Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (6 page)
“It's war,” the president said simply. “Move fast and hit hard. I want results, not excuses. You'll be a branch of the antiterrorism task force, but you'll answer to me.” The president handed Jake a card. “The top telephone number is for my aide, Sal Molina. Call him when you need help. The other number on there is mine. You can reach me anytime, anywhere with that.”
Jake glanced at the card and put it inside his runner's wallet, which was Velcroed to a pocket in his shorts.
“If the press gets this, you'll be impeached and I'll go to prison.”
“I'll take my chances,” the president said. “We're not going to be a nation of victims on my watch. The people who wrote the United States Constitution didn't intend it to prevent us from defending ourselves. The president has the inherent power to defend the nation. I'm using that power here and now.”
“I'll buy that. But why me?”
The president cleared his throat but didn't answer immediately. The car was gliding by the Supreme Court. “Our thinking,” he said slowly, feeling his way, “is that we want the operation handled by someone outside the intelligence community.”
“The folks at Langley and down at the Hoover Building will have to be told. I'll need their cooperation. Hell, I'll need a lot of their people. I'll need the help of experts from the National Security Agency.”
“I wanted a tough sonuvabitch with a hatful of brains who wasn't worried about getting another star,” the president said. “The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, CNO, the army chief of staff, they tell me you're my man.”
Jake didn't reply to that comment. While he had never worked to earn a promotion, getting another one wouldn't hurt. Yet the president of the United States just said that the military chiefs thought another promotion unlikely. Thank you, sir. Thank you, thank you.
“Someone will bring some paperwork to your apartment in the morning,” the president continued. “A copy of the appointing document will go to the director of the antiterrorism task force, and the directors of the FBI and CIA. Tell them what you want in the way of people and offices and support. Your budget will come from the CIA.”
“Who in the CIA or FBI don't you trust?”
“I didn't say that.”
“I feel like I'm on the high wire without a net.”
The president's face showed no expression. “We don't have a choice, Admiral. We're in a war we didn't want and didn't start. By God, we're going to win.”
“If you trust me enough to give me this job, then trust me enough to tell me all of it.”
“I've told you what you need to know. Use good judgment and common sense and go where your nose takes you.”
Jake Grafton thought it over as the car rolled along, and he looked at the people on the street, men, women, and children from every racial and ethnic group on the planet.
“I'd rather go to Afghanistan,” he murmured, “hunt down bin Laden and his thugs.”
“You may end up there, Admiral. I don't have a crystal ball.”
Jake grinned. “Okay, Mr. President. I'll give it a try. You and I may spend our retirement years in prison, but by God, we'll hit the bastards a hell of a lick between now and then.”
The president extended his hand. “They said you were the man.”
“If you don't mind, sir, how about letting me out at the
next corner? I need to do some thinking. I'll walk for a while and catch a cab later.”
next corner? I need to do some thinking. I'll walk for a while and catch a cab later.”
“Fine,” the president said, and pushed the button on the intercom to talk to the driver.
Jake Grafton got out of the car and didn't look back. He was on the Mall near the National Air and Space Museum.
He broke into a trot. For the first time in months, he felt good.
Yeah, it's a war. And war is my profession.
He jabbed his fist in the air and increased the pace.
Miguel Tejada had never liked the plains. He had grown up in Sonora and for the last ten years had lived in Los Angeles. Western Kansas had no resemblance to either. The plains rolled gently away in all directions as far as the eye could see. Overhead clouds were building, but even at this time of the spring, it was too dry to rain. Tejada knew about clouds in dry air.
He was in the lead vehicle, a sedan, sitting in the passenger seat. The man at the wheel was named Luis, and in the backseat cradling an Uzi was a man named Jose. These weren't their real names, but they were the names Miguel knew them by. There were two more men in the van behind them, Chico and Chuy.
