by Mark Terry
Silence now fell over the group. Finally, Advisor Khalil-ui Mouseff, a burly, dark-skinned Pakistani with a thick mustache, cleared his throat. His voice was a deep rumble. “If I may sum up: General Bilal Sharif and Colonel Shaukat Seddiqi were behind a complicated plan to support an al-Qaeda cell here in Islamabad that organized the various attacks that occurred in the United States over the last several days.”
He stared at Hutchins, his gaze accusing and skeptical. Hutchins wanted to punch the guy in the face, but controlled his impulse and nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“And if I understand all this correctly, General Sharif is responsible for getting a Stinger missile into the hands of a terrorist whose given name is Miraj Mohammad Khan, but who went by the name of Kalakar.”
“Correct.”
“And Khan and Seddiqi and Sharif all served in a unit together many years ago—”
“As well as with several people in the United States, Lawrence Perzada and Abdul Mohammed, who were involved in the plan. Perzada was in the international film business in Los Angeles and was responsible for procuring whatever props movie people needed, and transporting them to where they were needed. Abdul Mohammed was a sort of gofer.”
Mouseff looked puzzled. Ambassador Kallendar said, “An errand boy.”
“Ah. I see.”
“They used their film prop business to transport the missile into the U.S., disguising it as a movie prop,” Hutchins said.
Advisor Khalil-ui Mouseff said with a shake of his head, “It is very complicated. Very confusing. And Abdul Mohammed, this errand boy, what became of him?”
“Murdered several weeks ago. The Los Angeles Police Department was investigating him just prior to his death because he seemed to be making the rounds of illegal weapons merchants in California attempting to acquire a suitcase nuke.” Hutchins had been growing increasingly impatient with all the reiteration and the skeptical tone Mouseff used. “You know what a fucking suitcase nuke is?”
Sherwood rested a hand on Hutchins’s arm.
The Pakistani advisor studied Hutchins for a long moment. Hutchins didn’t drop his gaze. Hutchins wondered if he was about to be kicked out of the room; or out of the country.
Ambassador Kallendar interrupted with a sigh. “Mr. Mouseff, we’re talking about two of your top military leaders—Seddiqi and Sharif—being behind a terrorist attack, essentially declaring war on the United States. Your consul in L.A. was also involved. We expect you to arrest General Sharif and Colonel Seddiqi—”
Mouseff interrupted, arrogance in his tone and posture. “That is an internal matter with a great deal of political repercussions. I will have to discuss it with the president and the Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee. Is that all?”
Hutchins jumped to his feet. “Isn’t that enough? How deep is the rot in your government, anyway? A lot of good people died—”
Sherwood gripped his shoulders, levering him back into his seat. In his ear Hutchins’s boss whispered, “Shut the fuck up.” To Mouseff he said, “I apologize for Agent Hutchins’s outburst. It won’t happen again.”
Mouseff aimed his penetrating gaze on Hutchins, who felt like a pot of water about to boil over. “Your report is very interesting. Very entertaining. We will, of course, wish to verify it with our own internal sources. I assure you I will be discussing this with the president as soon as possible, and I imagine we will be questioning General Sharif and Colonel Seddiqi about this matter.”
Hutchins leapt to his feet again. “Is this going to be like how you dealt with A. Q. Khan? The bastard sold nuclear secrets to every shithole dictatorship on the planet. You slap his hand, put him under house arrest, and whine that you can’t arrest him because he’s a fucking national hero?”
“Sit down, Agent Hutchins. Now.” The ambassador’s voice was harsh.
Hutchins shook his head. “I’m done here.”
Sherwood’s voice cut through the babble of voices. “Dale, one more outburst and you’ll be looking for a new job. Sit down. We’re almost done.” His voice was mild; his tone, however, indicated he wasn’t bluffing.
Hutchins stared at him. Sherwood nodded. Hutchins slumped into his seat. Firdos caught his eye and shook his head slightly.
Mouseff considered Hutchins for a moment. “As you so vividly point out, Agent Hutchins, sometimes we do things differently in Pakistan. It is, as I am sure you are aware by now, a different country than the United States.” He climbed to his feet, nodded to Ambassador Kallendar, and walked out of the room. After an awkward moment, Firdos and his boss got up, made polite goodbyes and left.
When all the Pakistanis had left, Hutchins said, “Is that all we’re going to do?”
Ambassador Kallendar raised a hand and said, “Agent Hutchins, I appreciate that you’re upset, but this goes beyond standard law enforcement issues. This is politics and diplomacy and—”
The CIA station chief had a soft voice that still managed to undercut the ambassador’s rich tones. “I assure you, Agent Hutchins, that General Sharif and Colonel Seddiqi’s crimes will not go unanswered.”
Everybody in the room stopped talking for a moment. The State Department people were shooting each other nervous looks.
The ambassador leaned back and said, “Thank you for your good work, gentleman. It’s been a long day. We’ll be in touch.”
On his way out to the car, Hutchins said to Sherwood, “The CIA guy—”
Sherwood said, “It was an interesting word choice.”
