Checkmate (15 page)

Zhao snapped out of his reverie and slowly turned around to face Xun. “Yes, what is it?”

“They’ve been apprehended—in Texas.”

Zhao gave a half smile. “Good.”

“Why is that good?” Xun asked. “The authorities have them. If they talk—”

“They will.”

Xun frowned. “But if—”

Zhao waved his hands to encompass the room. “Xun, what do you see here?”

“A Xiangqi board.”

“Let me ask you: Suppose a pair of enemy
paos
are advancing on your king. What do you do?”

“Move my king.”

“Or?”

“Attack the attacking pieces.”

“Or.”

“Move other pieces in defense.”

“How do you know that’s not what your enemy wanted?”

“I don’t.”

“What if your every move is not your own, but only a response to arranged circumstances?”

“Then I lose the game.”

“Correct. Now: Send a message to Sarani. Tell him they should start preparing. Events will begin to speed up now.”

Xun nodded and hurried out.

Zhao turned back to the board and moved another piece in his mind.

WHEN
he touched down, Fisher’s plans to quickly exit the area were foiled, not by the authorities, but rather by Lambert in a curtly worded OPSAT message—
PROCEED GRID REF 102.398, AWAIT PICKUP FOR TRANSPORT TO CHARLIE-ALPHA ONE (1)
—followed by the details his contact would use to identify himself or herself.

Fisher was concerned. The grid reference Lambert had given was virtually on top of his pathfinder beacon, overlooking Jumeirah Road north of the Burj al Arab. Rendevous Point Charlie-Alpha One was a CIA safe house on Al Garhoud Road near the Dubai Creek Golf & Yacht Club.

Lambert’s order was unprecedented, not only because it required Fisher to remain in an OPAR (Operational Area) that had gone hot, but also because it went against everything Third Echelon stood for: invisibility. Presenting himself to what would likely turn out to be a CIA case officer at a CIA safe house left a big footprint indeed. Though his contact was unlikely to know anything about him and would be ordered to forget his face, that did little to comfort him.

Twenty minutes after he touched down on the beach and stuffed his parafoil in a crevice in the rocks, a red two-door Peugeot pulled off the road and coasted to a stop on the dirt shoulder. The driver got out and knelt beside his front tire. Fisher saw a flashlight wink against the hub-cap: one short, two long, three short.

He rose from the underbrush and walked over. Though he’d stripped off his exterior gear and stuffed it into his pack, he was still wearing his tac-suit. Even so, the man gave him the barest of glances, then said, “Are you Willard?”

Fisher shook his head. “My name is Bartle,” he replied, completing the recognition code.

The man opened the back door and said, “Best if you lay down on the floor.”

Fisher got in and did as instructed.

 

 

 

TWENTY
minutes later the Peugeot coasted to a stop. Fisher heard the sound of a garage door opening. The car moved ahead and the garage door closed.

“It’s okay to get up,” the driver said. “We’re clear.”

Fisher sat up and climbed out of the car to find himself, predictably, in a nondescript two-car garage. He followed the man into the house, which was lit by several floor lamps and decorated in Spanish-villa style. They were standing in the kitchen.

“I’m going to make some coffee,” the man said. “Conference room’s down the hall, first door on the right. Your call’s cued up; just press the green button. The room’s a tank.”

All U.S. embassies and consulates and some CIA safe houses were equipped with a “tank”—a windowless, sound-tight room impervious to listening devices.

Fisher followed the man’s directions to the room. It was small, ten feet by ten feet, and empty save for a desk table arrayed before a thirty-two-inch flat-screen television monitor. Recessed ceiling lights cast pools on the carpet. He sat down and pressed the green button. The monitor went first to static, then black again as a series of word scrolled across the screen:

 

 

 

Lambert appeared on the screen. He was standing in what Fisher immediately recognized as the White House Situation Room. In the background he could see a few people milling around the gleaming oak conference table, including the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the head of Homeland Security, the director of the FBI, and the NID or National Intelligence Director.

