Carver gave a clipped, disbelieving laugh.
“McCabe . . . Waylon McCabe?”
“Yes. Why—do you know him?”
“Our paths crossed.”
“And he lived to tell the tale? That’s unusual.”
“Unique, as it happens. And I’ll tell you one thing about Waylon McCabe—I don’t care how much of a conversion he had; he’s a bastard, pure and simple. Whatever he’s doing with Vermulen, I guarantee it’s not a good deed.”
Carver frowned: The pieces were starting to come together in his mind.
“Hang on—you said that boat was going east . . . which would take it into the Ionian Sea, and then the Adriatic, towards Yugoslavia. When we talked, Vermulen mentioned Yugoslavia. He said that was one of the places the Islamic radicals he was going on about were fighting, trying to open up a back route into the West.”
He turned to look at Zhukovskaya.
“Did you put bombs in Yugoslavia?”
“I cannot possibly answer that question,” she said, needled by the impertinence of such a direct inquiry.
Carver smiled, feeling the balance of power around the table start to tilt in his direction.
“I think you can, Deputy Director. You’re in the crapper, too. Not just your organization, or your country, but you, personally. You sent those idiots in the chopper to get the document, and now they’re crispy bacon at the bottom of a gorge. You’ve got to put that right—that’s why you’re here. And you . . .” He turned his gaze on Grantham. “Well, it wouldn’t go down too well in Whitehall if anyone found out who you’d been using to do your dirty work, or how we first happened to meet. As for me, I got Vermulen this list. Plus, something tells me you’ll be able to date McCabe’s religious conversion to the day he miraculously escaped an air crash in the wilds of the Yukon. That was down to me, too. We’re all in this together, like it or not, so answer the question: Yugoslavia?”
He was pushing his luck, but she seemed disinclined to object. He’d been right: The mighty deputy director was in no position to complain.
“Two,” said Zhukovskaya. “One in central Belgrade, the other near the Trepca mining complex. It is the single most valuable natural resource in Yugoslavia, producing lead, zinc, copper, gold, and silver—a natural target for economic sabotage.”
Grantham nodded to himself, as if agreeing that the locations made sense. He did not bother to ask her how the KGB knew the location of weapons that were lost to the rest of the Russian military and government establishment. He, of all people, needed no lessons in the keeping of secrets from a security service’s political masters.
“Where is this place?” asked Carver.
“Kosovo,” said Grantham, before Zhukovskaya could reply.
“Where Vermulen’s supposed Islamist terrorists are busy starting a civil war. Christ, is that mad bugger going to nuke them? That would get a war going, all right.”
“Personally, I would not do anything so obvious. . . .” said Zhukovskaya.
Grantham looked at her inquisitively.
“A false-flag operation?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I like that better, I think. Much more effective to make the world think that the terrorists had the bomb. We think alike . . . but would Vermulen? He has intelligence experience . . . it is possible. But how to stop him? That is the problem.”
“Get me to Trepca,” said Carver. “That’s the one lead we have. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Just you?” asked Zhukovskaya.
“You got anyone else you can call?”
82
H
er cover had worked too well. Alix Petrova was a trained field agent who had seduced, deceived, and even killed dangerous men. But Natalia Vermulen was an innocent personal assistant who’d just married the boss, and as far as her new husband was concerned, his duty was to keep her safe, not lead her into harm’s way. So she had no argument when, as they lay in bed—her head on his chest, her hand on his shoulder, the early-morning light, reflected from the ocean, playing on the walls of the yacht’s master bedroom—he told her, “You can’t come with us tonight.”
“I understand,” she said. “It’s just . . . I want to be with you. I can’t help it.”
There were tears welling in her eyes. As she blinked them away, she realized that they, at least, were genuine. She truly felt like crying, even if she was lying about why.
He felt the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin.
“It’s okay,” he said, wrapping his arm around her and holding her tight against his body. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I have to do. I had some crazy notions, but what I’m planning is going to be a lot simpler, and a lot safer now.”
