by Larry Bond
Part of the difficulty in assessing the risk came from the fact that data had to be collected sporadically, largely from accidents and errors. Corrine had read reports on three accidental nuclear-waste releases during the Cold War at the Soviet Union’s Chlyabinsk-65 plant. Stripping Soviet propaganda and correlating exposure levels, one of the studies found that 95 percent of the cleanup team at a tank explosion had been exposed to cancer-causing levels of gamma radiation in less than a day. That would be consistent with the effects of an explosion of a tractor trailer’s worth of strontium-90, the material mentioned in Corrigan’s report. In a less dire accident ten years later, 41,500 people at Lake Karachay were “minimally” and “briefly” exposed to cesium-137 and strontium-90 when the radioactive dust was swept up during a wind storm. According to the study, 4,800 received doses above 1.3 centisieverts, enough to increase cancer risks significantly.
Leukemia, birth defects, lung cancer, stillbirths, sterility — the effects of even a mild exposure measured in curies, perhaps from a few hundred pounds of high-level waste, were definite yet unpredictable, a macabre lottery of death and illness, impossible to predict.
That was the point. You couldn’t know exactly how bad it would be, and so you would fear the worst. You would be paralyzed by the ambiguity, terrorized by the possibility of death.
Dirty death.
The threat was real. But it was besides the point. She hadn’t been sent to assess it, just check on the Team.
In Corrine’s opinion, the only sensible thing to do was to abolish Special Demands. Her case depended largely on this one operation, since it was the only one she knew of. Nonetheless, it made for a good set of exhibits for the prosecution.
“So, Counselor, did you find anything interesting?”
Corrine looked up, surprised to see Daniel Slott, the CIA’s deputy director of operations, standing near the door as she retrieved her things from the locker outside the library.
“Always,” she said.
Slott scratched the thick five o’clock shadow on his cheek. “Have you had dinner?” he asked.
“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” said Corrine, pointedly glancing at Slott’s wedding ring.
“I’m not trying to pick you up,” he said. “Just, if you need background, I can supply it.”
“I don’t know that it’s necessary, thank you.”
“Is there a problem I ought to know about?” said Slott.
“You tell me,” said Corrine.
“I don’t think there’s a problem at all.”
“One thing that wasn’t clear to me,” she said, deciding to do a discovery interview before presenting her brief. “What exactly is the oversight procedure on Joint Services Special Demands Project Office?”
“Usually we refer to it simply as the Team.”
“Yes?”
“I review everything.”
“How is it that there are no specific findings prior to a mission?”
“Not necessary,” he said. “As a matter of fact, the NSC specifically stated that Special Demands is under the direct supervision of an individual appointed by the president, which has been, is, me.”
“The streamlined procedure was designed because it wasn’t intended to authorize this sort of operation,” she said. “Special Demands was intended to be used to develop weapons and other devices that might have applications for your agency and the Special Forces units. Wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t limited,” said Slott.
Corrine, who had studied the NSC minutes and knew that was the only matter discussed, zipped her pocketbook and started toward the door. Slott followed.
“Listen, we’ve got an important operation running here — it’s proof the system works,” he said.
Corrine didn’t bother answering.
“It’s not like I can go out and start World War III,” added Slott.
“Mr. Ferguson can,” said Corrine. “There are no holds on him.”
“Of course there are.”
“Name one.”
“Me. Van Buren. The people in the field.”
Corrine remained unimpressed.
“Ferguson is one of our best people. I trust him completely.”
Slott reached out and grabbed her arm. She jerked back, adrenaline rising; she’d flatten him if she had to.
“We shouldn’t be enemies here,” Slott said, letting go. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re not enemies, that I know of,” she told him, walking away.
9
BANDAR ‘ABBÃS, IRAN
The tracks leading to two of the three railroad yards Ferg wanted to look at were ripped up and missing in spots, and when the radiation detector didn’t pick up any readings nearby, Ferg decided not to bother with them. The third was located about thirty-five miles northeast of Bandar ‘Abbas, in a town that wouldn’t have seemed terribly out of place in middle America — once you adjusted for the veils, beards, and minarets.
The rail spur skirted the town; the siding Ferg was interested in sat in a valley at the eastern edge, linking with a large complex of buildings and steel warehouses. Most of the buildings looked dilapidated, but there were two in the center of the complex in good repair.
There were also at least a dozen armed guards.
“What do you think?” Ferg asked Keveh.
The Iranian shook his head. He had no idea what they did inside.
“Why don’t we drive in and see what happens?” Ferg asked.
“They may shoot us.”
“There is that,” said Ferg.
They drove past the road leading to the site, then up around another set of roads that brought them near but not to the train tracks. Ferg and Keveh got out, leaving Conners and the other Iranian with the car. Ferg walked down the siding toward the gated rail entrance to the facility. There were a pair of guards inside the fence about two hundred yards from him; it was impossible to tell whether they were paying mention or not. A boxcar sat on the tracks near one of the dilapidated buildings; there was a tanker car beyond it.
