by Tom Cain
“Holy shit,” muttered Maroni. “Now I know why the pay’s so good.”
Vermulen outlined the mission. Late that afternoon they would rendezvous at sea with a fishing boat carrying the weapons they would need. The yacht would then sail into Croatian waters and moor in a secluded bay near the village of Molunat in southern Croatia, right by the border with the Yugoslav province of Montenegro. At dusk, around seven-thirty, they would go ashore and be met by a guide. He would have the vehicles needed to take them the 125 miles overland to their destination, the main administration building of the Zvečan lead smelter, part of the sprawling Trepca mining complex in northern Kosovo, where the bomb was located. Reddin and his team would stand guard while Riva used his spectrometer to uncover the bomb’s hiding place.
Once it was found, Vermulen would record a brief statement on video, describing what he had found, and where. He’d stress the dangers posed to global security by the lethal combination of international terrorism and unsecured, small-scale nuclear weapons. That done, the bomb would be moved, under Riva’s close supervision, to their vehicles. They would then drive southeast a farther sixty miles to the border with the neighboring republic of Macedonia, where NATO forces were stationed. The last few miles might have to be undertaken on foot, to avoid detection by border guards. Once the video statement had been released to the media, preventing a coverup, the bomb would be handed over, as would additional information, which would be retained aboard the yacht for safekeeping until that point.
Vermulen swept his gaze around the room, looking each man in the eye.
“I believe that once we have released our statement to the world media, and provided proof to the U.S. government, two things are bound to follow. First, a major effort will be made to retrieve all the missing weapons. And second, the reaction from the media, and the American people-hell, people all over the world-will force our politicians to wake up and take action to protect us from the threat of global terror. If we can stop Islamic extremism now, we can make the world a safer place for our families, our neighbors, for people everywhere. If we do not, then I truly fear what the future may hold.
“Gentlemen,” he concluded, “this mission is fundamentally very simple. It involves covering a distance shorter than the drive from Boston to New York City. We’ve got to be on the lookout for Serbian or KLA units, and avoid police or military roadblocks. But if we take due care, there is no reason to anticipate the need for violent action. The bomb itself is perfectly safe. Absent its detonation code, it will not explode. Nor will it give off dangerous levels of radiation.
“So rest up, get some sleep if you can. It’s going to be a long night.”
Up on the bridge, the captain was in radio contact with a private plane, currently flying northwest, two hours out of San Antonio.
“Did you get that, sir?” he asked.
“Certainly did, Captain, every word. So how did you fix it? I figured Vermulen would be smart enough to check for bugs.”
“He was, sir. Swept the room before the meeting. So we offered him some refreshments, and stuck a listening device inside the lid of a carafe of coffee. Worked out fine.”
“That it did, Captain. I’ll be calling you with more instructions later, regarding one other little job I need you to do for me.”
“Yes sir-I’ll look forward to that.”
Waylon McCabe sat back with a feeling of satisfaction so deep it almost dulled the pain of the tumors eating away at his body from within. In a few minutes he would call Dusan Darko in Belgrade and pass on the information he would need to intercept Vermulen and seize the bomb. The assault would have to be expertly handled. McCabe wanted the weapon intact and Vermulen alive. He also needed Dr. Francesco Riva in one piece. From the moment Vermulen had told him about the meeting in Rome, McCabe had realized that the Italian’s expertise would be vital to his plans.
So now it was Easter Saturday: Just one day to go before Armageddon would be unleashed, the warrior Christ would descend from heaven, and he would be led to eternal life. True, there would be suffering. But McCabe didn’t care. He had killed a lot of people for a lot worse causes than that.
85
When agents from the FBI’s San Antonio field office called at McCabe’s Kerr County ranch, they were told that he wasn’t home: He’d left for Europe, on business. It didn’t take too long after that to establish that his private jet had taken off from Stinson Municipal Airport, six miles south of San Antonio, shortly after 3 A.M., local time.
