplomatic courtesy of treating his death as if it happened in their own embassy, where he was staying. They want to take the body home as soon as possible."

  "Will they get their way?"

  "I don't think so. Under the law, a foreign national who dies in the USA is subject to the correct procedures of the United States. If something has happened to a high-ranking Russian official, it is within the rights of the United States to demand the most exhaustive inquiries into the cause of death until we are satisfied that every avenue has been explored. Even then, the body is released only on our say-so."

  "Sounds like the Russian President is asking for a major favor."

  "And some people here at HQ think they're gonna get it. But I still think the will of the U.S. Navy will prevail. And they have the body still at the hospital at Bethesda."

  "Bill, I'm gonna make one phone call. And I have a hunch it's going to end all speculation. After all, anyone who was in the White House at that time must be a suspect if there is a question of foul play. And that must include the President and all his agents and officials. That body's not going anywhere for a while, except the city morgue."

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe thanked Bill Fogarty and immediately called the Naval Hospital, leaving a message for the duty officer to call him right back at the NSA. That took two full minutes, and it established that the body of the number one political commissar in all of Siberia would be leaving for the morgue inside the hour. An autopsy would be carried out this afternoon. The Russians were, apparently, not pleased.

  Jimmy hit the buttons to Chevy Chase.

  "Morgan, speak."

  "Sir, the body of Mr. Masorin will be at the city morgue in a couple of hours. The Russians are trying to kick up a fuss and get permission to remove it back to Moscow. But that's obviously not going to happen."

  "Doesn't surprise me any, Jimmy. Tell the pathologist we're looking for poison of some kind. I'm damn sure it wasn't a heart attack."

  "You think one of our guys got rid of him?"

  "Well, that's what it looks like. But you never know with the Russians. A short, sharp murder in the White House gives 'em marvelous cover. Because they can feign outrage at this disgraceful breach in American security, while they make their getaway home, to that god-awful country of theirs."

  "You mean they might have killed their own man?"

  "It's happened before, both in and beyond the old Soviet reign. But let's not get excited. We'll wait 'til we hear the autopsy report. Then we'll take a very careful look…hey, well done, kid…but I gotta go. I'd better talk to the Chief."

  4:00 P.M., SAME DAY

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe's veteran black Jaguar pulled into the parking lot behind the city morgue, and headed straight into one of the VIP reserved spaces. This was an old ruse taught him long ago by Admiral Morgan…no one, ever, wants to tangle with a high-ranking officer from the NSA. Park wherever the hell you like. Anyone doesn't like it, tell 'em to call me.

  Inside the building, the area where the autopsy had been conducted was busy, despite the fact the FBI had denied the Russians entry. There were two U.S. Navy guards on the door, three White House agents outside in the corridor, and the Chief Medical Officer from Bethesda was in attendance. The coroner, Dr. Louis Merloni, was there, and the autopsy was carried out by the resident clinical pathologist, Dr. Larry Madeiros. No details of the examination had yet been released.

  Jimmy showed his NSA pass to the guards and was admitted immediately. Inside he said firmly, "Dr. Madeiros?"

  And the pathologist walked over and held out his hand.

  "Lt. Commander Ramshawe, NSA," said Jimmy. "I would like to talk to you for a few minutes in private."

  "No problem, sir."

  They walked to an adjoining office across the wide examination room, and almost before they had time to sit down, Jimmy Ramshawe said, "Okay, Doc, gimme the cause of death.
"

  "Mikhallo Masorin died of asphyxiation, sir."

  "You mean some bastard throttled him?"

  "No. I don't mean that. I mean he was given a substance, a poison of some type, which caused the transmission of nerve impulses from the brain to the muscles to be seriously impaired. In the end to the point of limpness. When this process hits the chest muscles, breathing stops."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "This diagnosis tallies with the accounts of the two doctors who attended Mr. Masorin. The victim was wide awake and aware of what was happening, until he lost consciousness."

  "You don't think he was poisoned by something in his food?"

  "No. I found a very fine puncture mark on the back of his neck, right side. I think we will find he was injected with the poison through that hole."

  "Do we know what the poison was yet?"

  "No idea. All the bodily fluids are still in the lab. That's blood cell counts, bone marrow, liver, kidneys, and all biochemical substances found in the body. It'll take a while, but I'm pretty sure we're going to find something very foreign deep inside that corpse."

  "The bloody corpse was very foreign," said Jimmy cheerfully. "That makes the poison amazingly foreign."

  "Unless it was American," replied the doctor, archly.

  "Well, yes. I suppose so," said Jimmy. "When will you know?"

  "You can call me on my cell at 10 o'clock. I'll let you know in confidence what we've found. Thereafter the report will be issued first thing tomorrow morning to the hospital and medical officer of record in Bethesda, and then to the FBI and the White House agents.

  10:00 P.M., SAME DAY

  AUSTRALIAN EMBASSY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Jimmy excused himself from the Ambassador's dinner table and walked into the next room, then punched in the numbers on his cell phone that would connect him to Dr. Larry Madeiros.

  "Hello, sir. It was curare, and quite a sizeable shot of it. A most deadly poison originating from South America."

  "Kew-rar-ee," said Jimmy. "What the hell is it?"