Rogue Threat (42 page)

What did he need those communications platforms for? The long-distance equipment was state-of-the-art and would allow him to talk to anyone in the world who had a similar piece of equipment and the correct encryption technology.

The last two pictures were even stranger than the others. They were photos of a document written in Chinese and a sketch of a ship. She studied each photo, the Chinese characters unfamiliar to her.

She saw a single line of English letters which read Top Secret, Special Category on the very bottom of each page in fine print.

Flipping back to the sketch, she could see it was a cargo ship. But it had a long, narrow aisle drawn down the middle of its deck, almost like a road.
Curious
, she thought.

China, Iraq, Colombia? Huh
, she moaned to herself.
What could it mean? Why would Hellerman be at the center of this coalition? They had been seriously concentrating on the Rebuild America project. Could this be his way? Let an attack on American soil wipe out the apathy and reunite the country in popular defiance?

She lay on the bed, the men with top hats staring at her from the comforter. She was exhausted from all of the physical and mental activity of the last twenty-four hours and began to fade, her instincts trying to keep her awake. She had a firm grasp on some decisive information.

But perhaps it could wait.

It would have to.

Chapter 48

Northern Virginia

Vice President Hellerman struggled out of the bathroom. He had spent the last hour washing his face and cleaning the mace out of his eyes. He was slowly recovering from a drugged, drowsy feeling and could see, though his vision was a bit cloudy.

He had dressed in khakis and a sweatshirt with tennis shoes. He moved slowly but purposefully down the steps into the kitchen and through the door leading to the basement. Negotiating those steps, he was encouraged when he saw the lock on the hasp.

He pulled out his key and unlocked the door.
Has she been down here?
Everything appeared to be in order. He opened the file cabinet, and all of the files were where they belonged. In fact, there was nothing that seemed to be out of place.

Not a single item appeared to be amiss. Had she been telling the truth about changing in the kitchen? Perhaps he had been a bit scary the last few days, he figured. Maybe she did feel threatened by something he had done.

He looked at the televisions, the maps, the chart boards, and the computer. He leaned over and pressed the button to turn on his computer. He waited for it to boot up, which it usually did fairly quickly. He saw that the monitor screen was still blank, so he pressed the button again. Still nothing.

He lifted the laptop and immediately saw that the hard drive was missing. His heart sank. She had his hard drive. That was a big problem.

Everything he had done in the last fifteen years was recorded on that hard drive. He had scanned old notes and copied them in PDF format. Also, he had copied old floppy disks and CDs onto thumb drives and then had consolidated everything onto this one hard drive. After copying them, he had destroyed all of the notes, papers, disks, and drives. But having backup was not the issue.

He immediately grabbed his secure satellite phone and hit a memory button.

“Bandit, this is Rawlings,” he said, using his call sign that referred to the baseball maker.

“Rawlings, this is Bandit. How nice to hear from you.”

“I need you to track down Meredith Morris. You’ve got a file on her with her address, home phone, and cell phone numbers, as well as some of her closer friends. She has something of mine, a hard drive, which I need back.”

“Sounds simple enough. Do we need Miss Morris back?”

The voice was eerie and unnerving to Hellerman. He pictured the delight with which this particular individual enjoyed killing. He paused and thought of Meredith, then spoke. “No, Miss Morris’ presence is not required.”

“Fine and dandy. I’ll call you soon. I presume you need your computer up and running shortly?”

“Tonight. No later than tomorrow. Got a big project I’m working on.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, if you have to find her using CallScan, then do it. It’s that important,” Hellerman said.

“My, that is important. Will do.”

Hellerman hung up the phone. Having just ordered Meredith’s death was enough to make his weakened body tremble. He felt like he might vomit, but then regained his composure.

What is one more death in this quest for national unification?
he thought. Meredith had served her purpose as both a sexual diversion and someone to keep him company as he developed his plan. He picked up his cell phone and called Alvin Jessup, who he knew was probably sitting in a car at the end of the driveway.

“Alvin, I need you to find Miss Morris. She may be in a bit of trouble, and we need to get her back here on the compound.”

“Yes, sir. She left about an hour and a half ago. We’ll find her,” Alvin said.

“Thanks, appreciate it. It’s pretty urgent,” Hellerman said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when we’ve got her.”

Hellerman shut his phone and then double-checked to make sure that the hard drive really was missing. This time his stomach couldn’t hold back as he ran into the basement bathroom and unleashed the poison in his stomach into the toilet. He wiped his mouth, brushed his teeth, walked back into the command cell and opened the file-cabinet drawer.

Even though he believed that he honestly had nothing to hide, he pulled the files out and began running them through his crosscut shredder one at a time.

Next he called Zeke Jeremiah, the tall Naval Academy graduate, over to his residence.

Jeremiah stood before him in a blue suit, white cotton shirt, and light blue tie, all hanging loosely off his lanky frame.

“Zeke, I need to let you in on something,” Hellerman said. It had taken him only a few minutes to clean up the living room prior to Jeremiah’s arrival. He motioned Zeke onto the facing davenport.

“I’m listening, sir,” Zeke said, pulling out a small green notebook.

Hellerman coughed, leaned forward, and said, “I’ve intercepted the enemy’s plan. I have evidence of a conspiracy involving former CIA director Frank Lantini to aid terrorists in attacking the United States.”

Jeremiah put his pen in the crease of his notebook and looked at the vice president.

“You don’t want me writing any of this down, do you, sir?”