She could sense him gathering his thoughts, almost working up the courage to speak again, the way men did when they were about to say something personal, a revelation that would leave them exposed and vulnerable.
His voice was thick with emotion as he said, “Now that I’ve found you, I have something to live for again. I think I lost that for a while. It affected the way I thought, even made me a little crazy. Not now. There’s still something I have to do, something that matters. But I love you too much to take dumb risks. . . .”
He smiled, lightening the mood, catching her eye as she looked up at his face.
“Just really smart risks, ones worth taking.”
“It makes me scared, not knowing what’s happening to you,” she said.
“That’s what you get for marrying a soldier, even an ex-soldier. It’s really tough, having to stay at home, not knowing whether the person you love is dead or alive.”
“How did Amy manage it?”
“I don’t know. When I went to ’Nam, we were just kids. She’d only recently turned twenty-one, had the party just before I shipped out. All those years, left on her own so many times. You know, she never once complained . . . Oh, God, I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t comparing you . . .”
She squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.
“Don’t worry—I was the one who mentioned Amy. I like it that you remember her with love. It proves that you are a good man.”
Vermulen shifted his weight. The arm that had been wrapped so protectively around her pulled on her shoulder, so that she was rolled off his chest and onto her back. Now he was on top of her, his mouth pressing on hers and his legs forcing her thighs apart with a strength that she could not have resisted, even had she wanted to. So she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled their bodies together.
As they began to make love, she was smiling. Her happiness was as real as her tears had been, but once again, the reason was not the one that Kurt Vermulen might imagine.
He was leaving her alone on the yacht for the night. Then, perhaps, she might have the chance to escape.
83
C
arver had been wrong. There were people Grantham could call. Had to call, in fact. He could not hope to keep this operation completely private anymore; there was far too much at stake. But if he was going to spread the word, he had to do it discreetly. Like all senior MI6 officers, he had close contacts with his counterparts in the CIA. While Carver was upstairs, clearing out of his room, Grantham stepped outside and considered his options. He needed someone he could trust enough to call on a personal, off-the-record basis.
Ted Jaworski was dragged from sleep by the ringing of his bedside phone. His hand reached out from beneath the blankets and scrabbled for his handset. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the caller ID, then mumbled, “Jack, hi . . . do you know what the friggin’ time is here?”
“A little after four. But this can’t wait. Is your line secure?”
“Sure—what the hell is this about?”
“We’ve obtained information—stumbled across it, really—about one of your people, an ex-army general, Kurt Vermulen.”
Jaworski was getting out of bed now, figuring he’d better take the call somewhere more private. He put a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s okay—go back to sleep,” to his wife as she looked up at him blearily.
“Uh-huh—what kind of information?” he asked Grantham.
“It’s complicated. But the bottom line is, last night Vermulen obtained a document which contains the precise locations and arming codes of more than one hundred Soviet nuclear weapons.”
“What did you say?”
“You know those legendary missing suitcase nukes? Turns out it wasn’t a legend. They really are out there. Vermulen knows where to find them, and we think that’s what he’s going to do, probably within the next twenty-four hours.”
Jaworski stopped dead in the corridor and gave a low whistle.
“My God, she was right . . .”
“Sorry?”
“Something someone over here said . . .” Jaworski replied, moving again. “Put it this way—this doesn’t come as a total surprise.”
Grantham sounded mildly irritated. “So you know about McCabe as well?”
“Okay—now there you got me.”
“Waylon McCabe. He’s some bigshot from Texas, fundamentalist Christian.”
“Oh, sure, know the name . . . what about him?”
Jaworski had made it to his home office. He slumped into the chair behind his desk as Grantham replied.
“I don’t know, exactly. But whatever Vermulen is up to, McCabe is backing him. Right now, Vermulen is somewhere in the Adriatic Sea, on McCabe’s yacht, and we think he’s headed for Kosovo. One of the bombs is planted there.”
