Shadow Catcher Read online

  Tarpin led them through the main collection room, past infinite rows of bookshelves, to a simple wooden door in the rear wall. Despite its humble appearance, the CIA man had to place his finger against a pad and then enter a lengthy numeric code in order to gain entrance.

  “After the colonel’s phone call, I spoke to our department heads, trying to find out if we really had lost one of our agents in China.” Tarpin closed the door and sat down at a computer terminal. “They all denied knowledge of such an event.”

  “That doesn’t really mean anything,” said Drake.

  Tarpin smiled. “You’re absolutely right, but this time I believe them.” The prompt on the computer screen showed that Tarpin had already been working there. After he entered his password, the standard Windows screen appeared, displaying a line of active programs across the toolbar.

  “Faced with the usual interdepartmental stonewall treatment, I had to get creative. Walker gave me two terms: Jade Zero One and Red Dragon.” He opened one of the active windows and typed “Red Dragon” into the search box. An hourglass began rotating on the screen. “The most obvious place to start was a search for any operation named Red Dragon.” The computer beeped, and Tarpin rotated the flat screen so that Drake and Nick could see it better. The red text below the search prompt read, “No archived operations match your request.”

  “So Red Dragon never existed,” said Nick.

  “Not according to our archives.”

  “Again, that doesn’t mean anything,” said Drake.

  “Hey, I’m on your side. But this is the gold mine, the conspiracy theorist’s mother lode.” Tarpin gestured at the computer screen. “The records from every black operation in Agency history are on this network. If Red Dragon isn’t listed here, then either it never existed or someone with clout equal to the deputy director must have buried it.”

  Drake started to argue, but Tarpin held up a finger to stop him. “There is some good news, though.” He minimized the first window and opened another. This one displayed a scanned image of an old document, printed on a dot-matrix printer. “The other term Dick gave me was Jade Zero One. That has to be a callsign, probably aerial. It dawned on me that the Agency never recycles a flight callsign once it’s been compromised, which means they have to keep track of all of them, especially the burned ones. Look.”

  Nick leaned in closer to inspect the old document. The header read AERIAL CALLSIGNS, ASIAN THEATER OF OPERATIONS: 1985–1990.

  Tarpin placed his finger on the screen halfway down the page. The callsign he indicated was, in fact, Jade, but Nick had trouble seeing it because a red stamp covered up the line. The block text read, “COMPROMISED, JAN 1988.”

  Tarpin nodded as Nick straightened up. “Obviously, something bad happened to an aircraft using the Jade callsign.”

  “Great,” said Drake, “but that still doesn’t tell us much.

  Tarpin shrugged. “At least it’s a start. I’ve been at this all morning. I can’t tell you how many pages of callsigns I had to root through to find this one. I didn’t have a reference date to start with.”

  “No,” said Nick, “but we have one now.” He tapped the image of the red stamp. “January 1988.”

  “But I showed you, we don’t have any record of Operation Red Dragon. The date won’t change our result,” argued Tarpin.

  “Yeah, but our job isn’t really to find the operation, is it? We’re looking for a person, one who was probably lost during a flight and presumed dead.” Nick started heading for the door. “We’re done here. Log off and follow me.”

  Nick walked briskly out of the library and turned down the staircase, headed for the lobby where they’d entered.

  “Slow down,” puffed Tarpin, well behind Nick and Drake as they jogged down the steps. “I’m not as fit as I was when I was your age, running ops all over the globe.”

  At the base of the stairs, Nick turned into a wide alcove and stopped. The CIA kept the world’s darkest secrets locked away deep within the bowels of its compound, and yet the answer he needed might be waiting right here, a few feet from the visitors’ desk.

  One hundred two black stars adorned an austere wall of pearl white marble. Below the stars, a small shelf jutted out, holding a steel case covered by an inch of bulletproof glass. A thin book lay inside, open to its only two pages.

  “Of course,” said Tarpin, breathing heavily as he came up beside Nick, “the Book of Honor.”

