Rubens thought sooner. But he had no evidence. And evidence was what he needed.
Large parts of the picture were still unseen. What was the connection between Babin and General Túcume? The housekeeper Karr had talked to had been taken into Peruvian custody, but she had apparently supplied very little information. Others in Túcume’s circle were still being debriefed, but the CIA summaries of the interrogations had no references to Babin, with the exception of a very brief appearance in Lima the night before the dam broke on the general. Investigators were trying to track down the men who had been under his command at the time the weapon was found; so far, they had little luck.
Eventually, they would have more information. But eventually might be too late.
If a bomb exploded — if hundreds of thousands, maybe a million, Americans died — Rubens felt it would be his responsibility. A classic intelligence failure, by definition.
And yet they were looking at every possibility.
Rubens killed the computer program and secured his desk, throwing the security blanket over it. He walked to the small space between the desk and door, stopped, and put his hands together in a simple yoga pose, steadying his breathing. He took two very long, slow breaths, then arched his back, rising on his toes as he brought his arms up and around.
As always, the stretch calmed his restlessness somewhat. And as always, the calm had dissipated by the time he reached the Art Room level in the subbasement below.
“Still status quo,” said Chris Farlekas, the on-shift Art Room supervisor. “Lia DeFrancesca and Tommy Karr are with the task force around Washington, D.C. We have a helicopter which can take them to the scene if a truck is apprehended. I tried to tell Lia, gently, that it was all right for her to take a break if she wanted.”
“I don’t imagine she took that very well.”
“No,” said Farlekas.
Since he’d been trained to disarm Russian warheads, Karr was an important asset; there were only a few dozen such experts in the country, and Karr had the advantage not only of having actually worked on a live warhead but of being able to tap the Art Room’s experts as well. Lia, on the other hand, was Lia. And no one was going to force her to take a rest until she felt like it.
“Even Mr. Karr will have to take a breather at some point,” Rubens told Farlekas. “Don’t push him too far.”
“I’m not pushing him. He’s alternating with two other people from the Energy Commission.”
“Very well. I am going to speak to Johnny Bib’s people. Buzz me if you need me.”
Rubens walked up the corridor and up the stairs to the computer labs where many of Johnny Bib’s people were working. If he were national security adviser, he would make sure there were more Tommy Karrs on the front lines of the nation’s intelligence services. He’d do more to get the CIA and the military working together. He would use intelligence to help the president make more timely decisions…
Why was he torturing himself with so many “ifs”? Did he want the job? The opportunity was lost; he’d said he didn’t want it. To change his mind now would make him look weak. Indecisive.
Would it, though? Was he not entitled to a mistake?
Not a mistake — a reconsideration.
Rubens went through the suite of rooms, looking in on a few of the analysts and cryptographers, making his presence known but not interrupting them. When he saw Ambassador Jackson leaning over Robert Gallo’s shoulder in one of the rooms, however, Rubens couldn’t help but ask what they were doing.
“A theory,” said Jackson. “On a target.”
“How about Philadelphia?” said Gallo.
“Why do you say that?”
Gallo began telling Rubens about a Russian intelligence file listing phone calls that had been made to Babin in the months before Iron Heart. The file included three calls from Philadelphia pay phones.
“Philadelphia is where Evans comes from,” explained Jackson.
“He was probably trying to recruit him,” said Rubens — though there were other possibilities.
“Yes, but that’s not actually the point,” said the ambassador. “Babin knows where Evans lives, where his family is.”
“And he would blame Evans for betraying him,” said Rubens, finally understanding.
122
Dean had gone over to a nearby diner for dinner and was just getting back to the cottage when his cell phone began to ring. He knew that it had to be the NSA; they were the only ones he had given the number to.
“Dean,” he said, flipping it open.
“Charlie, we need you to go to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,” said Chris Farlekas. “To the state police headquarters there.”
“How are you, Chris?”
“Very busy at the moment. How long will it take you?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty far away. If I left now. . six or seven hours by car maybe.” He glanced up and saw a bat dart overhead, grabbing flies in mid-air.
“You won’t go by car.” Farlekas was silent for moment, apparently consulting with someone. “Can you get to a city called New Milford, Pennsylvania?”
“It’s more like a village. Yeah, it would take about a half hour.”
“Leave now, please. A helicopter will meet you outside the city, at the police barracks. We’re making the arrangements right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“The item you were looking for in Peru may be on its way to Philadelphia. I’d prefer not to discuss it on this line. If you would kindly change, we’ll be able to use our usual method while you’re on your way.”
123
One of the things that had made the SA-10 warheads easy to get out of Russia was their compact size and weight. But these were relative qualities: the crated warhead was so heavy that it snapped the makeshift wooden ramp Babin had Túcume place between the back of the car and the cargo van he wanted to transfer it to. He saw the disaster happening in slow motion — the wood splintered, the front of the crate tipped, and the crate fell between the two vehicles.
