“I didn’t hear anything.”
Howie’s figuring out something must have surprised whoever was in the apartment and he took off quickly.
All of a sudden he hears a loud, plaintive half-moan, half-whimper from Sharon. “I can’t take this any longer,” she says, collapsing on the daybed. “We’re not safe here, we’re not safe anywhere. Terrorists after us, the Pentagon. No place to go, nothing to wear, on the run all the time. This is just horrible.” Sharon jumps up off the bed and turns her back to him, her fists dug into her hips, head slumping forward. “I’m so frustrated and angry,” she says in a gruff but shaky voice.
Howie walks over to her, gently puts his hands on her shoulders and slowly turns her so they are face to face.
“Leave me alone,” she says, pulling away from him. Risstup’s eyes are wide, taking in the back-and-forth.
“C’mon,” he says, understanding she’s fighting a losing battle with her emotions. They win and with her eyes brimming, she falls against Howie’s chest, throwing her arms around him and letting the tears flow.
As Howie hugs Sharon, his mind flashes back to the one-week vacation he and Sylvie took at the beach a year ago. On their return he wondered if someone had been rummaging around his war room. One detail stuck out. The file on the Jersey bomb had been filed backward, the tab facing the wrong way. At the time he paid no attention, thinking he’d misfiled it. But in that file was his work on the locations where the weapon could have been jettisoned. All the calculations, the maps, the drawings of the Mk-15s with the nuclear capsule. Had these people broken in and copied the information? Or did they even need to? Much of the information is on my website. He’d naively posted it there, thinking he was doing concerned citizens a favor.
He has a sudden sick feeling in his stomach. Not only have I been leading them to the nuke, I’ve told them everything about it. When we took off for the vet’s office, they must have slipped into the apartment to check on my progress. They’ve wormed their way into every nook and cranny of my life. Watching and listening to me every minute, from every angle. Waiting patiently for me to take them to the prize.
Now I’m damned if I lead them to the nuke, and dead if I don’t.
Howie can feel Sharon’s body starting to relax, her sobbing backing down. He has no other option but to act like a rock. He takes a deep breath. “Feeling any better?” he asks as she pulls away from him, wiping her eyes with the collar of her shirt, nods and slumps down on the daybed, sniffling. “Sorry. I tried but I couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer.”
“I tell you what. I think it’s time I emailed Winn and ask him to bring us in.”
“Will he do that?” She looks up at him, her eyes red but her expression brightening.
“I don’t think he has any choice.”
“I hope you’re right.” Her quavering voice tells him she’s at her breaking point. As tough as she’s been, she isn’t going to hold up much longer.
29
American University campus, Thursday, noon
Straub pulls up his coat collar. A couple of fat pigeons strut around on the ground hoping for handouts. One looks up at him and cocks its head as if Straub had said something. The wind’s picked up, it’s getting nasty, temperature’s plunged ten degrees. Bitter cold, even for the last day in November.
Sitting next to Straub, Jimmick’s thumbs are dancing over his Black-Berry. Straub prevailed on his wife to make the call to Jimmick. She bristled but phoned him anyway, muttering something about owing her big-time for having to play his secretary.
Straub had met Jimmick at the rendezvous a half hour later, the words from Howie’s email running through his mind. Howie is convinced they are pursuing him, a group of three terrorists, maybe more. From the tone of his email he sounds rattled and he has reason to be.
Straub sniffs at Jimmick, “You going to put that damn thing away so we can talk?”
Jimmick doesn’t look up, “I get hundreds of emails a day. My assistants cull them but unless I keep up I get buried. So how is he?”
“Boy’s got nine lives.”
“Close call in Front Royal.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Scuttlebutt is that Vector Eleven did the car.”
“Big surprise.”
“But who torched the motel?”
“That’s why I called you.”
“So you know.”
Straub ducks his head a couple times.
Jimmick looks over at him, his thumbs still jitterbugging on the BlackBerry. He changes the subject. “The Susan woman who called me, that was your wife, right?”
