by Sam Powers
Wilkie smiled. “It’s hardly ideal, but it’s a start. Jonah… I wanted to talk to you about the shooting. I know you’re taking the mandatory assessments and counselling, of course, but I wanted you to know, in the meantime, that the agency appreciates your bravery in the face of such a difficult situation.”
Jonah hadn’t looked well since the day Fenton-Wright had died, Carolyn thought. He looked like he wasn’t sleeping. He smiled thinly at the comment for a brief moment, then returned to his stoic gaze.
“When you get back from your leave, I’d like to talk to you about taking on David’s role, at least until a full-time appointment is made,” Wilkie said. “You’ve done stellar work over the last few years.”
Jonah frowned. “Thank you, sir,” he said, his face a mask of self-doubt. “I’ll work hard to keep your trust.”
“Well, we have one other positive to report out of all of this, which is that an anonymous tip in New York led us to a shipment of parts that may have been required for the weapon in question to function, and a handful of arrests,” the director said. “Here’s hoping we’ve already locked this one down tight.”
“Yes sir,” Jonah said.
“And Carolyn…”
“Yes sir?”
“If Joe does contact you, convey my sincere apologies for his treatment to this point. We will make things right.”
She smiled and nodded as she rose. But Carolyn’s faith in her employer wasn’t what it had once been.
PEEKSKILL, NEW YORK
Malone stared at the three new phones that lay on the motel bed and debated whether or not to call her editor.
It wasn’t that she was confused about her role, she kept telling herself; she was a human being first, a journalist second; and she’d promised Joe that she wouldn’t write anything else about the case until they could be sure the bomb was under wraps.
But it was a great story, if he was right. The phones weren’t traceable to them; what would it hurt if she called in quickly just to fill Ken in on the story? They could get a team ready to join her, including the best photographer on staff.
And it was just in her nature, she had to admit. She loved breaking news.
She picked one of the phones up and turned it on. She tapped the phone app button and a keypad came up. Malone took a deep breath. It was such a good story. But she’d promised him…
She was torn.
The motel room door handle began to turn and she reacted with a start, tossing the phone down. Brennan entered carrying a brown paper bag, which he tossed onto the end of a twin bed. “Sandwiches,” he said. “There’s not much available after six in this town that isn’t fried.”
Malone hoped he hadn’t seen her with the phone. “Thanks,” she said. “How did your recon go?”
“There are a few possible scenarios, but they all would involve a detonation close to the facility, within about a mile. I took a drive by a warehouse within that area; it’s on a dead-end road, with neighbors that use trucking.”
“So lots of vehicles in and out.”
“Uh huh; along with the waste trucks going to a nearby business, I counted eight in less than ninety minutes. And nobody’s going to suspect it as ground zero for a bomb; not with the city only an hour or so away. The troops on site won’t be able to help; the ones barracked nearby won’t be of any use.”
“Any signs of use?”
“Yeah, couple of heavies with walkie talkies. No visible sidearms but you can bet they’re there.”
“Sounds like the kind of place where an extra set of hands could come in…”
“No. Absolutely not. I need you here to call in the cavalry. If the device is there, we’re going to need help dealing with it.”
Malone looked incredulous. “You don’t really think I’m staying here, do you? Look, Joe, whatever else you think of me, I do my job well. This is the story of the year, maybe the decade, and I’m not sitting in a motel room while it goes down.”
“I said no, and I meant it. Alex, these people …”
“Alex, these people are dangerous. Yeah… getting a little tired of that one, Joe. I knew the risks when I got involved. You know what? I don’t work for you. I’ve helped you, you’ve helped me. We make a pretty good team, I think. But I’m not sitting on my butt while you go running off to catch the bad guy.”
Brennan’s head hurt but he had to think around her; he couldn’t have Alex in the middle of a potential firefight if things went wrong. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be useful. “Fine. But you stay with the vehicle and the phone. You get a signal from me to confirm the device is present then you call the numbers I’ve given you. That’s how this goes down.”
“What part of ‘you’re not my boss’ didn’t you…”
“What part of ‘bound, gagged and tied to a motel chair don’t you understand?” Brennan retorted. “Because so help me, Alex, I’ll do it. This is bigger than a news story and ….”
“And it isn’t a game. I know.”
He paused for a second. “I was going to say ‘and I’d like to see my kids get older’.”
Malone felt awkward and foolish. “Oh,” she muttered, flustered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”
“It’s okay. Like I said, just stay in the car. I’ll get a signal to you either by a call or some other obvious cue, like every light in the place coming on.”
“Or someone throwing you through a window.”
“Probably, yes.”
She smiled. He was handsome, in a rough sort of way. But more than that, he seemed utterly committed to what he thought was right.
“When…”
“Tonight. We can’t wait, for obvious reasons.”
“Obvious?” She’d been travelling, off and on, for weeks; she’d been shot at, seen Myrna killed, lost Walter. Malone was as tired as she’d ever been. “Sorry, but I’m not that well attuned to the obvious right now…”
“Look at the date. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July.”
