Jackson had unearthed a number of communications and vouchers for money, tracing through four different projects. While only the CIA officer who had “run” Sholk would know for sure, Sholk was most likely the asset who had gotten involved when Brazil tried to buy nuclear warheads from the renegade Russian in Iron Heart.
NSA intercepts of e-mails showed that a Russian arms dealer had supplied weapons to Middle Eastern terrorists after several meetings in Beirut. Sholk was in Beirut the same time as at least two of the sales.
He was clearly the same person. Which meant that the CIA had had a man who gave weapons to terrorists on its payroll.
And then they’d brought him into Iron Heart. He helped make the deal — and mysteriously died in a plane crash when it was done.
A very convenient plane crash. Though Jackson didn’t say it, Rubens thought it very possible that by then Sholk had become a liability. Destroying his plane with a shoulder-launched missile or a bomb would have been child’s play.
But Sholk’s background wasn’t the most interesting thing Jackson had discovered.
“There were three warheads discussed in one of the original communications from Brazil. ‘Three bags of bread’ were the words they used.” The ambassador passed a yellow sheet of paper across the conference table to Rubens — the original decrypted translation of a communication sent to Russia that the NSA had intercepted, the message that had probably gotten Iron Heart started in the first place.
“And then there’s this photo.” said Jackson, laying the paper onto Rubens’ desk. “This was of the shipping point, the evening right before the raid.”
The paper was a print of a satellite photo taken by a KH- 11A spy satellite. The warheads were small rectangular boxes in the lower right-hand comer of the photo, identified by a photo interpreter at the time as the payload of SA-10 “Grumble” missiles. Roughly five feet long and about three feet across, they looked like ordinary crates; the interpreter relied on information about packaging and other data to classify them.
“This is why the search in Peru was so extensive after the plane went down,” said Jackson. “They had the warhead on the ground already. They got to the plane and for some reason worried that there was another one. They followed the exact same procedure they would if an American plane had gone down with a bomb. But they never mention it in the report.”
“Because they didn’t find anything,” said Rubens.
“Probably. They might have seen something as simple as a flight plan suggesting another stop, or some document, or even an extra set of tiedowns and decided to investigate. They didn’t find Sholk, either.” Jackson pointed to one of the printouts. “You can see the report of the helicopter crew that took the bodies out — there are only two bodies, and they’re identified as the pilot and first officer of the airplane that crashed.”
“Perhaps his body was so incinerated they never found it.”
“Maybe. But there’s a long ground search near the plane and nothing is recorded as being found. They don’t mention that his corpse was identified. There’s no call for records that I can see.”
“The CIA officer in charge of the mission would have known him by sight.”
“Notice that he never specifically mentions in the report that the unnamed asset — Sholk — died.”
Rubens got up from his seat and began pacing around the room. How much of this did Collins know? Rubens wondered.
Probably everything.
“I don’t want to mislead you,” continued Jackson. “There are many references to two warheads in the material. Both of those were accounted for.”
“Three hours ago, a Peruvian army unit made a raid on a guerrilla hideout on the border of the Amazonian area of the country,” Rubens told Jackson. “Not terribly far from Ecuador. They found something they believe is a nuclear bomb. They also found a truck and maps for Lima, along with some other documents.”
“This bomb?”
“Obviously that’s the question we’ll have to try to answer. I have some people on the way there to make sure it is a nuclear warhead. It seems rather… interesting.”
“Yes,” said Jackson.
“I’d like to know the identity of the arms dealer, Sholk,” said Rubens. “Can you figure it out?”
“Maybe. But it won’t be easy,” said Jackson. “Wouldn’t it be much easier to ask the CIA?”
Rubens leaned against his bookcase without answering.
“You don’t think they’ll tell you,” said Jackson. “And you don’t trust them to tell you the truth.”
Rubens pressed his lips together. “There is that.”
“If he’s dead…”
“Ordinarily that would make no difference. In this case, we could follow the procedure to get his name. We will follow that procedure. But I’d like you to undertake it as well.”
Jackson nodded. In truth, the CIA did not appear to warrant any trust in this case.
“I’ll look into it right away,” he told Rubens. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“I wouldn’t let that weapon stay in anyone’s hands. It’s too tempting.”
“I quite agree.”
* * *
As soon as Jackson had gone, Rubens picked up the phone to call Hadash. It was an ingrained reflex — he had always shared important intelligence, even hunches, with the national security adviser. If Jackson’s theory was correct — if this was a warhead involved in Iron Heart — the implications were immense.
But in the few brief seconds it took for the call to go-through and the national security adviser to come on the line, Rubens reconsidered. It wasn’t that he doubted the evidence Jackson had just shown him; on the contrary. But he was unsure now of Hadash’s standing in the government — and his attitude toward him. Maybe he couldn’t depend on his former teacher for advice. Maybe telling Hadash was the worst thing to do.
“Bill? What’s the latest on Peru?” asked Hadash when he came on the line.
