End Game

by Alex Lukeman

"Please put it up on the monitor, Freddie," Elizabeth said.

  The report was brief and to the point. Forensics had identified one of the bodies found in Texas through the fingerprint of a severed thumb.

  "Who's Luca Nadrone?" Selena asked.

  Luca Nadrone was a key figure in the Dallas organized crime family. He was considered the heir apparent to the current boss.

  Nick said, "This is beginning to make sense."

  "How so?" Steph said.

  "Let's assume Campbell was a gambler who needed money. What if he borrowed from the wrong people and lost it at the tables? He wouldn't be able to pay them back and he'd be in serious trouble. He could have given them the code to get out of it. Why else would a mob boss be at that trailer? I bet he was there to get paid."

  "That would explain why I didn't find any suspicious deposits," Stephanie said.

  "I can buy that Campbell could have owed money to some bad people," Elizabeth said. "But why would they want the code? Hijacking a truck load of bombs doesn't seem like the kind of thing that would interest them. Why would the idea even occur to them?"

  "Somebody could have hired them," Nick said. "The mob has the resources needed to pull off the hijacking."

  "Hiring them wouldn't come cheap. A buyer would have to be someone with a lot of money, like a government."

  "Or a well-funded terrorist group."

  "What's our next move?"

  "Let's assume the remaining bombs are on a ship," Elizabeth said. "It seems like the best possibility. Steph, have Freddie take a look at shipping in the Gulf. See if you can find anything that seems like a possibility."

  "On it."

  Later that afternoon Nick and Selena were leaving .

  "How about dinner out?" Nick said.

  "What did you have in mind?"

  "Seafood. We could hit the Chart House. I like the view."

  It was around five thirty when they got to the restaurant, still early. There was no wait. They were seated at a corner table looking out over the water.

  "Perfect," Selena said.

  "Wine?"

  "Sure."

  The waiter came and went through the ritual speech of how he'd be their server and what the specials were. They ordered. The wine came and Nick poured.

  "Here's to it," he said.

  They clinked glasses.

  "You look better without that bandage on your head," Selena said.

  Nick's scalp showed a stain of orange antiseptic and stitches where they'd shaved his hair and gone in to relieve the bleeding. He'd pulled down an old Marine ball cap from the shelf in his closet to cover the wound.

  "It feels better without it."

  "You want to go to the salad bar?"

  "Yep. Time for some rabbit food."

  They went to the salad bar, filled up their plates and went back to the table.

  Selena took a sip of wine and looked at her husband.

  He looks as sexy as ever, even with that patch. He's recovered enough. I think I'll surprise him tonight.

  With a shock, Nick realized he knew what she was thinking. It was almost as if she were talking out loud.

  Shit, I can hear what she's thinking. She's thinking about jumping my bones. I must be going nuts.

  The sound of her voice in his head faded. He took a large swallow of wine.

  I'm imagining it. I must be .

  The restaurant was filling up, getting noisy. Their table was in a corner, far enough away that no one was going to overhear their conversation.

  "I've been thinking about those bombs," he said.

  "Hard not to. What about them?"

  "I've been trying to think like the terrorists. Where would I take them?"

  "That would depend on what you plan to do with them."

  "Exactly. I asked myself, how can I make the most trouble possible? What's the most efficient way to use them? Do I make a dirty bomb with the plutonium? Or do I try to find a way to set them off?"

  "It's easier to make a dirty bomb," Selena said. "Look what happened in Missouri. Your average terrorist doesn't have the technology to arm one of those."

  "We'll have to wait and see what Stephanie says about arming them. But if it's just a dirty bomb they were after, how come they didn't send all of them around the country in trucks? Get them to different cities, then blow them up. It would work, just look at Missouri."

  "Maybe they did. Maybe the others are still in the country."

  "I don't think so. There are a lot of reasons to think they were loaded onto a ship. There was a wharf right there. Tire tracks for only one truck like the one that blew up."