They were two miles along the old road, driving carefully along the cracked, broken asphalt, when they topped a low rise and saw the old airfield. It was an abandoned World War II army air corps base. The runways formed a triangle. Weeds were growing up through the cracks in the asphalt. The only building still standing was the control tower, which stood on the edge of a giant parking mat, one that sprawled over at least five acres beside the north-south runway. Sitting at the foot of the tower was a tractor-trailer rig, an eighteen-wheeler.
Luis slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the hole in the rusting wire fence.
“Parate ahÃ!”
Miguel said. He used the binoculars to inspect the truck. No sign of the driver. He scanned the tower. The glass was gone from the windows, birds were perched on the window ledges, so the man wasn't in there. Hmm â¦
Miguel said. He used the binoculars to inspect the truck. No sign of the driver. He scanned the tower. The glass was gone from the windows, birds were perched on the window ledges, so the man wasn't in there. Hmm â¦
He looked all around the airport, taking his time. No other vehicles, no people in sight. He looked at the fields of green wheat that stretched away in all directions. Also empty.
“Marchate!”
he said, and Luis put the car in motion, threading his way through the hole in the fence. Miguel could see the ruts the truck had made going through.
he said, and Luis put the car in motion, threading his way through the hole in the fence. Miguel could see the ruts the truck had made going through.
If he didn't know this guy, Miguel would have been more cautious, but he had done business with him twice before. He was a long-haul trucker who occasionally added marijuana or cocaine to his load, buying it here, selling it there. Today he had ten kilos of cocaine.
The man has probably been driving all night, Miguel thought, and is asleep in his tractor.
Miguel had Luis pull up in front of the control tower. Luis killed the engine and all three men got out of the car. The cold wind had a bite to it.
Chuy stopped the van behind them. He and Chico got out, took their time looking around, then walked over to the truck. The wind whipped at Miguel's thin trousers. He zipped his jacket shut.
He heard a thud and a grunt from Jose, who was behind him, and turned in time to see him fall, just as the sound of the shot reached him. Jose's weapon clattered on the asphalt.
“
Vámonos!
” he roared, and started for the car. Something slammed into his right leg and he went down. The shock and pain were so bad he didn't even hear the shot. He began crawling.
Vámonos!
” he roared, and started for the car. Something slammed into his right leg and he went down. The shock and pain were so bad he didn't even hear the shot. He began crawling.
Luis jerked open the car door and threw himself behind the wheel. The engine roared into life just as the driver's window shattered and blood spattered the windshield. The engine roared mightily, but the car didn't move.
Miguel kept crawling, cursing.
He heard another shot, then seconds later another.
The hell of it was that he didn't know where the shooter was. Behind him, he assumed, because of the way the driver's window shattered. But maybe not.
When Miguel reached the dubious safety of the car he crawled under it, dragging his injured leg. He was hit bad and knew it. Blood was soaking his trouser leg, he was leaving a streak of it on the asphalt. He tried not to think about his leg. Somehow he managed to get his jacket unzipped and the Glock out of its holster. It felt good in his hand.
Where the fuck was the shooter?
“Chico!”
No answer. Given the wind and the hum of the car engine, Chico would have had to shout to be heard.
“Chuy! You see the bastard?”
One of them was lying on the asphalt, his weapon beside him. Chico maybe.
There was so little room under the car that Miguel couldn't turn, couldn't go backward or forward. Shit!
Another shot, and a scream. The scream wavered on the wind and finally died as the screamer ran out of air. When it came again, it was more shrill.
Making a superhuman effort, Miguel managed to extricate himself from under the car. He backed out and was looking at the mess that had been his leg when a bullet ricocheted off the asphalt under the car and hit him in the lung. He dropped the Glock.
As his blood pressure dropped he found himself staring at the mud on the car tire. That was the last thing he saw.
The screams had ceased when the shooter approached the car fifteen minutes later. He carried a Remington Model 700 with a scope in the ready position. He took his time, approached each man carefully, ensured that he was dead.
One man, Chuy, was still alive. He had ceased screaming. Only his eyes moved.
