Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (36 page)
“Like when?”
“I'll make some calls.”
Dawn was well along by the time they had signed for their rooms at the FBI's Quantico facility. As the clerk led them to their rooms, which were side by side, Modin held tightly to Carmellini's hand.
Tommy thanked the man, who left after unlocking Anna's room and handing them the keys. She pulled him into the room behind her.
After the door closed, Carmellini swept her into his arms and held her. “Hell of a first date,” he said.
Clutching his chest, she could hear his heart beating slowly, lazily, thudding along like an old, slow clock.
“Why were those men trying to kill you last night?” Tommy Carmellini asked Anna Modin. They had awakened in the same bed around noon, made love again, then he made two cups of instant coffee from a jar of the stuff he found in the kitchenette cupboard. Now she was seated in bed with the sheet pulled around her, sipping the hot drink, while he sat in the only chair in the bedroom with a towel around his waist.
Carmellini normally refused instant coffee, but at noon after the night he had had, he decided it wasn't bad.
“Revenge, I suppose,” she said. “There was another woman, Nooreem Habib, who loaded the computer files of Walney's Bank onto disks for Janos Ilin. I was her courier.” She went on, telling him about the bank that
financed terrorists, about Janos Ilin ⦠everything. She told all of it. “Ilin wanted Jake Grafton to have the CDs, so I brought them to him.”
financed terrorists, about Janos Ilin ⦠everything. She told all of it. “Ilin wanted Jake Grafton to have the CDs, so I brought them to him.”
Then she fell silent, slightly shocked by what she had done. To share information with people without a need to know was truly Russian roulette. People had a nasty habit of chatting, telling other people interesting tidbits, for a whole grab bag of reasons, not the least of which was to sell you out for their own advantage. Every Russian child learned that hard fact in grammar school. She knew all that and spilled it anyway.
Carmellini drank half his coffee and decided he didn't want the rest. He put the cup on the nightstand.
“Those guys last night weren't very good assassins,” he observed.
“Almost good enough,” she observed.
He shrugged. “Maybe they're in Paradise in the arms of the virgins right this very minute, enjoying the start of an eternity of sexual delight. Isn't that what they're promised?”
“So I've heard.”
“Talk about sexually repressed!
Playboy
should give the holy warriors free copies, tell them a little of that is available right here on Earth while you are alive to enjoy it, and you don't have to be a martyr to get it. But those guys last night were all bound up. I did them a favor sending them on their way. On the other hand, I hope Norv and Arch are shoveling coal in the hottest corner of hell.”
Playboy
should give the holy warriors free copies, tell them a little of that is available right here on Earth while you are alive to enjoy it, and you don't have to be a martyr to get it. But those guys last night were all bound up. I did them a favor sending them on their way. On the other hand, I hope Norv and Arch are shoveling coal in the hottest corner of hell.”
“Those were the men who tried to kill you in the airplane?”
“Yeah. Hell of a world, ain't it?”
“Who
are
you, Tommy Carmellini?”
are
you, Tommy Carmellini?”
He shrugged. “I'm a thief. Joined the CIA to avoid prosecution for burglary. Another guy and I stole some diamonds. He got caught with the ice and finked on me. Now the agency has me working for Jake Grafton.”
He rarely told anyone the truth about himself. Certainly
no women. But Anna Modin was special, he sensed. Only the truth would do with her.
no women. But Anna Modin was special, he sensed. Only the truth would do with her.
She prompted him with personal questions, so he ended up telling her the story of his life. It was nothing specialâhe was just a kid who wasn't like all the others, and had been smart or lucky enough not to get caught ⦠most of the time, anyway.
When he ran down they sat in silence, listening to the muffled street sounds coming through the closed window.
“Are you ready to go find something to eat?” he asked.
“Later,” she said, pulled the sheet aside, and held out her arms.
Afterward, lying with her head on his shoulder and her hair brushing his cheek, he asked, “Where do you go from here?”
“I don't know. Until those men in Cairo are dead ⦔ She left it hanging.