47./
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The New York arrests left the director with an immediate problem: he now had no doubt that Joe Brennan was right, and that someone was trying to assemble a nuclear weapon; that left the question of whether the attempt had been foiled, or whether there was a contingency. Terrence Corcoran, the ex-SEAL arrested at the scene, had openly bragged of one; and he’d been just as happy to inform their agents that he knew nothing. The computer guys were working on his mail and phone contacts going back a year, trying to run traces on payments and to lock down commonalities between meeting places.
But it wasn’t amounting to much.
The National Security Council meeting had a grave feeling to it, a sense that for the first time in a long time, the discussion was about something tangible and real.
“We’ve locked down New York,” Wilkie told the assembly. At the end of the long conference table, the president leaned on the arm of his chair, propping his chin up with the same hand, looking uncomfortable. “The agency and the NSA are working hand-in-hand to conduct a borough-by-borough search, and we have analysts working around the clock to narrow down potential targets throughout the city.”
The president leaned forward on the table. He’d been listening to Wilkie explain the mission for several minutes and recognized the immediate priorities of the situation. But he was curious about the circumstances. “Nicholas, how is it that it took us so long to cotton on to this? Surely there must have been rumblings in intelligence circles…”
“No, sir, unfortunately not. Our knowledge of this ongoing attempt has come purely as a byproduct of Agent Brennan’s investigation into the sniper shootings and is, in some manner, tied to the same clandestine business association we’d been working to infiltrate for several years.”
The NSA’s Fitzpatrick chimed in, “We know there’s a definite tie between the attempt to secure the weapon and the shootings, because of the evidence uncovered by the reporter, Alex Malone, about Khalidi’s involveme
nt in Africa. But if we could figure out that tie specifically, it would go a long way to pinning down a final target.”
Halfway down one side of the table, the secretary of defense had been quiet, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped on his ample stomach. “Are we sure this is a genuine threat, Mr. President? It seems like these boys don’t have a whole lot to go on, other than the word of some dead Spanish arms dealer and a whole lot of hunches.”
“I’m sure,” Wilkie said. “Brennan could have turned himself in any number of times and taken on Fenton-Wright’s frame-up. But he chose to stay in the line of fire because his objective was too important to give up.”
Jonah was sitting to Wilkie’s right. “Coupled with that,” he interjected, “there’s the fact that the reporter, Alex Malone, has been in heavy contact with him, and we’ve seen some of the leaked material that she has managed to get her hands on. She might be comfortable chasing ghosts, but I doubt her magazine would be, unless they had faith she was onto something big.”
“So we’re taking our cues from the media now?” the defense secretary asked. “Mr. President, what the NSA and CIA are asking – what they’re already doing – has potentially terrifying ramifications. If word gets out in the city that there’s a nuke on the loose, the stampede out of town could hurt a lot of people. The bridges and roads will be jammed. The loss of life from car accidents alone would be high, let alone the panic that can set in during a major episode.”
That prompted a silent pause around the table as people weighed his concern. Jonah couldn’t believe it. He had to say something. He leaned forward on the table. “Mr. President…”
“Yes, Mr. Tarrant?”
“While I understand and commend the defense secretary for his diligence in thinking this through, I think it’s important to consider the alternatives to getting involved. Let’s say the secretary of defense is correct, and there is no nuke. Well, we’ve spent a lot of money on an operation and perhaps made some people nervous. Press might even have a field day with it, if they get it.”
“Okay…”
“But let’s say it’s genuine and we don’t do anything about it. If a weapon went off in the city, it could kill close to ten million people. How would it appear to the world if it knew we had advance knowledge of the threat, but did nothing to stop it?”
Optics aside, the president knew, it was a decision no one could live with; the memory of the twin towers was still fresh for the nation. The trauma of another attack would send a shockwave rippling across America. It would lead to a new era of fear, one that would be easily exploited by his political rivals, to the detriment of his party and the public.
But as ever, his advisors were being more tactful than necessary. “Mark, what’s your take?” he asked Fitzpatrick.
“The defense secretary is correct, sir, in that we don’t have a whole lot to go on,” he said. “The weapon has been missing from the South Africans’ old pre-freedom stockpile for some time, and there have been any number of opportunities before now for someone to use it.”
The defense secretary looked pleased. Then Fitzpatrick added, “Having said that, it’s clear from Fenton-Wright’s betrayal that the covert operation involving Agent Brennan was being influenced by outside players; the very intent could have been to keep us away from this much larger scenario.”
It wasn’t clear what he was recommending, the president thought. Typical of Fitzpatrick to hold as much middle ground as possible.
“So what then, Mark? Keep the New York operation up and running? If so, for how long?”
“I would suggest until it finds something, sir, or we get word from Agent Brennan that there’s nothing to find.”
“Have we had any progress in getting hold of him?” the president asked.
