Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (13 page)
“That's for me,” Jake muttered, rubbing his head. “If it goes badly, he wants the congressmen to be able to read his name without their glasses.”
“Goes badly? You mean if it blows up in our faces?”
“No more puns, Toad. I'm not in the mood. Don't get comfortable. You and I are going to take polygraph exams. Let's lock everything up and set the alarms and go do it.”
“Darn,” Toad said with obvious disgust. “They better not ask me about my old girlfriends. Or that time I got in trouble in the fifth grade. Or the night of the senior promâI did a lot of lying about that evening afterward. How come I have to do this anyway?”
“Rita gave me a list of questions she wants answers to.”
“Uh-oh. Another life-threatening experience.”
The polygraph operator asked if either of them had ever taken a polygraph exam before, and they both had, several years ago, when they were being processed for Special Intelligence (SI) security clearances. Jake went first. A cuff was placed around his arm, a sensor put over a finger, and a multitude of contacts placed on his head.
The questions were straightforwardâhis name, Social Security number, military rank, address, then a series of yes or no questions. Did he know Janos Ilin? Had he ever met him? Then he was asked about Richard Doyle. Using his statement that he had given earlier, the operator went into possible unauthorized disclosures while he watched his printouts and used a pencil to mark them after every
question. Finally he handed Jake a stack of photos facedown. “Please read the number on the back of each photo and turn it over and look at it. Then place it facedown and do the same for the next, and so on. If you recognize any of the photos, please tell me who that person is.”
question. Finally he handed Jake a stack of photos facedown. “Please read the number on the back of each photo and turn it over and look at it. Then place it facedown and do the same for the next, and so on. If you recognize any of the photos, please tell me who that person is.”
Jake didn't recognize the first or second picture, but the third was of Janos Ilin, and he said so. The shot had apparently been taken by a surveillance camera while Ilin walked along a New York sidewalkâat least the city looked like New York. Ilin seemed oblivious to the camera.
There were nine more pictures, a total of a dozen, and he recognized none of them.
As Toad went into the room for his session, Jake headed for the Metro and home.
How was he going to find those damned bombs and make sure they didn't explode?
Jake Grafton thought about that question every spare minute, riding the Metro, in the head, even when he was out walking with Callie in the evenings. She knew he had a new assignment, knew he was worried, yet she didn't know what the job was or what he was worried about.
He wanted to go walking when he got home, regardless of the hour. “Aren't you too tired?” she asked that evening after dinner, which was leftovers from the fridge.
“I want to make sure America is still there.”
As usual, they strolled the sidewalks, looked in windows, smiled and said hello to people they recognized as they made their usual pilgrimage to the Potomac. “It's a grand river,” Jake had once said as he stood watching the brown water and listening to the people and traffic and airliners. Callie thought of that this evening as she stood beside him, watched him take everything in.
He was thinking of people as he walked along. The lady who sold coffee from a pushcart near the Metro stop was a Filipino ⦠she married an American sailor who
brought her to America, then deserted her. She had raised a son and owned her pushcart and worked every day, rain or shine, selling coffee and pastries. For years she sold sticky buns, then bagels when that fad hit, now she was selling doughnuts. Jake habitually bought a cup of coffee and a doughnut on his way to work. He always drank the coffee, sometimes he threw away the doughnutâbut he bought one whether he wanted it or not.
brought her to America, then deserted her. She had raised a son and owned her pushcart and worked every day, rain or shine, selling coffee and pastries. For years she sold sticky buns, then bagels when that fad hit, now she was selling doughnuts. Jake habitually bought a cup of coffee and a doughnut on his way to work. He always drank the coffee, sometimes he threw away the doughnutâbut he bought one whether he wanted it or not.
The art gallery-well, it sold prints and framed whatever you carried inâwas owned by a black woman whose father was murdered in Mississippi during the civil rights marches of the 1960s. She wrote up the orders and gave good advice on colors and frame styles. Five years ago her son had been convicted of shooting someone in a dope deal gone sour; he was still in prison somewhere. The guy who did the framing was a Brit who lost a foot in the Gulf War. He came to America to live with a woman. The romance didn't last, but he stayed.
The neighborhood Italian restaurant was owned by a guy from Hoboken who got angry at his brother ten years ago and left the family business, moved here, and started over. One of the daughters wanted to be an opera singer. Occasionally she sang the old Italian songs on Sundays at the restaurant. Alas, the music didn't help the food, which was only so-so.
