Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2)

by Plame, Valerie

  For several seconds half the team sat in silence while the other half took or placed calls. The images on the video, the new hostage, Aisha’s distraught exit—Vanessa felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite identify, something that pulled her to attention.

  Hays, who had been on his laptop, addressed the group: “Before you ask, we have no clues to the prisoner’s nationality or identity or why he was hooded this time but not the first time. True Jihad hasn’t released anything more specific on their latest demands, but our analysts are looking at every nanosecond of that video.”

  Chris stepped up. “We have lots of new information. I know you’re all frustrated by delays, but the analysts need time to do their jobs. However, that doesn’t mean anybody sits around.”

  Fournier took lead as Chris stepped away to field a phone call. “A half-dozen countries, including Turkey, Jordan, and, of course, Israel, have beefed up their security. So have Norway, Denmark, and the UK. And obviously Italy isn’t happy about the basilica being featured on True Jihad’s latest,” he added brusquely. “You all know your jobs and where you need to be.”

  Chris set down his phone and waved Team Viper back to attention. “Okay everyone, we’re not done yet, change of plans—we reconvene at 1100 hours for a special debrief at the usual spot. That means you’ve got less than thirty minutes to grab your coffee and get over there.”

  43

  Members of Team Viper had been waiting for the debrief to get under way when David Khoury strode into the safe house dining room at 1115, his body tense, his expression somber. He nodded toward Chris, Fournier, and Peyton, and then, instead of taking his usual seat on the French side of the conference table or opting for the empty seat next to Jack, he took command at the head of the table.

  Aisha, sitting next to a very attentive Canard, had made a point of ignoring Khoury’s entrance. Instead, she toyed with a broken pencil, picking at wooden splinters in a way that made Vanessa cringe. To be fair, Aisha hadn’t been paying much attention to anyone since her abrupt exit from the warehouse. Vanessa wondered if Fournier had sought her out to find out what was going on. Perhaps he already knew.

  Seeing Khoury now, Vanessa couldn’t deny the wave of relief that washed over her. But one quick look told her Peyton had noted Vanessa’s reaction to Khoury’s arrival. Sometimes the psychologist made her feel as opaque as glass.

  “Are you all set?” Chris asked Khoury.

  Khoury nodded and Chris signaled to Hays by circling his index finger, Keep it moving. Hays hurried from the living room into the conference room and moved directly to the main monitor he’d already set up at the head of the table.

  “We’re linked and—” Hays said, expertly clicking keys on the small board attached to the monitor. The screen flickered to life and DDO Hawkins turned to face the camera. Vanessa recognized the flag from the World Trade Center towers that hung on the wall in his office on the seventh floor at Headquarters. Someone else was seated across his desk, but that person was out of the camera’s picture and Vanessa could see only a sleeve that told her: male wearing a dark gray suit. The DDO nodded, greeting Chris and Fournier by name, before he said, “What’ve you got for us?”

  Who the heck is “us”? Vanessa wondered, almost squirming in her chair.

  But Chris must have known who it was, because he kept moving, saying, “I’ll turn the floor over to David because this is his intel.”

  “My excuse for being late,” David Khoury said, snapping open his laptop and turning it toward the monitor. Vanessa had to shift positions with other team members to see what they were seeing at Headquarters. Khoury’s screen was filled with complex schematics. Vanessa recognized the grouping of precise specifications of metal alloys before Khoury scrolled to the next page and the next.

  This had to be the blueprint for Bhoot’s miniaturized nuclear prototype. How was it possible that Khoury had it? Or was this just a copy of the blueprint found on a hard drive in Switzerland in 2008, suspected of being sold to rogue nations by Bhoot’s predecessor, Asad Z. Chaudhry, the Pakistani physicist?

  “I touched base with a friend in Jordan a week ago,” Khoury explained, his voice neutral, his default tone for delivering grave news. “I wanted to know if he’d heard anything that would confirm the existence of our loose nuke.”

