Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (8 page)
He didn't look for bugs. Tommy Carmellini spent a significant fraction of his working life planting bugs in other people's homes, cars, and places of business, and he knew how devilishly difficult properly planted bugs were to discover. It was possible that the bugger was an amateur, or incompetent, or both. Or perhaps the bugger wanted him to know the bugs were there.
The second possibility was more likely. The person who planted the bugs wanted him to search and find some. Eventually he would abandon the search, concluding that he had found all the bugs, which would not be the case. Carmellini occasionally used that technique himself on paranoid subjects.
So who would want to know what Tommy Carmellini said in his own apartment? He had friends in occasionally to watch football or play poker, and several times a woman had spent the night ⦠but Lordy, who would want to listen to that?
It was a mystery, he decided. He turned on the television and flipped the channels, looking for a ball game.
The following evening Tommy Carmellini took a sensitive electronic device home from Langley. He had borrowed
it from a man in another division who owed him a favor, so no record had been made of the loan. As he removed it from its case and tested the battery, he again wondered why anyone would want to bug his apartment. What could be said here that would be of interest to anyone?
it from a man in another division who owed him a favor, so no record had been made of the loan. As he removed it from its case and tested the battery, he again wondered why anyone would want to bug his apartment. What could be said here that would be of interest to anyone?
True, he had been a thief in his younger days. He and a friend had taught themselves the finer points of burglary and safecracking. They had stolen diamonds, then fenced them to a jeweler who recut them and sold them from his store. The jeweler had been a piece of work, advertising that he went to Antwerp and bought diamonds wholesale and sold them cheaper than his competition because he cut out the middleman. And he did go to Antwerp and buy diamonds. And Carmellini and his friend provided more diamonds, cheaper ones than the diamond merchants in Belgium.
Then Carmellini's friend was busted and sold him to the feds. Carmellini had been in his last year of law school then. Fortunately the feds offered a dealâif he would work for the CIA, they wouldn't prosecute. It was, as they say, an offer he couldn't refuse. He was still with the CIA in charge of a branch that specialized in breaking and entering, mostly in foreign countries and, even though it was illegal, occasionally in this country when the FBI requested expert assistance.
The heck of it was he enjoyed his work. He liked the challenges of burglary when he was stealing diamonds and he enjoyed cracking safes around the world to photograph the contents now. He was paid a reasonable salary and enjoyed the travel. Of course, he had thought of resigning from the CIA and getting back into burglary ⦠and one of these days he might.
Tonight he used the wand, which was an antenna, to look for the telltale energy that microphones emit. He quickly found two, one in the living room and one in the bedroom. He left them right where he found them.
He turned off the sweep gear and repacked it in its case. He would return it to his friend in a few days.
Carmellini opened a beer from the refrigerator and stood gazing out the window as he sipped it. Four nuclear weapons. Missing.
Jake Grafton, he decided, would not have bugged this apartment. He had worked with the admiral before and felt certain Grafton trusted him. If Grafton didn't, he wouldn't have asked for him by name or included him in brainstorming sessions. On the other hand, Jake Grafton was nobody's fool. Maybe â¦
Augh! He was overthinking this. He had worked with the spooks in the labyrinth too longâhe was starting to think like them.
Whoever planted those bugs wants something, he decided. They expect to hear something on the bugs that they want to know.
Carmellini went back to the kitchen and tossed a TV dinner in the microwave. When it was warm, he took it to the living room and turned on the television. He flipped channels until he found a ball game.
I hope they like basketball,
he thought, and attacked his dinner. He didn't think about basketball, however; he thought about bombs.
he thought, and attacked his dinner. He didn't think about basketball, however; he thought about bombs.
Ivan Fedorov pointed the sniper rifle at the small warehouse three hundred meters down the street and stared at it through the night-vision scope. That was the warehouse where Frouq al-Zuair and his friends had parked the truck that they had driven more than fifteen hundred miles from central Asia.
