Within this system was another series of protections designed to circumvent industrial espionage. Every vial of nitroglycerin, every packet of gunpowder, every bar of steel or silver used by the molding shops, every tin filled with .3mm screws had to be logged out from the OCQ—the Office of the Central Quartermaster. When he had established his company, Trask had realized that to sell to the military, he had to appeal to the military mentality. Using an army term to describe what was simply a disbursement center gave him an advantage over a rival with a purely functional “stockpile” or “repository” or “distribution center,” which made them sound like Wal-Mart or Best Buy, and not an arms developer.
Within the OCQ were the MCs—the munitions caches. These small, guarded warehouses were located side by side on sublevel four and were numbered from one to eleven, from small-caliber armaments to long-range missiles. There were also two lettered divisions: A and Z, as they were unofficially known. These were in a separate, isolated section of the basement. Officially, they were Division Alpha and Division Omega. Division Alpha experimented with high-yield bunker-busting devices, like the air-to-ground, laser-guided Enhanced Paveway III bombs, which were used by NATO to pummel Gadhafi in the Libyan uprising.
Division Omega was different. It created weapons that had never been used in combat. To date, only a handful had even been tested at the military’s White Sands range in south-central New Mexico. Division Omega designed EPWs—earth-penetrating weapons. These were all nuclear in nature. Unlike atom or hydrogen bombs, which had to be dropped from airplanes, or the much-feared but unwieldy and impractical “suitcase nukes,” these weapons were designed to be portable and precise.
And two of them were missing.
They had been checked out legitimately two days before. Tom Brehm remembered that clearly. Trask Earth Penetrator 1 and 2 were the only crates that had left the room in nearly a month. According to the manifest, they were bound to Site Green at White Sands via road, Absalom Bell, driver. They were due to arrive today. Except there was a problem—an alert Brehm had received that morning from the Department of Defense. It was directed to everyone involved with weapons testing:
EYES ONLY
DoD Command Center Dispatch A894D
SENT: 5:20:13—8:22 a.m.
RECIPIENTS: SECURITY LEVEL 4, W-PROJECTS
STATUS: URGENT
NOTIFICATION: UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE ALL NUCLEAR
AND EPW WEAPONS TESTS ARE ON HOLD. RDUs ON
HIGH ALERT FOR POTENTIAL MOVEMENT OF ENEMY
ORDNANCE.
RDUs were radiological detection units. In test runs using low-level contraband, these radiation sensors, hidden throughout the nation in likely targets—ports, airports, financial and transportation centers, sports arenas—had been successful in identifying low-level radiation, as low as one hundred counts per minute. That technology assumed that in getting such material into the United States on board a boat or plane, the containers had taken a jostling and were leaking, even slightly. But no one in the DoD or at Homeland Security was willing to bet a city on that good fortune.
Thus, a secondary technology, the CIP—the Containment Identification Profile—was secretly deployed in 2009 on highways, on major bridges, at tunnel entrances, and elsewhere. It used fluoroscopic technology to search for lead containers: anything the beams could not penetrate was labeled suspect. Homeland Security had opted to keep the CIP program secret not just to prevent a general alarm—though people were constantly moving through the crosshairs, they received exposure on par with a dental X-ray—but also so potential terrorists would move slowly and confidently to and through cities until they could be quietly apprehended. These early warning systems allowed for a measured police response to prevent terrorists from panicking and triggering their devices prematurely.
The reason the DoD had instituted the A894D alert was to freeze lawful radioactive ordnance so that law enforcement could stay focused on radiation and radiation containers that might actually represent a threat.
The problem, Brehm noted, was that Absalom Bell was just entering Texas and was still on the move. His dispatcher, who would also have received this alert, should have notified him instantly to pull over and stay pulled over.
Protocol required that any anomaly in the system be reported not only to appropriate officials in the local system—Trask executives—but also to Homeland Security. Tom Brehm did so at once.