  Nick nodded. “The list of agents who died in heroic action or under hostile attack.”

  Drake strode up to the wall and bent over the case. “The name we want would be from either 1987 or 1988. And 1987 has only one name, Richard Krobock.”

  Tarpin shook his head. “Krobock isn’t our man. Everyone here knows that story. He died in El Salvador in a guerilla attack. What about ’88?”

  Drake sighed. “Another dead end. There’s one star, but no name.”

  “That’s our guy,” said Nick. “It makes sense. There wouldn’t be a name, not if the circumstances surrounding the death are still classified.”

  “Great. So why did you bring us here?”

  “For confirmation,” Nick replied. He turned to Tarpin. “Now we need to see the real book.”

  Tarpin raised both hands in protest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Nick held his ground. He just stared at the CIA man, waiting, until finally Tarpin’s shoulders dropped. “Fine,” he said with exasperation. He turned back to the stairwell, but this time he started down. “Follow me.”

  Nick and Drake followed Tarpin down several flights of stairs. “Now we’re talking,” said Drake, rubbing his hands together as they reached the bare concrete of the basement level.

  “Keep your voice down,” cautioned Tarpin. He led them down a dark hallway and stopped in front of a heavy vault door. “You guys don’t have clearance,” he complained. “I could lose my job for this. I could lose my pension.”

  Nick pursed his lips. “An American patriot might be hiding somewhere in southern China, waiting for rescue. We are already more than thirty-six hours behind. Every moment we waste is another chance for the Chinese to capture him again. You know Walker can get us the clearance. Take care of the paperwork later.”

  “If the Triple Seven Chase mounts a rescue, I want in,” said Tarpin.

  “Just open the door.”

  Tarpin finally nodded and entered his code. Weak fluorescent lights flickered on as he swung the door open, bathing the small room in pale green light. “This is the real memorial,” he said as he led them inside.

  One hundred two stars made of dark green stone were set into the marble wall at the back of the room. A short, jade pillar stood beneath them, supporting a closed book, as thick as a family Bible, encased in a glass box.

  “Can you open that box?” asked Nick.

  “Not without a preservation specialist,” Tarpin replied. “But we don’t have to open it.” He stepped over to the right-hand wall and typed a code into a keyboard that stood out at waist level. The light green wall lit up like a computer screen. Several rows of folders appeared, each one labeled with a month and a year.

  “This is the digitized version of the actual Book of Honor,” explained Tarpin, stepping aside. “These files contain images of the pages. They also contain other documents relating to the deceased.”

  Tarpin moved aside, allowing Nick to access the keyboard. Nick opened the folder labeled JANUARY 1988. Inside, there was only one file. He read the name out loud, “David Novak.”

  “This is it,” said Drake.

  “Good,” replied Tarpin. He checked his watch. “Listen, I have to get to a meeting. Can I trust you two to log me out and close the vault door?”

  Nick nodded. “We can do that. I’ll put a good word in for you with Walker. You really came through for us.”

  As Tarpin slipped out,
Nick opened the file. Handwritten lines filled the page from the book:

  David Novak died on New Year’s Day 1988 while flying a low-level reconnaissance mission over southern China. Progressive Blackbird imagery taken in concert with Novak’s mission showed a surface-to-air missile launch followed by burning wreckage, presumed to be Novak’s F-16. Flying as Jade 01, Novak broke from his planned mission for unknown reasons. Communications intercepts from a P-3 Orion also indicate that he broke radio silence. This combination may have allowed Chinese air defenses to gain a fix on his position and confirm their radar track, leading to the shoot-down. Novak served with distinction as part of Operation Distant Sage, flying photoreconnaissance missions over China, as well as Operation Remote Icon, flying over Russia. He made the ultimate sacrifice in service to his country. He will not be forgotten.

  “Well, now we have a name and an operation,” said Drake, “but we still don’t know what Red Dragon is.”

  Nick scrolled down until he found a document labeled DISTANT SAGE POSTACTION REPORT. He opened the file and ran a search for “Red Dragon.” The cursor immediately jumped to the middle of the document. He waved at Drake and pointed at the screen. “Bingo.”

