“I want you to do everything you can to discover where this uranium is headed and the plans for its use.”
The team, without asking a question or making a comment, left the room as quickly as it had arrived. Waters then picked up the phone and dialed the White House.
***
Jeffrey Haun, the U.S. President's Chief of Staff, entered the Oval Office. Haun looked like the stereotypical grandfather: he was a little heavy but compact, his receding hairline accentuated his nose.
He announced to the President of the United States that Sam Waters from the NSA was on the phone, “He says it’s critical he speak with you.”
Haun then plopped in one of the wingchairs and dropped onto the coffee table a copy of the Post open to yet another caricature of the president.
Randall Jackson Burke, The President of the United States, set down his reading material, stood up, self-consciously tucked in his shirt all the way around his belt, walked over and looked down at the cartoon. He picked up the newspaper and read the signature of the artist.
Raising his voice, Burke said, “I’m tired of being depicted as a pear. This has gone on long enough. Make sure there’s no invitation for this idiot’s editor when we have the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.”
He then threw the paper across the room toward the trashcan. The pages separated and spread out, floating and landing everywhere but in the receptacle. Burke grunted, turned back to his desk, and picked up the phone.
“Sam, what’s going on?” the president asked, rubbing the nape of his neck, and sitting down.
Waters said, “We have a situation in Pakistan. We intercepted a communication that went through to French Intelligence. Apparently, about sixteen-nuclear-bombs-worth of enriched uranium was stolen two nights ago from the Sehali plant outside Islamabad.”
“Do we know what organization?”
“Two. The Taliban and the Commander Nazir Group.”
“We just identified the CNG last year. I don’t recall that they’re part of the Taliban?”
“No. They’re independent. We’re trying to find out if they’re working with any other groups.”
“This is what we feared would eventually happen, that terrorist groups would band together. Do we have any idea what they plan to do with the uranium?”
“No, sir. There aren’t many anti-American countries that could use enriched uranium to do anything. Maybe North Korea or possibly Iran—thanks to the latest, lame disarmament agreement.”
“I signed that agreement, Sam.”
“I know, sir. I’m just a little frustrated that we have to deal with this.”
“Keep me posted,” Burke said, hung up and went back to his reading, but not before he jotted a note to himself.
Call Etheridge.
***
The Pakistani ambassadors to the UN along with the ambassadors from the U.S., France, Great Britain, and a number of other countries were slowly becoming aware of the uranium theft. As mum as Pakistan’s prime minister wished the incident to be, the news media caught wind, and the information was soon spreading around the world.
Each news network and newspaper tried to outdo the other, sensationalizing the subject. What began as a theft, admittedly a very important one, ended up as the “imminent detonation of nuclear bombs and the end of the world,” along with the terrorists’ success in striking fear around the globe.
Advertisers were scrambling to capitalize on humanity’s fear. The networks began positioning themselves to make money like they did on the tails of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on the New York City World Trade Center in the United States.
Consulates around the world began receiving phone calls from foreign workers inquiring about the safety of their lives and that of their family’s. Numerous governments began posting travel advisories.
Along with the normal cautions for U.S. citizens visiting any country in the Middle East, East Asia, and North Africa; the U.S. State Department posted warnings for almost every country whether they were an ally or not.
The media continued drawing hypothetical scenarios that caused even the most adventuresome traveler to hesitate before booking a trip.
The airlines saw an immediate drop in inquiries and reservations, and so did the hotel industry. It was even impacting foreign rental-car companies and Rail Europe.
Government representatives of all countries around the world were being barraged with calls and emails from concerned citizens.
Hollywood, never intending to miss a capitalistic opportunity, began making plans for yet another disaster movie. They were the only true optimists. The story would take at least two years to produce. There would be multiple explosions, destruction of the most unimaginable nature, excruciating death, and resulting diseases that would wipe out all living things.
The only requirement was that the world would have to stay intact so that they could make the money back on their investment and then spend it.
***
Mogadishu, Somalia
In a dimly-lit room in an abandoned building, Mohammed Ally Atwah and Ahmed Fadhil finished wiring new telephone hardware with “source-suppressing” software so that their calls could not be traced. Once finished, they sat down far enough away from each other so that their conversations would not bleed through the mouthpieces of their individual phones and began to dial the numbers in front of them.
Every head-of-government official in each country of the free world was on the list. They began with Israel, and then they called Turkey, then Germany, then Great Britain and continued until they reached their final two calls. Atwah, picking at his face, dialed the number for the U.S. White House; and Fadhil, puffing on his cigar, called the Salon doré at Palais de l'Élysée in France.
***
President Randall Burke was in the Oval Office reading yet another scenario created by the Pentagon to deal with ISIS—the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. So far, every strategy concocted had myriad caveats that made each hypothetical plan too risky. But now, time was of the essence. The threats were a reality in Iraq, Syria, Iran, and Turkey. And it was believed that soon the United States would once again be a target of a major offensive on its own turf.