Most of the business at the Chinese restaurant was takeout, so they had just three tables. It, too, was a family placeâonly the son spoke English; he took orders and the parents cooked. Jake and Callie liked to eat there. When Jake walked in the son always asked if he wanted Tsingtao Beer. He never did. When he ordered a glass of chardonnay, the son filled it to the brim. “Three dollars, seventy-five cents, you get full glass,” he told Jake.
So it was a neighborhood, like tens of thousands of neighborhoods all over America, filled with people living their lives well, poorly, or screwing them up beyond redemption.
“We'll put Corrigan's damned sensors in vans,” he muttered.
“What did you say, dear?” Callie asked. She was holding on to his arm as they climbed the hill away from the river.
“I was just thinking about people,” he told her. “I like these people.” He gestured with his free hand.
She gripped his arm tightly as they climbed the hill toward home.
The following afternoon an FBI agent and two CIA internal investigators interviewed Coke Twilley and Sonny Tran individually, apart from each other, about the Richard Doyle matter. They wanted to know the names of everyone who knew that Janos Ilin had named the missing Richard Doyle as a Russian spy. They asked all the usual questions and reviewed office security procedures. They went over the report that Tran had prepared for Twilley's signature, questioned both men closely about drafts, counted the copies, and exchanged the hard drive of Tran's computer for a new one. They took the old hard drive with them. The entire process took six hours.
The hard fact was that the Russians might have whisked Doyle off to Russia or eliminated him. If he fled to Russia, the CIA would eventually learn that fact. If he were never heard from again, one would be forced at some point to conclude he was dead. He might have been betrayed and killed by the SVR because his usefulness was about over or they wanted to score points with the Americans but didn't want Doyle listing his thefts through the years. Or the SVR might have killed him after they learned that Ilin had betrayed him. Sorting through tangled conumdrums like this would take years, untold man-hours, and would probably never provide a conclusive answer.
Coke and Sonny also knew that regardless of the outcome of the investigation, their careers also on the line, so they cooperated fully and cheerfully with their colleagues,
answering every question. Only when the ordeal was over did their resentment flare.
answering every question. Only when the ordeal was over did their resentment flare.
When the door closed behind the interrogators, Twilley muttered, “The prez promotes Grafton and the snoops start harassing us. Anyone who thinks that isn't cause and effect is a dope. The snoops can't find Doyle but they can afford to harass us at their leisure.”
“At least they didn't ask us to take polygraph exams,” Tran said philosophically.
“Oh, they will,” Twilley grumped. “When their little investigation leads nowhere, Grafton will probably order polygraphs for everyone. He's that kind of guy.”
“Some FBI type is leading the hunt for Doyle.”
“Sure,” Twilley replied acidly. “With Grafton breathing down his neck. Remember his little cover-my-ass speech in this office? A mess like this is made to order for an amateur climber. It's a goddamn snipe hunt, that's what it is. He can stir the shit for years, getting money and staff and attention from the very top, all the while looking for a leak that may not be there.”
Tran puttered desultorily in his office until quitting time. Coke Twilley grabbed the latest copy of
Chess Monthly
from his in-basket and went home early. Tran locked the safe and filing cabinets, then armed the office zone alarm on his way out.
Chess Monthly
from his in-basket and went home early. Tran locked the safe and filing cabinets, then armed the office zone alarm on his way out.
Olympic Voyager
was an old, tired, single-screw freighter of ten thousand tons. She made her living hauling bulk cargoâusually grain, steel, or fertilizerâbetween the Indian subcontinent and Europe. Profit margins were razor thin, so her owners had not spent a penny more than absolutely necessary on maintenanceâher sides were so rusty that from a distance she appeared to be orange.
was an old, tired, single-screw freighter of ten thousand tons. She made her living hauling bulk cargoâusually grain, steel, or fertilizerâbetween the Indian subcontinent and Europe. Profit margins were razor thin, so her owners had not spent a penny more than absolutely necessary on maintenanceâher sides were so rusty that from a distance she appeared to be orange.
Her captainâPappadopoulusâwas Greek, her first mateâErik “Dutch” VanderveltâSouth African, and her second mateâLeeâfrom Singapore. Her crew were lascars. Vandervelt was new, having just joined the ship four
weeks before in Marseilles after the previous first mate was hospitalized following a bar brawl.
weeks before in Marseilles after the previous first mate was hospitalized following a bar brawl.
