by Tim LaHaye
“You know I never answer questions like that,” McHenry said.
Carlos laughed hard.
“So,” McHenry asked, “what have you found out?”
“I am pretty sure it’s a match. These two women are the same person.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Zeta Milla and … what’s the other’s name?”
“Maria Zeta. Yes, same woman, I believe. But I had to do a lot of digging, Señor Pack. She’s been off the island for about eight years.”
“So, the question is, long enough to go to school in the U.S., get a master’s degree and some credits toward a doctorate, put time in at the State Department, and then join the staff of a senator?”
“That doesn’t sound like a question,” Carlos said, “more like an answer.”
“Yes, exactly,” McHenry said. “Anything else?”
“We call her type Buta Buts.”
“Meaning …”
“A poisonous tree. Any contact with it hurts you, blinds you, or even worse.”
“Not the kind of girl to bring home to Mom.”
“As a teenager, she was recruited by Castro’s staff. She was pretty and very smart, but ruthless. Killed two men I know of.”
“Why?”
“It was just a test, just to see if she could.” Then Carlos added, “She passed the test.”
“She’s only worked in Cuba?”
“No, I heard she has been reassigned overseas, but I don’t know where.”
McHenry thanked him and told him he would wire some money to him. Then Pack pulled out the summary of the international travel itinerary his agents had obtained on Zeta Milla, aka Maria Zeta, something he ordered as a favor for Abigail.
As he studied the data, it became clear why Abigail wanted it. The listing documented every trip that the Cuban woman had taken to Romania while Coliquin still maintained a home there during his stint as that country’s ambassador to the U.N. And the list of Zeta Milla’s trips to Romania — apparently to meet with Coliquin — was very long.
FIFTY-FIVE
On the Edge of the Negev Desert, Israel
The Arab school was the perfect cover for the assembly of one of the world’s most grotesque weapons of mass destruction. In that remote area, just off the highway from the desolate Negev, the school was made up of three buildings, mostly classrooms for Bedouin children. There was also a large cinderblock garage fifty yards from the other structures. That windowless building would be the assembly site.
While the children played cheerfully on the playground at the end of their school day, inside the garage, Tarek Fahad, Anwar al-Madrassa’s chief of weapons inspected the missile housing and nosecone, which were laid out on a long steel worktable. Then he turned to Dr. Ahlam, the terror chemist who had designed the horrifying biological agent that al-Madrassa’s cell was now calling “The Elixir of Allah.” “I hear your elixir can melt the skin off a dog, down to the bone. Let’s just hope it can do that to humans.”
Dr. Ahlam had his own challenge. “Don’t worry about my biological material. It will do that and more. My worry,” he said pointing to the hardware on the table, “is about your delivery system.”
Laying his hand on the shiny steel casing, Fahad retorted, “Very smart missile men have provided this to us. For a very high price, of course. Have you ever heard of a company called the Deter Von Gunter Group?”
Ahlam narrowed his eyes. “Sounds familiar …”
“Big weapons company. The owner is part of a group called the World Builders.”
When Dr. Ahlam gave a blank look, Fahad shrugged. “Not important. Because Anwar agrees with me that this missile will work perfectly to carry your elixir to its target.”
“But Israel still has the RTS defense system. I’m afraid it will keep my bio-weapon from reaching its destination.”
“You worry too much,” Fahad said smugly. “RTS will be of no consequence. We will be burning the skin off infidels one way or another.”
Pepsi Center, Denver
Deborah had made a mad dash downtown to do some emergency shopping and was just now arriving back at the convention center and flashed her credentials. Her Allfone rang. It was Pack McHenry.
“Deborah,” he said quietly, “I have every reason to believe that Zeta Milla is one bad actor. To the extreme.”
Deborah scurried to a corner of the convention center to buy herself some privacy. “Yes, Pack, I copy that.”
“I’d stay clear of her, if I were you.”
“Can’t do that, sir.”
“Listen, Deb, this woman is like a coral snake; you don’t realize how poisonous until it’s too late. Leave her to somebody else.”