“I have people en route to verify the find,” he told Hadash. “I understand the president and the secretary of state have been talking with the Peruvian government. They seem to have very little information. Otherwise, nothing has changed in the last hour since our conference call with the secretary of defense. I did see a note just a short while ago that the aircraft carrier Reagan and her escorts have been ordered to sail for Lima. They’re three days away.”
Hadash grunted.
“I’m drawing up a plan to take custody of the weapon, drawing on resources we have in the area for the existing mission,” continued Rubens. “It can be put into motion as soon as the president gives the word.”
“The president has not made that decision yet. It’s not a foregone conclusion that he will.”
“I understand.”
“We need to know definitively whether that is a warhead or not,” said Hadash. “We need precise data on it, an absolute location, information about the unit that found it—”
“We’ll have all the information within hours.”
Should he tell Hadash about the connection with Iron Heart? It was best to wait. Dean and Karr would be there soon; at that point, he’d know for sure.
“Did you read the draft of the president’s statement?” said Hadash.
“Yes.”
Marcke was due to go on national television at 9:00 p.m. eastern time, announcing the discovery and saying that he had asked Peru to turn the weapon over to the International Atomic Energy Agency for dismantling. He was also going to reiterate what had been American policy since John F. Kennedy confronted Khrushchev during the Cuban Missile Crisis: no nuclear weapons would be allowed in the Western Hemisphere.
What else he would say depended in large part on what the Peruvians said to him.
“Was there something else, Bill?” asked Hadash.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking of resigning?” blurted Rubens.
Hadash didn’t answer. It had come out unbidde
n, but now that it had, Rubens told his old friend what he truly felt.
“I think, considering how long we’ve known each other, you might have mentioned it,” he told Hadash.
“I really can’t discuss it at the moment,” said Hadash. “I’m sure you understand.”
No, I don’t, thought Rubens. But instead of saying that, he simply hung up.
55
Dean and Karr were supposed to meet the airplane in a small field about five miles north of the city, but when they got there the field was empty. It bore only the vaguest resemblance to an airstrip, and if it hadn’t been for the GPS coordinates, Dean would have continued on. He turned the car off the road and immediately sank into the soft turf. Dubious, he shut off the engine and got out. Karr had already leapt from his seat and was wading into knee-deep grass.
“The field is mud,” said Dean. “How’s a plane going to land here?”
“Maybe he’s just going to slow down so we can jump aboard,” said Karr.
Dean went to the trunk and got their bags. He opened them and started rearranging things, making sure the most important items — like extra bullets — were in a single bag, just in case they had to leave extra weight behind. It reminded Dean of his early days on patrol. Many Marines had realized that luxuries like clean underwear weren’t worth displacing necessities like ammunition. He made those same choices now, unsure of what they were facing.
The A2 rifle was packed in a small box of its own. Both men carried two pistols, one under each arm in shoulder holster. Besides being easier to conceal under a bulky jacket, the shoulder holsters made it easier to retrieve the gun, especially when you were sitting in a car. Dean checked his pistots — both Glocks, solid and dependable 9mm handguns — then filled his pockets with as many extra magazines as he could stuff in.
“It’s only wet by the road, Charlie,” yelled Tommy. “There’s a macadam strip under this dust. Check it out.”
As Dean started toward him, an airplane turned hard around the nearby mountain. It came down so fast it looked almost out of control, more plummeting rock than glider. A small, high-winged plane with a boom tail, one engine at the nose and another at the rear of the cockpit behind the boom, the plane made almost no noise as it landed, bumping along the short field for only a hundred yards before slowing and starting to turn.
The aircraft’s basic shape reminded Dean of spotter airplanes he had seen long ago in Vietnam — Air Force close-air-support planes built by Cessna and officially known as 0-2As. This plane was painted green, the shade so dark it looked almost black. It rode across the field on tricycle landing gear with thick shock absorbers and tall wheels that were mounted four across at the axle.
Dean and Karr ran for their gear while the airplane turned and taxied back toward the end of the runway where it had landed. By the time they caught up to it the front prop had feathered to a halt. The hatch at the side of the cockpit popped open and a short bearded man wearing a baseball cap and a monstrous frown emerged from the craft.
“Fashone!” yelled Karr. “You? What are you doing here?”
“Suck it, Karr,” replied the pilot. He jumped down, kicked at the surface of the field, and shook his head. “This is an improved airstrip, huh? Rockman wouldn’t know dirt from concrete if he ate it.”
“Hey, that’s no way to say hello,” shouted Karr. “Long time no see.” He gave Fashona a shoulder chuck that nearly sent the lightly built pilot tumbling to the ground. “What’s happenin’, my friend?”
“Usual BS,” grumbled Fashona. He went to the belly of the short fuselage and opened the hatch on a cargo bay.
“Hey, Ray,” said Dean. “How are you?”
“I’m all right, Charlie. How about yourself?”
“Pretty good. Lia told me how you saved her in Korea.”
Fashona’s face turned red. “I didn’t save her, man. I just got a plane to where she was. That’s all I did. How is she?”
“Holding up.”
“Yeah, she’s tough. That’s good. Give me your bags. They have to be tied down in the back.”
“What kind of airplane is this, Fashone?” said Karr.
