by Tom Haase
Matt and Bridget were on Yuri’s trail, and soon they would catch him. If the FBI could get an ID on the girl in the photo, they would move in on her and with any luck get Yuri at the same time. Tomorrow the president would find out that she’d been the target of an attack, and she would have to appear to recount the event.
Mary Jean took a large sip of her drink. The chemo affected her life in many ways, and she didn’t like it. The doctors had found a reemergence of the breast cancer that had been successfully treated five years ago. Her previous bout with the cancer had resulted in a lumpectomy. Afterwards, chemotherapy had proven successful but had caused sores in her throat and her hair had fallen out. She’d purchased a specially made wig so no one would notice. This round of chemo could be worse, and her stomach could get quite upset. She had studiously considered “alternative” palliatives, like marijuana and/or acupuncture therapy for the nausea and lack of appetite. Mary Jean had struggled with weight issues all her life, so a lack of appetite caused by the chemo could help her lose a few pounds, she mused.
This time the doctors recommended using chemo rather than doing a lumpectomy. They believed that would be the correct treatment. It might be the best remedy, but the side effects impaired her, even with the new pills to counter the effects. She knew she would beat it and then things would get back to normal, if what she did would ever be considered ordinary.
No more of that now. She focused her thoughts on Avery. Somehow he and the Iranian knew her plans, or perhaps they’d guessed her actions. They had been ahead of her, and after the failed attempt tonight they surely would try again. She would not run and hide somewhere else, but she would be prepared for them when they came. No doubt existed in her mind that the attack had been directed at her for checking into Avery. No other explanation seemed viable, not even the fact that she controlled the intelligence counterterrorist teams at the DIA. She was determined to catch him and then decide how to handle him as the president’s oldest friend. It would be a delicate dance. She now knew he had somehow collaborated with the terrorists, and she would ensure he received justice for his treachery.
She just needed solid proof, and a plan.
35
Yesterday — Savannah, GA
Colonel Anton Petrovich Ivanov slammed his fist on the table of the motel nightstand. That damn Igor. At least, he’d reported the Americans going to the house and leaving. He’d also related that the local police and military had arrived after they’d left the area. That meant they knew about Yuri and the address. Igor returned to their hotel room, went straight to the bathroom and stank up the place. Anton went outside with Ravshan to get fresh air.
"I think the Russian found the body, took the bomb, and escaped while our interpreter defecated somewhere. The bastard should have called to tell us about his sickness, and then I could have replaced him on the watch. He’s not a soldier and doesn’t understand the importance of being on duty and fully concentrating on the mission. I made a mistake in leaving him there."
"Colonel, there was no way of knowing that in advance. What are we going to do now? There don’t appear to be any leads about where the man would go with the bomb," Ravshan said in Russian.
"Somehow our mission was compromised before we got here. I’ll call the director now and tell him the situation."
Anton tried his phone, but the battery needed charging and the embassy had failed to provide a charger. He looked at Ravshan. "You had a phone that I saw you using last night on the way in from the airport. Does it work here?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you use it for here in America?"
"Oh, not for talking, but I get emails and text messages from my friends back home, and it seems to function just fine. You can try to get through to Moscow on it. I believe it should work for voice."
Anton took the phone and dialed the number for the director in Moscow. Nikolai Vasilev came on the line after Anton told the secretary his name. "Well, Colonel, I expect you have succeeded by now. Report."
"Director," Anton said. He rubbed his hand over his head and tried to think how to put it. "The Arab terrorist is dead. We surprised him at the address provided by the defense attaché and he resisted. He died before he could give us any information. The weapon wasn't in his possession. The main target never appeared at the address. We have the location under surveillance, but a few minutes ago, the Americans showed up with police and military. We left before they found us. What are your instructions?"
"You are telling me you didn’t get him or the weapon."
"No, Director, we did not," Anton said, knowing this was not going down well in Russia. "We arrived at the address as soon as possible and the man, Yuri Borisov, was not there. I’m in a foreign country to do one task, to conduct a search for the man here with no resources. If I am provided or can get information on his location, my team and I can accomplish the mission."
"Contact the defense attaché in three hours and he will have instructions for you. I’ll get some of our assets to do some looking. They always seem to make a lot of chatter in certain areas before an event takes place. Maybe we can get an idea where they are targeting. No more excuses, you get him and the weapon or I’ll ensure you'll regret your failure." The director hung up.
Anton gave the cell back to Ravshan and sat on the bed. As he did so, he heard the phone beeps, and guessed the sniper had received an email. The situation he found himself in could prove fatal to his career. The minister would hold him accountable for the failure to get the mad scientist and would ensure a quick end to his military service on his return to Russia. Immediate drastic action was now required on his part to get the bomb before it went off on American soil.
36
Today — Andrews Air Force Base — 7:35 AM
It wasn’t cold enough to freeze Claude’s skin, but damn near. The frigid breeze rushed across the tarmac and slammed into anything exposed. The sun hadn’t made an appearance over the eastern Maryland shore, and the cloudy sky prevented the normal bright light that preceded sunrise from illuminating the new snow covering the landscape. The first rays of day started to break over the eastern horizon as he drove to the air base in semidarkness, penetrated by the thousands of lights on the Capital Beltway around Washington. Uncountable minions drove their cars to an early morning start.
