A few men smiled, and Madox grinned as well. He glanced toward Edward Wolffer and said, “The deputy secretary of defense has assured me that there are no oil fields on the target list. No refineries, and no oil shipment ports. They will remain intact, but will come under new management.” He smiled. “I’ve got to make a living, Harry.”
“Yeah, right. But how about the environment and all that? You know, nuclear fallout, nuclear winter.”
“I told you, the answer to global warming is nuclear winter. Just kidding. Look, the effects of fifty or even a hundred nuclear explosions detonating across the Mideast have been studied extensively by the government. It won’t be that bad.” He added, “I mean, for them, it’s lights-out. But for the rest of the planet, depending on what computer model you like, life will go on.”
“Yeah . . . ?” Something else was troubling Harry Muller. “Well, it’s not going to happen anyway because, like you said, if the terrorists know about this . . . I mean, do you think, or have you heard, that they’re going to nuke us?”
“I haven’t heard anything. Have you? Actually, my colleagues here think that Wild Fire is such an effective deterrent that the likelihood of an American city being attacked with a nuclear device by Islamic terrorists is very small. That’s why we have to do it ourselves.”
“Do what?”
“We, Harry, the men here in this room, have devised Project Green—the plan to detonate an atomic device in an American city, which will in turn trigger the Wild Fire response—which is the nuclear obliteration of Islam.”
Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly and leaned toward Madox.
Madox made eye contact with Harry and continued, “And the beauty of this is that the government doesn’t even have to be certain that the nuclear attack on America has come from Islamic terrorists. There exists a very strong presumption of guilt toward Islamic jihadists so that conclusive evidence is not required to launch Wild Fire. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
Harry took a deep breath and said, “Are you crazy?”
“No. Do we look crazy?”
Harry didn’t think the other four guys looked crazy, but Madox was a little nuts. Harry took another deep breath and asked, “You got a nuke?”
“Of course we do. Why do you think we’re here? We actually have four nukes. In fact . . .” Madox stood, walked over to the black leather suitcase, and patted it. “Here’s one of them.”
CHAPTER NINE
Bain Madox suggested a short break, during which everyone, except Scott Landsdale and Harry Muller, left the room.
Landsdale stood at the end of the table, away from Harry, and they sized each other up. Landsdale said, “Don’t even think about what you’re thinking about.”
“I can’t hear you. Come closer.”
“Cut the macho bullshit, Detective. The only way you’re getting out of here is if we let you out.”
“Don’t bet your silk CIA panties on that.”
“If you answer a few questions for me, we can work something out.”
“That sounds like what I used to say to suspects. I was lying, too.”
Landsdale let that slide and asked, “When Tom Walsh gave you this assignment, what did he tell you?”
“He told me to dress warm and save my gas receipts.”
“Good advice. And thanks for confirming that it was Walsh.” He asked, “What were you supposed to do with your digital disks?”
“Find a CIA guy and shove them up his ass.”
“Were you supposed to go to the Adirondack Airport as part of this assignment?”
Harry realized that Landsdale was good at what he did. CIA guys were pricks, but they were highly professional pricks. Harry replied, “No, but that’s a good idea. I bet I’ll find your name on the arrivals manifest.”
“Harry, I’ve got more IDs than you have clean socks in your drawer.” He asked, “Who else at 26 Fed knows about your assignment?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“I didn’t mention this before, but one of my friends at 26 Fed tells me you were talking to your cubemate, John Corey, in the elevator lobby, and you were carrying a metal suitcase from Tech. Did Corey ask you what you were doing?”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
Landsdale ignored this suggestion, and said, “I’m trying to help you, Harry.”
“I thought you were CIA.”
He asked, “Do you want a piece of this, Harry?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m with you.”
“You may not mean that now, but after this is over, you’ll see that this was the only way to go.”
“Don’t you have to go take a piss or something?”
“No, but here’s a question for you to think about: Do you think you might have been set up?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Walsh was told by somebody, probably in Washington, to send a guy up here—an NYPD surveillance guy—to take pictures of people arriving at this club. It sounds like no big deal, right? But the people who ordered this—and maybe Walsh himself—knew you weren’t going to get within a mile of this lodge before you were caught.”
“I got a lot closer than that.”
“Congratulations. So, what I’m thinking, Harry, is that you’re the sacrificial lamb. Follow?”
“No.”
“I mean, this is so clumsy that the only reason you could have been sent here is to scare the hell out of us and make us put Project Green on hold. Or maybe put it on the fast track. What do you think?”
“I’ve worked with CIA, and what I think is that you people see a conspiracy in everything, except the things that are a conspiracy. That’s why you’ve been fucking up.”
“You may have a point. But let me share my paranoia with you. You were sent here by higher-ups, through Walsh, for the purpose of spooking us into action or for the purpose of the FBI’s getting a search warrant to come looking for you and finding four atomic suitcases that they might believe are here.”
Harry didn’t reply, but he thought about that.
Landsdale continued, “Let’s assume, first, that someone wants to spook us into action. Who could that be? Well, maybe my people. Or, maybe the White House itself wants an excuse to launch Wild Fire.”
