"I'll have information, a map, and a flight reservation in your name waiting at De Gaulle."
Washington, D.C., The White House
President Sam Castilla was leaning back in his executive chair, his eyes closed in the unseasonable spring warmth that had settled into the Oval Office already at this early hour, because he insisted on keeping the air-conditioning off and the French doors open. By his own reckoning (he had sneaked a few surreptitious glances at his watch), the National Security Adviser, the admiral, and the three generals had been talking, pointing at charts, and arguing for an hour and twenty-six minutes. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself thinking longingly of how the Apaches would stake their enemies spreadeagled in the fierce sun to die very, very slowly.
He finally opened his eyes. "Gentlemen, it's a well-known fact that only an egomaniacal idiot would run for this job that I happen to have, so is there anyone who can tell me in a few words, which I won't need The New York Times or my science advisers to interpret, what's happened now and what it means?"
"Of course, sir." National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill took the challenge. "After the break-in to the Western power grid and the shutdown of the army's wireless communications system, the hacker went on to steal all of our command and electronic-surveillance codes. Every one. Nothing is left for us to hide behind. Nothing is left to protect our hardware, software, or people. We can be paralyzed for God knows how long. Completely unable to defend against attack. Blind, deaf, dumb, and toothless."
Despite his earlier levity, the president was stunned by the enormity of the consequences. "I expect that's as bad as it sounds?"
"So far," she said, "what the hacker's done has been of relatively short duration. Hit and run, rather than a sustained attack. But by stealing the codes, he's proved he's capable of not only an attack, but of war. Until the codes are changed, we're no longer in a position to fight or defend. Even after we change the codes, he can steal them again."
President Castilla inhaled sharply. "Exactly what did we lose while he was in our systems?"
"All military wireless communications systems routed through Forts Meade and Detrick," Admiral Stevens Brose explained. "NSA's worldwide surveillance center at Mcwaith Hill in Britain, FBI communications, CIA's worldwide photographic and electronic surveillance. The NRO was literally blind. And of course, Echelon went down."
"None was out of commission for long, sir," Emily Powell-Hill said, rushing to give the president the only good news. "But"
The silence in the Oval Office was thicker than a New Mexico brush patch. NSA's Powell-Hill, the four military leaders, and the president sat silently, contemplating their private arrays of dark thoughts. Anger, panic, determination, worry, and sober calculation played across their faces.
The president fixed each of them in turn with his quiet, too-sober gaze. "To use one of my famous, colorful homespun metaphors so far all we've seen are smoke signals in the Diablos, but the Apache can cut the wires at any time."
Stevens Brose nodded. "I'd say that about sums it up, sir. If we assume they have the DNA computer, the questions are: Why are they doing this? What are they planning? It seems to me there's no reason to hope they're simply applying pressure to make someone do what they want, because they haven't asked for anything. Considering the military and communications targets they've invaded, it seems clear they wanted that molecular computer for some kind of strike on someone or something. Since we've been the major target so far, and we seem to be number one on just about everyone else's hit list, too, then I'd say the odds greatly favor that they're after us."
"We need to know who they are," NSA's Powell-Hill decided.
Admiral Brose shook his head. "At the moment, Emily, in all due respect, that's about the least important question. They could be anyone from the Iraqi government to a Montana militia, from any country or terrorist gang in between. What matters first is to stop them. Later we can exchange calling cards."
"This is all about the DNA computer," the president said, "and it started when the Pasteur lab was bombed. Now we think there's going to be an attack on us, but we don't know what, when, or where."
Admiral Brose said promptly, "Right, sir."
"Then we'd better find the DNA computer." That was Klein's idea. The president had fought him on it, but in the end had acquiesced. With so few options now, it made even more sense.
The military men exploded in talk, Army Lieutenant General Ivan Guerrero in the lead. He complained, "That's ridiculous, not to mention insulting. We're not helpless. We command the most powerful military force on earth."
Air Force General Kelly agreed, "And the most advanced weaponry."
"We can give you ten divisions to root those bastards out, for God's sake," Marine Lieutenant General Oda insisted.
"And none of your divisions, ships, tanks, or aircraft can protect your electronic codes and systems," the president said quietly. "Fact is, anyone with a working DNA computer now, before we've had a chance to even begin developing adequate defenses, makes us impotent."
Admiral Brose shook his head. "Not entirely. We haven't been idle, Mr. President. Each of us has developed backup systems for our services that operate outside the normal command structures and electronics networks. We planned it for an emergency, and this sure as hell is one. We'll deploy them separately and install the most advanced firewalls. We're already changing all the command and communication codes."
"With the help of our British friends, we've got similar backups in place at NSA," Powell-Hill added. "We can be operational within hours."
The president gave a grim smile. "From what I understand, at best that will simply slow this new enemy of ours down. All right, change your codes, military first. Make your tactical electronics systems as self-contained as you can. Also, contact the other NATO governments and coordinate defenses and data with them. Meanwhile, our intelligence community must concentrate on finding the computer. Finally, for God's sake, take our offensive missiles offline as fast as you can, before they start launching them!"