Hutchins, who by now just wanted to go home to his wife, raised an eyebrow. “What was?”
“Unanswered.”
“Meaning?”
Sherwood shrugged. “We’ve done our jobs, Dale. Good work. Stay tuned.”
EPILOGUE
It was January 20 of the new year, a bitter cold day on the Chesapeake Bay, but inside Derek’s cabin cruiser, The Salacious Sally, it was toasty warm. He moved slowly around in the galley, pulling together a pitcher of margaritas. He had spent six hours in surgery at Cedars-Sinai. The bullet had clipped his scapula, torn through his right lung and lodged only a few centimeters from his spine. During his long convalescence he had been told over and over again about how lucky he was the bullet hadn’t severed his spine or a major artery.
He supposed they were right, but it was turning out to be harder—maybe impossible—to get back to his old self physically.
“Need any help?” He glanced over where Sandy O’Reilly lounged on the couch in the salon. Her surgery had been even more extensive, but she seemed to be recuperating better than he was.
At least physically.
Mentally, Derek wasn’t so sure. O’Reilly had always seemed confident to the point of arrogance. Since the events in Los Angeles, she seemed much quieter and less sure of herself. It had been a close call, their mission had only been semisuccessful, and she had shot Kalakar to death in order to save her own life. Hell of a couple days in the City of Angels.
As soon as she could travel, she returned to Washington, D.C., to file her reports and turn in her letter of resignation. She had put her condominium up for sale and moved to Dallas. She and Derek kept in touch, primarily through e-mail, and she was hoping to pick up a position at the University of Texas, in either the physics department or international studies. Mostly she wanted to be close to her children.
She had flown back to witness the inauguration. They had been invited by President-Elect Stark to attend the inauguration, as well as several of the balls. They had accepted the invitation to the balls, but passed on the inauguration itself, deciding they’d prefer to just watch it on TV.
Given both of their tendencies to wear out easily, Derek wasn’t sure they would make any of the balls either.
He felt a shift in the boat as somebody stepped onboard. What now?
“I’ll get it,” O’Reilly called.
A moment later there was a knock and Derek heard the voice of James Johnston say, “Dr. O’Reilly, I’m surprised to see you here. How are you feeling?
”
“As good as can be expected. Come in.”
Derek walked over and grinned. “Shouldn’t you be back in town?”
“Cleared out my desk and turned the place over to Tom Ross.” With a grin, he held up an envelope. “And you know what this is?”
Derek rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. My letter of resignation.”
“Yes. I accepted it.” Johnston crossed over and rested a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”
Derek sighed. “We’ll see, Jim. Ross already contacted me about staying on with Homeland Security.”
“Are you going to?”
Derek shrugged. “While you’re here, can I get you a drink?”
“Sure.”
Derek headed back to the galley. He tuned in while O’Reilly and Johnston talked. She wanted to know what was happening with General Sharif and Colonel Seddiqi. Derek thought Johnston was strangely quiet. After a moment he said, almost casually, “Oh, you didn’t hear?”
“No. What?”
Johnston said, “They were in a car accident. They both died.”
The salon filled with silence except for the background babble of the TV set. Derek walked in with two margaritas and delivered them. He looked at Johnston and said, “What about John Seddiqi?”
“He’ll go to trial, but he’s been very cooperative with providing as much information as possible, and given the complicated nature of his involvement, it’s hard to say what they’ll even charge him with. Conspiracy, perhaps. We’ll see how it shakes out in the long run.”
They were silent, thinking about the daughter and the wife, who had mostly recovered. And about a father who was in prison facing trial. Derek imagined O’Reilly was thinking about her children.
Finally Johnston said, “So, you think you’re going to take Ross up on his proposal?”
Derek shrugged. “Mandalevo asked me to come on board with him, too.”
Robert Mandalevo, formerly the director of National Intelligence, had been slotted by President-Elect Stark to be secretary of state. Johnston’s eyes widened. “Diplomatic?”
Derek shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Going to take it?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got some feelers out with some think tanks, too. I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“But it will involve counterterrorism in some way?”
Derek shrugged. “I’m probably too young to just retire.”
O’Reilly said, “You told me it was your religion.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to give up.”
Johnston raised his margarita in a toast. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Derek.”
They clinked glasses and Derek took a sip. “I don’t know if it’s been a pleasure, but it’s never been boring.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to acknowledge and thank the following people for their assistance with this book: Leanne Terry, Ian Terry, Sean Terry. Irene Kraas, my agent. Everyone at Oceanview Publishing: Pat Gussin, Robert Gussin, Kylie Fritz, Frank Troncale, Mary Adele Bogdon, Maryglenn Mc-Combs, Susan Hayes, and Susan Greger. All the various people at the Department of Homeland Security, Office of the Director of National Intelligence, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Federal Aviation Administration who supplied information directly or indirectly to me. To my brother, Pete Terry and his wife, Lucia Unrau, for once taking me on a trip to the observatory on Mt. Wilson in California, which stayed embedded in my mind and memory until I needed it.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
EPILOGUE