Primary Target (1999) (30 page)

Macklin's anger showed in his eyes. "Another reason to turn the screws on Moscow and Tehran."

"I couldn't agree more."

"What else from Ms. Gunzelman?"

Prost frowned and took a deep breath, then let it out. "To her knowledge, Farkas and Ramazani have personally been charged with the responsibility of assassinating you, or facing death themselves." He paused, letting the full weight of his words resonate.

"Well, that sure tops off a swell day," Macklin said sarcastically.

Prost spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. "Ramazani an
d
Farkas have solid reputations for achieving their goals. We can't discount them."

The president's imagination was stimulated. "Give me the whole story, and don't filter anything."

"We have to assume that Farkas and Ramazani are indeed spearheading a highly concerted effort to kill you," Prost said in a steady voice. "We've already seen what Farkas is capable of doing, and Ramazani is considered to be even more bold and clever. Working alone, they are very good at what they do. Working as a team, they have the potential to accomplish anything that Shakhar wants them to accomplish." Macklin calmly blew a smoke ring into the warm night air. "What do you recommend?"

"The same thing I recommended before."

"I'm not leaving the White House," the president announced defiantly.

"That's fine," Prost fired back. "However, if something happens to you, I'm not going to look in the mirror for the rest of my life and know that I was derelict in my duties." "Consider your duty fully discharged," Macklin said, painfully conscious that Prost was right.

Restless, Hartwell spoke in a subdued voice. "One last thing," he said slowly, and paused. "Shakhar has reportedly sent a Hiroshima-strength nuclear bomb to the U
. S
."

Macklin's expression took on a stunned look. "Well, you certainly saved the best for last."

Prost remained unperturbed.

A sudden moodiness settled over the president. "He obviously got it from the Russians, so the real question is where did he send it and what does he plan to do with it?" "According to Ms. Gunzelman, it's onboard a large motoryacht at their base of operations in the Florida Keys. Unfortunately, she doesn't know anything about the yacht, except she believes it's over one hundred feet long." "What's their plan?"

"She thinks they're going to take the yacht up the Potomac to Washington and blow D
. C
. flatter than a Kansas wheat field."

"The hell they will," the president said harshly, then softened his tone. "I want this to be your number-one priority. Use whatever resources you need, but get to digging on this."

"Yes, sir."

"Find that yacht!"

"With your permission," Prost went on, "I want to keep this under wraps. I don't want people running in circles and alerting the media."

Macklin's brow furrowed. "You have a point there." "Before we get anyone else involved," Prost suggested, "I'd like to ask Dalton and Sullivan to see what they can come up with. I want them to comb every inch of the Keys from the tip of the mainland to Key West."

"Do what you need to do," Macklin said dryly. "I want results, and I want them now. They have seventy-two hours--not one hour longer--to produce something of significance, or we'll do it a different way."

"Understood."

"One other thing," the president said stiffly. "Let Sullivan and Dalton know about the nuclear bomb--the possibility that a nuke may be on the yacht."

"Yes, sir," Hartwell said, then cast a look at the Secret Service agents. "Mr. President," he said with a sudden change of heart, "may I have a private word with you on another subject?"

Macklin looked perplexed. "Hartwell, you know you can be candid with me. What is it?"

"Sir," Prost said with a deep sigh, "what I have to say to you must be in private. I trust you understand."

Hovering in the background, one of the agents spoke before Macklin could respond. "Mr. President, we'll be inside if you need us."

"I appreciate it," Macklin said, a keenness in his look. He waited until the men were out of hearing distance. "Should I have a stiff drink first?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Prost began with sadness in his voice. "I had planned to sleep on this before I discussed it with you, but I've come to the conclusion that it can't wait."

A sudden tautness claimed the president's expression. "Lay your cards on the table," he said with a wary voice. Prost hung his head, then looked up. "According to Ms. Gunzelman, we do have a leak in the White House." Taken aback, the president's face hardened into a dark frown. "That's a very serious charge."