“Yup.”
“I recognized her voice. Keeping it in the family, huh?”
“Have to keep the circle closed, otherwise it’ll spin out of our control.”
“What’s next?”
“Tell me more about the Coast Guard.”
“Whatever you need, you’ve got.”
“A search-and-retrieval team?”
“Good as done. So who torched the motel?”
“Someone else is interested in Collyer. It wasn’t Vector Eleven, they were blocks away.
“FBI?”
“Worse—terrorists.”
“Holy shit.” The BlackBerry slips out of his hands and clatters on the bench beside him. Jimmick whirls around to face Winn. The color has gone from his face. Misplaced or stolen nuclear materials are always causes for alarm, and since he first met with Straub, the possibility that terrorists could become involved had crossed his mind. Though he was not at all inclined to deal with the thought. Now he has no choice.
“Are you sure?”
“Howie is. He suspects they’ve been following him for the last twenty-four hours.”
“They’re after the bomb.”
“They’re not on a fucking wine tour, that’s for sure.”
“How many?”
“Two, three, maybe more.”
Jimmick is floored, his forehead creased, eyes clenched shut. Since 9/11, everyone in the intelligence game has speculated terrorist cells could be operating in the country but no one has had any hard evidence. The assumption was they had attacked us once and would strike again. But where and how? Would they infiltrate along the Mexican border? Come in through Canada? Smuggle a nuke inside a shipping container? Or have they been here all along?
And on everyone’s mind is the nagging question—would we be able to stop them this time?
He nervously shifts on the bench. “So this is a whole new ball game.”
“You got that right.”
“Who would have ever suspected they would be watching Collyer?”
“I’m probably his oldest friend and it’s the last thing I would have ever thought of.”
“It’s so obvious. You want a nuke, go find Howie Collyer.”
“About as obvious as hijacking planes and using them as bombs.”
“How about the Pentagon, anyone there know?”
“They get that someone is trying to keep Howie alive. Maybe they haven’t figured out the terrorist angle but I bet they will soon.”
“If we mobilize the Coast Guard, this town will be up for grabs.”
“It’ll have to be totally undercover, a top-secret operation.”
“I’ll do what I can, but those snoops at the NSA and internal affairs creeps see everything. Hell, they know if I move my goddamn car.”
“It’s a risk we have to take. We have to cover Howie’s back.”
“If it’s anywhere on the East Coast, I have the perfect unit. When’s this coming down?”
“Saturday or Sunday, Monday at the latest. Can you move that fast?”
Jimmick cracks a smile. “Brownie doesn’t work here anymore.”
Straub chuckles.
“Today’s Thursday, Friday I’ll be ready.” Jimmick’s thumbs go back to tap dancing—as if his BlackBerry is a pacifier, the ritual pecking proving comforting.
The two men sit watching the pigeons hopping ar
ound, looking for a seed or anything edible on the bare ground. A minute passes, another. The wind is whistling through the trees, leaves tumbling across the grass.
Jimmick breaks the silence. “This can’t be easy for you, having your best friend on the firing line.”
Straub looks across the bench at him. “You know, it’s funny but it’s easier that it’s Howie.”
“How’s that?”
“Boy’s got no choice. He knows he made this bed and he’s got to sleep in it.”
“But, Jesus, with terrorists involved . . .” Jimmick pauses to let his comment sink in. Looks down at his BlackBerry, then across at Straub. “You really are sure we shouldn’t be getting more people involved?”
Winn knows where Jimmick is heading. He’s worried about his own butt. Anyone who’s worked in Washington knows the game. CYA. Cover your ass. If you are going to be a survivor in this town, you have to know how to play it.
Straub looks out across the park. He knows that his answer will have more effect if he doesn’t look directly at Jimmick. “Do that and you’re signing Howie Collyer’s death warrant. And the two people who are with him. It would be easy to simply take them out. And we’d lose the opportunity to catch the Pentagon red-handed. So our only hope is to let it play out.”