“Can you describe the aircraft?” asked the special agent who’d made the call.
“I don’t know the exact model, just a regular executive jet, eight-seater…” replied the airport official.
The agent was barely paying attention and about to hang up when the official interrupted himself and said, “No, wait-that’s wrong…”
“What is?” The agent didn’t even bother to disguise her lack of interest.
“Well, Mr. McCabe just had that plane adapted, only got it back no more’n ten days ago. So now it’s got kind of a bulge in its belly and, you know, a door that opens up, I guess like a bomber, or something…”
Now she was a lot more interested.
Nine in the morning, Eastern Standard Time, and the pace was picking up. A bunch of aeronautical engineers and corporate executives were trying to explain how they had been pleased to work on Waylon McCabe’s aircraft for free, believing the modifications were going to be used to drop supplies to starving Africans.
By now the plane had left U.S. airspace. McCabe’s pilot had filed a flight plan to Shannon, Ireland, right at the limit of the plane’s range. The tracking data, however, suggested he was actually heading farther north, toward Reykjavik, Iceland.
“Can’t we get someone at State to call the Icelandic authorities, get them to impound the plane, arrest McCabe?” asked Mulvagh when Jaworski passed on the information.
“On what grounds?” came the reply. “Waylon McCabe is not a fugitive from justice, has committed no crime, and we have no reason to believe he’s carrying any contraband, drugs, or weapons.”
“Yeah, but he’s just about to…”
“About to what, exactly?” Jaworski interrupted. “We don’t know what he’s going to do-that’s the problem.”
By now, McCabe’s telephone, travel, and financial records were undergoing extensive investigation and analysis. McCabe’s doctors refused to discuss their patient’s health in any detail, citing their absolute duty of confidentiality. But trips to cancer-treatment centers in Houston and New York told their own story. It didn’t take long, either, to spot the million-dollar donation to the Reverend Ezekiel Ray, and the calls between the two men.
Mulvagh handled that interview personally.
“Can I ask you what you discussed, Reverend?”
Ray hesitated.
“I’m afraid I can’t talk about that. It’s a personal matter between me and one of my congregation.”
“I understand, but it’s not like the confession booth, right? I mean, you aren’t obliged to keep your conversation secret.”
“That’s correct, but even so…”
“Reverend, I appreciate your position. But I have to tell you, this is a matter of national security. We need to know what’s been on McCabe’s mind. Could you at least tell me what kinds of things you talked about, in general, even if you don’t go into specifics?”
Several seconds’ silence were followed by a thoughtful sigh.
“Yes, I suppose I could do that.”
“And…”
“Well, as you probably know, my ministry is centered on the concept of the rapture, the ascension into heaven of the chosen, at the end of time, as prophesied in the Book of Revelation. Mr. McCabe was deeply moved by the prospect of rapture, as are many, many of the decent Christian men and women who attend my services.”
The preacher was hiding something. Even down a telephone line, unable to see the other man’s face, Mulvagh could sense it: Someth
ing to do with the rapture had put Ray on his guard.
“I’m sure they are, Reverend,” Mulvagh persisted. “And when McCabe talked about the rapture, what was it, exactly, that moved him? What made him want to talk to you in person? He must have wanted to know something-something he couldn’t find out just by listening to your sermons, or watching you on TV.”
“He wanted to know…”
Again Ray paused.
“Yes?” asked Mulvagh.
“He wanted to know about the final battle against the Antichrist. That’s the conflict that Saint John prophesies that will bring about the coming of Christ.”
“What about that battle?”
“Oh, my… I just don’t know if I should tell you this. But what Mr. McCabe wanted to know was, What would God think if he-that’s McCabe-started the battle himself?”
Hour by hour, the investigation picked up pace. By lunchtime agents had made the connection to Clinton Tulane and established a further link between McCabe and Dusan Darko. It was clear now how McCabe planned to get hold of the bomb, and in what country. All that remained was its ultimate destination.
