"How big is this thing?" Ronnie asked.
"Hard to tell from what the Russians found. Maybe the size of a camera or a portable radio."
"You don't see those anymore," Lamont said. "Now everybody listens to their phone."
"Nobody is going to be listening to a radio at a rock concert," Selena said. "Or their phone either."
"Yeah, but they'll all be taking pictures with their phones." Ronnie scratched his nose. "We'd better hope this thing doesn't look like one of those."
"How do we pick one person out of 20,000?" Selena said. "The more we look at this, the more impossible it seems."
Nick tugged on his ear. "Let's narrow things down. Brainstorm it with a few assumptions."
"Where do you want to start?" Ronnie said.
"Think like the opposition. How do I get the maximum effect I want?"
"Well," Selena said, "if I'm sending someone in and I don't want them to know that they're about to get killed, I need them to feel comfortable. Safe. I need to distract them until I activate the device."
"Okay," Nick said. "It's a rock concert. How does anyone get comfortable at a rock concert?"
"You need a really good seat," Ronnie said. "Somewhere near the band, where you can see everything. If you're up in the bleachers, it's like watching ants from a distance. If I wanted someone to be thinking about anything except the package they were carrying, I'd get them the best seat in the house."
"That would be right up near the stage. Do they have seats there?"
Selena pointed at the seating diagram. "There's stadium seating on three sides of the arena and the stage on the fourth, then this big flat space in front of the stage. They probably fill that up with people standing. They might run a walkway out from the stage into the crowd."
"You see that a lot at a big concert," Lamont said.
"So," Nick said, "no seats right in front of the stage but they do have them on the sides. Big standing crowd in front. "
"The floor will be a mob scene," Ronnie said. "I don't want to be in the middle of that if that thing goes off."
"Then I guess we'd better make damn sure it doesn't," Nick said, "since there's a good chance that's exactly where we'll be."
"How is our patsy going to get a package through security?" Selena asked. "There's bound to be security. There always is at a big event. Don't they have metal detectors?"
"I don't know what their security looks like. I'll ask Wigland."
Later, they went down to the hotel restaurant. The room gleamed with Italian marble. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling far above. Nick wondered how they reached all those dangling facets to keep them dust free. The lighting was subdued. The tables were covered with white linen. The diners were elegantly dressed, some in formal evening clothes. It was if he had stepped back into an earlier time, into an England that no longer existed.
Later, Selena and Nick left Ronnie and Lamont at their floor and continued up another two stories in the elevator. The bed had been turned down. Mints had been left on the pillow.
Selena showered first. When Nick came out of the bathroom, she was already under the covers. He got in and turned toward her.
"This bed is too good to pass up," he said. "I'm not tossing around like I did. I don't think I'm likely to hit you in my sleep."
"I don't care if you toss around," she said. "But if you hit me while you're asleep I'm going to hit you back, so don't say I didn't give you fair warning."
Nick reached across and touched her face.
It was a long time before they slept.
CHAPTER 28
"Thank you for seeing me, Mister Vice President." General Westlake shook hands with Edmonds.
"My pleasure, General, my pleasure. Please, sit down." Edmonds gestured at a comfortable chair covered in a green and white striped fabric.
They were in the Vice President's office in the West Wing. The room was an odd combination of old and modern. Draped hangings on the tops of the windows could have been in style in Lincoln's time. The furniture was an expensive mix of modern reproduction and genuine American antique. The carpet was a deep blue, thick and soft underfoot.
Edmonds was a heavy man, with bushy eyebrows and dark eyes. Cartoonists had a field day drawing him in ways that made him look like a comical bowling ball. His feet were dainty for such a big man. His carefully tailored suits failed to conceal his enormous gut.
The Vice President liked sailing, as long as someone else was doing the work. The walls sported museum quality paintings of sailing ships from the early days of the U.S. Navy. The fact that he was not a very good sailor wasn't mentioned by those who knew him, at least not in his presence.
Edmonds had not made the transition to the heights of American politics by virtue of being stupid. He'd been CEO of one of the largest companies in the world, a man driven by self interest. Westlake did not make the mistake of underestimating him. He could be manipulated by fanning the flames of his ambition, but it would require subtlety.
His position a heartbeat away from the Oval Office gave him far more importance than he deserved. Rice had picked Edmonds for his running mate as a political move, garnering the support of big money in the business community. In terms of the leadership of the country, it had been a mistake.
Edmonds folded his hands. "I can give you 10 minutes, General. As you might expect, things have been a little chaotic around here since the assassination attempt."
Westlake put on a suitable expression of concern. "Yes, a terrible thing. I appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule, Mister Vice President. The burden of running the country is now upon your shoulders. May I say that we at the Pentagon feel quite comfortable with you in charge during this difficult time."
Edmonds visibly preened. "Yes, well, I do what I can. Hopefully the President will return to office soon."
