Edge of Apocalypse (45 page)

After looking at each of the agents, Levko's face erupted into a purple rage. He made a fist and screamed several Russian profanities. One agent grabbed the flashlight and ran into the container, followed by the other agent.

The beam lit up the inside of the container nicely. They could see the chemical toilet. The generator. Some scattered bits of unfinished food rations. A few magazines.

But Atta Zimler had vanished.

SIXTY-NINE

"Your wife's an incredible person. We've all fallen in love with her here at the center. And she's done an excellent job with her recovery."

Margaret, Darlene Rice's counselor, was sitting across the desk from Fortis Rice. He had become a familiar face. He'd been traveling down to Tucson to see Darley on each of the visiting days at the Living Waters Recovery Center. He shouldn't have been surprised that her stay seemed to him to have been a long one. When he was a judge he would occasionally sentence a defendant to drug rehab as a condition of probation. He knew the routine. But back then it was a matter of cold, objective administration of justice. It was a case file on his bench. He'd issue the order and forget about it until the case came up again.

But this time it had intersected right through the center of his life. This time it was his wife. He was still trying to get his head wrapped around that fact.

"And your support for Darley has meant a lot to her," she continued. "I just know that's true, Fort."

Rice said, "She's different...quite a different person. Not totally, of course. But in ways that a husband notices."

"That's what happens," Margaret said, "when a person encounters God. Your life changes. You start heading in an exciting new direction." She paused and then added, "I know you were cautious at first...the fact that we were a Christian-based recovery center."

"Yes, I was." Then he thought about that for a moment. Fortis Rice had always been deliberative. Maybe that was what his professional peers meant when they talked about his "judicial temperament." Then he added, "But then I'm open to being proven wrong. In this case, I think I may have been overly suspicious."

Margaret smiled and stood up. She noticed Darley outside the glass door, waiting for her husband.

"There she is," the counselor said. "I'll let you go."

The two of them shook hands, and then Rice strode out into the lobby to greet Darley.

She had a big smile waiting for him, and she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss, a hug, and then another kiss.

"Oh, Fort, it's so long between visits. You look like you've dropped some weight. I can't wait to get back home and make you some homecooked meals. I'll make you that pot roast you love. With boiled potatoes. With that special recipe for the gravy."

She led him out to the glass-enclosed atrium, where they would usually visit. She loved it there. It was filled with huge cactus and blooming plants and had a panoramic view of the desert and the mountains.

They talked for more than an hour. Mostly about mundane things in their lives. But every so often Darley would say something, and Fort would zero in on it mentally, making a note to himself, though he wouldn't verbalize it right away.

As when Darley commented, "I'm responsible for my own changes that need to be done in my own life. I can't put that on you."

Not that Fort ever thought that he had been in charge of his wife's life, not in that way. It was just that he had just seen it as his job to manage things. Make decisions, that's all. Someone had to do that, right? But maybe there were changes that had to be made there too.

As Darley talked, Fort took the time to listen, really listen. And to study his wife. There was a glow in her face just then, and he thought back to how they first met. She was attractive and fun, and so full of life.

And she still was. Fort leaned over, put his arm around her, and said, "I love you. What you did here took courage. I'm proud of you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't see what was going on in your life. Not until it had gone too far."

Darley flashed a huge smile, rolled her eyes a little, and started tearing up.

When they were nearing the end of the visit, Fort mentioned that he needed to call Joshua Jordan.

"How's he doing in the hospital?" she asked. "That poor family. What a scary thing they had to go through." Then she added, "Tell Abby I got her letters. I love that girl. Can't wait to hug her to death and talk her ear off when I'm out of my anti-pill prison here!"

When they said good-bye, Darley cried a little and said how much she missed their home. And she asked how her houseplants were doing.

Out in the parking lot, Fort Rice dialed up Joshua Jordan, who'd just been discharged from the hospital the day before. The two men caught up on a lot of things, Joshua's recovery, the crisis at Grand Central Station, and, of course, the Roundtable.

