by Ward Larsen
She studied Ed’s garage but still saw no one. The door that connected to the house—through a laundry room, she knew—was hanging ajar. She got out, and looked up and down the street, hoping her demolition-derby run had been loud. Hoping every neighbor within earshot would call 911. Not a single porch light flickered on, nor were any heads peering out windows. Her neighbors were mostly professionals, people who worked and dined late. People who kept their shutters closed when they were home at all.
She saw no sign of either Davy or Stein. The cold Beretta pressed hard in the small of her back.
Never had Christine felt so alone.
She moved cautiously toward the car. There was no one inside, front or back. Where are you, Davy? Just then, the garage door began to lower. Christine stood frozen, unsure what to do. Make it stop! She looked near the door to the house, and where the plastic button should have been was a wire hanging out of the wall. The big segmented door was halfway down. She ran and kicked the tiny black box at the foot of the roller track, the motion detector whose beam would break and cause the door to freeze in place. The box flew clear out into the driveway. The door kept moving and hit the floor with a thump of finality.
Suddenly in near darkness, she was seized by fear. The only light was a thin shaft of white that spilled from the open laundry room door. Christine edged toward it and found a wall switch. She snapped it on and an overhead fluorescent light staggered to life. She looked up, searching for the rope-and-handle arrangement that would disengage the garage door opener, a mechanism like the one she’d pulled minutes ago to free her own car. It wasn’t there. Not anymore.
The rope had been cut cleanly away.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
The cheer at Langley was short-lived. Slaton’s two bullets had given them what they wanted. Yet what they wanted was a pilotless wide-body aircraft hauling a deadly stockpile of radioactive cesium.
“That’s half a victory if I’ve ever seen one,” commented the army colonel on the line with CENTCOM.
“Are you sure this will work?” asked Director Coltrane, addressing Davis.
“Sure? Nothing is sure. But so far so good. There’s no evidence of a release yet, and the Raptors have seen the aircraft make deliberate, coordinated turns. If the autopilot wasn’t engaged that jet would be waffling around the sky like a drunken paper airplane. The heading would drift, and it wouldn’t hold a steady altitude. There’s no doubt in my mind—so far that jet is hooked up to its flight computers. The question is whether anything has been programmed after the end of the delivery track. If it makes an abrupt turn toward an airfield somewhere, then we’re out of options—we pick the least-risk terrain and shoot it down over Saudi airspace. On the other hand, if the last fix on their route is at the southern end of the Ghawar field … then she’ll just hold that heading until the fuel tanks run dry.”
“And you still think that’s the case?” Coltrane asked.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Davis reasoned, “that’s what I’d do. After the drop, I’d want to hightail it away and get on the ground. You can fly more aggressively by hand than on an autopilot.”
Everyone watched the central map as Davis’ theory kept holding. Aside from the course the aircraft would take, there was one other vital unknown. How much fuel was on board the big jet? Reach 41, critically low on fuel itself, had already broken from the formation and was headed for Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Ruger 22 was still shadowing the MD-10 when they reached the southern end of the Ghawar field.
For a few tense minutes everyone waited, hoping the MD-10’s heading held steady. Twenty miles later the lead Raptor pilot, who would be the first to see anything amiss, confirmed the good news, her radio-filtered voice crackling over the speaker. “No turns, she’s holding steady south. We show a one-seven-two-degree course.”
A collective sigh of relief washed over the operations room.
Davis said, “We’re not out of the woods yet. It’s still a long way to the Indian Ocean.”
“What else can we do?” Sorensen asked.
“Did that chaplain ever get here?”
* * *
For as long as possible, the crew of Reach 41 followed the drama over Ghawar on the tactical frequency, but the reception was weak by the time they landed at Riyadh Air Base.
As soon as the C-17 was shut down, Slaton followed Lt. Colonel Bryan across the tarmac toward base operations. They had not yet reached the door when a two-stripe airman burst out of the building with a message, and soon Slaton was talking for a second time to the woman named Sorensen on a secure line. She explained that they had unearthed an eighth conspirator, one who’d recently entered the U.S. at Washington Dulles International Airport.
“Do you know who it is?” Slaton asked.
“Actually, we were hoping you could tell us. We have a passport photo and we’d like you to take a look.”
Slaton was guided to a computer and within seconds the picture arrived. It took his breath away. “What have I done…”
It was the last thing he would have expected. And it made perfect sense. Only then did he remember what Astrid had told him about the man who’d recruited her. There was something strange about him. He seemed … how do they say it … unbalanced. He had thought she’d meant irrational, but her grasp of the English language was more fundamental. She’d meant physically unbalanced. A man with a damaged leg. A man who, even more than Ben-Meir, had been aware of Mossad’s dealings with Grossman.
Yaniv Stein was the force behind everything. And also the man Slaton had tasked with protecting his family.
He turned to the airman. “I need a phone right now!”
* * *
The door leading into the house stood open like an invitation.
