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The Devils Light
by Richard North Patterson
PROLOGUE
At ten o’clock on a night in late summer, a private aircraft ends a vertiginous upward climb by releasing a nuclear bomb over the city.
Seconds later, a missile turns the invader into an orange fireball against the night sky. As the bomb detonates in midair, a brilliant yellow light obliterates the darkness like a sheet of sun. After a last instant of silence there is a terrible explosion.
At the epicenter of the blast, the temperature is one million degrees Fahrenheit. Men and women on the sidewalks or in cars become ash; homes and apartments collapse into dust indistinguishable from their occupants; a massive wave sweeps the ocean, swamping boats and drowning anyone in them. For miles from its center the city is a radioactive scar without features. Farther out there are the photographic prints of buildings that no longer exist, imposed like shadows on the husks of ruined structures and charred bodies by the stunning light of the blast.
At its edge, walls of fire rise from nothing. On the highways ringing the city, cars collide, the eyeballs of their drivers and passengers turned to fluid. Others, also blinded, are buried in collapsing concrete or eviscerated by spears of falling glass. Birds ignite in midflight; a thick cloud of dust obscures the moon; airborne poisons fall like black rain; skin slides off the bodies of victims crying out in torment. The city itself is silent, the only movement ashes stirring in a nuclear wind. Two hundred thousand people no longer exist.
The slow death of a nation has begun.
* * *
PAKINSTAN 2009
Osama Bin Laden listened in silence, his long legs folded in front of him, his liquid eyes still in a face so sallow it seemed to match his whitening beard. When the narrator had finished, he said, “All this with a single bomb.”
Sitting at the edge of the carpet, Ayman Al Zawahiri looked from Bin Laden to the narrator, his eyes darting and suspicious behind steel-framed glasses. With a voice thickened by emotion, Amer Al Zaroor replied, “I believe so, yes. If we use it well.”
Dressed in robes and turbans, the three men were alone and, for a moment, wordless. They had risked much to be together; though their leader had powerful protectors within Pakistan, the compound in which he hid might well be closely watched. To Al Zaroor it felt as though Bin Laden’s deep contemplation had rendered the others mute—the strange power, he supposed, of a man who faces death by holding fiercely to his vision. At last Bin Laden said, “A seductive dream, Amer. In which everything depends on our choice of targets.”
Amer Al Zaroor nodded. “I understand this, Renewer.”
“Do you?” Zawahiri cut in harshly. “Then surely you have weighed the consequences if such a dream becomes reality. You ask us to risk all.”
Al Zaroor faced him, aware of the magnetism that his lean, handsome face and reasoned manner exerted on others—even Osama Bin Laden. “Our situation is bleak,” he said. “We are inferior to the crusaders and Jews in knowledge, technology, resources, finance, and military training. Across the Muslim world we are betrayed by corrupt Saudi princes who have sold their souls to the Americans, the lackeys of the West in Egypt and Jordan, the infidels and compromisers in Pakistan, the apostates in Iran who posture as revolutionaries while siphoning their people’s wealth.” He turned to Bin Laden, and his words pulsed with quiet urgency. “There is one way for Muslims to defeat our enemies. A single blow so cataclysmic that it changes the world in an instant.”
An odd light appeared in Zawahiri’s face. “Inshallah,” he said. God willing.
Ignoring this, Bin Laden, the poet, remained true to a character that Al Zaroor revered—reflective, almost gentle, with a keen intelligence that required no bluster outside pronouncements crafted for the West. “Still, Ayman’s caution is appropriate. After our triumph in 2001, the Americans nearly destroyed us in Afghanistan—only the stupidity of their adventure in Iraq revitalized our cause. Should your plan succeed, the fury of the West would be incalculable.”