"I sent you a package," Fort Rice said.

"It's sitting right here with all my other mail that's piled up," Joshua said. "But I haven't opened it yet."

"You'll want to read it. And share it with the Roundtable. It's a copy of a deposition transcript that was sent to me by a lawyer friend of mine. Long story short--it's part of a lawsuit brought by the families of several people who were killed in the melee in New York City when that talk-show host, Ivan Teretsky, blurted out over the air that Manhattan was about to be nuked. The suit is against Teretsky and his radio network. But you need to start reading at page one hundred and forty-five."

"Why?"

"It's the testimony of a guy named Lance Porteau. He was the live-in boyfriend of a Lana Orvilla, the White House chief of staff for Vice President Jessica Tulrude."

"Oh, this sounds interesting..."

"The plaintiffs' lawyers were trying to figure out who telephoned Teretsky and spilled the beans about the North Korean missiles headed our way. So they looked at a list of the radio program employees. One of them was a radio engineer by the name of Reggie Orvilla. He's the brother of Lana Orvilla. It so happens that Lana was in the briefing room with the vice president when the missile alert went out. She panicked and called the radio station, thinking she was calling her brother to warn him, but it was the studio line, and Teretsky picked up and heard it all. Well, this gets better...in the White House situation room, Lana Orvilla had heard the vice president say that she knew that the RTS system would be used. She didn't object to it at all. And Tulrude was yelling at the Pentagon brass saying that she was speaking for the president. That Corland supposedly approved of everything she said."

"That's a hundred and eighty degrees opposite of what the White House told Congress...that they
didn't
authorize the use of RTS..."

"Exactly."

"And this Lance Porteau guy..."

"Lana Orvilla told him everything. So it can't be protected with executive privilege."

Joshua went silent as he was putting this all together.

Then he said, "We've got to get this out on AmeriNews."

"I figured that. I see your media plan is doing fantastically, everybody's talking about it..."

"Our
media plan," Joshua said. Then he asked, "But why was Tulrude speaking for the president during a national crisis?'

"That's the big mystery. Nobody knows. Not yet."

Later that day, in the nation's capital, a small, closed-door meeting took place in the West Wing of the White House. This was an unusual conference, perhaps even bizarre--even by Washington standards.

Hank Strand, President Corland's chief of staff, was confiding in the vice president. What he had to say was arguably a breach of ethics, certainly of protocol and probably illegal. But Strand was worrying about his political and professional future. In Washington, that often trumps everything else.

Strand appeared calm, but his voice was lowered and clearly stressed. "They finally have a diagnosis."

"And?"

"Something called 'transient ischemic attack.'"

"That's what causes the president's blackouts?"

"Right. Usually people with that disorder are really old. It's a little tough to diagnose. Which is why it took the medical gurus so long to figure it out. But in any case, the president really isn't old enough to fit the usual profile..."

"So?"

"Well, there's only one other suggestion for why he's developed that condition."

"And?" Tulrude wanted the punch line.

Strand took a second to set the stage.

"You know, Madam Vice President, that the president would fire me in a heartbeat if he knew I was telling you this."

Jessica Tulrude leaned forward and patted his hand. "Don't worry, Hank. This is a safe place. I'll protect you."

Hank Strand had just heard the magic words. So he answered the vice president's question. Strand said, "Drug use."

Tulrude gave a startled look like she had just seen a protester enter her office holding a pie in one hand.

"Drugs? What kind of drugs..."

"Nothing you can get from your local pharmacist, let's just say that."

A string of profanities flew out of Tulrude's mouth.

Hank Strand waited for the smoke to clear. Then he spoke up again. "I think, Madam Vice President, this can all be managed. You've already been doing a masterful job of taking over. Pulling the strings. I admire that. The president knows he can't run again. Not with this lurking in the background. You'll get the nod for the nomination. Now all we have to do--you and I--is make sure no one on God's green earth ever finds out about this drug thing. At least not until after the election. When you're elected the next president of the United States. And I'm your next chief of staff."

