“That’s crazy,” Teller said. “We’re talking about someone detonating a couple of nukes, one in Washington and one in New York!”
“That has not been independently confirmed,” Vanderkamp said. “Our information now is that those suitcase nukes are still in Pakistan. They were never put on board the Zapoteca.”
“What about the seaman I talked to in Chetumal?” Teller asked. “He told me there were two crates, each seventy-five or eighty pounds … about right for Lebed’s missing nukes.”
“I saw your report,” Wentworth said. “As before, we have no confirmation. Those could easily have been precursor chemicals for the manufacture of methamphetamines or heroin.”
“If you hadn’t fucking pulled the plug on the ISA team down there,” Procario said, furious, “you could have gotten rad counters on board the Zapoteca! Maybe that would have given you your damned confirmation!”
“We pulled the ISA team because we had reason to believe the nukes were not on board, in fact had never been on board … and because the assaults at Chetumal and at Cerros together caused a major international incident. If they’d stormed a Mexican ship in a Mexican port it would have been much worse.”
“Which brings us to the main reason we asked you to come in to see us today,” Wentworth said. “You’ve managed to piss off quite a few people here—not to mention your boss at INSCOM.”
“MacDonald?”
“Colonel MacDonald, yes. It seems you didn’t request formal permission to leave the country.”
“I thought you people took care of that! We were working for you.”
“And we thought you had taken care of it.” Wentworth smiled. “Our various agencies try to work together, but we must observe the rules, you know. Otherwise it all collapses into chaos.”
“But we’re getting a hell of a lot of flack now,” Vanderkamp said, “from the president’s office on down. Gunfights in the streets. Explosions. Fires. Pitched battles. You two managed to turn Mexico City and a couple of other places down there into war zones.”
“I should point out, gentlemen,” Procario said, “that right now Mexico is a war zone. Gunfights in the streets? Nothing new there. Last I heard something like forty thousand people had been killed in Mexico’s drug war just since 2006, including a lot of innocent bystanders. We carried out our mission, killed a few narcoterrorists, captured a prisoner, and brought home some important intel. We survived the war zone. We didn’t create it.”
“Speaking of that prisoner,” Wentworth said, “you did not properly extradite him. That was kidnapping. And the Perez woman did not have a passport and must be considered to be an illegal immigrant. There are going to be serious charges in this—”
“Serious charges!” Teller flew up out of his seat. “What should we have done, turned Barrón over to CISEN? Killed him ourselves?”
“Sit down, Captain Teller,” Wentworth said, cold.
“I will not! We did what you people wanted us to do—bailed your asses out by giving you new eyes on the ground and a tool to patch things along until you could reestablish your Mexican network. Now you tell us you can’t use the tool, and you’re going to charge us with human trafficking! What the fuck is going on here?”
“Let’s just sit down and take it easy,” Larson said, moving his hands in gentle “calm down” motions. “We’re not charging you with human trafficking … or anything else, if you cooperate with us.”
Reluctantly, Teller took his seat once more. He was angry. “We are not going to quietly let you hang us out to dry,” he said. He muttered something else under his breath.
“What was that?” Larson asked.
“Fucking Klingons,” Teller replied. He made a brushing motion with his hand. “Never mind. Inside joke.”
Procario put his hand on Teller’s arm, restraining him.
“What is it you want from us?” Procario asked.
“Your final after-actions,” Wentworth said, “will not mention the interview with that seaman off the Zapoteca or the interrogation of Enrico Barrón. You two went beyond your authority there. Well, mistakes were made, as they say. You may have misinterpreted our instructions.”
“There is no evidence that stolen nuclear weapons are being smuggled into the United States,” Larson added, “or that the drug cartels are somehow aiding and abetting such a plot.”
“You also mentioned several other names,” Wentworth said. “Reyshahri, an Iranian VEVAK agent. A Hezbollah operative named Hamadi. Iranian and Hezbollah involvement in Mexico is … debatable. Your report will not mention them.”
“What about Yussef Nadir Suwayd?” Teller asked.
“I beg your pardon … who?”
“Jackie Dominique learned about him from de la Cruz. He was going by the name Pablo Tomás, but the CISEN files identified him as a Hezbollah agent. He was one of the guys who attacked us in the Estrella Hotel. You could ID him from the cell phone pics I sent you.”
Wentworth smiled. “I thought you said de la Cruz’s information could not be trusted?”
“It can’t, but I believe him on that one.”
“Why?”
“Because it contradicted his party line—that al Qaeda is trying to smuggle nukes into Mexico, maybe as some sort of extortion attempt against the Mexican government. That story is totally nuts, but he clearly didn’t know that al Qaeda and Hezbollah hate each other almost as much as they hate Israel—or us.”
“If he’d made it up,” Procario said, “you would expect him to have done his research, to get it right. We think he was misinterpreting data they really did have in their files, not making it up.”
“I don’t buy it,” Vanderkamp said with a shrug. “The information could have been mistaken either way.”
“No, but it sets a strong probability,” Teller said. “Intelligence work always deals with probabilities, not certainties.”
