by Jack Mars
CHAPTER FORTY
3:30 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time (10:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Santa Cruz de la Palma
La Palma, Canary Islands
Atlantic Ocean
“How was your soup?” the white-haired old man said.
Gregorio Fuentes, until recently Rajan Muhammad, nodded with gusto.
“Very good.”
The soup was chorizo and potato in a tomato broth, very Spanish, and quite delicious. It was the perfect weather for a hot soup. Likely it was a warm day for this region, but after spending weeks on end in the blazing African desert, the weak afternoon sun here felt cool to Gregorio.
He was tired. He had passed the weapon through the normal ivory smuggling networks, then detoured it here, all without incident, and arriving even before he had imagined. But it had been a long twenty-four hours. He was not as young, nor as energetic, as he once had been. He craved sleep, in a big soft bed in a darkened room, the windows thrown wide to catch the ocean breezes.
“And the red wine?” the man said. The name of Gregorio’s host, which of course was not really his name, was Pablo Mendoza. It was a bit of a joke. The word Mendoza meant cold mountain. The man was very large and heavyset, like a mountain, with the huge stone hands of a laborer. In his much younger years, during the war for Algerian independence, he was also a cold, ruthless killer… of the French.
“Lovely, as you must know.”
Pablo nodded. “I do know.”
They were sitting on the outdoor patio of a quiet restaurant high on the craggy hillsides above the city of Santa Cruz de la Palma. The view from the patio—of the city, its high-rise buildings perched on ancient lava flows, and the vast ocean beyond—was astonishing. Behind them and to the right, the volcano—La Cumbre Vieja—rose in the distance, a staggering sight, a giant climbing into the skies. It was an act of faith to build a city, or any human settlement at all, in the shadow of such a thing.
Gregorio was enjoying his meal very much. Soon the entrée would come—mero, similar to what Arabs of the Persian Gulf would call hammour—fresh catch of the day from the cold ocean waters surrounding these exquisite islands.
“How long have you been here?” Gregorio said.
Pablo sighed and shrugged. “Eight years.”
Eight years. Eight years ago the man had disappeared into the role of Pablo Mendoza, an old Spaniard living on La Palma. The character of Mendoza had so thoroughly absorbed and assimilated the previous person that you would never guess this Mendoza had started life as an Algerian. He walked like an old Spaniard, and he talked and drank wine and laughed and tended his garden like an old Spaniard. And he kissed his crucifix from time to time, just like an old Spaniard.
Yet, at the same time, he was a militant Muslim, seeking to bring the kingdom of paradise to Earth. That had never changed. In the past few years, he had gradually brought believers to these islands, fighters, men who chose the life of Allah to the life of this world. He hid them, fed them, established them here as immigrants and workers, slowly building a small invisible army, all in preparation for one night.
This coming night.
“How many men do we have here?” Gregorio said.
Pablo’s eyes glanced to the left, toward the indoor kitchen. Gregorio shook his head—the waiter was not coming.
“Forty-eight.” He grunted. It was almost a laugh. “Some will forget their oaths because life is too good here, too pleasant to risk death, but most will come. In fact, most have already assembled. They are ready to die, if necessary.”
“And the gift I left them?” Gregorio said. “They’ve found it?”
Pablo nodded. “Of course. It will soon be on the way to its destination.” He paused, thoughtful, and took a sip of his wine. “You did an exceptional job, my friend. When we first heard the news out of Nigeria, it was very distressing. These past years, everything we worked for… it seemed to be gone. But you brought it back to us.”
Gregorio sipped his own wine. “We are blessed. The work we do is Allah’s will. This has never been clearer to me.”
“God is great,” Pablo said.
“Yes.”
The waiter came and removed the empty soup bowls from the table. He lifted the wine bottle, saw that half remained, and retreated to the kitchen.
Pablo poured a little more wine into both their glasses. “After we eat, and after we finish the wine, and we chat a bit more, a car will take you to the airport. There is a small plane waiting, which will take off immediately and return you to Casablanca. You have completed a great task, retrieving what was stolen, and even accompanying it this far. But you must leave before anything more takes place. It will be dangerous here tonight, but also in the days that follow.”
Gregorio smiled. “I’m not afraid to die.”
Pablo shook his head. “You’re too valuable. Your work is not yet done. Also, you are too notorious. Your presence here might call attention to itself, and might put some in jeopardy who would otherwise escape.”
“And you?” Gregorio said.
Now Pablo smiled. “I’m old. This island is my home. If it falls into the sea, I will fall with it. If it doesn’t fall, few will suspect me of anything. I am a fixture here.”
The waiter brought the entrees. The presentation was beautiful—the fish lay on the plate, its head intact, alongside a colorful salad and slices of lemon. Gregorio’s fish seemed to stare up at him with its one baleful eye.
“What time will it happen?” Gregorio said.
