by Larry Bond
Ferguson hadn’t forgotten that the shipment of waste that had started all of this hadn’t been tracked down, nor was he necessarily impressed by the analysts’ efforts thus far. He would have liked to talk to the imprisoned Chechen who knew about making dirty bombs. But he was ready to go home and take a few days off.
Tbilisi sat in the center of ancient trade routes connecting Europe and Asia, and was a prized possession and sometime victim for Persians, Byzantines, Arabs, Mongols, Tartars, and Turks, all of whom had occupied and occasionally mugged it for centuries after it was founded in A.D. 455. The Russians came to the city in 1801; Georgians tried rebelling but were ultimately crushed in 1905, their revolt a little premature. When the successful revolt came, Georgia remained in the empire.
Under the Soviets, life had been constrained and drab. Deep in the heart of the Caucasus, the city had a European feel to it; the buildings and bridges over the Kura reminded visitors of Austria or eastern Czechoslovakia, as the Czech Republic was then known. An industrial center with a population over a million, the city boasted a major university as well as important research facilities and a lively theater. But years of civil war and failed economic reform since the end of the Soviet Union had helped transform the country into a kingdom of gloom. Tbilisi now was the forlorn capital of chaos, ruled by crime lords, corrupt politicians, drug runners, and committed madmen. Armed escorts did not draw a raised eyebrow here, and when the Marines — dressed in plainclothes though even a casual passerby would know they were Americans — blocked off the street in front of the safe house, no one even bothered to glance their way.
The Marines brought three vehicles — two Mercedes sedans borrowed from the embassy and a van that carried the bulk of the security team. Ferg put Kiro in the backseat of the second Mercedes between Conners and Rankin. They’d changed his clothes and handcuffed him, nudging him into a compliant haze with a shot of Demerol; he also had a hood so he couldn’t see where he’d been or where he was going. Guns, sitting in the front with his MP-5 and three clips on the floor, had a syringe with another double dose of Demerol in his pocket in case the prisoner began acting up.
Ferguson got in the front of the van, which was trailing immediately behind the sedan with the bulk of the security team. The first Mercedes started out as they locked up; it would run ahead to make sure there were no problems with traffic.
They were just crossing the river when Ferg spotted the small yellow station wagon. It had only a driver, no passengers, and at first the fact that it made the same turns they made seemed just a coincidence.
“Let’s take some turns,” he told the others, and the Marine drivers worked out a quick set of detours along the river, driving through a tourist area. The station wagon stayed with them for a while, then disappeared; a panel truck seemed to take over as they came back onto the main street.
“May be that I’m just paranoid,” said Ferguson. “But I think we’re being followed.”
Their backup plan called for them to divert to the embassy, pick up more Marines, then drive out to a military field about seventy-five miles away. Ferg also had the option of driving straight out to the military field and calling for the C-12 to meet them there. He took out his sat phone and called Amanda, who was at the airport waiting for them.
“You really should have showered with me,” he told her when she answered the phone.
“Mr. Ferguson, where are you?”
“My girlfriends call me Ferg.”
“We were told you were en route.”
“I think we have a tail. It’s an operation, at least two vehicles, one a panel truck, which doesn’t make me feel too good.”
“Where are you now?”
Ferguson had to ask the driver for the highway name. Amanda didn’t answer when he relayed it.
“You around, Beautiful?” he asked. He saw the panel truck turn off behind them, but couldn’t tell what car was following them.
“We think the Russians are watching the airport,” said Amanda, returning. “We’re checking.”
“All right, let’s go over to plan B. We’ll drive right out to the second pickup,” said Ferg. “I think it’d be better if we had the security teams meet us en route.”
“I agree,” said Amanda.
“I knew you were easy.” Ferg glanced at the mirror, trying to make out if there was another car. The Marines were edgy in the back, and even the driver had checked his pistol, snugged into a shoulder holster beneath a sports coat. “Let me think on this a second. Keep the line open.”
“What’s going on?” asked Guns over the com set.
“People at the airport. Probably pissed that we didn’t choose Aeroflot.”
“We going over to the field?”
“Maybe. Let’s do another loop, what routine are we up to driver — C?”
The driver nodded. They had worked out a series of streets to follow to lose trails without executing high-risk maneuvers.
Assuming those were the Russians behind him, Ferguson realized they’d invested an awful lot of resources into the operation. Given that, they might have staked out the backup airfield as well — it was, after all, the next best choice, and pretty obvious.
Back to the embassy then. Have a helo come in. Too bad they couldn’t just land the C-12 on the roof.
“Hey, Beautiful, our airplane ready to go?” Ferguson asked Amanda.
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell him to take off.”
“Huh?”
“Tell him to take off. He’s going to pick us up.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to talk to the driver and look at a map.”
“Ferg—”
“See, I told you I’d grow on you.”
* * *
Once they were sure the C-12 was in the air, the driver in the lead car pulled a sharp 180 on the highway they were driving on. As the others sped on, he rammed into the panel truck, taking out the only vehicle they’d spotted that could be carrying a sizable force of troops. Veering as he was sideswiped, the driver of the van tipped over his truck, smashing into an oncoming car. Meanwhile, the Mercedes with the prisoner and the van sped off the road back onto city streets, racing through a series of alleys and lots to a stretch of warehouses at the eastern edge of the industrial section.