“How do you know?”
“Friends in Moscow. Turns out this was a KGB operation. Some of their people knew where the damn things were all along. I’ll bet they’ve got their own copy of this list, just haven’t seen fit to pass on the information, even to their own government. You’d better have a word with the White House about that. Someone should call the Kremlin, tell them to force the top brass in the FSB to hand over the list. Suggest it’s their last chance to do this hush-hush, or else you’re going public. You need to see it. So do we, come to that. I get the distinct impression both our countries are littered with bloody bombs.”
“Yeah . . .” said Jaworski distractedly, squeezing a rubber ball in his spare hand.
“You sound remarkably unconcerned by what I’ve just told you.”
“Oh, no, I’m concerned, all right, Jack. You can trust me on that. But what you just said, that wasn’t exactly a surprise, either.”
“What? You knew about these things all along?”
“Kind of . . .”
“And when, exactly, were you planning to inform your closest ally of the dangers we both face?”
“When we knew exactly what that danger was.”
“Well you know now.”
“Sure do, and we’re going to do something about it, too.”
“Do keep me posted on that,” said Grantham sarcastically.
“Don’t worry, Jack. The day is young. But you and I are going to be talking a lot, a helluva lot, before it’s through.”
Jaworski ended the call. Then he started dialing. And suddenly his attitude wasn’t half so casual.
Dawn was still more than an hour away when Kady Jones arrived at Andrews Air Force Base. She’d been woken by a series of firm, insistent taps on the door of her Washington hotel room. She stumbled out of bed and made her way to the door. Through the peephole she could see a man in military uniform. Without undoing the chain, she opened the door a fraction.
“What is this?” she mumbled.
“Dr. Kathleen Dianne Jones?”
“Uh-huh . . . who are you?”
The man held up an I.D. card, which named him as a captain in the Marine Corps.
“May I come in, please, ma’am?”
Kady hesitated, her hand hovering over the chain, uncertain whether to trust a stranger, even one in uniform. Yet the I.D. looked genuine enough. She opened up and stepped back into the room, her suspicions now giving way to the embarrassment of being seen with no proper clothes, her hair unbrushed, her face un-made-up, and her room a mess.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the captain. “You need to get ready to leave here at once. There is a car outside, waiting to take you to Andrews. You will be boarding a flight there. I cannot tell you the precise destination of that flight, but I have been authorized to inform you that it is somewhere in Europe, and you are advised to pack for a trip of two to three days’ duration, some of which may involve work in the field.”
“But . . .” Kady just stopped herself from saying, “I haven’t got a thing to wear.” Instead she managed, “My field equipment is all back in New Mexico.”
“I’m sure whatever you need will be provided, ma’am. But you’ve really got to hurry. I’ll leave you now. I’ll be waiting outside the front entrance. Five minutes, okay?”
The captain did not wait for her reply before he left the room. He simply assumed she could wash, dress, fix her appearance, and pack, all within the space of five minutes.
Only a man could be that dumb.
Jaworski told Tom Mulvagh to cancel his plans for the weekend.
“Does Horabin know about this?” asked Mulvagh, once he’d been told the news about Vermulen and the link to Waylon McCabe.
“He will. But you know Horabin, Tom. He doesn’t wipe his ass without figuring out how it’ll impact the President’s poll ratings. We can’t wait for him to make up his mind how to respond to this. We have to find out what McCabe’s been doing. Now.”
“I’m on it.”
The FBI is no different from any other organization: At half past four on a Saturday morning it’s not at its most dynamic. So agents weren’t leaping from their beds and making for their cars within minutes of Mulvagh getting the call. People had to be found, woken, and briefed—both FBI staff and the people they needed to interview. A couple of hours went by before the first information started getting back to Mulvagh.
In Europe and the Middle East, however, the day was already well under way. Even if the Pentagon brass were groggy when they got the call from Jaworski, their men and women in the field were wide awake and ready to go.