Jeffrey Haun, President Burke’s Chief of Staff, entered the office and said, “We have a call from an undisclosed location. The person refuses to speak to anyone but you.”
“Here we go again,” Burke said, standing and placing his dark, briarwood Half-bent Dublin pipe in the ashtray. He could only use it in the Oval or other West Wing offices. The First Lady refused him that privilege when upstairs in the residence or on vacation.
Burke said, “Either it’s probably from the Taliban, ISIS or the CNG. I’m sure they want to bargain with the uranium they just stole. The person male or female?”
“Male. A clean American accent,” Haun said.
“A radicalized American.”
“Most probably.”
“It’s bad enough we have to be weary of foreigners, but now we have to be alert to subversive, American citizens,” Burke said, tucked in his shirt and picked up the phone.
“Burke here.”
Atwah said, “Mr. President, I’m calling to let you know that the free world is on the brink of experiencing a catastrophic event that will have a devastating impact on its economy.”
“What event?”
“We have plans in place that will bring you and your allies to your economic knees within the next thirty days.”
“What do you want?”
“For the free world to be destroyed,” Atwah said and hung up.
President Burke cradled the phone, turned to Jeffrey Haun and said, “What could they do this time that would hurt us economically? Hurt the world economically? Make sure we recorded this.”
Haun opened the side door and then said, “We got it.”
“Where’s my godchild and her sister?” President Burke asked, remembering the last time terrorists made a call to the Oval Office.
Haun said, “Sharon’s in Edgewood. Karen left and flew her plane from Pittsburgh airport to Swan Nest.”
“Keep track of them.”
Haun agreed and left the president to continue pondering the ISIS dilemma.
***
With all the opulence of the gold accouterments in the Salon doré at Palais de l'Élysée—the seat of French government—the gray, plastic-skinned telephone sitting on the three-shelved, glass table seemed totally out of place along with the 36-inch, flat-screen TV that sat adjacent to the window. Two candelabras seemed to be precariously balanced on the fireplace mantel behind the president’s desk with every candle slightly askew.
French president François Charpentiér was sitting at his desk reading a brief on the theft of enriched uranium from the Sehali plant when the door opened. He looked over his glasses and between the two, gold-shaded lamps that sat on each side of the ornate desk.
Lucas Michaud, his Chief of Staff entered. He was a somewhat frail-looking man with thinning hair and large ears.
“Mr. President, we have a call coming in from an untraceable line. The person claims to have a message that will place France on high alert.”
“Why wasn’t it directed to André Marson, the Directorate for International Cooperation?”
“The caller refused to speak to anyone but you.”
President Charpentiér picked up the phone and said in a gruff voice, “Charpentiér.”
“Mr. President, I wish to make you aware of an imminent situation involving France and its economic stability.”
“What situation?”
“By the end of the month, France will be faced with economic ruin. We have plans in place.”
“Is this extortion? You want something? Money?”
“That and for France to go bankrupt,” Fadhil said, disconnected, and lit up another cigar.
“What the hell was that all about?” President Charpentiér said, rubbing his chin.
The outer door opened and an aide stepped into the room and said, “We couldn’t trace the call. We have no idea where it originated.”
“It’s recorded?” Michaud asked.
“Yes.”
“Good, see if you can match the voiceprint to our database,” Michaud said.
Raising his voice, President Charpentiér asked, “What do they plan to do, and who are they? Is this a crank call or is it real? Is it terrorism? Are they planning a 9/11 attack? A Bataclan Theatre massacre? We lost eighty-nine people that November and almost four hundred others were injured. That evening hurt us financially. People cancelled their travel plans, reservations dropped for the next year, and so did the Euro. What could they do to bankrupt us?”
Michaud said, “They could attempt a 9/11 and attack our financial district: the European Securities and Markets Authority or the Banque de France. We’ve been on elevated alert ever since Bataclan. Our guard has stayed up, and our military and police have increased their presence. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Mr. President.”
Michaud left President Charpentiér alone to continue reading his brief.
CHAPTER 8
Karen was sitting at her old, drafting table in the vacant Krystal Vision offices in the center of Washington, D.C., staring through the window. Her father had built the company from scratch using money he had saved while freelancing his services on his quest to owning his own architectural-design company. It took years, but he built up the company’s reputation to be the most respected firm in the District. Karen didn’t have the heart to let go of the building after he sold the company and disappeared.
She didn’t have to work. But she felt that resurrecting her father’s company in honor of his memory was the proper thing to do.
She picked up the remote and switched on the TV. It was already tuned to the news station. Reporters were describing bombs that had been dropped by Russia into Syria in their fight against ISIS. Then the coverage switched to missiles that had been fired from Gaza into Israel.
Karen recognized some of the streets and the damaged buildings in the neighborhoods.
Israel’s prime minister appeared on the screen and said that the last attack two hours ago was that of ISIS terrorists along with Hamas.