“What if I’m a foreign investor who wants to buy some of the old buildings?” Ferguson suggested to Keveh.
“Very suspicious.” Keveh squinted and shielded his eyes from the rising morning sun.
“Yeah, but will it get me in?”
“Better if I say I’m from the Revolutionary Council at Bandar,” said the Iranian.
“Who am I?”
“A foreign expert on railroads — on steel,” said Keveh. “A Russian. Better from Russia — they won’t be interested.”
“I like that. I always wanted to play with trains.”
* * *
An hour later, Ferguson and Keveh drove inside the complex, watched but not stopped by the guards. They’d left the others outside, watching as best they could from the road near the town.
As Keveh circled around toward the two train cars, Ferguson slid out his radiation tester. The tester could record sixteen data points or levels for reference in both REM and Rads, and could detect energy levels down to 1 nR/hr, the low end of normal background radiation. Its isotope identification mode tracked a variety of isotopes stored in its memory, and it could record and retain up to thirty-two bits. (Depending on the type of radiation, REMs and Rads were considered essentially the same measure, indicating how much energy was being absorbed and potential biological damage done. At high alpha levels, however, the Rad measurement was more useful. A REM was equal to.01 sievert.) He had a larger device in his pack that could record becquerels and curies for a hundred data points; this used a gas tube and was bulky, and its precision wasn’t really necessary. (In fact, the difference in measurements were mostly a matter of math. One becquerel represented the disintegration of one nucleus per second. While standards varied wildly, a waste tank might generate one hundred curies, which was 3,700 billion becquerels. The effects of exposure would vary depending on time and distance as well as the nature of the exposure, but a person working in a uranium mine woul
d be “allowed” a safe exposure to 3.7 becquerels per liter of air a month.)
Ferg took the first level as they got out of the car; it was flat. He walked to the tanker, holding the device on the metal skin. The needle didn’t budge, even on its most sensitive setting.
He went to the boxcar — empty — then along the track, stooping at a connection as if he were truly inspecting it. The rail line was very old and not used much, but undoubtedly in good enough shape to handle cars. The building at the left beyond the boxcar had a rail running into it.
“Company,” said Keveh. A small Gator-style ATV with two guards had appeared from around the corner of one of the sheds and was heading their way.
“Keep ‘em busy,” said Ferg.
“What?”
“I have to take a leak,” he said, trotting toward the building.
He pretended to check left and right, then stood next to the side and held out his counter.
Nothing. Ferg pretended to concentrate as Keveh called to him. He held up his hand and waved, as if intent on finding a spot to do his business.
A single window stood at the side of the building near the corner. Ferg glanced back, saw that the guards weren’t following, and walked toward it. He couldn’t see through the dirt on the window, so he walked past, feigning interest in the trucks as he turned the corner of the building.
There were several windows there, the first with a face in it. The face glared at him, its eyes furrowing into its head above a stubby beard. Ferg waved, and held up the radiation meter, as if it were something the face ought to be familiar with. The frown only deepened.
Ferguson moved on to the next window, leaning over and looking through the dirt.
It was some sort of warehouse for DVDs, or maybe a manufacturing operation. There were several piles of boxes near the floor, a woman smiling. He couldn’t read the writing. He pushed his head closer, put his hand up to cut off the glare.
There were different covers, but they all had young women on them.
Good work, he thought to himself; I’ve busted a DVD-pirating operation.
Ferg headed back. As he turned the corner he saw that the guards had become a little more threatening — they had their pistols out. Keveh, his face red, was talking nonstop to one of them, who was shaking his head.
Ferguson shoved his meter in his pocket and walked toward them. He couldn’t understand the particulars, but the gist was fairly clear — the guards didn’t like the fact that they were nosing around. Ferg gave them a long blast in Russian as he approached, asking if they were filming porn inside and, if so, could they take some walk-ons. Fortunately, neither man had a clue what he was saying.
“Counterfeiting DVDs,” he said, in English, to Keveh, encasing the explanation in a sentence of more Russian nonsense.
Keveh gave him a look that didn’t need to be translated. Then the guard issued his own command, gesturing with the gun.
“Guess it’s time to leave,” Ferguson said to Keveh. He took a step back in the direction they had come.
A warning shot in the dirt nearby stopped him.
“Okay,” he said, turning around. “Sprechen sie Deutsch? Parla Italiano? Speak En-glishy?”
The guard’s only answer was to raise the barrel of his gun so that the next shot had a reasonable chance of hitting him in the throat.
