Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (39 page)
“For a man of action, you talk mighty slick,” Jack Yocke said. “I hope to God you know what you are doing.”
“So do I, Jack.”
That night after Yocke dropped the admiral back at his building, Jake and Callie had a private moment, of which there had been few this spring.
“What's going on, Jake?”
“Someone told Yocke something I don't want him to follow up on or print.”
“Did he agree to cooperate?”
“Not in so many words, but I think so.”
He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. “I'm so tired. I'm going to hit the hay.”
“You haven't been getting enough sleep.”
“We're running out of time, Callie. I don't know what to do about it. We need a break, and, goddammit, I can't buy or steal one.”
On the morning of the sixth day at the Homestead Tommy Carmellini decided to face fiscal reality. He called Jake Grafton and got him on the first ring.
“How is the FBI coming on getting Anna set up in a new identity?”
“They are working on it, they tell me,” the admiral said. “Everything going okay?”
“Haven't shot anybody yet.” Carmellini explained about the money.
“We'll pay you the usual travel per diem,” Jake said. “Don't go to your place or mineâthey might be watched. You could use my place at the beach, but there's the same problem.”
“Uh-huh. What are we doing about that asshole in Egypt?”
“Working on that. It'll take a while for the fruit to ripen.”
“Terrific.”
“Stay in touch.”
At the front desk, Carmellini asked to see the tab, did some quick mental arithmetic, and swallowed hard. Time to drift. He and Anna checked out, loaded his old Mercedes, and headed for Virginia Beach.
They were doing a lot of talking these days. As the miles rolled by she told him of growing up in Russia, of her parents and the stories they told of Stalin and the great terror, told him about school, about working in Switzerland and Cairo.
Tommy Carmellini told Anna the truth about himself. She was the first and only woman to whom he had ever admitted his fondness for sneaking into places where he wasn't supposed to be, his addiction to the challenge of stealing and fencing the loot and planning the jobs, what he thought about his job and Jake Grafton and the other people who ruled his lifeâhe told her all of it, except for the classified stuff. He steered clear of that, and when he couldn't, he evaded politely. She seemed to understand.
That evening they signed into a small efficiency on the north end of the beach. The season had yet to startâthe spring wind still had a nip to it and the water was coldâso the price on the condo was right and the beach was relatively empty.
Tommy Carmellini and Anna Modin strolled the sand and felt the chilly wind in their hair and the sand between their toes and watched the seabirds looking for food in the
surf runout. Now and then they passed someone jogging with a dog.
surf runout. Now and then they passed someone jogging with a dog.
On the horizon Carmellini saw ships, probably headed into or out of the Chesapeake, the mouth of which was just a few miles north. The sight of the occasional ship made Carmellini think about nuclear weapons; the thought made him shiver. He wondered if Grafton had found them yet. Obviously that was something they couldn't talk about over a cell phone, nor did Tommy have a need to know.
Was Anna SVR?
She denied it. Was her denial truth or lie?
When he stopped walking she snuggled against him with an arm around his waist and pressed her head against his chest. He could smell the salt in her hair, feel the strands against his cheek, feel the sensuous warmth and firmness of her body.
SVR or not, he loved her.
He had her now, but for how long?
Irritated, he tried to push that thought away. He had lived his entire life from day to day, refusing to worry what tomorrow might bring, and now he found himself concerned about the future. Love does that to you, he decided. It's insidious. Next I'll be thinking about marriage, a little cracker-box house on a postage-stamp lot in a Virginia suburb, furniture on credit, vacation schedules, dreading out-of-town trips, sweating the daily commute â¦
Ye gods! Was that where life led? To stop-and-go traffic on the eternal voyage to and from the endless suburbs? Was that what happened when you really, honestly and truly, fell madly and hopelessly in love?
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
“I love you, too, Tommy Carmellini,” she said, and tightened the pressure of her arm around his waist.
All things considered, sharing a tract house in the suburbs with Anna Modin wouldn't be half bad, he thought.
Around the table were seated a scientist from Sandia Labs, three electrical engineers, two physicists, and a vice president of Baltimore Electric with a Ph.D., enough brainpower, Jake Grafton reflected, to launch another Manhattan Project. Leavening this scientific brainpower were Jake Grafton, history major, and Sal Molina, political operator and career insider.
The brains had impeccable security clearances and long histories of consulting with the CIA on technical and scientific matters. They could be relied upon to keep their mouths firmly shut about what they learned here, if anyone could. Jake Grafton thought the secret too hot; it would come out soon. Someone would talk. Perhaps Butch Lanham, perhaps someone at Corrigan Engineering, someone â¦
They were running out of time. He could feel it leaking away, and with every passing day he became more and more irritable. He was having anxiety nightmares when he tried to sleepâbeing chased and unable to escape. The monsters were right behind him.
He tried to forget the monsters and pay attention to what was being said.
After an hour, the Ph.D. vice president from the power company said, “Let's do it. Cut the antenna lead and sever the power connections to these weapons. Then they can sit there until doomsday.”
A poor choice of words. Every face in the room registered that fact.
“Is that safe?” Sal Molina asked again. Safety was his mantra. He wanted oaths signed in blood from every one of these people that the weapons would not detonate when the power supply was interrupted.
“Of course it's safe,” one of the brains shot back. “We've been all over that. Power interruptions are rare but inevitable. If those weapons were going to explode
when the load was lost, they would already have done so long ago.”
when the load was lost, they would already have done so long ago.”
