All eyes shifted to Crispin.
"Hey, I know a little bit about music."
"Carry on, Colt," Moyer said.
"The song uses biblical stories. To be honest, it's sort of a mishmash of things that raises more questions than it answers. Sometimes the singers change the lyrics. For example, Cohen uses the phrase 'the holy dove.' Wainwright and others use 'the holy dark.' That's the phrase I've been thinking about. 'Holy dark'."
"Does this go anywhere? What does that have to do with my . . . situation?"
"Okay, here's where it gets preachy. People—by which I mean guys like me—always associate holiness with light. Nothing wrong with that. Saying 'the holy light' just sounds right and fits with what the Bible teaches, but the reverse—although it doesn't sound right—is true."
"Holy dark," Moyer muttered.
"Yes, Boss. What I've been thinking about is that God might be in the dark as much as in the light. My brother once preached a sermon about Solomon building the temple in Jerusalem. When he finished Solomon said, 'The Lord said that He would dwell in thick darkness'—a holy dark."
"Deep stuff for such a shallow mind." Rich delivered the words with a grin.
"All I'm saying is that God is in the darkness with you. There is a holy dark."
"Thanks, Colt. I know you mean well, but I'm just not feeling it. I can only feel one thing right now: fear for my daughter."
"Understood, Boss. I'm just sayin'."
"I hear ya, Colt. Maybe it will mean something to me someday."
Lev's voice wafted to the back. "If the church service is over, I should tell you we're coming up to the coordinates you gave me. What do you want me to do now?"
Moyer moved from his seat in the back and leaned into the cab. "Leave the road. Drive as far as you can. We need to conceal the truck."
"I can see a stand of old trees fifty meters up the slope."
"Do it. We'll go the rest of the way on foot."
"Won't that slow you down?"
Moyer put a hand on the Russian's shoulder. "We like to be fashionably late."
Lev slowed and turned up a grassy slope, accelerating to gain traction. "You know, I'm leaving tracks they can follow."
"They don't know we're here and I've got a feeling they're going to have other things on their minds."
"If you say so, Boss man."
"I say so."
Moyer turned to the team. "Okay, let's see if Colt is right about God being in the dark."
"But it's still light outside," Crispin said.
"It's a euphemism, Hawkeye," Pete said.
"Oh."
ROB HEARD THE SOFT voice of Special Agent Brianne Lazzaro. "You're not doing yourself any good by watching that tape over and over again."
"I'm not trying to do anything good for me; I'm trying to do some good for my sister."
Brianne sat in one of the dining room chairs brought in earlier when Zinsser and Wallace were going over the video. "We have specialists working on it, Rob."
"So what? Another pair of eyes won't hurt anything."
"I'm worried about you. That's all."
He snapped at her. "Maybe things would work better if you worried about my sister."
She put a hand on his arm. "I'm not the enemy here. You know that. CID and the FBI are doing everything that can be done. Your mother needs you to be strong and to be present, not hiding out here."
He turned to face her. She was gorgeous on a dozen different levels, although older than him by fifteen years. He could lose himself in her eyes—any other time but now. The only thing he could think about was Gina, the times he teased her too severely; the times he made fun of her friends; the times he upset her world by bringing discord into the house.
The muscles constricted in his chest, and for a moment his heart seemed ready to burst like a balloon, leaving ripped tissue fluttering in the center of his chest. Fearing a nervous breakdown, he turned back to the computer. His eyes pointed at the screen but he saw nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
"You all right, kid?" Brianne's hard FBI special agent tone turned nurturing.
"Yeah. I guess. I just keep thinking we're missing some clue in this video."
"You can't see what's not there."
"Something has to be here. No one is perfect. There must be a goof, a mistake somewhere that leaves a clue."
"Rob, let the professionals do this."
"I'm not stopping them."
Brianne opened her mouth to speak again when her BlackBerry went off. She answered, rose, and left the room.
Rob was glad she was gone. She didn't understand. Couldn't understand. To her, this was just another kidnapping, another task to be completed on her to-do list. He would do whatever he could. Minutes mattered.
Minutes mattered . . . mattered. Rob covered his face with his hand to hide the tears he could no longer hold back.
ZINSSER STEPPED FROM THE car the moment Wallace pulled to the curb. Wallace insisted they return to the office where they would have more assets available to them. It made sense, but Zinsser wanted to check on Rob and Stacy. Wallace acquiesced, clearly weary of arguing. As Zinsser slipped from the passenger seat, Agent Lazzaro stepped from the house, as if she knew what minute they'd be arriving. She had her phone to her ear. She nodded several times as if the caller could see her.
He started to walk past her when she took his arm in an unexpectedly strong grasp.
"Got it. Good work." She put the phone away.
"Do you mind?" Zinsser glanced at his arm.
"Oh, sorry." She let go. "Good news. The video forensic team has made a discovery."
"What discovery?" Wallace joined them.
"They've identified the kind of camera used to make the video."
"That was quick," Wallace said. "Faster than we could have done it."