A long silence followed, which neither one wanted to fill. Macklin took a long pull on his cigar and walked to the railing. "You better come clean with me. Who is it?"

"She doesn't know. She's heard Shakhar refer to his 'contact' in the White House, but she doesn't know who it is." Deeply troubled by the disturbing news, the president turned and faced his close confidant. "What do your instincts tell you?"

Eyeing each other in the soft glow, both men felt the strain of silence.

"Sir, I have to be honest."

"Go on," Macklin demanded.

"I've noticed a subtle change in Fraiser."

The blunt statement shocked the president. "You better explain yourself, and it better be good."

"As you know," Prost began, somewhat tiredly, "Fraiser has a propensity--a desire to live above his means."

"The point?" Macklin demanded in a thickened voice. "He recently purchased an expensive country estate near Charlottesville." Prost kept his expression bland. "And, last week, he took delivery of a new Lamborghini Diablo roadster."

The president's expression remained impassive. "If he can afford the payments, it's certainly none of our business." "Sir, his government salary is his primary source of income."

Macklin studied his cigar for a moment. "Hartwell," he said with a look of impatience, "I know Fraiser isn't the most frugal person in the world, but I'm sure he's been investing wisely for a number of years."

"Wisely enough," Prost countered with icy calm, "to pay cash for a two-point-three million country estate, and a quarter-million dollar sports car to park next to his '99 Ferrari?"

Macklin stared at him in confusion. "You're positive about this? You checked it yourself?"

"I'm positive."

The president's face reflected a sense of bewilderment. "For the time being, we'll keep this to ourselves."

Prost quietly nodded.

"Before we do anything else," Macklin continued, "I want the FBI to check into this."

"I agree."

The president's eyes bored into Prost. "First thing in the morning," he said with a sharp pitch in his voice, "we'll have the director over for a chat."

In silence, Prost walked to the balcony railing and cast a glance over the grounds. "I hope there'll be a reasonable explanation."

"So do I," Macklin said as he turned to his friend. "It's been one helluva day. How about joining me for a nightcap?" "Thank you, sir," Prost said in a hushed tone. "I could use one."

Chapter
29

The Florida Keys
.

B
asking in the warmth of the sweet breezes, Massoud Ramazani watched the sun dip into the turquoise-and-
e
merald waters. While day slowly faded into twilight, the tranquil bay of the small island was tinted a coral pink. In the distance, a gleaming white yacht slowed as it approached the expansive private dock. Walking barefoot through the soft, white sand, Ramazani crossed the narrow beach and walked to the end of the wooden pier. He was fascinated by the graceful lines of Bon Vivant. The magnificent 126-foot Broward motoryacht was equipped with digital satellite television, twin satellite-communications suites, and an Aerospatiale Gazelle helicopter sitting on the renovated upper sundeck. Sporting a fresh coat of paint, the revamped vessel looked like a new ship.

While the captain edged Bon Vivant next to the dock, Named Yahyavi, Khaliq Farkas's trusted assistant, acknowledged Ramazani while he and the helicopter pilot studied the tiny island.

Surrounded by a man-made coral breakwater and a cement seawall, the lushly tropical compound consisted of an open and airy four-bedroom home and two spacious guest cottages. Totally self-contained, the residence was equippe
d
with a twin generator system and a backup portable generator, solar heat, and bottled gas for cooking.

Less than a mile from the mainland, the home was close to a small airport that could accommodate most corporate jets. Secluded and quiet, the residence provided security and cover for Ramazani's terrorist cells. The former owners were pleased to learn that the real-estate auction firm they retained had sold the property to a retired banker from Pittsburgh. Massoud smiled with pleasure when he thought about the role the yacht would play in their assault on the U
. S
. and their primary target, President Macklin. However, Yahyavi's upcoming trip to Atlanta with Farkas took precedence in the schedule of events. By declaration of Bassam Shakhar, Farkas and Yahyavi would have the first opportunity to become heroes to anti-American groups worldwide.