“No sir,” Wilkie admitted. “But we do have a lead on his reporter friend; if we can get through to her, she knows how to reach him.”
“Couldn’t we just broadcast something, some kind of all clear…”
“No sir,” Wilkie said. “Unfortunately, we don’t know where or what situation Brennan is in; broadcasting his picture or a contact request could blow cover, or simply alert whoever he’s tracking that he’s on their trail. It’s a risk we can’t take right now.”
The president sighed. Just a few more months, he thought. “Then let’s hope this reporter is still with him and checking in at work. Unbelievable. The most powerful nation on the planet and we have to rely on a member of the press to get anything done.”
BUCHANAN, NEW YORK
The warehouse at the end of the dead end road was the size of a small aircraft hangar, a tin-siding-covered orange building with a corrugated roof and glass windows at the front that made it look like a former showroom, maybe for off-road vehicles and other big toys.
Brennan sat across the large parking lot from it, a hundred yards away. He huddled in the tree line and surveyed the area through Ed’s night vision goggles. There were a half-dozen cars parked outside and two large trucks, similar to those he’d seen at the customs yard.
They’d parked by an adjacent business on the other side of the lot, in a spot away from the handful of streetlights, where Malone could clearly see the front and left-side doors of the building. She’d been nervous about his intentions, wanting something more specific than just “I’ll give you a signal”. But Brennan had insisted they needed to play it by ear, improvise a warning. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll let you know somehow,” he’d said.
He refocused the goggles. There were two guards outside, one by the front door, another to the side. He swept the edge of the property but saw no one. Something seemed off; if this was a military-grade op, they would have had guards walking the perimeter, probably with sentry dogs. But there were just the two, both smoking cigarettes, guns slung over their shoulders and not even looking remotely prepared for trouble.
It reminded him of the customs yard and the ship in Seattle; both had seemed like large-scale smuggling operations; neither had been well-protected. Was it just arrogance, a resolute certainty on the part of whoever had planned this? He wasn’t sure, but Brennan was never much of a believer in good fortune. If they were this sloppy, he reasoned, they were foolish enough to actually set the device off. Maybe they weren’t so much sloppy as fanatical and overconfident.
He followed the edge of the lot until he was at the right front corner of the building. There were no signs of alarms, either, which was doubly foolish. A military op would have booby-trapped the perimeter, setting off alarms as soon as someone tripped them. He pressed himself flat to the right-side wall of the building and followed it until he found a window and peeked through.
The place was bigger than a football field, and there were several vehicles parked inside near the front, followed by a series of shipping containers and crates that effectively split up the room. Behind them, towards the back, white tables had been set up so that technicians could work on assembling various components. Just beyond them, another wall of crates cut off Brennan’s view to the back of the room.
He needed a way in. He ducked under the window sill and followed the wall to the rear of the building. There were voices coming from behind, where a loading dock or back door would be, Brennan thought. He listened for a minute as the men talked, trying to get a sense of how many were there.
“What time we supposed to be gone?” one said. His accent was American.
“Figure by noon tomorrow.”
“Noon? We’re gonna get stuck in holiday traffic, just watch.”
“Quit your bitching. Jesus, you complain a lot.”
“You worried about what all of these Chinks are doing with this shit?’
“Hell no. I don’t get paid to worry about that.”
“No?”
“Hell no. I just get paid to shoot any asshole that tries to bother them.”
“Hey Donny! Donny, you got another cigarette I can borrow off you?”
A new voice said, “Borrow?
Like you’re going to fucking return it?”
“Then give me one, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Fuck you; support your own habit, motherfucker.”
Ex-army guys probably, Brennan figured, same as at the customs yard. Better to avoid them for now. No percentage in starting a fight with who-knew-how-many others nearby.
He crept back around the building and found a gap in the adjacent tree line, to his right. His shoes had soft soles but even so, he trod carefully, wary of attracting the guards’ attention. It took a good five minutes to silently make his way behind the trees to the opposite side of the building, where another guard stood alone on sentry duty outside the side door. It would have been easy to take him out with a quick choke hold, Brennan figured; the man wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, instead wandering around in circles aimlessly, bored out of his mind after a few hours of duty.
But they were doubtless checking in on radio every so often. If he was going to use one of the existing entries, he was going to have to wait until right after a radio check before taking them down.
Then there was the window, where he’d started. He quietly made his way back; the view through to the room inside was cut off by the crates, but if he could find cover quickly, Brennan thought, he could worry about moving around inside after. He checked the window lightly to see if it was locked, pushing up against the top outside frame. It slid up six inches, but then locked into place.
Have to find the latch, he thought, reaching around the corner of the window with his right arm.
He heard voices. Brennan snatched his arm back. A few more seconds passed and they got closer. They passed by, and Brennan heard a snippet of another language. Korean? He wasn’t sure. He moved to the corner of the window and slowly peeked over. One of the two men had continued on and was just rounding the corner, where the crates separated the front and back of the warehouse. The other had stationed himself directly in front of the window.