Brehm did not contact Bell directly. He was not authorized to do so, and a quick check of the system indicated that the problem was on the driver’s end: the stop order had been dispatched and ignored.
Most likely the entire thing was a careless oversight. Inexcusable, but not immediately dangerous.
In the event that that wasn’t the case, however, Brehm notified the Texas State Police. He did not provide them with any information about the contents of the vehicle; he gave them only the GPS data and alerted them that a Trask Industries van should be eyeballed with possible prejudice. That would put the NMSP in a position to act in the event, however unlikely, that at some point in its cross-country passage a van armed with a pair of tactical nuclear weapons had been hijacked.
Brehm kept an eye on the computer, watching for updates, as he went about the day’s business. But it was difficult to stay focused. Perhaps it was a reaction to what had happened in Baltimore and New York, perhaps it was his own bent toward devil’s advocacy and Murphy’s Law—What can possibly go wrong, and did it?—or perhaps it was a combination of those. But he couldn’t shake a nagging sense that something had gone bad here.
Bad with the potential to be very bad.
Jacob Trask was at his desk in his study, reading CNN online and having a breakfast of homegrown fruit and coffee. He had had an uncharacteristically restless night, not only because the goal was finally in sight but also because he feared possible blowback from Hunt’s actions in New York and the discovery—now being reported as breaking news—that the FBI might have been infiltrated prior to the attack. They didn’t need a lot of time to finish what they had started, but they did need today. They needed to distract an entire city, keep the eyes in the sky away from the target and on likely targets. When Yasmin Rassin was ID’d, she must be dead, not poised to perform her final act of marksmanship.
That was when he saw the high-priority alert come in from Division Z. He read it, then read the original DoD dispatch, then stared at the monitor while he felt his heart begin to race. He didn’t realize he was squeezing the handle of his ceramic mug until he heard it snap at the bottom. He pushed the coffee aside, pushed the bowl of fruit away, looked at the computer clock, and did a quick mental calculation.
Time, as always, was the adversary. Time and speed. He had been forced to move slowly. It had been necessary to test the Gillani Technique in the lab, test it in the field with random acts of violence, test it in Baltimore with a coordinated act, and now maneuver crowds of people out of position while he prepared for the final act. He had to keep law enforcement moving in an amoebic mass all around New York, like a herd of elephants dancing around a mouse that had already gone to ground in the high grasses... .
“The driver,” Trask said through his teeth. The goddamned driver. It was not the driver’s fault he had ignored the alert; he did not know he had ever been carrying nuclear materials. Dispatch knew he had been carrying them. White Sands thought he had been carrying them, but he was always going to take the fall before he got there... .
It will have to happen sooner rather than later, Trask thought. Before he can reveal where he brought the crates.
Trask phoned Brigadier General Arthur Gilbert, the commanding general at the White Sands Missile Range. This was a direct call to his secure cell phone, one that was not used unless there was an emergency.
General Gilbert answered at once. He did not know about Trask’s personal project; it had not been necessary to involve him, nor was it remotely possible that he would have participated. Still, the brigadier general wou
ld be useful.
“Jacob, what have we got?”
“Pony Express.”
“Aw, Christ.” The code name indicated that nuclear materials had been passed from one vehicle to another. “Where was the handoff?”
“We’re trying to find out.”
“The crates’ GPS locators?”
“Presumably disabled by Shotgun while the driver was checking in.” That was the assignation for whatever man was in the passenger’s seat. Trask checked the latest data. “The source is en route to you, on Interstate Thirty just outside of Texarkana. The Texas Highway Patrol has been notified, but we need him to not be taken. This is not a due process situation.”
“No, sir, it is not,” the general agreed. “I’m drafting an order for the garrison commander to execute a SAD ASAP. We will have birds in the air in a quarter hour.”
