“No. Give me your weapon with the fingers of your opposite hand, and stay right here with me while the agents check things out. Have you seen Curtis tonight?”
The guard slowly removed his pistol from the holster on his right hip with his left hand as more FBI agents came into the building, also with their guns out. “I haven’t seen him, but I just came on duty at midnight. If you’ll let me look at my logbook over on the desk, I can give you the time when he left.”
“OK,” Hunt said. The guard nodded, happy to be part of whatever was happening, and showed the logbook to Hunt. Curtis had not been in his office since leaving for lunch, and the guard printed out a list of ranking bureau officials, with their addresses and telephone numbers. “Maybe one of them can help,” he said.
Hunt cocked his head to listen to the voices in his earpiece as the reports flooded in from agents clearing every room, and finding nothing. The housekeepers were awakened, came downstairs in their robes, and were questioned. Neither had seen the undersecretary.
Hunt ascended the curving staircase to find Curtis’s office. Everything he saw bespoke quiet elegance, with a distinct sense of Middle Eastern culture in the vases, paintings, ornate tile work, and lush carpets. The office itself was a dazzling display of artifacts that had been presented to the BAIA and Curtis by officials throughout the Arab world. The veteran agent had the feeling he was walking through some special exhibit at the Smithsonian, or a bazaar in Istanbul. Rubies and emeralds, intricate gold work, and shining silver winked beneath small spotlights, as if the objects knew something that he did not. A big picture window opened out on the darkened lawn.
Dave Hunt was suddenly tense and nervous. It was just too perfect. This was no soft diplomat they were after, and if Curtis was in the wind, then maybe he had left something behind to delay his pursuers. Something else was in play.
“Everybody stop in place. Don’t make another move,” he ordered on his radio. “Get the civilians out of here, then rendezvous back at the rally point. Touch nothing. Retrace your footsteps. Watch for possible booby traps.”
Just before he could repeat the order for the agents who had entered Curtis’s empty home, one of them turned off a dripping faucet in the kitchen. That closed the circuit for a dynamite bomb hidden in a wall of the foyer where several agents had gathered. The following explosion blew apart much of the ground floor, and the rest of the town house collapsed in a fireball.
THE BRIDGE
T
HE
V
IPERS
HAD GIVEN
up watching the idle convoy, settled down on the bridge, and shut off their engines. Lieutenant Farooq thought that was wise; no use wasting petrol, dangling in the sky watching him do nothing but drink tea. The only thing bothering him was whether the busy Americans were going to leave any witnesses, but he reasoned that if they had wanted him dead, he would already be dead. They probably wanted him to report exactly what had happened, and he would.
“Sergeant? Are the radios working yet?” Play the game.
“No, sir. A lot of static.” The sergeant pointed to the sky. “Probably one of their electronic warfare planes is up there, jamming everything.”
Farooq shielded his eyes and looked up the road. He threw out the remains of his cup and climbed from the Humvee. “We have company coming, Sergeant. Form the men in ranks. No visible weapons,” he ordered, straightening his uniform.
A little blue golf cart carrying two men in camouflage uniforms with protective vests and helmets was humming toward them from the bridge, an enlisted man driving an officer. Farooq’s men were in formation by the time the cart pulled to a halt and the passenger got out. “Captain Richard Mendoza, U.S. Marines,” the man said.
Lieutenant Farooq saluted and introduced himself.
The salute was returned. “Well, Lieutenant, I’m paying a courtesy visit to thank you for not interfering with our work today.”
“Those were not my orders, Captain. Observe and report only.”
Mendoza knew that was a lie. The Pakistani officer had made the smart move to stay out of the way when he discovered he was so outmatched. No use for either one trying to keep secrets at this point. “We’re about done down there. I want to advise you that when we depart, it would be best for you to wait right here, or even pull back. We’re going to blow that bridge apart. My engineers estimated how much explosive would be needed, then doubled that amount. It would be a great risk to try to defuse any of it, because the clock is already ticking.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you for coming up.”
