Separating them from the nearest ladder on the warehouse was a wide-open stretch of asphalt. A hundred meters, he guessed, maybe a little more. It was that way around the entire structure. They had chosen this side because of the shadow; it was the only cover available.
He sprinted for the nearest ladder with his head down, arms pumping, running on the balls of his feet in order to make as little sound as possible. Amanda followed close on his heels. He ran faster than he had ever run before, so hard he saw stars in his eyes, and his side felt as if it was about to split apart. Twenty meters short of the stairwell, the big door in the center of the building rumbled open.
Kurt watched in terror as light flooded the interior of the space. They can see us, he thought. He ran faster. They made it just as the throaty roar of a revving engine split the air. Slipping around the edge of the building, out of sight of anyone coming from the front, they pressed their backs against the warm corrugated metal wall and panted, exhausted by the run.
Inside the building, the engine revved several times, and then it moved away from them. They pressed harder against the wall, trying to disappear. All it would take was for the vehicle to take a left turn, and they would be discovered. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt caught a flash of metallic blue as a late model Porsche Cayenne shot from the building and took a wide turn to the right, away from them. The noise of the engine faded as the SUV raced away, and the doors rumbled closed.
Kurt and Amanda shared a look of relief. He could see it in Amanda’s eyes, the same thing he was feeling—they had barely escaped with their lives. They waited until the doors clanged shut and then made their way to the fire ladder hanging down from the second floor. Kurt dropped to one knee, laced his fingers together into a step, and boosted Amanda up.
A minute later, they were on the third floor catwalk.
Forty-Three
“Is this everyone?” President Cooper asked, disappointed at the turnout.
Spaced around the long oval table in the situation room were the Deputy Secretary of Defense, Daniel Bickenstaff; the Secretary of State, Hazel Bingham; the Secretary of Homeland Security, Mark Djini; and the Director of the CIA, Paul Pungley. Darlene Foster and Charlie Howell, representing the NSA, sat in chairs along one wall, along with a smattering of staffers from the other agencies. The Secretary of Defense and several other staffers were on the phone.
Dominic put his water glass on the table. “I think so, sir. We have a few inbound—General Richter, Admiral Milken, and a few others—but this is it for the moment.
Rick gave a quick nod, then stood and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman. We’ve got a big problem here.” He directed his eyes at the Director of the CIA.
“About an hour ago, our people at Fort Meade came across some information that leads me to believe something big—an attack—is about to occur in Moscow.” He picked up a small gray remote control from the table and clicked a button in the center. Nothing happened. He tried again, pressing harder. Still nothing. He cursed. “Dom? Can you take a look at this?”
Dominic took the control, which drove the projector mounted on the ceiling, and started fiddling with it. There was a beep overhead, and the screen on the far wall turned blue as the projector came to life. Dominic handed the control back him.
“Thanks, Dom.” He pushed the button on the remote, and an annotated transcript appeared on the far wall. It was the final conversation between Helen and Mason from a little over an hour earlier.
“This is what started it all,” he said. “It’s a conversation between a CIA controller in Washington and a field agent in Paris.” He clicked the remote.
“And here’s what we found when we started digging.” The next several screens displayed a trace of all of the connections radiating out from both Helen and Mason, including Jack Carson, Mike Vetter, and Fish Coldwell.
All eyes in the room shifted to the Director of the CIA. He sat up straight in his seat, gritted his teeth.
“Now, if you look at the timestamps,” Rick continued, “you’ll notice this information is fresh. That’s a testament to the hard work of Charlie and his staff.” He gestured at Charlie and Darlene. Charlie gave a slight nod while Darlene blushed.
The deputy director of the Department of Defense started to speak, but Rick held up his hand, cutting him off. “Relax, Daniel. Before you jump to conclusions, I’ve already spoken with Paul.” He gave the director a slight nod of encouragement. “Can you give the rest of us a briefing on what’s going on inside CIA?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Paul Pungley, fifty-seven, was a career CIA bureaucrat. He wasn’t Rick’s first choice for the job, nor his second or third. He knew the agency inside out and had been there long enough to know where the bodies were buried and who had buried them. An unimaginative man, he preferred to delegate the majority of his duties to his staff and ride on their accomplishments. In one respect, he was exceptional—responding to a crisis. Paul was fabulous as ferrying out the minutest detail about an issue and holding people accountable for their actions. At this moment, there was no one else Rick would rather have had in the hot seat.
“Things are changing fast, but this is what we have so far. We’ve uncovered a rogue element within the agency. They appear to have established links to a group of radical Chechen separatists, and I, we, believe they have been collaborating with these same Chechens to arrange for an attack on Moscow.” The room exploded with the sound of a dozen voices, all vying to have their questions answered.
Rick motioned for everyone to be patient. “Let Paul continue, please.”
Paul did. He spent the next two minutes describing what his team had learned about Jack’s organization, its history and its goals.
“Isn’t this week the annual meeting of the congress and the Russian military?” the Secretary of State asked.