With everyone agreed, they filed out of the Oval Office.
President Castilla waited impatiently until everyone was gone. At last Fred Klein stepped out from behind the closed door that led into the study. Klein looked tired, large circles under his eyes. His suit was even more wrinkled than usual.
The president heaved a worried sigh. "Tell me the truth, Fred. Will any of what they're planning help?"
"Probably not. As you said, we might slow the attackers down. But once they know what they're doing with the DNA computer, there's little we can do. It's simply too powerful. For instance, if you've got a modem on a computer and you e-mail your grandkids once a month, that's enough for a molecular computer to break into your machine, steal every piece of data on it in seconds, and wipe the hard drive clean."
"Seconds? E-mail from grandchildren? Good Lord. No one's safe."
"No one," Klein echoed. "As you and Stevens Brose said, our best chance is to find it. Once we have it, we'll have them. But we've got to do it before they put into effect whatever their master plan is."
"This is like wrestling a grizzly with both arms tied behind your back. The odds stink." The president studied the Covert-One chief. "How are they planning to hit us? How and where?"
"I don't know, Sam."
"But you will, won't you?"
"Yes, sir. I will."
"And in time."
"I hope so."
Chapter Eleven
Toledo, Spain
Smith drove out of Madrid on the N401 express highway, heading south toward Toledo. As promised, the Basque's home address, a map, and directions had been waiting for Smith at De Gaulle airport. The little rented Renault ran smoothly as he drove among green, rolling fields, drenched in the long shadows of afternoon. Sheep grazed in the lacy shade of poplar trees.
Smith rolled down his window, rested his arm on the frame, and a warm wind blew through, rustling his hair. The La
Mancha sky, where Miguel de Cervantes's melancholy knight had tilted at his windmills, was wide and blue. But Smith's mind soon turned from the pastoral scenery and the deluded Don Quixote. He had his own windmills to charge, and his were very real.
As he drove, he was constantly aware that a tail might have picked him up. But as time passed, and the few other cars on the road came and went as one would expect, he began to think not. He turned his mind to the newspaper stories of the electronic shutdowns, which he had studied on the flight from Paris. Compared to the details Fred Klein had related, the news articles were cursory and gave no hint that the massive problems appeared to be the result of a futuristic computer at work. So far, the U.S. government had been successful in keeping that under wraps.
Even without the whole story, the articles were shocking and depressing, particularly since Smith knew what they meant. As he thought about them and wondered what he would find in Toledo, the ancient city came into view, rising on the plain ahead, the towers of the Cathedral and the Alcazar standing majestically above the roof tiles of the rugged skyline. He had read that Toledo's origins were so old they were lost in the preroman days of the Celts. When the Romans arrived in the second century b.c., they had made it their city for seven hundred imperial years, until the barbarian Visigoths moved in and took over for the next two hundred, ending in A.D. 712.
That was when, legend had it, King Rodrigo laid lascivious hands on Florinda, daughter of the Count Julian, whom he spotted bathing naked in the Rio Tajo. Instead of taking the matter to the courts, the outraged father idiot that he was promptly rode to the Arabs for help. Since they were already planning to invade, the Arabs were only too happy to oblige. Thus Toledo changed hands once more and grew into a cosmopolitan and enlightened Moorish center. It finally returned to Spanish control in 1085, when the king of Castile conquered it.
Surrounded on three sides by the river, the city was perched high above it on a craggy outcrop. It was a natural fortress, needing only a pair of walls on its exposed north side to be all but impregnable in those long-ago days. More recent growth was beyond those walls and also south, on the other side of the river recent being anything built in the last three or four centuries.
Smith continued through the slightly wider northern streets, nearing the northern walls. Watching all around, at last he drove into the old city through the Puerta de Bisagra, a stone entryway built in the ninth century, and plunged his car into the maze of narrow, twisting streets and alleys that haphazardly spiraled toward the city's great pride, its Gothic Cathedral, and its equally great sorrow, the Alcazar, all but destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, although now rebuilt.
Using the detailed map, he watched carefully for the markers that would lead him to the Basque's home address. He got lost in the twilight that was spreading across the city, reversed course, and discovered many of the streets were so narrow that iron upright posts blocked vehicles from entering. Most were wide enough for a car, but only just. As he plowed ahead in the Renault, people stepped into recessed doorways to give him room to pass. Buildings, monuments, plazas, churches, synagogues, mosques, stores, elegant restaurants, and houses many of them medieval filled every square inch of this rugged promontory. The scenery was breathtaking, but also dangerous. It provided too many opportunities for ambush.
The Basque's address was an apartment building near the Cuesta de Carlos V, in the shadow of the Alcazar itself, just below Toledo's summit. The directions that were included with the map warned that the address was on a particularly steep, sloping lane, where not even the smallest car could pass. He parked two blocks away and walked, keeping to the deepening shadows. A multitude of languages filled the air as sightseers moved through the beautiful old city, taking pictures.