  He scanned the group, slowing almost imperceptibly when he met Vanessa’s eyes, before turning back to the main monitor. “My friend got back to me very late yesterday. Last October, roughly a month after we believe Bhoot smuggled his own prototype out of Iran, he may have had some prospective buyers already interested: North Korea, Syria, and some freelancers in Africa and Latin America. My friend was contacted by an associate who was offering a sample of the device blueprint to chum the waters for a bidding war.” Khoury tapped the laptop. “This is that sample. And there’s enough here to tell us we’re dealing with a new type of device that, if it lives up to its promise and functions effectively, surpasses anything previously in existence when it comes to compact size and mobility in a nuclear weapon.”

  Everyone in the room had fallen silent, but now Vanessa spoke up. “The bidding . . . what happened?”

  Khoury met her gaze squarely, but he was speaking to the team. “When my friend inquired a few days after he received this, he was told the deal was off. Zip. End of story.”

  Now Khoury turned toward Chris and Fournier and then settled on the DDO. “But he heard the rest of the story through what he terms reliable back channels: the actual prototype had fallen into other hands. In other words, a lot of people believed the device was stolen.”

  “Merde,” Canard muttered, speaking for everyone in the room, Vanessa thought.

  “Extremely unsettling news, but good work, David,” the DDO said briskly.

  Now, finally, the man sitting with the DDO shifted position, leaning in so his face filled the monitor. He said, “I’ll echo the DDO’s congratulations on the good work, David.”

  Vanessa’s eyes widened at the sight of Allen Jeffreys.

  Again? She managed to stifle any other visible reaction to Jeffreys’s unexpected and highly irregular appearance, but she was definitely surprised and puzzled. What the hell was he doing on a Team Viper conference call again? Why did he keep inserting himself into this Agency field op?

  But then, almost instantly, she doubted her reaction—this Agency op had quickly widened in scope and implication, and it now certainly involved matters of national security. Still . . .

  As if he’d heard Vanessa’s silent challenge, Jeffreys said, “I’ve been in meetings with the president regarding these latest developments and I have my own questions for you, David.”

  “Yes, sir?” Khoury said, and his already straight spine pulled up noticeably.

  “A quick review of the history of so-called miniaturized, or suitcase, nuclear warheads,” Jeffreys began, “shows that claims of possession of such a device by governments and terrorists are false. They don’t exist.”

  Vanessa shook her head. The U.S., along with the Russians and Israel, all have sophisticated and well-funded nuclear weapons programs, and none have denied efforts to make smaller and smaller devices.

  Khoury frowned. “The problem with development is finding a way to pack enough powerful explosive into a small package to truly be portable and yet destructive.”

  “Let’s begin with the schematics,” Jeffreys said. “I’ve had the chance to review them briefly and our nuclear specialists are going over them and, in fact, DOD and NSA have both, at earlier dates, generated reports related to this subject, but it will take some time to authorize clearance.”

  Vanessa gritted her teeth. In one run-on sentence Jeffreys had insulted the Agency’s currency, expertise, and vetting ability.

  Jeffreys’s eyebrows rose, furrowing his high forehead. “So, setting those considerations aside for the moment, from your end, David, what corroboration, if any, do we have to confirm the viability of the schematics, much less the question of viab
ility of an actual prototype weapon?”

  “I do not know of any corroborating evidence,” Khoury said.

  Vanessa knew he didn’t like the way Jeffreys shaped the answers to his own questions. She knew the deputy director rubbed Chris the wrong way, but he was too experienced to show it. Hubris and manipulation were just something you had to take in stride from powerful people.

  Jeffreys paused, taking a deep breath, apparently choosing his next words with great care. “Clearly we can’t afford to ignore rumors.” His eyes moved to Vanessa for a moment, before his gaze slid back to Khoury. “And the fact you were able to obtain these schematics suggests these may be more than rumors, and while we in no way want to undermine the process of verifying or debunking the existence of an actual functional and powerful device, we also do not want to needlessly amplify the fear factor for national leaders or their populace, do we?”

  “Of course not,” Khoury said slowly.

  From the corner of her eye, Vanessa watched Chris for his reaction, but he was keeping his game face on.