"Whatyadoing out here so early, Claude?" said the six-foot Air Force guard at the entrance to the hangar housing the president’s plane. The man’s black skin appeared encrusted with ice in the freezing conditions. Claude held up his pass for the guard to see, even though the guards knew him on sight.
Claude would have liked to tell him that this day he would fulfill the will of Allah, but he answered, "The office got a call from maintenance that there was a problem with the navigation electronics on the bird. So, here I am."
"Park in the visitor spot and go in to check in with the maintenance supervisor. I’ll let him know you’re here." He opened the gate, and Claude drove into the secure area with a sign that read “No Trespassing—Lethal Force Will Be Used.” He knew the guards carried loaded weapons.
Claude parked the van in the visitor’s spot and went inside. The warmth of the heated hangar enveloped him on entering, and he was glad to be out of the wind after the short walk from the vehicle to the hangar door. The Boeing 747 sat in the middle of the cavernous space, with light shining on it from every possible direction. As he walked toward the supervisor’s position, he saw the various offices that coordinated the operations of the president’s plane. Besides the mechanics’ space, a designated area existed for avionics, tires, hydraulics, electronics, flight crew, catering, and fuel. The care they took of Air Force One, Claude thought, compared in almost every detail to operating a small town.
The head of maintenance, a short balding man in blue overalls, walked up to Claude as he approached and shook his hand. "Thanks for getting here so fast. We have a mission scheduled for the bird today, and the avionics boys say they detected a problem in th
e GPS nav equipment. The record shows that you came out here recently and serviced it, but something must be haywire. Go on over to their location and get filled in. We still have a few hours before flight time."
“No trouble,” said Claude, giving the thumbs-up sign as he headed for the avionics area. He would take his time and get this right. The failure he had programmed into the unit four days ago now disrupted the GPS guidance system on the plane. He would take a few hours to evaluate what he already knew to be the cause of the problem. Whoever would observe him would get bored of watching his every move and would soon leave him alone long enough to upload his new program that would repair the nonexistent difficulty on the equipment. He knew; he would do more than fix it.
"Hey, Claude," an Air Force sergeant shouted as he approached him, walking across the concrete floor of the hangar. Claude recognized the sandy-haired, straight-as-a-rod figure of Sergeant Thomas Reed from his most recent trip to service the Bendix GPS navigation system on the plane. He remembered the sergeant had told him that he came from somewhere in Mississippi. Claude thought that accounted for the hard time he experienced in understanding him. "You was just out here to service this thing. What the hell did you do to it, man? The goshdamn thing wouldn’t even turn on today."
"It was functioning properly when I left. You also checked it. So, we’ll have to see what the problem is and fix it," Claude said with a smile and shook Sgt. Reed’s hand.
"You want a cuppa joe ‘fore we start?"
"That would be welcome. It’s cold as… how do you say it here? A witch’s tit, I believe," Claude smiled as he responded.
"You’re right about that. Come on, coffee first and then you’ll attack the plane."
Claude said to himself, "How right you are, Sergeant. How right you are."
37
This Morning — Savannah, GA — 7:35 AM
Matt hit the speed dial to the office, and Julia answered. "How’s it going?"
"Nothing new. Laura is off to school. Also, we got a couple of email queries on our website requesting security evaluations. Most promising one is in New York. I sent a response to each and asked for more information, and I’ll keep them on the hook till you get back. So what are you two doing down there?"
Matt heard Gandolf the parrot in the background. No profanity this time. "Well, we’ve found a lead on our man. We got a picture of the woman he accompanied two nights ago, and they’re trying to get a name. Seems like she works at an airport in Atlanta. Could be the main one or one of the general aviation fields up there. Bridget and I are going to head for Atlanta. It seems the logical thing to do with the info we have. How’s Laura doing?"
"She’s fine. Meeting new friends at school, and that’s taking some of the sting out of the nightmare she went through. When do you think you’ll get back?"
"Don’t know. Have to wait on the general to give us some assistance in finding the man. Do you have a Muslim friend up there to help us out?" Matt said and laughed.
"No. Don’t know any," Julia replied.
"I’ll call later to check on Laura after school. Till then," he said and disconnected.
"Is everything okay?" Bridget asked.
"Yeah. Nothing new at the office." He lay back on the bed. "You know, the more I think about this, the more I believe Atlanta is the target. What do you think?"
"It sounds right to me. If he’s found a girlfriend who works at an airport. . . I think he’ll use her either for entry to the airfield or to get the bomb on an airplane to explode it over a city. Like … maybe Washington, or New York, or even Atlanta."
"Exactly what I’m thinking," Matt said. "He needs to move now. His buddy is dead, and I assume he knows that and that someone must be chasing him. He’ll attempt to plant the weapon and then try to get away before someone catches him."
"The general hasn’t gotten back to us, but going to Atlanta is the best lead we have. So let’s get our butts in gear and roll," Bridget added.
