First Team (41 page)

“How are they getting it?” asked Corrigan.

“Uh, aren’t you working on that?” said Thomas.

“I was just wondering what you had found from your end,” said Corrigan, his faith in the new man starting to slip.

“They have bought two forklifts,” said Thomas.

“Who?”

“Allah’s Fist. They’re in Chechnya.”

“Are you sure? Bin Saqr is supposed to be dead.”

“Ha-ha.” Thomas had a quick, tight laugh, as if it were powered by a pneumatic drill. “No. There’s absolutely no evidence that he’s dead. He just hasn’t showed up anywhere. And two companies that were associated with his organization in the past still exist. There are other connections. A Pakistani scientist named Zedian. And the hospitals—there’s a real connection there. They’ve collected and diverted material from cancer-treatment wards. It’s gamma-wave generators, mostly low-level, but if there were enough of it—a matrix, see, with all sorts of different wastes together. You explode it in a bomb, there’s stuff all over the place, and it’s a real bitch to clean up.”

“Let’s focus on the problem,” Corrigan said. “Where is Bin Saqr now?”

“Good question.” Thomas scratched his side with his folders. “The evidence points to Chechnya, but that’s a big place.”

“We need a place where the SF team can make a pickup,” said Corrigan. “Colonel Van Buren has a couple of suggestions, but we want to make sure there are no guerrillas there. Or Russians, for that matter.”

Corrigan handed him a piece of paper with the names of three villages written phonetically.

“These are in Chechnya?” Thomas asked, looking at the names.

“The spelling may not be correct,” said Corrigan. “They were former Russian bases that were abandoned. I think there may be a civilian field in there. Anyway, check them out and see which would be closest to those coordinates at the bottom, where Ferg is. When you’re done with that, let’s put together a theory on what the delivery system would be. Truck bomb? Ship?”

“UFOs,” said Thomas.

“UFOs?” said Corrigan, so incredulous he couldn’t say anything else.

“I recognize one of the names, I think, from a UFO sighting,” explained Thomas. “I didn’t mean they were using a UFO to drop the bomb.”

“Oh,” said Corrigan, still unsure.

Thomas thought he sounded disappointed.

“If it were UFOs, we’d really have trouble, right?” he said brightly. His suspicions about Corrigan were confirmed—his new boss was a believer. God had finally smiled on him.

“We’ll figure it out. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” said Thomas, snapping the paper in the air. He turned and practically ran out of the room as Corrigan rubbed his forehead, worried that Debra Wu’s assessment was too kind by half.

~ * ~

2

TASHKENT, KAZAKHSTAN, NEAR THE BORDER WITH

KYRGYZSTAN—SEVERAL HOURS LATER

Corrine gave the binoculars to Rankin and got out of the car, stretching her stiff back. She missed her workouts. Who would have thought that this job actually involved more sitting than her old one?

It isn’t my
old
one, she told herself. She was
still
the president’s counsel.

Rankin got out of the car. “Fresh truck of Russian troops,” he told her, gesturing with the binoculars. “We ought to get ready.”

Corrine nodded. The train had been met by a contingent of uniformed Russian border guards near Kzyl-Orda. They had added two flatcars at the very end of the train, boarding them and riding along. Obviously, the Russians were worried about something, though they, too, had missed the action.

“I have the next few stops mapped out for us,” Rankin told her. “The tracks parallel the road for a ways, and we can use the transceivers to keep tabs. Little town about ten miles from here where we can quick grab something to eat—there’s a long stretch with no sidings or any possible stops, so it’ll give us some leeway.”

“Yeah.”

“You down about the missing boxcar?” he asked.

“You could call it ‘down.’”

“At least we figured out what they’re doing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You were right about following the train. We can’t expect to pull it all together in one shot. Nobody does that, not even Ferguson.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” she said, walking around the back of the car. “You drive.”

~ * ~

uns called her on the sat phone just as they parked at one of the spots Rankin had picked out for a food stop.

“Lost it totally. Massette thinks they took the trucks north, because the road connects in that direction, but anything’s possible. What do you want us to do?”

There was no one right answer, Corrine realized—it wasn’t like she could pull down a few law books, find some precedents, and present an invincible argument. Whatever she told them to do would be open to second-guessing and interpretation.