After Bon Vivant was secured to the dock, Ramazani went aboard and greeted Yahyavi and four handpicked three-man special action cells. To a person, the men smiled broadly and exuded a sense of warmth and friendliness to everyone. Dressed in attire ranging from expensive suits to blue denim work clothes, the highly skilled teams would use portable antiaircraft missiles to create chaos in the U
. S
. airline industry. Farkas would bring the weapons with him in the Citation, then cram Yahyavi and two of the three-man cells into the jet and drop the missileers near their targeted airports. Fifty-eight other cells would be operating from Los Angeles, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Seattle, Minneapolis--St. Paul, Oakland, Chicago, Newark, Detroit, and Washington, D
. C
.

Off to the side of the special action cells, three "throwaways" were standing together. The vacant look in the men's dull eyes left no doubt about their fate. Although they were not very intelligent, the men were as dedicated as World War II Kamikaze pilots to their mission of self-sacrifice. They only needed to be aimed in the proper direction.

Ramazani was surprised when Bon Vivant's unsmiling captain grimly eyed him. Tall, with deeply set blue eyes and blond hair, the man was a walking portrait of a crusty Nordic sea dog. Paid a princely sum for shepherding the yacht across the unpredictable Atlantic, the retired cruise-ship captain was anxious to return home. His apprentice first mate, a membe
r
of the Iranian Revolutionary Guardsmen, would take over as the captain of Bon Vivant.

"Follow me," the skipper said curtly as he motioned to Ramazani.

While Yahyavi gathered his belongings from his small stateroom, the potbellied captain escorted Ramazani through a mahogany-paneled formal dining room to an elegant king-size master stateroom.

"'Ave a seat," the skipper said coldly, then knocked on a cabin door and walked out of the room.

Smothering his disdain for the captain, Ramazani sat down next to an open wooden crate containing six AK-47 semiautomatic rifles. The Chinese-made weapons were accompanied by twelve thirty-shot magazines. A moment later a stocky, bearded man with tobacco on his breath walked into the stateroom.

Silently, the former director of the MINATOM Defense Complex at Arzamas-16/Sarov, Russia, opened the double doors leading to the teakwood-trimmed sitting room. Without ceremony or emotion, Sergey Plekhanov unlocked and removed the top of a suitcase-size container. Inside, a thermonuclear bomb was securely mounted in steel straps. Plekhanov, abandoned by his military sponsors, had dismissed his unpaid guards and walked away from the nuclear weapons complex with the powerful weapon. Fearing the worst for his family, he buried the bomb under a dilapidated factory, then gathered his wife and daughter and escaped from Russia during a blizzard. Networking with colleagues who were working on nuclear projects in Iran, Plekhanov and his family made their way to Bushehr, Iran.

Two weeks after leaving Russia, Plekhanov met with two of Bassam Shakhar's agents who struck a deal with him. He gave them a map and detailed instructions to the location of the weapon. A month later Shakhar had a powerful nuclear bomb to use on the Americans and Plekhanov and his family moved into a comfortable apartment in Bushehr.

Transfixed by the sight of the weapon, Ramazani was momentarily at a loss for words. I can't believe it's here.

"I show you how to detonate bomb," the Russian scientist announced in an impatient voice. "Then I leave you to your work."

The Permit Expres
s
The tedious, painful process of stabilizing Greg's condition had consumed the better part of thirteen hours. Afterward the ship's male nurse prepared Maritza and Greg for the long flight to the U
. S
. With the patients resting comfortably in the cabin of the LongRanger, Jackie and Scott waved at the ship's crew, then she lifted the helicopter from the pad and transitioned to forward flight. Navigating by GPS, she set course for Athens and climbed into the hazy Mediterranean sky.