“Knock off the Fashone crap.”
“It’s pretty quiet,” said Dean. He’d met Fashona on his very first mission in, as one NSA briefer had put it, the good part of Siberia. Fashona was a contract pilot for the NSA who could handle everything from helicopters to airliners. He tended to be moody, and Karr always seemed to rub him the wrong way, even though the two men had worked together for a long time.
“The plane is pretty quiet,” Fashona told Dean. “These engines were specially built. But I have to tell you, they would not be my first choice. They’re more temperamental than my first girlfriend. They got borderline personality disorder. For real.”
Dean gave Fashona his bag. The pilot stood five-four or five-five and had to lift the bag up against his shoulder to slide it into the bay because the special gear on the aircraft lifted it so high off the ground.
“Spooks built this plane ten years ago,” said Fashona. “Typical CIA project — you can land the thing in mud just about with these wheels, no one can hear you coming until you’re two feet away, and there’s no stinking heat in the cockpit.”
“So, really, Fashone. What are you doing here?” said Karr.
“Knock off the Fashone crap. It’s Fashona. Uh. Uh.”
“What are you doing here, Ray?”
“I’m on vacation. You brought fuel?”
“We have gasoline in the car,” said Karr.
“Oh, that’ll work great in a turboprop.” Fashona slapped down the cargo hatch. “Rockman said you might have fuel. Of course, he also claimed this was a decent airstrip.”
“Didn’t tell us about it,” said Karr.
“Just as well. Probably be too heavy to take off. You put on a few pounds, Tommy.”
“Get out. You think?”
“You oughta work out like Dean.”
Karr laughed. “I will when I’m his age.”
“Your parachutes are inside.” Fashona pulled open the cockpit door. “You better get it on before we take off. Fat boy in back, Karr. Sit in the middle of the plane. We have to worry about weight distribution.”
“It’s that razor wit that sets you apart, Fashone. That’s why we love you.”
“Wait,” said Dean as Fashona started to climb into the plane. “We’re jumping?”
“Hey, we’ll have chutes,” said Karr.
“Rockman didn’t tell you?”
“No. He’s supposed to brief us once we’re airborne. They’re still pulling information together.”
“Ah. You’ve jumped before, Charlie, right?” said Karr.
“Yeah.” Dean had jumped before, several times — and liked it about as much as putting his finger in a light socket. The last time he had parachuted had been into a desert — and even with all that sand to land on, he’d nearly busted both legs.
“You’re worried because it will be a night jump?” asked Fashona.
“No.” That was an honest answer — Dean hated jumping in daytime, too.
“Hey, if you’re worried, Charlie, we can always do a tandem,” said Karr. “I’ll just strap you onto my belly and away we go. No sweat.”
“Thanks,” said Dean. “I’ll manage somehow.”
56
La Oroya was about 112 miles east of Lima, but the real distance was measured vertically: the city sat in the mountains at 12,385 feet. The thin air took some getting used to. Lia felt light-headed, and her lungs seemed to scrape against her ribs for more air. Maybe she should have taken the coca leaves, she thought.
A group of small boys gathered around their SUV when Lia and Fernandez stopped for dinner. The kids clamored for money, blocking their way with outstretched hands and plaintive faces. When Fernandez told them there would be none, they responded by cursing him.
“Tourists have polluted their minds,” he said after he and Lia had pushed their way through and g
one inside the restaurant. “They think they’re entitled to handouts.”
“Is this a big tourist town?”
“No, but tourists come through. It’s like a disease, the mentality. It’s really twisted. You saw.”
Lia tried a soup that included quinoa, a grain grown in the Andes. The vegetable base had a pumpkinlike flavor, and the grain filled her up. When they got outside, it had turned cold, and Lia pulled her jacket tight around her as they drove to the Hotel Meiggs, a small building about a quarter of a mile from the center of town. La Oroya did not have the array of first-class international hotels Lima featured; Hotel Meiggs was considered one of the town’s fancier establishments. The hotel had been named for Henry Meiggs, the American industrialist who had brought railroads to the Andes in the nineteenth century.
Lia thought the building and most of its dirt had probably greeted Meiggs when he surveyed the area. Her room was a dingy affair with a bed piled high with blankets — necessary, because she could see her breath in the frigid air.
Fernandez suggested that they share a drink in the café across the street. The café had American beer as well as some local concoctions. Lia ordered a Budweiser; Fernandez had an aguardiente, an herbal rum that smelled like an oregano liqueur.
A TV was on in the comer of the room. The regular programming had been preempted by reports on the discovery of an “apparent nuclear weapon” in the possession of the rebels far to the north. The skimpy footage of the find was played several times before the screen switched back to a pair of talking heads who speculated on exactly what the country’s president would say in his speech that evening at nine o’clock.
The Art Room had already filled Lia in, but Fernandez was hearing this for the first time. He stared at the screen in disbelief.
“It must be a hoax,” he said. “The rebels would never be able to get a bomb. Never.”
“They have photos,” said Lia. “Didn’t you just see? And they’re working with one of the candidates.”
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