“Could be risky as hell. Nuclear weapons, terrorists.”
“Lucien—it’s risky already.”
Straub pauses to let the information sink in. He can tell Jimmick is wishing he were back in Miami chasing Chechens. Which is exactly where Straub wants him. You’re a lot more motivated when your own ass is on the line.
30
Everglades Motel, Baltimore, Thursday afternoon
Leaving the apartment early in the morning, he took cabs in opposite directions for a half hour, walking ten blocks before hailing another, going through a building lobby to the street on the other side, and getting on and off buses until he was certain he wasn’t being tailed. At a prearranged time, Sharon and Risstup were to go down the back stairs and meet him in the alley.
They were on the road for a half hour before checking into a motel in downtown Baltimore. They hardly spoke on the ride over. Both are strung out and low on sleep, with side orders of frayed nerves and lousy dispositions.
The Everglades Motel is a step above the ones they’ve been staying in. Only signs of Florida are a bunch of potted plants in the lobby, palm frond motif painted on the wall behind the front desk and a small stuffed alligator on the counter with its front teeth missing. Sharon administered the meds to Risstup and while waiting for them to take effect, Howie went around the corner to find some food. Bagels and cream cheese, enough coffee for six. He knew they were going to need it.
Howie has been circling the room ever since. Going from Risstup to the plate of bagels, peeking out the window, back to Risstup, then to the bagels, every once in a while glancing at his watch.
“Will you stop checking the time every two seconds? Sit down and read the damn paper or something,” Sharon snaps at Collyer as she spreads cream cheese on a bagel.
Howie holds up his hands in mock surrender.
The plastic knife she’s using suddenly breaks in half. Sharon grunts and tosses the knife and bagel aside as if they are too much to deal with. She snaps the lid off the coffee and walks over to a dresser set.
She puts her coffee down and leans on the bureau, inspecting herself in the mirror. She knew both of them were starting to look like they’re right out of the cast of a horror flick. Howie’s gaunt, his two-day growth of stubble making him look five years older. And she’s worse, dark circles around her eyes, a hangdog look, her hair is awful. She lifts a hank and lets it drop back down, greasy, lifeless, she would give anything for a perm, even dreamt about it during the ride over. Sharon takes a sip of coffee. Women always look the worse for wear and a series of crummy motels and washing her underwear in the sink hasn’t helped. Now she’s down to her last set of clothes, She knows she looks like a wreck and that only makes her feel worse.
“What do you say we try doubling up the dose?” Howie asks, pointing at Risstup who’s parked in his chair dozing peacefully.
“Crissakes, Howie, every damn thing I do you second-guess,” she snorts.
Howie winces. “Sorry.”
“My fault, I’m in a shitty mood.”
“I couldn’t tell.” Howie cracks a smile.
“My friends always told me I had a sunny disposition.”
“That’s a lot to ask for under these circumstances.”
She takes another gulp of coffee. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“This is silly, but do you think we could find any time for me to get a perm?”
“A what?”
“Perm—permanent,” she takes a handful of hair and displays it. “My hair looks like crap.”
“Is that something we have to do right now?”
“No. Never mind. It’s a girl thing. I know I must sound nuts bringing up my hair at a time like this.”
“I’m sure we can find a beauty salon somewhere.”
“Thanks, appreciate the understanding.” Sharon glances at her watch. It’s been a half hour since she gave him the tablets. “Okay. The medication should be working by now. Crank up your machine.”
The trick was to get the dose right. Too much and Risstup would drift over the edge, too little and his disinhibition level wouldn’t drop to the point where he can call up past events from wherever his mind has parked them. Seating the major at Howie’s side, she adjusts him so he’s in front of the screen. Sharon leans over and peers into Risstup’s face. His look is contented, almost dreamy. She checks his pulse. Perfect, exactly the way I want him.