This evening, with
Olympic Voyager
moored to a pier in Karachi, Vandervelt stood on the wing of the bridge smoking as a crane loaded the last of the cargo. Lee was in the engine room with the black gang; Captain Pappadopoulus was drunk in his cabin. The old man had been in a state of continuous inebriation for the entire three weeks Vandervelt had known him. He varied between tipsy, walking drunk, puking drunk, and dead drunk, depending on the time of day and the state of the moon.
Olympic Voyager
moored to a pier in Karachi, Vandervelt stood on the wing of the bridge smoking as a crane loaded the last of the cargo. Lee was in the engine room with the black gang; Captain Pappadopoulus was drunk in his cabin. The old man had been in a state of continuous inebriation for the entire three weeks Vandervelt had known him. He varied between tipsy, walking drunk, puking drunk, and dead drunk, depending on the time of day and the state of the moon.
The pungency of the cigar Vandervelt smoked helped make the air palatable tonight. Karachi was a large, filthy Third World city often obscured by a noxious pall of smoke, engine exhaust, and the smells of rotten garbage. The sewage floating in the black waste of the harbor didn't help, not on an evening like this, with the breeze off the land.
Dutch Vandervelt checked his watch. Three and a half hours. Where was Zuair?
Vandervelt had spent most of his adult life around rough men ruled by their passions and addictions. He understood what motivated them. But not the Egyptian, Dutch thought, who was a maniacal, homicidal zealot, and perhaps the most dangerous man he had ever met. On the other hand, there was that American ⦠. What a pair they were, one driven by a warped vision of God, the other driven by greed. Truly, he was a fool to allow them to learn his name or see his face. Or to take money from men like that.
Dutch had accepted money. One million American dollars. Would he live to spend it?
Despite the heat and humidity, Dutch Vandervelt shivered.
As Frouq al-Zuair wheeled the truck into the warehouse at the head of the pier, one of his men stood by the door.
The door was closing before Zuair turned off the engine. He slapped the side of the truck's cargo bay three times, then opened the door. Eight of his men climbed down.
The door was closing before Zuair turned off the engine. He slapped the side of the truck's cargo bay three times, then opened the door. Eight of his men climbed down.
“Everything all right?”
“I have men on buildings in every direction. No strangers or strange vehicles in sight.”
Zuair inspected the four empty shipping containers sitting inside the dark, dirty building. He used a flashlight. Meanwhile, his men rigged chain hoists and wheeled dollies.
It took two hours to get the four warheads into the containersâone to a containerâand secure them. Properly securing the warheads was critical.
The Egyptian inspected each weapon when his men were finished. Satisfied, he then watched them fill the container with stuffed animals, each wrapped in cellophane to keep it clean, then loaded into a clear plastic bag containing fifty of them. The bags were thrown in until the container was as full as possible. Anyone opening the container to inspect its contents would only see the bags.
An hour later, Zuair watched from the bow of the ship as the four containers were loaded aboard
Olympic Voyager
. At his feet lay an RPG launcher wrapped in carpet. The pier was darkâthe area was lit only by floods mounted on the ship. One by one, the ship's forward gantry picked up the containers and swung them to the ship's main deck, where they were stacked two deep and chained down.
Olympic Voyager
. At his feet lay an RPG launcher wrapped in carpet. The pier was darkâthe area was lit only by floods mounted on the ship. One by one, the ship's forward gantry picked up the containers and swung them to the ship's main deck, where they were stacked two deep and chained down.
Finally the lights were extinguished, leaving only the ship's running lights. A man the Egyptian knew to be a port official went down the gangway, then motioned the dockworkers to remove it.
Obeying orders shouted from the deck of the ship, the dockworkers removed the giant hawsers that held the ship to the pier. They had removed the rat guards earlier. When the last rope end was tossed onto the pier, the ship began to move. She backed away from the pier under her own
power, drifted to a stop, then began to move forward. Her head began to swing as she answered her helm. Slowly increasing her speed, she made her way between anchored ships into the harbor, heading for the sea beyond.
power, drifted to a stop, then began to move forward. Her head began to swing as she answered her helm. Slowly increasing her speed, she made her way between anchored ships into the harbor, heading for the sea beyond.
Using his binoculars, Zuair searched the harbor for boats. If someone wanted the cargo badly enough, the harbor, he thought, or perhaps just outside it, was the most likely place to board and hijack the ship. That was how he would have done it if another group had weapons he wanted. He had learned through the years that there were other men just as clever as he, although few as ruthless. His willingness to do whatever needed to be done regardless of the consequences made him a leader, a man who could accomplish the impossible.
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