“You with us?” Ferg asked Amanda back at the airport. She was the only one whose radio could communicate with the pilot of the plane, which had taken off and was spinning back toward the edge of city.
“We’re ready.”
Ferg saw the plane overhead.
“Do it,” he told the driver.
The Marine slammed on the brakes as they turned the corner to Swvard Avenue, cutting off the station wagon following them. Ferg jumped from the truck as the Marines piled out in the back, brandishing weapons. The station wagon and a black Russian Lada behind it slammed to a halt; a large truck stopped behind them and men started coming out of the back. Someone got out of the Mercedes — a man in a yellow sports coat.
“Ah, the FSB,” yelled Ferg over his com set as the Marines with him in the van piled out, weapons as obvious as they could make them. “Amanda, honey, you guys have a serious security problem at your end of the operation. You have to watch that pillow talk.”
At the other end of the long, wide street, Rankin slammed against the prisoner as their car veered across the roadway, blocking off the path of traffic. He pushed to his left as Guns jumped from the car, brandishing his MP-5 at a small vehicle that had stopped twenty yards away, waving at the dazed driver to pull off into the lot on the left. Out of the car, Rankin grabbed the prisoner’s side and started pulling him along with Conners.
The C-12 roared down onto the pavement, so close to Ferguson that it knocked him off his feet. It veered slightly to the right, then the left on the long roadway, bouncing in a pothole and nearly tilting too far forward before finally stopping. By the time Ferguson reached the door of the plane, Rankin and Conners wer
e dragging their prisoner around the wing. Guns, taking up the rear, was coming on a dead ran.
“Go, just go!” yelled Ferguson as he pushed Kiro into the airplane. “Get this thing up.”
Conners crawled over Kiro into the C-12; on his haunches, he pulled the prisoner up and pushed him toward one of the two military crewmen. Belatedly, he realized that the soldier had a gun at his belt. Conners jumped up and pushed his way between the prisoner and the man; even with his prisoner handcuffed, blindfolded, and doped up, Conners knew better than to take a chance he might get the gun.
Rankin jumped in. The plane started to move. The door slapped shut, then flew open. Guns’s head appeared in the doorway, followed by Ferguson’s.
The plane was already lifting off the ground. As they struggled to close the door, Guns suddenly slipped and for a split second felt as if he were going out headfirst.
Ferg grabbed him, hauling him back as the plane lifted, then tilted over on its wing, sending them sprawling inside.
“That’s another one you owe me, Marine,” the CIA officer told his team member.
The door slammed, then opened, then slammed again as the pilot banked hard over the abandoned factory, narrowly missing a chain-link fence before finally stabilizing and heading southwestward.
Ferguson went over to one of the windows, looking down on the scene they had just left. The Marines had jumped back into the van and were speeding off. There were a dozen troops standing near the truck behind the Mercedes; at the head of the knot was the man in the yellow jacket.
“Doesn’t have much taste in clothes,” said Ferg. “But otherwise he knows his business.”
ACT II
Wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
— Shakespeare, Richard II, 3.2.178-9
1
THE WHITE HOUSE — TWO DAYS LATER
Corrine Alston checked her watch as she finished with the last of her e-mail, trying to decide whether she’d sneak out for a “normal” lunch or just send for a sandwich. Finally, she got up and took her pocket-book, slipped her Blackberry communicator inside, and went to the outer office to tell her secretary, Teri Fleming, she’d be gone for a while. Teri gave her an all-hold wave.
“He wants to see you,” said Teri. “Just buzzed.”
“All right.” Corrine pulled down her suit jacket, then took out her compact to do a quick makeup check. “Anything new with your son?”
“Pitch meeting tomorrow. He’s hopeful,” said the secretary. Teri’s son Billy was in LA trying to make good as a screenwriter, and his various adventures were often the subject of small talk between the two women. Teri probably knew his schedule as well as Corrine’s, and she knew Corrine’s exceedingly well.
“I’ll sneak down for lunch when we’re done,” said Corrine.
“You have the DEC people at one.”
“Hold them if I’m late.”
“You will be,” said Teri. “It’s nearly one now.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Corrine. She stepped out of the office, turned right, then nodded at the Secret Service man in the hallway ahead. Her destination — the president’s office — was only two doors from her own. She stopped, rapped perfunctorily on the doorjamb, and pushed in.
In the four months that Jonathon McCarthy had served as president, the faint lines Corrine had noticed on his forehead during the campaign had furrowed deeper. At times of tension they formed trenches in his forehead and just then they looked like river channels, belying his quick smile.
A Southerner by heritage and inclination — according to his campaign biography his forebears had stepped on Georgian soil as indentured servants in 1710 — McCarthy retained the style and grace of the well-to-do family he had been born into and rose as Corrine entered the room.
“Miss Alston, I’m glad you could join us,” he said.
