by Tom Clancy
“Tomorrow, maybe,” Dominic answered. “Then we need to arrange a proper burial for Aldo’s running shoes. We got a can of Lysol around here, Pete?”
Alexander had himself a good laugh. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“You know, Dominic,” Brian said, looking up from his eggs, “if you weren’t my brother, I wouldn’t take this crap off of you.”
“Really?” The FBI Caruso tossed him an English muffin. “I swear, you Marines are all talk. I always used to whip him when we were kids,” he added for Pete’s benefit.
Brian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head: “My ass!”
And another training day got started.
AN HOUR later, Jack was back on his workstation. Uda bin Sali had enjoyed another athletic night, with Rosalie Parker again. He must like her a lot. Ryan wondered how the Saudi would react if he knew that after every session she gave a play-by-play to the British Security Service. But for her, business was business, which would have deflated a lot of male egos in the British capital. Sali surely had one of those, Junior thought. Wills came in at quarter to nine with a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts.
“Hey, Anthony. What’s shakin’?”
“You tell me,” Wills shot back. “Doughnut?”
“Thanks, buddy. Well, Uda had some more exercise last night.”
“Ah, youth, a wonderful thing, but wasted on the young.”
“George Bernard Shaw, right?”
“I knew you were literate. Sali discovered a new toy a few years back, and I guess he’s going to play with it till it breaks—or falls off. Must be tough duty for his shadow team, standing out in the cold rain and knowing he’s getting his weasel greased upstairs.” It was a line from the Sopranos on HBO, which Wills admired.
“You suppose they’re the ones who debrief her?”
“No, that’s a job for the guys over at Thames House. Must get old after a while. Pity they don’t send us all the transcripts, though,” he added with a chuckle. “Might be good for getting the blood flowing in the morning.”
“Thanks, I can always buy a Hustler at the magazine store if I feel scuzzy some night.”
“It’s not a clean business we’re in, Jack. The kind of people we look at, they aren’t the kind you invite over for dinner.”
“Hey, White House, remember? Half the people we hosted for a State Dinner—Dad could hardly shake hands with them. But Secretary Adler told him it was business, and so Dad had to be nice to the sunzabitches. Politics attracts some really scummy people, too.”
“Amen. So, anything else new on Sali?”
“I haven’t gone over yesterday’s money moves yet. Hey, if Cunningham stumbles over anything significant, what happens next?”
“That’s up to Gerry and the senior staff.” You’re way too junior to get your panties in a wad about that, he didn’t add, though the young Ryan got the message anyway.
“WELL, DAVE?” Gerry Hendley was asking upstairs.
“He’s laundering money and sending some of it off to persons unknown. Liechtenstein bank. If I had to guess, it’s to cover credit card accounts. You can get a Visa or MasterCard through that particular bank, and so it could well be to cover credit card accounts for persons unknown. Could be a mistress or a close friend, or somebody in whom we might have direct interest.”
“Any way to find out?” Tom Davis asked.
“They use the same accounting program most banks do,” Cunningham answered, meaning that with a little patience, The Campus could crack their way inside and learn more. There were firewalls in the way, of course. It was a job better left to the National Security Agency, and so the trick was to get NSA to task one of its computer weenies to do the cracking. That would mean faking a request by CIA to do the job, and that, the accountant figured, was a little harder to accomplish than just typing a note into a computer terminal. He also suspected that The Campus had someone inside both intelligence agencies who could do the faking so that no discernible paper trail would be left behind.
“Is it strictly necessary?”
“Maybe in a week or so, I can find more data. This Sali guy might just be a rich kid playing stickball out in the traffic, but . . . but my nose tells me he’s a player of some sort,” Cunningham admitted. He’d developed good instincts over the years, as a result of which two former Mafia kingpins were now living in solitary cells at Marion, Illinois. But he didn’t trust his own instincts as well as his former and current superiors did. A career accountant with a foxhound’s nose, he was also very conservative in talking about it.