Pablo shook his head. “We shouldn’t talk of these things any longer,” he said. “Night comes early this time of year. Events are already in motion. When will they happen, you ask? Very soon, I say. Very, very soon.”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
11:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Soap Bubble Laundromat and Dry Cleaners
Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania
“Next, a possible terror threat in New York City,” the middle-aged blonde newscaster on the large wall-mounted television said, holding papers in her hands and staring seriously into the screen.
“Breaking news in sixty seconds. Stay tuned.”
In the Laundromat, the young woman—her name was Brittany—sat on the fake leather sofa and waited for the news to come back on. The truck from the dry cleaning place had already come, picked up this morning’s drop-offs, and left this afternoon’s pick-ups. Brittany had swept and mopped the entire place for the second time today—customers were tracking muddy snow in on their boots—and cleaned the lint screens on all the machines that weren’t in use. There were only a handful of people in here, and everybody seemed to have all the change they needed at the moment.
Brittany had done everything she needed to do. In fact, this was the time of day when everything slowed down to an unbearable pace. By the early afternoon, it would seem like the day was never going to end.
She could afford a little TV time right now.
The last commercial ended and the screen went black. Before the newscaster even came back on, words began to scroll across the bottom of the screen, black words against a yellow band.
BREAKING NEWS: Al-Qaeda has stolen possible Soviet-era weather weapon. Potential threat to New York City and entire East Coast.
The newscaster appeared. She sat at a desk, again holding papers.
“Good morning,” she said. “This just in. Sources within the White House are saying that that terrorist group Al-Qaeda has obtained a weapon of mass destruction stolen from the former Soviet Union, and intend to use it to attack New York City. Sources say that the weapon may be a device designed to manipulate the weather, and may be able to cause massive flooding, or potentially even a tsunami, on the East Coast. Such an attack could come with six hours’ warning or less. We have reached out to the White House, as well as representatives of the Russian government, for confirmation.”
On the TV screen, the woman disappeared and was replaced by the scene of a high bridge overpass, with a c
ircular ramp looping up to it. Dirty snow lined the roadways. Both the bridge and the access ramp were choked with cars. The traffic inched forward, barely moving. In the background was the sound of car horns blaring.
On the yellow band at the bottom, the words read: LIVE: Major Deegan Expressway, Bronx, New York.
“Rumors of the possible attack have spread quickly, and in the past twenty minutes, many people appear to have started evacuating the city, or attempting to do so. It will not be an easy task. Our news choppers already show the northbound Major Deegan, Hutchinson River Parkway, and I-95 at standstills, along with all of the approaches to both levels of the westbound George Washington Bridge.”
The woman reappeared at her desk. She looked into the camera, deadly serious.
“Be advised there are no formal calls for evacuation at this time. More news in two minutes.”
Brittany stared at the TV screen as a laundry detergent commercial came on. She had noticed since she took this job that daytime TV was filled with laundry detergent ads. It was odd, and she puzzled over it often. It was almost as if the TV people knew that she had started working at a laundry.
A heavyset woman who was there to do her laundry came and stood near the couch. Brittany saw the woman every week, but didn’t know her name.
“How far do you think the coast is from here?” Brittany said.
The heavy woman shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe sixty or seventy miles. Maybe a little more.”
“I guess all those people will be coming this way,” Brittany said.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
12:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Oval Office
The White House, Washington, DC
“Susan, I’m feeling hung out to dry right now.”
Susan sat in one of the high-backed chairs in the sitting area. Across the way from her, Stephen Lief’s concerned, bespectacled face took up the vast majority of the large flat-screen monitor on the wall. He wore a tan windbreaker jacket over a shirt and tie. He was in a borrowed office at the Texas State House in Austin. Early this morning, he had met whatever remained of Jack Butterfield’s body when it arrived from Egypt.
The part of the monitor that didn’t have Lief’s face was a box in the upper right-hand corner. That showed CNN footage of the mass exodus of people trying to leave New York City in particular, but also the East Coast in general. People as far south as Norfolk, and as far north as Boston, were all trying to travel inland at once.
Susan’s government was paralyzed. Susan was paralyzed. Everyone was waiting for guidance—the states along the coast, the major cities, millions of people who did not know what to do.
What was she supposed to tell them?
What if she said don’t evacuate, and there was a tsunami? Six hours was an impossible timeline to get millions of people away from the coastline.
What if she told them to evacuate, and the tsunami never came? The evacuation itself was life-threatening. There had already been at least three dozen accidents, incidents of road rage and possible shots fired, and at least one death from a heart attack—a fifty-six-year-old man who died sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Long Island Expressway.
These leaks are going to destroy us.
She had tried to contact Stone, but apparently he had thrown a temper tantrum and run off. She shook her head at that. He was a big boy. He would have to deal on his own. Maybe he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being ridiculous. She had no time to give much thought to what Stone was doing, or ought to be doing.
Now she was here listening to Stephen Lief vent his frustration with the situation. Kat Lopez and Kurt Kimball were also here, standing on either side of the screen, staring at it in something like disbelief.
