Edge of Apocalypse (8 page)

"This isn't just another weapons system we can sell to the highest bidder. This system--my system--can alter the nuclear balance for the better of our country, for the better of the world, but only if we maintain strict control over it. Imagine if every missile, any missile, fired at us could be turned back on itself. With my Return-to-Sender system, there is a probable certainty that any missile attack by a rogue nation would result in their own self-destruction. So the threat of a nuclear missile attack on our country or our allies drops to almost nothing."

"If your system works the way you say it does," injected Straworth.

"I think we proved that two weeks ago, don't you?" Joshua shot back. "Just as when we put nuclear weapons into Western Europe to deter the Soviet menace in the 1980s, we did not turn over our nuclear arsenal to the Europeans, even though they were our allies. That way we could assure the world the weapons wouldn't fall into the wrong hands."

"And I am here to assure you, Mr. Jordan," said Senator Straworth, "that we have the same concern today."

"That's good to know." Joshua relaxed. This was easier than he thought.

"But I think you have things turned around, Mr. Jordan."

"Oh?"

"Yes," the senator said, his voice now building in intensity. "You see, protecting military secrets, with all due respect, is not the province of some private businessman like yourself. It is the province of the United States government. That's our job. Not yours."

"I think you're forgetting something," Joshua said.

"And what's that?"

"I'm part of the United States government. Not because I work for the Pentagon, but because I'm an American citizen. I'm part of 'we the people' in the Preamble to the Constitution. In that respect, Senator, I guess you could say that you work for me...and for all of us."

Straworth could now see that the gloves had come off.

"That's right, Mr. Jordan, that's right. I do work for you. I was elected by Americans just like you and put into a position of authority to make the tough decisions that affect my country's security. That is the job I've been given by the people of this country. That's not the job you have been given, sir."

The senator's face was turning crimson, and he was just getting started. His voice boomed out. "There's a certain hubris, sir, in your refusal to produce your documents on this project, an arrogance in your taking it upon yourself to decide when and how military secrets ought to be shared with the United States Congress. An attitude that, quite honestly, I find shocking, and dare I say it--unpatriotic--"

Harry Smythe leaped forward to his microphone before Joshua could get to his. "Sir, there's no need to impugn the patriotism of my client." The lawyer held his hand over Joshua's mic to make sure his client didn't start cursing.

Straworth continued, "It is precisely because of your previous record of patriotism and service to this country that I find it particularly puzzling why you won't comply with a simple request from your government--"

Joshua had heard enough. He ripped his lawyer's hand off his mic. "Because I don't want to give a single piece of technology that could save our country to the very people who are trying to destroy it!"

Senator Straworth sat back, like a spider watching his prey fly straight into his web. He smiled, then leaned forward again. "Do you mean the United Nations and the signers of the Six-Party Missile-Defense Treaty?" intoned Straworth.

"Exactly," blurted out Joshua.

"You mean our allies then?"

"Allies?"

"Yes," confirmed the senator.

"Allies like China and Russia?" sneered Joshua.

Harry Smythe knew he couldn't stop his client, so he simply sat back to watch these two men going at each other like heavyweights in the ring.

"They are our allies, Mr. Jordan," said Straworth, now clearly enjoying himself.

"That's right," said Joshua, "but only because we need oil from one and owe trillions of dollars to the other."

"So we should just throw out all our alliances because of an injured sense of pride?" the senator said, toying with him now. "So who can we trust in this world then?"

"That
is
the question, isn't it, Senator?" Now it was time for Joshua to fight back. "Who can we trust?" He turned to his lawyer. "I can trust Harry here because I know he's taken an oath; if he repeats anything I tell him in confidence, he could lose his law license, maybe even go to jail. I trust my wife because I know she loves me and would never betray me. I trust the Constitution because I know it has the greater good of our country at its heart."

He paused for a second, thinking carefully before going on. "But the question is, who can I trust in this room?...Truth is, I just can't come up with a satisfactory answer to that question."

The room exploded in an uproar, all the senators and representatives on their feet talking and yelling at once. Senator Straworth pounded his gavel hard and brought the chamber back to order.

"Mr. Smythe," Senator Straworth's eyes were steely as he glared at the attorney, "please inform your client of just how close he is to a contempt citation."

"I'm right here, Senator," Joshua shot back, "so you can talk to me directly. And I'm well aware of the implications of contempt."

"I don't think so, sir. Otherwise you wouldn't have insulted these honorable members the way you have. It is outrageous the way you have come in here today, thinking you could bully this committee with your self-centered assertions about duty and honor. I say to you, sir, it is your duty to turn over your work on the RTS project. It is your duty, sir, for the good of your country. And I warn you, if you or your lawyer tries to stall us on this, we will subpoena you with the full weight of both houses of Congress and the United States government, and it is your duty to honor any such subpoena as a citizen of this great country you profess to love. Anything less, Mr. Jordan, would be an affront to this committee and the honorable men and women who serve on it and to everyone in America, as well as an outrage and a crime. If necessary, we will put you in jail, sir, if you persist in your refusal to cooperate."

The senator let that sink in for emphasis. "And I'm sure my feelings are shared by all my colleagues on this committee." The senator sat back in his high-backed chair, feigning disgust.

"I'll tell you what I find to be an outrage and a crime," Jordan spoke calmly. "But, Senator, it has nothing to do with this committee. What it has to do with is the fact that out there, right now, in terrorist cells, in dark rooms, in rogue nations, and in the palaces of dictators and international drug lords, there are men who are willing to do absolutely
anything
to get their hands on my technology."

Joshua had one more word on the subject. He spit it out like a bit of rotten apple.

"Anything..."

