Ground Zero

  “Chapter Twelve,” Stillwell said to himself, “The Wolf and the Dove.” This was his first experience with an historical romance. Gwen told them she liked this one because the beautiful heroine was full-bodied and chunky, like Gwen.

  “Those were the days,” Gwen said.

  Stillwell sighed and tried to find a comfortable position in the hard plastic chair.

  Colorado Springs

  Joe’s mouth was soft and salty and hot, just the way Eileen imagined it to be.

  “I want you,” he said against her mouth. “Everything is right when you’re around me.”

  How long had it been? Forever. The rational part of her brain was calling to her, crying out in a sharp and commanding voice, but it was far away and she didn’t want to listen to it. She wasn’t going to listen to it.

  “I want you too,” she said, through the thudding of her heart.

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley Virginia

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Lucy said shortly to Mills. She had her desk light on because the sun wasn’t up yet. It was very early for Lucy.

  “That’s unusual,” Mills said to her, in a smugly friendly way. Lucy looked at him for a moment, puzzled, then realized Mills thought she was in there to impress him. He had her under his control now, or so he thought.

  “Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all,” she said shortly, and turned her head back to her computer screen, clearly dismissing him. He closed the door softly with a small chuckle which she ignored.

  After he left Lucy took another donut out of her desk drawer. They were incredibly fresh at 4:30 in the morning, she had just discovered. The bakers were still putting them out on the racks when she stepped into the bakery. The smell of fresh baked donuts was mouthwatering.

  “I hate that man,” she said, her mouth muffled by donut. There didn’t seem to be anything more on Muallah, any piece of information that could get her report off Mills desk and into the DDCIA’s office.

  The phone rang. Lucy swallowed hard.

  “Yeth,” she said, because her voice was still mostly choked with donut.

  “Is this Lucy Giometti?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, this is Lucy,” Lucy said. She sat straight up in her chair. “Did you read it? What did you --”

  “We’ve got all the confirmation we need, now,” Jefferson said grimly. “Kane wants you over at the Pentagon right away. You are now our Muallah expert.”

  “I have to talk to Mills --” Lucy started, grimacing. Mills was not going to be happy about this.

  “I’ve already called him,” Jefferson said. “We’re going to let him have the opportunity to take the credit for your brilliant analysis. If he chooses to try and nail you for going around the chain of command, he’s going to bounce so far on his ass you’ll see skidmarks on the pavement. Now get over here, Miss Lucy. We’ve got a Situation.”

  “I’m on my way,” she said, and hung up the phone just as Mills stormed into the office.

  “What’s the meaning of all this?” he squealed, his face mottled with red and white.

  “The meaning is that you were wrong and I was right,” Lucy said. “But you can still get the credit if you want.”

  Mills stood there like a fish on a dock, his mouth opening and closing, as Lucy gathered her purse and closed down her computer and contemplated the donuts. Finally she shrugged, closed the donut box and tucked it under her arm.

  “We need to go,” she said to Mills. “Plan your revenge later. We need to get to the Pentagon.”

  Lucy found she regretted that remark very much, later on.

  Oklahoma

  “The bus is here,” said Gwen. Major Stillwell came awake with a start. His left foot was asleep and started tingling when he moved in the hard plastic chair. He groaned.

  “Oh thank god,” said Richard. He was sitting rigidly in the bus station's hard, brightly colored chair, his eyes locked on the big blue and white form of the bus. Three other sleepy passengers stirred in the tiny waiting room of the gas station that served as a bus stop.

  “What time is it?” Stillwell asked.

  “Two o'clock,” Richard said.

  “I was almost willing to fly that Chinook out of that corn field,” Gwen said grimly.

  “I thought about it,” Richard said to her.

  “You're a fruit cake,” she said, which puzzled Stillwell.

  The bus was mostly empty. Everyone on board seemed to be asleep. Stillwell felt sweaty and rank in the close confines of the bus, but he realized everyone else smelled that way, too. He took a seat and Gwen and Richard sat together on the seat across from him.