“A week, you think?”
Dave nodded. “About that.”
“How’s the Ryan kid?”
“Good instincts. He found something most people would have missed. Maybe his youth works for him. Young target, young bloodhound. Usually, it doesn’t work. This time . . . looks like maybe it did. You know, when his dad appointed Pat Martin to be Attorney General, I heard some things about Big Jack. Pat really liked him, and I worked with Mr. Martin enough to respect him a lot. This kid may be going places. It’ll take about ten years to be sure of that, of course.”
“We’re not supposed to believe in breeding over here, Dave,” Tom Davis observed.
“Numbers is numbers, Mr. Davis. Some people have a good nose, some don’t. He doesn’t yet, not really, but he’s sure heading that way.” Cunningham had helped start the Justice Department’s Special Accounting Unit, which specialized in tracking terrorist money. Everyone needed money to operate, and money always left a trail somewhere, but it was often found after the fact more easily than before. Good for investigations, but not as good for active defense.
“Thanks, Dave,” Hendley said in dismissal. “Keep us posted, if you would.”
“Yes, sir.” Cunningham gathered his papers and made his way out.
“You know, he’d be a little more effective if he had a personality,” Davis said fifteen seconds after the door closed.
“Nobody’s perfect, Tom. He’s the best guy they ever had at Justice for this sort of thing. I bet when he fishes, there’s nothing left in the lake after he leaves.”
“No argument here, Gerry.”
“So, this Sali gent might be a banker for the bad guys?”
“It looks like a possibility. Langley and Fort Meade are still in a dither over the current situation,” Hendley went on.
“I’ve seen the paperwork. It’s a whole lot of paper for not much hard data.” In the business of intelligence analysis, you got into the speculation phase too rapidly, the point when experienced analysts started applying fear to existing data, following it to God knew where, trying to read the minds of people who didn’t speak all that much, even to each other. Might there be people out there with anthrax or smallpox in little bottles in their shaving kits? How the hell could you tell? That had been done once to America, but when you got down to it everything had been done once to America, and while it had given the country the confidence that her people could deal with damned near anything, it had also given Americans the realization that bad things could indeed happen here and that those responsible might not always be identifiable. The new President did not convey any assurance that we’d be able to stop or punish such people. That was a major problem in and of itself.
“You know, we’re a victim of our own success,” the former senator said quietly. “We’ve managed to handle every nation-state that ever crossed us, but these invisible bastards who work for their vision of God are harder to identify and track. God is omnipresent. So are His perverted agents.”
“Gerry, my boy, if it was easy, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Tom, thank God I can always count on you for moral support.”
“We live in an imperfect world, you know. There isn’t always enough rain to make the corn grow, and, if there is, sometimes the rivers flood. My father taught me that.”
“I always meant to ask you—how the hell did your family ever end up in goddamned Nebraska?”
“My grea
t-grandfather was a soldier—cavalryman, Ninth Cavalry, black regiment. He didn’t feel like moving back to Georgia when his hitch ran out. He’d spent some time at Fort Crook outside of Omaha, and the dumbass didn’t mind the winters. So, he bought a spread near Seneca and farmed corn. That’s how history started for us Davises.”
“Wasn’t any Ku Klux Klan in Nebraska?”
“No, they stayed in Indiana. Smaller farms there, anyway. My great-grandfather shot himself some buffalo when he got started. There’s the biggest damned head over the fireplace at home. Damned thing still smells. Dad and my brother mainly hunt longhorn antelope now, the ‘speed-goat,’ they call it at home. Never got to like the taste.”
“What’s your nose say on this new intel, Tom?” Hendley asked.
“I’m not planning to go to New York anytime soon, buddy.”