Al Zaroor looked at their surroundings, his gaze meant to summon meaning from the shadows in which his leader was forced to live. “We are dying,” he said bluntly. “You may be dead tomorrow. Our operatives’ slaughter of Muslims in Iraq stained us in the hearts of many. No longer are you more popular in Saudi Arabia than its king. No longer does your face appear on the T-shirts of the young, or your name grace Muslim newborns. Now the American president means to bind Zionists to Arabs with the palliative of an unfair peace. We are patient men, Renewer, but the years since 2001 have yet to prove our friend.
“What is required now is the ultimate act of asymmetric warfare. We would not be the first—in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Americans unleashed the devil’s light on men and women and children. How can we do less without becoming cowards?”
Taken aback by their acolyte’s directness, Al Zawahiri became as still as a figure in a frieze. Sitting straighter, Bin Laden rearranged his robes, then said calmly, “If time is not our friend, when do you propose to act?”
Al Zaroor repressed his elation. “It will take years, not months, and great adaptability. But I will aim for the one date so symbolic that it will magnify our feat: September 11, the tenth anniversary of our greatest triumph. To commemorate this at will would fill the world with awe, our enemies with dread.”
Hastily, Zawahiri sought to break the spell he imagined that Al Zaroor was casting. “To acquire such a bomb is a task of great complexity, involving the help of many others. How can you guarantee operational security?”
Instead of answering, Al Zaroor met the deputy’s eyes. Both men knew what neither would ever say: that, having conspired with others three decades before to assassinate Anwar Sadat, Zawahiri had betrayed them under torture. At last, Al Zaroor said, “You will have it, Ayman. If necessary, I will die to make this so.”
Interceding, Bin Laden held up his hand, a gesture that combined blessing with admonition. “To act would be momentous. The power of final approval must be mine alone.”
I pray you live to grant it, Al Zaroor thought. He bowed his head, signaling obeisance.
For a long moment, Bin Laden studied him. “God selects few men, Amer, to change the face of history. Perhaps you will be one.”
Briefly, Al Zaroor glanced at Zawahiri. With the faintest trace of irony, he replied, “Inshallah.”
PART ONE
THE ATTACK
The Blue Ridge Mountains—India—Pakistan
August 2011
ONE
Two years after his near-murder in Beirut, Brooke Chandler visited his mentor, Carter Grey, to contemplate his future as a spy.
Headed for Grey’s redoubt in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Brooke drove his Ferrari through the rolling Virginia countryside. The air of midafternoon felt hot and close. Timed as an escape from Washington in the steam bath of August, the trip was also a chance to see the couple who, given Brooke’s routine deception of everyone he encountered, offered him the respite of intimacy and ease. The Greys had become his shadow family.
North of Charlottesville, Brooke turned off one country road onto a
nother that narrowed to a dirt track winding through wooded foothills, ever higher, until he reached the Greys’ retreat at the top of a ridge three thousand feet above sea level. A large wooden structure, it was the work of Grey’s hands, built before the wreckage of his body prohibited hard labor. Now it was home. Jutting from the site, its rear deck commanded a view of forested ridgelines receding in the distance, becoming shadows in a thin low fog that glimmered with reflected sunlight. This was, Grey had explained to Brooke, the fulfillment of a lifelong plan—to drink cocktails in his dotage while admiring a perfect view.
But the home was also the summation of a life. Perfectly maintained, it housed an astonishing collection of pristine guns from wars fought by nine generations of Americans—many forgotten, misconceived, or misunderstood—and carefully chosen rugs, art, and furniture from Grey’s assignments overseas. Outside were satellite dishes for the television, computer, and communications equipment through which Grey kept in touch with a world where, usually in secret, he had once maintained the power to change events.
