by Rob Sangster
“We’re on that, sir, but unless the senders are idiots, it won’t lead back to them. We also have people analyzing the language to see if it suggests some specific nationality.”
“Piss poor help considering the amount of money we give the NSA every year.” Gorton rubbed his forehead. “And we’re blind. We don’t know how many bombs or where they are. There’s no way we can stop them.”
“Actually,” Jack said, “I think—”
“All right, Justin,” Gorton said, ignoring Jack, “let’s walk through this. The money they want isn’t much compared to the damage they can do. We can tap our war slush fund at Defense or disaster relief money at Homeland Security. So why not pay?”
Sinclair, who had been fidgeting, wanting to be called on, jumped in. “If you pay and you never hear from these guys again, the leaders of the other party will call you a patsy.”
“My job is to protect the people. Because of 9/11, I’ll make hash out of the guy who says I should have gambled. And if I pay and bombs go off anyway, I did my best. So the real downside is if I do nothing and a dirty bomb goes off in, say, the San Francisco financial district. Corte, get me the Treasury Secretary. He’ll have someone who knows about the mechanics of transferring funds.”
“Mr. President,” Corte said, “with all due respect, it would be a mistake to think of this as blackmail. NSA got this e-mail to you so fast because it fits six of our seven criteria for a valid terrorist threat. This has to be treated as—” He paused, apparently to give weight to the word. “—terrorism.”
Gorton’s upper body recoiled as the implications hit him.
“And in the case of terrorism,” Corte went on, “there is an established procedure to follow. You immediately assemble Defense, CIA, FBI, and the Homeland Security team on a secure conference hookup. Terrorist attack protocol requires that Air Force One get airborne without delay in case the attackers have also targeted you. All unauthorized persons must disembark at once and—” His expression changed to a slight smile. “—be detained and isolated to ensure secrecy.”
Gorton, eyes fixed on Corte, shook his head and frowned. “But the demand was only about money.”
“A trick,” Corte stated in his decisive, resonant voice. “After they collect the money, they come back with more demands, including political. They’ll try to spook you into going public and starting a panic. Then they’ll start detonating bombs, showing that even after a warning we can’t stop them. That’s how terrorism works.”
“But if it is a terrorist attack we have to—”
“Yes, sir, execute Plan Sapphire immediately.” Corte sounded eager. He looked like an action guy, ready to start down a track he’d trained on.
Gorton nodded reluctantly. “I have no choice. We’re not going to make the same mistakes that—”
“No sir, not on your watch.”
“And these United States of America,” Gorton said, jaw jutting, “sure as hell aren’t paying one American dollar to a bunch of goddamn terrorists. I won’t negotiate with them either. That’s my policy, by God.”
Jack had never seen a tide turn so fast. The instant after Corte gave his tirade about terrorism, Gorton had stopped thinking and started spouting dogma that made no sense. Switching to autopilot made decision making under pressure unnecessary. Once the “terrorist attack” bell sounded, Gorton could be criticized only if he departed from the script. He’d risk disaster before doing that.
Jack decided he had to make Gorton listen to him, so he slammed his palm on the conference table.
Corte’s hand snaked inside his khaki jacket and came out holding a black revolver aimed at Jack’s heart.
Everyone froze.
“Sorry, Mr. President,” Jack said quickly. “I had to get your attention. Look, this is blackmail, not terrorism. I know who sent that blackmail note. He can and will carry out his threat.”
“How can you possibly know who it came from?”
“You know the answer, too. It’s Tomás Montana at Palmer Industries.”
“Sir, we have a plan to follow in this situation,” Corte rumbled immediately.
“Oh my God, Strider,” Sinclair groaned, “you’re still beating that drum?”
Jack shot both men a grimace and said, “I’m not guessing. Montana had access to the nuclear waste in that cave and to trucks that can deliver dirty bombs. At least four of those trucks left the cave yesterday afternoon. My man followed them. In the past, all these trucks made the same circuit and returned to the Palmer plant. But this time, one truck went south in the direction of Mexico City. Another headed into Chihuahua City, but it could have gone on to Monterey or even Tampico. Only two went back to the Palmer plant.”
“If that’s true,” Gorton said, “what provoked this e-mail threat?”
“Montana thought he’d get a huge bonus by secretly dumping hazardous waste into the aquifer. He knows that’s been ‘outed’ and he won’t get it. Then, as soon as he got reports of someone flying over the cave site and being seen inside the mine shaft that intersects with the cave, he knew that was likely to be shut down too and he’d be the subject of a manhunt. For him, money is all that matters—and this blackmail is his fail-safe plan.”
“If this e-mail came from Montana, could he really make good on his threat?”
“The bomb components were available at the Palmer plant or at the cave. All he needed was a few hours to load those trucks. If his ultimatum works, he lives like an emperor. If it doesn’t, he takes revenge and disappears.”
“Mr. President,” Corte held up the communications device he’d just consulted, “there’s no Tomás Montana on our Watch List, and we have no intelligence on him. However, we’ve intercepted a lot of chatter in the last twenty-four hours from a nasty terrorist group called Gundah Resistance that specializes in high explosives. You can’t just roll the dice and hope this isn’t a terrorist attack.”
