Ground Zero

  “I didn’t say it was a good plan,” Lucy said again, feeling hopeless. Jefferson nodded sympathetically at her. There were a few more questions, but the session was over. She felt like she had failed.

  The phone rang. Lucy started, and realized she had a half-chewed piece of teriyaki jerky in one hand. Pregnancy really sucked. This whole day sucked, and it was only noon.

  “Hello, Giometti here,” she said.

  “Lucy! What's up? Got something for me on the Tabor case?” The voice was cheerful Californian surfer boy. Fred Nguyen.

  “Fred!” she said happily. She couldn’t be depressed with Fred on the line. He positively crackled with energy. “I do, actually. But I’m muzzled right now until things settle out.”

  “Bummer,” Fred said. “You’re gonna let me know when everything’s over, right?”

  “I will,” Lucy said firmly. She was of the younger generation at the CIA, and didn’t buy into the old rivalry between the services. Nguyen was of her generation as well, and he laughed.

  “Good,” he said. “That Tabor case was a real wreck for my boss. I guess they'd been closing in on this dude for a while. Me, I just keep thinking about that poor damn dog he left behind. I wish he'd given her the cyanide pills, for sure.”

  “Why?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh, come on. You think anyone's going to adopt her? She's a full grown dog. She'll live for another day or so and then they'll put her to sleep. Damn spy couldn't even kill his own dog. I guess I can understand, but it pisses me off.”

  “Poor thing,” Lucy said.

  “Yeah. I'd adopt her myself but my youngest has asthma. Can't have a dog. So, hey, keep in touch.”

  “You betcha,” Lucy said, and rang off. She felt better after talking to Fred, even if no one else believed her. She bit off another hunk of jerky.

  Steven Mills walked in. His thinning blonde hair was askew and his pale eyes were bloodshot. He had the beginnings of sweat dampening his forehead but a small smile sat on his lips, an odd, satisfied kind of smile. Lucy didn’t like his smile at all.

  “Giometti, we have a problem,” he said without preamble. “Stillwell is stuck in some backwoods Oklahoma airport and won't make it in before midnight at the earliest. You need to get out there today and do some damage control.”

  Lucy nearly choked on her jerky. She chewed hard, and swallowed.

  “Are you kidding? With Muallah in a missile silo? You’re sending me to Colorado?”

  Mills looked at her without expression. “Why yes,” he said. “We need you out there to help with the cover up.”

  Lucy felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She was being put Outside. Put out of the way.

  “What about Jefferson?” she choked. “He probably wants to talk to me --”

  “Nope, the Pentagon is done with your analysis,” Mills said smugly. “You aren’t needed on that effort any longer. I called Lieutenant Jefferson on that issue and he agreed that you could be sent to Colorado.”

  Lucy sat for a moment, then swallowed hard.

  “Well, sure, Steve,” she said mildly. This took enough effort that she could feel tiny sweat beads in her hairline. “You get Travel to set up the airline tickets, and I'll call Ted.”

  “I really appreciate it,” he said. “What shall you go as? Air Force?”

  “How about DIA?”

  “Great idea,” he said, and left the office.

  Lucy leaned over her desk, eyes closed, feeling betrayed. How could Jefferson do that to her? Then she raised her head, and blinked hard.

  “Oh my god,” she said suddenly, alone in her office. What would be the most likely target of a missile aimed at the United States? Why, Washington D.C., of course. Washington D.C. was always the first ground zero, the first target. Jefferson believed her. He was trying to get her out of harm’s way. Lucy grinned. Damn chauvinist. What a wonderful man. Lucy picked up the phone and dialed quickly.

  “Ted,” she said. “I’m being sent out of town. Colorado. Do you think you could take a plane to your sister’s place in Florida for a few days?...”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Colorado Springs

  “So you want to bring him in?” Harben sat behind his perfect desk, his fingers folded neatly in front of him. His tie was narrow and black and his dark brown hair was combed. He looked back and forth from Eileen to Dave Rosen.

  “Look, he's got to be the one,” Eileen said. “He's her contact to get information out. He's the one who delivers the money to her. We found three numbers in that bank book. Two of them are disconnected.”

