Black Ghosts by Victor Ostrovsky Page B

file.
    â€œThanks.” Bud grabbed the file and took it to his boss’s office.
    â€œCome in, Bud,” said Jeff Millner, head of the NSC and Bud’s boss. “You know Secretary Townes.” He indicated the tall, well-dressed man standing by his desk. Bud nodded his surprise. The last person he had been expecting to see here was Richard Townes, the secretary of defense.
    â€œYes, of course, Mr. Secretary.”
    Townes shook Bud’s extended hand, smiling at the little man. “How have you been, Bud?”
    â€œVery well, thank you, sir.”
    Bud had no way of knowing whether the secretary of defense had told Millner about the operation Bud was carrying out for him. As far as he had understood his instructions, Bud was not to say a word to anyone and report directly to Townes. He had no doubt that if this were to come out he would be in hot water with his boss. Not that the operation was illegal—it was only the small matter of personal loyalty that his boss might have a problem with.
    He decided to say nothing, especially since Larry had gone missing and he wanted to be the one to get to him first—if the son of a bitch was still alive, that is.
    â€œThe secretary here will be presenting the brief to the president.” Jeff Millner’s wide smile did not hide his disappointment that the matter was being taken out of his hands by the secretary of state.
    â€œSure,” Bud said and handed Townes the green file he had brought with him. The secretary stuffed it into his briefcase and immediately set off down the hall toward the center block.
    When Townes arrived at the Oval Office, the DCI, a sophisticated-looking, white-haired man named Charles Bouver, was already seated opposite the president at the massive oak desk. President Bradshawe smiled at Townes, and with a broad gesture he waved his old friend over to the third chair.
    â€œAre you okay, Mr. President?” asked the secretary of defense, noting that the president looked somewhat pale. Townes addressed his old high school buddy in the proper fashion. He would call him Jim when they were alone, but with anyone else present it was always Mr. President.
    â€œJust fine, Rich, nothing a couple of Rolaids can’t cure. Just keep it down. We don’t want Murray to rush in here and drag me over to Bethesda.” The three men laughed.
    Richard Townes took his place by the president’s desk.
    â€œWell, Rich,” the president asked, “where do we stand, now that the chief Russian negotiator on the disarmament treaty has managed to get himself killed?”
    â€œThe agreement stands, Mr. President. I’ve talked to Konyigin in Moscow, unofficially of course, and he said they are as keen as ever to sign the treaty. They want this thing to fly.”
    â€œI’d expect that much,” said the president. “So you don’t think they’re going to try and renegotiate any of the terms?”
    Townes shook his head. “Not a chance, Mr. President. It was all finalized before the incident. The documents went through their embassy via diplomatic pouch. Nothing was lost.”
    â€œExcept a heck of a lot of face,” growled the president. “How did that happen, anyway?” He was now addressing the DCI.
    Bouver scratched his chin, looking faintly embarrassed.
    â€œWe’re going over all the leads we have outside the country, Mr. President. Don’t forget, it did take place outside our jurisdiction. I mean, it was in the hands of the Secret Service.”
    â€œCome on, Charles, don’t give me that crap. I need to know who is behind this thing,” the president growled.
    â€œFrom what I can gather, sir, very few people knew the route, and there is no doubt that such an operation had to be planned at least a few days ahead. That’s the way we see it, and so do the people over at the Bureau.” He knew the president had more respect for the FBI than for the