“Terrorist groups,” Jack said, “have political objectives. That e-mail is only about money.”
“This is political,” Corte insisted. “Maybe they’ll attack cities in both countries to start an international conflict. Mexico will blame the U.S. Every disagreement over immigration, oil, drug smuggling, whatever, will become more hostile.” He glared at Jack. “Don’t tell me that’s not political.” He turned to face Gorton. “Sir, procedure requires you to get Air Force One and the F-18s in the air right now.”
“Mr. President,” Jack said, “you don’t know how many trucks or where they are, so it’s too late to stop Montana before his deadline. You have to pay the money now and go after him later.”
Sinclair gave a dismissive wave. “Montana’s a desk jockey who spends every day processing crap. He doesn’t have the balls to pull off something like this threat. Don’t let yourself be shaken down by terrorists. Listen to me. I’ve been down this road before, and Corte’s a professional. We don’t cave in to terrorists.”
Jack read Sinclair’s strategy in a flash. In Corte’s scenario, if Gorton refused to pay and dirty bombs went off, the bombers would be labeled terrorists. The national security apparatus would launch an international hunt among the usual terrorist suspects—and that wouldn’t include Justin Sinclair. If Gorton treated it as blackmail and paid the $100 million, Montana would be a credible perpetrator, especially since he would have disappeared. Sinclair’s links to him could be a major issue. Corte’s terrorist theory let Sinclair off the hook. So, to focus suspicion away from Montana, Sinclair would back Corte all the way.
Sinclair would let dirty bombs explode rather than have Jack point at him as having put Montana in position to blackmail the United States government.
“Mr. Strider,” Gorton said, “nuclear material can come from anywhere in the country, and you don’t even know what’s in those trucks. Limiting our response to going after Montana woul
d be a fatal error. Besides, if I give in to these terrorists, I’ll get another demand from some other group tomorrow. I’d also be undermining our allies who follow our lead in refusing to deal with terrorists.” He tilted his head back and straightened the collar of his flight jacket. “That’s not my style.”
Gorton was in political survival mode, and there wasn’t time to turn him around. Jack had to find and stop Montana himself, but there was too little time to fly to El Paso. Wait a minute. He was thinking about a commercial flight, but he was already at an Air Force base.
“I understand,” he said to Gorton, “but you won’t mind if I try to find Montana on my own, will you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I need the fastest ride there is from Travis to El Paso.”
Gorton glanced at Sinclair who nodded in support of Jack’s request.
Jack knew he’d just given Sinclair a win-win. If Jack didn’t find Montana, that would suit Sinclair fine. If he did find him, Montana would make sure Jack never testified against anyone.
“Mr. Strider, I’m still not persuaded this plant manager is a terrorist, but I’ll get you to El Paso. If you want help, I’ll round up some of the Special Forces stationed here at Travis to go along.”
“Yes, sir, I could use more eyes and muscle.”
“Sir,” Corte spoke up, “I’m sure the NSA would recommend against sending Special Forces. Mr. Strider’s search for the plant manager will take him into Mexico, a sovereign nation. Sending Special Forces in there could be considered an act of war.”
First terrorism, now war. Corte had cleverly trapped Gorton. Jack held his breath, waiting for Gorton’s response.
Gorton frowned and said, “He’s right. After I get you down there, you’re on your own. Chief!” he shouted.
The Chief opened the door so quickly he must have posted himself right outside. “Sir?”
“Get Mr. Strider aboard the fastest ride to El Paso they’ve got on this base. I want them with wheels up inside thirty minutes. Do it now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He saluted and disappeared.
“Strider, if by some miracle you come up with something, contact me. Here’s a number that can reach me directly.” He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it over. “Corte, get our Homeland Security team on a secure conference hookup. If we need to go to Condition Red, that’s what we’ll do. We’re not going to let those bastards get away with this.”
Jack thought a blind mole could see that e-mail came from Montana, but Gorton just wouldn’t get it. Instead, he’d rather swing at a piñata in a pitch black room. Gorton, Sinclair, and Corte—each for his own self-serving reasons—were guaranteeing that Montana was going to carry out his threat.
Chapter 50
July 12
1:45 p.m.
THE C-20B GULFSTREAM jet Gorton had lined up for Jack was still climbing as Sacramento passed below. Jack knew that while he was hunting for Montana, Sinclair would use his guile to discredit him with Gorton. If Sinclair succeeded, Jack would have to consider a career in Uzbekistan.
He tried his cell phone. Good signal, so he entered the number.
“Captain, my captain.” Gano’s voice sounded relieved.
“Where are you,” Jack asked, “and what do you have for me?”
“I’m in El Paso now. When I cruised by the Palmer plant earlier I didn’t see any of those big trucks, so I laid a fistful of your pesos on a worker getting off his shift. He said two of the black trucks left early this morning. No idea where they went. What happened at your big meeting?”
“Before I left for the meeting, while I was still at the hotel, Sinclair had a sniper try to kill me. He screwed up and killed Mac instead.” He had to stop for a moment and swallow hard.