Harry thought about that, too, but again didn’t respond.
Landsdale went on, “But it could be the other thing—that you were sent here to disappear so that the FBI could swoop down on this place with probable cause and a search warrant. Actually, the only really incriminating things here at the club are the four nukes and you, and neither the nukes nor you will be here much longer. The ELF transmitter is not illegal, just hard to explain. Right?”
Harry Muller felt as if he’d stepped into one of the upstate psychiatric hospitals, and that he’d arrived ten minutes after the patients took control. And what the hell was an elf transmitter? How do you transmit an elf? And why would you want to . . . ?
Landsdale asked him, “You know about ELF?”
“Yeah. Santa’s helpers.”
Landsdale smiled and stared at Harry. “Maybe you don’t.” He explained, “Extremely Low Frequency. ELF. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
Landsdale started to say something else, but the door opened, and Madox and the other three men entered the room.
Landsdale caught Madox’s eye and nodded toward the door.
Madox said to the others, “Excuse us a moment.”
He and Landsdale left the room, and Madox said to Carl, who was standing near the door, “Keep an eye on Mr. Muller.”
Carl went into the room and shut the door.
Landsdale moved down the corridor, and Madox followed. Landsdale said, “Okay, I spoke to Muller, and he seems honestly clueless about anything, except his assignment. Muller was not briefed by Walsh or anyone, which is standard procedure when sending a low-level surveillance guy on a sensitive assignment.”
Madox replied, “I know that. What are you getting at?”
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Landsdale paused, then said, “I have no doubt that whoever sent Harry Muller here fully expected him to be caught. Correct?”
Madox didn’t reply.
Landsdale went on, “I’m fairly sure that the CIA knows what you’re up to, Bain, and so does the Justice Department and the FBI.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“I think it is. And I think—based on my information—that Justice and the FBI are about to shut you down.” Landsdale looked at Madox and continued, “But you have fans and friends in the government. Specifically, the CIA, who want you to go for it. Follow?”
“I don’t think anyone in the government, except the people here, know a damn thing about Project Green, or—”
“Bain, deflate your fucking ego a little. You’re being manipulated and used, and—”
“Bullshit.”
“Not bullshit. Look, you’ve got a great plan. But you’ve been sitting on it too long. The do-gooders in the Justice Department and the FBI have gotten on to you, and they want to do the right thing and bust this conspiracy. The CIA sees it quite differently. The CIA thinks your plan is absolutely fucking terrific, and absolutely brilliant, and taking entirely too fucking long.”
Madox asked Landsdale, “Do you know all of this for certain? Or are you speculating?”
Landsdale considered his reply, then said, “A little of both.” He added, “Look, as the CIA liaison to the White House, I’m not fully in the Langley loop. But I used to work in a Black Ops branch, and I heard about you long before you heard about me.”
Again, Madox didn’t respond.
Landsdale continued, “Every covert branch of the intelligence establishment has its legendary members, men and women who are looked on as bigger than life, almost mythical. I worked with a guy like that, and this guy once briefed me about Wild Fire, and that’s when your name came up, Bain, as a private individual who had the capacity to trigger Wild Fire.”
Madox seemed uneasy with that information, and asked, “Is that how and why I got to make your acquaintance?”
Landsdale did not answer directly but said, “It’s how and why I got posted to the White House.” He added, “Your little conspiracy here has triggered a similar conspiracy among certain individuals in the CIA and also the Pentagon . . . and maybe in the White House itself. In other words, there are others in Washington, aside from your Executive Board, who are helping. I’m sure you understand that. And understand, also, that if you didn’t exist, then the people in government who want to trigger Wild Fire would need to plant their own nukes in American cities.” He forced a smile and said, “But we like to encourage private, faith-based initiative.”
“What’s your point, Scott?”
“The point, Bain, is that whoever sent Harry Muller here wants to bring this to a quick conclusion. If it was the FBI, then you’re about to be busted. If it was the CIA, then they’re telling you to move fast.” He added, “I have no doubt that both organizations know what the other is up to, and it’s become a race to see whose idea of safeguarding American security is going to win out.”
Madox stared silently, then said, “All I need is about forty-eight hours.”
“I hope you have that much time.” Landsdale added, “I have a contact in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force where Muller works, and my guy tells me that Muller is a Mideast guy, and he doesn’t work in the Domestic Terrorist Section, so it’s unusual that he’d be picked for this job. But he further tells me that a guy named John Corey, former NYPD like Muller, and also in the Mideast Section, was the one originally picked to do this surveillance. Specifically picked. Why? That’s the question. What difference would it make who was sent here as the sacrificial lamb?” He lit a cigarette and continued, “Then, I recalled that the CIA guy who originally told me about Wild Fire was once attached to the ATTF, and while there, he’d gotten into a major pissing match with this guy Corey. Actually, worse than a pissing match—they really wanted to kill each other.”
Madox glanced at his watch.
Landsdale continued, “One of their many problems with each other seemed to be Corey’s present wife, an FBI agent assigned to the Task Force.” He smiled and said, “There’s always a woman involved.”