“It is,” the director responded. “And that’s one of the reasons we’re so worried. As we speak, the President, the Prime Minister, most of the senior military leadership and their congress are all in Moscow.” The room went quiet for a minute as the participants digested the news. The world had been a quiet place for the past several years. The administration had been working to repair the damage, both political and economic, of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, and most people’s attention had shifted to domestic concerns. That was over now.
From six thousand miles away, Buzz’s voice came through the speakerphone in the center of the table. “I suggest we go from DEFCON three to two right away.”
The Secretary of DHS said, “I agree, but I believe the terrorist threat level should remain the same. We don’t want to scare people unnecessarily.”
“I disagree,” Dominic piped up. “I think we should raise the terrorist threat level as well.”
From there, the conversation descended into a free-for-all, as the people around the table and on the phone brainstormed an appropriate response. He let this proceed for a good two minutes before weighing in. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the fray. “I’ve heard what I need.” The bickering stopped and everyone turned their attention towards their commander-in-chief.
“I need a few minutes to gather my thoughts. We’ll reconvene in ten.” He pushed back his chair and stood. The others followed suit.
“And Paul,” he added.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I want an update on the people responsible for this as soon as you have them in custody.”
The spy boss gave a sharp nod. “Yes, sir. They’re being picked up as we speak.”
He dismissed the meeting. The situation room was two hundred feet below the white house proper, buried in a watertight, shock- and blast-proof capsule deep in the Potomac water table. The name belied the magnitude of the facility. Rather than a single room, there were over fifty, ranging from private quarters to planning and command and control centers for various agencies. The total square footage far exceeded that of the executive building on the surface.
>
Before Dominic could go, he put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Dom. Can I speak to you in private for a minute?”
“Yes, Mr. President. What is it?”
Rick ignored the looks from the other members of the his cabinet. They all understood the special bond between him and his National Security Advisor, and they all resented it. Dom had his ear on all matters.
He and Dominic stood in place while the others filed out. When the door finally thunked shut, he gestured to Dominic. “Have a seat.”
Dominic did, with a worried look on his face.
“I heard a lot of conflicting opinions here. I understand all of the various positions, but I’m disturbed. Most people seem concerned with punishing those fools over at the CIA who started this.”
Dominic sighed. “I know. It’s a natural reaction.” He checked his watch and raised his eyebrows at Rick.
“I know. I know. We don’t have shit for time. Have I ever told you that that’s my least favorite thing about this job? Everything is always a goddamned emergency, always has to have happened yesterday.” He shook his head and sat on the edge of the table. “The one thing I kept thinking,” he continued, “was what about the Russians? Everyone is focused on our reaction. “I’m considering calling President Sokolov and spilling the whole thing to him. There’s nothing we can do from here, but they may be able to get some people in place, if we’re lucky, and do something.”
“Yes,” Dominic said. “However, we need to be careful. If the Russians perceive we were somehow complicit in this attack, regardless of whether it was sanctioned, they may decide to retaliate preemptively, to hit us before we hit them.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think? Sokolov seems like a reasonable man.” He had met him a handful of times, at international meetings of the G8 and in an ongoing session of talks tasked with reducing the number of strategic nuclear weapons.
“It’s a distinct possibility. Put yourself in their shoes. What if Sokolov called you and told you a bomb was about to go off in…” Dominic checked his watch, “an hour and five minutes and wipe out your entire government. Wouldn’t you want to hit back? To take them with you?”
Rick thought this over, then stood. “Okay. Thanks, Dom.”
Dominic straightened. “That’s it, sir?” He adjusted his tie.
“Yes. That’s it. I’ll consider your guidance as I make my decision. Please tell the others it will be a few more minutes.”
“I’ll be outside then” Dominic said. He headed for the door but stopped before opening it. “Rick?” he asked.
“Yes?” Rick looked up from the polished wood table.
“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
Rick gave him a grim smile before turning back to his notes.
Forty-Four
Helen’s migraine was coming back. Starting at the base of her neck and reaching up and through her skull, it was coring its way into the center of her skull with long, icy fingers. Stress, she told herself. Since her conversations with Mason and Jack, she had been at a loss for what to do. According to the clock, there was only a little over an hour until the fireworks in Moscow. She had one hour until life as she knew it was over.
She massaged her neck with her left hand, digging at the knotted muscles, trying to break up the stress and head off the headache before it took root. She groaned. It was no use. Her neck was a knotted rope of iron.
Her thoughts drifted back to Mike Vetter. He had always been one of her favorites. A field officer with years of experience and an innate understanding of the Russian mind, he had been the last person that she had ever expected to turn traitor. Now she understood. How could I have missed it? she asked herself, cursing her blindness. Why did I sit by and let that happen? Why did I trust Jack? All of these questions and more flashed through her mind in a painful blur and then, in an instant, she knew what she had to do.
She had to leave. Right now. She had to follow the same advice she had given to Mason. Jack can go to hell. This isn’t what I signed up for. She picked up her car keys, hesitated, and then put them down again.
