Countdown to Mecca (10 page)

Yes, Brooks absolutely wanted to be in Riyadh when it happened. Actually, much closer, if possible.

A plane ride over Mecca when the bomb went off, a bomb filled with weaponized Ebola, would be glorious.

 

11

San Francisco, California

“I've gotta admit, Jack, you did this right.”

Doc was leaning between the two front seats as Sol drove them to Spumante's for lunch.

“What, the interview?” Jack asked.

“No—conceived this thing on the fly. Used your hard-won skills in media journalism and video production to take on their attack head-on.”

“Well—thanks,” Jack said. It wasn't false modesty talking; it was the only way he knew how to do things, using his gut. “Problem is, the story still has the biggest pieces missing. Namely, how, where, who, and why?”

“Hey, at least we know the ‘what,'” Sol said. “From what you told me, someone's trying to piece together a weapon of mass destruction.”

“That's our worst-case scenario assumption,” Jack agreed. “So the questions remain: how could they do it? If they did, where would they use it? If Iran wasn't responsible, then who was? If Ana's pals Morton, Pallor, and Kid are involved, why?”

“One step at a time, Jack old boy,” Doc said. “This presumes a nuclear bomb.”

Jack was holding the video equipment and turned Doc's clandestine recording on. “Figuring eighty-five percent enrichment,” Peters's voice came from amid the roar of crashing waves, “which is the standard, you'd need roughly fifty kilos—a little more than a hundred pounds—to easily reach critical mass. The more highly enriched, the less you need. Using a neutron reflector can make the amount you need even smaller. Now, if you remember your high school chemistry you may be able to figure out the exact number—”

Jack paused the digital recording, thinking furiously. The professor's words rang a bell, but what possible bell could they have rung? Nuclear physics and NEDAs were far from his own area of expertise, although he had learned more than he ever wanted to know during his previous confrontation with terrorists.

Suddenly he remembered. He took out his cell phone and went to the website for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, quickly found the name he was looking for. Ray Paxton was a regular contributor and Jack was certain he had communicated with him before.

“Sol—I'll be skipping lunch. Mind dropping me off at my apartment?”

“You need a meal,” Sol cautioned.

“What I need is my Rolodex card file,” Jack protested.

Sol shot him a look. “You still have a Rolodex file?”

“A gift from my father,” Jack said. “I'm not getting rid of it.”

“Must be tough to get blank cards.”

“I bought them in bulk five years ago,” Jack said.

“Oh, so occasionally you
do
plan ahead,” Doc teased.

Sol chuckled as he detoured to Jack's building and dropped him off. Doc said he needed carbs and was going with Sol. They said they'd pick him up when they were done.

Upstairs, Jack riffled through the old-fashioned, typed, and hand-written file cards of people he had met over the years. He found the man's number in San Francisco. Now, if only he was still there.

Jack lucked out.

“Jack Hatfield, you old Scotch guzzler!” came the man's hearty greeting. It came back to Jack why he had trouble remembering Ray's name. The two had gone out on the town the night of Paxton's appearance on
Truth Tellers
. Between them they had finished a bottle and a half of Glenlivet 18. “How the hell have you been?”

Jack told him.

“So you were at that mess in Levi Plaza,” Paxton marveled.

“I
was
the mess in Levi Plaza,” Jack said. “Listen, Ray—I've got something for you.”

Jack relayed the information about the missing canister. When he was finished he asked, “Got anything that might help me?”

Paxton thought hard but not very long. “Tell you the truth, Jack, there is a rumor going around certain circles that a hundred kilos of HRU was missing from that facility. Other rumors say it was something else, a bio-agent. Since it's checked every other day, it's said that they have a good idea on when it was taken, but not much else.”

“So it's still in the wind?”

“Far as I know, but I don't know much and I don't know anyone else who does.”

Jack wasn't just listening to the man's words, he was listening to his tone. He didn't seem like a man who was disturbed or concealing something.

“No worries, Ray. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime Jack,” Paxton said with bemusement.