“When will you know it is safe?”
“Janos Ilin will tell me.”
“The FBI is going to change your name and hide you. You'll wind up answering the telephone for some dentist in Peoria or flying a cash register at a supermarket.”
“Ilin will find me,” she said simply. “When he needs me.”
“For what?”
“For something that needs to be done.”
The days passed swiftly as spring brought more rain and warm weather to the Washington area. The cherry blossoms came and went, the crowds filled the tourist attractions, the trees leafed out, and the grass grew mightily. The sight and sound of lawn mowers became part and parcel of the Washington scene.
Jake Grafton saw little of it. It seemed he only got home to sleep. Eating was a breakfast sandwich or burrito at a fast-food joint on the way to work or a sandwich at his desk. Occasionally he made his way to the CIA cafeteria, only to bolt his food and run when his cell phone or pager summoned him.
A lot seemed to be happening, but it was difficult to make sense of it.
Toad Tarkington called from New York on a secure telephone located in the offices of the joint terrorism task force. “You ain't gonna believe this, boss, but we found another of the goddamn things.”
“Where?”
“Seems to be under a new apartment building in midtown Manhattan.” He gave Jake the address. “There are not many new buildings in this section, but the old one on this site was condemned by the city about ten years ago when the landlord didn't do repairs after a fire. From what I can learn, a developer acquired the property, tore
the old building down, and built a new, taller one in its place. Four floors of parking under the thing. We drove the rig to the lowest level. No shit, we've got a hot spot under the floor.”
the old building down, and built a new, taller one in its place. Four floors of parking under the thing. We drove the rig to the lowest level. No shit, we've got a hot spot under the floor.”
“Same indications as you found at Hains Point?”
“Yep. Harley is pretty sure. He can talk your leg off about various kinds of radiation, which particles can penetrate dirt and which can't, but the bottom line is it looks about the same to me.”
“When did they erect this building?”
“I talked to the super, visiting in a low-key, bullshit way, trying to get info without sending the guy to general quarters. Told him we were an independent contractor looking for leaking sewer gas. He bought it, I think. Says the city issued the occupancy permit for the building six years ago. The thing filled up immediately even though the apartments are pricey. You know how living space is in this town.”
Jake played with the telephone cord while Toad talked. The damn thing was knotting up again. “How long do you think it will take to cover the major avenues in the city, up and down the rivers, both sides of the harbor?”
“A week to do it right, I think.”
“Do it right.”
“Yes, sir.”
He passed this info on to General Alt and Sal Molina, who would, Jake knew, pass it on to the president and the National Security Council.
“So what do you think we should do about this one, Admiral?” Molina said when Jake had finished his recitation.
“My recommendation is do nothing right now. Whatever is down there has been there for six years. A few more weeks or months isn't going to make any difference.”
“I'll pass that along. Needless to say, the National Security Council is tied up in knots over the first one. Everyone has a different opinion. We're trying to keep the circle
of knowledge small, but you know how these things are. If we are sitting on bombs, it's eventually going to leak. When it does, oh boy!”
of knowledge small, but you know how these things are. If we are sitting on bombs, it's eventually going to leak. When it does, oh boy!”
“If you don't mind my asking, sir, how are you and Butch Lanham getting along?”
Sal Molina sighed. “You know, he's the epitome of the Washington type, an educated idiot, amoral, with no scruples that anyone has ever noticed. He goes through life with a wet finger permanently aloft to catch any change in the breeze. His only god is Ambition. Talks a good line, too.”
“I got the picture.”
“Where next?”
“I thought I'd send the van to Boston since it's just up the road. We need a week to do New York first, though.”
“The Council is arguing about that, too. Lanham wants to take charge, pull the strings.”
“He's welcome to it, for all I care. I'm not getting much sleep and my stomach's a wreck.”
“Tell me about it. But the president isn't buying Lanham's spiel just now. He says you found the first one, let's see what else you turn up. That could change.”
Like the weather, Jake thought. “Uh-huh.”