  “They've been disconnected for two days,” Rosen said. “I checked with the phone company. The services were canceled the day Guzman was murdered.”

  “The foreign spies,” Harben said.

  “Yes,” Eileen said. “There isn't a single thing she could do that would be worth fourteen thousand a pop except for drugs or espionage.”

  “How about drugs, then?”

  “The only indication we have as far as drugs go is Blaine's apparent marijuana use the night Art Bailey was killed,” Rosen said crisply.

  “I missed that,” Harben said. “Eileen?”

  “Maybe he was a little stoned the night Art was killed,” Eileen said reluctantly. “I put it in my report. Maybe it was dope. Maybe it was because he'd just murdered Art and it wasn't as well planned out as Terry.”

  “Maybe he has a drug habit,” Harben said. “But that doesn't matter because espionage takes this case right out of our hands. You know that, don't you?” He addressed his remarks to both of the detectives. Rosen's lanky frame was slumped in the chair in front of him. Eileen sat forward in hers, forearms on her knees, her head propped in her hands.

  “I know,” Eileen said glumly.

  “We could haul him in and have a few hours to interrogate him,” Rosen said. “Just by arresting him we could make him talk, maybe.”

  “Maybe so,” Harben said. “But we won't. The Air Force OSI officer called me this morning. He'll be arriving this evening and he'll take the whole case out of our hands. We turn our documents over to him and it's his ball game.”

  Eileen stared at the floor.

  “It all fits,” Rosen pleaded. “Blaine was there. He's got a motive. He's our man.”

  “He'll be the FBI's man, if he's anybody's,” Harben said. “This is a federal case.” Eileen looked up at Harben. Her Captain was staring at her, and as always there was no emotion in his face.

  “Eileen, you've done a fine job here,” Harben said. “And so have you, Dave. I'm sorry you can't close this case. I want you to wrap up the documents and get them printed for the OSI officer.”

  “I'd like to talk to Lowell Guzman one more time,” Eileen said in desperation. “Maybe he knows something about Terry's dealings with Major Blaine. I won't blow the case, I swear. I just have to wrap up the last loose ends.”

  Harben opened his mouth, then hesitated.

  “Lowell might be in danger from Blaine, actually,” Rosen said, and Eileen and Harben turned to look at him. “Wouldn't Blaine want to make sure Terry didn't have anything that pointed a finger at him? I wonder why he didn't search Lowell's house already.”

  “Maybe he hasn't gotten around to it,” Eileen said.

  Harben leaned back in his chair. It didn’t squeak. Nothing was ever out of place around Harben.

  “Please,” Eileen said. “Don't let it just end like this. We can wrap it all the way up and they can just -- tie the bow on the thing. I don't want to let them stuff this case in a drawer somewhere, or screw it up. Please let me -- I mean, us -- finish this.”

  There was a silence.

  “Go check on Lowell, Eileen,” Harben said. “You could suggest he spend the night at a hotel until the OSI has Blaine in custody.”

  “I can't believe we can't arrest him right now --” Rosen started, and Harben waved him down.

  “I won't allow that. They might want to let him run, to see if he reveals anyone else. We
don't deal with espionage. But I have,” Harben added dryly, “read up on it. Check on Lowell Guzman.”

  “I'm on my way,” Eileen said.

  Turtkul, Turkmenistan

  “I am Fouad Muallah,” Muallah said proudly. Behind him, Ruadh had finished his research and was now examining the launch control panels. The microphone in front of Muallah smelled faintly of garlic.

  “What are your intentions, Mr. Muallah?” the voice asked respectfully. The speaker was Russian but spoke a passable Arabic. They knew who he was, then.

  “Let my intentions be known to the world,” Muallah said grandly. “Let the name of Fouad Muallah be repeated around the world, as the One of the Prophecies. Allah has sent us here today to complete a holy mission, a jitan. This you shall know. Let all know my name.”

  With that, Muallah gestured to Ruadh, who obediently left off his examination of the launch panel. Ruadh turned off the radio and returned without a word to the panel.