“What if each weapon contains a battery to maintain power when the net is down? The battery might last for a while after the power is permanently severed, then detonate the weapon before it loses its ability to do so. Is that a possibility?”
The weapons people didn't think much of that scenario. Grid power could be permanently lost for any one of a number of perfectly ordinary, legitimate reasons. It would be in no one's interest to have the city vaporized a few days later.
The president's man was obviously uncomfortable. He also feels the sands of time running through the glass, Jake thought. He watched Molina make an obvious effort to maintain his legendary cool. When he thought he had his face back on, he turned to Jake.
“What do you think, Admiral?”
“Let's do it. Cut the power and antenna leads, then we'll dig them up when the EPA makes us.”
The scientists made polite noises at that attempt at humor. Sal Molina signaled that the meeting was over. As the brains filed out he stayed seated at the table and signaled for Jake to remain.
When the two men were alone, before Molina could speak, Jake said, “Tarkington called from Boston two hours ago. There's one there, too. It went into the fill for that new cross-harbor tunnel they're digging through the city. It's wired up to a nearby office building.”
“For the love of Christ! How in the name of God can people do this crap under our very noses?”
“This isn't the time to swarm all over those contractors asking questions. We'll sic the FBI on them when we think we've found all the bombs and disabled them.”
Molina eyed Grafton without enthusiasm. “Where are the Corrigan detectors? All I've heard are promises.”
“Corrigan's way behind. We've got exactly two. From what I hear we're lucky to have them. Corrigan intended
to farm out the manufacturing. When he found that wasn't going to fly he had his engineers start hand-building the things. I don't know what he's telling the presidentâ”
to farm out the manufacturing. When he found that wasn't going to fly he had his engineers start hand-building the things. I don't know what he's telling the presidentâ”
“Blowing smoke up his ass,” Molina said sourly.
“âHis engineers tell me they are doing everything they can, and we'll get the detectors as soon as they're ready. And not before.”
Molina made a rude noise. “No detectors! Buried bombs! The president is going to ask how many of these sons of bitches we're walking around on. What's your guess?”
Jake shook his head from side to side. “Don't want to guess.”
“Looks like we outsmarted ourselves on Star Wars, doesn't it?”
“Yes,” said Jake Grafton. “It does.”
Watching Harley Bennett find the bomb buried in the fill for the new cross-harbor tunnel in Boston convinced Sonny Tran that he was operating in the dark. The four Russian bombs purchased by the Sword of Islam were due to arrive in the United States on ships the day after tomorrow ⦠and yet there was a nuclear weapon buried in every major East Coast city the team had visited, Washington, New York, and Boston.
Right now he thought it probable there were bombs in Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, and Los Angeles ⦠perhaps Miami, Atlanta, and Seattle, maybe even St. Louis or Kansas City. Dallas, certainly, Houston â¦
Did Corrigan know about the buried weapons when he sold the government the detectors? If he knew they were there, why did he fund the Sword of Islam's purchase?
Or was finding them pure serendipity, the kind that would make Corrigan America's most beloved industrialist and entice a grateful Congress to give him a medal?
Sonny concluded that it would be impossible to determine the true course of events from the facts he had, so
he stopped trying. The important thing was the bomb that Nguyen went to Florida to steal.
he stopped trying. The important thing was the bomb that Nguyen went to Florida to steal.
Sonny wished he knew what the FBI knew about the cells waiting to receive the things. He needed an entry to Grafton's inner circle, and he hadn't been able to find one: Here he sat, driving a van through Boston.
Everything hinged on Nguyen. If he were good enough, they had a chance. If he weren't â¦
Sonny took a deep breath and sifted through the situation again.
His pager went off. He removed it from his belt and looked. Karl Luck.
Nguyen Duc Tran was sitting in the last booth in the back of the bar, watching the door, when he saw Red Citrix come in. There were only five other customers in the placeâthree stringy men in dirty jeans and T-shirts, and two equally worn women. They were all nursing beers at the bar, smoking, and talking desultorily, while a professional basketball game played on the television behind the bar. Red ignored the sitters, nodded at the bartender, walked back to Nguyen's booth, and took a seat.
“Hey,” Red said.
“Hey.”
“What'll it be?” the bartender called.
“Gimme a Bud,” Red said loudly. His thinning hair was white, his skin ruddy and splotchy. His hands had a slight tremor, as if he had been seriously ill in the not-too-distant past.
“I didn't think you'd really show up,” Red said softly to Nguyen.
“Hey, I put it together. There's money to be made.”
“The fucking feds are looking under every rock for terrorists. Shit, I check under my bed every night to see if I've got an FBI dude under there. A lot of guys are taking a vacation until things cool down.”
“There's money to be made,” Nguyen Duc Tran said again. He lit a cigarette.
Red Citrix worked for a freight forwarder. He was the man with the manifests who brought containers through customs, paid the duty, and sent the steel boxes on their way. Nguyen had done business with him twice before. Each time he had paid Citrix $10,000 cash to redirect a container. The containers were laden with European manufactured goods, which he stole and fenced, but he had led Citrix to believe they contained illegal narcotics. A thief was no one special, but in south Florida, dope dealers were serious people. Crossing one was extremely perilous to your health.
“Don't want to tell you your business,” Red Citrix said now, “but since I like you, I want to give you a friendly warning. There's some heavy people that will get damned pissed if they find out you're doing business in their territory.”
“How they gonna find out?”
“Well, I dunno.” Red Citrix fell silent while the bartender placed the tall draft on the table and walked back toward the bar.
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