“Talk to you later.”
Coast Guard Captain Joe Zogby made a multimedia presentation to Jake and Gil Pascal. The view was side-looking radar shots of the Mediterranean in the hours after the staff suspected that
Olympic Voyager
left Port Said. What it all boiled down to was a disappearing blip. Moving, then stationary, then gone.
Olympic Voyager
left Port Said. What it all boiled down to was a disappearing blip. Moving, then stationary, then gone.
“Sunk,” Zogby said. “We have no way of verifying that that blip was
Olympic Voyager
, but as you see, she disappeared quickly. She hasn't been seen or heard from since.”
Olympic Voyager
, but as you see, she disappeared quickly. She hasn't been seen or heard from since.”
“Someone sank her,” Jake said bitterly.
“That means the weapons were no longer aboard,” Pascal added.
“Is there any way we can get a list of the ships in Port
Said from the moment it arrived until, say, a week later?” Jake asked. “Names and destinations?”
Said from the moment it arrived until, say, a week later?” Jake asked. “Names and destinations?”
“The FBI is working on it, sir,” Zogby replied. “They've sprinkled money all over that corner of Egypt, we've gotten the Egyptian government involved, and we have names of ships to show for it. But if one ship was left off the list ⦔
Jake studied his toes, then turned to Gil. “When is the next Corrigan unit being delivered?”
“This weekend if everything goes well. Monday or Tuesday if it doesn't.”
“We're running out of time,” Jake muttered to no one in particular.
The Delta Force augmented Customs offices up and down the East Coast. Armed with every conventional Geiger counter that could be purchased, borrowed, or scrounged, the soldiers were helping Customs officers search every ship before it entered port. The operation was huge. Jake and two flag officers from the Pentagon met daily, going over deployment options, looking at the percentage of ships searched, reviewing efforts to find more Geiger countersâgenerally solving problems and making policy decisions. This effort took several hours out of Jake's day, every day.
More time was spent reviewing material provided by Zelda Hudson. The cells in Florida seemed to be static. It was infuriatingâthe more Jake read about the cells, the more convinced he became that some or all of them were waiting for the bombs to arrive. The navy, Coast Guard, and Customs Service were using Geiger counters and dogs to search every ship coming into Florida. They were finding a lot of drugs and aliens being smuggled in, but no bombs.
There weren't enough assets to search every ship coming to America, or even the East Coast. Was he fixated upon Florida because of the presence of the suspected cells? Were the cells red herrings? Hell, were these little knots of Middle Eastern men even cells?
Doyle's death or disappearanceâhow did that fit? Was that event even part of this puzzle, or totally unrelated?
The bombs buried in the citiesâterrorists, or ⦠who?
The harder Jake pressed the more information Zelda's staff produced. Yet there was no structure; the data came as piles of printouts.
“All we're doing is killing trees,” he complained as he leafed through a huge file on Coke Twilley. “I can't make sense of this. There might be a gold nugget in all this treacle, but how would anyone know?”
“We need people to analyze the data,” was Zelda's reply. “Get me some more people, competent ones for a change.”
“Wrong answer,” Jake said curtly. “There aren't any more people for me to get, competent or incompetent. You get this unscrewed. There must be a way to correlate disparate facts and figures to construct a picture. Find the facts that don't fit.”
“I'm up to my eyeballs in this shit, Admiral. There are only so many hours in the damn day.”
“Don't cuss at me, goddammit!” Jake roared. “I do the fucking cussing around here. You know what the stakes are. For the love of Christ, you're sitting smack-dab on the center of the bull's-eye at ground zero! What will it take to make you jerk your head out of your ass?”
Zelda wasn't intimidated. There wasn't a man on earth who could accomplish that. “You have us wasting time on these five men. I don't think there's anything to find.”
“That's my call,” Jake snarled. When he got angry the bullet scar on his temple turned red. Right now it was livid. “One of these guys is dirty.” He picked up Twilley's file and tossed it onto the desk in front of her. “All this drivel won't change my mind. Get back in your hole and find the guilty son of a bitch.”