THIRTEEN

Bucharest, Romania

Atta Zimler, also known as the Algerian, swung open the stylish French doors, causing the first abrupt rays of dawn to invade the sixthfloor suite of the elegant Athenee Palace Hotel. As he peered from the narrow balcony, which overlooked the famous Piata Revolutiei below, he couldn't help but notice the long, oddly shaped shadow created by the Iuliu Maniu statue, which sat in the center of the historic square. Wrapped in a luxuriant hotel robe, Zimler sipped his Turkish espresso and contemplated the upcoming day's events. He wiped his mouth with his napkin as he ran through the checklist in his head.

He'd always been a careful man, organized, some might even say obsessively meticulous. He knew the outcome of each of his actions in advance, along with the potential reactions of those around him, and he planned for every possible scenario. He credited this preparation for his ongoing success in his chosen line of work--preparation, and a total lack of emotion. Had anyone else been in the room, they would not have been able to discern from his calm demeanor that he was in the process of formulating the minute details of the murder he would soon carry out.

Turning back to the room, he set his cup on the dining room table, removed his robe, and folded it neatly over the chair. Clad only in his undergarments, he lowered himself onto the Oriental rug and began his daily rapid-fire routine of fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and as many leg raises as he felt were needed. By the end of the workout he was breathing heavily, though not exhausted in the least.

For years he had trained his body far beyond the capacity of most human beings. He had mastered karate, judo, and aikido. His strength was not obvious, not like those American bodybuilders and football players. But that was what served him. He was stronger than most athletes, yet on the street, he looked like everyone else. He had accepted that most people were either too stupid or too self-involved even to notice him.

After a shower Zimler extracted some clothes from his Louis Vuitton suitcase. Today would be casual--an imported silk shirt from Italy, nicely tailored linen pants, leather shoes from Spain. As he dressed, it occurred to him, albeit briefly, that it would be the last time he could wear these particular items.

The phone rang. A male voice on the other end was direct and emotionless.

"Is this the Algerian?"

"Who is calling?" Zimler countered while simultaneously fastening the last button on his shirt.

"I am calling on behalf of someone who has a serious problem."

"Oh?"

"His mail keeps getting returned..."

"Sounds like he has a bad mailman."

"Yes," the voice responded. "A very bad mailman. The mailman needs to be eliminated."

"Is that what you are really after?" Zimler asked. "The mailman?"

"Well...the bigger problem lies in the delivery system."

"I would have to concur. I assume you are calling because you have agreed to the price?"

"Yes."

"And the other terms as well?"

"Yes, yes," the voice on the other end replied.

"Then we have an understanding," Zimler concluded. "However, if at any point in the future you fail to make the correct deposits in the designated accounts at the proper times, I will immediately discontinue our relationship."

"Yes. We understand that. When will you begin your work? My superior would like to have the technology in his hands as soon as possible."

"Certain events have already been put in motion," the Algerian assured.

"You know," the man on the line offered, "we have chosen you because of your...well...your reputation."

"Of course."

"Please, don't fail us."

"You needn't concern yourself about that," Zimler stated confidently. "I'm not about to compromise my reputation."

With that, Zimler ended the conversation.

Twenty five minutes later, the Algerian rode the hotel's mirrored elevator down two flights to the fourth floor. He waited until the hallways were clear before making his way to room 417, which he knew was unoccupied. From his right pants pocket he pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. From his left pocket he took out a magnetic programming device, similar in size to a standard deck of playing cards. Zimler then extracted a blank hotel room card key from the magnetic box and inserted it into the room's door lock.

Nothing.

He then slid the electronic card key back into the device and punched in a new code using the numeric pad on top of the box. He tried the key again.

The door opened.

Zimler smiled, entered the empty room, and closed the door securely behind him.

And waited.

Yergi Banica was clearly nervous--and it wasn't simply because he was running a few minutes late. Having already parked his car on the north side of the Piata Revolutiei as instructed, he quickly made his way across the square toward the hotel. His mind was on euros--ten thousand of them to be exact. His job, teaching political science at the Romanian University of Craiova, paid little, barely enough for him to get by in his small apartment with his much younger new wife. Personally, he didn't mind the close quarters, but he knew Elena aspired to better things.

Yergi was of average size and, although not unattractive, had added those few extra pounds that come with age. He knew he was lucky to have found his beautiful Elena, lucky that she found him interesting, lucky that she had agreed to marry him. He knew about her unsavory background, but he didn't care and never talked about it with her. And he was well aware that his luck could end if his financial situation remained unchanged. But as luck would have it, his finances were about to improve.

A year earlier, Yergi had been approached by a Russian student in one of his political science classes. The student was friendly, bright, and engaged in his studies, but that was just a ruse. In reality, the young man wanted to know if the professor would be interested in earning a little extra money. All Yergi would have to do is slip him some details about the political persuasions of some of the more radical professors and wealthy students on campus. Yergi was old enough to have lived through the KGB and their successor, the secret Russian Federal Security Bureau. So he knew what they were asking of him; to be their informant. He really wouldn't be hurting anyone, he rationalized, just passing along little innocent bits of information. Besides, the extra money would come in handy.

As an unintentional side effect, this new arrangement actually brought Yergi a newfound sense of confidence. Always trying to impress his wife's younger friends, he'd let it slip a few times after several drinks that he was a man who knew things, a man with connections. He might have even jokingly referred to himself as a spy. Yes, he even privately entertained the idea he was an Eastern block equivalent of James Bond.

But then, three weeks ago, Yergi received a strange phone call. A man who claimed to be an Algerian had learned of him through an associate and asked if he might be able to provide information about a certain American defense contractor. At first, Yergi was suspicious. Why would this man think he could get this information? Did he know about Yergi's connections with the FSB? And who was this "associate" who had recommended him?