  The report listed Red Dragon as an authentication code, a phrase used by covert operatives when forced to use an open frequency. “So Novak survived the crash,” said Drake.

  “It sure looks that way. Even if the Chinese recovered his body from the wreckage, they wouldn’t have gotten that code. According to this, McBride’s Jade Zero One is the real deal.” Nick continued to search through the documents as Drake wandered over to look at the book beneath the glass.

  “Uh-oh. There’s more,” said Nick presently, looking over at Drake with a furrowed brow.

  “That look always means trouble,” said Drake. “What did you find?”

  “Both Remote Icon and Distant Sage were shut down because of possible leaks. The subsequent investigations were inconclusive.”

  “Two moles?”

  Nick shook his head. “My guess is one, working both ops.” He turned back to the report and quickly scanned to the bottom of the page. “And, according to this, he was never found.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Novak sat huddled on a cot, leaning against the rough stone at the back of a small cave. A short line of supply crates lay along the eastern wall, one of them broken open, its contents strewn about the rocky floor. He wondered if the thirty-year-old MRE that he’d devoured might kill him. It didn’t matter. The ancient chicken à la king tasted divine.

  He glanced at the radio set on the cave’s rusty table. Nothing. He made his radio call at the bottom of every hour, based on the radio’s clock, hoping that the Agency was somehow still listening.

  That the radio and its digital clock still functioned was no surprise. Long ago, the CIA had placed a small collection of nuclear-powered equipment—telescopes, radios, cameras, and so forth—in remote locations around the world. This one found its way into southern China in the late sixties. As long as the lead case remained intact, the radio operator suffered no threat of radiation. At least, that’s what the Agency claimed. The fifty years that the radio sat in this natural safe house put hardly a dent in the half-life of its plutonium battery.

  A group of agents working a long-term ground mission discovered the cave in 1967. Less than ten meters deep, with a low, narrow crawl space for an entrance, it seemed the perfect location for a weapons cache and safe house. Later missions restocked it with supplies and the atomic radio. They called it the Palace.

  Distant Sage reopened the Palace for business in 1987. Downed pilots from Distant Sage were supposed to make their way to the cave, radio for help, and expect a high-risk Fulton Skyhook pickup. To Novak’s knowledge, the Chinese had never discovered the cache.

  He kept his eyes on the entrance, methodically cleaning a Colt .45 pistol that he had found in the supplies. He shivered. Despite the warm temperature of the summer rain forest outside, his body felt cold. He finished cleaning the weapon, loaded a clip, and set it down on the cot. Then he grabbed a musty blanket from the open crate and wrapped himself. He found the rough feel of the old sheep’s wool comforting. His eyes began to close.

  Something rustled through the undergrowth outside. Novak picked up the Colt and forced his eyes open. He pointed the pistol at the low entrance, but the sound did not return. Still, he kept the weapon up and leveled, trying to fight his exhaustion; to sleep now could mean missing a signal from the rescue crew or getting caught by the Chinese.

  Steadily his grip on the gun loosened, his eyelids began to droop. Finally, the Colt fell from his hand.

  Novak woke with a start, wildly looking left and right, but his vision was still blurry. Something burned dull yellow to his left. He rubbed his eyes. A fire materialized. Not an uncontrolled fire, but a low, soft fire, glowing in a stone hearth. A gentle hand caressed his chin.

  “It’s all right, darling. You were dreaming.”

  Novak allowed the soft touch and sweet voice to soothe him.

  Anja.

  “You drifted off again,” she said, reaching across him to pull the wool blanket tightly around them both. “I know it’s not safe to wake someone who is sleeping so deeply, but it’s late. If you don’t get back to the barracks, Mr. Wright will send you back to America.”

  They huddled together on a cushioned love seat in Anja’s small apartment. Novak studied her beautiful face in the dim firelight, the pout of her lips, the subtle flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Now that she held his gaze, he did not need to look away to know where he was.