The rifleman backed off twenty feet, took careful aim at Chuy's head, and shot him again. The head exploded.
When he was sure that all five of the men from the car and van were dead, the rifleman cradled his rifle in his arms and lit a cigarette.
He collected the weapons from each man, opened the trunk of the car, and pulled out a pillowcase full of money.
Five pistols, three submachine guns, a shotgun, and $200,000. A good day's work.
The rifleman loaded the weapons and money in the back of his tractor, behind the seat, and started the diesel engine. When it had warmed sufficiently, he eased the transmission into gear and got the rig under way.
Nooreem Habib was a modern Egyptian woman. She had spent much of her youth in England, where she attended private school. Her father was a progressiveâhe sent her to an academically challenging school for girls, where, among other things, she learned a great deal about computers.
Just before graduation the headmistress had called her in for a private interview. “Miss Habib, you have a fine mind and have been an outstanding student. What do you plan to do with your life?”
“Return home to Egypt,” she explained. “Marry an acceptable man. This is what my father wishes me to do.”
“You have crossed a great cultural divide in the last few years,” the headmistress observed. “Will the life that you describe be enough?”
“It is what my father wishes.”
“There are those in the Arab world who feel that murder in the name of Allah is their holy duty. Do you feel that way?”
“No,” Nooreem Habib said curtly and forcefully. “Those people pervert Islam. They are enemies of the human race.”
They talked for several hours, not as student and headmistress, but as two adult women. The upshot was that the lady gave her a telephone number. “If you ever feel
that you know something that you must share, call that number.”
that you know something that you must share, call that number.”
Her father had an account at Walney's and had done business with Abdul Abn Saad from time to time, so when she wanted a real job, she got one at the bank. In the back office. As a bookkeeper, making meticulous entries in huge, bound ledgers. She felt like a clerk in the illustrations of one of the Dickens books, wearing the eyeshade, writing all day ⦠The only thing she lacked was a stool. And she needed one.
Then last year Walney's got around to purchasing computers. Soon Nooreem Habib was heavily involved in making the transition from ledgers to computerized records. She was intellectually challenged for the first time since leaving school, and she enjoyed it immensely.
She remembered that she had the telephone number six months into the computer project. When the bank's cash flows and wire transfers were sorted electronically, patterns emerged. Nooreem Habib was a very bright woman, and she recognized the patterns for what they were. Walney's was transferring money around the globe for terrorist organizations. Knowingly or unknowingly. Instinctively she knew not to discuss her observations at the bank, but she called the number that the headmistress had given her four years earlier.
One day a woman passed her a Minox camera and six rolls of film in a bus on the streets of Cairo. A note inside the camera told her where and how to leave the film after it was exposed. She used the camera to photograph computer printouts, then wrapped the exposed film roll in a candy wrapper and left it behind the toilet paper dispenser in the ladies' room.
Nooreem had never heard the name Janos Ilin, had never seen him, and didn't know her contact, the person who serviced her drop. The fact she knew nothing to tell if she were caught was not lost upon her.
Sometimes she wondered who received the financial information that came from the bank records. The British,
she supposed, MI-5. Whoever they were, they were enemies of the terrorists, as she was.
she supposed, MI-5. Whoever they were, they were enemies of the terrorists, as she was.
She had only one roll of film left, certainly not enough for the vast mountain of transactions that she thought needed to be sorted through for the patterns that she knew were there. Today in a quiet moment she began downloading critical files onto a compact disk. She filled the CD with file after file until the computer said it was full. Only then did she remove it from the computer.
Later that morning when she went to the rest room, she took the CD along and tucked it into the space behind the toilet paper dispenser.
The morning after his ride with the president, Jake Grafton broke the news of his assignment to Toad Tarkington when he arrived at the office. Jake had already been there for an hour.
“You're kidding!” Toad exclaimed. “Find the bombs?”