“He’s as ready as he’ll ever be,” she tells Howie.” Let’s give it a try.” She shakes Risstup’s shoulder gently. His eyes drift open.
“The B-52 went over land before it went out over the ocean?” Howie asks.
Risstup nods.
“And where were you?”
“When I think about it, I saw land as my parachute brought me down.”
“You came down on land?”
“I think so. I remember the ground speeding up at me. Like I was hanging there motionless and it was racing up toward me.”
“So that must have been the Eastern Shore?”
“I saw the ground flying up into my face, then I don’t remember anything.”
“You could have hit your head.”
“My helmet was torn off during ejection. I remember that. So I must have cracked it pretty good since everything is a blank between then and the time I started getting my memory back.”
“That’s a helluva story, Mark,” Sharon says, patting him on the shoulder.
“I guess it is.”
“It’s more than a story,” Howie says, pushing back his chair. “It’s the key to everything.”
“How’s that?” Sharon asks.
“Get this—the flight was headed south over New Jersey, right? When Major Risstup saw they were over water, he released the nuke. Then he ejected. But he parachuted down on land so the last bit of real estate he could have landed on was the Eastern Shore. And he’s already told us he jettisoned the nuke before he ejected. So it has to be in the Chesapeake.”
“In the bay?”
“I’ll have to do some calculations but I’d bet the nuke is somewhere in the northern part.”
“Near Washington,” Sharon says.
“And Baltimore and fifty million people. An expert on nuclear weapons would tell you that if a thermonuclear explosion were detonated underwater, it would create enormous clouds of radioactive vapor. The prevailing winds would carry some of it out to sea, but if the winds were blowing east to west, they could carry radioactivity inland, possibly as far as the Midwest. The underwater tests they did in the Pacific demonstrated the frightening potential of radioactive drift. Hundreds of Marshall Islanders can attest to that.”
“We killed people?” Shar
on asks.
“Still paying off their descendants, as a matter of fact.”
“So what’s our next step?”
“Get this to Straub. The news that there is a nuke in the Chesapeake will sure as hell wake some people up.”
“So they’ll finally do something?”
Howie sweeps up the laptop and heads for the door. “If I were Winn I’d bring us in.”
“Howie, if he does, will you do me a favor?”
Howie pauses. Sharon says, “Tell your buddy Straub that if a retiree, a VA nurse and an eighty-four-year-old are the nation’s first line of defense to prevent terrorists getting their hands on a nuke, we’re in deep shit.”
“You bet.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” Howie closes the door and heads down the hallway to find a hot spot, thinking, The woman sure has a way of putting things in perspective.
31
Kalorama neighborhood, DC, early Friday morning
The phone rings. Lucien Jimmick rolls over and looks at the clock. The green numerals glow 1:53. The news is never good at this time of night. Take your pick: terrorist attack somewhere in the world, Secret Service calling to tell me there’s been a threat on the president, one of my kids drove into a ditch or my mother-in-law’s had a heart attack. He jumps out of bed, fumbling for the receiver on the stew phone.
He hears a dial tone. Damn, it must be my home phone. Dropping the stew receiver back in its cradle, he snatches his landline. “Hello?” he grumbles.
“Secretary Jimmick, this is Agent Wirford from your security detail. Sorry to bother you, sir, but you should come downstairs.”
“Who is it, dear?” his wife asks groggily from the other side of the bed.
“Nothing, I’ve got to go down and talk to the guys.”
“Is something wrong?” she’s sitting up now, blinking her eyes, trying to arrange her hair.
“No problem, they just want to discuss something. Go back to sleep.” He shrugs on his bathrobe and steps into his slippers, chasing them one by one across the cold floor until his feet catch up. Pulling the door to his bedroom shut, he heads down the hallway, clicking on lights as he goes. Kalorama is an upscale neighborhood of ambassadors’ mansions and DC luminaries’ residences, with constant police patrols and a low crime rate. Up until recently, he had turned down Secret Service protection thinking it would only complicate his life.
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