Blown Circuit (9 page)

From the scale of the shot, it looked like the ball at the top was big. It had to have had a diameter of at least ten or twelve feet. But it was hard to really see what you were looking at until you took a closer look at the picture. Because what had looked like unmelted snow on the ground was, on further inspection, something else. It looked like foam. Fire-retardant foam. And it was there because the ground at the base of the tower had been blackened and burned. When I looked closely, I could see tiny wisps of smoke rising off it. I knew what the picture represented—Wardenclyffe Tower. Like the one in the journal, but a more technologically advanced version.
 

“Tunguska was a wake-up call for the Russians,” Crust said. “Thirty years later, what other governments had believed to be science fiction, the Russian government had accepted as fact. They bought the blueprints for Tesla’s Device in 1938. They then proceeded to refine it over the next sixteen years. This photo was taken in 1954. A short time after it was taken, for reasons as yet unclear to us, the prototype was disassembled and smuggled out of the Soviet Union by the Green Dragons.”

Crust watched my eyes. He knew my interest was about to get personal. The Green Dragons were, after all, the group responsible for kidnapping my father.

“And then?” I said.

“Our sources say the Device never got to its destination. It went missing. From what we can tell, the Green Dragons lost it just as the cold war was heating up.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Now, generations later, we hear chatter from our Dragon friends. As near as we can tell, they want to use the Device to destroy a major metropolitan area.”

“Where?”

Crust tapped his phone and the photo of the old Tower disappeared to be replaced by a map of the globe, three panels wide. Turkey was represented by a red dot in the center of the map, concentric rings rippling out from it to hit cities around the globe. Almost the entire United States was within range, as was Asia, Europe, Africa, and South America.

“Even if we use a nominal six-thousand-mile range, like the one achieved when the Wardenclyffe Tower prototype took out Tunguska, Turkey’s central location means that this thing can hit almost anywhere on Earth, including America: New York, Washington, Chicago, nearly everywhere is vulnerable. Add another thousand or so miles, fire it across the pole, and it can hit the West Coast too.”

Crust tapped his phone again.

“This is what we predict will happen when the beam hits.”

The map of the globe disappeared from the screen to be replaced by a sunny shot of the Manhattan skyline. Everything looked fine at first. Sparkling. Happy. Except then a thick bolt of what looked like lightning struck the south end of Manhattan, and I could tell that it wasn’t going to be that kind of movie. The bolt of energy didn’t just strike and disappear like a regular bolt of lightning either. Instead, it hit the ground and thousands of smaller bolts flew out of it like an electric wind.

The bolts of energy exploded through the trees and buildings in an unstoppable wave destroying everything in their path. Skyscrapers crumbled and taxis and buses flew through the air, people reduced to ashes as the energy storm passed through the city in a raging inferno of sparks. When it was done, nothing was left standing. Buildings were twisted and melted and the ground was burned. People in the streets were vaporized. All that was left was a huge cloud of dust hanging over the charred earth.

“The guys in tech did up the simulation,” Crust said. “They figure that given its popularity, New York is a likely target. The clip is an accurate modeling of what a directed-energy weapon attack would look like.”

What I had just seen was no romantic comedy. It was total destruction. It looked like a nuclear bomb had hit.

“Whoever has this thing has the power to reduce our American cities to ashes. And I’m not just talking about downtown. I’m talking about the surrounding areas as well, industrial infrastructure, ports, everything.”

Manhattan smoldered in the simulation. Buildings had been reduced to heaps of rubble, smoke and fire everywhere. There was no way anything with a heartbeat could have survived.
 

“There is one ray of sunshine, though,” Crust said.

“It’s going to have to be good after that.”

“The weapon that can do this, the Tesla Device, the Dragons haven’t found it yet. We think they’re close, but so far, it’s still out there.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the journal.

“So scan this and send it to the tech team. And give them this other stuff too. I’ve got a scarf, blood, photos.”

I pulled the daypack out of the larger pack, handing it to Crust.