“Morning, Sam,” Lambert said.

“I’ve had better, Colonel. Tell me why I’m still in Dubai.”

“Apologies. A lot has happened since you left.”

“So it seems.”

“You’re the tip of the spear, Sam. I asked that you be allowed to listen in; you need to know what’s happening, and what’s coming. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see you. Listen, but don’t speak.”

“I’m a ghost.”

“Tell me about the Burj al Arab.”

“Things got dicey. We’re not compromised, but Greenhorn’s dead—by his own bodyguards.”

“Accident?”

“No chance. They were too good for that. They knew what they were doing.”

“The question is, what did he know that was so important and who gave the order?”

“There’s got to more here than what we’re seeing. Maybe this’ll give us a clue.” Fisher held up the USB drive Greenhorn had given him. “His insurance policy.”

“Good. Get that to Grim.”

On the monitor, Fisher saw the President’s Chief of Staff walk into the room and take a seat at the head of the conference table. Lambert said, “Stick around afterward. Grim has a new mission briefing for you.” Lambert disappeared from view, then came back into frame as he took his seat.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Chief of Staff, “let’s take our seats. I’ll be updating the President following this, so let’s get started. “First, General, I understand you have updated figures from Slipstone.”

The Chairman of the JCS nodded. “Yes, sir. As of three hours ago, the total confirmed dead roughly three thousand, six hundred.”

There were murmurs of shock around the table.

“Of the reported two thousand survivors, approximately forty percent of them won’t survive another three days. We’re looking at a death toll that may exceed five thousand.”

The Chief of Staff was silent for a few moments, then asked, “Why Slipstone? Why did they choose Slipstone?”

The JCS chairman replied, “Just guessing, I’d say for impact. Slipstone’s a small town, in the middle of the country—in the middle of nowhere. The message is, ‘we can get you anywhere, at any time.’ Small town, big city, it doesn’t matter.”

The Chief of Staff considered this, then said, “Moving on. Jim, if you would. . . .”

The director of the FBI opened a folder, shuffled his notes, then started:

“Seventeen hours ago, our Special Agent in Charge on the ground in Slipstone acquired surveillance tapes of the local water treatment plant. Subsequent study of these tapes led our team to put out a nationwide BOLO for a late-model white Chevy Malibu, which was seen parked near the plant. Two unidentified men were recorded exiting the car, after which they disappeared from view. Twenty minutes later, they reappeared and drove away.

“An anonymous tip led to the traffic stop of the white Malibu by the Texas Highway Patrol units outside El Paso, Texas. The two occupants of the car were of Middle Eastern origin. They were in possesion of false drivers’ licenses, two semiautomatic pistols, and cash in the amount of three thousand dollars. The men were transported to the El Paso County Jail for questioning.

“After initially refusing to cooperate, one of the men let slip details that confirmed their presence at Slipstone’s water treatment plant, as well as their plans to exit the country. Using flight and credit card information, we’ve determined their destination was a house in Guatemala City, Guatemala.

“A raid of the house by the Guatemalan National Police turned up a cache of documents, which was immediately turned over to our local Legat, or Legal Attaché. We’re still in the process of sorting through the documents, but so far we’ve determined the two men were ultimately bound for Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Ashgabat is fifteen miles from the Iranian border.”

Even from seven thousand miles away, Fisher felt the tension in the room skyrocket at the mention of Iran. This was the first true evidence pointing to the perpetrator of the Slipstone poisoning—and possibly the
Trego
incident. Fisher saw the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was taking copious notes.
He knows,
Fisher thought. Unless something changed, he’d soon be asked for military options for Iran.

The NID added, “The CIA sent its chief of station from Uzbekistan over to Ashgabat to beat the bushes. Problem is, we haven’t had a solid presence in Turkmenistan for decades. We’re just now redeveloping a network.”