Westlake looked at this puffed up man and knew he was lying. Not likely, Westlake thought. I'll bet you can't wait to get your fat ass in that chair down the hall in the Oval Office. Play along, and it might be sooner than you think.
"Sir, as you know there are important military programs out of the public eye. There are several on a strictly need to know basis which do not include the President on the distribution list. It has always been felt that plausible deniability takes precedence over knowledge of programs that might be misunderstood by the electorate."
Edmonds' eyes narrowed. "Go on."
"One of those programs is called Ajax. It concerns development of a weapon which can be used with minimal cost and great efficiency against our enemies."
"What does this weapon do?"
"It causes great confusion and dispersion in the enemy ranks without destroying important infrastructure. We are at a sensitive stage in the testing and development of Ajax. Unfortunately, one of our own intelligence units is interfering with this highly classified program."
"One of our units? That borders on treason. Which one?"
"The Project."
"Ah. Rice's pet spies. I know who they are, a bunch of undisciplined troublemakers. They're led by that woman who created a lot of problems for the 9/11 commission."
"That's them," Westlake said. "They seem to be operating under some false assumption about this research. In time, I'm certain any misconceptions they have can be cleared up. But the fact remains, they are causing serious delays in the development of this important piece of our national security. This is a time critical program. We can't afford any more delays."
That ought to be enough, Westlake thought. Don't lay it on too thick..
"I appreciate your coming to me with this, General. And I appreciate your filling me in on this program."
You have no idea what this program is, Westlake thought.
Edmonds continued. "What do you think should be done?"
"That's up to you, sir. You are the only person who can tell them what to do. But I do think they should be prevented from further interference."
"Mm." E
dmonds got up from his chair. Westlake stood at the same time. He came to attention.
"Interference with our classified military programs cannot be tolerated," Edmonds said. "I'll look into it. I am a believer in a strong military."
"We know that, sir. It's good to have someone in the White House who feels that way. The Pentagon would be grateful for anything you can do about this problem."
Westlake paused.
"Is there something else, General?"
"May I be candid, sir?"
Edmonds gave Westlake a careful look. "Please go on, General."
"Frankly, sir, many of us at the Pentagon feel that President Rice has undermined the country's interests by his insistence on negotiations with people who will never keep their agreements. Of course we hope that the President will recover but if circumstance elevates you to the presidency, I can assure you of our support."
Edmonds held out his hand and the two men shook. Their eyes met in unspoken agreement.
As he left the White House, Westlake was satisfied Edmonds was hooked. The man was self-important and ambitious and he wanted to be President. The thought of active support from the military probably had him fantasizing about redecorating the Oval Office. It would be interesting to see what he did to call off Harker's dogs.
His driver was waiting for him when he emerged from a side entrance of the White House. Westlake got into the back seat.
"The Pentagon," he said.
The car exited the White House grounds. Westlake watched the flow of cars and pedestrians through the windows of the car as it threaded through Washington traffic. He thought about when he had first come here. He'd only been a lieutenant then, wet behind the ears, proud to be part of a great military tradition. Over the years that pride had turned to confusion and then anger.
He'd watched politicians refuse to make the right decisions because of popular opinion or misguided notions of political correctness. Politicians like Rice, who backed away from victory even when they held it in the palm of their hand. Politicians who had sacrificed his son for nothing.
Westlake had been immensely proud of his boy. His death had been meaningless. Alan Westlake had died because he'd been ordered into an insurgent stronghold without adequate support. There had been no military or strategic value in the assignment. It had been a political gesture, meant to satisfy the arbitrary whims of a puppet president Washington claimed was an ally.
Westlake's wife had never been the same after that. She had gone into a deep depression. A year after Alan's death, she'd killed herself.
Westlake became known in military circles as an unrelenting hawk, an advocate of massive response with token concern for collateral damage. He'd been on the short list for a seat on the Joint Chiefs but as his views hardened and the political climate changed, he'd been shunted aside. He was given the satellite program, a poor substitute for the command of legions.
It was clear to him that political expediency had placed the security of the nation in danger. Washington's policies of appeasement and negotiation dishonored his son and every American. It was enough to make any patriot weep.
He would change that. America would reclaim her rightful place. At the end of World War II, the stars and stripes had flown in every corner of the globe. There was no reason why it shouldn't again. All that was needed was the right leader.
It was America's destiny.
His destiny.
CHAPTER 29
Nick and the others stood outside the entrance to the O2 arena, waiting for their MI5 escort. They wore earpieces so they could stay in radio contact once they were inside. Streams of people filed past. Wigland had been adamant: wait for him before they did anything.
Posters outside the stadium headlined a singer with long blonde hair, tattooed arms and the look of the streets.
"Guy has a lot of ink," Nick said.
"I wonder if he's any good?" Selena said.
"Must be, to book this joint solid," Ronnie said. "I looked it up on the net. Only the top acts play here."
"I don't like this waiting around for our minder to decide if we can be useful," Nick said.
