Killing Time

by Caleb Carr

  But we would need more hard information before we could determine just what form that punishment might take; and after several hours Leon, Eli, and Jonah were able to provide it. They filed blearyeyed into the nose of the ship, hungry and bearing a raft of notes, as well as several pictures of Eshkol, each of which bore little resemblance to the next. These they began to explain as Julien brought them food; and while the information they’d gleaned offered no reason to doubt that Eshkol was an extremely dangerous man, it also showed why our team might be better equipped to hunt him down than either the Israelis or the Americans.

  “He is a murderer, yes—a butcher, really,” Tarbell said, cramming food into his mouth, “but he also plays on our field, you might say.”

  To the rest of our puzzled looks, Jonah, who was eating slightly less ravenously, said, “He’s got the usual undercover and covert skills—disguise, languages—but the real secret of his success is that he’s an information junkie. He’s a brilliant researcher, and he can manufacture any sort of personal documents and records to gain access to just about anything—and then destroy any evidence that he was ever there. He’s even fooled the universal DNA database.”

  “I thought that was impossible,” Larissa said.

  “Not impossible,” Eli answered. “Just very, very difficult. The trick is getting the corroborative samples. If you’re going to, say, travel by air using the identity of someone who’s actually dead, you’re going to need some sample DNA to offer when you check in, and it had better come from someone who bore more than a passing resemblance to you—and, most important, someone whose death was not recorded in the database. Eshkol’s apparently got quite a collection of alter egos—and I think you can guess how he got them.”

  “The other Mossad agents he executed,” Colonel Slayton said with a nod.

  “Also many of the Arab operatives he’s killed,” Tarbell confirmed, checking his notes and indicating the pictures, some of which showed Eshkol in traditional Arab dress. “The narcissism of minor differences, eh? Your colleague Dr. Freud would be deeply satisfied, Gideon. At any rate, whichever side they serve, such victims are not given obituaries—and their deaths are, of course, kept from the DNA database. They are ideal, really, as sample donors—nearly untraceable.”

  “Eshkol was reprimanded several times,” Jonah said as Tarbell went back to eating. “The first was in 2011, when he was twenty-six. Mutilating the body of one of his victims, was what the Mossad called it.”

  “It’s not exactly unknown in that game,” Larissa said. “That kind of trophy taking.”

  “True,” Eli agreed, flipping through still more scribbled pages, “and so they let it go at a warning. Quite a few times. And that’s where we may have him. Neither the Israelis nor the Americans know about Eshkol’s modus operandi—we only happened to stumble on it when we cross-referenced the names of his victims, which we got out of the most secure Mossad files, with every travel database we could crack into. A few hits came up, then a few more.”

  “He’s gone on several extracurricular outings over the years,” Jonah threw in. “And I don’t think it was tourism—not the way he was covering his tracks.”

  “You’re saying he’s engaged in private vendettas,” Malcolm judged, quietly and grimly.

  Eli nodded. “Neo-Nazis, skinheads, Arab intellectuals at foreign universities who are ardently opposed to peace with Israel—they’ve all mysteriously died when Eshkol has been in their respective countries, under cover of his identity-switching scheme. In a few cases we can even put him in the specific town or city where the execution took place.”

  Malcolm nodded slowly, gazing silently out at the ocean in the way he generally did when things took an ominous turn.

  “And you think you can track him?” Slayton asked, recognizing Malcolm’s mood and assuming the mantle of leadership for a moment. “Using this method?”

  “We’ve already begun,” Jonah answered with an enthusiastic nod.

  “And?” Larissa asked.

  “And,” Eli replied, “it seems that he has in fact left the United States—for Paris. Two days ago.”

  General murmuring ensued as we all puzzled with the question of why Eshkol should have chosen to flee to such an apparently visible hiding place as the French capital. It was Malcolm who, without turning to us, finally and quietly declared:

  “A weapon. He’ll want a weapon.”

  Fouché looked further confused. “But he’s moving quickly, Malcolm. He can hardly afford to bring along a tank or even a particularly large gun, which are the usual French exports. Explosives would be easy enough to get anywhere, so why—” His mouth freezing in midsentence, Julien’s eyes widened with horrific realization.

  Malcolm didn’t even need to see the look. “Yes, Julien,” he said. “Your countrymen rationalize trading in such technology by saying that it has always been and will always be impossible to get weapons-grade plutonium in France—but the Iraqis were able to get the plutonium elsewhere and the mechanism in Paris. Or, should I say, in a town just southeast of the city.”

  Instantly we all realized what Malcolm was driving at. In 2006, Iraqi president and longtime Western nemesis Saddam Hussein decided to challenge the economic embargo that had been in place against his country for nearly two decades by declaring that he had attained nuclear capability. This struck many in the West as absurd, since their renewed monitoring of Iraqi weapons facilities had not revealed any sudden advances that would have permitted Saddam to construct such devices. So, to drive his point home, Saddam dispatched a suicide bomber to explode a tactical nuclear device in one of the most prosperous Kurd communities in the Allied-protected north of his country. The man was intercepted, the device was captured, and its miniaturized mechanism was eventually determined to have been purchased in France.