A brainstorming meeting was convened at the White House; all the agencies involved in the case were invited.
“We’ve got to consider every possibility, no matter how crazy it sounds,” said Leo Horabin, the national security adviser. “So whatever you’ve got on your mind, don’t be afraid to say it.”
Tom Mulvagh waited his turn, letting others air their ideas before he said his piece.
“I think you have to consider the religious aspect,” he said. “We’ve been thinking about this subject for a while at the Bureau-you know, religious crazies trying to bring about Armageddon. In fact, we’re planning a research paper on the subject. We’re thinking of calling it Project Megiddo, because that’s the hill, in Israel, where the Book of Revelation says the final battle will occur. So if I were looking for flashpoints, places where a crazy with a bomb might be heading, that would be where I’d start.”
“I hear you, Tom,” said Jaworski, “but it could be just about anywhere. A lot of these guys really hate the Arabs. Maybe he wants to take out Mecca, or Jerusalem…”
“How about St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome?” said an officer from the DIA. “Hundreds of thousands of people gathered to hear the Pope-helluva target.”
Horabin looked around the room, then came to his conclusion.
“I think you’re right, Tom. The target will have some kind of religious significance. And it would make sense if it was within easy reach of Kosovo, within Europe or the Middle East. I want a complete list of all possible targets that fall within those parameters. And I want contingency plans for all of them.”
86
Night had fallen in Macedonia, and Carver had just taken possession of the quintessential Balkan car, one of the countless battered old Mercedes sedans that are shipped south from Germany to poorer, less discerning markets. This was an eight-year-old C-class diesel, with a creamy-beige paint job that made it look like a motorized crème caramel, and a broken exhaust that spewed thick, gray-blue smoke into the atmosphere. An MI6 agent in Macedonia ’s capital, Skopje, name of Ronan Biddle, had given it to Carver when he flew in that evening, along with the passport, visas, and accreditation papers that identified him as a BBC radio news reporter. The pockets of a scuffed leather fisherman’s bag held the tape recorder, laptop, phone, map, and notebooks that backed up his cover. He’d also been provided with the standard equipment he required as an assassin and saboteur: a selection of tools, plastic explosives, knife, gun, and ammunition. Underneath his clothes, he wore, as ever, the money belt containing the cash, bonds, and passports that were his constant companions. His hair had been clipped short, a basic barbershop crew cut, just before he left France. He was fed up with seeing Kenny Wynter every time he looked in a mirror.
“It isn’t a SIG, I’m afraid,” said Biddle, sounding more pleased than apologetic about this inability to deliver the weapon Carver wanted. “Grantham said you liked them, but you’ll have to make do with a Beretta Ninety-two-best we could drum up at short notice. It’s good enough for the U.S. Army, so it can’t be too bad. We got you a silencer, too.”
Biddle looked at Carver resentfully.
“Don’t know why London had to send someone,” he continued. “We’ve got plenty of first-rate people here, and there are special forces chaps hanging around the place who know Kosovo like the back of their hand. But they never trust the men on the ground, do they?”
Carver just shrugged and opened up the trunk of the car, looking for the best place to hide the plastique. He had no interest in starting a conversation. Minutes later he was on the road out of the airport, on the way to the Kacanik Defile, the gorge that provides one of the few passes between Macedonia and southern Kosovo.
The line at the border was ninety minutes long, a motley gaggle of trucks, vans, and family cars, their roof racks piled high with goods from Macedonia that had become unavailable as violence and anarchy descended on Kosovo-everything and anything, from fresh fruit to video recorders. The people in the line were standing around by their vehicles, smoking, drinking, and talking to the other drivers. Carver couldn’t tell which ones were ethnic Albanians and which were Serbs. There was no sign of any tension or polarization. Everyone was getting on just fine, grumbling about the delay, sharing their bottles and cigarette packets, good-naturedly joshing the kids who ran about between the cars. But as soon as they crossed the line into Kosovo, they’d be divided into warring tribes, each out to obliterate the other.