Babin closed his eyes as it slipped. When he opened them, he realized it wasn’t quite as bad as he had feared: the bomb had enough downward momentum to slide halfway into the van, where it got stuck, wedged more in than out. The front of the crate, which he’d taken off to get the bomb in, had come apart, but the weapon itself was still firmly in its skeleton cradle.
Túcume cursed. It was the first time Babin could remember him using any profanity since they had met.
Babin peered into the van, then moved to the crate, pushing against the side in the vain hope that it might slide in. It was a useless gesture; it didn’t even help him vent his frustration.
“Let me see one of your crutches,” said Túcume.
Babin gave it to him, and the general climbed into the van. He tried using the crutch as a lever, but the crate didn’t move.
When Túcume came out, he was holding the top of the crutch in his hand. The bottom had broken and was still lodged between the box and the side of the truck.
“I’m sorry,” said Túcume.
“I have another idea,” Babin said, ignoring the now-useless stick. “Get in the car.”
* * *
Calvina watched the two men as they maneuvered the vehicles and the large crate, trying to push the box into the van.
The van did not belong to them. She knew this because of the way they had had to start it, jiggling with something under the hood and dashboard. She realized now that the trucks and the red car probably had not belonged to them as well and wondered if the papers were stolen, too.
Until that moment, she had trusted the señor. Not the foreigner — she could tell just by looking at him that his soul was twisted. It wasn’t a matter of his legs; something in his face and eyes spoke of hatred and worse, and though he had never threatened her, she knew he would be capable of strangling her in a moment.
Calvina thought of the woman she had seen in Peru, the Chinawoman who had been able to speak in Q
uechua as well as Spanish.
The woman had asked if she wanted help, and Calvina had refused. Truly she must have been an angel sent by the Vrgin to warn her. She’d been a fool not to understand.
She remembered the woman so vividly that it almost seemed that she was here with her.
“What should I do?” Calvina whispered.
There was no one to answer, but as the words left her mouth, Calvina knew: run!
She turned and bolted toward the highway.
* * *
“Good! Good!” yelled Babin. “Stop.”
Túcume set the parking brake and got out of the car. He’d managed to push the crate another foot into the van, and it now hung about a fifth of the way out. They could turn the car around and use it to push it the rest of the way.
“The girl!” yelled Babin. “She’s running!”
Túcume looked up and saw her going up the ramp toward the highway. He started after her, running up the grass in-field to the ramp and cutting the distance between them in half. He had to stop momentarily at the highway, unsure of which way she had gone. Finally the lights of a passing car silhouetted her moving along the shoulder. Túcume threw himself forward, running steadily. The mountains he had grown up in had inadvertently trained him to be a good long-distance runner; his lungs and heart were naturally big, and he got a natural boost from the richer oxygen of the lower altitude where he found himself. His legs began to tire, but he pushed on, continuing to gain. Before he had gone twenty yards he had cut the distance between them once more in half; another twenty and she was only ten from him. A car passed and he saw her look back, glancing over her shoulder toward him.
He’d never seen such fear before. It stopped him cold.
Go, he thought. I won’t harm you. Go.
Túcume waited until he no longer could see her in the shadows; then he turned around and went back.
* * *
Babin struggled to get the crate the rest of the way in, clawing and pushing at it but not budging it. All that was needed was another push from the car, but he didn’t trust his legs enough to try it. He’d have to wait for the general to return.
The effort exhausted Babin; finally he gave up, leaning against the crate, chest heaving.
After a few moments, he forced himself to move. He took out his knife and pried open the top of the crate, carefully removing one part of the top layer of lead foil and sliding it aside so he could reach to the trigger panel at the top of the bomb.
The timer mechanism was easily set. Once it was started, the fail-safe system could not be unlocked and the weapon defused without entering a release code. Babin didn’t even know what it was, since it was keyed to the weapon, not the timer.
How much time should he set it for?
He wanted it to explode in Philadelphia, where the CIA officer who had betrayed him lived. From the map, Babin thought it might take two hours to get there, perhaps more, since they would not use the highways.
Explode it now — be done with it.
Babin resisted the temptation. With the phone he could always set the bomb off. The timer was just a fail-safe.
Should he give Túcume a chance to run if he wanted?
That seemed absurd. Why would the general choose to save himself? He was not a coward.
How long would he need to escape?
Days really. It was impossible.
Babin tapped the small button on the timer. The digits moved forward, filling the dial, but not smoothly—1 appeared, and then a 0.
Ten minutes?
Ten minutes was not what he wanted. He pushed his finger against the small button, but nothing happened. He felt himself starting to sweat.
If it must be ten, he said to himself, then ten will be all right. Let it be whatever it is.
The numbers began draining on the timer.
They were seconds.
He pushed the button quickly.
The timer was set to work in increments. From ten seconds it went to sixty seconds, then three minutes, then a hundred.
Too soon. He pressed again. Three hundred.
Five hours. Good enough.
Even if he did nothing, the bomb would explode at 4:03 a.m.
He put the top back on the crate and lowered himself to the ground. He was so exhausted that he simply collapsed, lying flat on his back until the general returned.
