Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  Just where in the hell are you coming from? Rapp thought to himself. He wasn’t going to provoke a fight. He’d come to the conclusion that he’d simply have to work doubly hard to keep information from these hard-core law-and-order types. The bureaucracy was too big to take on. He’d have to go around it.

  In a conciliatory tone, giving her what she wanted, he said, “I understand exactly where you’re coming from. In the future I’ll try to be more well mannered.”

  Stealey smiled warmly, showing a perfect set of white teeth. “I appreciate that, and I just want you to know that I have a lot of respect for your passion and commitment. You’re a hard-working man who’s given a lot to this fight.”

  Rapp smiled slightly. It was more of a reflex than a sign of appreciation. This woman wanted something else from him. What, he wasn’t sure, but he’d play along for a while. “How are your two prisoners?”

  “Defendants.” She corrected him with a grin.

  “Defendants.”

  “Yes…well, they’re not saying much. At least not to us.”

  “Who are they talking to?”

  “Their lawyer.”

  “I forgot about him. Are you taping their conversations?”

  Stealey folded her arms across her chest. The movement was intentional, in that it caused her breasts to swell and peek out of the open neckline of her blouse. She sighed and said, “Oh, you’re a troublemaker.”

  “Yeah, but I get results.”

  “I bet you do.” Stealey gave him a coy smile. “I bet you do.”

  Rapp started to get the idea that this blond-haired, blue-eyed legal eagle was flirting with him. He glanced at his watch, flashing her a clear view of his wedding ring. “Well…I’ve got to get going, but thanks for making the effort.”

  “My pleasure.” Stealey held out her hand again. “If they tell us anything of interest, I’ll let you know.”

  Rapp sincerely doubted that they would get anything useful from the two men, but didn’t say so. He shook her hand and said, “I’ll see you later.”

  Stealey watched him walk away, and thought to herself, Yes, you will.

  Rapp didn’t make it far. Skip McMahon caught his attention from across the sea of desks and waved him over to his office. Rapp walked around the perimeter and joined the FBI man. McMahon didn’t say anything, he just turned around and went back into his office with Rapp following. Paul Reimer was sitting in one of the two chairs in front of McMahon’s desk. McMahon closed the door and walked around behind his desk.

  “What’s up?” asked Rapp. “You guys comparing notes on the cushy jobs you’ve been offered?”

  “Yeah, we’re talking about taking a celebratory cruise together,” snarled McMahon.

  “Hey…don’t get defensive. I think it’s great. In fact I might join you guys in the private sector.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Reimer.

  “Let’s just say, I’m getting a little burnt-out.”

  “You’re too young to quit,” McMahon said, dropping down in his chair.

  “Age has nothing to do with it. It’s all the bullshit.”

  The former Navy SEAL and the FBI special agent shared a worried look. Reimer said, “You’re not really serious, are you?”

  “Yep.”

  “You can’t. Someone’s got to hang around and tell them how it is.”

  Rapp tilted his head and asked, “Weren’t you at the White House yesterday?”

  “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but they don’t seem to be listening to me.”

  “Don’t let this turn you sour, Mitch,” McMahon said. “You’re better than that. You did some great work this week. Without you, I’d hate to think what could have happened.”

  “I’ll be honest. Things were a hell of a lot easier when I worked in the shadows.”

  McMahon, never one to listen to anyone complain for more than a second or two, said, “Yeah, well you’re not anymore, so suck it up. You’re too damn young to go quitting on us, and besides, what in the hell would you do?”

  “Have babies, play golf…I don’t know. I’ll find something.”

  “You’d be bored out of your mind in two months,” said Reimer. “The only reason I’m leaving is because I’m tapped out after putting three kids through college. I need to make some serious money before my wife and I sail off into the sunset.”

  Rapp eyed Reimer disbelievingly. “You’re not sick of all the B.S. with Homeland Security?”