Fedorov had the handguard of the Dragunov sniper rifle resting on a rolled-up blanket on the crumbling brick wall atop the building he was on. He pulled the rifle in against his shoulder, made sure the rubber eyepiece of the scope was against his face, and panned the rifle up and down the street, which was lined with ramshackle warehouses, shacks, light industry, and junkyards. There were no streetlights in this district adjacent to the Karachi airport, so the street was fairly dark at this hour of the night. No one moving that he could see.
“Nothing,” he muttered to Zuair, who was sitting on the roof beside him with his back to the wall. A bundle lay beside him, something rolled up in a blanket and secured by strings.
The Egyptian was obviously worried. The warheads were still on the truck, and he couldn't drive the truck to the dock where the
Olympic Voyager
was loading until tomorrow night. “We can't load them aboard the ship until it has loaded its cargo and is ready for sea,” the man in
Cairo said. “Bribes have been paid for the officials to look the other way at the last minute. If we push too hard, the authorities will be forced to take notice to protect themselves.”
Olympic Voyager
was loading until tomorrow night. “We can't load them aboard the ship until it has loaded its cargo and is ready for sea,” the man in
Cairo said. “Bribes have been paid for the officials to look the other way at the last minute. If we push too hard, the authorities will be forced to take notice to protect themselves.”
Zuair hadn't mentioned this conversation to Fedorov, of course, but he had hired him and two other Russians to guard the warehouse with sniper rifles, which he had supplied. “My men know how to fire assault rifles and throw grenades,” he had told Fedorov, “but they are not snipers. I wish to hire you and your friends to guard the warehouse.”
Naturally Fedorov had asked what was in the warehouse. “Weapons,” he was told, “in a truck.” Nothing else.
Fedorov had bargained hard. Zuair had agreed to his price, which was a hundred dollars American for each of them for four nights' work. The Egyptian thought that Fedorov and his friends deserted the Soviet Army in Afghanistanâand Fedorov was not about to tell him he was wrong. Nor did he mention the fact that he had never been a sniper.
This evening he was working, playing the role. He had fired a Dragunov once, years ago. When handed the weapon he managed to open the battery compartment on the night-vision scope and check the battery for corrosion. It still had a charge and the sight seemed to work properly. He inserted the ten-round magazine in the rifle and chambered a round, ensured the safety was engaged. Zuair had watched. Fortunately he didn't fumble too much or drop the rifle. Now he was earning his hundred dollars watching an empty street.
“You don't really think anyone will assault the warehouse, do you?” he asked the Egyptian, who didn't bother to answer.
The monotony was relieved only by the passage of an occasional vehicle. After a few minutes spent looking toward the warehouse they were guarding, Fedorov shifted position and used the scope to glass the buildings and streets right, then left, then behind. He took his time, examined
everything, then started all over again.
everything, then started all over again.
The Russian was systematic and thorough, which were good qualities in a soldier, Zuair reflected. He also asked too many questions.
No, he did not think it likely that any of the militant Islamic groups would attempt to assault the warehouse. They knew that eight men were inside the building with the warheads. A force sufficient to kill them might also damage the weapons. What Zuair feared was an ambush when he tried to drive the truck away. He was hoping that Fedorov and his friends would spot anyone moving into position on this street and were good enough shots to kill at these distances. Better to pay a mercenary who could shoot than pray with a brother who could not.
This warehouse district was the most likely place, the Egyptian reflected. Not many witnesses, the truck would be moving slowly in the narrow streets, and after it was over, the weapons could be transferred to another truck and driven away.
A hijacking on the crowded streets leading to the docks seemed less likely, he reflected.
Perhaps he had figured it wrong.
He looked again at his watch, the hands of which were luminescent. Two-fifteen in the morning. This was the third night on this roof. Tomorrow night the truck would move.
He would have bet money that an attempt would be made. Too many people in the militant community knew of the weapons. Having four nuclear warheads would catapult any group that had them to instant credibility.
Glory. They all wanted glory.