“Like who? The convention starts tonight. I get the feeling that something is about to break — right on top of us. Maybe even tonight.”
“Since none of my people are available,” McHenry said, “I put in a call to John Gallagher, but he hasn’t called back. Maybe he can do something, push the FBI or local cops to intervene.”
“He’s tied up in some kind of wedding in Northern California.”
“Then you need to confer with your mother. Get someone there to help you.”
“Too late. You know the hoops I went through to get inside the campaign. I’m in striking distance. The tip of the spear. I need to finish this.”
“All right. I understand. I’ll keep calling Gallagher.”
“Fine. Just know that I’m getting close.”
Then she noticed Rick, who was roaming the lobby, searching for someone. He caught sight of Deborah and trotted over.
“Very close,” she added to Pack McHenry and clicked off her cell.
“Come on, Deborah,” Rick said in a huff, “we got to get up to the war room suite — like right now. We’re supposed to be serving drinks and running errands.” He looked down at the big duffle bag on the floor next to her. “What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s mine. Didn’t have time to drop it off at my hotel room.” Then she grabbed it by the handle. “I’ll just take it with me.”
“Whatever,” Rick said. “Let’s go. I did you a favor getting you in, so let’s not blow it, okay?”
IDF Headquarters, Tel Aviv
“I can’t seem to get a handle on this. I’ve worked the problem from every possible angle and still can’t get to the bottom.”
Over the phone, Ted, the senior engineer at Jordan Technologies, sounded stressed. As well he should.
Joshua was standing off to the side of the R&D conference room with a high-security satellite Allfone in his hand. Several IDF officers were huddled at the other end of the room.
“Look, Ted, they’re telling me there’s a new threat emerging over here. They’ve got intel that Anwar al-Madrassa was spotted in Lebanon and may be inside Israel by now. His terror cell is working on a nightmare kind of bio weapon. We can’t afford to just turn that kind of incoming missile around one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees. It may be launched from a civilian area. We need three-hundred-and-sixty-degree-capture control. And we need it now.”
“I keep telling you, our computer models work perfectly, but something happens in the real-world tests that I can’t pick up from here.”
Joshua rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel himself tightening like a steel cable. “Well, I’ve checked the data from this end. Our IDF friends have suggested that we adjust the intensity of the laser beam itself. They think if we scale it down a bit we’d have a better chance at loading our three-sixty controls into the missile’s total guidance program.”
“Problem is,” Ted said, “once you do that, you may lose the capacity to do the initial capture of the trajectory data from the guidance program in the missile cone. If that happens, you may lose all control over the incoming weapon.”
“That’s what I told them,” Joshua said, shaking his head. “I think we keep the laser intensity where it is. My guess is there’s something going wrong in the data stream between the laser a
nd the guidance of the incoming missile. Keep working the numbers and see if you can find any anomalies. This may be a software problem. Look at the code we’re using and see if that’s the issue.”
Joshua clicked off and looked over at Ethan, who was sitting at the conference table.
Ethan sat up straighter. “I wish there was something I could do,” he said, “but you guys are the tech geniuses. I’m just a former flyboy.”
Joshua sauntered over to Ethan and sat down. “This glitch is driving me crazy. But I’m glad you’re here.”
“I appreciate that, but I still can’t help you with your RTS problem, and I’ve got no political clout with the Israelis.”
“On the other hand,” Joshua replied, keeping his voice low, “you did some quick thinking in that market, keeping those Shin Bet agents off my back.”
“Which turned out to be a moot issue,” Ethan said with a smirk, “because they stopped chasing you down anyway — now that they need your RTS system again.”
Joshua bent closer to Ethan, and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Listen to me, Ethan. I know you wonder what you’re doing here, but I know you’re meant to be here with me. There are things that have yet to be revealed. You’re in a time of preparation, I think, and I know you balk when I talk like this … but I can see in your eyes that you’re starting to believe me. The role you are meant to play is not about me. It’s much bigger than that. I get the feeling you are going to be a major player in events to come.” Then Joshua felt his countenance fall. “Which means, necessarily, that I fear for you at the same time.”