They quickly packed their things and went to get the car. In less than fifteen minutes, they were on Interstate 16, headed for Atlanta.
* * *
Anton answered the cell, which displayed the low battery icon. The voice of Major General Marshankin gave instructions in Russian.
"Colonel, the director orders you to go to Atlanta, Georgia. The intercept people picked up voice and electronic indications from the southern areas of the Confederation of Independent States that an attack of some type appeared to have been planned for that area. He said they viewed it as unusual to get intercept email from an American server being sent back to areas to the south of Russia. The intercepts originated from places in Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Georgia." Anton knew these locations as all contained large numbers of Islamofascists and radical Islamists. The director coughed a few times before he continued. "The increase in traffic reached an inordinate level in the last twenty hours, and the evaluators at the headquarters had translated some of the phone calls and broken a few email intercepts, all pointing towards an attack on the American city of Atlanta."
"My phone is almost out of power. I’ll go there and attempt to buy a charger at an electronic store."
"Try a Radio Shack," the Russian attaché in Washington said. "They will have what you need. Get a car charger so you can use it on the drive to Atlanta. You have to take your weapons, so travel by commercial air is out, and I can’t get the plane that took you to Savannah back to you any faster than you can drive. So that you’ll know, Colonel Ivanov, I’ll inform the American military as soon as we finish. The ambassador will make a call on their State Department to deliver this same warning, that we have grave concerns that an attack will take place in a very short time on American soil by a terrorist who may be Russian," the defense attaché said.
"We're leaving for Atlanta now. Please try to get us more information on the location of our target. Maybe the American team has more intelligence. Could you attempt to get us an update on what they’re doing?"
The defense attaché hung up and dialed Mary Jean.
38
This Morning — Defense Intelligence Agency — 7:45 AM Washington, D.C
Mary Jean spoke with Mike Anthony, who wanted to see her this morning because he held the report she needed. They agreed to meet at noon for a light lunch at Landini’s in Alexandria. Her secretary interrupted to say the Russian attaché wanted to speak with her. She answered it, "Good morning, Andrei. What can I do for you this morning?"
"Perhaps I can do something for you. Would coffee at the Old Post Office downtown be convenient, as soon as possible? I want you to know something at the same time my ambassador is delivering it to your State Department."
"I’m leaving now. Be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes. See you inside the main doors."
"Excellent," he said and disconnected.
Mary Jean arrived at the Old Post Office on Pennsylvania Avenue. Andrei greeted her and gestured with his hand for her to follow and they strolled over to a corner away from the pedestrian traffic.
"Sorry to rush, but I’ve been called back to the embassy for an emergency meeting. The subject will be the threat warning given to the State Department by our ambassador as we speak." He then proceeded to relay to her the gist of the intelligence information that would be passed. "Do you know, or are you able to tell me, what you are doing about the threat?"
"We have a team on the trail of Yuri Borisov,” she said. “They’re heading to Atlanta. They were able to find a woman he hooked up with and we’re currently trying to identify her." Mary Jean shifted her position to take a quick look around to see if anyone was paying any attention to them. Satisfied, she resumed. "We believe she works at an airport in Atlanta, and he may be using her to get entry. The president will be in Atlanta today. I’m waiting on the result of the scans being done by various agencies that may provide us with concrete information on the identity of the woman. Then we’ll attempt to get to her. Anything from anyone you may know in the area?" Mary Jean said
.
"Nothing."
At that moment, Mary Jean’s phone buzzed. She opened it to see a text message displayed on her screen. The picture had been identified as Marilyn Grosse, and her address in Atlanta was given. Her occupation was FAA controller at Hartsfield International Airport. The information provided the missing link on the woman, and she needed to call Matt with it. She did not notice that Andrei had also glanced at her phone display as he’d pretended to look around for anyone trying to eavesdrop on them.
"I have a name and address for the woman we’re seeking. I’ll get my team there shortly, and we’ll see what she has to say. Thank you for the warning from your people. I’ll keep you informed of what we find out," said Mary Jean.
"Always a pleasure to see you," he said. He moved off into the flow of people going and coming through the busy entrance.
Mary Jean dialed Matt’s number.
"Matt, here’s the address of Marilyn Grosse. She’s an FAA controller at Hartsfield International." She gave it to him. "How long till you can get there?"
"We’re already on our way to Atlanta, but it’s a four hour drive. We’ll push it and let you know as soon as we get there. Is the FBI going to be there before us?"
"No. I don’t plan to tell’em until you need help. You should be there before midday. I’m having lunch with my FBI contact in Old Town at noon. I’ll call you after that."
"We’ll get him, General. You can count on it," said Matt.
"I am counting on it," Mary Jean said.
* * *
At Andrews Air Force Base, the coffee break ended and Claude took the thermos he and Ricky had packed with C-4, filled the remaining space with coffee to demonstrate to anyone watching that it was a real coffee thermos, walked over to the plane, and pulled the ladder over to the hatch below the flight deck. Sergeant Reed accompanied him. As he started to climb up the ladder with his instruments and his thermos, Reed pulled on his pant leg.