  "If they're on a ship, they won't be easy to find. Not without a lucky break."

  "No. But we can make guesses about where a ship might go."

  He stopped talking as the waiter brought their food. Nick had gone for the lobster tail. Selena had ordered herb crusted salmon.

  "That looks good," Selena said.

  "Want a bite?" Nick said.

  He held out his fork with a bit of lobster drenched in butter on it. Selena took the bite .

  "Mmm. Good. You want to try this?"

  "Sure."

  They began eating.

  "So where do you think the ship went?"

  "Getting the bombs into a U.S. port would be difficult," Nick said. "Everyone is looking for them. Besides, if they wanted to keep them here, they wouldn't need a ship."

  "That's a big ocean. A lot of possible destinations on the other side of it."

  "We can eliminate some of them. They probably wouldn't unload in Europe, for the same reasons they wouldn't try to unload here. Security is too tight. They could offload in Western Africa. But then they'd still have to get the bombs to wherever they're going. That's a dangerous journey through unstable countries."

  "Unless it was one of the groups under the Al Qaeda umbrella behind this. The whole region is infested with jihadists."

  "True, but I don't think any of those have the expertise or resources to pull off something like this. At least not the ones I know of."

  "Where do you think they're taking them?"

  "I don't know. Without knowing who did this, it's just a guess. I can think of half a dozen possibilities."

  "Like what?"

  "For example, suppose the people that took them are just middlemen? Brokers who are going to sell them on to someone else. Like Iran, or North Korea."

  "Suppose it was Iran. How would they get the bombs to them?"

  "They could go through the Straits of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean to Syria. From Syria, overland to Iran. If they're headed for the Mediterranean, it will be hard to spot them. Lots of traffic there. Lots of places a small boat can unload. Once they're off the ship, it's easy to put them on a truck. We'd never find them. "

  "And if they don't try to move them through Syria?"

  "They could go through the Panama Canal to the Pacific and head for Iran. Or North Korea, as far as that goes. Or they could use the Suez Canal and sail right up into the Gulf of Hormuz. "

  "You're assuming Iran or North Korea is the destination."

  "I don't know what the destination is, but we have to start somewhere."

  "They'd risk getting caught if they use one of the canals."

  "Maybe not so much," Nick said. "They'll have hidden the bombs. There's a constant stream of traffic through the canals and there's no way anyone can check them all. We don't even know what kind of ship it is. Same problem with Suez. I think it would be easy to go through either one."

  "Hopkins could order the Navy to stop and search suspicious vessels."

  Nick poked at his lobster.

  "Not without knowing what ship we're looking for. The White House would never go for it. Stopping ships would create an international incident."

  "An incident is better than letting Iran or North Korea get their hands on a nuclear weapon," she said.

  "Something's bothering me," Nick said. "What if it's just some enterprising arms dealer beh
ind this? A nuclear bomb is worth big bucks."

  "I thought we'd decided it had to be a government or terrorists?"

  "Not necessarily. All it takes is someone with a lot of money and organization. It could be an individual. Aside from groups like Al Qaeda, there are a lot of rich people in the world who don't like us very much."

  "You're a real optimist," Selena said.

  Nick rubbed his forehead.

  "If I didn't already have a headache, thinking about this would be enough to give me one."

  He pushed his plate away from him .

  Selena signaled the waiter for the check.

  "Let's go home," she said.

  Chapter 12

  Dry leaves swirled about the feet of a tall, bearded man standing before a marker in a deserted cemetery. He leaned forward and gently brushed dirt away from a photograph set in the gray stone. The young woman in the picture wore a dark blue hijab that covered her hair and throat. She held a baby in her arms. They had died during the first Chechen war, under the bombs of the Russians.

  Many years had passed since that day, but Aslan Isidrov could still hear the sounds of the planes, the explosions, the feel of the ground shaking under his feet. He could still hear her screams.