“I have got an interview in a half hour with the director of the CIA, and an hour later, the director of the FBI. I suspect that half my time is going to be spent in meetings with people from all over government, so that means you are in charge of getting the work done.”
“Whew!” Toad said, still trying to come to grips with Jake'sâand hisânew assignment. “Where do we start?”
“With office space and a staff. And computers and a budget. I want people working tomorrow morning.”
“Who?”
“You and Tommy Carmellini for starters.” He looked at his watch. “The first thing, I think, is to find out what everyone knows about the hunt for the bombs. And what the FBI is doing about Mr. Doyle.”
“I thought you said the president just asked you to find the weapons?”
“He did. Presumably the FBI will take care of friend Doyle, but I've got this feeling. Ilin linked the bombs and Doyle together, if only by discussing them both in the
same conversation. The commander in chief gave me a lot of authority, so I'm going to use it.”
same conversation. The commander in chief gave me a lot of authority, so I'm going to use it.”
“Why not?” Toad muttered. He was beginning to see the dimensions of this mess. “You're going to be out there on the tightrope all by yourself, aren't you?” he demanded. “Without a net.”
“Oh, no. You're going to be right there beside me, shipmate, all the way across. If we make it, we'll probably get adjoining cells in some ritzy federal penitentiary.”
“There's a happy thought,” Toad said without enthusiasm.
The director of the Central Intelligence Agency was a tall, portly man, almost bald, named Avery Edmond DeGarmo. He and Jake had crossed swords before. His round, jowly features wore a frown as Jake entered his office, which Jake knew from past experience to be DeGarmo's usual expression. He looked like a man who rarely heard good news.
This morning the director had the president's letter on his desk. Jake knew because he had been kept waiting in the reception area while DeGarmo called the White House, confirming the authenticity of the letter.
“At it again, I see, Grafton,” DeGarmo said testily.
“At what again, Mr. DeGarmo?”
“Charging off to save the republic.”
“I didn't ask for this assignment.”
DeGarmo made a rude noise.
“I would think that you would welcome all the help you can get to find those missing Russian warheads.”
“Amateurs mucking up the water won't help much,” DeGarmo snapped. “If I thought they would, I'd have called Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Jake was losing his patience. He and DeGarmo had first butted heads a year ago when USS
America
was hijacked and Jake assisted in the investigation. DeGarmo apparently thought that the less the public knew of the inner
workings of the intelligence bureaucracies, the better. Certainly better for the bureaucrats, Jake reflected. “The president appointed me, and we're both stuck with it,” he said dryly. “I'd like a look this afternoon at everything this agency knows about the weapons and where they might be. I want to see every file.”
America
was hijacked and Jake assisted in the investigation. DeGarmo apparently thought that the less the public knew of the inner
workings of the intelligence bureaucracies, the better. Certainly better for the bureaucrats, Jake reflected. “The president appointed me, and we're both stuck with it,” he said dryly. “I'd like a look this afternoon at everything this agency knows about the weapons and where they might be. I want to see every file.”
“I guessed as much.”
“I want a personal commitment from you to actively assist in my investigation.”
“Are you implying that I would do less than my duty?”
“I've been ordered to find those weapons. I intend to do just that. You can help in every way possible, or I'll run right over you, Mr. Director, and leave you bleeding in the road. The choice is yours.”
Avery Edmond DeGarmo's finger shot out as he leaned across his desk toward Jake. “I was appointed to this post by the president of the United States and confirmed by the United States Senate. You will get all the cooperation this agency can give you, I promise you that. And if you screw up, Admiral, I guarantee that you will never hold another position of trust in the United States government as long as you live.”
Jake Grafton stood. “If we don't find those warheads,” he said evenly, “there may not be a United States government.”
Before DeGarmo could respond, Jake walked out of his office.
In the outer office, Jake retrieved his hat from the coffee table and nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn't handled that interview well.
Off to a fine start,
he thought.
Off to a fine start,
he thought.
