Whiplash (20 page)

Washington, D.C.

W
ITHIN HOURS OF
N
URI’S RETURN FROM
B
LEMMYES
Village, his discovery and theory had been disseminated to a small coterie of analysts and officials in Washington, D.C. The news focused a great deal of intelligence for the analysts, giving them a framework to arrange a veritable warehouse worth of data.

It also alarmed Breanna, Reid, and everyone else who heard about it.

The machined aluminum was now identified as part of a tool holding a centrifuge assembly. To grossly oversimplify the process, the tool could be used to separate elements of different atomics weight from each other. Such a tool was needed in one step of the process of extracting “special” uranium from “regular” uranium. The special uranium—an isotope with a different atomic number—could then be used to create an atomic bomb.

Jasmine was now viewed as part of a much larger, more important project. It could also be seen as one of several similar operations around the world, directly related or not. At least three possibilities had already been identified.

But the data raised a large number of new questions. Assuming there were other processing plants, where were they? How did material get from one location to another? Was the intention to stockpile the material, or was bomb construction
contemplated—or maybe even under way? Where did this occur?

Breanna contemplated all of these questions the next morning as she waited for Jonathon Reid’s car to pick her up at the Pentagon. She expected them to be raised at the hastily scheduled briefing she and Reid were going to give to the National Security Council. The council had already been scheduled to meet; they were added to the agenda when their information was added to the daily intelligence report.

The one question Breanna hadn’t contemplated was the one Reid asked as soon as she slipped into the back of car: “Do you think it’s time we turned this over to traditional channels?”

Surprise was obvious on her face.

“Whiplash is still experimental,” explained Reid, who’d been considering the matter even before Nuri reported in. “The unit is very small. Something of this magnitude is beyond its scope.”

“I wouldn’t call Whiplash experimental.”

“Whatever we call it, we didn’t anticipate this big a situation when we sent Nuri out,” said Reid. “Or Danny Freah and his people. We were looking at a bugging and surveillance operation, nothing more. The next step is more involved.”

“No, the next step is to gather more information.”

“We’ll have to destroy the plant.”

“They can do that as well. But we don’t want to do that yet, do we? We need to flesh out the entire network. We don’t know how big the operation is there, not to mention where else it’s operating.”

“A huge undertaking,” said Reid. “One for a very large, and experienced, task group.”

“Danny Freah can run this. He’s had experience. Especially with nuclear warheads.”

“I’m not questioning him or his ability,” said Reid. “The scope of the project is simply greater than what we foresaw. We need more people.”

Reid was also concerned about Nuri. The CIA officer had
been selected as the program’s first operative primarily because of his comfort with the technology and his familiarity with Africa. He had barely three years of experience with the Agency, and before that was in college. While he’d done fine so far, at this point it made sense to bring a more experienced officer onto the scene.

“I can see more people,” said Breanna. “Obviously, these other leads have to be examined. But we have people in the field. They’re doing a good job. We can’t pull them off.”

“Who coordinates the mission? Who compiles the data?”

“We do. It moves forward exactly as it has.”

“You don’t understand the scope,” said Reid. “Or the politics.”

“What politics?”

Reid stared at the glass divider that separated the hybrid-powered Town car’s passenger compartment from the driver. Many members of the Agency considered him an old school idealist, but he thought of himself as a realist. As much as he hated Agency and bureaucratic politics, as much as he isolated himself from them, he nonetheless realized they had to be taken into account at all times.

“You’re DoD,” he said, referring to the Department of Defense. “I’m Central Intelligence. Whiplash is split between those agencies. It starts there.”

“And we can end it there.”

“No. We can’t.”

“Do you want to be in charge?” Breanna asked. “Is that it?”

She felt her cheeks starting to flush. She was trying to control her anger, but it wasn’t easy. She liked Reid, but she felt he had ambushed her in an attempt to get an advantage in a ridiculous bureaucratic game. It seemed out of character, or at least out of sync with the way he had acted until now.

