Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (7 page)
“His passport?”
“Canceled. We've done all the routine things. Every policeman in the country is looking for Doyle. So far, false alarms only.”
“Does DeGarmo know about Doyle?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I had an interview with him an hour ago, and he never mentioned the guy's name.”
“Maybe he assumed you already knew.”
“Maybes don't cut it anymore,” Jake growled, and shifted his weight in his seat. “So what about Doyle's office?”
“We're going through his desk, his files, his computer. His wife gave us permission to search their house. She also let us borrow the family computer so we can look at the hard drive.”
“Any way to find out if he's in Russia?”
“If he's there he didn't go on his own passport. I promise you that.”
“Friday night?”
“That's right.”
“About twenty-eight hours after I met Ilin in New York.” Jake took a deep breath. “I want to know the name of every person in the United States government who knew that Friday night that Ilin had mentioned Doyle's name. The list couldn't be that long.”
“We're investigating. I asked for that list on Monday. As soon as I get it I'll send you a copy.”
Jake nodded. “Okay,” he said, “let's talk about terrorists and nuclear weapons.”
An hour later, when Jake left, Myron Emerick dismissed his executive assistant and waved his hand at his deputies, Hob Tulik and Robert Pobowski. He seated himself behind his desk; they took the chairs immediately in front of it.
“You didn't tell him about the suspected terrorist cells we're tracking.”
“He didn't ask,” Emerick answered curtly. “The bureau got caught with its pants down by the September eleventh terror strike. It isn't going to happen again.”
Emerick had a limited number of agents. Those agents still had all the usual federal crimes to investigate, plus security investigations and counterespionage duties, all of which had now taken a backseat to the hunt for possible terrorists. God knew there were enough of them. The United States had been scattering student visas around the Arab nations for many years, and the INS had no way to track the students once they were in the country. Tens of thousands of tourists arrived daily at the nation's airports. Illegal aliens walked across the Mexican and Canadian borders daily, and like the tourists and students, disappeared into the American maelstrom. Finding those on terrorist missions was akin to cleaning the Augean stables, a task for Hercules. Then cases had to be built, ones that would justify arrests and prosecutions.
Like every military branch and law enforcement organization in the country, the FBI's responsibilities exceeded its assets. Emerick and his deputies had risen to the top because they had learned through the years to pick the responsibility that was the most important to the bureau's clientsâthe public, press, and Congressâand work the system to get visible results. Arrests got made and the charges stuckâi.e., those arrested were successfully prosecuted. And the FBI got the credit.
Now Emerick told his colleagues, “J. Edgar Hoover didn't build the bureau by doing the work and letting local police make the collar. We investigate, build the cases, and we bust'em. The world hasn't changed that muchâif Grafton gets the credit, the bureau is going down the ceramic convenience.”
Tulik nodded. “We don't catch'em, the press and Congress are going to start asking, Do we really need an FBI?”
“They're asking it now,” Pobowski said sourly. “Did you see this morning's
Wall Street Journal
?”
Wall Street Journal
?”
“We have a job and we're going to do it,” Emerick said. “The friggin' politicians can send Grafton to chase anyone they want, but the FBI will still be here when he's whacking little white balls around some golf course.”
The two lieutenants nodded. Emerick was preaching to the choir.
“Four nukes are coming in,” Emerick continued, all business now. “That's our working thesis. The people who are going to receive the weapons are already here and making plans. What are we getting, Hob, sixty, eighty calls a day about possible terrorists?”
“Yes, sir. At least that. Usually more. They're seeing them in every convenience store and motel.”
Emerick nodded. “Police work one-oh-one: we have to sort out the good leads and follow up. I want these sons of bitches found before the bombs arrive. Sit on âem, wire'em up, wiretap, infiltrate, whatever we have to do. Then we arrest them with the bombs.
In their possession!
Shoot videotapes to give to the press. I want the bastards red-handed and sewed up tight. No asshole lawyers are going to get'em off. Understand?”
In their possession!
Shoot videotapes to give to the press. I want the bastards red-handed and sewed up tight. No asshole lawyers are going to get'em off. Understand?”
Pobowski and Tulik did. The bureau was going to get the credit, not Jake Grafton or his collection of amateurs. They believed body and soul that the nation needed the FBI; by God, it wasn't going to die on their watch.
Just before lunch that day Tommy Carmellini's department head called him into his office. “Tommy, I hope you
aren't too busy just now because the folks at the antiterrorism task force have asked for you by name. They've got the priority, so you're going. They said they'd like to have you tomorrow morning. It'll be temporary duty; they didn't say when you'll be back.”
aren't too busy just now because the folks at the antiterrorism task force have asked for you by name. They've got the priority, so you're going. They said they'd like to have you tomorrow morning. It'll be temporary duty; they didn't say when you'll be back.”
Carmellini was used to temporary assignments. Some days it seemed as if half the people in government wanted bugs planted or someone burgled. He took a deep breath, discussed who might run his branch while he was gone. The department head agreed that Carmellini's assistant could run things for a while.
As he stood up to leave, Carmellini asked, “Who called from the task force, sir? I didn't know that I was on Rolodexes over there.”
The boss consulted his notes. “A naval officer, a rear admiral named Grafton.”
Uh-oh, Carmellini thought. He knew Jake Grafton. The navy didn't use him to push paper. Oh, he was a nice enough guy, but he was always up to his eyeballs in the smelly stuff.
He found Grafton in the basement of one of the newer buildings on the CIA campus, installed in an SCIF, which was a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a cage designed to prevent electronic emissions from leaving the area. Toad Tarkington and a secretary, just assigned, were cleaning up the space and supervising the arrival of office furniture.