Toad had rounded up a car and driver for Jake, so he rode to the FBI building in style. After credentials checks and a trip through a metal detector, he was led through long halls and into elevators. Eventually he ended up in the director's office.
The director was Myron A. Emerick, who had spent his career in the FBI. He was, as Jake knew, the insider's insider, a man who had ruthlessly worked the system to get to the top.
Emerick was waiting at the door to shake Jake's hand when he came in, then seated his guest in a black leather chair. “Good to meet you, Admiral. I've heard your name many times through the years.” He took a seat on a leather couch to Jake's left. It was an intimate setting, yet Jake had to turn his head about forty-five degrees to talk to the director. Jake got out of his chair and turned it so that it faced Emerick, then sat down in it again.
Emerick's executive assistant sat to the director's left with a legal pad on his knee and a pen in his hand. Two other men were there, Emerick's top two deputies. Jake was introduced and shook hands, then promptly forgot their names.
“I got the president's letter this morning,” Emerick said earnestly. He was a slim, athletic man of no more than 150 pounds, balding on top, with the rest of his hair cut very short. The top of his head was as tan as his face and hands. Today he was wearing an expensive dark suit and a yellow silk tie. Jake suspected that Emerick worked outâracquetball, probablyâevery day of his life. A photo of his wife and college-age children was displayed prominently on his desk.
“ ⦠The FBI will do everything in its power to cooperate, Admiral,” Emerick was saying, “rest assured of that. Still, as an attorney and official of this government, I think it important to warn you of the minefield you are apparently about to enter.”
“At the order of the president,” Jake said carefully.
“Ben Franklin was the man who pointed out that those who trade liberty for security end up with neither.”
“I appreciate that truth, sir. I am not a fascist.”
“I am not implying anything of the kind. As I understand it, reading between the lines, you are going to ride roughshod over the privacy safeguards carefully erected
in American society over the centuries for the admirable purpose of catching wild-eyed terrorists. Is that a fair characterization?”
in American society over the centuries for the admirable purpose of catching wild-eyed terrorists. Is that a fair characterization?”
“Something like that,” Jake acknowledged.
“Regardless of what the judges say, the right against self-incrimination is designed to protect the guilty, not the innocent. Nor is the right of privacy intended to protect people with nothing to hideâit, too, protects the guilty, all those people who break the law or violate social mores by lying on resumes, loan applications, or financial documents, having secret or homosexual affairs, enjoying pornography, cheating on their income tax, using illegal drugs, doing all manner of little things they don't want their spouses or neighbors or the church or the police to find out about. The world is full of guilty people, Admiral, and they'll burn you and the president at the stake if you misuse what you learn.”
“That's terrific, sir. I'll wear my asbestos longhandles, the ones with the flap in back. Obviously I wanted to meet you, let you know who I am, but the one concrete thing I hoped to accomplish this morning is find out what the intelligence committee and the FBI plan to do about Richard Doyle. As you will recall, he was the CIA officer named by Janos Ilin as the Russian spy.”
A strange look crossed Emerick's face. “Haven't you heard? We're investigating his disappearance.”
Jake was stunned. “Disappearance?”
“Disappeared last Friday night. Drove off in the family minivan while the wife was showing a houseâshe's in real estateâand the kids were at a high school football game, and he hasn't been heard from since. His wife called us about five the next morning. She was pretty upset. His minivan was found parked behind a bankrupt fast-food joint in Tysons Corner.”
Jake shook his head to clear it. “Any sign of violence?”
“Not so far. The forensic people are going over the van. Right now it looks as if he merely parked his vehicle there, locked it, and left.”
“And you don't know where he went?”
“We don't knowâthat is correct.”
“Money?”
“Doyle's wife said he didn't have over forty dollars cash on him. She saw his wallet when he gave her a twenty just before she left. Doyle has written no checks and hasn't visited a cash machine. We've canceled his credit cards, even though no one has tried to use them. His wife is really franticâeither she's an Academy Award-winning actress, or she really doesn't know where he went or why.”
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