  “I suggest that we all man our stations,” Malcolm continued. “Set course for France—the quickest course, Colonel, that you can possibly determine. We’ve no time to worry about interference from any of our usual antagonists.”

  As the rest of us rose to comply, Eli asked, “What about the Israelis and the Americans? Do we let them know what’s happening?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Certainly, though I don’t think they’ll believe it. Especially as it comes from an anonymous and unconfirmable source. But by all means, tell them.” Looking out at the sea again, he added, “Tell them that this marvelous age has produced a monster—a monster who can use their own tools better than they can possibly imagine.”

  I watched Malcolm for a moment as he glanced down, took out his transdermal injector, and held it to his hand; and I found myself wondering if his last remark had been about Dov Eshkol at all.

  C H A P T E R 3 1

  Although the need to get to France quickly outweighed that of staying hidden from the warplanes of America and her allies, it nevertheless made sense to take what precautions we could to avoid detection during our voyage east. Malcolm and Eli therefore set about creating a new radar signature for our ship, to ensure that any anomalous readings picked up by long-range stations on the ground would fail to match those that the Americans and English had no doubt put on file following our encounters in Afghanistan and over the North Sea. This undertaking made it necessary for someone else to man Eli’s monitoring post in the turret; and since that was a job with which I’d already become at least somewhat acquainted, it seemed logical for Larissa to suggest that I be the one to take over. Yet had logic dictated some other course, she would, I think, have found a way to refute it: the more time I spent with her, the more she seemed to want me around, a situation that was, as I told her, utterly unprecedented in my experience.

  “Why?” Larissa asked with a laugh, linking her arm in mine and marching me through the ship’s corridors in that inimitably martial yet alluring way of hers. “Have your romantic choices really been that bad? I can’t believe it—not the brilliant Dr. Gideon Wolfe!”

  “Sarcasm is a genetically inferior form of humo
r, Larissa,” I said, grabbing her around the waist and squeezing hard. “And whatever women may say about respecting men who are devoted to their work, that doesn’t mean they want them around, particularly.”

  “Nor should they,” Larissa answered with a definitive nod. “Every worthwhile woman deserves more than her fair share of attention.”

  “How fortunate,” I mused with a smile, “that returning to my former life is out of the question—what with there being a price on my head and all.”

  Larissa suddenly stood still and turned to me, looking unhappily surprised. “Gideon—you don’t mean to say that you’ve thought about it.”

  I shrugged. “Not really. But it’s only natural to wonder.”

  In the time I’d known her I’d seen uncertainty flit into and out of Larissa’s features only occasionally; yet now it seemed to linger there. “Oh” was all she said as she looked down at the deck.

  “Larissa?” Perplexed, I put a hand to her face. “It’s not as though I’ve planned it—I’ve just wondered.” She nodded and, for the first time I could remember, said absolutely nothing. There was something so unutterably ingenuous and sad in her silence that I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around her and pull her in very close. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  Of all people, I told myself contritely, I should have known better than to make such a stupidly random crack. Someone with a past like Larissa’s could not have allowed herself many moments of true emotional vulnerability; and during those exceptional episodes she would have been, would still be, very alive to the possibility of betrayal. In dealing with such personalities no comments about abandonment, however offhand, can be considered anything other than callous. I therefore kept my mouth shut and continued to hold her, hoping that my embrace would be enough to undo the obvious effects of my thoughtlessness but fairly certain that it wouldn’t.

  As was so often the case during my time with Larissa, however, I was wrong. “It’s all right,” she finally said, quietly but with real conviction.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “I do sometimes enjoy being childish, Gideon,” she replied, “but that doesn’t actually make me a child. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” Of course she was right; and as I considered this latest reminder that she was unlike any other woman I’d ever known, I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle, one that she automatically picked up on. “What’s so funny, you unimaginable swine?”

  “Well, it does have a certain ridiculous dimension,” I answered quietly. “The idea that I would run out on you.”

  “True,” she said, her lovely self-possession rebounding. “Now that you mention it, the idea’s absurd.”

  “Okay,” I said, shaking her gently. “No need to go to town with it.”

  She pushed her face harder against my chest, saying, in a voice so low that I wasn’t sure that she intended for me to hear it:

  “You won’t leave me, Gideon.”

  Had I known that this was to be the last of the uncomplicated moments that Larissa and I were able to steal from our extraordinarily complicated situation, I would have been far more assiduous about prolonging it. I might, to begin with, have tried to ignore the ship’s Klaxon, which began with typically poor timing to sound at that very instant. But as we stood there, all danger seemed in my foolish mind to be emanating from, and be directed toward, matters other than my relationship with Larissa; and so I loosened my hold on her, utterly failing to give the moment the terrible importance it deserved. I can now recognize, of course, that this was just one of several bad mistakes that I was then in the process of making; but such understanding does little to dull the pain of the memory.