On her way out of the office Zelda passed by a secretary's desk. “I heard him shouting through the closed door,” the woman said, glancing at the admiral's door to
see if the monster was going to come charging out breathing fire. “What was
that
all about?”
see if the monster was going to come charging out breathing fire. “What was
that
all about?”
“He fanged the shit outta me,” Zelda said as she went by. She was in no mood for a wet-hankie session with a horrified civil servant.
Alas, Grafton was right. Some way had to be found to separate the one gold nugget from all this mud.
If there was one.
Tommy Carmellini had been in Quantico two days when he finally got his pistolâa Browning Hi-Powerâa shoulder holster, and ten rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition. The FBI agent who delivered it to him in Anna Modin's room wanted him to sign a receipt.
“We took it off a drug dealer we arrested in Washington last week,” he said. “It isn't listed in the computer as hot. So far we haven't been able to trace it.”
“Man in that line of work needs a good gun,” Carmellini remarked as he popped the empty magazine into his hand, pulled the slide back, and checked the chamber. “He going to want it back?”
“Not unless he beats the rap,” the agent said dryly.
Carmellini checked the safetyâthese old automatics only had one, a thumb safety that locked the hammer in the cocked position. He tried the trigger, then flipped the safety off and pulled the trigger again. The hammer fell with a crisp sound. “Nice shooter,” he said. “Let's hope they convict him.”
With the signed receipt in his pocket, the agent left. Carmellini inspected each of the shiny brass cylinders and carefully loaded them into the magazine, then snapped it into the handle of the pistol and chambered a round. Using both hands, he lowered the hammer to the safety notch and pushed on it with a thumb to make sure. Since the pistol lacked a grip safety, he felt uncomfortable carrying it cocked and locked. He would just have to remember to ear the hammer back for the first shot.
A pistol wouldn't make him or Anna bulletproof, but it would let him worry them some. Assuming he saw them in time.
He had talked to Harry Estep earlier that morning. The FBI had been unable to identify the bodies.
When he got off the telephone with Harry, he called Jake Grafton. Didn't get him, but an hour later, after he got his pistol, Grafton returned the call.
“I feel like a wart on an elephant's ass sitting here in Quantico.”
“How's Anna?”
“She's fine. My feet are fine, and so's the rest of me.”
“Your job is to guard her,” Jake said. “You two don't have to stay in Quantico, but I want you with her or in earshot twenty-four hours a day. The FBI will get her into the Federal Witness Protection Program in a couple weeks. The paper is going from desk to desk. Until then, you're her life ring.”
“Okay, boss.” Tarkington called the admiral “boss,” and Tommy had picked up on it.
“And, use your cell phone to help Zelda. The CIA has a couple of specialty teams wiring up outside databases and whatnot, yet we still need your friends the independent contractors for sensitive jobs.” The CIA teams were nominally working for the FBI, so as to avoid the prohibition against domestic operations by that agency.
“Scout and Earlene?”
“That's right. Coordinate all that by phone. Make it happen. Stop in and see Scout and Earlene if you have to. What I don't want you to do is take Anna to Langley, the Hoover Building, or my apartment. Someone may be watching.” Carmellini couldn't get Anna in either of the government facilities, but he understood what Grafton meant: don't leave her in a car in the parking lot while he went inside.
“I talked to Harry a while ago,” Tommy said. “He said they can't identify those two Baltimore dudes.”
“John Doe One and Two. They use Roman numerals for the numbers.”
“I saw a newspaper this morning. Sounds like I am in deep and serious shit in Baltimore.” The first remark had been a warm-up for this unstated question. Carmellini pressed the telephone against his ear.
“The assistant D.A. in charge of the case is an ambitious young woman with an agenda,” Jake Grafton told him. “She's a little peeved that you reloaded and shot those guys again. They were each dead after the first bullet hit them. An inappropriate use of force, she says. âGrotesque' was her word.”
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