EAST OF Knoxville, the road divided. I-40 went east. I- 81 went north, and the rented Ford took the latter through the mountains explored by Daniel Boone when the western frontier of America had scarcely stretched out of sight of the Atlantic Ocean. A road sign showed the exit for the home of someone named Davy Crockett. Whoever that was, Abdullah thought, driving downhill through a pretty mountain pass. Finally, at a town named Bristol, they were in Virginia, their final major territorial boundary. About six more hours, he calculated. The land here, in the sunlight, was lush in its greenness, with horse and dairy farms on both sides of the road. Even churches, usually white-painted wooden buildings with crosses atop the steeples. Christians. The country was clearly dominated by them.
Unbelievers.
Enemies.
Targets.
They had their guns in the trunk to deal with them. First, I-81 north to I-64. They’d long since memorized their routing. The other three teams were surely in place now. Des Moines, Colorado Springs, and Sacramento. Each a city large enough to have at least one good shopping mall. Two were provincial capitals. None were major cities, however. All were what they called “Middle America,” where the “good” people lived, where the “ordinary,” “hardworking” Americans made their homes, where they felt safe, far from the great centers of power—and corruption. Few, if any, Jews to be found in those cities. Oh, maybe a few. Jews like to run jewelry stores. Maybe even in the shopping malls. That would be an added bonus, but only something to be scooped up if it accidentally offered itself. Their real objective was to kill ordinary Americans, the ones who considered themselves safe in the womb of ordinary America. They would soon learn that safety in this world was an illusion. They’d learn that the thunderbolt of Allah reached everywhere.
“SO, THIS is it?” Tom Davis asked.
“Yes, it is,” Dr. Pasternak replied. “Be careful. It’s fully loaded. The red tag, you see. The blue one is not charged.”
“What does it deliver?”
“Succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant, essentially a synthetic and more potent form of curare. It shuts down all the muscles, including the diaphragm. You can’t breath, speak, or move. You’re fully awake. It’ll be a miserable death,” the physician added in a cold, distant voice.
“Why is that?” Hendley asked.
“You can’t breathe. Your heart rapidly goes into anoxia, essentially a massive induced heart attack. It won’t feel very good at all.”
“Then what?”
“Well, the onset of symptoms would take about sixty seconds. Thirty seconds more for the full effects of the drug to present themselves. The victim would collapse then, say, ninety seconds after the injection. Breathing stops completely about the same time. The heart is starved for oxygen. It will try to beat, but it’s not delivering any oxygen to the body, or to itself. Heart tissue will die in about two or three minutes—and will be extremely painful as it does so. Unconsciousness will happen at about the three-minute mark unless the victim had been exercising beforehand—in that case, the brain will be highly infused with oxygen. Ordinarily, the brain has about three minutes’ worth of oxygen in it to function without additional oxygen infusion, but at about the three-minute mark—after onset of symptoms, that is; four and a half minutes after being stuck—the victim will lose consciousness. Complete brain death will take another three minutes or so. After that, the succinylcholine will metabolize in the body, even after death. Not entirely, but enough so that only a really sharp pathologist will pick it up on a toxicology scan, and then only if he’s prepped to look for it. The only real trick is to get your test subject in the buttocks.”
“Why there?” Davis asked.
“The drug works just fine with an IM—intramuscular—injection. When people are posted, it’s always faceup so that you can see and remove the organs. They rarely turn the body over. Now, this injection system does leave a mark, but it’s hard to spot under the best of circumstances, and then only if you’re looking at the right area. Even drug addicts—that will be one of the things they check for—don’t inject themselves in the rump. It will appear to be an unexplained heart attack. Those happen every day. Rare, but not at all unknown. Tachycardia can make it happen, for example. The injector pen is a modified insulin pen like the kind Type I diabetics use. Your mechanics did a great job of disguising it. You can even write with it, but if you rotate the barrel, it swaps out the pen part for the insulin part. A gas charge in the back of the barrel injects the transfer agent. The victim will probably notice it, like a bee sting but less painful, but inside a minute and a half, he won’t be telling anybody about it. His most likely reaction will be a minor ‘Ouch’ and then rub the spot—if that much. Like a mosquito bite on the neck. You might slap at it, but you don’t call the police.”