  Several minutes after the alarm began to throb, Larissa and I, once again moving along the corridor, heard footsteps coming toward us from around a corner. We soon found ourselves face- to-face with Colonel Slayton at the bottom of the ladder that led up to the turret.

  “We still haven’t generated the new signature,” he said with something that vaguely—and uncharacteristically—approached dread. “Too late, too late—have you caught sight of them yet?” His wording seemed to indicate that he’d already asked the rest of the team the same question; yet he neither explained what he was talking about nor waited for Larissa or me to reply before scaling the ladder. “They can’t have built the things,” he said as he ascended. “Not even they could be so stupid!”

  We followed the colonel into the turret, where he immediately went to one side of the structure and, putting his hands against the transparent shell, fixed his eyes on the darkness above and behind our ship. I could see nothing of any note on the arching horizon of the stratosphere; and Larissa, scanning the same area, came up with a similar result.

  “Colonel?” she said. “What is it, have you picked up something on the scanners?”

  Slayton nodded, a motion that quickly turned into a disgusted shake of his head. “A flock of birds—that’s what they read as. I’d love to believe it, but what the hell kind of birds can survive up here?”

  I moved around to his side. “Maybe you could back up a little, Colonel. What exactly do you think is out there?”

  Slayton kept shaking his head. “Death may be out there, Doctor. And the worst part of it is, it may be a death of my own design.”

  C H A P T E R 3 2

  “We started throwing the idea around at the Pentagon quite a while ago,” Slayton explained, never taking his eyes from the dark, mist-banded horizon behind the ship. “For a long time, you see, we’d been trying to work out the problem of modern surveillance. Over the last fifty years every new system of electronic detection has been matched by some new development in stealth technology—and when computers got involved, the race picked up exponentially. All the major powers were looking for some way out, some foolproof new answer, but the technology hadn’t yet appeared to make such an advance possible. Or so ran the conventional wisdom. In fact, the seed of the solution had been planted years earlier, during the drug war—the police action, as we were trained to call it—in Colombia and Ecuador. And the planting was done by units under my command.” Fleeting pride seemed to mix with the colonel’s gloom for a moment. “We took to using small flying drones equipped with multiple cameras and microphones for recon work, and the tactic was highly successful—although we really had no idea that we’d stumbled onto the answer.”

  “The answer how?” Larissa asked. “Those devices didn’t have any radar or stealth capabilities.”

  “Exactly,” Slayton said, smiling just briefly. “They didn’t need them, that was the beauty of it. We’d all gotten so used to working with electronically generated information that we’d forgotten the basic tools that God gave us—our eyes and ears, which the drones effectively became. When the first experiments were successful, we began to miniaturize their flight and audiovisual equipment enough to make them capable not only of enormous range but of penetrating almost any detection field without raising an alarm. After the war word got around the Pentagon, and the drones became standard issue. Then, when major weapons miniaturization reached full speed ten years ago, it became inevitable that someone would eventually put forward the idea of armed drones. They could be guided into remote, even hardened, sites and set off their payloads—conventional or nuclear—with absolute precision. That was the theory. The advantages were obvious”—Slayton’s scar glowed hot in the faint light of the turret as his tone became harrowing again—“but so were the dangers. A foreign operative in an American lab could easily walk out with not just the plans but the prototypes. Fortunately, there were tremendous design and system problems that looked insoluble. We abandoned the project while I was still there. Apparently they’ve revived it.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Colonel, for all we know the ship could be detecting a small meteor shower. Or some kind of cosmic dust.”

  Such were admittedly paltry attempts at an alternative explanation, and Slayton waved them off with appropriate disdain. “Find me me
teors that fly in formation and on an intercept course, Doctor, and I’ll—” His features suddenly went dead still. “There,” he said quietly. I kept staring into the distance and finding no apparent cause for alarm. When I turned to Larissa, however, I could see that she had locked onto whatever the colonel was seeing: her face bore the same expression of apprehension.

  “Where?” I asked; but in reply Slayton only turned, approached a keypad on the monitoring console, and activated the shipwide address system. “This is Slayton,” he announced. “The drones are now one hundred and fifty yards off our stern. We’ll need to go as close to silent running as we can manage—no unnecessary noises, and keep your voices low. Most important are the engines—Julien, we’ll need to take them down to minimum output. And Jonah, reset the holographic projection.”

  The urgency of the colonel’s orders caused me to search the stratosphere all the more intently, determined to catch some glimpse of the mysterious inventions that were causing him such evident anxiety. That glimpse, when it came, was as intriguing as it was frightening: the dozens of basketball-sized drones—which looked like something John Price might have dreamed up—had large “eyes” that, I soon learned, were actually housing units for sophisticated optical instruments. Appendages that encased equally complex audio monitors and bodies that contained flight and guidance equipment added to the drones’ overall impression of enormous insects, and each of them also bristled with spiny antennae: programmable detonators, Slayton explained briefly, saving further elaboration for another statement to the rest of our crew.

  “Remember, please,” he said, “assuming I’m right, each one of those things bears a nuclear device capable of vaporizing this ship. We will proceed with the greatest caution.”