  “Of course I am, but I’m fifty-six. You’re only in your mid-thirties. You’ve got a long way to go before you can say you’re burnt-out.”

  McMahon looked at his watch impatiently. “All right…now that we’ve got all the career counseling out of the way, and we’ve decided you’re staying, can we get down to business?”

  “Sure.” Rapp smiled.

  “Paul’s got some interesting information. Stuff he doesn’t want disseminated through official channels, and after you hear it, I don’t think you’re going to be quitting.”

  McMahon had his attention. Rapp turned to Reimer. “What’s up?”

  “The Russians have been quietly helpful. The truth is they are every bit as concerned by these Islamic radical fundamentalists as we are. In some ways they’re more concerned.”

  “They should be. Most of them are in their own backyard.”

  “Yeah, well anyway…I’ve had some interesting conversations with one of my counterparts over in the motherland. All off the record…all unofficial. I sent him the particulars on the nuclear material, and he agrees that it’s one of theirs.”

  “Interesting. Does he have any idea how al-Qaeda got their hands on it?”

  “He’s looking into it, but he has a theory that sounds plausible to me.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “First of all, he confirmed as best he could without actually seeing the nuclear material, and conducting the tests himself, that the material is in fact one of their prototype atomic demolition munitions that they tested at the Kazakh range in the late sixties. Without looking up the numbers he seemed to remember that approximately twenty of these weapons were tested during that time. Now here’s where things get interesting. The Soviets don’t advertise this little fact and neither do we.” Reimer took on a more serious tone. “Not all of the tests that we conducted worked.”

  “That doesn’t shock me,” said Rapp. “Isn’t that why they’re called tests?”

  “Yes, but it’s the next part that will shock you. When I say they didn’t work, that means that some of them reached critical mass, but didn’t obtain their maximum yield, and that there were also others that simply didn’t work properly in another way.”

  “You mean they didn’t blow up?”

  “Not exactly. The duds, as we so scientifically refer to them, often did blow up. They just never reached critical mass.”

  “In English, please.”

  “The physics involved in these weapons is very precise. If,” Reimer made a ball with his hands, “the explosive charge that is placed around the nuclear material fails to detonate perfectly, critical mass cannot be obtained. Does that make sense?”

  McMahon and Rapp nodded.

  “Well, on occasion, the conventional explosive would misfire. We wouldn’t reach critical mass, and we’d move on to the next test. If it wasn’t too much work, we’d try and retrieve the nuclear material from the hole, but more often than not we simply left it buried down there. Now, knowing how the Soviets operate, my guess is they never even thought of retrieving the material from their failed tests.”

  “Why not?” asked a surprised McMahon.

  “In the fifties and sixties we were churning out so much of this stuff that it was a lot easier to start with a fresh batch than go down into a collapsed, radioactive hot hole to salvage a hunk of junk that was extremely dangerous and that might or might not have been cost effective to reprocess.”

  “So,”
Rapp was starting to piece things together, “this Kazakh test site is littered with how many duds?”

  “We’re not sure,” Reimer answered.

  “Take a guess?”

  “Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.”

  Rapp’s mouth opened in disbelief. “Why the hell have I never heard of this threat before?”

  “Because it wasn’t actually deemed a threat. This Kazakh test site is a radioactive wasteland. The idea of someone trying to dig one of these things up is ludicrous. If you don’t have the proper equipment, you’re going to die. And even if you do have the proper equipment, you’d better be quick about it.”

  Rapp buried his face in his hands. “Or you could just promise a bunch of young Islamic radical fundamentalists an express ticket to paradise.” Rapp stood and looked at his phone.

  “Is this test site still in operation?” McMahon asked.

  “No.”

  “Is it guarded?”

  “It’s over two hundred thousand square miles.”

  “So it’s not guarded?” asked a disappointed McMahon.

  “No.”

  “Oh, this is bad,” said Rapp.