He didn’t bother introducing the others, as Corrine not only knew them but had helped vet most of them when the president was considering whom to appoint to his administration. Next to the president’s desk sat Defense Secretary Larry Stich, his green sweater clashing with his gray suit and red tie. To his right was the national security advisor, Marty Green. The CIA director, Thomas Parnelles, was sitting in a chair at the other side of the room, his hands in a tent over his nose, partially obscuring the jagged scar on his cheek that reminded anyone who met him that he had worked his way up from the field.
“How was the play?” asked the president.
“It was very good,” Corrine answered, taken by surprise.
“Et tu, Brute?” joked the president, his drawl striking an odd note with Shakespeare’s pigeon Latin.
“Actually, it was Richard II,” said Corrine.
“When I was a king, my flatterers were but subjects; being now a subject, I have here a king for my flatterer.”
“Very good,” said Corrine. While her father had made his money backing movies, classical theater was his first love, and Corrine had seen or read all of Shakespeare’s major plays by the time she was in grade school. Her mother, however, had been an actress, and carefully steered her daughter’s interests toward “more useful arts.”
“I played Richard in college,” McCarthy explained to the others. He laughed. “That doesn’t go out of this room now, gentlemen. I can count on Miss Alston’s discretion as she’s my attorney, but you all are subject to question. If it gets out, there will be lie detectors in your future.”
McCarthy used the lie detector line about once a week, but the others laughed anyway.
The president leaned back in his chair, furling his arms in front of his chest as he always did when he changed the subject to something serious.
“We have a bit of a knot I’d like your advice on, Miss Alston. It’s somewhat delicate, as of course you appreciate.”
Corrine set her jaw, willing all emotion from her face. She called it full lawyer mode, and had learned to do it when, after graduating summa cum laude from an accelerated program, she’d come to congress as a staff lawyer for the House Appropriations Committee. Within a year she had moved over to Defense, and shortly after that went to work with the Intelligence Committee. Still only twenty-six, she no longer needed the set-jaw scowl to get others to take her seriously, but it was by now habit.
Parnelles began speaking, talking in his usual clipped sentences about a combined CIA/Special Forces operation investigating the possible disappearance of nuclear waste in the former Soviet Republic of Kyrgyzstan. The tangled trail of the operation had led to Chechnya, where the operation happened to come across a militant with connections to both al-Qaida and a lesser-known militant organization called Allah’s Fist. In the course of their work, the CIA realized that the subject had also caused the murder of several American citizens in an attack on a shopping mall in Syracuse, New York, twelve months before. They had kidnapped him and taken him to Guantanamo.
“Let me suggest that you’re using the wrong word,” said Corrine sharply. “I don’t believe you’d wish to characterize legal actions authorized by the U.S. government as ‘kidnapping.’ The word you’re looking for is ‘apprehend.’ Such actions have lengthy precedent and are legally recognized. And I’m sure that’s what occurred here.”
Parnelles gave her the sort of smile a father might give a five-year-old who’d just lectured him on not smoking, then continued. The man was being held at the detention facility on Guantanamo under heavy guard. They suspected he had important information about a plot involving a hazardous waste bomb that might be targeted for the U.S.
Corrine realized what the dilemma was without the CIA director having to spell it out — they wanted to put him on trial for the mall attack, but were afraid of messing up the case by interrogating him improperly.
During his campaign, McCarthy had advocated using the criminal justice system to prosecute terrorists rather than the military tribunal system favored by his predecessors. In McCarthy’s view — and Corrine
concurred — the entire point of fighting terrorists was to preserve American traditions, freedoms, and institutions. The legal system provided plenty of tools to prosecute such murderers. In Corrine’s opinion, terrorists were not enemy combatants — that status implied a certain dignity and righteousness that they clearly did not deserve.
“What do you think, Miss Alston?” McCarthy asked her when Parnelles finished.
“Should I speak as a citizen, or as the president’s private counsel?” she asked.
“Both,” said the president.
“As a citizen, I think you should tear the bastard’s balls off.”
The president laughed.
“However, speaking as a lawyer, if you want to try him in federal or state court, you have to consider carefully how you deal with him. I would think it appropriate to consult with the Department of Justice.”
“We’ve followed their guidelines,” said Parnelles. “This is new ground.”
“If you’re going to ask about torture,” said Corrine, “that’s not my area.”
Parnelles glanced at the president.
“Not torture,” said McCarthy.
“We have a drug,” said Parnelles. “It’s a kind of ultimate lie detector test. We would use it in conjunction with the interrogation, so we’d be better able to judge how valid the information is.”
“I can’t give an opinion on something like that off the top of my head,” Corrine told him.
“Is that because you think it’s something we wouldn’t want to hear?” asked McCarthy.
He’d become adept at reading her hesitations over the past two years; she had joined his campaign as an intelligence advisor and quickly become an all-around confidante, eventually leaving her Senate post to help him full-time. McCarthy had called her in, as he usually did, not simply because he valued her opinion but because it wouldn’t be shared with anyone else. And if her opinion was something he had to ultimately disregard, no newspaper would ever start a story: Despite receiving legal advice to the contrary…