Her hand went to her mouse. She had one more thing to check… She clicked on her desktop. Her computer screen went blank. The border flashed bright red. A white message appeared in the center of the screen. Access Restricted. Helen clicked her mouse again, to no avail. Someone had locked her out of the system.
They know. Her heart skipped a beat as she considered the implications of her actions, of taking the fall for her involvement. In a flash, she grabbed her car keys and her badge and bolted from her desk. Stopping at the door, she composed herself, tucking her hair behind her ears and putting as much of a smile on her lips as she could muster. There was no way, she knew, she could hide the ghostly pallor that colored her skin.
She opened the door and exited the secure space. She would have to pass Jack’s office on the way out. The main exit was a set of turnstiles and backscatter body scanning machines manned by very serious men with their fingers on their triggers. Ever since the incident with the distraught Iraqi refugee looking for his missing relatives two years earlier, security had been on high alert. Prior to that event, it had been a simple matter of waving at the guards she saw on average four times a day and swiping her badge through a reader. No longer. Now the guards scanned everyone on the way into the facility and routinely, although seemingly at random, scanned some on the way out. The agency took no chances with its employees and the secrets in their heads.
Helen stared down the hall. A two-minute walk on a normal day, it now seemed as if the guard shack was a million miles away. She set off at a slow walk, taking pains to control her speed, trying not to break out into a full-bore run that would overwhelm her exercise-deprived body and leave her breathless and panting at the guard station, ready for a thorough interrogation.
As she passed Jack’s office, she noted light leaking from underneath the door. She kept moving, picking up her pace. Three minutes later, she was outside. She had passed through the guard shack unmolested despite her fears. The order to shut off her computer access had obviously not wound all the way through security yet. She strode across the parking lot to her Honda Accord and slid behind the wheel.
The engine fired up with a muted roar and she backed out of her space. Feeling a bit more confident, Helen threw the car into drive and started forward. She had one more hurdle to pass before she was in the clear. After that, she had no idea. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go to the bank. She had maybe two hundred dollars in her purse.
But Helen knew people. A lot of people. She had a brief mental image of her face splashed across CNN with the words ‘Wanted for genocide’ floating underneath. She pushed the thought aside. I’ll deal with that later. For now, I have to get to the interstate. Then I’ll have options.
She rolled up to the gate. Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath. Edward, one of the daytime parking lot guards, sidled up to her car making a circular motion with his index finger, telling her to roll down the window. She did.
“Leaving early today, Ms. B.?”
“Yes. I have some personal business.” She flashed him her most innocent smile.
“Well, have a good—”
He cocked his head, straightened, took a step back, and drew his pistol. Helen’s insides turned to water. Radio. A little white wire curled up and over Edward’s ear, disappearing into his ear canal. Goddamn it! Out of the corner of her eye, she saw flashing lights approaching in her rear view mirror. Next, she heard the sirens.
“Step out of the car, Ms. Bartholomew,” he ordered, his voice devoid of all emotion.
“I don’t understand, Edward,” she pleaded. “I’m late for my appointment.” She stole a glance at the guard booth and saw the other guard speaking urgently into a radio and gesturing wildly with his hands. Meanwhile, the lights were getting closer.
Helen closed her eyes and crossed herself, then she pressed the accelerator to the floor. Two years earlier, before
the government had installed the pop-up, that might have worked, but not now. The barriers, monolithic blocks of concrete and rebar, were embedded in every street leading into and out of the campus. Each barrier was mounted on a system of rails and relied upon shaped explosive charges to raise it into a defensive position with the push of a button. Once raised, they were strong enough to prevent an eighteen-wheeler traveling at eighty-five miles per hour from getting through.
There was an ear-splitting bang and, ten feet in front of her car, a solid wall appeared out of thin air. Her Honda was no match. The last thing she saw before passing out was her airbag exploding from her steering wheel.
~~~
Jack swirled his scotch and watched the amber liquid race around the glass, unable to escape its confines. So this is it? He thought with a twinge of melancholy. He had just gotten off the phone with a well-placed contact in the director’s office. The staffer, a former employee who owed him a favor, had warned him the big boss was on his way over, and that he was loaded for bear. He took a sip, savoring the smoky burn of the liquid on his lips. There was only one reason the director would come to him—he had been discovered.
He checked his watch. Fifty-five minutes until detonation. There’s no way to stop it now. A faint smile played on his lips. He pulled his secure mobile phone from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and traced his fingers across the keyboard.
There was a contingency plan, instituted by Mike Vetter, of all people. Before delivering the bomb to the Chechens, Fish had wired in a backdoor detonator connected to the guts of a mobile phone. Only three people knew the code. Jack was the last one left alive. All he had to do was dial a local Virginia telephone number, and the global communications network would route the call to wherever the bomb was located, triggering the onboard detonator. It was an insurance policy of sorts, a way to prevent the rebels from backing out of their end of the agreement.
The Patriot Paradox Page 15