  Maryam , he thought. I wish you were here. Soon, God willing, I will be with you in paradise.

  The cemetery at Bamut was located at the back of the ruins of the Chechen village, where the trees rose up the hill. Just beyond the trees was the border with Ingushetia. In the distance, the unforgiving mountains of the northern Caucasus brooded on the horizon.

  Not many came here now. The village had been destroyed during the first war. The graves showed the effects of neglect and the harsh winters. Some of the stones had begun to tilt. Row after row of stones, bearing pictures of his comrades and friends.

  His neighbors.

  His friends.

  His clan.

  His wife and son .

  Aslan Isidrov was a man who lived for only two things, revenge and nokhchalla . Nokhchalla was a word with many meanings. A rigid code of honor was one of them. Obligation to clan and family was another. Protection of the honor of women, a third. The practice of nokhchalla was ingrained in every Chechen from birth. It was the soul of the people.

  The Russians had won the war, but they hadn't crushed the Chechen spirit. They had not defeated the people in their hearts, where it counted. They would never succeed in destroying the Chechen culture.

  It had taken overwhelmingly superior Russian forces eighteen months to conquer one small village. The battle for Bamut was famous, a legend in the annals of the resistance. If everything went as planned, Aslan would create a new legend. If everything went as planned, the Russians would pay dearly for Bamut and Grozny and all the rest.

  Honor would be avenged. That he would not survive was of no importance.

  Aslan had come here today for a final look at the grave of his wife and son, one last visit. He knew he would never return. He remembered Maryam's soft touch, the love in her eyes, her gentle voice. She had been a blessing from Allah.

  Goodbye, my love.

  He reached out once again to touch the glass covering the photograph, then turned and walked away, to where his brother waited by a battered Mercedes, smoking.

  "Vakha, let's go," Aslan said.

  "Good. There's a storm coming. We need to be on the road before it hits."

  Aslan grunted and got into the passenger seat. Vakha started the car and they drove slowly out of town, passing the guardhouse at the entrance to the restricted military zone the Russians had established around the old missile base. Two Russian soldiers eyed them with suspicion as they drove by.

  "Russian pigs," Vakha said .

  "Soon they will squeal," Aslan said. "If Dudayev was alive, he would approve of what is going to happen."

  General Dzhokhar Dudayev had been the first president of the Chechen Republic, the leader of the rebellion against the Russians during the first war. He'd made the mistake of talking on his cell phone. The Russians identified the signal and assassinated him with guided missiles. But it wasn't just the Russians who had killed the hero of Chechnya. The American NSA had been making nice with the new Russian president, Boris Yeltsin. They'd passed along Dudayev's location, with the information needed to identify his phone and voice.

  The Americans were as much to blame as the Russians. They would pay, as would all the infidel West.

  Vakha drove through the deserted countryside. This had been a farming region before the Russians came. Now the farms were abandoned, the fields overgrown with weeds. For a while the two men were quiet.

  "Our father would be proud to see his sons avenge his honor," Vakha said. "I wish Ruslan was here with us for this last visit home."

  Aslan nodded. "He will see it from paradise."

  "As God wills."

  "I must call our benefactor," Aslan said.

  He took out a satellite phone, an expensive model with serious encryption. Even if the signal was picked up by the American satellites far overhead, the conversation would not be understood. Even so, long years of habit meant the conversation would be brief.

  Aslan entered the number and waited for the connection. After a brief delay the phone at the other end responded. It was picked up.

  "Yes?"

  The voice that answered seemed old to Aslan. He'd never met the benefactor. Everything had been arranged through intermediaries .

  "The shipment is on the way," Aslan said.

  "Good. Contact me if you need anything else."

  The connection was broken. Aslan put the phone away.

  "I wonder who he is?" Vakha said.

  "I think he is old," Aslan said. "He doesn't sound like a young man."

  "Young or old makes no difference. He is an angel sent by Allah."

