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before Charlie could grab her. “Ooo-la-la,” said the newcomer, watching her leave.
    “Yeah, ooo-fucking-la,” said Dean.

5
    Rubens straightened and walked down the narrow aisle behind the row of consoles, glancing toward the back of the room where
     the technical people were monitoring relevant intercepts and other real-time intelligence. Jeff Rockman, who was assigned
     to communicate with the field agents on the operation, leaned from the station Rubens had just been hunched over.
    “You were right,” Rockman told Marie Telach, who as watch commander was supervising the mission. “She went into the men’s
     room.”
    “Did she dunk his head in the toilet?”
    “No.”
    “She must like him,” said Rubens acerbically. Lia DeFrancesca—shanghaied from the Army Special Forces Delta unit—was one of
     his best field agents but had a personality that the Wicked Witch of the West would have admired. “And what’s with the miniskirt?”
    “Tools of the trade,” said Telach.
    “Which trade is that?”
    “Boss.” Telach gave him the same look a teenager’s mother might use to ward off an overprotective father.
    “All right,” said Rubens. He turned back to Rockman. “The Russian take the flight?”
    “They’re just boarding,” said Rockman. One of his computer screens showed the Polish flight’s manifest, which was being updated
     passenger by passenger as they boarded. “There goes Dean.”
    “One of George Hadash’s best men,” sneered Telach.
    “We can leave Mr. Hadash out of this,” said Rubens. “Dean is doing us a favor, even if he doesn’t know it.”
    “Classic deer caught in the headlights,” she answered.
    “He’s not that bad.” Rubens had reviewed Dean’s file again. He had been a competent—maybe more than competent—Marine sniper,
     no mean feat. He had nothing but disdain for the CIA operatives he’d worked with, which made it extremely unlikely he would
     knowingly help Collins. And the fact that he hadn’t just decked DeFrancesca spoke well for his self-control.
    “All right, they’re aboard,” said Rockman. He began pumping the keys on one of his computers. “You want to listen to the plane
     and tower?”
    “That won’t be necessary,” said Rubens. “What about Lia?”
    “Just made her flight,” said Rockman. “Gave one of the male attendants a wedgie.”
    “No doubt.”
    Located on subbasement three of OPS 2/B in the heart of the Black Chamber, the Art Room was the center of operations for Desk
     Three. An improvement over the original War Room—officially known as OPS 1 Room 3E099—the Art Room allowed a small group of
     specialists and former field agents to run operations all across the globe. Sitting at three banks of consoles, Rubens’ people—called
     runners because they “ran” the field agents—could access real-time data from satellites and other sensors. If their own library
     of scripts and programs couldn’t get them into target computers or security systems, they could call on Desk Three’s hacking
     operation, which was housed in a separate facility. Besides tying into the Defense Special Missile and Astronautics Center
     (DEFSMAC), which maintained an array of satellites, they had their own satellite and UAV (unmanned aerial vehicle) force available,
     controlled from a bunker down the hallway.
    Rubens had handpicked the runners from former CIA as well as NSA officers. (With the exception of Collins, Rubens had a high
     opinion of the agency and most of its ops.) The majority of the runners had some science or technical background as well as
     experience in the field. Jeff Rockman, for example, had started with the NSA as a cryptographer. Assigned to the Moscow embassy,
     he had begun working with some CIA agents there and helped turn a low-level field clerk into a major conduit of Russian cipher
     keys. Loaned to the agency, he’d distinguished himself in Afghanistan before returning to Crypto City to help Rubens set up
     some