“Fine-looking troops you have here, Lieutenant. I would hate to have anyone needlessly injured at this point. Good luck to you.”
“And to you, sir.” Salutes were exchanged again, and Mendoza climbed back into the cart, which began the trip back to the landing zone. The Vipers were already winding up their engines and lifting off to make room for the Ospreys to retrieve the Marines. It appeared that the entire force was out of the tunnels and leaving. Farooq watched the departing captain, sorely tempted to grab a rifle and blow him to pieces.
As if hearing the thought, the cart stopped, turned, and came back. This time, Mendoza did not get out but just called to him. “Lieutenant, I forgot to tell you; two cruise missiles are on the way, one targeted on each of the support towers. That’ll be the end of it.” He cheerfully waved, and the cart buzzed away.
THE PENTAGON
K
YLE
S
WANSON
WAS BACK
in front of General Middleton’s office window again, relaxed, watching the tourists. He asked, “We ready to go after Charlie Brown now?”
“No. You just got back, and things are in an uproar over at the White House,” the general replied, leafing through a stack of colorful brochures. “This isn’t the time to drop another Green Light request on them.”
“Best time to do it, General, while everybody in the Sandbox is trying to figure out what happened at the bridge, and why we were so out front about it.”
Sybelle Summers was half-watching some talking heads on television discussing that very subject. “If the president’s goal was to send a message that we won’t ever stop hitting the terrorists, no matter where the chase leads, then he was successful. The TV people are constantly playing the videos of the center span dropping like an old Las Vegas casino being blown up, and then the missiles hitting the support towers.”
“It has everything the TV requires but a shower scene and a car chase.” Double-Oh Dawkins sipped from his ever-present cup of coffee. “Where you going on vacation, General?”
“I’m picking up my daughter and the grandkids in Richmond tonight and making the long drive down to the Cape to watch the Mars launch. That will be something they will always remember. After that, we’re going to Disney World. Then they go home and I break away for some deep-sea fishing.” He put the brochures in order, squared the edges, and put them aside. “What about our Coastie, Kyle? Did she make a decision before going on leave?”
“Not officially, sir. She’ll do it, though. The kid was made for this stuff, and she did great in Pakistan. Not only that, but she worships Lieutenant Colonel Summers.”
“As do we all.” The general chuckled.
“Fuck you very much, sir.
I’m going to Disney World.
Jesus,” Summers shot back as she changed TV channels, stopping at one on which the political talking heads were barking about the cost versus value of the Mars mission. She turned off the set and called loudly toward the door, “Liz? You got that FBI stuff?”
Benton Freedman walked in, carrying a handheld computer. “Got it all right here. You want a hard copy? I can send it to your BlackBerry.”
“Not yet.” She didn’t want him spinning off into techno-talk. “Talk to us.”
“Right. That Undersecretary Curtis fellow has disappeared, leaving a bomb in his residence, two agents killed and four wounded, another bomb found and defused at his office, his car abandoned in Maryland, la-da-da-da-da … and, uh, that’s it from the FBI.”
“Liz?” General Middleton arched an eyebrow.
“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Summers asked for the FBI material. I was being specific, but the CIA has some interesting new stuff. You want to hear that, too?”
“Yes, Commander Freedman. If you please.” The general sighed. The Lizard could be a curse.
“They’re no longer sure he is a mole for the New Muslim Order at all, sir. He has strong connections with them, but there’s no evidence that he actually is like a soldier or a guerrilla. More likely, he works with them on some things but also is a lone wolf, carrying out his own agenda. He was married to a Muslim woman, and they had a son, but both were killed during the U.S. bombing of Baghdad during Desert Storm. The CIA believes personal revenge to be his motivation. Financial records show his construction company had a stake in building the bridge.”
Double-Oh interrupted. “He sounds like one helluva disturbed creature. A facilitator doesn’t booby-trap his house and office. Too bad about his wife and kid, but shit happens in war. Anyway, what about right now? Is he on some mission here, or is he flying down to Rio?”
