worse.”
Smith set down his bag. “Yes, sir. But only for the navy.”
The age-old joke didn't get a grin out of Klein this time.
“I'm sorry to have dragged you out on a night like this. Something's come up. Walk with me.”
Smith looked around as he followed Klein to the coffee station. There were four Gulfstream jets in the hangar, but no maintenance personnel. Smith guessed that Klein had ordered them out to ensure privacy.
“They're fueling a bird with long-range tanks,” Klein said, glancing at his watch. “Should be ready in ten minutes.”
He handed Smith a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming black coffee, then looked at him carefully.
“Jon, this is an extraction. That's the reason for the rush.”
And the need for a mobile cipher.
Given his army background, Smith was familiar with the terms “extraction,” as Klein had used it. It meant getting someone or something out of a place or a situation as quickly and quietly as possible--- usually under duress and on a tight schedule.
But Smith also knew that there were specialists--- military and civilian--- who handled this kind of work.
When he said as much, Klein replied, “There are certain considerations in this case. I don't want to involve any other agencies--- at least not yet. Also, I know this individual--- and so do you.”
Smith started. “Excuse me, sir?”
“The man you are going to meet and bring out is Yuri Danko.”
“Danko...”
In his mind's eye Smith saw a bearlike man, a few years older than he, with a gentle moon face pockmarked by childhood acne. Yuri Danko, the son of a Dobnets coal miner, born with a defective leg, had gone on to become a full colonel in the Russian army's Medical Intelligence Division.
Smith couldn't shake his surprise. Smith knew that before signing the security agreement that had made him part of Covert-One, Klein had put his entire life under a microscope. That meant Klein was aware that Smith knew Danko. But never in all the briefings had Klein ever hinted that he had a relationship with the Russian.
“Is Danko part of---?”
“Covert-One? No. And you are not to mention the fact that you are. As far as Danko is concerned, I'm sending a friendly face to bring him out. That's all.”
Smith doubted that. There was always more to Klein than met the eye. But one thing he was sure of: Klein would never place an operative in harm's way by not telling him everything he needed to know.
“The last time Danko and I met,” Klein was saying, "we established a simple code that would be used only in an emergency scenario. The code was a menu. The price--- 8 euros--- indicates the date, April 8, two days from now. One, if we're working on European time.
“The specialty is seafood, which stands for the way Danko will be coming: by sea. The Bellini is a cocktail that was first made in Harry's Bar in Venice. The hours that the restaurant is closed, between two and four in the afternoon, is the time the contact is supposed to be at the rendezvous point.” Klein paused. “It's a simple but very effective code. Even if the encryption was compromised and the message intercepted, it would be impossible to make sense of the menu.”
“If Danko isn't due in for another twenty-four hours at least, why hit the panic button?” Smith asked.
“Because Danko hit it first,” Klein replied, his concern obvious. “He might get to Venice ahead of schedule; he might run late. If it's the former, I don't want him twisting in the wind.”
Smith nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Understood. Now, for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What made Danko jackrabbit?”
“Only he'll be able to tell us his reasons. And believe me, I want to know them. Danko is in a unique position. He would never have compromised it...”
Smith raised an eyebrow. “Unless?”
“Unless he was on the verge of being
Smith set down his bag. “Yes, sir. But only for the navy.”
The age-old joke didn't get a grin out of Klein this time.
“I'm sorry to have dragged you out on a night like this. Something's come up. Walk with me.”
Smith looked around as he followed Klein to the coffee station. There were four Gulfstream jets in the hangar, but no maintenance personnel. Smith guessed that Klein had ordered them out to ensure privacy.
“They're fueling a bird with long-range tanks,” Klein said, glancing at his watch. “Should be ready in ten minutes.”
He handed Smith a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming black coffee, then looked at him carefully.
“Jon, this is an extraction. That's the reason for the rush.”
And the need for a mobile cipher.
Given his army background, Smith was familiar with the terms “extraction,” as Klein had used it. It meant getting someone or something out of a place or a situation as quickly and quietly as possible--- usually under duress and on a tight schedule.
But Smith also knew that there were specialists--- military and civilian--- who handled this kind of work.
When he said as much, Klein replied, “There are certain considerations in this case. I don't want to involve any other agencies--- at least not yet. Also, I know this individual--- and so do you.”
Smith started. “Excuse me, sir?”
“The man you are going to meet and bring out is Yuri Danko.”
“Danko...”
In his mind's eye Smith saw a bearlike man, a few years older than he, with a gentle moon face pockmarked by childhood acne. Yuri Danko, the son of a Dobnets coal miner, born with a defective leg, had gone on to become a full colonel in the Russian army's Medical Intelligence Division.
Smith couldn't shake his surprise. Smith knew that before signing the security agreement that had made him part of Covert-One, Klein had put his entire life under a microscope. That meant Klein was aware that Smith knew Danko. But never in all the briefings had Klein ever hinted that he had a relationship with the Russian.
“Is Danko part of---?”
“Covert-One? No. And you are not to mention the fact that you are. As far as Danko is concerned, I'm sending a friendly face to bring him out. That's all.”
Smith doubted that. There was always more to Klein than met the eye. But one thing he was sure of: Klein would never place an operative in harm's way by not telling him everything he needed to know.
“The last time Danko and I met,” Klein was saying, "we established a simple code that would be used only in an emergency scenario. The code was a menu. The price--- 8 euros--- indicates the date, April 8, two days from now. One, if we're working on European time.
“The specialty is seafood, which stands for the way Danko will be coming: by sea. The Bellini is a cocktail that was first made in Harry's Bar in Venice. The hours that the restaurant is closed, between two and four in the afternoon, is the time the contact is supposed to be at the rendezvous point.” Klein paused. “It's a simple but very effective code. Even if the encryption was compromised and the message intercepted, it would be impossible to make sense of the menu.”
“If Danko isn't due in for another twenty-four hours at least, why hit the panic button?” Smith asked.
“Because Danko hit it first,” Klein replied, his concern obvious. “He might get to Venice ahead of schedule; he might run late. If it's the former, I don't want him twisting in the wind.”
Smith nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Understood. Now, for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What made Danko jackrabbit?”
“Only he'll be able to tell us his reasons. And believe me, I want to know them. Danko is in a unique position. He would never have compromised it...”
Smith raised an eyebrow. “Unless?”
“Unless he was on the verge of being
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