Tulrude was eying Hank Strand. She was nodding. He was smiling. Strand could see this was going fairly well. The two of them could do some very effective damage control together.

Strand was now thinking,
This just might be the beginning of a wonderful friendship...

SEVENTY

Two Months Later

In the region called Krasnodar Krai, nestled in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains, three men had gathered in a well-guarded mansion belonging to the Russian Federation. In times past it had been one of Stalin's secret neoclassical resort palaces, with a spectacular view of the Black Sea. But in recent years Russia had been using it for discreet meetings. Like this one. The men were now alone in an oak-paneled library. All the doors had been shut.

One of them was Ivan Kranstikov, a silver-haired physicist, former KGB agent, and the head of the Russia's tactical nuclear-assessment unit within the FSB. Yet he didn't have the disheveled look of a scientist. He was elegantly dressed. Nor did he have the tough bluntness of a former Russian counterintelligence officer. But he was that too. All of which made him a uniquely valuable asset in Russia's global blueprint.

The second man was dressed simply in a black suit with a collarless white shirt. He was Hasan Rashmanadhi, the chief arms negotiator for Iran.

Last was a short, stocky, humorless fellow in a bland uniform. Po Kumgang was the political overseer of North Korea's nuclear program.

Kranstikov offered his guests some Russian tea. When they declined he got down to business.

He described their meeting as an "extraordinary melding of common interests." Then he began reciting the current situation: Russia had been saddled with the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty and the Geneva and Lisbon Protocols. Under international pressure it had been forced to close--but did not destroy--its plutonium production facility. Russia still had an enormous stockpile of nuclear weapons, but they were all aging or obsolete, and all of them were under intense international scrutiny.

Then he turned to Po Kumgang. "It must be remembered that we supplied your country with its first nuclear reactor."

"Old history," the North Korean spit back. "That was decades ago."

"And your promises to us regarding weapons," Rashmanadhi pointed out, "have never been fully satisfied."

"Then it's good we three are talking," Kranstikov said. "To bind us together in a common pursuit."

"Which is what?" the Iranian asked.

"Russia has the technological experience and know-how in nuclear weaponry. But," he said with a sigh, "there are disadvantages to world leadership. There are many eyes on us. On the other hand, your countries, North Korea and Iran, have successfully played the game of cat and mouse. You have both begun admirable uranium-enrichment programs and plutonium production against all odds. You are to be congratulated. Yet you both have certain lacks. Iran lacks strong missile-delivery systems and is relatively new to this technology. Russia can help with that. North Korea cannot launch long-range nuclear weapons. Russia can provide that. In short, we can lend you both a high degree of technical assistance to bring your nuclear weapons programs to the highest levels."

"And what is it that Russia lacks?" Rashmanadhi asked.

The Russian smiled.

He knew what it was that Russia wanted. But he wasn't going to spell it out. Not yet. Rashmanadhi had already told him privately that Iran wanted to launch a devastating and decisive nuclear attack against Israel. Moscow knew that Russia's secret assistance with that deadly project would earn it the everlasting cooperation of all of the oil-producing Arab nations.

So instead of the unvarnished truth, Kranstikov gave them diplomatic platitudes but frosted with a tasty hint of the bottom line. "We want a nuclear partnership with both of your countries," the Russian said.

"What about Return-to-Sender?" Po Kumgang cried out, jutting his arms out to both sides.

Kranstikov understood his concern. North Korea desperately wanted revenge against the United States for the attack on its ship when it was decimated by its own nukes. It wanted to strike America, but it was still concerned about Joshua Jordan's RTS missile-defense system.

"There are ways," he said, "of accomplishing your desired nuclear aim against America without having to worry about the RTS shield."