  Almost before she knew it, she heard her own voice. “Are you saying we should ignore the very real possibility that such a weapon could be in the hands of terrorists? Because that would be crazy, and our only choice is to treat this as a real threat until we can prove otherwise.”

  Jeffreys looked sharply at Vanessa, and although their eyes were level, he seemed to be looking down at her. “I believe your officer expresses herself quite clearly, as she has in the past,” he said succinctly. “And given the fact that the so-called stolen prototype was intel she initially brought to the table, I’m not surprised.”

  Shocked into silence, Vanessa stood absolutely still.

  But Jeffreys wasn’t finished—and his tone took on a grating edge of impatience. “Time is wasting,” he snapped. “Clearly we take this kind of threat with absolute seriousness, but we do not play it up, and we make absolutely certain that nothing, not one word, about this latest intel leaks to the press or the public. Is that clear.”

  His last sentence was not a question.

  Vanessa breathed when the DDO took over, addressing Viper as a whole. “You people are doing everything you can to deal with a newly emerged terrorist threat.” He focused in on Vanessa for a moment, and then he let his gaze slide to Jack. “Any concrete leads yet to link Bhoot’s backing, sponsorship, if you will, to True Jihad?”

  “No, sir,” Jack said. “But we’re digging deeper, getting closer.”

  Fournier, who had taken a wide stance next to Chris, addressed the DDO. “Given the complexity of dealing with a prototype weapon and the fact we also suspect we’ve got a stolen spark gap detonator in the hands of these terrorists, it’s logical to look at the short list of bomb makers capable of assembling the detonator to the nuclear bomb. Find the man they’re using and we find the nuke.” Fournier acknowledged Aisha with his chin. She gave a small nod as she closed her laptop.

  Fournier continued: “One of my best officers, Aisha, is tracking the guys on our list. Our first guess would be a Nigerian who is known in the trade as ‘the tinker.’ We are following several solid leads on his whereabouts.”

  “Right, good work,” the DDO said. Jeffreys kept silent, but the corners of his mouth had turned down into deep furrows.

  The DDO visually singled out Fournier, who was standing next to Chris, and said, “We’ve heightened security and we will be hearing from both of our presidents as well as our heads of national security and other agencies on how they want to deal with this new information about the blueprints of the prototype.”

  The DDO nodded. “Thank you all, and I know you will get ahead of the newest threats we are facing.” When the monitor went dark, Hays began rearranging equipment and Chris dismissed the meeting. “David, I need to speak with you.”

  Vanessa caught a glimpse at her watch. She barely had time to make it to London for her meeting. The Chunnel would be backed up with the extra security. As she brushed past Khoury he started to reach for her, but she shook her head, mouthing, Sorry—not now.

  44

  Just before dusk in northwest London, Vanessa entered Hampstead Heath near the athletic track and the ponds. She began the climb to the top of Parliament Hill.

  Was it always damp in London? She’d done a three-month study exchange in the city during college and every day had been Groundhog Day, the same gloomy skies.

  A mist hung in the air and she passed large standing puddles from earlier rains, but at this moment the skies were clear. She had arrived in London just under three hours ago, the minimum amount of time she needed to deal with the city’s heightened security as well as her own surveillance-detection routine. She made certain that she didn’t have unwanted company before she hopped the Tube from the Chunnel’s exit at Saint Pancras Station to Gospel Oak. She loved the names of the stops on the Underground, each marking centuries of history, a reminder that we are all part of a long lineage.

  The hill was still a favorite of runners, pram pushers, and a few intrepid kite flyers. The weather, no matter how soupy or miserable, never seemed to bother the British. Even with terrorist threats extending to all major European cities, London felt freer than Paris.

  She was more than halfway up and her breathing had barely quickened; at least the smoking wasn’t affecting her lungs in any obvious way yet. Still, it had been beyond bad to take up the habit again. A runner and a smoker? An idiot.