Frouq al-Zuair hadn't believed this plan would amount to anything when he had first heard it. Plots, conspiracies, plans that came to nothingâhe had had a lifetime of those. He was not told what the leaders of the Sword of Islam planned to do with the weapons, only that they had a source and money to buy them. He had become a believer when he saw the money. Two million American
dollarsâit was a fortune beyond the dreams of avarice. With such a fortune a man could live like a sultan with a compound in a major city, with wives, prestige, and position. On the other hand, if a man used the money to buy warheads to wage
jihad,
he could earn a place in paradise for all eternity. Frouq al-Zuair was a true believerâhe knew life was short and eternity was forever. The man from Cairo knew who he was, which was the reason he was selected for this mission.
dollarsâit was a fortune beyond the dreams of avarice. With such a fortune a man could live like a sultan with a compound in a major city, with wives, prestige, and position. On the other hand, if a man used the money to buy warheads to wage
jihad,
he could earn a place in paradise for all eternity. Frouq al-Zuair was a true believerâhe knew life was short and eternity was forever. The man from Cairo knew who he was, which was the reason he was selected for this mission.
To lose the weapons now would be ignominy. The brothers would think him a traitor to God. Better death than that.
To be on the safe side, he had hired Fedorov and the other two. While the Russians were infidels, they had lived here for many years and ran errands occasionally when asked. They always demanded small sums for their time and risk, which was reasonable, and they performed as promised.
If Fedorov did betray the brotherhood, Zuair would kill him. He had a knife in his belt and a loaded pistol in his pocket for that very purpose. He had never threatened the Russian, but of course the man knew.
Indeed, Ivan Fedorov did know that Zuair would execute him if he got the slightest hint that the Russian had sold him out. He knew it because he knew these fanatics. He had spent ten years getting to know them, working his way into their confidence. They would kill a nonbeliever as quickly as they would a mongrel dog, and with as much remorse. Fedorov moved his head back from the black rubber eyepiece for a moment and glanced at the Egyptian. Even in this dim light he could see that he had one hand in his coat pocket. Fedorov would have bet his life that there was a pistol or grenade in that pocket.
Fedorov was not worried. He had lived with the possibility of murder for seventeen years. He was an officer in the SVR. He had come to this part of the world when the First Chief Directorate of the KGB was the foreign intelligence arm of the Soviet state. He spoke the language,
was accepted by these fanatics as an expatriate renegade, a minor dope smuggler, and he reported everything he could learn of their activities to his superiors in Moscow. If these raghead sons of bitches had an inkling of the truth, he would have been dead years ago.
was accepted by these fanatics as an expatriate renegade, a minor dope smuggler, and he reported everything he could learn of their activities to his superiors in Moscow. If these raghead sons of bitches had an inkling of the truth, he would have been dead years ago.
Unfortunately tonight he was on thin ice. He had never served in the military and never killed a man. Zuair's offer of a job was an opportunity to work his way deeper into this dangerous group of fanatics, who he knew had purchased weapons from a rogue general in Russia. A rare opportunity if he could act the part.
Could he kill a man with this rifle? Hold the crosshairs steady while he squeezed the trigger? If he shot and missed, Zuair would not be happy. He had no way of knowing if the rifle was properly sighted. Even with the crosshairs dead on his target, he might miss; with Zuair standing beside him with a pistol. Just thinking about that eventuality made him perspire.
He hefted the long rifle and moved to the other corner of the building, to scan the street in the other direction.
The
Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova,
the SVD or Dragunov rifle, was unique in that the wooden stock had a large cutout in it to keep it light, and a pistol grip that allowed him to wrap his right hand completely around it. A soft rubber cheekpiece was glued to the top of the stock. The rifle was a semiautomatic that fired a 7.62Ã54 cartridge with every squeeze of the trigger. Other than the fact the cartridge was rimmed, it was roughly equivalent to the 7.62 NATO round used by the West. The lengthy action and slender twenty-two-inch barrel with attached muzzle brake made the Dragunov a long, elegant weapon, yet the stock cutout helped keep it light, for a sniper rifle. No doubt Zuair and his friends had obtained these three from Afghanistan.
Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova,
the SVD or Dragunov rifle, was unique in that the wooden stock had a large cutout in it to keep it light, and a pistol grip that allowed him to wrap his right hand completely around it. A soft rubber cheekpiece was glued to the top of the stock. The rifle was a semiautomatic that fired a 7.62Ã54 cartridge with every squeeze of the trigger. Other than the fact the cartridge was rimmed, it was roughly equivalent to the 7.62 NATO round used by the West. The lengthy action and slender twenty-two-inch barrel with attached muzzle brake made the Dragunov a long, elegant weapon, yet the stock cutout helped keep it light, for a sniper rifle. No doubt Zuair and his friends had obtained these three from Afghanistan.