A seize and detain order was a benefit of the Patriot Act. It allowed the military to capture a suspected enemy combatant without a warrant or anything in hand other than circumstantial evidence that suggested “cause or motivation.” It was legalese that allowed the government to act with the same powers and impunity as the secret police in any nation on earth.
Knowing that General Gilbert was on the case made Trask feel better. He would take the men into custody, hold them incommunicado until one million dollars was found in each of their bank accounts, money they were paid to turn over the two nuclear weapons.
It was 10:00 a.m.
All they needed was another eight hours. Not only had Trask seen the DoD white paper, but he had helped to write it as a distinguished civilian advisor. When the next act had concluded, there would be no question what the nation—and the world—should do.
As soon as he hung up with White Sands, Trask went to the FBI Web site and typed in Hunt’s data to gain access to the domestic tracking requests. Finding the information he needed, he picked up the phone. There was something else he needed to make happen.
CHAPTER 24
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
Hunt had no interest in what his colleagues from the New York field office were saying. He knew what had happened here; he’d helped to plan it. He knew what they would do in response, and it was unfolding around him. The FBI was the perfect reaction machine. Something happened, they checked the playbook, and they deployed.
That kind of thinking was what had brought Hunt to this point. He had grown up in a family of cops. He remembered his grandfather’s frustration when Miranda suddenly became more than just the surname of a Brazilian samba singer. Suspects, even those caught in the act, suddenly had more than just their constitutional rights. Those rights had to be spelled out while the perps spit and swore at you. Hunt’s father was young enough to adjust—and was pushed backward into oncoming traffic on Philadelphia’s Broad Street by a mugger whose rights he was reciting. The elder Hunt never walked again.
Hunt had grown up believing in preventative action, which was why he’d joined the Bureau. He thought he would have the opportunity to infiltrate criminal organizations, sniff out terrorists in their communities, track clearly unrehabilitated felons as they returned to their previous lives. Hunt wanted to do it all with the fidelity, bravery, and integrity that was the FBI motto. He also had his own subset of that, his own personal marching orders: foresight, boldness, and imagination. His father and grandfather often spoke of the sixth sense a lawman had or acquired for knowing who was square and who was not. Hunt possessed that instinct. It didn’t matter to him who had to be put down to protect “the good.” It had never mattered to him.
Even in the more trivial times of his youth, he’d learned that winning was just the beginning of success. Young Alex had been playing king of the hill in the backyard when his neighbor’s Doberman, Sergeant Pepper, was let out, and spurred on by the rowdiness of the kids, it impulsively jumped the fence and went on the attack. Terrified, the other boys scattered toward the house, but it was Alexander, the king, who stayed and faced the canine head-on. His mind quickly chose a different battlefield.
Hunt ran down the hill, across the street, and channeled the pursuing dog into the small cemetery on the adjacent block, where he industriously picked up a collapsed tombstone and used it brazenly to crush the dog’s back before it could fully latch on to his leg.
Sergeant didn’t die instantly, but instead wriggled and whimpered on the manicured lawn while Alexander’s friends slowly congregated and then celebrated their safety with applause and taunts to the now debilitated, squirming creature. Hunt challenged any one of them to finish the job, to match the strike he had been forced to make. And no one stepped forward. Having sustained only a scratched ankle and calf from the initial chase, Hunt took a deep breath and brought his foot down heavily on the creature’s chest, crushing the remaining life out of it. Checkmate. He then methodically dug a hole with his hands and buried the remains under a nearby willow tree, the other boys uselessly stomping the earth down afterward, and then Alex went home without saying another word. His friends kept quiet about the missing dog. The deed was done and couldn’t be undone, no matter what sentence was passed—nor did they wish to answer to Hunt if they spoke up. His equanimity had protected not only him, but them. And to them, the small fee of silence was worth the price of security. And Alex’s reward of preserved loyalty, however useless his cohorts were at the time, taught him to start choosing his associates more carefully. Friends with better hits.