“My dad was on that ship. I didn’t bust my ass last night, just so this stuff could gather dust.”

“I’ll get it to Langley ASAP,” Crust said. “But we need to think about the other problem. The problem with the mole.”

“You keep talking about a mole,” I said. “But you haven’t said where the leak was going? A mole for who?”

”Who else?”

I stared at Crust in the pale light of the computer screens.
 

“You’re kidding me. Are you telling me that Jean-Marc reported to the Dragons?”
 

“It’s the only thing that fits. Like I said, several weeks ago, we noticed that information was being leaked. Now we’ve confirmed that leak and after your encounter with Jean-Marc, we know that the mole is dead. The thing that’s working in our favor is that we’re fairly certain that the Dragons haven’t met their mole. All our intel suggests it’s been a data leak all along. They’ve got no ID on their asset other than a codename—
Raptor
.”

“You’re fairly certain?”

“Better than fairly certain. Very certain. They don’t know that we’re on to them, and they have no idea what their asset looks like. That puts us two steps ahead. You know what two steps ahead means in the spy game?”

“Ahh, shit,” I said. I knew what it meant.

“Welcome to the world of the double agent, Mike. From this moment on you report to the Dragons.”

Chapter 15

O
F
COURSE
,
BECOMING
the new mole was easier said than done. The mole had been communicating with the Dragons via a secure message board. The CIA knew because they’d found the message board. What they hadn’t found were the messages, except a single post which the mole had failed to delete. Nor did they know what kind of communication protocols may have been set up in case he was compromised. As a result of the undeleted message, though, they did know his next point of contact—a woman, working for the Turkish Secret Police. What business Jean-Marc had had with her and what business she might have, if any, with the Dragons, was unclear, but on the balance of probabilities, it looked as though it was a blind first meeting. Which was why Crust had asked me to take Jean-Marc’s place.

I knew there were a million things that could go wrong. For one, the undeleted post could be a setup by the Dragons. Bait in case Jean-Marc was compromised. For another, we had no idea of the communications’ protocols that had been used to date. Anything that varied from a predetermined pattern could alert the other party. Finally, and most obviously, after the China Op, the Dragons were now aware of who I was. If the contact was connected to them in anything but a tertiary manner, my going in could raise a significant flag.

The other side of the equation was that the CIA needed to place an agent and they needed to do so quickly. Short of Crust going in himself, I was the only alternative. There was time to familiarize myself with the Tesla Device and the threats of its use to date, but not much else. After scanning the journal and uploading it to an anonymous CIA drop box, I cleaned myself up and went out to meet my contact.
 

The meet was set for a location in Taxsim Square, the heart of contemporary Istanbul. A crowded shared-ride van disgorged me onto the darkening street and I followed the Saturday-night crush of people past a long row of burger shops and down a wide thoroughfare. The vehicular traffic was blocked off, except for some kind of party tram, which was a good thing, because there wasn’t enough room to handle the pedestrian traffic as it was.
 

I continued along the boulevard, bright lights shining down from boutiques of all descriptions, some international names, some I’d never heard of before. Everybody was dressed to the nines, so much so, that I stood out a little more than I was comfortable with in my khaki shorts and polo shirt. I resisted the notion to change, after all, I
was
a backpacker. No need to gild the lily.

I counted the cross streets carefully as I continued down the crowded boulevard. I waited for the volume of foot traffic to dissipate, but it kept getting busier. Istanbul was a metropolis of eighteen million people and it looked like a million of them were ambling along the congested streets of Taxsim Square. Maybe two million. A guy in a red hat was selling goat milk ice cream which he folded with his steel spatula into waffle cones. It must have been good, because he had a line of fifty people waiting at his little cart. Up ahead, a narrow alley intersected the boulevard.
 