Lamont coughed. "I don't think he likes us much," he said.
"Speak of the devil," Ronnie said.
Wigland came up to them. He was immaculately dressed. He looked as if he was on his way to the theater instead of hunting someone who planned to trigger a riot. "Well then," he said. "Here we are."
"What's the plan?" Nick asked. "Have your people turned anything up?"
"Not yet, but if something's there we'll find it. Not really your concern."
Nick controlled himself. It was obvious that Wigland had no intention of giving Nick and his team any operational responsibility. He decided to confront Wigland about it.
"I'd like to point out that you and your government would have no idea there was any possibility of an incident if my director hadn't called your boss and given him a heads up. Now you're marginalizing us. It's a mistake."
Wigland's face was closed. "You are only here as a courtesy, Carter. We do things our own way on this side of the pond. We don't need you cowboy types screwing things up, do we?" His voice was dismissive.
He handed Nick tickets. "Enjoy the show and stay out of the way. If you interfere in my operation, I'll have you on a plane back to Washington tonight. This whole exercise is a waste of time. If there does turn out to be anything to it, we'll sort it out."
Nick felt a headache start. He resisted the urge to punch the man.
"Remember," Wigland said. He pointed his finger at Nick. "Stay out of the way." He turned and walked into the arena, leaving them standing there.
"I know where he got his old school tie," Ronnie said. "Asshole University."
Selena laughed.
Nick smiled in spite of himself. His ear itched. He reached up and scratched it. Selena and Ronnie looked at each other.
"I'll never understand why people like him end up in charge of things," Nick said.
Lamont said, "What do you want to do?"
"What we were going to do before. Wigland may think this is all a waste of time, but we know better."
They walked through two huge O symbols and passed into the complex. To the right, a wide hallway curved away between rows of shops and restaurants. Civilian guards dressed in dark slacks and blue jackets with the name of their security service embroidered over the breast pocket stood about, looking bored. They appeared to be unarmed.
"I don't see any metal detectors," Selena said.
"Maybe they're out of sight," Lamont said.
"I don't think so. Anyone could walk in here with something nasty. Look around. People have handbags, camera bags, lots of places to conceal something. Nobody's checking them. "
"MI5 could have brought some in if they'd wanted to. I don't understand why they're not taking this seriously," Nick said.
Ronnie looked around. "This is a perfect setup for a terrorist attack."
The faces of the crowd were expectant, happy, in a mood for something exciting to happen. Nick hoped they didn't get more than they'd paid for.
"We have to assume Wigland is competent enough to lead a reasonable search," he said. "Even if he is, it doesn't mean he'll find anything."
Selena said, "If the attack is like the one in Novosibirsk, it will start with a diversion out in the city. Something to draw away the police and fire services. The Russians told Harker that a bomb went off before the riots started."
Nick said, "What are you thinking?"
"We need to know if something happens out there in the city. It would tell us that the device was about to be activated. Elizabeth can see London on the satellite. She can monitor it for us."
"Good point," Nick said. "I'll call her."
He took out his satellite phone and punched in Harker's number.
"Yes, Nick."
"Director, we're inside the arena. We've been shut out of the search. No one is giving us any help. I need to know if a diversion sta
rts in the city, like the explosion in Novosibirsk. I thought you could keep track and tell us if something happens. We would have some warning that way."
"We have a satellite over the UK right now. I can watch London from here and if I see something, I'll call."
"Roger that." Nick ended the call.
They showed their tickets and walked into the arena.
The place was filling up. Seats rose in tiers on three sides around a central floor full of people milling about. The seating was arranged around the floor like a giant horseshoe. The ends of the horseshoe bordered two aisles angling down on either side of the stage. The stage itself was flat and wide, lit with a huge bank of overhead spotlights.
The edge of the stage was at eye level for the crowd standing on the main floor below. Instruments and microphone stands waited on stage. Someone was adjusting one of the microphones, making a sound check. Someone else was plugging in connections in a wall of amplifiers and speakers at the back.
The show was about to begin.
CHAPTER 30
Half an hour into the concert, the floor in front of the stage was filled with people jammed together, swaying in time to the music. The crowd was like an alien, giant organism with thousands of tentacles, people waving their arms back and forth in time with the music.
The band was all movement and high octane energy as the lead singer strode back and forth across the stage. Nick was in the fourth row at one end of the horseshoe of seats surrounding the arena floor. Higher up, Selena was slowly making her way along the aisles, eyeballing the crowd. Ronnie and Lamont were somewhere on the fringes of the swaying mob.
It seemed hopeless.
There were so many people. Everyone was focused on the spectacle taking place on stage. Lights, lasers, smoke and sound bombarded the crowd with an overwhelming spectacle that blotted out everything else.
"Nick, I can't see anything unusual up here." Selena's voice sounded in his earpiece.
"Me neither," Ronnie said. "All I can see are people bouncing around and waving their arms."
The Ajax Protocol (The Project) Page 10