  “See, we're safe now, you big baby,” Gwen said as they pulled away from the station. “We'll be in Oklahoma City in a couple of hours and home by tomorrow night, I bet.”

  “I want a shower,” Stillwell said. “And some sleep in a real bed.”

  “I'm just glad we made it out,” Richard said. He did look better. The color was beginning to return to his face.

  “What's the deal?” Stillwell asked.

  “Too many scary stories when he was a kid,” Gwen said. Richard looked out the window as though he were annoyed, but Stillwell could see the beginnings of a grin.

  “There was a movie called 'Children of the Corn,' from a Stephen King story,” Gwen said..

  “Oh, yeah, I caught that on the late night a long time ago. It was pretty good,” Stillwell said.

  “I hate cornfields. Always have. I've always thought there was something in there, when I was growing up in Kansas. Then I saw this movie. So here we go, crashing in a corn field. Then we have to sit in a little redneck town all day,” Richard said.

  “Richard was waiting for the natives to come swarming out and sacrifice us to the corn,” Gwen said.

  “Well I would have made it,” Richard said. “I would have given them you to sacrifice, and saved my own ass.”

  They laughed together, and Stillwell found himself laughing too. He was finally moving again. It was too bad that he was going to be late to investigate the case at Schriever, but at least he was alive. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Stillwell laid his head back in the bus seat and tried to find a comfortable position so he could get some sleep.

  Colorado Springs

  Half-way through the night Eileen woke Joe by tugging at his arm, trying to get him to stand up.

  “We're going to the bedroom,” she said, getting her shoulder under his arm.

  “What?” Tanner said sleepily.

  “Bedroom,” she said. His body, naked, shone in the darkness. “We’re going to sleep in a bed. You’re crushing me on this couch. Come on now, it's just down the hall.”

  Joe didn't resist. He was still mostly asleep. He let her lead him to the bedroom. The sheets were wonderfully cool and smooth and the comforter she pulled over him was soft and warm.

  Eileen hurried quickly to the living room. She fetched her gun and their clothing and set her holster by the bed, dumping their clothes by the door. She crawled in and curled her body up against him. He sleepily put his arm around her. She felt a vast sense of peace. She slept.

  Turtkul, Turkmenistan

  “They will rescue us,” Anna whispered confidently. She held her youngest, who was seven and usually unwilling to submit to baby treatment, firmly against her bosom. He was sleeping, mouth open, eyelashes fanned against his perfect rounded cheek. Salt tears had dried in tiny streaks from his eyes. He snored.

  “We can survive only three or four days,” Ilina whispered.

  “That will be more than enough,” Anna soothed. “You brought plenty of food. We are safe, Ilina. Do not worry.”

  Anna, though, was worried, and deeply. What she knew, and hoped the murderous terrorists would not figure out, was that missile silo number six was capped by a concrete cover that could be blown off, just like every other silo with a nuclear warhead within. Blow the cover off and the women and children would be like mice at the bottom of a barrel. If the terrorists figured this out... A
nna shook her head and stroked her sleeping son, and made a small offering to the God she’d been taught all her life did not exist.

  “Please, God,” she said to herself. “Please, God. Don’t let them be as smart as me.” She looked upwards into the darkness at the top of the silo, and she prayed.

  Chapter Thirty

  Colorado Springs

  “I shall fix you French Toast,” Joe whispered to Eileen. She woke abruptly and for a moment didn't know where she was. Joe was on his side next to her, his chin in his hand, looking into her eyes exactly like her cat Betty liked to do.

  “Good morning?” he said, and there was an awkward silence for a moment.

  “Good morning? Good morning!” Eileen said, recovering herself. She put her arms around Joe and hugged him hard. He rolled over in the bed until she was underneath him.

  “When I woke I thought it was another of those dreams I've been having since I met you,” he said solemnly as she started to laugh.