“That’s right. I’ve been holding onto this information until I was certain what it meant. After the Rolling Stones incident last year, I don’t trust too many of our agencies these days. Being a former intelligence officer, well, I’ve been doing the analysis down in my basement.”

Jeremiah nodded.

“You do look a bit . . . overtaxed, sir.”

“That’s why I’m calling you into this thing. I need a first-rate mind helping me here. I’m concerned that once this wave of attacks is done, something bigger is heading our way.”

“What could be bigger?”

“That’s what I need you to figure out. I need you to work in isolation to read through this file here and tell me what you think it means.” Hellerman pushed a manila folder across the table to Jeremiah, who reached out with his long, black fingers and pulled the file toward him. “Don’t take it to the ops center. Just need you over here, maybe down in the basement, studying all of this.”

“The basement?”

“Follow me,” Hellerman said. They stood and the vice president led him downstairs. He opened the door to his lair and showed Jeremiah the basic components. “Here’s the tracking chart. They were supposed to hit Florida, but never did. I think local law enforcement got in front of that one. But as you can see, the others have panned out.”

Jeremiah stood, awestruck, at the vice president’s research and his elaborate maps and matrix.

“How did you crack this code, sir?” Jeremiah asked, never removing his eyes from the data displayed on the wall. He took his right hand and touched each of the large squares with predicted attacks and then touched the map where the attacks had occurred, or not.

“Combination of signals intercepts and some tracking I’ve had some folks do to find Lantini. Pretty embarrassing, you know.”

Jeremiah finally broke away from the charts and looked at the folder in his hand.

“How can I help?”

“I need you to find the link. It’s in there somewhere, but I’m certain Lantini is behind this thing. He’s working Ballantine, you’ll see.”

Hellerman paused.

“But I also think Colonel Jack Rampert is connected to this thing. That’s what I need you to find out. Spend some time down here reading through those reports.

“And find me a link to Rampert.”

Chapter 49

Virginia Beach, Virginia

Matt Garrett pushed the Porsche to 100 mph down the long, straight stretch of Interstate 64 between Richmond and Williamsburg.

“Dial this number,” he said handing the cell phone and a slip of paper to Peyton, who was sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing black dungarees and a dark navy button-down shirt with a black turtleneck underneath. She was wearing a similar outfit at his request, though she had a dark-blue denim jacket atop her black turtleneck.

“Yes, sir,” she said, saluting him with her right hand.

She punched in the number and then handed him the cell phone.

“Meredith?” he said.

Peyton snapped her head toward him and mouthed the word, “What?”

He held up his hand, warding off her suspicions.

“Meredith, this is Matt. Can you hear me?”

He waited.

“Bad connection,” he said, turning toward Peyton.

“I’m crushed,” Peyton said.

“Meredith, I can barely hear you.”

Peyton looked at him and rolled her eyes. She saw a road sign that said Norge and figured it was no wonder he had a poor cell phone connection. They were in the middle of nowhere.

“What? . . . Who? . . . I would hope Hellerman knows what’s going on,” Matt said.

Peyton looked at Matt with a quizzical expression.

“Tell her you’ll call her back when we get to civilization,” Peyton said.

“We’re heading to Blake’s. I’ll call you when I get there,” Matt shouted into the phone, as if that would help her understand him better.

He looked at Peyton and flipped his cell phone shut.

“Can’t believe we’re in the twenty-first century, I’m on an interstate, and I can’t talk on the cell phone,” he said.

Peyton put her hand on his leg and said, “We’ll be there soon.”

“Do you think we should call Rampert?” he asked her. He had been debating the issue since Blake had given him the information about the Sherpa landing on the Chinese ship. He could feel the tape in his pocket. He had some definite ideas as to whose voice was on the tape, but had not revealed those thoughts to Peyton.

“The tape for your brother. That’s your plan, right?”

“Right.”

“If that’s the plan and you think Rampert can help you find your brother, then I think it’s a possibility. You know you can’t trust any of those guys, though, right?”

“I know,” Matt said. He was thinking about the value of the tape. If the voice on the tape was who he thought it might be, then it would be very good evidence in a treason trial. And while it was clear that Ballantine was not acting alone, what was not so clear was whether he had inside help. The connection between the tape and the current events, he figured, could be very real.

“I’ll think about it.” What was hanging in the balance, it was clear, was not only the retrieval of his lost brother, but finding the possible inside man on the attack plans.

Matt continued driving, lost in his thoughts, watching familiar landmarks tick by. They passed the Hampton Coliseum and then found themselves negotiating the Hampton Roads Tunnel, cutting through Norfolk, and getting onto the Virginia Beach Expressway. They hit Atlantic Avenue and then found Blake’s house in the Bay Colony subdivision.

Blake’s home backed up to Broad Bay and the Lynnhaven Inlet, a deep-water tributary that fed into Chesapeake Bay near the Bay Bridge-Tunnel complex. They drove along a paved road that led them past several large mansions and ended at Blake’s driveway.

“Wow, your friend Blake has it going on,” Peyton said as she eyed the two-story brick home. “Nice pad.”

“Blake did pretty well a couple of years ago during the stock market bubble. Got in and out at the right time.”

“I’d say so,” Peyton replied, stepping from the Porsche and looking beyond the house to the broadening inlet. She could see the elevated bridge of Shore Drive that spanned the mouth of the inlet where it fed into Chesapeake Bay. Silhouetted by the setting sun was the barely noticeable bridgework of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.

They walked along the sidewalk, framed by a well-manicured lawn on one side and high Boxwood shrubs sitting beneath the home’s tall windows on the other.