No Survivors

by Tom Cain

  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.

  84

  It was midday in the Adriatic. For the past three hours, Vermulen had been locked in consultation with Marcus Reddin, his second-in-command, transforming the information from the bomb list into a workable mission. The yacht’s communications systems had been used to download maps and plans. Calls had been made to the contacts supplied by Pavel Novak and the Dutchman Jonny Koolhaas.

  Now there were nine of them in the main saloon: Vermulen, Alix, the Italian scientist Frankie Riva, Marcus Reddin, and the five men under his command. The room had been swept for bugs and a screen had been set up at one end, where Vermulen was standing, with a remote control in his hand. He was about to start when there was a respectful knock and a steward poked his head around the door.

  “Sorry to disturb you, General, but the captain thought you might like some refreshments. I have coffee, juices, some pastries, if you’d like them.”

  Vermulen was about to refuse the offer, but then he saw the faces of Reddin’s men light up with the soldier’s instinctive willingness to accept any offer of food and drink, whenever it may come.

  “Sure—come on in,” he said, and the steward pushed in a cart laden with enticing snacks, from which the aroma of fresh coffee wafted. The next few minutes vanished in the filling of cups and loading of plates.

  “Everybody ready?” Vermulen finally asked. “Okay, then, gentlemen, let me brief you on your mission.

  “What we are going to do tonight has the potential to change the course of history. We have the chance to strike a mighty blow against not one, but two of the greatest threats currently facing the world: rogue nuclear weapons and international terrorism. And this is how we’re going to do it.”

  He pressed the remote and the screen filled with a map of a land-locked territory shaped like a roughly drawn, irregular diamond, one hundred miles across at its widest point.

  “This is the province of Kosovo, which is currently part of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. It lies inland, roughly eighty miles from the coast of the Adriatic Sea to the west. Kosovo is currently entering the early stages of a civil war between the majority of the population, who are ethnic Albanians—that’s Albania, down there on the southwest border of Kosovo—and the minority, who are Serbs—that’s Serbia, to the north and east. Long story short, the Serbs have been ruling the Albanians, and the Albanians don’t like it. They want Kosovo to be an independent state. The Serbs don’t want to let them go.

  “So what’s it got to do with us? Simple. The Albanian cause is being hijacked by Islamic terrorists, just like the cause of freedom was hijacked in Afghanistan. These terrorists, operating all over the world, pose a clear and present danger to the United States, and our government is choosing to ignore it. And that danger is all the great
er because there is a small-scale nuclear bomb, right here in Kosovo, planted by the Russians ten years ago or more. It is unguarded, sitting in a suitcase, just waiting for someone to come along and find it. We cannot allow that bomb to fall into terrorist hands. So that someone is going to have to be us.”

  “Holy shit,” muttered Maroni. “Now I know why the pay’s so good.”

  Vermulen outlined the mission. Late that afternoon they would rendezvous at sea with a fishing boat carrying the weapons they would need. The yacht would then sail into Croatian waters and moor in a secluded bay near the village of Molunat in southern Croatia, right by the border with the Yugoslav province of Montenegro. At dusk, around seven-thirty, they would go ashore and be met by a guide. He would have the vehicles needed to take them the 125 miles overland to their destination, the main administration building of the Zvečan lead smelter, part of the sprawling Trepca mining complex in northern Kosovo, where the bomb was located. Reddin and his team would stand guard while Riva used his spectrometer to uncover the bomb’s hiding place.

  Once it was found, Vermulen would record a brief statement on video, describing what he had found, and where. He’d stress the dangers posed to global security by the lethal combination of international terrorism and unsecured, small-scale nuclear weapons. That done, the bomb would be moved, under Riva’s close supervision, to their vehicles. They would then drive southeast a farther sixty miles to the border with the neighboring republic of Macedonia, where NATO forces were stationed. The last few miles might have to be undertaken on foot, to avoid detection by border guards. Once the video statement had been released to the media, preventing a coverup, the bomb would be handed over, as would additional information, which would be retained aboard the yacht for safekeeping until that point.

  Vermulen swept his gaze around the room, looking each man in the eye.

  “I believe that once we have released our statement to the world media, and provided proof to the U.S. government, two things are bound to follow. First, a major effort will be made to retrieve all the missing weapons. And second, the reaction from the media, and the American people—hell, people all over the world—will force our politicians to wake up and take action to protect us from the threat of global terror. If we can stop Islamic extremism now, we can make the world a safer place for our families, our neighbors, for people everywhere. If we do not, then I truly fear what the future may hold.

  “Gentlemen,” he concluded, “this mission is fundamentally very simple. It involves covering a distance shorter than the drive from Boston to New York City. We’ve got to be on the lookout for Serbian or KLA units, and avoid police or military roadblocks. But if we take due care, there is no reason to anticipate the need for violent action. The bomb itself is perfectly safe. Absent its detonation code, it will not explode. Nor will it give off dangerous levels of radiation.

  “So rest up, get some sleep if you can. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Up on the bridge, the captain was in radio contact with a private plane, currently flying northwest, two hours out of San Antonio.

  “Did you get that, sir?” he asked.

  “Certainly did, Captain, every word. So how did you fix it? I figured Vermulen would be smart enough to check for bugs.”

  “He was, sir. Swept the room before the meeting. So we offered him some refreshments, and stuck a listening device inside the lid of a carafe of coffee. Worked out fine.”

  “That it did, Captain. I’ll be calling you with more instructions later, regarding one other little job I need you to do for me.”