The FBI director continued. “The Ashgabat lead has been partially confirmed by the lone crew member captured from the cargo ship
Trego,
who was transferred to our custody from another agency three days ago. This subject claims his name is in fact Behfar Nassiri and that he spent time in Ashgabat before leaving to board the
Trego
at sea, off the coast of Mauritania.”

That didn’t take long,
Fisher thought. While in Third Echelon’s custody, the man named Nassiri had met Redding’s interrogations with stone-faced silence. However they’d done it, the FBI had apparently found Nassiri’s “Talk” button.

The director of the CIA interjected: “According to our database, the family name of Nassiri originates in the Mazandaran region of Iran.”

There were a few moments of silence, then the Chief of Staff said, “Son of a bitch.”

“Nassiri further claims he had been instructed to guide the
Trego
into the Virginia coastline and then, if still alive, kill himself in ‘a glorious blow against the Great Satan.’”

“Straight from the Pasdaran hymnal,” said the Secretary of Defense.

Fisher had had his own dealings with the Pasdaran. Officially called the Pasdaran-e Enghelab-e Islami, or the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Pasdaran were elite troops chosen for their dedication to Islam and to the religious leaders of Iran. The average Pasdaran soldier’s zealotry made a Palestinian suicide bomber look meek.

“Good Christ, what are they thinking?” said the head of Homeland Security. “Didn’t they realize what this would bring down on them?”

Of course they know,
Fisher thought. The extremist leadership in Tehran would like nothing more to finally join battle with its prime enemy. For them, this was a divine mission.

“Anything else on the FBI side?” the Chief of Staff asked.

“I’ll have more for the morning briefing, but we’re still working on the remains from the Freeport City coffee warehouse—”

“How are certain are we that these are the bodies of the
Trego
’s crew?” asked the SecDef.

“Ninety-nine percent. Autopsies are under way right now, so we should have some answers soon. As for the
Duroc
—the yacht—we believe it picked up the
Trego
’s crew and transported them to Freeport City. She exploded at sea before we could intercept her. There were no survivors, no remains. We’re working on nailing down the registry.”

An aide entered the room, walked the the FBI director, handed him a note, then left.

“What is it, Jim?” asked the Chief of Staff.

“Another piece of the puzzle. The financial information we recovered from the house in Guatemala City was tracked back to a bank in Masqat, Oman. It’s a coporate account under the name Saracen Enterprises.”

The NID was taking notes. He said, “We’re on it.”

The FBI director closed his folder. “That’s all I have for now.”

The Chief of Staff turned to the NID. “Doug?”

The NID stood up and walked to a nearby monitor, which came to life showing a satellite view of Slipstone. The image was in shades of gray, save for a few spots of orange-red.

“These are radioactive hot spots around Slipstone. We’ve coordinated satellite coverage with the EPA to find the limits of the contamination and quarantine the water supply. So far, it looks like there is no leakage into the surrounding ground water or geological structures.”

“What are we talking about here?” asked the Chief of Staff. “What’s the contaminate?”

“Cesium 137. It’s a common waste element produced when uranium and/or plutonium are bombarded by neutrons. In essense, it’s radioactive waste from either a reactor or the remnants of bomb production. Unfortunately, in the world of nuclear physics, cesium is a dime a dozen. Finding precisely where it came from is doable, but it’s going to take some time.”

“How persistent is this stuff?” asked Homeland Security. “How long before the town is habitable again?”

“The half-life of cesium 137 particles is thirty years. In other words, Slipstone will be off-limits to all human life long after most of us are dead.”

 

 

 

THE
meeting was adjourned and Fisher sat in silence, watching the attendees file out.

He was stunned. He’d heard the initial death toll predictions, but hearing them recited in such clinical fashion chilled him.
Five thousand dead . . . Slipstone a ghost town, uninhabitable for a generation or more
. . .

Lambert appeared before the screen. Over his shoulder, the situation room was empty.

“So: You heard.”

“I heard,” Fisher replied.