As were Ferguson’s decisions on the original mission, Corrine realized.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” McCarthy would have said—his point being to
do something.

“All right,” Corrine told Guns. She could see the train pulling up an embankment ahead. “Figure out the most likely route to Chechnya. At the moment it’s our best bet for a destination. Consider that they probably would prefer to drive at night over decent roads where they’re less likely to be stopped. It’s a wild-goose chase, I know, but it’s better than sitting around with our thumbs in our noses. I’ll tell Corrigan what’s going on and see if they can supply any information that will be useful. In the meantime we’ll see if the survey of the satellite photos has turned up anything.”

“You sure you don’t want us to come and back you up?”

“No,” said Corrine. “I think the theft has already been made. Stay in touch,” she said, hitting the kill button.

Rankin pulled open the passenger door and got in, filling the car with a strong odor.

“Some sort of cabbage bilini thing,” he told her. “It was the only thing that sounded edible.”

Corrine was too busy to argue the point. The train had rounded the curve and was out of sight. She pulled back onto the road ahead of a slow-moving bus, accelerating quickly. It didn’t take long to get the train back in view.

“Want some?” asked Rankin.

“It smells hideous.”

“It doesn’t taste as bad as it smells.”

“Gotta make a phone call first.” She juggled the phone in her hands, hitting the preset to connect to the Cube sit room. As she did, the wheels slipped off the pavement; she nearly lost the phone regaining control.

“We want to stay in one piece,” Rankin said.

“Preferably,” she said, glancing at him. She started to laugh.

“What?”

“You have cabbage on your chin.”

“Just camouflage,” he said, wiping it off.

Corrigan, meanwhile, was asking what was going on.

“I’d like Mr. Ferguson to set up some surveillance at the border areas of Chechnya,” Corrine told him after a brief summary of the situation. “I don’t know what extra resources we can spare, but at the moment that’s the most logical destination.”

“Um,” said Corrigan.

“Um?”

“Uh, I think you’re probably right about that being the likely destination,” said Corrigan. “Did Ferg talk to you?”

“No.”

“He’s already in Chechnya.”

“I thought he was waiting for us to find something.”

“He had a lead he was working on. I was under the impression he was going to tell you about it himself.”

“Mr. Ferguson did not inform me,” she told Corrigan. Corrine felt her face flush. “Connect me with him.”

“You can probably do that yourself.”

“Now.”

The line clicked. There was static, then another series of clicks. Finally, a ring. Then another, and another.

“Ferguson,” said a voice at last.

“Mr. Ferguson. Where the hell are you?” Corrine asked.

“Yeah, good question,” he told her. “According to the map, the town we’re near is called Vedona, except that I think there’s supposed to be a diphthong in there somewhere. I saw a sign, but the letters were upside down. Whatever its name is, the Russians burned it to shit a year ago, so we’re more here than there.”

“Why are you in Chechnya?”

“Same reason you’re in Kyrgyzstan,” he told her.

“I want you to set up some surveillance along the border area.”

“Can’t,” he told her. His voice was so cheerful he could have been talking about a ski holiday. “Following a couple of leads with a promising source.”

“What source would that be?”

“You don’t really want to know,” said Ferg.

“Tell me now.”

“Daruyev.”

It took her a few moments to remember who he was talking about.

“The Chechen the Russians arrested for the dirty bomb plot? You spoke to him in jail?”

“Kinda.”

“You went to a Russian prison? They’re cooperating?”

“That would probably be an overstatement,” said Ferguson.

“You didn’t break him out of jail, did you?”

“You know, Counselor, I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“You were not authorized to do that. You weren’t even supposed to be in Chechnya.”

“Look, I have a mission,” said Ferguson. “The way this works is, I do my job until Slott tells me to stop. How I execute is up to me.”

“I’m in charge now, not Slott.”

“So?”

“I’m in charge now,” she repeated.

“My original orders haven’t been rescinded.”

“Consider them rescinded,” she told him. “You can’t just go off on your own.”

“Look, there’s no way you could have approved this, right? Because you’re a lawyer. I just did us a massive favor,” Ferguson told her.