  Except for the toilet, Anja’s entire apartment was just one room. It was dark. She always kept it that way when he visited. She said it made the fire more romantic, but Novak knew that she wanted to mask the small, dilapidated room, as if he might judge her for her poverty.

  “I can’t leave yet,” said Novak, taking her hand in both of his. “I came tonight to tell you something, something important.”

  A tiny tremor passed through Anja’s body. Novak felt it in her slender fingers. “I’m listening,” she said nervously.

  “Including my crash,” Novak began, “we’ve lost four aircraft in three months to Russian missiles. Two of the flight crews did not return. That’s four men presumed dead.”

  Anja withdrew her hand. Her expectant expression changed to cautious curiosity, and not a little disappointment. “I know that,” she said flatly. “You did not need to come to my apartment to remind me of our losses.”

  Novak sensed her frustration. He nodded. “Yes, I know, but there’s more. The Company believes that these shoot-downs are not just bad luck or bad intelligence. They suspect that one of the Polish nationals is a Russian agent, but they don’t know who.”

  “A mole?” Anja pushed herself out of the chair, straightened her jeans, and walked over to the hearth. Her waist-length silk blouse stretched up to reveal the alabaster skin at the small of her back as she leaned forward, resting a hand on the mantel. She tapped an index finger irritably on a brightly colored box that she kept there. “One of the Polish Pawns has turned on the Agency,” she said, still facing the wall. “And the supervisor in charge sent you here to find out if I’m protecting them?” She looked back at him. A glint of red firelight betrayed a tear on her cheek. “You came here tonight to ask me if I’m a traitor?”

  Novak leapt up, letting the wool blanket fall into the chair. “No!” he exclaimed. He reached for her, but she recoiled and turned away again. His arms dropped to his sides. “Wright doesn’t know that I’m here. He doesn’t believe in any of this, but the Agency can’t afford a mole hunt to prove him wrong. Our situation is tenuous at best.

  “If we spook the double agent, they might bring a brigade of SB down on the base,” he explained, referring to the Słuzba Bezpieczenstwa, the Polish secret police, the same group that had taken Anja’s parents away when she was just
a child. “A mole hunt is out. The Agency is throwing in the towel. We’re pulling out in less than a week.”

  “We’re shutting down?” Anja stared down into the dying fire.

  Novak sighed. “Only the Americans are supposed to know. The Company doesn’t want to tip off the mole. Since we don’t know who to trust, all of the Polish nationals will be left behind, abandoned.”

  Anja buried her head in her arms, leaning them on the mantel. Her delicate shoulders trembled. “You’re leaving me,” she sobbed.

  Novak risked a touch, placing his hands on her silky arms. “I don’t want to leave you, but the Agency will only evacuate American citizens.” When he emphasized the word, he felt Anja’s body tense. Finally, she was beginning to understand. “If you became a citizen, you could come with me.” She turned, falling into his arms. Her sobs became gentle shudders as she pressed her cheek against his chest.

  Novak slowly dropped to one knee, letting his fingers slide from her shoulders to her hands before bringing them together for a gentle kiss. He looked up and found her angelic eyes once more filled with hope. “Anja Zajac, will you marry me?”

  Anja beamed. She grasped his hands tightly and pulled Novak to his feet. Before he fully had his balance, she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around him. Novak stumbled backward and fell into the love seat, but Anja took no notice. She kissed him passionately. He released her long enough to wrap the wool blanket around them both, and then he leaned back in the chair, savoring the excitement of her kiss, the warmth of her embrace. As he shifted his weight, his shoulder knocked a picture off the end table. He let it fall.

  The sound of the Colt .45 clattering against the rock floor startled Novak to consciousness. His head jerked up from his chest. Sweat soaked his tattered prison uniform beneath the heavy wool blanket. After a few moments, he shook off the blanket and leaned down to pick up the .45. He held it flat in his hand for a long while, caressing the edge of the trigger guard with one finger. Then he slowly walked over to the radio table, set down the gun, and picked up the microphone.