Twice a Spy (42 page)

Charlie was eager for him to leave. It would mean contending with only Steve.

“Well, good, then, Mr. Bream,” Steve said. “Thank you most kindly.”

“The kind thanks are for you, Steve.” Bream bounded toward the stairs.

He stopped just shy of the first step and spun back around, eyes on the laundry door. “That folding door was open when we came down here, wasn’t it?”

Steve nodded.

Charlie’s blood froze. He needed an exit strategy. It was right up there with a weapon on the list of omissions in his planning.

Bream knelt, studying the floor.

Could he detect Charlie’s footprints on the linoleum?

He sprang into the master bedroom, refreshing Charlie’s hope. Because the laundry alcove looked prohibitively small, Bream and Steve might not think to look behind the appliances.

A moment later Bream returned from the bedroom with a Glock
capped by a silencer. He faced the washing machine. He couldn’t possibly see Charlie, but the barrel of his gun was on a direct line with Charlie’s face.

“Please come out now and save me from putting a bullet hole in my nice dryer,” he said.

Charlie rose
, his legs burning with pins and needles. And fear. “I owe you a big thank you, J. T.,” he said.

“This is who?” Steve demanded of Bream.

“Nobody.” Bream was extraordinarily unflappable.

“Nobody in the grand scheme of things,” Charlie said. “But for our purposes today, a CIA asset.”

Steve muttered something in Arabic.

“He’s lying,” Bream said. “He’s just a gambler.” He beckoned Charlie with a wave of the gun.

Charlie held his ground. “A gambler who attended a debrief at Langley the other day, and recalled your saying that you were going to celebrate the consummation of your arms deal with a rack of ribs. It took an analyst about a second to figure out that you were targeting the G-20.”

“Don’t worry, he’s not CIA,” Bream said to Steve. “Even the lousiest gamblers get lucky now and then. This is just some sort of cash grab.”

Steve’s eyes widened with panic. “What if he is not alone?”

“He’s alone.”

“How do you know this?”

“He plays the horses for a living; CIA wouldn’t let him near an op. And if he did have someone with him, they would’ve tipped him off that we were on our way here, or at least tried to waylay us, to give him time to get out.”

Steve paused for a moment. “Mr. Bream, the plan is to detonate ahead of schedule should anything go wrong. This was part of the deal, yes?
Already very many people of consequence have arrived at the Grand Hotel, including almost all of the members of the French delegation—”

Bream extended his palms. “Whoa, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. Trust me, Chuckles here is a lone mutt.”

“With all respect due, sir, it is not an issue of trust.”

“Good point. Let me prove it to you.”

“How?”

“If he had any backup, they would be here by now.” Bream leveled his gun at Charlie and pulled the trigger.

Charlie dropped behind the washing machine. The bullet tore the air above his hair, clanking into the dryer. An odd hiss came from within the dark maze of ducts and hoses. Suddenly his shirtfront felt wet. Blood? A chill encased him. He noticed a spray of cold water from a rupture in the length of hose running into the washing machine.

He slid behind the washer, hoping Bream would be reluctant to shoot through the bomb.

Steve waved in horror at the water pooling in the alcove and slicking the corridor. “What about all this?”

“Water won’t hurt anything.” Bream advanced to the gap between the washer and dryer, sidestepping the pool of water forming on the floor. “This device is designed so it could sink to the bottom of Mobile Bay and still detonate.”

His gun was close enough that Charlie smelled the spent cordite.

Times like this, his father usually came to the rescue. Or Alice.

But neither even knew he was here. No one did.

“I am still not confident,” Steve said. “If I am with your CIA, I would let him die, so that we believe they do not know about us.”

Bream sighed. “They don’t know, okay. Sure, it makes strategic sense to sacrifice a man. They’d never do it, though, for fear of the Senate investigation alone.”

“Maybe so.” Steve aimed the remote at the washer. “But why take the chance?”

Bream bristled. “You really need to hold up there.”

Steve held the remote at the washing machine like a fixed bayonet.

“Listen, there’s a girl I want to get out of the red zone, not to mention
myself,” Bream went on. “Half an hour of lead time was part of the deal.”

Steve slid a thumb onto the big red button. “Clearly and irrevocably, the will of Allah has changed.” He clicked the remote. The conic bulb on the gadget’s head glowed red.

The bomb mechanism whirred to life, the washing machine housing vibrating against Charlie’s rib cage.

Bream fired the silenced Glock.

An image came to Charlie. A memory of the living room in the chalet. He and Alice on the comfortable sofa and Drummond in the armchair. The three were engrossed in one of their games of Scrabble. An interesting piece of information: Even Alzheimer’s couldn’t prevent Drummond from laying out seven-letter word after seven-letter word.

Now, feeling nothing save the spray of cold water, Charlie peeked around the washing machine.

Steve’s forehead had a red hole at its center. He collapsed, revealing a splash of gore at head level on the wall behind him.

“He was planning to die here anyway,” Bream said, as if seeking absolution.

“Let me convince you not to use the bomb,” Charlie said.

“Among other reasons that you won’t be able to convince me is I don’t get a red cent if there’s no explosion here.”

“Suppose I told you that you won’t get the explosion you have in mind. The penthrite and trinitrotoluene in the bomb are the genuine article, but the U-235 is fake.” Charlie decided not to mention that the device, designed to trick customers into initially believing they had achieved a nuclear detonation, would still yield an explosion sufficient to kill the children in the playground, all of the security agents, and a high percentage of the hotel guests and staff.