Jack smiled as he disconnected the call, acknowledging that the waters they were all swimming in now were deep and murky. And when the waters got this rough, there was only one man to call.

Kevin Dangerfield answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Jack Hatfield, Kevin.”

“Jack Hatfield. Again? That means you're in trouble or the world is. Which one?”

“Probably both,” Jack said. “There was a theft of uranium or a biological pathogen in Russia about a week ago. I'm trying to find out who took it.” Jack waited about five seconds. “Kevin?”

“Now come on Jack, you know I can't confirm or deny. I can't even comment on what may or may not be stored there.”

“Let me help,” Jack prompted. “Material was taken out of Kazakhstan two years ago with U.S. help. Army, I believe.” The following silence told Jack he'd nailed it. “Where do you think it went? More to the point, where do you
fear
it went?”

“Jack.” Dangerfield drew a deep breath. “You know I like you—”

“And I like you, too, Kevin. It would be a shame if our friendship or maybe a city disappeared in a flash of light.”

“Stop jumping to conclusions, Jack.”

“I'm assuming this much,” Jack pressed on. “Iran already has weapons-grade uranium, so I'm guessing someone else would want it—if that's what we're dealing with. Who and how would it be transported? Come on, help me help you. At least tell me what I'm looking for!”

“Jack—stop. You know I can't answer.”

Jack did stop, knowing Dangerfield never said anything unnecessarily. He had to stop asking him questions Kevin couldn't answer and start asking questions he could.

“I wonder,” Jack said. “How would it be transported? Radioactive material is—well, dangerous. But there are ways of making it safer to transport.”

“Just for the purpose of—oh, conversation—radioactive material and even biological agents are not all that dangerous.” Dangerfield said it blithely, as if they were just two old buddies shooting the breeze.

“What do you mean it's not that dangerous?”

“Raw material doesn't make a bomb,” he explained. “So just possessing the stuff doesn't hurt you if it's properly sealed, and it doesn't help you in that form.”

Jack waited, but Dangerfield left it at that. “Kev, I could use a nudge in
some
direction.”

“Jack, you'll need to talk to someone else.”

“I already have.”

“Who?”

“A scientist. With connections.”

“Obviously not the guy you need,” Dangerfield said.

Jack cursed inwardly. Outwardly, he asked, “Any suggestions?”

“Gotta go, Jack. Thanks for calling.”

The line clicked off abruptly. Jack's shoulders slumped. Frustrated, he flicked on his CD player. A CD from the Blue Note: Collector's Edition was in the tray. Jazz in general calmed him; this set in particular, with Art Blakey, Horace Silver, Dexter Gordon, Donald Byrd, John Coltrane, and others, worked miracles. Fittingly, it was Sammy who had given him the album as a birthday present over a year before

“You okay?”

Jack jerked in his chair and nearly bleated in surprise, which elicited a laugh from Dover Griffith. She stood in front of the apartment's front door, which she had already closed, holding a bag of take-out food.

“Sorry to scare you,” she said, stifling a further chuckle. “Chalk it up to the stealth training the Bureau is giving us now.” She headed toward the kitchen table, accompanied by Coltrane's mellow sax, giving Jack time to take in her jeans, running shoes, T-shirt, and denim jacket. Always a jacket. Had to put the gun and holster under something. “‘Hi' would be nice,” she suggested.

“Sorry,” he said with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. “I didn't hear you come in. My head is somewhere else.”

“Evidently,” she said, removing containers from her shoulder bag and placing them on the table. “I took a chance that you'd be here. Used my key but I don't think you would have heard it if I had kicked the door down.” She looked up at him with warmth as he neared. “Do you even know what time it is?”

Jack glanced at the digital clock on the stove. It was almost five
P.M.
As usual, time flew when he was working.

“I saw Doc at Spumante's, hoping you'd be there, too,” she told him as she finished putting out the food. “He said you had donned your monk's habit, so I figured you'd need something to eat when you finally broke your vow of silence.”