Stephen Lief was shaking his head. “You know, I was looking forward to this chili-tasting tour. I’m thinking that finally, I’m going to get out there, meet the public, and represent this administration. You’ve been ignoring my existence, Susan, and finally you include me, and give me something to sink my teeth into. I like chili, okay? I love chili. I make my own with alligator meat, what I call Florida Roadkill–style, and I wanted to share that with everyone. But what am I supposed to do now? Everywhere I go, people are asking me what’s happening with this terror attack, what’s the administration’s response, what is our military doing, are we safe, have we spoken to the Russians. I’ve been completely blindsided. I had no idea this was happening. That’s how out of the loop I am.”
“Stephen,” Susan said, “we were blindsided here. We have no idea how much truth there is to these reports, and we didn’t release this information to the public. Someone has been leaking information to the news media.”
“We’re going to need a strong response to this,” Lief said. “People think we’re just sitting on our hands. People from my party are calling me, asking me what we’re planning to do. I wish I had an answer for them.”
“Stephen…” Susan began.
Kurt suddenly waved a hand in the air. “I have a text from my aide. Another call from Putin has come through. He wants to speak with Susan.”
“Stephen, I need to take this. We reached out to Putin earlier today for clarification about this weapon. He said he’d get back to us.”
Lief raised his hands in the air. “See? I don’t even know that much.”
“Our communications person will contact you,” Susan said. “I need to run.”
Stephen Lief disappeared in the middle of an exasperated head shake. The footage of the gigantic exodus away from the coast came down from the right-hand corner and replaced him.
The caption along the bottom read: LIVE: Traffic Jam of the Century.
Susan looked at Kat. “Kat, can you please have Eve Chandler call Stephen and work out some kind of communications strategy for him? All he needs right now are a few words to slip the noose when people corner him.”
Kat nodded. “Okay, Susan.”
Susan looked at Kurt.
“Shall we talk to Vladimir?”
* * *
“How many people are on this call?” Vasil said.
Susan shook her head. She had taken the call here in the Oval Office. She looked at Kurt. He was listening in on an extension. “To be honest, I don’t know. There is one other person in the room with me.”
Kurt was mouthing something.
“You speak,” Susan said to Kurt.
“There are at least a dozen security personnel listening to the call, including Secret Service agents, but also likely including personnel from the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency. The call is being recorded in at least two places that I know of.”
Putin began speaking again.
“Very good,” Vasil said. “It is important that security personnel hear this information, and record it accurately.”
“Okay,” Susan said. “Hit me.”
Putin launched into a long monologue.
“We regret to inform you that our intelligence agencies have determined the theoretical weapon in question is real. That does not mean that the terrorists have one. Obviously, we cannot know this. But such a weapon was developed by the Soviet Union, and was successfully tested. It is indeed an electromagnetic oscillator, which can generate extreme vibrations in a targeted direction, causing earthquakes in areas vulnerable to seismic activity.”
“Oh man,” Susan said.
“Yes,” Vasil said. “It is bad news.”
Putin began speaking again.
“We will share with you information about how it works, how to detect its presence, and how to disable it. For one, the device must be reasonably close to its target, generally within thirty miles, but the closer the better. Similar devices were tested at larger distances, but the tests were unsuccessful. This will limit the range of options available to anyone who would use the weapon. They must be somewhat close to the target.”
“Vladimir—”
“Please. Please listen. This is of utmost
importance. The device requires an enormous amount of power. It must be turned on at least thirty minutes before deployment to give the battery time to fuel the power pack. During this time, an infrared strobe, pulsing every three seconds, will be visible from the sky. This was designed to alert our own aircraft to the device’s position. It was assumed that enemy craft would not know what to look for.”
“Can we bomb it?” Susan said. “Can we destroy it from the air?”
There was a delay. Putin had begun talking again, but Vasil interrupted him and asked the question anyway.
Putin stopped and barked something to a person in the background. He listened to the reply, then began speaking again.
“No,” Vasil said. “You must not bomb it. Repeat. Do not bomb it. There is a large sealed ampoule embedded inside the device. The ampoule contains a fissile mass of uranium-235 and plutonium-239 surrounded by a layer of lithium deuteride, which is in turn surrounded by a layer of depleted uranium. In the event of a bomb or missile attack on the device…”
“Oh my God,” Kurt said.
Susan looked at him. “What?”
“Vasil, do you understand that you are describing a layer-cake atomic bomb?”
“Yes, unfortunately, I do.”
“It’s an atomic bomb?” Susan said. “I thought it was a tectonic weapon.”
Kurt was shaking his head.
“Please,” Vasil said. “Let us be clear. I must translate this so you understand. Please be patient with me. It is primarily a tectonic weapon. That is its intended purpose. It also has a small, simple atomic bomb embedded inside of it, unrestricted by the use of nuclear codes. In the event another bomb were dropped on the device, it is likely that the energy of the explosion would cause the compressed fissile material to detonate. That explosion would then be accelerated by the presence of the lithium. This arrangement allows for a much more devastating explosion from a small amount of enriched materials.”