10
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Corrine stopped at a deli on her way back to the office, grabbing a half hero for lunch and dinner; she was so hungry she ate most of it while driving back. Teri had gone home already, leaving three prioritized piles of letters and other matters to review on her desk. Corrine ignored them as well as the full queue of e-mail on her computer, concentrating instead on writing a memo to the president about Special Demands. She pounded the keys in a rapid flow of logic, producing over twenty pages in little more than two hours. She was just about to hit the spellcheck when she heard someone knock on the outer door. Figuring it was one of the Secret Service people discreetly checking to see if the light had been left on accidentally, she yelled out that she was fine and went back to poring over the screen, sorting out contractions and typos.
“I think the electorate would be thrilled at your work ethic,” said the president behind her.
Corrine felt her face flush. “You surprised me, Mr. President,” she said, turning around from her computer.
“I have that effect on people,” he said, peeking at the computer screen. “Addressed to me?”
“I haven’t finished it yet.”
“How was Cuba? Warm?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our guest?”
“Interesting, but not very talkative,” said Corrine. “I already told you the decision should be deferred while they’re pursuing his present information.”
“E-mail is not the same as a personal report.”
“I’m working on my report now.” She folded her arms in front of her breasts, feeling almost as if the president had barged into her bathroom as she came from the shower.
“I understand the CIA director and the deputy director of operations are on my agenda for the morning.” McCarthy raised his eyebrows just enough to suggest a wink as he continued. “What is it they’re going to complain about?”
“They got to you already?”
The president reached for the seat near her desk. He pulled it over and sat down, pulling the pant legs of his gray suit back ever so slightly and exposing his snakeskin boots. “Now just remember, dear, the shoe leather is snake. My legs will hurt if you start to fib.”
Corrine had heard the line a million times. “It’ll all be in my memo.”
“Horse’s mouth is always better, not to mention quicker,” said McCarthy. “And I am by no means suggesting that you’re a horse.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Corrine told him what she had found — an operation with no checks in place and, it seemed to her, ample opportunity for running amuck.
“They’re completely outside any oversight,” said Corrine. “The fact that they’ve used a structure intended for something else is, at the very least, a serious red flag.”
“You’re sure it was intended for something else.”
“I’ve seen the minutes.”
“And they would be accurate.” The president let just the hint of amusement enter into his skepticism; he knew the past administration extremely well. “They don’t have to report to anyone?”
“Just the DDO.”
“The person I appoint,” said the president. He was drawing an important distinction — the NSC directive did not state that the DDO was in charge of Special Demands.
“Slott’s been with the Agency for years; his loyalties aren’t to you,” said Corrine. “I don’t think he has any perspective at all.”
McCarthy propped the side of his face against his hand, as relaxed as if he were discussing how they dealt with critters on his Georgia farm. “The problem is that they don’t have intelligence findings before proceeding?”
“The problem is they don’t have anything. Decisions are being made by the officer in the field and a Special Forces colonel who has enough firepower at his fingertips to start a world war. Slott is a rubber stamp at best. This is exactly what led to catastrophe in the sixties. It took decades to recover from that. Some say they still haven’t.”
“Well now, they’ve told me what’s going on,” said the president. “Shouldn’t I trust them?”
“There’s no way for us to know for sure what they’re doing,” she explained. “The NSC isn’t involved, there’s no paperwork, no procedures, the director doesn’t have to be notified, they don’t have to report to the congressional committees — we have to completely trust the people involved.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t trust anyone. First rule.” Corrine shook her head. “The operation in Iran is a perfect example. What happens if they’re captured? Or worse, if they find a dirty bomb on that ship and bl
ow it up? Not to mention that, in my opinion, they’re going off on a wild-goose chase.”
McCarthy sat back up. “How’s that?”
“It’s obviously meant to throw them off the trail. The Iranian government took over the Islamic organization months ago. Our guest told them that to throw them off. He’s probably hoping we’ll give the Iranians trouble.”
“And how do you know?”
“I’ve done a little research. Where do you think I’ve been the past few days?”
“That didn’t occur to them?”
“Probably, but they won’t admit it. They get a hot lead, and they pursue it. That’s how they operate.”
McCarthy put his hand to his chin, rubbing the nubby whiskers of his five o’clock shadow.
“If they really want to find out where the waste is going,” Corrine told him, “we should track it from Buzuluk.”
“They said they tried,” said the President.
“As far as I could find out, they only used satellites and detectors; they weren’t actually there. Big difference seeing the bear than hearing about it,” she added, using one of his phrases.
McCarthy rose from the chair without saying anything. He walked over to her desk, reaching around her to the computer.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Insert your recommendation here.”
“Which recommendation?”
“The one that recommends that the person in charge of Special Demands be outside the CIA and Special Forces command structure, as permitted by the authorizing directive and executive order. And the law.”
“Uh—”
“To be more specific, that the president’s counsel be that person.”
“But—”
“Then a little lower, down here, plot out your recommendation for following the operation. I think that might be the first thing you do, assuming you’re right about the ship.”
“But I can’t do that.”