Christine took a step back, then noticed something she hadn’t before. The Chevy’s trunk lid was cracked open, the smallest of gaps, and its lock had been damaged. No, it had been breached. Pried and gouged into submission. The back end of the car also appeared to be riding low, the tops of the tires high in the wheel wells. She moved in for a closer look and saw a long crowbar on the floor near the far wall—it was the only thing in sight not hanging on a hook or stacked neatly on a shelf.
She looked again at the door to the house, listened for any sound. There was nothing. She slipped her fingertips under the trunk lid and pulled. There was a hitch in the action, as if something in the lifting mechanism was damaged. She pulled harder and it opened. Christine stepped back and gasped. Gleaming inside were stacks of gold bars. There had to be almost a thousand, each slightly larger than a cigarette pack. She stood still for a long moment, until her trance was broken by a faint sound. It fluttered through the garage, soft and subdued, and caused her heart to miss a beat.
A cry from Davy.
In that moment, Christine’s outlook underwent a seismic shift. She reached back and took the gun from her waistband. Gone was the constant of reason, replaced by something more feral, more elemental. A mother’s protective instinct. Holding the gun with two hands, she moved slowly to the doorway. Seconds ticked by with no further sounds from above. Only a terrible silence. Without so much as a glance down, her foot found the threshold.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
The house remained silent. But she had heard her child—of that Christine was sure. The laundry room was uneventful, nothing but a paired washer and dryer that hadn’t been used recently—no shirts on hangers or stacks of folded towels. She emerged into the dining room where a four-chair setting gathered dust, and to the right was the kitchen. In the half-light she saw a plastic grocery bag spilling a can of soup and a half-used loaf of bread. She had been here before, most recently on the Fourth of July, standing around the center island and sharing hors d’oeuvres with Ed and Annette and a half dozen other neighbors. It looked different now, empty and cold. The only illumination cascaded down the staircase from the second floor.
Then she heard it again: a gurgle she’d recognize an
ywhere. Her son was upstairs.
She bit her lower lip, and called up the staircase, “Yaniv?”
At the sound of her voice Davy wailed, the way he did when she came home from work. Stein didn’t respond. Was he even there? One of the footprint sets in the snow must have been his. She wanted to call out to Davy, tell him she was coming in her most reassuring voice. She said nothing. Then, by some impulse she didn’t understand, Christine slid the gun back into her rear waistband.
She took the stairs slowly, one at a time. A step creaked halfway up, and she cringed and wished she’d done everything differently. Done it as David would have. She should have stepped on the edge of the stairs and climbed in silence. She should never have announced her arrival. Christine was sure she’d done a hundred things wrong since rushing out her kitchen door. But there was no going back. Her son was upstairs.
She tried to remember the second floor. Big room in the middle, a living area with chairs and a TV, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the sides. She stepped more quickly, listening and watching, until her eyes reached floor level. She froze when she saw the body.
A man she had never seen was sprawled on the floor, and there was no mistaking the blank glaze in his eyes. As a doctor Christine was familiar with death, yet the manner of this man’s demise was both obvious and chilling—there was an ugly wound on one side of his head, and blood had pooled on the carpet underneath. Her heart thrashing, she steeled herself and climbed the last few steps. The next sight brought a wave of relief.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed, exhaling for what seemed like the first time in minutes. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Stein was across the room in a wide armchair, Davy sitting on his good left leg. Her son chirped when he saw her and lifted his arms, expecting to be picked up.
She took a step toward him, until something in Stein’s level gaze caused her to stop. His left arm was wrapped around Davy, and resting casually on his damaged right leg was his handgun. She looked once more at the dead man. Graying fair hair, long and unkempt, a white-stubble beard. Hardly the image of a Palestinian assassin.
“Hello, Christine.”
“What the hell happened? Did you shoot this man?”
“Of course I did.”
His tone was light, as if she’d asked if he’d unloaded the dishwasher. The roller coaster in her gut hit bottom again. “I don’t understand—who is he?”
“His name is Tony, or at least that’s what he told me. Street people make a habit of not giving their real names.”
“Street people?”
“He’s been here since Friday. I found him living in a cardboard box under a Georgetown overpass. Lousy way to live in D.C. in February. I told him I needed a house sitter to keep an eye on things, which was true. All he had to do was stay inside, keep the blinds closed, and he could have all the heat, food, and sleep he wanted. I even told him I’d give him twenty bucks a day. Everybody was happy until he broke into the car and found my retirement fund. Then he got greedy, wanted to make a deal. Bad move on his part.”
“Where did all that gold come from?”
“There’s a very clear paper trail, one that leads straight to David.”
“David?”
“I know you’re playing catch-up here. There’s a bit of terrorism taking place in Saudi Arabia as we speak. More damaging than September 11 in a practical sense, although it won’t get as much press coverage—no crashing airplanes and burning buildings. If David is still alive, by tomorrow he’ll be world enemy number one.”
“What?”
“He’s going to take the fall for this attack. It’s been in the works for some time—I rented this house over a month ago. I know how problematic David can be—but then, being married to him I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. He let you believe he was dead, for God’s sake. You see, when our strike went down I intended to lay low, and being across the street from you seemed like a good insurance policy. Come tomorrow, it’s the first place they’ll look for David, which means it’s the last place he can go. My original plan was to sit right here and watch you and Davy from a distance until our mission was done. Imagine my surprise when David called and asked me to keep an eye on you.” Stein chuckled.