Freedman’s round face lit up. “
Flying Down to Rio.
Ah. That was the first time Fred Astaire danced with Ginger Rogers. Black-and-white film, 1933. Neither of them was the star; that was Dolores del Rio.”
“Back on track, Liz,” Summers coaxed.
“From everything that has been dug up so far, I believe that Mr. Curtis is still within the United States, because everybody is looking for him, particularly along the borders and at the airports, commercial and private. He will be too busy staying ahead of the folks with badges to do any more mischief.”
Swanson walked away from the window and filled a cup with coffee. “He’s not done,” Kyle said. “This all started with him, when he put the DSS onto chasing Beth Ledford, and he probably hired the two characters who attacked me before we left for Pakistan.”
“That is correct,” Lizard said. “Because the petty officer’s brother found the bridge in Pakistan, and was murdered there, she wouldn’t leave it alone. As long as she fought the system, the involvement of Undersecretary Curtis and the New Muslim Order was at risk. She is a brave young woman.”
Swanson smiled. “So it is going to have to end with him. He’s not done yet.”
“Which is why our Coastie should have an FBI escort for a while, particularly when she goes out to California with her mother to visit San Diego,” Summers said. “What about you? You want to go to Disney World, too?”
“I will leave Mickey Mouse to our esteemed general. Beth will be fine, because Curtis has bigger problems, like staying alive. I’ll be spending some time running tests on the new Excalibur rifle, so I will be out at 29 Palms in California in the middle of thousands of Marines. Good luck to Curtis on coming after either one of us.”
“Feebs will probably have Curtis soon, but you stay in touch with Coastie and keep your eyes open anyway, Kyle.”
“I always do, sir. Always do.”
31
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, FLORIDA
A
T TEN O
’
CLOCK ON
Saturday morning, Eastern Time, astronaut Buck Gardener and the rest of the support crew rode the elevator up the side of the
America
. From high up, Florida’s coastline seemed straight out of a picture book of how beaches should look, with long white combers breaking in on brown and white sands. About a half-million people were expected to watch the launch, and tents and mobile homes had formed temporary neighborhoods of spectators who had already begun to party.
The elevator halted at the platform from which a narrow bridge led from the steel support structure to the gleaming spaceship. There were eight members of the support crew, the same as the primary crew that would haul the huge ship into space. Although they were serious about their jobs, there was also an air of foolishness about them today as they went through the White Room. The support crews, since the earliest Vanguard missions, traditionally stashed away pranks that the astronauts on the flight would not discover until they were cruising into the dark void. In the big pockets of their coveralls, each had some unauthorized items, from nude pictures torn from
Playgirl
magazine to pink jockstraps to a Slinky toy, and those would be stuffed in nooks and crannies throughout the vessel. The jokes always helped break the tension on a flight.
The final vehicle and facility closeouts were a frantic period, with checks being conducted on everything from the flight deck to navigational control software, and Buck had responsibility for final check for loading the power reactant storage and distribution system. It took him less than a minute to peel off the panel and exchange an already installed circuit board with the one he had retrofitted to include a tiny battery, a bit of wiring, and an altitude-sensitive ignition switch. He put the real one in his pocket and closed the panel, studying his work. Nobody would detect anything.
He rejoined the rest of the support crew, and as they finished the day’s tasks, the spaceship was less than a day from launch. The countdown clock stood at T minus twenty-three.
Joke’s on you, my dear Erin,
he said to himself as they reboarded the elevator and descended through the open web of the support tower. At T minus three, Buck Gardener and the closeout crew were to return to the rocket for final checks of the crew module and to assist the astronauts into their positions for the launch.
Gardener planned to be long gone by then. After the support crew reached ground level, he reported to the flight surgeon and complained about a mild headache and nausea. His temperature, blood pressure, eyes, and throat were normal, but the doctors would not chance the introduction of flu-like symptoms into the spacecraft. Buck would be replaced for the final closeout by a member of the backup crew, and he was soon on the road out of Merritt Island, heading toward Orlando, only forty-five miles away.