“Depending on where this goes, we may have hundreds of people in the field, and thousands behind them supporting them,” said Reid. “We don’t have the infrastructure to pull off a large operation. It’s simply a matter of size.”

“You have the infrastructure, at CIA, as deputy director. Is that the point?”

“I’m not deputy director.”

“He’d run it through you. So you take Whiplash out of the loop and run it on your own?”

“It’s possible that would happen,” admitted Reid. “But that wouldn’t be my recommendation. We would turn the entire matter over to Operations, and let them handle it the way they’ve handled missions like this in the past. Some of the people who worked on sabotaging the original Iranian program under the previous administration—”

“There’s a recommendation,” said Breanna bitterly.

“They’re experienced people. Some of the results were not that good. Some were. In any event, there’s a structure set up, institutional memory—”

“But that’s just the point, Jonathon. Everything we’ve done—Whiplash, MY-PID, the other gear—everything is an attempt to break out of the old mode.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to reinvent the wheel.”

“But we did. And now that we see it working, you want to go back to the horse and buggy.”

Reid put his hand on the blue briefing book on the seat next to him, sliding his fingers along the top edge. He realized she did have a point. They were pioneering new techniques for combining covert action and intelligence gathering, using high-tech tools with a streamlined command structure. They had gotten results.

“I will talk briefly about the unit, just enough to let those who aren’t aware of it understand its capabilities,” said Breanna, deciding to move on to what they’d planned to discuss. “You can talk about mission.”

“And when they ask for recommendations?”

“I’ll say we should continue. You can say whatever you want.”

A
S SHE STEPPED FROM THE CAR TO HEAD INTO THE
W
EST
Wing, Breanna’s personal cell phone rang. She reached into
her pocketbook and took it out. Her daughter’s face was on the screen—Teri was calling from school.

Breanna felt her heart stop as she hit the Talk button.

“Honey, what’s up?”

“Mom—”

“She’s all right, Mrs. Stockard,” said a male voice in the background. “Tell her you’re all right.”

All Breanna could think of was that Teri had been kidnapped.

“I fell during gym, Mom.”

Oh, thank God, thought Breanna. “Are you okay, honey?”

“My leg hurts.”

“Is that the doctor behind you?” she asked, her relief receding. “Honey—is that the doctor?”

“Actually, Mrs. Stockard, I’m the nurse practitioner at Day School,” said the man. “Your daughter is okay. I don’t think she broke any bones, but with your permission I’d like to have her taken to the hospital just as a precaution. For X rays. I’ve seen dozens of these, ma’am. Usually this is just a little twist and bruise. They’re out running by the afternoon. But I would prefer to err on the side of caution. I hope you understand.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor—”

“Simon. Nurse Simon, or just Simon.”

“I’m sorry, Simon. Yes, please—she should go to the hospital right away.” Breanna looked up at Reid, who was staring at her with the most concerned expression she’d ever seen on his face.
It’s okay
, she mouthed.

“We’re going to need you or, uh, someone to meet her at the hospital,” said Simon.

Today, of all days, thought Breanna.

“Someone will be there,” she told him, barely remembering to ask which hospital before hanging up.

“Your daughter?” asked Reid.

“Just a silly sports injury,” she said.

“Do you want me to fill in?”

Breanna was torn between the impulse to run to her daughter’s side and the briefing she was supposed to give.

“Let me get Zen on the phone,” she said. She forced a smile. “I think he’s on hospital duty today.”

Z
EN WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A COMMITTEE HEARING
when his legislative aide, Steph Delanie, tapped him on the shoulder.

“It’s your wife,” she whispered. “Urgent.”

Zen gripped his wheels—after all these years, he still preferred a nonpowered chair—and backed away from his spot at the table. He caught the eye of the committee chairman, who nodded, then turned and went out into the hall with Delanie. Another member of his staff, Jason Black, stood nearby with a cell phone.

“Probably forgot where I hid the peanut butter,” said Zen, trying to joke as he reached for the phone. “Hey, babe, what’s up?”

