Ghost Force by Patrick Robinson Page B

operation and find out how many Russian aircraft are on the case…”
    “Jimmy, I think that might prove a waste of time.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Because, if there is something sinister, there will be no aircraft and no air crash.”
    “Gimme that one more time?”
    “Jimmy, let us assume our general deductions are on the right lines. Someone near or at the top of the Russian food chain wanted those Siberian execs eliminated. Firstly, they would have found a far more efficient, quiet way of achieving that objective.
    “Secondly, they would not have bothered to sabotage a damned expensive military aircraft, and effectively murder two or three Russian Air Force officers, in a totally unnecessary way. It’s not the way they operate. It’s completely out of character.
    “No, young Jimmy. This aircraft crap is a cover-up. And quite a noisy one. They’ll be aware that within a few days there’ll be people all over the place trying to solve what the stupid newspapers will call the mystery of the missing Russian jet …and they’ll have to offer a measure of cooperation.
    “But, Jimmy, they won’t care who wants to investigate. Becauseno one will ever find anything. There’s nothing to find. I’m sorry to disillusion you…but the Air Force jet is a decoy. Doesn’t exist. But neither, I am afraid, not now, do all those oil chiefs.”
    “Jesus. This is like listening to Sherlock Holmes. You’re more bloody devious than the Russians…”
    “That, Lt. Commander Ramshawe, is what I believe your government pays me to be.”
    Jimmy chuckled. “Well…former genius of the Black Sea wrestlers…what the hell do we do now?”
    “You sit tight. I’m going to get some field agents on the case, simply to find out who died in Siberia. I’m looking for names. The whole list of who’s suddenly gone missing. Then we can sit down and try to join up the pieces. Jimmy, this may have much more to do with your area of operations than you know. But for the moment, sit tight.”
    “Sit tight? I’m not sitting bloody tight. I’m phoning the Big Man, right after I contact Admiral Morris.”
    He said good-bye to the spymaster from Langley and punched in an e-mail message for Admiral Morris, his boss, to contact him from the West Coast, where he was attending a conference with the FBI in San Diego. He informed the Admiral that something had come up re the White House murder, and he was proposing to have a chat with Arnold Morgan.
    Jimmy then called Admiral Morgan and quickly realized he had done so at a bad time.
    “Christ, Ramshawe. It’s nearly four bells, I never take phone calls on the last dog-watch. I’m trying to get ready for the evening.”
    “Sorry, sir. But something’s come up you’ll want to know about…”
    “How the hell do you know what I want to know about…?”
    “Well, sir, I think…”
    “Think, think, think. The whole damned world’s thinking, mostly crap. I’m not interested in what you think. Call me with facts, fine. Not goddamned thoughts, hear me?”
    “These are bloody facts, Admiral, otherwise I wouldn’t have called…”
    “That’s entirely different,” the Admiral harrumphed. “But I’m still busy. Can these facts wait, or is the entire goddamned planet on the brink of war?”
    “Not exactly, sir. I guess they can wait.”
    “How long can they wait?”
    “Not long, sir. This is important.”
    “All right, all right. Now listen. In precisely two hours I have to meet Mrs. Kathy Morgan in Le Bec Fin, one wildly expensive restaurant in the heart of Georgetown on one of the most expensive streets in the free world…I suppose you wanna come?”
    “Jeez, Admiral. That would be great.” But he added after a sudden flashback on the Admiral’s excellent taste in French wine, “So long as I don’t have to pay.”
    And then, realizing this might be the precise moment to push his luck to the absolute brink, he asked, “Can Jane come?” He knew of course that Kathy adored