Karen’s cellphone rang. It was her cousin, Moshe, calling from Israel. She shivered, muted the TV, and answered the call.
“Mom and Dad are dead,” Moshe said. “A rocket exploded in the shop. I’m in the hospital and so is Maya.”
“Moshe, slow down, what happened?” Karen asked, wishing she were there.
“I’m going to lose my leg. But Maya’s lost half her face.”
“Moshe,” Karen said quietly, “I’m so sorry about your parents. I will be there as soon as I can. What hospital are you in?”
“Aviv Sourasky Medical Center, Ichilov, in Tel Aviv,” Moshe said.
“I’ll catch a flight right away.”
Karen hung up and watched words print across the TV screen:
“Shelling in Tel Aviv. The Hamas have rockets with greater range than before. Israel’s Iron Dome has been 97% effective, but there are still Israeli causalities. Many more causalities for Gaza including Palestinian civilians that the Hamas are using as human shields.”
Karen turned off the television and called the airlines to book a flight to Tel Aviv. As soon as she completed the reservations, her cellphone rang again. She looked at the ID.
Homeland Security.
It was from the number they had used to contact her before. She let it ring.
That’s strange that Homeland Security is calling me. Right now.
Karen looked up at the ceiling. She walked over to the thermostat controls and shut them off. The fans slowly came to a halt. Karen walked back to her desk, stood in the center of the room, and closed her eyes.
There’s that faint buzzing.
She climbed up onto her chair and then to an adjacent desk. She reached up to the acoustical tiles of the ceiling and gently moved a section to the side. She grabbed her chair, set it on the desk and stood atop it so she could see into the dark space between the cement ceiling and the drop-down sections.
She closed her eyes and rotated in a circle, listening, smelling. She zeroed in on a low electronic sound to her left. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
Son-of-a-bitch. I was right.
There, strapped to the framing of the suspended ceiling, was a small receiver. She followed the wires to the wall and then followed the split to the adjacent office. She reached over and gently picked up the transmitter and pulled it down into the light so she could inspect it.
She scowled, reached back up and gingerly placed it back where it had been. She reset the ceiling panel, eased herself down and placed the chair back onto the floor.
The office is bugged. And I’m probably being watched. Why?
She’d leave the surveillance for now.
Karen left the Krystal Vision office, drove back to her Swan Nest Pond cabin, quickly packed, and drove to the airport for her flight to Tel Aviv.
The government fixed everything all right, but not without modifications. Both the office and the cabin are bugged.
Karen decided that when she got back from Israel, she’d deal with the invasion of her privacy.
***
U.S. Homeland Security
“Why is she making reservations to Israel?” Carl Etheridge asked.
“She has relatives there,” Nathan Mallory said.
“So she just gets back from reconfiguring the security at the Labyrinth, and she has to dart off to Israel? I know you two are or were an item. What do you know?”
Mallory didn’t address the personal reference but said, “We only heard half of the conversation from our plant in the Krystal Vision offices, but we believe her aunt and uncle were killed by Hamas or ISIS rockets fired into Israel. We also heard her make the reservations to Tel Aviv,” Mallory said.
“We need to bring her in. Her capabilities are too great to ignor
e.”
“You mean her senses?”
“We observed her while she worked on reconstructing the security system at the Labyrinth. Her vision has miraculously improved so that she no longer needs corrective lenses to read, and she can see things at great distances—even better than Chuck Yeager could in his prime.
“Her hearing allows her to detect even the slightest sounds through ceilings, floors and walls no matter how thick. Her sense of touch allows her to feel the vibrations of oncoming human steps from almost fifty feet away and the approach of a truck beyond a hundred yards. She was seen turning to look back toward a tunnel entrance just before a bird soared in.
“Who knows how sensitive her taste buds are, and she can smell things that to the rest of us are odorless, and she can pick up a scent from the other side of a building as large as the Pentagon. Her receptors are equivalent to a bear’s, maybe even a Luna moth’s. We’d need to test her to find out.
“In addition, we swear she’s become clairvoyant. If she decides to align herself with terrorists or any foreign country, U.S. security will be placed in jeopardy.”
“You’re not saying that she’s dangerous to us? To national security? She’s not—”
“She’ll be much easier to track once she has an implant.”
“She may not let you.”
“Well, if she joins us, we can’t afford her not to have one. And she can’t either.”
***
Tel Aviv, Israel
Karen arrived at the Aviv Sourasky Medical Center and was directed to Moshe and Maya’s room.
Karen’s father, Leonard Krystal, had achieved extensive wealth since leaving Israel and settling in Virginia just outside Washington, D.C. His twin brother, Martin, decided to stay in Jerusalem and operate his small delicatessen. Although he had to sacrifice the chance to make a substantial income, his homeland familiarity gave him contentment. He put a roof over his family’s head, food on the table, and clothes on their backs. All the necessities were provided for with little opportunity for frills or luxuries. But the family was happy and healthy.
Krystal Scent (Krystal Vibration Series Book 2) Page 4