Lights were strung over the alley’s entrance, the high walls making it look more like a canyon than a thoroughfare. I waded into the crowd. Turkish pop ballads blazed through the night air, while tables filled with people narrowed the available walking corridor to the point that all I could do was go with the flow. A look to either side of me revealed that the interiors of the bars lining the alley were packed as well. The fire marshal, if there was one, wouldn’t have been happy.

I held my backpack in front of me, not so much walking as being carried through the crush of humanity until, finally, I saw what I was looking for—the Kadicoy Bar, a sign in purple neon script announced its presence. I took a breath and steered right, stepping between two high tables outside the bar. Unsurprisingly, people jammed the place, both inside and out. I didn’t know whether it was luck or the incredulous expression on my face, but I soon felt a tap on my shoulder. A table of three well-dressed women and two men were offering me a seat. I took them up on it. It was the perfect opportunity to regroup.

My new table-mates introduced themselves in Turkish. I caught the name Yousef and Nilay and not much else. They then poured me a beer from a frosted glass pitcher. I raised a toast to them and took a sip of the honey-brown ale. Not a huge pull, because I wanted to keep my wits about me, but enough to wet my throat. The beer was light on my tongue in the hot night, hoppy, but refreshing. I looked around the table. My new bar mates looked to be in their late twenties. Button-down collars on the men and halter tops on the women. I didn’t think they were couples, just friends, and I didn’t know why they had adopted me, but it gave me a chance to scope the place out. I needed to meet my contact and, according to my watch, I needed to do it soon.

“America?” one of the Turkish guys said.

“Canada,” I said.
 

Because I was effectively impersonating Jean-Marc, I was also operating under his old cover. That cover said he was from Montreal, though I hoped dearly that he hadn’t shared the legend with his contact. Things were sketchy enough without me having to rhapsodize about the glory of hockey and gravy-soaked French fries.

“Canada, Canada,” the response echoed around the table. The women were attractive and on any other night I might have lingered. But I was on task. I looked inside the bar and the mystery as to why I was so readily offered a seat was solved. I hadn’t simply stepped into a regular evening at a regular bar. I’d walked into a private event. Apparently, I was meeting my contact at a henna party.
 

Henna parties and their ilk weren’t something I’d learned about in training. There was, however, a photo of one in my guidebook. From what I’d read, the events were essentially the Turkish version of a bachelorette party with henna, the deep brown, plant-based dye, thrown in. The bride and her unmarried friends blobbed the dye on their hands and there was plenty of singing and dancing. They were traditionally female-only affairs, but like any tradition, I supposed it was open to interpretation. Mystery solved, I smiled a thank-you to my companions and rose, shuffling my way inside the tall doors of the bar.

I entered the double-high space to be greeted by a booming Turkish pop ballad and a number of older woman sitting in a group. On the other side of the older ladies, young women danced wildly while others smeared henna on their hands. The henna paste went on a bright orange, but had already darkened to a reddish-brown on some of the women. I noticed two chairs covered in lush red satin fabric with gold trim. They were thrones. And when I turned back around I saw the queen of the evening—the woman who was about to change my life.

Chapter 16

I
KNEW
THAT
she was my contact without even seeing her face because I saw the sun-shaped golden brooch in her luxuriant long hair. She had indicated she would be wearing it in her reply to Jean-Marc. What she hadn’t indicated was that she would also be wearing a red veil which told me that, in addition to being my contact, she was also the bride to be. She looked to be in her late twenties and, aside from the veil, she wore a close-fitting cream pantsuit, the honey brown of the back of her hands visible from behind. The outfit seemed an odd mix of the traditional and the modern, but I kept my focus on the tactical. So far, all I was certain of was one exit. I didn’t want to get stuck in the crowd if my cover was blown.

Then my contact turned and I felt the ground shift below my feet. Every working supposition I had relied on was suspect. Every notion of risk was squared because I had met my contact before, and I knew that it was next to impossible that my previous meeting with her had been an accident. She was the server I had run into in the bakery that morning, and after considering the astronomical odds of us just happening to bump into each other for a second time, I have to admit that my next thought was that she cleaned up pretty good.