  “I thought Betty had figured out how to open the cat food cans and had gotten huge.”

  “I guess I am huge,” Joe said with a smirk.

  “You're gigantic... for a cat,” Eileen said. He started kissing her.

  “My mouth tastes terrible. But I can't stop.”

  “I'm going to fix you breakfast,” he said again, laughing, but his arms were around her neck and he was kissing her.

  “Later,” she said.

  Denver Animal Shelter

  The dark-haired girl, Debbie, hung up a tag on Fancy's door when she fed the little spaniel that morning. She hosed out Fancy's kennel and patted the dog, and moved down the line to the next kennel. Fancy’s time was going to run out the next day.

  Colorado Springs

  “I might have something,” Dave Rosen said to Eileen. She wasn't late, but he was there before she walked into the office. Was he always early? She’d never noticed before.

  “On the Schriever case? What is it?” Eileen was heading for her desk but changed direction. There was a purse on Rosen's desk.

  “This is Terry Guzman's purse,” Rosen said. “I realized when I was going over the autopsy report that she didn't have a purse.”

  “I missed that,” Eileen said, and touched the edge of the leather bag with her finger. She wanted to snatch it off the surface of the desk, but this was Rosen's find. “Have you opened it?”

  “It just got here,” Rosen said. “She left it at her desk. Nobody touched her desk and nobody asked about a purse, so it wasn't turned in until the Game Director found it yesterday. He found it in her desk, they were boxing up her stuff. He sent it in.”

  “At your request, you mean. Stop teasing me, dammit, open it,” Eileen said. Rosen smiled. He opened up the top and carefully shook out the contents onto the desk.

  On the desk was lipstick, a checkbook, a comb, a small bottle of hair spray, a nail file, a bank book, a coin purse, a pink oval case, (“Birth control pills,” Eileen said to Rosen) a folding toothbrush in a clear case, a traveler's tube of toothpaste, a vial of perfume, an ancient granola bar, and a set of car keys.

  Eileen felt a deep sadness when she saw the pitiful contents of Terry's bag. These were the private items of a woman's life, spread out for inspection.

  There was so much happiness in her life this morning she couldn't feel bad towards anyone. Everyone should have a fresh chance at life. Everyone should have the chance to feel like she did today. She thought guiltily that her mood must show. After the glorious morning lovemaking, Joe fixed Eileen French toast that was crisp and tasty. And coffee. Joe was a coffee drinker. His coffee was strong and good, just like him, she thought in amusement. Her brain was temporarily on vacation, obviously. She looked down at the desk.

  “Let me see the check book,” she said. Rosen handed her the book and then took up the bag and hefted it, trying to see if the weight was wrong. If there was an unexplained heaviness, there might be a hidden pocket or two. Purses often had little compartments that were easy to miss.

  Eileen started looking through the check register. There were the usual utilities, car payment, ATM machine withdrawals. There was the monthly deposit of her paycheck, an amount that made Eileen draw in a deep breath. Did they really pay engineers that much? She remembered the huge and costly machines in the Gaming Center. Evidently the engineers were worth that kind of money. Eileen flipped through the checks and felt an unexpected hardness at the back of the checkbook.

  “What's this?”

  Rosen peered over Eileen’s arm as she looked through the checkbook. She finally found the hidden compartment and pulled out a slim blue bank book.

  “She had two savings accounts?” Rosen asked. “Hey, now.”

  Eileen opened the savings account book, and saw the name.

  “Teresa James.”

  “That was the last name of her first husband, right?” Rosen said.

  Eileen nodded. She pointed silently to the listing of deposits.

  “My god,” Rosen said. “Fourteen thousand dollars. Twelve thousand dollars. Fifteen thousand dollars. Where was she getting the money?”

  “What did she have worth selling?” Eileen asked wearily. The sunshine had abruptly gone out of her day. The moment she'd seen the first amount she realized what Terry Guzman was doing to earn it.