Ivan Fedorov wiped his palms on his trousers and scanned the street with the night-vision scope yet again. He was desperate for a cigarette, yet was afraid to light one.
Zuair got up once to relieve himself in a corner, then resumed his seat. He let Fedorov do the looking, which was wise. The fewer heads moving about on top of this building, the better.
Another hour passed.
Fedorov was beginning to hope that nothing would happen, when he spotted a truck creeping without headlights slowly down the side street opposite the building, heading this way.
He spoke to the Egyptian, motioned to him to come look.
Zuair was beside him when the truck stopped short of the intersection. In the scope Fedorov could see the glow of the engine's heat. The range was only about fifty meters; as he aimed the rifle his head and shoulders must extend well above this wall and be silhouetted against the night skyâeasily visibleâif the bad guys just bothered to look.
“This may be it,” he murmured. God, he hoped it wasn't! At that location, he was the only Russian who would have a shot. If he left any of these men alive, they might hunt him. He remembered in exquisite detail the dark stairway that he had climbed to the roof, the wooden doors leading off the three landings. He had to go down that stairway to get off this roof.
A man got out of the passenger door of the truck cab, walked slowly to the corner, looking around. Fedorov could see him plainly in the scope. “One man, no uniform. No visible weapon.” The man flattened against the building, eased his head around the corner to look down the street at the warehouse.
This corner fronted on the only street out of this district. This idiot Zuair had a hideout on a dead-end street! Terrorists were like that, Fedorov well knewâcunning and murderous and sometimes amazingly stupid.
“He's going back to the truck,” he whispered, his eye glued to the rubber eyepiece. The soft rubber atop the stock felt hard against his face. Behind him he could hear
Zuair doing something. He looked back. The Egyptian was unwrapping the bundle.
Zuair doing something. He looked back. The Egyptian was unwrapping the bundle.
Fedorov concentrated on the picture through the scope. His hands shook and his breath came quickly, as if he were running. The entire picture in the scope quivered. He rested the handguard of the rifle on the wall before him to steady it.
“He's reaching into the truck ⦠other men getting out. They are armed! Four of them.”
“This is it!” Zuair hissed.
“Watch this! This is pretty neat,” the technician said. He used a trackball to zoom the camera in on a couple walking out of Union Station. The images were displayed on a giant vertical monitor mounted against the wall. The zoom continued until the faces of the man and woman filled the monitor. They paused and embraced, and she said something to him.
“I don't read lips,” the technician said wistfully, “but, boy, if I did!”
Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington were standing in the command center on the fifth floor of the District of Columbia police headquarters. The technician was showing them the camera system that monitored public places throughout Washington. “We have over two hundred cameras installed and more going up every day. The new ones are digital, merely broadcast a signal, so there are no wires. The cameras are expensive, but the installation is cheap. We just install them on light poles or rooftops or cornices, wherever we can get electrical power to them, and control them from here.”
The video feed from the cameras was displayed on dozens of monitors stacked like boxes against the wall. Then there were the large, thin plasma monitors, a wallful of movie screensâJake stood mesmerized as he watched the intimate moment outside Union Station.
The couple kissed tenderly, then the woman walked
toward the cab stand. The man watched her go. The camera followed the woman.
toward the cab stand. The man watched her go. The camera followed the woman.
Jake turned and surveyed the command center. He countedâthere were forty video stations angled around the wall of floor-to-ceiling screens. The FBI and CIA both had command stations here. The officer in charge sat in a soft armchair on a raised platform beside a teleconferencing screen.
“We are set up to do crowd control from here,” the technician said. “Dozens of cameras monitor public places. We are installing two hundred cameras in the school system, over two hundred in the Metro stations, and a hundred more to monitor traffic. The merchants in Georgetown are installing cameras at their own expense. It won't be long before there are cameras in every public place in the city.”
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