Those times, Grey had remarked to Brooke, were defined by the Cold War and the rise of the American empire, breeding a sense of mission that, while sometimes illusory, had made the work less soul-wearing. Grey was from the Kennedy generation: gentlemen spies whose mandate had been to shape history and who, in the end, were shaped by it. In succession, he had operated in Iran during the Islamic Revolution, served as station chief in Germany at the height of the Cold War, and helped precipitate the collapse of the Soviet empire by equipping a half million Afghans to fight the Red Army—while, he added ruefully, helping train the militia who formed the Taliban. Along the way he became the most decorated agent in the history of the CIA, honored as one of the fifty most important figures when the agency marked its first fifty years. But he had spent the last two decades as an administrator in Washington, barred by age and injury from fieldwork, until the toxic politics of the city had merged with debilitating pain to drive him to retirement. Now he was here.
Brooke got out of his car, savoring the crisp, cool air. At once the front door opened and Grey stepped stiffly onto the front porch. He appraised Brooke, then his expensive ride. “Still driving that toy, I see.”
“The agency promised me a life of adventure,” Brooke responded. “Now I’m reduced to dodging radar guns.”
Grey grunted, a mixture of dismissal and comprehension. Then he hobbled down the front steps, fighting the weakness in his spine to hold himself erect. His head of steel-gray hair was still full, and Grey remained handsome in a way made craggy by age and adversity—if America was replicating the fall of Rome, he had once remarked to Brooke, then he was Roman ruins. What remained young were his clear light-blue eyes and the vigor with which, as always, he embraced Brooke Chandler like a son.
They might have passed for that, Brooke knew. Once, in a moment of remembrance as Grey slept, his wife, Anne, had told Brooke that he evoked her husband before the nightmare of Iran. Brooke had seen the photographs; Carter had combined the can-do alertness of a soldier with the strong, clean features of the all-American boy. Brooke had the same blond hair, a chiseled face that suggested his heritage, and the smile of a generation raised on fluoride and orthodontia. Brooke tried to wear his handsomeness lightly; he knew that he had been born lucky. Until a decade ago, the year before he joined the agency, he had endured no real hardship or disappointment. Despite the years since, he still looked it.
The two men smiled at each other. “I’d say that you seem good,” Brooke said, “except that you’d remind me I’m a practiced liar. So how are you really?”
“Good in the morning,” Grey said matter-of-factly, “medicated by two. Given that it’s four o’clock, and I just got up from my nap, I’m trying to remember who you are.”
“Don’t worry, Carter. Anne will remind you.”
Grey laughed without humor. “Marrying me really was the devil’s pact. Twenty good years, and now she’s practicing medicine and running a retirement home.”
“She’d still make that deal,” Brooke answered. “At your worst, you’re never dull.”
As if on cue, Anne Grey appeared in the doorway. Slight, blond, and quick of movement, Anne at sixty still reminded Brooke of a hummingbird ready to take flight. Grey had met her at the agency; as with other such couples, the secret existence they led distanced them from others, but provided a depth of understanding no outsider could grasp. For years in the field Anne had weathered this life as a partner. Now, moored to Grey by history and devotion, she had taken on living in the mountains as though it were another posting. The balm for Grey’s regrets was their harmonious marriage, one Brooke had increasing trouble imagining for himself.
Skittering down the steps, Anne kissed him. “It’s so good to see you, Brooke. For both of us.”
“You, too. If your face weren’t so mobile, I’d guess you were mainlining Botox.”
She briefly smiled at Grey, including him in the badinage. “It’s the air up here. The life suits us.” Taking her husband’s arm, she shepherded him back up the steps. “We keep expecting you to bring a woman for us to meet.”
Brooke glanced at her, miming disbelief. “So you can watch me lie to her?”
Anne shot him a look of mock impatience. “Marry one of them and none of us would have to lie.”
“It’s harder than you think,” Brooke replied. “I suspect Carter married the only woman who’d have him.”
Now her expression mimed the solemnity of thought. “True. I was young and foolish then, easily distracted by sex and talk of foreign travel.”
Grey conjured up a scowl of displeasure. “You got here just in time,” he informed Brooke. “But it’s too early for a drink, and I’m still too full of morphine. Let’s attempt a walk and I’ll describe the other women in my life.”