He smiled, rose, and gave her a hug. She hugged him back, tightly. He was distracted by the aroma of Bruno's exceptional cooking.

“Wow,” she said as he leaned over her shoulder. “Makes a girl feel wanted.”

“I've got Italian
and
you,” he said. “My life is perfect.”

“Is it?” she asked, nodding toward his desk and the laptop.

“There are some shortcomings in the professional side of things,” he admitted.

“Join the dead-end club.”

Jack took a seat at the kitchen table and opened the container closest to him.

“Carl thought ID'ing those guys in Levi Plaza would be easy,” Dover said as she got utensils and napkins and pulling up a chair beside him.

“Nothing in the database?” he asked around a mouthful of eggplant parmesan, no cheese, a Hatfield special, now on Bruno's menu.

“Not us, nor TSA, nor Interpol, nor even the Mukhabarat el-Khabeya.” She took her own bite of creamy potato gnocchi.

Jack recognized the name of Egypt's Military Intelligence Service. “That could mean the hit squad hasn't done something like this before,” he mused, chewing.

“The fact that one of 'em got clipped by a trolley is evidence of that,” Dover said. She regarded him carefully. “You're really worried.”

“Yeah.” Jack took a moment, grateful for the food and her presence and the chance to decompress. “The last two times I was going after the bad guys. This time they're also coming after me and those around me.”

They both fell silent for a few moments. The only sound was their chewing. When Dover spoke again, her head was down and her tone was hushed.

“I want to do something,” she said. “I came here to pool our resources off-the-record. I want to help you find that ‘someone else' I overheard Kevin Dangerfield refer to.”

Jack put down his fork, went over, and kissed Dover full on the mouth.

“You know something?” he asked when they broke.

“What?” she smiled.

He smiled back. “That's the best-tasting gnocchi I've ever had.”

While they were locked together in the primal entanglement Jack sought to stare straight in her eyes. He didn't look away. Dover was different. Slim to the point of skinny, her slender muscularity turned on neurons he didn't know still existed in him. With her like this it wasn't solely the sexual contact and release that kept him hooked. It was her being itself that drew him in. As their writhing entanglement reached its point of frenzy Jack's brain heard Horace Silver's horn reaching for the impossible note. Just as Silver had maxed his lungs in “The Natives Are Restless Tonight,” seeking that impossible note Jack felt something almost snap as he sought the perfect bond with Dover. She pulled at him with her athletic strength “Jack, Jack…” and a small tear. Jack thought,
It doesn't matter if you hit that note. All that matters is reaching with all your talents
.

 

12

“Captain?”

Dan Jeffreys looked up from his computer screen to see Officer Victoria Burnett in her “work” clothes: a low-cut, skintight minidress, visible garter belts, black stockings showing off a swash of thigh flesh, and black high heel boots. As if the visual evidence wasn't enough to clue him in, he already knew she was working the vice squad's latest sweep.

“Yes?”

“Glad you're still here,” said the brunette.

He gave her a “where else?” look. In addition to the usual mix of crisis and red tape, there had been a shoot-out in his city that climaxed with a trolley accident. That meant attorneys and union officials, a flood of e-mails, interview requests, and jurisdictional battles with the FBI. No way he was going home until he got a better handle on all that. Besides, Burnett was obviously vamping—in her case figuratively and literally—and had probably argued with herself for some time before appearing in his office doorway. The least he could do was hear her out. And rest his eyes on something worth resting them.

“What can I do for you, Officer Burnett?”

“You said you wanted to know about any unusual street scuttlebutt, right?”

“Right.”

“Word is that some Russian guys are looking for some very specific escorts.”

That snapped his attention away from the garters. “Oh?”

“An Asian, an Indian, and some Nordic type with ‘ice eyes.'”

He stood. “You sure these guys are Russian?”

The officer nodded.

“How many?”

Burnett frowned. “Not sure. The details keep changing—sunglasses, regular glasses, hoodies, hats, even different mustaches, but the template remains the same: youngish, about six feet, slimly muscled, blond.”