“Hey, Toad,” Carmellini said, looking around at the mess.
“How are you?” Toad responded.
“Hanging left today. How about you?”
“Just hanging. These boxes are full of office supplies. Grab one.”
They had most of it stowed when Jake Grafton came in. He was in whites and looked tired, Carmellini noted.
He waved Tommy and Toad into a vacant cubbyhole and closed the door.
He waved Tommy and Toad into a vacant cubbyhole and closed the door.
“Okay, guys,” he said, and proceeded to tell them everything he knew about the bombs and his new assignment. He also filled them in on the disappearance of Richard Doyle. “I don't know that Doyle and the bombs are related, but there is no way in the world that Doyle's disappearance is not related to Ilin's tip. Twenty-eight hours after Ilin pronounced his name, he's gone.”
“Off to Russia?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the FBI will come up with somethingâthey're investigating.”
“How'd your meeting with the FBI director go?” Toad asked.
“He told me frankly that good intentions don't mean shit in this town.”
“Hell, Admiral,” scoffed Tommy Carmellini, “I could have told you that.”
“Your boss, DeGarmoâ”
“Ah, you mean the great Avery Edmond. Known affectionately among the troopsâor as they refer to them in the executive suite, the little peopleâas âA. E. DeG.' That's the way he signs his initials. He's a truly sick man. A mind that twisted would make a shrink's career if he could get his hands on him.”
“Sick or not, Avery Edmond doesn't like amateurs.”
“I've never really fit in here at Langley,” Carmellini said dejectedly. “I don't have the professional career outlook to be a good spook. Alas, I, too,
am
a loathsome amateur. My heart is pure.”
am
a loathsome amateur. My heart is pure.”
Tarkington made a retching noise.
“Can a missile warhead be made into a bomb?” Carmellini asked.
Jake thought about what he wanted to say before he spoke. “If the right expert works on it, I assume that he could rig up a wiring harness, timers, batteries, all of it. The person who could rig it to work as advertised would be a weapons professional, an expert.”
“What about taking the plutonium out of the warheads, using it as a pollutant with some kind of conventional explosive, like a truckload of fertilizer?” Toad asked. “Is that possible?”
Jake sagged in his chair. “Plutonium is the deadliest substance known to man. Anyone who cracked a warhead would need a clean room, body suits, containment devices for the plutonium, scrubbers, all of that. They'd have to have a well-equipped lab or they would be dead within minutes after they got to the plutonium. If they mishandled the stuff, it could go critical on them right in their hands.”
“Probably be dead of radiation poisoning if they didn't do all the work in lead vaults,” Carmellini suggested.
Jake took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “If I were doing it, I'd be afraid to crack the warheads. Why bother? Packing conventional explosives around a warhead and setting it off would result in a conventional explosion that would spray microscopic bits of plutonium over a huge area, a dirty bomb. The harder the wind was blowing when it went off, the worse the contamination would be. It'd be nearly impossible to clean up. The half-life of plutonium is something on the order of a quarter of a million years. It would be the worst ecological disaster in the history of the world.”
Carmellini whistled softly. “A dirty bomb or a nuclear explosion.”
“Those are the options.”
“Two hundred kilotons apiece,” Toad said softly.
“Right.”
“Sweet Jesus!”
“This assignment is going to be like charging hell with a bucket of water,” Tommy Carmellini remarked. “This would be a great time for me to ask for a transfer to Australia. You know, I hear the beaches there are all topless and the women love Americans.”
“Less fallout there,” Toad observed. “But if I were you, I'd buy a ticket to Mars.”
“Man, if I could put the fare on my American Express card, you could color me gone.”
When Tommy Carmellini unlocked his apartment door and carried in his small bag of groceriesâa six-pack of beer, a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheeseâhe didn't immediately turn on the lights. He walked to the kitchen and flipped on the light in there. He helped himself to a beer from the six-pack, then stowed his purchases in the refrigerator.
With beer in hand, Carmellini walked out into the living room and turned on the floor lamp by the couch. As he stood sipping the beer, he sensed something was wrong. He froze. Listened.
His eyes roamed the room. Then it hit him. Things were slightly out of position, as if they had been moved. This lamp he had just flipped on was two inches closer to the wall than usualâthe circle on the carpet gave away the position change.
Someone had been here. Or was still here.
The apartment was not large. In seconds he verified that the bedroom, bath, and closets were empty.
Things were subtly adrift in the bedroom, too. His books, his clothes, the shoes in the bottom of the closet ⦠everything had been stirred slightly.
Carmellini went into every room, inspected everything.
Nothing appeared to be missing. The windows were intact and closed.
He went back to the apartment door, inspected the lock carefully. They had either used a key or picked the lock.
He finished the beer and sat on the couch in the living room, staring at the blank television screen. What was here that anyone would want?
No money, no drugs, no classified documents ⦠He owned a computer, a sound system, and a television, and all three items were still sitting in plain sight. He went
into the nook he used as an office and went through all the drawers of the desk. Files, piles of paper, letters, bank statements, bills, all of it was apparently there, although all of it had been pawed through.
into the nook he used as an office and went through all the drawers of the desk. Files, piles of paper, letters, bank statements, bills, all of it was apparently there, although all of it had been pawed through.
Carmellini remembered the pistol in his sock drawer ⦠he went into the bedroom and looked. Yep, it was still there, along with a box of ammunition. Shirts, suits, underwear, jeans ⦠everything seemed to be there, yet the closets and drawers were not as neat as he left themâhe was certain of that. His CIA ID card and building pass were in his pocket, as was his wallet containing his credit cards and driver's license.
Had someone bugged the apartment? If so, why, for Lord's sake?
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