Central Intelligence Agency

Directorate of Operations, Near East Division

Doc ID: 575JJUJF

Page 01/1

08/22/05

MEMORANDUM TO: Project Lead, D.Ops

SUBJECT: Spektr

Colonel,

11th Recon confirm their Predator drone has been launched and has entered the Western Desert. We should resume eyes-on-target surveillance of Valley 403 within the hour.

We will re-establish contact with our man at the SPEKTR site shortly, and seek confirmation that the virus package has been acquired.

If our man is unable to provide assurance that the package has been retrieved, if Predator surveillance reveals further evidence of hostile activity within the contamination zone, we may be forced to accept that re-activation of the SPEKTR site will not be possible.

Our assets at Sharjah continue their preparations. We have received clearance for over-flight from QTAC. The plane has been registered as a shipment of urgent medical supplies. The SUNRAY device is loaded and ready to deploy.

The aircrew are on standby. They are prepared to initiate CLEANSWEEP on my command.

PE4-A

Lucy returned to the train.

She shuffled along the narrow locomotive walkway. She opened service panels with a large hex key.

The train was a diesel/electric hybrid. A massive turbo-charged V-12 powering an adjacent generator the size of a Volkswagen.

She shone her flashlight round the tight engine compartment. Cables and pipe-work intact. No obvious signs of damage.

She vaulted the walkway rail and jumped down to the track. She shone her barrel light beneath the locomotive. Leaf springs. Brake shoes. Traction motors. No leaks, no damage.

She grasped grab-irons and hauled herself back up to the walkway. She returned to the cab. She sat in the driver’s seat: a leather bar-stool patched with duct tape.

A small brass plaque screwed to the console.

The engine had, in a previous life, been owned by the Canadian Pacific Railway.

She looked over the console once more and tried to decipher the controls. Dials. Switches. A red brake handle. A directional selector. An eight-speed throttle. None of the controls would respond.

She paced the cab and examined wall boxes. High-voltage warning zags. Locked. She hammered them open with her rifle stock.

She cranked a lever to On. She flicked banks of breaker switches, turned every light green.

The cabin overhead bulb lit up. The filament emitted a weak, flickering glow like candle flame.

She tried the ignition. A jolt ran through the locomotive, a cough like the engine engaged but immediately cut out.

A winking red light.

Lucy snatched keys from a wall hook and jumped from the cab.

Jabril wiped dust from the washstand mirror. He was stripped to the waist.

He poured a bottle of mineral water into a tin bowl. He unzipped a wash bag. He stripped naked and soaped himself down. He rubbed shampoo into his hair until it frothed, then emptied the basin over his head.

He towelled himself dry with his army jacket and threw it in the corner.

He tested the battery of an electric shaver. He scoured away grey stubble. He combed. He dabbed cologne onto his neck.

He buttoned a pristine white shirt. He turned up his collar, draped a black silk tie round his neck and tied the knot one-handed. He shrugged on his suit, tied shoes and tucked a silk handkerchief into the breast pocket.

White linen. In a dirt-poor country where most people were a couple of generations clear of camel-trading Bedouin, his white suit screamed status. A guy who spent his life behind a desk. A guy who gave orders. A guy that didn’t break sweat. He could walk down any street. Nobody would mess with him.