Madox, too, smiled and said, “Sexual jealousy is the wild card of history. Empires have been destroyed because Jack was fucking Jill, and Jill was also fucking Jim.” He asked, “But what’s your point?”
“Just that I see more than a coincidence here that Corey was supposed to be sitting where Muller is now sitting, waiting to die.”
Madox observed, “Sometimes, Scott, coincidence is just coincidence. And what difference does it make?”
Landsdale hesitated, then responded, “But if it’s not coincidence, then I see the hand of the master here—the guy who originally told me about Wild Fire and who also got me my job in the White House, and who got me introduced to the Custer Hill Club . . . but that’s not possible because this guy is dead. Or supposed to be dead.” He added, “Died in the World Trade Center.”
Madox pointed out, “People are either dead, or they’re not.”
“This guy is the ultimate spook. Dead when he needs to be, alive when he needs to come back. The point is, if it’s this guy who’s behind Muller’s being here, then I feel much better about our chances of getting Project Green going in the next forty-eight hours, and much better about the government initiating Wild Fire as the response.”
Madox stared at Landsdale and said, “If that makes you feel better, Scott, then I’m happy for you. But the bottom line, Mr. Landsdale, is not what’s going on in Washington, but what’s going on here. I have worked on this plan for nearly a decade, and I will make it happen.”
“Not if they shut you down in the next day or two.” Landsdale said, “Be grateful that you have friends in Washington, and be very grateful if my former mentor in Black Ops is alive and looking after you.”
“Well, if you say so . . . maybe, when this is over, I can meet this man, if he’s among the living, and shake his hand.” Madox asked, “What’s his name?”
“I couldn’t tell you his name, even if he was actually dead.”
“Well, if you ever see him—alive—and if he was my guardian angel on this project, then thank him for me.”
“I will.”
Madox indicated the door. “Let’s continue the meeting.”
As Landsdale walked toward the door, Madox nodded, happy in the knowledge that this mystery man was so well thought of. In fact, the man in question had not died on September 11, as Madox knew, but was actually on his way to the Custer Hill Club. In fact, Mr. Ted Nash, an old friend of Bain Madox’s, had called right before the meeting of the Executive Board to see if John Corey was in Madox’s custody. When Madox said they had a Mr. Harry Muller in the net instead, Nash seemed disappointed and said, “Wrong fish,” but he was optimistic, adding, “I’ll see what I can do to get Corey to the Custer Hill Club . . . You’d like him, Bain. He’s an egotistical prick, and nearly as smart as we are.”
Bain Madox followed Landsdale into the room, walked to the head of the table, and began, “The meeting will come to order.” He pointed to the black suitcase in the middle of the floor and said, “That thing, which you are seeing for the first time, is a Soviet-made RA-155, weight about seventy-five pounds, containing about twenty-five pounds of very high-grade plutonium, plus a detonating device.”
Harry stared at the suitcase. When he’d worked with NEST, they’d never told him what to look for—small atomic devices came in different shapes and sizes, and as the instructor had said, “There won’t be an atomic symbol on the device, or a skull and crossbones, or anything. Just rely on your gamma-ray and neutron detectors.”
Madox continued, “That little thing will yield about five kilotons, about half the explosive power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Because these devices are old, and need constant maintenance, the explosion could be smaller. But that’s not a lot of consolation if you
happen to be sitting next to one.” He chuckled.
Landsdale pointed out, “Actually, we are sitting next to one.” He joked, “Maybe you shouldn’t smoke, Bain.”
Madox ignored him. “For your information, gentlemen, that little thing would level Midtown Manhattan and cause about half a million instant deaths, followed by as many as another half million in the aftermath.”
Madox walked over to the big suitcase and put his hand on it. “Incredible technology. You have to wonder what God was thinking when He created atoms that could be split or fused by mortal men to release such supernatural energy.”
Harry Muller, with great difficulty, took his eyes off the nuclear bomb. He seemed to notice the bottled water in front of him for the first time, and with an unsteady hand, he drank from it.
Madox said to him, “You’re not looking well.”
“None of you are looking too good yourselves, and where the hell did you get that bomb?”
“Actually, that was the easy part. It was just a matter of money, like everything else in life, plus my private jets to fly these here from one of the former Soviet republics. I paid—out of my own pocket—ten million dollars, if you’re interested. That was for all four bombs—not each. You can imagine how many suitcase bombs people like bin Laden have already bought.”
Harry finished his water, then took Landsdale’s bottle along with Landsdale’s ballpoint pen, which he put in his pocket. No one noticed as Madox continued speaking.
Madox turned to Harry and said, “We’re not monsters, Mr. Muller. We’re decent men who are going to save Western Civilization, save our families, our nation, and our God.”
Harry, against his better judgment, asked, “By killing millions of Americans?”
“The Islamic terrorists are going to kill them anyway, Harry. It’s just a matter of time. It’s better if we do it sooner. And we get to pick the cities—not them.”
“Are you all out of your fucking minds?”
Madox snapped, “Hold on, Harry! A little while ago you had no problem with the idea of wiping out the world of Islam—men, women, children, plus Western tourists and businesspeople, and who knows who else is in the Mideast next week—”
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