It seemed to Hunt that humankind had become apprehensive and could no longer keep pace with an exceptional willingness to prevail. To stand one’s ground. To fight inflexibly for sovereignty. And sacrifices just became footnotes to his many Bureau successes, casualties of his inviolable crusade for better traction. For the greatest advantage.
Because of the rules, because the Federal Bureau of Investigation was so concerned with rights and with not offending this group or that by profiling, by eschewing critical eyes on the borders, on mosques, on ethnic neighborhoods, or on markedly nonethnic neighborhoods where white supremacists were known to dwell, the FBI had lost the all-important first-strike capacity.
And so the United States of America became the giant who had to take the jabs while waiting for the opportunity to kayo an opponent. That was true at home, and it was true abroad, where most of the hate was nurtured. Trask had said it best in their first meeting.
“No more surgical strikes, no more military body bags,” he’d said. “We’ll turn the desert to glass and clean up with Windex.”
Getting to that point would come with an awful price. But it was necessary. And before Hunt’s father died, the AD wanted to be able to go to his bedside and say, “Dad, we went on offense, big-time.” He wanted to see the old man smile before he died.
Hunt had walked over to the agents to stall his guests. But he was watching them, and when he saw Bishop peel off, he had a good idea where he was going. Hunt was about to excuse himself when his Minotaur beeped. He stepped from the others, watching Bishop, while he took the call.
“Where is Muloni?” the caller asked.
“She was across the street from the lab,” Hunt said behind his cupped hand. He had begun walking briskly toward the retreating Bishop. The crowd would keep him from getting too far. Kealey was watching Hunt. There was no getting around him, and Hunt motioned for the man to move in that direction.
“I checked domestic tracking and ID,” Trask said. “She requested two cab destinations today. The second was to your location.”
“That’s standard operating—”
“I don’t care,” Trask interrupted. “It’s time the renegade was eliminated.”
For Baltimore, for Franklin May, Hunt had assumed a philosophical attitude toward killing: the good of the many outweighed the needs of the few. That made what he was ordered to do palatable.
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” he said as he folded away the phone.
Hunt carried a Sig Sauer P220 Equinox. The Sigs were being phased out in favor of Glocks, with th
eir smoother trigger action, but the AD was fond of his .45 semiautomatic. He didn’t reach for the weapon in his deep shoulder holster, not yet. But he was folding and unfolding his fingers, his eyes zeroing in on Bishop as he walked, watching the area around him—and making sure, all the while, that he stayed wide of Kealey.
And then Hunt saw Bishop come to a hard stop at the foot of Spruce Street. Kealey was slightly behind him. He couldn’t risk drawing now; the CIA expat was certainly packing, as well. Hunt waited until he was at the edge of the crowd, which thickened as he neared City Hall Park, where the people he put behind him would shield him.
There was not enough room between the cab and the car ahead of it for Bishop to stand in front of the cab. Since he didn’t want it to go anywhere, he yanked open the passenger door.
“Hey, it’s occupado!” the driver shouted.
“It’s okay,” the passenger told him. “I’m getting out.” She pushed a twenty into the plastic tray and slid from the cab.
The driver muttered his thanks for being stranded in a no-go zone as she slammed the door. Bishop was staring at her.
“You first,” he said.
“That’s not how it’s going down,” she replied.
Bishop was perplexed. He assumed she was here tracking Veil. He hadn’t wanted to say anything until he knew for sure that she knew. That was SOP packaged inside IA über-caution. But what Jessica Muloni had just said to him was something else entirely. It wasn’t a prelude to information exchange. It was a command, as if Bishop were a suspect and she was the arresting agent.
Muloni pulled him away from traffic, toward the sidewalk. They stood beside the Pace University building. It was less crowded here, beside the bridge.
“Put your hands in your front pockets,” she said. Her voice and eyes were steel, and her right hand was behind her. He felt sick. She had a piece in her belt, under her shirt, and she was prepared to pull it on him.
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