Brianne shrugged. "Like I said, the president calls the FBI director and motivation sweeps through every corner of the bureau. How did you get such a powerful friend, Agent Zinsser?"
"We like the same kind of pancake syrup." He waited for a laugh but when he didn't get one, he continued. "Long story, one which I can't tell you even if we had the time. What'd your team find?"
"Some video cameras, especially the higher-priced ones, come with a metafile, watermark creator. You know, invisible markers placed in the digital fabric of the video. These can be read with the right kind of software. It just so happens we have that software. The video was made with a Sentratronics XG200 security camera. It comes with a digital recorder that works like a store security camera catching only a few frames every few seconds, or it can be used at regular recording speeds—which our black hats did."
"Okay, but that helps us how . . . They sell these in home-improvement stores?"
"You're getting it, Zinsser. And here's the bonus: These things are at the upper range of the cameras sold in such stores, meaning—"
Wallace jumped in. "Meaning they sell fewer of those than lesser-priced security systems."
Zinsser smiled. "That lowers the number of candidates. There might be hundreds of people who buy two-by-fours, drywall, and white paint. We search for someone who bought those items, maybe some tools, but also the security system."
Brianne nodded repeatedly. "It narrows things quite a bit."
"It's time to pull out the stops." Wallace reached for his cell phone. "Can you get more agents hitting these stores? We're smaller than the FBI, but I'll pull everyone out of the office and get them on it." Wallace looked at Zinsser. "What about the cops? Did you offend them so much they'll refuse a little interagency cooperation?"
"Um, you may want to call them. Detective Angie Wells wants to control everything, but I believe she's a committed cop. Police sergeant Crivello is a stand-up guy. I'd work through one of them."
Wallace turned and started making phone calls.
"How're Rob and Stacy doing?"
Brianne saddened. "Not good. Rob is trying to man up and take charge of things, but he's way
out of his depth."
"He's barely eighteen."
"I'm not being critical; I'm giving a report. Stacy has yet to sleep. She looks like she's been run over by a very long train. Gina's friends have gone home. I pushed them out the door so Stacy could rest. She kept fixing drinks and food for them."
"Understandable. The chaplain?"
"Bartley is still here. He said another chaplain will be over tonight. He's called the wives of some of Moyer's men. A couple are coming over with dinner for the family. Maybe they can get them to eat."
PRESIDENT HUFFINGTON HAD ENTERTAINED Ambassador Hui Xu on several occasions. One of the hallmarks of his administration was tightening the bond between China and the United States. Huffington was about to blow that out of the water.
Huffington stewed as he sat in his high-backed leather chair behind the presidential desk. Hui was late and there could only be two reasons: One, he was conferring with his home office, or two, he was making known his displeasure about being summoned on short notice. Either way, the man succeeded in making Huffington angrier than he already was.
The phone on his desk beeped. He punched a button and heard the gentle voice of his personal secretary. "Ambassador Hui is here, sir."
"Show him in."
Helen Brown entered a moment before Hui, took one look at the president, and sighed. "This isn't going to be pretty, is it?"
"Not by a long shot."
The door to the Oval Office opened and Hui, a thin, aristocratic-looking man entered, a disingenuous smile glued to his face. Brownie moved to him, bowed slightly, and held out her hand. Hui took her hand and held it for ten seconds. He then bowed to her.
"It is always my highest pleasure to see you, Ms. Brown. I hope you are well."
"I am, Ambassador Hui."
They turned to face Huffington. What was supposed to happen, what had happened in the past, what Huffington originally planned was this: The president would stand, step to his guest, bow, take the man's hand in a gentle but protracted handshake, praise him for coming on such short notice, and ask about his health. He would refer to the man by his title and family name. Never his given name—which in China always appeared second—and use his title frequently.
That was what was meant to happen, but Huffington decided he had enough of small talk and social customs.
"You're late, Xu."
Two insults in three words. A new record for the president.
The color drained from the ambassador's face, replaced by a red tinge. "Yes, Mr. President. I had urgent business that delayed me."
Here is where Huffington was to offer Hui a seat. He didn't.
"Remind me, Mr. Ambassador. Whose country are you in?"
The man paused and pressed his lips together. "Why, I live in your wonderful country."
"Do you like it, Hui?"
"Very much, Mr. President." The man had to press the words through clenched teeth.
"I see. Well, since you are so busy as to keep the president of your host nation waiting, a president with some pressing business of his own, I'll get down to business."
"I can sense some tension, Mr. President. Perhaps we should sit and discuss what it is that is bothering you."
"You will not sit in my office until I'm satisfied with the next series of events." Huffington stood and motioned Brown to open the doors of the custom entertainment center where a large flat-screen television sat.
"I don't understand the source of your anger, Mr. President. Perhaps I should come back at another time." He turned.
"If you walk out that door, you will need to go to your embassy and pack, because I will have you, your family, and your staff escorted out of the country." Huffington rounded his desk and stepped close to the ambassador, invading his personal space. "I'm going to talk. You're going to listen."
"I'm not used to being treated so rudely."
"You'll live, even if your career doesn't." The president took a breath, the kind a man takes when he's about to let loose a tirade. "Not long ago one of your satellites targeted, impacted, and knocked one of our satellites from the sky."