  “Yes sir—I’ll look forward to that.”

  Waylon McCabe sat back with a feeling of satisfaction so deep it almost dulled the pain of the tumors eating away at his body from within. In a few minutes he would call Dusan Darko in Belgrade and pass on the information he would need to intercept Vermulen and seize the bomb. The assault would have to be expertly handled. McCabe wanted the weapon intact and Vermulen alive. He also needed Dr. Francesco Riva in one piece. From the moment Vermulen had told him about the meeting in Rome, McCabe had realized that the Italian’s expertise would be vital to his plans.

  So now it was Easter Saturday: Just one day to go before Armageddon would be unleashed, the warrior Christ would descend from heaven, and he would be led to eternal life. True, there would be suffering. But McCabe didn’t care. He had killed a lot of people for a lot worse causes than that.

  85

  When agents from the FBI’s San Antonio field office called at McCabe’s Kerr County ranch, they were told that he wasn’t home: He’d left for Europe, on business. It didn’t take too long after that to establish that his private jet had taken off from Stinson Municipal Airport, six miles south of San Antonio, shortly after 3 A.M., local time.

  “Can you describe the aircraft?” asked the special agent who’d made the call.

  “I don’t know the exact model, just a regular executive jet, eight-seater . . .” replied the airport official.

  The agent was barely paying attention and about to hang up when the official interrupted himself and said, “No, wait—that’s wrong. . . .”

  “What is?” The agent didn’t even bother to disguise her lack of interest.

  “Well, Mr. McCabe just had that plane adapted, only got it back no more’n ten days ago. So now it’s got kind of a bulge in its belly and, you know, a door that opens up, I guess like a bomber, or something. . . .”

  Now she was a lot more interested.

  Nine in the morning, Eastern Standard Time, and the pace was picking up. A bunch of aeronautical engineers and corporate executives were trying to explain how they had been pleased to work on Waylon McCabe’s aircraft for free, believing the modifications were going to be used to drop supplies to starving Africans.

  By now the plane had left U.S. airspace. McCabe’s pilot had filed a flight plan to Shannon, Ireland, right at the limit of the plane’s range. The tracking data, however, suggested he was actually heading farther north, toward Reykjavik, Iceland.

  “Can’t we get someone at State to call the Icelandic authorities, get them to impound the plane, arrest McCabe?” asked Mulvagh when Jaworski passed on the information.

  “On what grounds?” came the reply. “Waylon McCabe is not a fugitive from justice, has committed no crime, and we have no reason to believe he’s carrying any contraband, drugs, or weapons.”

  “Yeah, but he’s just about to . . .”

  “About to what, exactly?” Jaworski interrupted. “We don’t know what he’s going to do—that’s the problem.”

  By now, McCabe’s telephone, travel, and financial records were undergoing extensive investigation and analysis. McCabe’s doctors refused to discuss their patient’s health in any detail, citing their absolute duty of confidentiality. But trips to cancer-treatment centers in Houston and New York told their own story. It didn’t take long, either, to spot the million-dollar donation to the Reverend Ezekiel Ray, and the calls between the two men.

  Mulvagh handled that interview personally.

  “Can I ask you what you discussed, Reverend?”

  Ray hesitated.

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk about that. It’s a personal matter between me and one of my congregation.”

  “I understand, but it’s not like the confession booth, right? I mean, you aren’t obliged to keep your conversation secret.”

  “That’s correct, but even so . . .”

  “Reverend, I appreciate your position. But I have to tell you, this is a matter of national security. We need to know what’s been on McCabe’s mind. Could you at least tell me what kinds of things you talked about, in general, even if you don’t go into specifics?”

  Several seconds’ silence were followed by a thoughtful sigh.

  “Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

  “And. . . .”

  “Well, as you probably know, my ministry is centered on the concept of the rapture, the ascension into heaven of the chosen, at the en
d of time, as prophesied in the Book of Revelation. Mr. McCabe was deeply moved by the prospect of rapture, as are many, many of the decent Christian men and women who attend my services.”

  The preacher was hiding something. Even down a telephone line, unable to see the other man’s face, Mulvagh could sense it: Something to do with the rapture had put Ray on his guard.

  “I’m sure they are, Reverend,” Mulvagh persisted. “And when McCabe talked about the rapture, what was it, exactly, that moved him? What made him want to talk to you in person? He must have wanted to know something—something he couldn’t find out just by listening to your sermons, or watching you on TV.”

  “He wanted to know . . .”

  Again Ray paused.

  “Yes?” asked Mulvagh.

  “He wanted to know about the final battle against the Antichrist. That’s the conflict that Saint John prophesies that will bring about the coming of Christ.”

  “What about that battle?”

  “Oh, my . . . I just don’t know if I should tell you this. But what Mr. McCabe wanted to know was, What would God think if he—that’s McCabe—started the battle himself ?”

  Hour by hour, the investigation picked up pace. By lunchtime agents had made the connection to Clinton Tulane and established a further link between McCabe and Dusan Darko. It was clear now how McCabe planned to get hold of the bomb, and in what country. All that remained was its ultimate destination.

  A brainstorming meeting was convened at the White House; all the agencies involved in the case were invited.

  “We’ve got to consider every possibility, no matter how crazy it sounds,” said Leo Horabin, the national security adviser. “So whatever you’ve got on your mind, don’t be afraid to say it.”

  Tom Mulvagh waited his turn, letting others air their ideas before he said his piece.