  As she crested a small rise and turned onto a fork of paved path leading directly up to the hill’s apex, she saw kites dancing in the sky overlooking London. Beneath those kites, one long bench, offering the best view of London, was set on its own away from the paved path, away from runners and prams and the stand of trees beyond.

  A lone and familiar figure occupied the bench. Alexandra Hall, director-general of MI5, who was in her fifties, sat with perfect finishing-school posture, cloaked in a chic winter coat lined with understated fur. A bright green scarf peeked over her collar. Her gloved hands were crossed in her lap. The effect was one of both control and ease.

  Vanessa covered the last few meters. Hall still had not acknowledged her approach; instead, her gaze seemed locked on a vanishing point somewhere over the city near Saint Paul’s Cathedral.

  Vanessa sat, keeping her hands in her pockets and a meter between herself and Hall. She appreciated the moment to decompress just a bit, while at the same time a sense of urgency gnawed internally. Given Hall’s rather forbidding presence, she felt uncertain if she should speak or wait until she was spoken to. A bit like waiting for the queen.

  After what seemed a long silence, Hall spoke, enunciating her words with a posh Oxbridge accent. “You seem to be in the thick of it again, my dear.”

  “I appreciate you taking what I know is your extremely valuable time to meet with me, Madame Director.”

  “Then let’s not waste any of my time,” Hall said quietly.

  “Right.” Vanessa’s fingers fidgeted with the lining inside her pockets. “I need to know why Dieter Schoeman was transferred out of Belmarsh just days before the bombing at the Louvre.”

  “Why are you so eager to speak with Schoeman?”

  Vanessa felt tension move to her jaw. She pushed her spine against the unforgiving bench. She still didn’t know whom she could trust, but she felt drawn to confide in Hall.

  “Bhoot contacted me the day of the bombing.”

  She might as well have said she liked the color blue for all of Hall’s reaction.

  After what was, for Vanessa, an uncomfortably long silence, Hall said, “How did Bhoot get to you?”

  “A disposable phone.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “He denied involvement in the bombing, called it a diversion, said he’s been betrayed and that someone stole something of his, presumably the device he smuggled out of Iran.”

  “I’ve read the intel reports from our analysts and officers as well as yours, and classified assessments of the state of pla
y,” Hall said. “Are you quite certain that the device is a miniaturized nuclear prototype?”

  “Not one hundred percent certain, but unwilling to gamble that it’s not,” Vanessa said. “It’s obviously something of great value to Bhoot, so great that he would risk contact with me.”

  “I imagine he has more than one reason to reach out to you, Vanessa, and I’m sure you realize that you are playing with fire,” Hall said.

  A toddler lurched off the trail and a woman who looked too much like him not to be his mother followed, chiding gently and a bit wearily. On another day, Vanessa might have wondered if she would ever become a mother.

  Dusk was settling and the day was quickly darkening. When the child and his mother had almost disappeared along the trail, Hall said, “So it was Bhoot who sent you looking for Dieter Schoeman.”

  “Yes.”

  Hall turned toward Vanessa for the first time since their conversation had begun. “December must have been difficult for you for multiple reasons.”

  Vanessa tensed protectively, trying to mirror Hall’s stoicism and unearthly equanimity. She glanced toward Hall and then away, but she did not feel compelled to answer, sensing that Hall had more to say. She was right.

  “Dealing with the holidays just weeks after you killed a man. Taking a life, however justified that act may be, leaves an unseen mark.” Hall followed a lonely, fishlike kite with her eyes. “And your father’s birthday—it must have been hard for your mother.”

  “Yes, hard for all of us,” Vanessa said. Oddly, she felt herself let go, ease her guard a bit. For all Hall’s power and her ability to wield that power ruthlessly, Vanessa somehow felt safe around her. Certainly the fact that Hall had known and respected her father was part of it. Vanessa thought of him every day; she wished she could ask his advice.

  “You’ve had a rough start to the new year,” Hall said, interrupting Vanessa’s thoughts.

  “I plan to make it better soon.” She felt Hall’s eyes on her face, assessing her strength, her energy, what? She turned to meet Hall’s gaze. “It’s getting late,” she said softly.