Ethan looked confused, but Josh couldn’t explain it any further.
“Colonel Jordan?” A voice came from one of the IDF officers on the other side of the room. “We have a message for you to call your wife.”
Joshua nodded to them and turned to Ethan. “That’s good news. I haven’t heard from Abby for the last week. I wonder what kind of trouble she’s been getting into.”
FIFTY-SIX
While Joshua was on the Allfone with Abigail, Ethan stepped out into the hallway of the IDF headquarters. He thought about Josh’s comments, and his gut did a flip. He didn’t understand the meaning behind Josh’s words. He was used to Josh’s talk about the so-called end times, but now things were getting a little too personal.
As he walked down the hallway, he saw something that made his head spin. He tried to look nonchalant but failed. He made an attempt at a polite head nod but ended up breaking into a grin. Rivka was in the corridor, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. She looked unusually professional in a dark suit and tan blouse. She greeted him, “Hello, Mr. America.”
“You look spiffy,” Ethan shot back.
“Well, I’m on official IDF business.”
With an attempt at bravado, Ethan cracked, “I thought you came by for me.”
“And what if I did?”
Suddenly he knew this was one of the nanosecond moments — in the cockpit, stick in hand, incoming aircraft sighted. Friend or not?
“Well,” Ethan said, not realizing he was blushing, “I’d say that was good to hear. Really good. If it’s true.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Rivka said, motioning them away from the cluster of Israeli officers who were mulling over something out in the hall.
He thrust his hands in his cargo pants. “The last time I saw you, Rivka, you weren’t so dressy. In fact, you were decked out like a fishmonger at the Mahame Yehuda Market, tossing a pan of oily fish guts on the floor, right in front of those Shin Bet agents.”
She muffled a laugh. “Have to say I enjoyed that one. I knew that HQ here would eventually get that extradition decision of Bensky reversed, talk some sense into the PM — particularly now that the threat level is sky-high again and they need you guys.”
Rivka stopped and looked around. No military staffers were in earshot. “And I noticed the neat little trick you pulled with the forklift at the Souk. Those Shin Bet guys were so ticked …”
“Brought back memories. I operated a forklift in a warehouse, working through junior college, before the Air Force.” He and Rivka leaned against the wall now. It felt good to be close to her again. She smiled but didn’t respond. He kept talking. “That was you, giving me the text message that day in the market, wasn’t it? Warning us about the two agents.”
“I told you once that I was the best friend you could have.”
Ethan looked down the hall, where the IDF officers on the bio-threat task force had finished their huddle and were going back into the conference room. “Are you in on this deal too?” he asked, nodding down toward the conference room at the end of the hall.
She answered with a simplicity that Ethan recognized. It was her resolve to do her duty to Israel. “Yes,” she said. “I’m involved.” But then, with equal calm, she added, “And so are you.”
That was a comment Ethan wasn’t ready for. He took a breath and was about to dive into it with Rivka, but before he could, Colonel Clint McKinney came hustling down the hallway. “Ethan, where’s Josh? I’ve got to talk to him, stat, about taking a little trip with me.”
Ethan pointed to the open door down the corridor. “He’s taking a call down there, sir. In that room.”
McKinney thanked him and quick-stepped his way to the conference room. He disappeared through the open door.
Ramat air Base, Israel
On their drive from the IDF headquarters to the airbase, Colonel McKinney briefed Joshua on what he was about to see. The idea electrified Joshua’s attitude about finding a solution. Joshua said he had been working hard to use a “left field” approach to solving the RTS problem — thinking beyond the parameters of the problem — which had to do with the inability of the RTS laser system when fired from a defensive rocket, to take hostage the entire guidance program of the other, hostile, incoming missile.
“Yes, Clint, absolutely,” Joshua said with a burst of enthusiasm, “this could be the answer.”
Clint eyed him with a smile as they strode into the experimental-aircraft hangar.
The IDF officer finally had to ask, “Josh, for a guy tormented by your RTS problem, you seem to be in a good mood all of a sudden. What’s up?” Then he flashed a grin. “Is it just my brilliant suggestion?”