Carver had seen plenty of communal violence in his time. He’d served in Northern Ireland and Iraq. And no matter where or when it happened, it never made any more sense.
The border guards were shaven-headed thugs in blue paramilitary uniforms. One of them took Carver’s passport and papers and disappeared into a low-slung building decorated with the crest of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, which stood beside the checkpoint. A few minutes later, he reemerged and signaled to Carver to move his car out of the way and park it to one side so that other travelers could come through the checkpoint: This was going to take some time.
It was getting late, but there was still a duty-free store and café open in the no-man’s-land between the Macedonian and Kosovan sides of the border post. Carver went in to take a leak and get a double espresso. Four more guards were sitting at a table, their submachine guns propped against their chairs. They were sharing a bottle of plum brandy. It was standing on the table next to a couple of empties. The guards simmered with the brooding tension of drunks who were a long way down the road that leads from cheerful inebriation to unrestrained violence. As Carver passed by on the way to the men’s room, they looked at him with a malevolence that sought out any excuse-a single, inadvertent glance or gesture would do-that would allow them to attack.
When his coffee arrived, he took it outside. He wanted to be able to think in peace. The truth was, he was so angry himself, that if the border guards even looked like they would give him a fight, he might take them up on the offer. And that would just be one more entry on his long list of stupid mistakes.
It went against all his principles, but he couldn’t help thinking of the past, wishing he’d done things differently. If he’d done a better job back at the Inuvik airport… if he’d just told the Consortium to screw their assignment when they’d ordered him onto the plane to Paris… if he’d never let himself become involved with Alix… if he’d put his business before his balls and just handed that bloody list over to Grantham… so many ifs, and nothing he could do about any of them.
Alix wasn’t coming back to him, not now. She’d made her decision and she wasn’t going to change it. He didn’t blame her for what she’d done. When she’d left him at the clinic, he’d been a vegetable. Then she’d been told he was dead. It was hardly surprising she’d fallen for the healthy, successful, powerful guy standing right next to her. He hoped he’d have the chance to tel
l her that, let her know he understood and bore her no ill will, no matter how much he was hurting. But when were they going to meet again? He couldn’t believe Vermulen would involve her in whatever he was planning to do with the bomb, so she wouldn’t be anywhere near Trepca. And by the end of the night, the chances were that either he or Vermulen would be dead, maybe both. Even if he survived, what then?
Presumably she’d been kept on the boat. He imagined coming aboard: “Hello, darling-sorry I topped your old man. No hard feelings.”
That wasn’t going to go down too well, however he tried to play it.
He could just turn back, of course. If he didn’t get Vermulen, someone else would, and sooner rather than later. Too many people had reasons to want the man dead. If Alix was back on the market again, he could try to win her over.
But that wasn’t exactly a classy idea, hitting on the grieving widow. And it wasn’t going to happen, anyway. The only way to atone for all his mistakes was to clear up the mess he’d made. That meant tracking Vermulen down and taking him, and his bomb, out of commission, whatever the cost. But what about the list? Did Vermulen have it with him? The answer came to Carver in a moment of absolute certainty. No, he’d have kept it safe on the yacht, with Alix.
A sardonic, humorless smile twisted the corners of his mouth. Maybe they would meet again, like it or not.
Across the floodlit no-man’s-land, he could see an official waving at him. His papers had been accepted. He was into Kosovo.
87
Earlier that afternoon, when everyone onboard was fully occupied preparing for Vermulen’s expedition, Alix had slipped into the ship’s galley and found a large plastic garbage bag, a number of smaller food bags, and a couple of yards of twine. Now the men were all gone and she was alone in the master bedroom, preparing her getaway.