  “When?” Muallah asked tensely. This was taking longer than he expected.

  “Very soon, Mahdi,” Ruadh said serenely. “Very soon.”

  Moscow, The Russian Republic

  “What the hell does that mean?” Major Paxton said in bewilderment. Lucy Giometti could have told him, but Lucy was boarding a United Airlines flight for Colorado Springs.

  Major Sergei Kalashnikov didn’t like the sound of Muallah. He didn’t like his tone, and he didn’t like what the man said, once it was translated from Arabic by the sergeant who spoke the language.

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Major General Cherepovitch said.

  “I have been instructed to offer you American Stealth bombers,” Major Paxton said unexpectedly. Cherepovitch and Kalashnikov turned to the Major, who was not looking much like the master of anything at the moment. His hair looked sweaty and rumpled.

  “We can blow the covers off the silos and drop bombs down the tubes in two bomber waves, guaranteed,” the Major said reluctantly. His face was definitely flushed. He was not a happy looking man.

  “That will kill the Russian women and children in silo number six, won’t it?” Kalashnikov said softly. The Major’s flush deepened. He knew that.

  “Yes,” he said shortly. There was a long moment of silence.

  “Let’s see,” Cherepovitch said slowly. “You want to send American bombers over Russian soil and bomb Russian women and children in order to kill a terrorist. Is this correct?”

  “We have some background on Muallah that suggests he might launch,” the Major said stubbornly. He refused to look Kalashnikov in the eye. “Wherever that bomb might hit would kill far more women and children than are in silo number six.”

  “Thank you, no,” Cherepovitch said coldly. Kalashnikov wanted to cheer. “My country declines. We have a ground assault team that can be there in twelve hours. We will take our missile base back and rescue our comrades, Major Paxton. Please express our regrets to your government, and our thanks at your offer.”

  Cherepovitch turned to Kalashnikov and gave him a solemn wink. Kalashnikov barely suppressed a grin. God, that felt good.

  Now their assault team had to succeed, that was all. Kalashnikov said another silent prayer as Major Paxton, shoulders slumped, went to his secure phone.

  The Pentagon

  “They said no?”

  “They said no,” General Knox said to the Secretary of Defense.

  “What is your assessment?”

  “Mr. Secretary, the Russians are the Three Stooges of the military world,” Knox said rudely. “They’ll probably kill each other and launch the missile themselves.”

  The Secretary licked his lips nervously. Was this man serious?

  “And?”

  “I suggest we get the President in the air and as many members of Congress out of town as quickly as possible.” Knox knew he’d convinced the Secretary when the man paled to a nice tone of paper white.

  “Oh my god,” he said.

  “We have one card up our sleeve,” Knox said. “If this madman does happen to launch.”

  “The Missile Defense program?” the Secretary whispered.

  “That’s correct, sir,” Knox said. He’d argued for years against spending on those damn foolish space toys. Now here he was offering the program like a life preserver to a drowning man. He hated the words coming out of his mouth. “After we get the President out of danger, I suggest we get Admiral Kane to fire up this system and see if all the billions we spent pays off.”

  “First things first,” the Secretary said, still pale. Knox kept a contemptuous smile from curling his lip. The Secretary would be on Air Force One with the President. The coward. The Secretary picked up the phone.

  “Operation Scramble,” he said.

  Colorado Springs

  Lucy Giometti, who left Washington D.C. a day after Major Alan Stillwell finally left Alabama, beat him into Colorado Springs by a margin of better than four hours. Her commercial flight landed at the Colorado Springs airport and taxied to the entrance in the late afternoon.

  Colorado Springs still managed to retain the flavor of a small town airport. The business out of the huge Denver International Airport, sixty miles north, consumed most of the air traffic in the area. So Lucy found herself in a small, nearly empty terminal building framing a breathtaking view of a single towering mountain.

  “What's that mountain called?” she asked the rental car attendant.