  “Maybe…maybe not.” Reimer tried to keep an upbeat attitude. “The Russians are looking into it. My counterpart is on his way down there right now with a team to investigate.”

  “Who else have you told?” Rapp asked.

  “Just you two. Considering the circus we went through earlier in the week, I didn’t want to get people too riled up.”

  Rapp nodded. “I don’t blame you. Skip, what do you think?”

  “Did you find anything on that raid that would point to a second bomb?”

  Rapp thought about it for a moment. “No.”

  McMahon contemplated the manhunt that was already underway. “Virtually every law enforcement officer in the country has seen the sketch of al-Yamani and the photograph of Zubair. Thanks to the info you got over in Afghanistan, we’ve got a good lead on the terror cells here in America. We’re going to be serving a batch of arrest warrants this afternoon from here to Atlanta and beyond. I say we wait to hear back from the Russians, and see if we catch any breaks on the home front.”

  “I agree,” replied Rapp. “Let’s keep this between the three of us until we know more. I don’t need any more lawyers from Justice telling me what the rules are, and the president and his people are busy enough getting ready for tomorrow’s dedication.”

  RICHMOND

  They got to the rendezvous point early, and al-Yamani had Hasan drop him off. He gave them instructions not to wait for him. If he did not call them back by 12:30, they were to leave for Washington without him and do their best. Al-Yamani honestly didn’t know what to expect. His faith told him one thing, but his practical experience told him something else. The Americans had penetrated his organization, but how far he did not know. So far it appeared that only one cell had been compromised. If his old friend had been discovered, al-Yamani was confident he would have held up under torture and warned him by passing along the prearranged signal. That was of course if he knew he’d been discovered. These Americans were tricksters, and his ally from the early days in Afghanistan was much older now. He might not even know the Americans were on to him.

  Despite his deteriorating health, the walk through the park was strangely refreshing. Just being out of the confined space of the vehicle and away from the nervous chatter of the Pakistani scientist did wonders. Al-Yamani found the bench next to the cannon. He’d seen photos of it and recognized it instantly. The historical significance of the artillery piece meant nothing to the Saudi. There was a bronze plaque near the cannon. He thought about going over to read it and decided not to. Instead he would use these last few minutes alone to center himself. To pray to Allah for the strength to make it through the next twenty-four hours. That’s all he asked for. That and some luck.

  A short while later he heard a car pull up and the door slam. Al-Yamani looked over his shoulder and saw a man get out of the green-and-white cab and begin walking toward him. He was not a passenger. He was the driver, and thankfully he was alone. Al-Yamani should have gotten up, but suddenly he didn’t feel so good, so he sat there conserving energy and waited for his old comrade to come to him.

  The cabdriver stopped about ten feet away and looked disbelievingly at the man sitting on the bench. “Mustafa?”

  Al-Yamani took his sunglasses off. Hopefully his eyes would bring a spark of recognition. “It is me, Mohammed.”

  “You have changed so much.” The man’s voice was laced with concern.

  “And so have you my friend.” Al-Yamani’s voice was weaker than he would have liked. “Your beard no longer has any pepper. Only salt.”

  “It has been a long time. More than a decade.”

  Al-Yamani nodded. They had last seen each other in Afghanistan in 1987. Mohammed, one of the bravest warriors al-Yamani had ever seen, had almost died in a fierce battle with the Soviets. A CIA man who they had been working with for nearly two years saw to it that Mohammed got evacuated to Germany where real doctors could work on him. After nearly a full year of convalescence the CIA man then helped him immigrate to the United States. He had settled in Richmond, Virginia, and had been driving a cab ever since. Al-Yamani had corresponded with him over the years, and sensed that his fellow warrior had kept his fervor.

  “What is wrong with you?” the man asked.

  “I am dying.”

  “We are all dying.”

  “Yes. Some faster than others, though.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No.” Al-Yamani shook his head only once and stopped. It hurt too much. “I am ready to die.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing that can be cured. Enough about me. How have you been, my friend?”