Gano was silent for many seconds, obviously absorbing the news, knowing how Jack felt about Mac. Finally he said quietly, “So now Sinclair is all in, no holds barred.”
“And so am I.” He didn’t want to say anything more about Mac right now. “Sinclair beat me to Air Force One and undercut me with Gorton. When I got in to see Gorton, Sinclair and I had a free-for-all. He was about to win the decision when Gorton got an e-mail from someone who claimed to have planted multiple dirty bombs in the U.S. and Mexico. He wants $100 million by seven o’clock tonight or he’ll detonate the bombs.”
“Did the wacko claim responsibility?”
“Didn’t have to. I know damn well it came from Montana. He has the nuclear material, the trucks, and the motive—$100 million. But Gorton wouldn’t buy it. His intelligence expert persuaded him the e-mail came from terrorists.”
“Montana. Yeah, that fits. How did Sinclair play it?”
“He beat the terrorist drum big time. The last thing he wants is for his client’s plant manager to be the leading suspect after those bombs go off. He knows he’d be implicated. Gorton went for the terrorism theory because he’s better off politically if he follows the rule book—which means hunkering down and not paying anyone.”
“That’s plain ol’ country stupid. If Montana doesn’t get paid, he’ll blow up everything he can. I knew I should have snuffed him the night of the big fireworks.”
“Don’t rub it in. We have to find Montana and stop him in the next two hours, three hours at most. I’m aboard an Air Force jet out of Travis. I’ll meet you in front of the Delta terminal at El Paso International in an hour and a half.”
“I’ll be there. Debra with you?”
“She was supposed to meet me at Air Force One but didn’t show. If I can get her on the phone, I’ll ask her to be at the airport. Gano, if you can find Montana before I get there, that might be the most important thing you ever do in your life.”
“I’m on it, comandante,” Gano said and hung up.
Jack loosened his seat belt and stretched his legs. He felt strange being the only passenger on a plane built to serve fourteen VIPs. The crew never left the cockpit, probably under orders.
He sat again and let the day’s events unfold in his mind’s eye. If he hadn’t confronted Sinclair yesterday, pushed him so hard, he wouldn’t have sent an assassin, and Mac would still be alive. The image of Ana-Maria’s waxen face seldom left his mind, but grieving for both still had to wait. He closed his eyes and took a series of slow, deep breaths, then entered Debra’s number into his phone.
She answered after the first ring. “How did it go?”
“Not worth a damn. I really needed you there to help clinch the case against Sinclair. What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but by the time I got anything useful it was impossible to get to Travis in time. I tried to call, but apparently you’d turned off your cell phone.”
“They confiscate it before you board Air Force One.”
“I thought that might be it. Where are you now?”
“On an Air Force jet on my way to El Paso. I need to hear what you have for me.”
“I do have news. Some good, some bad.”
“Let’s get the bad news out of the way.”
“I did my damnedest, but I couldn’t get the witness you wanted. I’m on my way back to El Paso myself, about thirty miles away.”
“Wasn’t there some incentive or pressure you could use?”
“I tried everything. It just wasn’t possible.” Her voice conveyed her exasperation with his question.
Getting the witness he’d asked her to line up had been a long shot, but so crucial he’d convinced himself it would happen. Without that witness, he couldn’t make his case that Sinclair was the mastermind behind smuggling the nuclear waste.
Debra spoke into his silence. “You should have asked for the good news first. Then this wouldn’t seem so bad.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, tense and frustrated, “what’s the good news?
”
“I’m bringing back some great evidence with me.”
“I hope it’s enough. Meet me at the Delta counter in the airport and tell me about it then.”
“I’ll be there.”
He gave her a high-speed summary of his confrontation with Sinclair and how Gorton had reacted to the e-mail threat. And why he was going to El Paso. He left out the part about Mac. He just couldn’t go over it again right now.
He concluded with, “Montana knew the roof was caving in on him. He knew that could happen, so he had a plan to hit the jackpot on his way out the door. As soon as he felt seriously threatened, he loaded the trucks with nuclear waste and explosives and sent them off. Figuring out what he’s doing isn’t enough. We can’t stop this truck-by-truck. We have to find him.”
“He’d be crazy to go back to the plant or to his home in El Paso.”
“Right. In fact, he could have e-mailed Gorton from a laptop, BlackBerry, iPhone, or anything like that. He could check his account in the Swiss bank the same way.”
“I saw a documentary about terrorism,” Debra said, “that explained how a bomb could be detonated or deactivated by telephone, calling one number to detonate or another number to disarm.”
“Meaning that Montana could already be out of North America, maybe planning to trigger the bombs from someplace like Buenos Aires.” He looked out the window along the length of the wing and listened to the roar of the turbofan jets. “If he’s gone, this is pointless, so I have to believe he’s holed up in El Paso or Juarez. If one of his bombs is there too, he’ll break cover before the big bang. I’ll have the pilot contact all major airports within a few hundred miles of El Paso to see if Montana has a reservation on any flight. Problem is he could have bought a cheapo passport and ID kit so he could travel under a fake name. Same problem with checking hotels.”
“He has to avoid public places,” Debra said, “so maybe he dropped in on a girlfriend.”