  “Pike's Peak,” the girl said with a bored expression. Lucy nodded and set down her bag. Her legs ached from the flight and her stomach felt awful. She hadn't thrown up but it had been a near thing as they'd bumped their way down the Front Range. She turned again to regard the amazing bulk of Pike's Peak. There were thunderstorms rising lazily in the afternoon heat, building up along the shoulders of the Peak. Lucy thought she could look at the view forever and never grow tired of it.

  The FBI office was fairly close to the airport. The directions Fred Nguyen had given Lucy were simple and she found his office without any trouble. The air was hot but fresh and dry, and she stretched luxuriously outside her car before entering the office building.

  “Fred?” she asked. There couldn't be a doubt. The Asian man who was sitting at the front desk in the empty office could only be Fred Nguyen. He had a phone to his ear and his feet were up on the desk. He was wearing the FBI suit but the thick black hair was cut so that it stood up wildly all over his head. A grin split his face when he saw Lucy in the doorway.

  “Gotta go, hon,” he said, and hung up the phone. “You must be Lucy.”

  “I'm Lucy, and I'm hungry,” she said, and grinned back at him.

  “Hey, you're pregnant,” he said, standing up from the desk and walking around to shake her hand.

  “Not really,” she said soberly. “It's all part of the disguise.” He looked at her closely for a second then threw his head back and laughed.

  “You kill me,” he said. “Hey, how about genuine Vietnamese food? I asked Kim if she'd do us up a real meal and she said sure. That OK with you?”

  “That sounds great,” Lucy said.

  “Let's head right to my house, OK?” Nguyen said. He escorted her out and locked the office behind him.

  “Everyone's gone?”

  “Hot line's in Denver,” Nguyen said with a grin. “This here is the backwater. Gone fishin', Gone skiin', we take any excuse to take off. That's why I like this place.” His smile was warm and without cynicism, but Lucy knew the real story. Nguyen just didn't have the look of an FBI agent. He wasn't white and he wasn't tall and so he was assigned to Colorado Springs, not Washington D.C. Nguyen caught her look and offered a small, cynical shrug.

  “Heck, it could have been the Navajo Reservation,” he said. “Or up in Rapid City. Colorado Springs has a knock-your-socks-off symphony.”

  “A symphony,” Lucy murmured. Here she was, safely out of Washington. At least Ted was safe in Florida. If anything happened, that is. Lucy looked towards the west again and realized
uneasily that NORAD was in those mountains. Wouldn’t that be a good joke, if Jefferson sent her to ground zero?

  “Almost heaven,” Nguyen said. “You'll be in heaven when you taste my wife's cooking. Now that's paradise.”

  As they went to their cars, an afternoon thundershower started booming off Pike's Peak, sending gray sheets of rain drifting through the dry afternoon air.

  The Garden of the Gods

  Joe Tanner had an idea. An Idea. Perhaps the thunderstorms inspired him. He'd read once that thunderstorms created an electromagnetic field that caused people to do better on tests. The thundershower hadn't caught him on his run through the Garden of the Gods, but only because he'd sprinted the last half mile to his car. He was a native and knew the weather patterns so he'd timed his run to end before five o'clock, when the first of the showers should be striking down from the Peak. They hit just as planned, and now he sat in his car, panting, as the first big drops splattered against his windshield. Thunder boomed and he smelled the glorious wet sage smell of Colorado rain.

  “Ahh, beautiful,” he said to himself, and leaned back in the seat. He was happy. To wake up with Eileen Reed was something he was going to like getting used to, he decided. Fixing coffee was a whole new experience. And that shower they’d had together! He shivered with sudden goose bumps. The rain fell harder and a few hailstones bounced off the windshield. Joe kept the window open so he could smell the rain and the sage, even though a hailstone or two bounced into the car. He remembered Sully and the memory didn't hurt. Remembering Sully made him think that Art would be so happy for him, that he'd found someone -- and his thoughts dissolved in confusion and grief. Art was dead and he'd never know now. He watched the hard rain bouncing off the hood of the car. Art had been trying to prove to Eileen that he hadn't killed Terry. Art hated the thought that he was a suspect. He'd told Joe on that last afternoon that he was going to try and figure out a way to prove who'd done it. Or at least, prove that he hadn't. There really wasn't any way for him to do that, unless...