“That may be,” Wentworth said. “But I have this certainty for you. You two will submit your after-action reports to us for editing, and show them to no one else. No one. We’re classifying all of this material, and you will not reveal it to anyone else, and that specifically includes INSCOM. There are political ramifications here that you are not aware of.”
Teller looked at Procario. “Thought so. It’s a hatchet job.”
“I beg your pardon?” Vanderkamp asked.
“Somehow, the intelligence we developed in Mexico has become … inconvenient. You’re trying to bury it.”
“We are trying,” Wentworth said, “to prevent a … call it a public relations disaster of unprecedented proportions. The president is trying to calm public fears, public backlash against Latinos in the United States. These … these wild tales of Mexican drug lords working with Iranians to smuggle nuclear weapons—they’re tossing gasoline on the fire.”
“Five men of Latino descent,” Vanderkamp said, “were lynched in Chicago last night. A private militia in Idaho has threatened to shoot any Latino they see on sight. Mobs have started fighting each other in Los Angeles—black, white, Latino, Asian. They’re at each other’s throats right now over this Aztlán thing.”
“We’re not trying to bury your intel,” Larson said. “We’ve analyzed it and concluded that the scenario it suggests is so extremely unlikely, it must be mistaken. And if any part of it were to become public … well, that could have extraordinarily serious ramifications.”
“You know,” Teller said, “there’s an easy solution here. Those weapons are on board a Kilo class submarine currently somewhere off the eastern seaboard.”
Reaching out, he moved his finger and thumb on the tabletop map, zooming in with sharp clarity to a stretch of beach along Virginia’s east coast. Created from aerial reconnaissance photos, the map showed exquisite detail—houses, swimming pools, cars on the roads, and the white turbulence of waves breaking along the shore.
“If their targets are Washington and New York City,” Teller continued, “there really are only a few places they could p
ut them ashore.” He slowly moved the map image, their viewpoint drifting north along the coast. On the big screen on the wall above the table, the terrain had the look of ground slipping away beneath a low-flying aircraft. “Those weapons are small, but they’re heavy and awkward. They’ll need to put them ashore in a small boat or raft, and they need to do it where the submarine won’t be seen. They can’t approach D.C., not very closely. A Kilo wouldn’t make it very far up the Chesapeake Bay. Too shallow for it to stay submerged, and the Potomac River isn’t navigable for anything larger than a speedboat. So it’s too risky to try that route.
“No, if they want to put a weapon ashore, it would be from the Atlantic Ocean itself—maybe along here, Chincoteague Island … or farther north … Assateague, south of Ocean City. Or up here south of Bethany Beach, in Delaware. Those beaches all are a little over a hundred miles from D.C., right? Two major ways they could go—Route 1 up the coast, or Route 50 from Ocean City across the bay at Annapolis. More choices if they stick to back roads. A car meets the boat at night on the beach with a prearranged signal. A few hours later, the weapon is parked on the street near the White House.”
“What’s your point?” Larson asked.
“If we know the Kilo is going to be off this stretch of coast—that’s maybe, what? A hundred thirty, a hundred fifty miles, maybe, from the mouth of Chesapeake Bay to the mouth of Delaware Bay? It should be easier to find it there than somewhere out in the middle of the ocean.”
“Find that sub,” Procario said, “and that will be the confirmation you want.”
“I’ll remind you gentlemen that we don’t even know there is a submarine,” Vanderkamp said.
“We found the contract with the Russians at Cerros!”
“Yes, but not the submarine.”
“Jackie spotted the IR footprint of the thing!”
“Mm, yes. But that data is subject to … interpretation. Ms. Dominique is not a trained photo analyst.”
“I’m beginning to think you people wouldn’t accept the facts if we deposited that Kilo on Langley’s north parking lot!”
“Are you aware, Captain,” Larson said, “that there have been rumors of a Kilo submarine being sold to the drug cartels for decades, literally? Are you aware of the name we have for it?”
“No. What?”
“Sasquatch. Because there is never any proof it exists.”
“We zapped you photos of the contract,” Procario said. “That should be enough proof for anyone.”
“Not if the opposition is deliberately attempting to obscure what’s really happening,” Vanderkamp pointed out.
“And what do you think is really happening?” Teller demanded.
Wentworth shook his head. “Captain Teller, this interview is at an end. We—”
“Look, has the navy already been brought in on this?” Teller asked. When there was no immediate answer, he looked at Wentworth. “Damn it, you’ve got to look! Even if we’re wrong, you can’t afford to take that chance! We’re talking about a couple of small nuclear weapons here!”
“Both the navy and the U.S. Coast Guard have been alerted,” Wentworth said.
“I know,” Teller said. “We had INSCOM flash COMSUBLANT this morning. There are some L.A. class subs operating out of Norfolk that—”
“That’s all well and good,” Wentworth said. “But, honestly, we don’t expect anything to come of it. Kilo submarines are extraordinarily quiet, incredibly hard to find and track. The chances of anyone finding it are … astronomical.”
“Then I suggest,” Teller said quietly, “that you get your ass in gear and start looking hard. Or else you start evacuating the city.”