“I already know about the one with the navel ring,” Anne replied. Kissing her husband, she added lightly, “Don’t wear Brooke out.”
Brooke heard her silent message: Don’t let him fall.
“I won’t stand for it,” he assured her.
Their rear garden, Anne’s work, bloomed with flowers and tomatoes. Grey prodded Brooke toward a walking trail beneath the shade along the ridgeline. He moved with determination, but the odd step was halting, marking back injuries and internal damage dating back to the fall of the shah over thirty years before. Risking his life, Grey had shed his cover as a diplomat to give an endangered Iranian agent—a member of the shah’s intelligence service—money and false documents to facilitate his escape. On the way back, he encountered two members of the Revolutionary Guard, their loathing of Americans fueled by fanaticism and hatred of the shah’s secret police. Mistaking the American “diplomat” for what he was—a spy—the two men decided to stomp him to death. They were well on their way when Grey located the gun in his suit coat. He killed them in an instant.
Spitting up blood, Grey crawled to his car, drove to a safe house, and slept for two days. Then he returned to the embassy, refusing to report his injury for fear of being ordered to abandon his post. When he finally endured the first of a series of operations that kept him alive, the surgeon who viewed his shattered organs and broken ribs and spine had told Anne, “This is worse than the worst car wrecks I’ve ever seen, and those patients died.”
Grey lived on, but as a different man. Years later, he could still describe to Brooke the glittering zeal in his assailants’ eyes. “That was when I realized,” he concluded, “that America as a nation had no clue about what the hell this was about. Most Americans still don’t.”
Now they paused, standing on Grey’s latest point of pride, a new bridge that crossed a rivulet still swollen with late-spring rains. Leaning on the railing, they watched the ridgelines as they softened in the light of early evening, two men at peace. At length, Grey asked, “So how is the Outfit now? For you, I mean.”
“You know how it is,” Brooke said flatly. “Maybe getting burned in Beirut wasn’t a career ki
ller. But being chained to a desk job makes me feel like the living dead. I still perceive everything around me, but can no longer speak or move.”
His mentor glanced at him sideways. “They’re keeping you safe. Though perhaps in the minds of some, you’re serving a stretch in purgatory for the sin of being right.”
Brooke shrugged. “Better than getting killed, I’m sure. What a joke of a death that would have been, taken out by a couple of amateurs from al Qaeda because my idiot station chief couldn’t tell a double agent from his own unfaithful wife.”
Grey laughed softly. “You don’t get out of life alive. You were hoping to die for a reason?”
“Everyone dies for a reason. I was hoping for a better one.”
“At least you helped the Lebanese break up an al Qaeda cell.”
“I could have done more,” Brooke objected. “When Lorber butted in, there was still work to do.”
Grey gazed out at the ridges and valleys. “Dangerous work. Thanks to Lorber’s blunder, you’re more likely to die in bed at the age of ninety-five. The question becomes how you kill the time between now and then.”
“Not this way. Serving as a bureaucrat erodes my sense of purpose. I’ve taken to reading analysts’ reports on al Qaeda just to sate my curiosity.”
“Which is a good thing,” Grey opined. “You need curiosity, and you need to care about the work. Have you thought about becoming an analyst?”
Brooke shook his head. “I’m a field officer by nature. As long as I’m with the agency I want to serve where it matters. I’ve been stuck here too long.”
“Granted.” Grey eyed him more closely. “But I heard another element just now—‘as long as I’m with the agency.’”
Brooke fell quiet for a time. “I’ve started questioning my life,” he acknowledged. “I’ve always accepted that foreign postings made relationships harder. So does deception. Not that I minded lying to foreigners—that’s what we’re supposed to do. But now I’m telling Mickey Mouse lies to neighbors, the women I meet, and friends who’ve spent years believing they still know me. Even my parents think I’ve got some desk job at the State Department.”
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