  "Yes."

  "When will the ship arrive?" Vakha asked.

  "God willing, in about two weeks. Akhmad will transport the bombs to the facility."

  "And then?"

  "And then the world will learn what nokhchalla means."

  Chapter 13

  Far from the bleak fields of Chechnya, Vakha's angel set down his phone.

  November in the Swiss Alps was a beautiful time of the year, before the skies darkened with winter storms. The first snow had yet to fall, and the steep slopes were green and pleasant, scattered with wildflowers. An 18th century château situated on the side of one of the mountains looked down on the town of Interlaken and the turquoise waters of Lake Brienz.

  A visitor to the château had to pass through a tall set of iron gates, set in a high wall built of native stone. The gate was guarded around the clock by hard looking men with automatic weapons. From the guardhouse, a long drive meandered through thick forest until it broke out of the trees onto a broad meadow. The drive continued until it reached the château, where it passed under a broad entrance portico built to withstand the heavy snows of winter.

  The man who lived in the château seldom left it. He was too old, too rich, too jaded and too vulnerable to expose himself to the perils of the outer world. Whatever he needed could be summoned to his door. His wealth and control of the tentacles of power ensured his privacy and his comfort.

  In another age he would have worn a crown and lived in a castle with thick walls of stone, protected by an army. Now the castle was electronic, a sophisticated security system backed up by men who had served in the elite units of several different armies. They were armed with the best weapons money could buy. The man knew they were the best, because he was responsible for manufacturing them .

  His money had come from arms sales and from the manipulation of currencies. More than once, he had destroyed the economy of a nation in order to reap enormous profits as it rebounded.

  At this stage of his life, money was no longer important to him, since its generation was guaranteed and automatic. What mattered to him was power. Gregor Kondor had a great deal of power, but he wanted more. He want
ed power over all of humanity.

  It was for their own good, after all. Most of humanity was too stupid or too selfish to remain in charge of the earth. People needed a firm hand to guide them and keep them from breeding themselves out of existence. They needed a world government to ensure that humanity and the earth would survive.

  There were too many people. The population would have to be reduced dramatically if human survival was to be guaranteed. Nature was already taking care of some of it. Millions were dying because of widespread famine and disease, but it wasn't enough. More was required.

  When the culling was over, the earth would become a paradise capable of supporting those who deserved to be in charge and those who were needed to provide the labor and products those people required. If billions of lives had to be sacrificed to bring about that glorious reality, it was necessary for the greater good, for the survival of the planet.

  Unfortunately, he would never see the fruits of his labor. The cancer was spreading. He had, at most, a year or so to live. But it would be long enough to ensure the success of his plans .

  The nerve center of Kondor's empire was on the ground floor of the château, in a large room with a high ceiling braced by ancient beams of dark wood. One wall of the room was lined with books. Tall windows looked down on the lake and town in the valley below. A priceless antique carpet covered the floor. It had once graced the palace of Versailles. The furniture was antique and dark and heavy, of the finest quality.

  It was a masculine room, devoid of feminine touch or influence. Kondor's wife had died years ago. She was one of only two people Kondor had ever cared for, but she had never been allowed to enter here.

  On one wall hung a portrait of the other person Kondor had been close to, a man named Johannes Gutenberg. It would be safe to say that Gutenberg was the only man Kondor had ever called friend. Kondor didn't have friends. Friends could betray you.

  Under the picture of Gutenberg was a plaque of solid gold, a foot square. Upon the plaque was a raised, all-seeing eye, centered in a nine-pointed star. Writing was engraved beneath the eye.

  AETERNUS EST ORDUM NOVO

  AEON, for short. The Latin translated as The New Order is Forever.

  AEON had been manipulating world events since the time of the Templars. The Order had existed in one form or another for a thousand years, but "forever" was coming to an end. Kondor was the last initiate in a long line of men who had shaped history. All of the others were dead.