Davis held the safe “blue” pen. It was a little bulky, like a third-grader might use on his first official introduction to a ballpoint pen after using thick-barrel pencils and crayons for a couple of years. So, as you approached your subject, you took it out of your coat pocket, and swung it in a reverse stabbing motion, and just kept going. Your backup hitter would watch the subject fall to the sidewalk, maybe even stop to render assistance, then watch the bastard die, and get up and go on his way—well, maybe call an ambulance so that his body could get sent to the hospital and be properly dismantled under medical supervision.
“Tom?”
“I like it, Gerry,” Davis replied. “Doc, how confident are you about this stuff dissipating after the subject goes down for the count?”
“Confident,” Dr. Pasternak answered, and both of his hosts remembered that he was professor of anesthesiology at the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. He probably knew his stuff. Besides, they’d trusted him enough to let him in on the secrets of The Campus. It was a little late to stop trusting him now. “It’s just basic biochemistry. Succinylcholine is made up of two acetylcholine molecules. Esterases in the body break the chemical down into acetylcholine fairly rapidly, so it is very likely to be undetectable, even by someone up at Columbia-Presbyterian. The only hard part: to have it done covertly. If you could bring him into a doctor’s office, for example, it would just be a matter of infusing potassium chloride. That would put the heart into fibrillation. When cells die, they give off potassium anyway, and so the relative increase would not be noticed, but the IV mark would be hard to hide. There are a lot of ways to do this. I just had to pick one that is applied relatively conveniently by fairly unskilled people. As a practical matter, a really good pathologist might not be able to determine the exact cause of death—and he would know that he didn’t know, and that would bother him—but that’s only if the body is examined by a really talented guy. Not too many of them around. I mean, the best guy up at Columbia is Rich Richards. He really hates not knowing something. He’s a real intellectual, a problem solver, and genius biochemist in addition to being a superb physician. I asked him about this, and he told me it would be extremely difficult to detect even if he had a heads-up on what to look for. Ordinarily, extraneous factors come into play, the specific biochemistry of the victim’s body, what he’s had to eat or drin
k, ambient temperature would be a huge factor. On a cold winter day, outside, the esterases might not be able to break down the succinylcholine because of a diminution of chemical processes.”
“So, don’t do a guy in Moscow in January?” Hendley asked. This deep science stuff was troublesome for him, but Pasternak knew his stuff.
The professor smiled. Cruelly. “Correct. Also Minneapolis.”
“Miserable death?” Davis asked.
He nodded. “Decidedly unpleasant.”
“Reversible?”
Pasternak shook his head. “Once the succinylcholine is in the bloodstream, there’s nothing you can do about it... well, theoretically you could put the guy on a ventilator and breathe for him until the drug metabolizes—I’ve seen that done with Pavulon in an OR—but that would be a stretch. Theoretically possible to survive, but very, very unlikely. People have survived being shot right between the eyes, gentlemen, but it’s not exactly common.”
“How hard do you have to hit your target?” Davis asked.
“Not very, just a good poke. Enough to penetrate his clothing. A thick coat might be a problem because of the length of the needle. But ordinary business wear, no problem.”
“Is anyone immune to the drug?” Hendley asked.
“Not to this one, no. That would be one in a billion.”
“No chance he’d make noise?”
“As I explained, it’s like a bee sting at most—more than a mosquito, but not enough to make a man cry out in pain. At most, you’d expect for the victim to be puzzled, maybe to turn around and see what caused it, but your agent will be walking away normally, not running. Under those conditions, without a target to yell at, and since the initial discomfort is transitory, the most likely reaction is to rub the spot and walk on . . . for about, oh, ten yards or so.”
“So, rapid-acting, lethal, and undetectable, right?”
“All of the above,” Dr. Pasternak agreed.