"Sir, I have already apologized for the inadvertent—"
"There was nothing inadvertent about it! We have done a trajectory analysis and know for a fact you targeted that one satellite with hopes of bringing it down in eastern China. But we moved it at the last moment. Not much, but enough to change its path of entry. It landed in eastern Siberia. This you know because using a very clever ploy, you dropped five men into the area. They're at the crash site right now."
"Sir, I know nothing about this."
"I think you do, Ambassador. I know for a fact you do. Do you know how I spent my time while waiting for you to show up? I spent it talking to President Urie Solovyov. Have you met him? Nice guy. A real progressive. I asked a favor." He turned to Brown. "Hit it, Brownie."
She touched the play button on the DVR just below the television. The screen brightened and ran a thirty-second video of a cruise missile leaving a Navy destroyer, then cutting away to it striking a bunker. Brown turned the screen off.
"That, Ambassador, is an older version of one of our TLAMs—that's Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles. Forgive me for not giving details, but the one I have in mind is newer and, shall we say, more effective. I can put one of those within ten feet of any target I like. Right now that target is my fallen satellite. Of course your men are there."
"You would fire on the Russian Federation? I think not."
"Think what you will, but I already have permission from the Russian government. Once Solovyov heard it was Chinese military that invaded their land under a ruse, well, he was begging me to pull the trigger."
"I shouldn't have to remind you that you have a team within their borders. We have our sources too, Mr. President."
"I'm sure you do, Mr. Ambassador."
Hui frowned. "It causes me pain to be so rude as to bring up the enormous debt the American people owe my country—"
"I'm aware of the debt created by previous administrations, but be careful about throwing that in my face. We've made our payments as scheduled. Your name means 'wise,' Mr. Ambassador. It would be unwise to challenge me on this. Do not think because we are indebted to you that we are owned by you."
"Mr. President—"
"We're done, Mr. Ambassador. Your tardiness has caused me to be late for an important meeting. I want your men clear of the satellite in the next hour, or you will be picking up their pieces for months to come."
"I will speak to my government."
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. You now have fifty-nine minutes."
Ambassador Hui Xu walked from the room.
"Ouch. I knew you were going to blindside him, but I didn't expect you to beat him with a verbal bat."
"I'm a little irritable tonight."
"You normally have me in the room when you talk to heads of state. How hard did you have to work President Solovyov?"
"Are you kidding? I didn't talk to him. The runt hates me. He'd never give permission for a cruise missile skimming his eastern mountains."
"You amaze me."
"You should see my poker game."
"I think I just did."
CHAPTER 31
PENG STOOD NEXT TO the still-smoldering wreckage of the American satellite and tried to wrap his mind around the thought that the object, not that long ago, was circling tens of thousands of miles overhead. It was an interesting truth, one he might have dwelt on were it not for other concerns on his mind. Gao, his master sergeant, passed the Geiger counter to Peng and took one of the three points of the triangular perimeter his team established. The three lowest-ranking men lay on their bellies, scanning the forest line a short distance off for any movement. Hsu, the only other officer on the team, stood with Peng at the satellite.
Peng passed the handheld device over the crumbled, burned, bent, metal corpse. "No radiation beyond background. The fuel cell must be intact."
"A good thing for us. I plan on ha
ving more children—normal children."
Peng seldom joked but couldn't resist. "Think of the advantage of having a boy who glows in the dark. Easy to find."
"Yes, sir."
"You're agreeing just to be polite."
The lieutenant smiled. "Yes, sir."
Peng glanced around the area one more time, then confident they were alone in the wilderness, called for the tools.
Hsu dropped his pack and fished out a kit of battery-powered microtools. They were lucky, one of the items they were tasked to find was within easy reach, the result of a lucky bounce. Peng focused on a scarred and scorched plastic window. He ran a gloved hand over the surface and brushed away mud, grass, twigs, and leaves. He cupped his hands, blocking the glare, and peered into the space behind. A large lens was mounted in what looked like a universal bracket that allowed the lens to move in two dimensions. He was told the lens system was probably a compound system of several lenses, a charged-couple device that converted images gathered from space into digital format for enhancement and transmission.
The technology was well beyond him, but he knew enough to know he was looking at the latest advancements. He was also looking at billions of dollars of research and development. A little back engineering and his government could make great strides in a very short time.
Peng was also to photograph everything. Carrying off in-flight propulsion units would be useful but impractical. Thruster design had not changed dramatically over the last few years—or so he was told. In truth, his government excelled in that area. However, optics were highly specialized.
The team was also to retrieve the "brains" of the satellite, the computer that monitored position, analyzed image integrity, and communicated with ground control.
He was also ordered to remove anything that looked interesting and if he couldn't remove it, to photograph it in detail. Peng had no idea what his superiors might consider interesting.
Hsu removed a small, battery-powered set of sheet metal shears, set the sharp jaws into a gap formed by buckled metal, and pulled the trigger. The noise set him on edge, the sound of it echoing down the narrow valley.
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