“What happened?” Túcume asked, standing over him.
“I couldn’t push the crate in by myself. We need another push from the car.”
The general extended his hand.
“The girl?” said Babin.
Instead of answering, the general stared at him for a moment, then went to get in the cab.
“We don’t need her. It’s OK,” said Babin. He picked up his crutch and went toward the van, steadying himself against the fender. “Take the road atlas. And maybe we can find a place open to get gas and something to eat.”
He stood back as Túcume started the Subaru. Hobbling with one crutch was very difficult, but he wouldn’t have to do it for very much longer.
124
The captain in charge of Homeland Security matters for the Pennsylvania State Police was about Dean’s age and like him had close-cropped hair. That was as far as the similarities went — the captain stood several inches shorter than Dean but outweighed him by a good bit, even if one ignored the bulletproof vest under his uniform shirt.
His agency had already been alerted that Philadelphia might be a target of a terror attack before Dean got there, but Dean’s impression when he walked into the tactical center shortly after eleven was that the troopers were more annoyed than alarmed. Most of them looked as if they’d been working the day shift and stayed on through the night.
“You’re from Washington, right?” said the captain, whose name tag read: DANIELS. He didn’t offer a first name to go with it.
“That’s right.”
“Homeland Defense?”
“I’m helping them out.”
Daniels gave him a puzzled look but didn’t press. He gave Dean a brief rundown of the extra units they’d called on duty, the patrols they had initiated, and the alerts they had sent out.
“I have to tell you, we get these advisories all the time,” said the captain. “We’ve been tracking this since it broke a day and a half ago. We’ve watched the highways at the border. We shut down I-Ninety-five for a while. We’re still taking all the trucks off the road there. No truck passes without being searched.”
“That’s a start,” said Dean.
“The reports we’ve seen were related to Washington and Virginia,” said the captain.
“My information is more up-to-date,” said Dean. “There’s a good chance the truck is on its way to Philadelphia.”
Daniels unhooked his tie — it was a clip model, a precaution all police took against it being used for a choke hold — and set it on the desk. “Mr. Dean—”
“Charlie.”
“No offense, but looking for a truck packed with explosives is only a little easier than looking for a needle in a haystack. We can cover the major highways, but once you start including country roads, local roads—”
“If I were you, I’d stop every truck in the state,” said Dean. “Every vehicle. The bomb is that big.”
125
Túcume pulled the van to the side of the street. They were near or inside the city borders, but he had no idea where precisely they were. Babin’s directions were confused and confusing.
“I need to rest,” Túcume told Babin. “Let’s stop here awhile.”
“No.”
“I need to rest,” he said. The voice seemed loud even to him. And stronger.
It was his voice. He’d lost it but now had it back.
A deep anger welled up within him. When he looked down at his fingers on the wheel, he saw that his knuckles were white.
“Relax,” said Babin. “We can rest. Let’s find a place for coffee.”
He should have go
ne with the girl, Túcume thought. She’d been his chance to escape.
Hadn’t he made that same decision years before, when he chose to pursue his dream of leading the people? He had given up everything for it.
What did he have to show for his decision now? Bitterness. The sum of who he was.
No. He was the leader he had hoped to become. He had made mistakes — fatal mistakes, errors that came from his own character. He had trusted people who should not have been trusted. But in every other way, he had made himself the leader he had wanted to be. He was an Inca.
Would an Inca have sought blind revenge, even in defeat? In triumph they were generous. In defeat…
Would his namesake have called on the sun god to obliterate the earth so that his wrath might be appeased?
“General, coffee and something to eat,” suggested Babin. “We passed a small restaurant not too long ago. A diner, the Yankees call it.”
“Coffee would be a good idea,” Túcume said. “Direct me.”
126
Among the assets that had been allocated to the Pennsylvania task force was an Air Force Special Operations Pave Low MH-53J. The large two-engined helicopter was specially equipped with infrared radar to see in the dark, and extra-large fuel tanks that would allow it to stay in the air for several hours. Captain Daniels had decided to use the helicopter to go up to Philadelphia to inspect preparations there, and Dean went along.
The crew chief gave Dean and Daniels radios and head-sets to allow them to connect with both the helicopter’s interphone system and the emergency network being used to coordinate the search.
“You with me, Rockman?” Dean asked as he pulled on the headset, pretending to fiddle with the controls.
“I’m always with you, Charlie. You never told me how your hunting trip was.”
“Too short. How are we looking?”
“Situation is basically unchanged since Marie spoke to you a half hour ago. Truck with small bathtubs was found outside of Houston a few hours ago. Two dead males were found not too far away. Haven’t been identified yet. They haven’t established time of death precisely, but it’s likely to be a little over twenty-four hours ago. We’ve been looking at stolen vehicles in the area, also rentals, and even purchases. We’ve got a couple of tractor trailers, U-Hauls — basically everything we’ve been looking at up until now. We’ve expanded the search to include vans, SUVs, and station wagons. I realize this isn’t much use to you.”
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