  “Secret documents,” Rosen said. His face was shuttered but his hands were clenched on the table top in excitement.

  “Surely,” Eileen said. Her fingers felt numb. This was it. This had to be it. All the trails led here. “She screwed everyone she could. Figuratively as well as literally. She tried to find everyone's proudest point and make it dirty. Look,” she said, ticking the names with her fingers. “There's 'Berto. He was proud of his beliefs, his religion. There's Doug. He loved his wife, his new little girl.”

  “Procell had to work nights and couldn't see them,” Rosen said. “And 'Berto, she made him guilty by sleeping with him. What about Joe? And Sharon?”

  “Joe lost Sully. Terry destroyed him without even setting him up,” Eileen said grimly. “And she got rid of Sully permanently, even if it was an accident. Sharon loves her kids. Terry was trying to get Sharon switched to a lower paying position so Sharon would have to take her kids out of private school.”

  “Nelson?”

  “I don't know. And Lowell? Did he know about this?”

  “What about Art? Did she try anything on Art?”

  “I don't know. We'll probably never know now,” Eileen said, and started turning the pages of the bank book. There was something written on the back page.

  “Phone numbers,” Rosen said in a strangled yelp. “Look.”

  Eileen looked at the first phone number. She knew the number. She felt a burst of savage excitement and Rosen saw the look in her face. His face flushed a dusky red color.

  “Whose is it? You know?”

  “I know,” Eileen said in satisfaction, and punched Dave Rosen on the thick part of the arm. “Feels good, doesn’t it? We’ve got the bastard now.”

  “Who?”

  “It's Major Blaine.”

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley Virginia

  Lucy’s screen was full of windows, but her mind refused to process any of the information. She was exhausted. Lieutenant Jefferson and four other officers grilled her all morning in the stuffy room at the Pentagon. Mills, wisely, said little. He sat next to her on the hard folding chair and nodded sagely at all the right places. Lucy talked until she was hoarse, then talked some more. She shared her donuts which had suddenly lost their taste. She longed for some more beef jerky, the greasy teriyaki kind.

  Jefferson gave a little information away. Yes, there had been a takeover of a Russian missile silo. And yes, since Lucy seemed to know about it before it happened, it was in Turkmenistan. Even though Turkmenistan was now technically a separate country, the silos were still considered Russian territory, with the cooperation of the Turkmenistani government. Jefferson refused to discuss anything else.

 
Lucy did her best. She believed Jefferson was a listener. He was a smart man. The other officers might be of the same mettle, but it was Jefferson she spoke to. And, through Jefferson, Admiral Kane.

  “Look, I know how this sounds,” she had said. “You don’t want to wade through Muallah’s master’s thesis. But if you did, you’d understand this guy really believes he is the One of the Prophecies. He believes he will blow this ‘Trumpet of Doom’ and unite the Arab countries into a new empire. What else could his trumpet of doom be, but a nuclear bomb?”

  “Saddam Hussein will eat him for breakfast if he tries a stunt like that,” one of the unnamed officers said. He was a Marine, with cold eyes. Lucy didn’t have to stretch to figure this guy was a veteran of the Gulf War. Mills made a little wiggling gesture in his chair, as though to apologize for her. She could have killed him then.

  “I didn’t say it was a good plan,” Lucy said patiently. “The man is a freak. He killed a girl in Paris, right after he killed Tabor. He --” here Lucy stopped. She realized she was about to make a horrible blunder. Charles D’Arnot understood about Sufi. But he was French. These men, American military men, were not going to understand the monstrous ego behind the murder of Sufi. She was not going to score points by trying to explain.

  “He’s a murderer, a casual one,” she finished lamely. “He kills for fun. He’s going to launch that missile.”

  “There is no way a terrorist is going to launch a nuclear missile to unite the Arab countries,” the Marine said dismissively. “The Arab countries wouldn’t unite even if he single-handedly destroyed Israel on live television. No, he probably wants money. Or the release of a few of his buddies from Israeli prison.”