“Jeff, they’re taking Teri to the hospital. She hurt her leg. She’s OK, but they want X rays to make sure. Can you go over? I’m—I’m just on my way to see the President and the National Security Council. I’m right outside the door.”

“Where is Teri? Is she OK?”

“Yes, she’s OK. The school nurse called. They want to take her there as a precaution and I said fine. The nurse is a he, by the way.”

“Which hospital, Bree? Is she all right?”

“She’s
fine
.”

Zen could withstand any amount of pain without whimpering—he might complain, curse, and stomp things with his fist, but never whimper. If his daughter or wife had a cold, however, he suffered incredibly. There was simply no way he could be stoic when either of them was in pain.

“She’s at Dominion,” added Breanna, a little less emphatically. “In the emergency room.”

“I’m on my way. I’m there.”

“Jeff—”

“She’ll be fine Bree. I have it under control.”

Zen hung up. He told Delanie to have the rest of his day’s schedule canceled, then had Jason Black accompany him to the hospital.

Black was just out of college, low enough on the totem pole that a boring job like escorting the senator seemed exciting. Ordinarily, Zen might have regaled him with stories about how boring the hearing had been, or the New York congressman who was rumored to be sleeping with his campaign coordinator, but he was too focused on Teri to think about any of that. He drove himself—he could never have been patient enough to let someone else take the wheel.

Black, sitting in the passenger seat, fidgeted silently the entire way. He longed to ask Zen some questions about his days at Dreamland, but was afraid of offending him. The senator could often be heard complaining to Delanie and others about how boring and stale those stories had become.

A security guard tried to wave them away from the staff parking area as they pulled up.

“That’s for staff,” shouted the man, running over as Zen backed from the wheel and pushed the wheelchair into the lift next to the door. “You have to move!”

The door opened. The forklift-like elevator pulled Zen out of the van and began lowering him to the curb. The appearance of an obviously handicapped man gave the guard pause—but only for a second.

“Sir, I’m sorry. You can’t park here,” said the guard, toning his voice down. “It’s for doctors and nurses.”

“I outrank them,” Zen barked, rolling toward the door.

“Now listen,” blustered the guard. “I don’t care if you are handicapped. That’s not where you park.”

Black had to run to catch up to his boss. Zen reached into his pocket as he caught up with him and grabbed his keys.

“Move the van so Barney Fife over there doesn’t have a heart attack. I’d hate for Pete to lose another constituent.”

The electric doors opened and Zen glided inside the emer
gency room. One thing about hospitals—they were generally easy to get in and out of if you were in a wheelchair.

That was about the only nice thing Zen could ever say about them.

“I’m Senator Stockard,” he announced to the nurse at the desk. “You have my daughter here for X rays.”

The word “senator” jarred the nurse, and for a second she wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. Before she could say anything, a doctor came out from the office area.

“Senator Stockard, I’m glad you could get here so quickly,” he said as he walked over. “I’m Mike Watson. Dr. Bozzone called me and asked if I’d come down and check out your daughter personally.”

“Who called Billy?”

“Might’ve been your wife, Senator.”

“She’s always a step ahead of me. Where’s Teri?”

Dr. Watson—his name had been a source of jokes since med school—led Zen back through the halls to the X-ray department. Teri was sitting on an examining table, waiting as one of the techs readied the machine. A member of her school staff was sitting in the corner, a magazine on her lap.

“Daddy, what are
you
doing here?”

“Hey, angel. I was looking for someone to play golf with. The doctors mentioned you were here, so I postponed the game.”

“You don’t play golf.” Teri gave him a mock frown, then leaned down from the table to give him a kiss. “Where’s Mom?”

“With the President.”

Teri frowned. She had expected her mother, not her father. She loved them both, but it was her mother who always showed up at times like this.

Plus, she had said she would.

Zen read the disappointment in her face. “Mom’s working hard,” he told her. “She had something very important today.”

“I know.”

He decided it was better to change the subject. “What, are you bucking for a chair like mine?”