“Not true. Just this morning, Vivek Zakir, a Nobel-caliber nuclear physicist, confirmed the enriched uranium was grade-A.”

“This device was designed to fool even Nobel Prize–winning nuclear physicists. This is what my old man did for the CIA. His team replicated the old Russian ADMs because the uranium pits are fixed so deep, you can’t adequately test—”

“Good story.” Bream advanced to the appliance alcove. “Even if it
were true, a hundred pounds of plastic explosive still yields a big enough bang to suit my purposes.”

“Fine. Sell me the bomb instead. I can pay you more than you’ll ever need.”

“Sounds like I’m about to hear another whopper.”

“You know about the treasure of San Isidro?”

“Yeah.”

“My father found it. It was on one of those little islets off Martinique.”

Bream lowered his gun. “You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah. An entire roof made of gold, taken in panels off a Venezuelan church.”

“If that were true, why the hell would you come here?”

Charlie tapped the washing machine.

“Then you’re a fool. And even if you found El Dorado, I’d be a fool to trust you.” Splashing into the alcove, Bream aimed his gun at Charlie. “In fact, I’m a fool to be talking to you at all.”

“Thank you.” Charlie plunged the washing machine’s tattered power cord into the water.

With a bestial wail, Bream flew up in the air. As Charlie had hoped, Bream’s sandals had made him vulnerable to the current; Charlie was protected by his rubber-soled running shoes.

Bream landed in a heap over the washer and lost his hold on the gun. Charlie caught the weapon, spun, and pointed it at him.

The pilot’s muscles quivered. His breathing, however, appeared to have ceased, and the color drained from his skin.

Charlie turned sideways, slipping through the gap between the appliances. He knelt by Steve’s body and pried the remote control from the terrorist’s hand. He aimed the device at the washing machine and clicked. The conic bulb illuminated.

But the detonation mechanism within the washing machine continued to whir.

Gun still trained on Bream, Charlie stepped closer to the washer and tried again.

No change. Maybe the water had shorted the remote control? In any case, he could enter the code by hand. If enough time remained.
07:55, according to the LED adhered to the inside of the washing machine’s lid.

Plenty of time.

Charlie looked at the serial number atop the control panel. The metal band he’d used in the Caribbean had been removed, replaced by a strip of tape with different numbers. He realized why with harrowing clarity: There was nothing wrong with the remote control. The Nobel-caliber scientist, Dr. Vivek Zakir, had been clever enough to build a remote control to be used to initiate detonation only. He had removed the real serial number for the same reason, as a fail-safe in case the martyr developed cold feet in the 9:58 between pressing the button and the hereafter.

Unable to recall the actual code, Charlie knew of no way to stop the detonation.

07:34
.

Charlie could call 911, explain that he was aboard a yacht with two dead bodies and a nuclear bomb, although it wasn’t really nuclear—part of a secret CIA program—yet it still packed enough high-grade plastic explosive to take out a good percentage of the people in the vicinity, and it had been triggered, so you really ought to hurry.

If he succeeded, the bomb squad would then have 00:04 to arrive and do its job.

Discarding that idea, he dug the boat keys from Steve’s pocket and raced up the stairs. He intended to untie the yacht and drive it as far from shore as he could. A mile or two out, the device might detonate causing relatively little harm—the fog and general gloom had kept most boaters home.

Needing first to untie the heavy ropes tethering the yacht to the dock, he charged through the cabin door and onto the deck at the stern, where he found himself staring into the barrel of a shotgun.

Time seemed to slow, adrenaline again shifting his senses and thinking into higher gears. He had anticipated myriad obstacles and plotted countermaneuvers. Still the sight of Glenny made him jump.

“Stop right there, Mr. Pulitzer. Hands up where I can see them.”

He raised both arms above his head. “Just listen for a second.”

“No, sir.” Squinting through the sights, she tightened her finger around the trigger.

“Just one second, please.”

“One second.” She eyed the pale sky. “Time’s up.”

“The man you know as Tom the Campodonicos’ nephew is actually a very bad bad guy.” Glenny’s finger didn’t move. “This boat currently has a bomb with a hundred pounds of plastic explosive, enough to take out the marina and everything within a quarter mile. It’s going to detonate in seven minutes. I have no way to turn it off, so I need to get it out of harm’s way.”

Glenny paused to reflect. “Bullshit. You’re a yacht thief.”

Glancing at the parking lot, Charlie sighed in relief. “Here’s the Secret Service. They’ll straighten this out.”

She turned to look and saw only a deserted marina. When she looked back, readying a curse, she found Bream’s Glock leveled at her by Charlie. She blanched.

“If I were the bad guy, you’d be in some trouble now,” he said.

She acknowledged this with a grunt. And fired the shotgun.

Having anticipated that she would, he dropped to the deck. Through a scupper, he saw the thick bowline split in two, freeing the yacht’s bow from the cleat on the dock.

Swinging the barrel toward the stern, Glenny said, “I saw Tom this morning passing my office two different times with Arab guys who kinda kept looking over their shoulders.” She blasted the stern line free, destroying the bulky metal cleat in the process. “You’d best shove off, shipmate.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said, barging into the wheelhouse.

He glanced at the LED he’d ripped from the washer. 04:58.