“That certainly is not an option,” Wentworth said. “Gentlemen, we appreciate your concern. We truly do. But sometimes officers in the field get … a little too close to their missions. A little too emotionally involved. You both know as well as I do that raw data must be properly assimilated, properly analyzed, and properly fit together with the other pieces of a very large and complex puzzle. Your efforts in Mexico are deeply appreciated, and we are grateful. Don’t think we’re not. And we will do what we can to … control the fallout from your more, ah, aggressive actions down there. But your reports will not mention contradictory material that will only confuse the issue more. Am I clear?”
Teller stood abruptly. “Clear. C’mon, Frank. We’re outta here.”
“Your security oaths are on file. Play the cowboy on us, Captain, and you will be in prison for a very long time.”
“I don’t think so,” Teller said as he reached for the door.
“What do you mean?” Larson demanded.
Teller gave him a cold smile. “‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’”
WASHINGTON MALL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1445 HOURS, EDT
A shadow fell across Preston, and he looked up. “You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said.
“I would say that I have you in checkmate, sir,” the other man said.
“Eagle?”
He nodded. “Duke.”
The man sat next to him on the bench. Preston glanced around in all directions, but no one was close.
Of course, if the CIA had Preston under observation, they could be training a long-range microphone on him at this moment. Or the bench could have been bugged, though he’d selected it randomly. The large yellow plastic shopping bag resting by his feet was how Reyshahri had recognized him.
There was also a radio, a small boom box, beside him on the bench. He switched it on, loud. If they were under audio surveillance, the music—harsh and urgent—should provide enough white noise to drown their conversation.
“It’s good to meet you at long last, Mr. Duke,” Reyshahri said. “My superiors told me to tell you … the information you’ve provided us has been extremely useful.”
“Simply establishing my bona fides,” Preston replied. “You have no other reason to trust me.”
“Why this meeting, then? It’s dangerous to meet.”
Preston shrugged. “I did want to know who I was working with. To take your measure. I’m a good judge of character.”
“You know absolutely nothing about me.”
“I know you are Saeed Reyshahri, that you are a sarvan in the Vezarat-e Ettela’at va Amniyat-e Keshvar.” He stumbled a bit at the Farsi pronunciation but managed to recover. “I know you are dedicated, competent, and thorough. Ten years with the Sepah, three with VEVAK. You’ve trained Hezbollah and are well thought of by your superiors. Colonel Salehi wrote an absolutely glowing report in your record. You live in an apartment in the Hassan abad-Shomali district of Tehran and have a wife, Hasti, and a daughter—”
“How do you know all of this?”
“It is my job to know things, Captain.” He hesitated. “You are ready for tomorrow?”
“I am. My associate and I meet the submarine tonight.”
“Two weapons, five-kiloton yield. Your choice of targets, one here, one in New York City.”
“Our choice, yes. So that no one else knows where they are.”
“Good. And detonation is by telephone?”
Reyshahri nodded. “We arm the weapon, leave it, and dial a number later, from a safe distance. Our confederates in New York City do the same with theirs.”
“And the number?”
“What?”
“The phone number that detonates the weapons.”
“Why should I tell—”
“In case something happens to you, of course! I can still detonate the weapons if you do not.”
“I … see.” Reyshahri appeared to think it over, then shrugged and recited a ten-digit number.
Preston commited it to memory. “One number, two warheads?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think that’s everything, Captain Reyshahri. I will walk away from here first. You stay here a few moments, in case someone is watching. I will leave the yellow bag under the bench.�
��
“What’s in it?”
“Something to help you with your mission here in D.C.” He stood, looked around again, then picked up the blaring radio and switched it off. “I wish you the very best of luck, Captain. Khodawbeh ham-rah.”
He walked away, leaving the VEVAK agent on the bench.
KILO CLASS SUBMARINE
SUBMERGED OFF BETHANY BEACH
DELAWARE
1505 HOURS, EDT
Captain Second Rank Sergei Alekseyevich Basargin pressed his face up to the eyepiece of the periscope, slowly panning the instrument to take in the sweep of white-sand beach. The view was repeated on a television monitor on one bulkhead of the control room. North, a pair of large cranes framed the entrance to Indian River Inlet; automobiles, quite a few of them, could be seen moving north and south on Highway 1, which ran directly above the beach along this stretch of coast.
April was early in the beach season—the waters of the Atlantic were still bitingly cold—but quite a few beach umbrellas and sunbathers were visible on the sand. Automobiles had been driven down to the high tide line. Fat, wealthy, pasty skinned Americans enjoying the sun.
Well, not all were fat. One of the crewmen laughed and pointed. “Ha! Look at that bikini! Why does she even bother?” Others laughed.
The submarine was just over five kilometers from the shore in water just twenty-five meters deep at midtide. That was excruciatingly shallow; the Kilo, seventy-five meters long from prow to screw, measured just fourteen meters from her keel to the top of her sail. That left precious little room for maneuvering, and a mistake could end with the vessel embarrassingly grounded off the coast of Delaware.
His orders called for him to get closer inshore yet, but he was not about to try that in daylight. Already, there was a serious danger that an aircraft overflying the beach would see the dark shadow of the submarine lurking beneath the surface.
The Last Line Page 27