  The cabdriver fingered his prayer beads. “These are difficult times. Our faith is under attack.”

  “Yes, it is. That is why I am here.”

  “The boxes you sent me?”

  “Yes. Have you kept them safe?”

  “I have. Just as I promised.”

  “Did you open them?” Al-Yamani looked his old friend in the eyes.

  “No.”

  “Good.” Al-Yamani believed him. “Will you take me to them?”

  “Absolutely. I will take you to my home first, though, and we will eat and talk.”

  Al-Yamani would have liked that, but it wasn’t going to happen. “I’m sorry, Mohammed, but I cannot. I am on a mission from Allah and time is short.”

  THE STORAGE FACILITY was only twenty minutes away. Al-Yamani rode in the cab’s passenger seat to make sure things looked normal. Mohammed had not pressed him further about taking time to relax and talk. The two had served side by side for nearly five years in the bloody war against the Soviets. Mohammed knew al-Yamani was a serious man of few words, a man who he respected greatly, and a true believer who had left his native Saudi Arabia to come fight the aggressors in Afghanistan. Mohammed had been amazed by the devotion of his fellow Muslims and their call to arms—especially al-Yamani.

  He was the bravest and toughest of all the mujahideen Mohammed had fought alongside. Mohammed had been there the day that al-Yamani stepped on the mine that tore his lower leg from his body. He had never witnessed anything like it. There were no screams and no tears. Al-Yamani handled the grievous injury in a manner brave men hoped they would, but rarely did. Barely a month later al-Yamani was back in action, hobbling around the difficult terrain on a wooden peg. He was unstoppable. The most fearless man he had ever known.

  Mohammed told him all those years ago that he prayed a day would come when he would be able to repay his Islamic brother in arms. Four months ago, al-Yamani had contacted him. A letter appeared under the door of his apartment one morning asking for his help. The letter contained instructions on what to do if he was willing to assist his old friend. Mohammed hadn’t hesitated for a moment.

  The favor, in fact, proved disappoi
nting. He was only expected to do two things, neither of them difficult. The first one involved renting the storage locker and waiting for the packages to arrive, and the second favor required him to arrange for a boat to be chartered. He was to keep the packages in storage until al-Yamani himself arrived to pick them up. He was also told not to open the packages or discuss them with anyone. The mission was of the highest priority, and Mohammed had honored his old friend’s request without hesitation.

  The storage facility comprised one large, two-story block building surrounded by rows of orange and white garages. As they drove through the open gate, al-Yamani looked behind them for the truck. He had ordered Hasan to follow at a discreet distance. As they passed into the yard, he glimpsed the truck pulling off to the side of the road.

  Two turns later they stopped in front of one of the smaller storage lockers, with a four-foot-wide orange metal door. Al-Yamani and Mohammed got out. While Mohammed inserted the key in the lock, al-Yamani looked around cautiously. This was once again one of those moments when he half expected the American police to jump out and handcuff him. Mohammed slid the door open, and sitting right there on the floor were three boxes. Al-Yamani recognized them immediately, for he had been the one to pack them. He had been unwilling to trust anyone else with this part of the operation. One of the boxes was fairly light. Al-Yamani grabbed the light one and allowed Mohammed to wrestle with the other two.

  In less than a minute they were back in the cab and leaving the storage facility. When they pulled out of the yard, al-Yamani was once again in the backseat. He told Mohammed to turn left. They had barely made it across the lane of traffic when al-Yamani noticed something that caused him to stop breathing.

  Up ahead on the left he could clearly see the truck and trailer pulled over to the side of the road and parked behind it was a police car with its lights flashing. Al-Yamani stared out the window as they passed by, searching for a clue as to what might have gone wrong. A police officer was at the window of the truck with his right hand resting on his gun. If the Americans were on to them, they surely would have more than one police car involved.