As soon as he saw the house ahead, he slowed. It was a typical flat-front, brick structure of four stories with a shallow-pitched, red-tile roof. The windows and door were unadorned square holes in the brick, set deeply in, only two windows to a floor. As he passed, he saw the front door was open. The narrow foyer was lighted, showing an enclosed staircase. The Basque supposedly rented a room on the second floor.
Smith continued on to the end of the block, where there was a small plaza rimmed with shops and bars. Streets spilled into it from four directions. He stopped at an outdoor caf where he took a table facing back along the street. The air was scented with spices cardamom, ginger, and chiles. From here, he could keep the Basque's apartment building in view. He ordered a beer and tapas, and waited as a band began playing from one of the nearby clubs. It was saucy merengue music from the former Spanish outpost of the Dominican Republic. The vibrant music filled the night, and Smith ate, drank, and watched. No one seemed to show any interest in him.
At last he saw three men enter the open front door of the apartment building, where light spilled out. One of them looked very much like the photo of the Basque that had been in the Sret's file. The same heavy black brows, thin cheeks, and thick chin. Smith paid his bill and returned to the narrow street. Night had fallen, and shadows spilled black and nearly impenetrable down to the cobblestones. As he moved quietly toward the apartment building, he had the sense again that he was being observed. His nerves felt raw, and he paused in the deep shadow of a tree.
The gun seemed to come from nowhere, the cold muzzle pressed into the back of his neck. The voice was a hoarse whisper in Spanish. "We were warned you might show up."
There were a few pedestrians on the narrow street, but he and the gunman were almost invisible where they stood. Streetlights in the old city were few and far between.
"You expected me?" Smith said in Spanish. "Interesting. The Black Flame is back with a vengeance."
The muzzle jammed deeper. "We're going to walk across the street and in through the door you've been watching." He held up a small walkie-talkie that Smith could just make out with his peripheral vision and spoke into it: "Cut the lights. I'm bringing him in."
At that moment, the terrorist's attention was divided, thinking about Smith while relaying his information. As the man clicked off the walkie-talkie, Smith figured he had few options. He had to take a chance.
He slammed an elbow back hard into the man's stomach and ducked. There was a quiet pop as the fellow jerked his weapon's trigger. It was a silenced pistol, the noise lost in the sound of music and traffic out in the plaza. The bullet shot harmlessly over Smith's back and pinged into the cobblestones. Before the terrorist could recover, Smith continued his lunge forward and kicked back with his left foot. He connected with the man's chin. There was a grunt, and the man went down.
Smith checked the man's vital signs: He was alive but unconscious. He picked up the man's Walther, a good German pistol, and slung him over his shoulder. Because the terrorists in the apartment building had been alerted, it would not be long before they came out looking. Smith hurried along the street, carrying the dead weight back to his car. The terrorist shuddered and moaned as Smith dumped him into the front passenger seat.
Smith hurried around to the driver's side and got in, just in time to see a flash of light. It was the man again. He had awakened and was flourishing a knife. But he was weak, and Smith yanked it away and stared into the black eyes in the car's shadows.
"Bastardo!" the man groaned.
"Now we talk," Smith told him in Spanish.
"I don't think so." His face was unshaved, and there was a wild look in his gaze. He blinked rapidly, as if fighting to think.
Smith studied him. He was a little over six feet and muscled, almost hulking. His hair was thick, black, and curly, an inky mass in the shadowy car. He was young. The beard and large size hid his true age. Smith guessed he might be twenty. A young man in middle-class America, but in the world of terrorists, fully grown.
The eyes widened, then narrowed. He reached up unsteadily and rubbed his chin. "Are you going to murder me, too?"
Smith ignored the question. "What's your name?"
The youth thought about it, seemed to de
cide he could reveal that. "Bixente. My name's Bixente."
No last name, but Smith would tolerate that. While he held his pistol in one hand, he moved the knife up with the other until the blade touched Bixente's chin. He flinched and jerked his head back.
"A name's a good start," Smith told him. "Tell me about the Black Flame."
Silence. Bixente trembled, looking younger.
Smith pressed the flat of the blade along Bixente's cheek. He rolled it back and forth once, and Bixente recoiled.
Smith assured him, "I don't want to hurt you. Let's just have a friendly conversation."
Bixente's face twisted, and it seemed to Smith that he was fighting some internal battle. Smith took the blade away from the young man's skin. It was another gamble, but sometimes psychology was more potent than force. He held the knife up where Bixente could see it and said, "Look, I just want some information. You're too young to be involved in all this anyway. Tell me about yourself. How did you get mixed up with the Black Flame?" He lowered the knife.
Bixente's gaze followed it down. Then he looked up, his expression puzzled. He had not expected that. He admitted, "They killed my brother."
"Who killed your brother?"
"The Civil Guardin prison."
"Your brother was a leader of the Black Flame?"
Bixente nodded.
"So you want to be like your brother. For a Basque homeland."
"He was a soldier, my brother." Pride in his face and voice.
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