Christine tried to wrap her mind around what he was saying. “So … there is no assassin.”
“No, but you can blame David for that lie—it was his idea to get me into your house.”
For the first time she noticed a television on the far side of the room. It was tuned to CNN, but muted, just as the TV in her own house had been.
“So what’s going to happen?” she asked.
“You’ll see very soon. The first reports should be—”
Stein was cut off by a phone ringing. No, by her phone—she recognized the ringtone. Christine watched Stein pull her handset from his pocket and study the screen. His expression went leaden. “You don’t have any friends in Saudi Arabia, do you?”
When she didn’t respond, Stein hesitated for a long moment. Then he swiped the answer button.
SEVENTY-NINE
The transmission from Ruger 22 was straight and to the point. “On this course and speed we show twenty-one minutes to Yemeni airspace. Are we to maintain the shadow across the border?”
For five minutes the debate ran, by which time the president was directly involved. Coltrane was perfectly happy to punt that decision. The MD-10 was so far behaving as hoped, a straight track toward the Indian Ocean. The danger, however, was not yet past. While Saudi Arabia might soon be in the clear, another less reliable ally was coming under threat—or as more bluntly put by the Secretary of Defense, “under a fast-moving cesium cloud.”
In the end it was decided that the two-ship of Raptors, each with the radar cross section of a wasp, could safely penetrate Yemeni airspace. Chances were also good that the MD-10, on the off chance it registered at all on Yemen’s dodgy radar network, would not be considered a threat. The beleaguered government there had all it could handle with countless terrorist groups camping, quite literally, in its desert backyard. Threats from the sky were hardly a priority.
The Raptors backed off but kept radar contact. Charlie Bravo Six Eight Hotel droned its southerly course steady and true.
* * *
Slaton stood behind the commander’s mahogany desk at Riyadh Air Base, a secure phone to his ear. His call to Christine had been picked up on the fourth ring by the voice he’d hoped not to hear.
He began, “So help me God, if you—”
“Steady, kidon,” Stein countered. “Before you start making threats, I should tell you that your wife is standing in front of me and your son is in my lap.”
“And you should know that your mission failed. The cesium cloud you aimed at Ghawar is heading harmlessly out to sea. Langley understands that I had nothing to do with it. In fact, we worked together to keep the drop from happening.”
There was a lengthy pause on Stein’s end.
Slaton turned the screws. “You haven’t gotten any updates from Ben-Meir. Want to venture a guess why? You had me going when you told me he’d been kicked out of Mossad, and that it related to the operation with Grossman. Not only did I fall for it, I played right into your hands—I asked you to watch over my family.”
“You know our creed, David. Trust no one. I made the same mistake. I trusted Mossad and they left me for dead in a desert in Iran.”
“And I was the one who pulled your ass out! I saved your life!”
“Life? What life? I gave everything to Israel, and in return they spit me out with a cane and a disability check! I won’t let it end there—I’ve earned far more.”
“So that was your motivation—money? The rest of your group are gone, Yaniv, all seven. You’re sitting in the dark waiting for news reports about your strike. Only there aren’t any. There should have been something by now, right?”
Stein didn’t respond.
“Trust me, it’s over.”
“If so, then congratulati
ons. But it only simplifies things for me—seven fewer paychecks to cut. All I have to do is disappear.”
“Only you can’t. Not from me.”
Silence followed, and Slaton realized his mistake. He was cornering a man who was almost certainly armed, and who had his wife and child in the same room. Slaton was halfway around the world, his only weapon one tenuous fiber-optic connection. He could ask Langley to intervene, and he was sure they would try—but no hostage rescue team could arrive in time. For Slaton, the two most precious lives on earth were dangling by the thinnest of threads. If the call ended, he knew it would be over.
Stein was quiet, but the connection remained. Slaton heard Davy’s tiny voice in the background. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.
* * *
Christine held out her arms.
Her son lurched toward her, his arms outstretched, and Stein was forced to use both hands to keep him from toppling to the floor. It was as instinctive a reaction as there was on earth—to protect an infant from falling. In that instant, Christine reached around and pulled the Beretta from her waistband and leveled it at Stein. Only it wasn’t really level. The gun moved in her hand, wavering like a leaf-heavy branch on a blustery spring day.
Stein caught Davy and righted him in his lap. He saw immediately what she’d done. For an instant his expression was one of surprise, but then his relaxed demeanor returned. He almost seemed amused by her wavering aim.
“Please don’t shoot your son.”
Christine didn’t respond, and Stein’s right hand drifted toward his own weapon.
“Don’t!” she shouted.
The hand went still.
Stein said, “You told me David didn’t keep a gun in the house.”
“No, I said I asked him not to keep one there. And I said I had never owned a weapon myself. All true.”
Stein grinned. “You didn’t trust me—a good intuitive move. Well done.”
“I guess David taught me something.”
“You know, you might have made a good spy.”