“Not to take anything away from you,” Joshua shot back with a smile, “but I just called my wife. I’ll tell you, Clint, God is good. Abby’s been punching away at that phony criminal case the DOJ brought against me. Now she’s got the other side up against the ropes. And the court order keeping her from joining me over here just got kicked. She’s making plans to round up Cal and Deborah and fly over here.”
Inside the hangar, Joshua saw what he had come for. He walked slowly around the gleaming fighter jet and studied it. Another officer joined them.
“Josh, this is Dr. Jacob Chabbaz,” McKinney said. “He’s in charge of our R&D RTS in-flight program.”
Joshua pointed to the fighter. “So, this is it?”
Chabbaz nodded. “The F-35 Laser Variant. We weren’t planning on manning this one yet, but with the newest threat, I think we can prep it for you. You’ll notice the orbital laser housing where the weapon bay door used to be. The LV has three-hundred-sixty-degree optics, capable of locating any incoming missiles. Excellent capacity also to strike them with your RTS laser.”
Joshua peeked under the fuselage at the laser mounting. “I’ve read the specs. Very impressive.” He stood and looked over at McKinney. “You know what I’m thinking …”
“Yep. That’s why I brought you here. You’ve flown our F-22s over here in the last few months. Our test pilots can run you through the operational stuff for this F-35 variant on the ground. But it’s a canopy built for only one pilot — and that pilot has to be able to decipher the RTS laser readings during the test runs. Nobody can do that like you, Josh.”
“Okay,” Joshua said, “I’m in. Once your guys walk me through the drill I think I can handle taking it up for some test
runs. Clint, this may be the way to crack the problem with our RTS data-stream. Starting with in-flight use of the RTS aimed from the jet at an incoming missile at a close range. If I can capture the guidance program of the enemy bird completely that way, then we just work backward to refine the ground-to-air system.”
Clint McKinney nodded in agreement. But he and Dr. Chabbaz exchanged glances. Then Clint spoke up. “Our intel says that this bio-threat is imminent. So, I need to start your operational briefing immediately. That’s one phase of our defensive response — but there’s another.”
“Am I involved in that?” Joshua asked.
“No,” Clint said with a penetrating look, “but your assistant, Ethan March, is.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Pepsi Convention Center, Denver, the Hewbright War Room
Secret Service Agent Owens, wearing the usual dark suit, white shirt, and light blue tie, was munching a cookie in the corner of the five-room suite while Deborah cleared the soda cans and coffee cups from the long buffet table. The Hewbright staff had decided they couldn’t trust the convention hospitality workers to set up and tear down the food service, not since the hacking of Hewbright’s Allfone, and Agent Owens had made them aware of the need for heightened security.
Deborah was tossing the trash from the buffet table into a big garbage bag. She glanced over at the meeting taking place in the adjoining room, where the senator, in shirtsleeves, was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Beside him stood George Caulfield, his national campaign manager, and across from him was Zeta Milla, holding her black D&G handbag. Winston Garvey, the chief foreign-policy advisor, was somewhere out of sight, and Deborah could hear snatches of their conversation. Several American companies in Bolivia, they were saying, had just been forcibly taken over by government forces, and the executives had been taken hostage. President Tulrude was deferring to the United Nations to intervene. Now Hewbright was formulating his public response.
The opening ceremonies of the convention would start that night. Deborah knew that would involve a military honor guard and a musical number by a large community choir from Colorado Springs. That would be followed by a video presentation on the JumboTrons, giving a retrospective of American history, called Our Legacy of Liberty. Later, at the end of the evening, Senator Hewbright would appear on stage and formally present the big ceremonial gavel to the chairman of the party, who was presiding over the convention. As she thought of all this, Deborah had a feeling of impending dread — it was the timing of it all, right before the climax of the convention. If someone was going to disrupt Hewbright’s nomination, wouldn’t this be the time? Deborah knew she had to do something — anything — to find out what Zeta Milla might be planning. And she had to do it fast. It was time to try the plan she had formulated earlier.
