Ground Truth (31 page)

“You know better than that,” Jack said. “Montana was a key player. Arthur Palmer probably was too, but they didn’t put it all together.” This was the climax. Everything had led to this moment.
“You
did that.”

“That’s outrageous,” Sinclair snarled.

“Justin, knock it off,” Gorton ordered, before turning his glare on Jack. “Your histrionics don’t impress me one damn bit. Mr. Strider, you’re obviously a very smart guy, but you seem obsessed with this situation. Now you’ve crossed the line. I will not tolerate—”

Jack knew it was dangerous to interrupt Gorton, but he couldn’t see any way around it. “Sir, Mr. Sinclair came up with a solution to the problem of nuclear waste piling up all over the U.S.—ship it to Mexico. Mr. Sinclair had Montana find a dump site, which turned out to be a remote cave. Next, he lined up D-TECH as a place to collect large quantities of nuclear waste. When companies are secretly approached about reducing their stockpiles of nuclear waste, they’re happy to pay exorbitant fees to get the stuff out of their possession before it causes a catastrophe or they have to shut down.”

“May I be heard now?” Sinclair asked quietly.

“It better be good,” Gorton said.

Sinclair stood slowly, then rose onto the balls of his feet like an old matador poised to deliver the
coup de gras.

“A common thread runs through the fabrications of this
felon
. No proof of anything. If I’d set up the scheme he’s ranting about, I would have had to talk with all those suppliers of nuclear waste, even someone at Palmer Industries. If I had done that, Strider could provide names of all those people.” Sinclair looked smug. “Because he can’t do that, I’m going to sue his ass off for slander.”

“When you were a spy,” Jack countered, “you learned to work covertly. I’m sure that’s what you did in this case, too. You used an anonymous intermediary to deal with suppliers of nuclear waste. But you left D-TECH off your list just now. That’s because D-TECH was different. You had to deal with someone there personally, but you were confident you’d never be exposed. And
that
is your Achilles’ heel.”

Gorton studied Sinclair pensively, then looked at Jack again. “Put up or shut up, Mr. Strider. Do you have those names, or witnesses, or even affidavits that support the accusations you’ve made?”

“Sir, taken as a whole my evidence is overwhelming.”

“Then your answer is ‘no,’ so I’ll sum up where I stand. You haven’t proven that the events you described actually happened, or that the events you predict will happen. In addition, you face a very heavy burden of proof when you accuse a respected former Secretary of State of being a criminal. You haven’t come close to meeting that burden. Further, he’s someone for whom I have very high regard.” He drew on his cigar. “I have to ask myself what is your motive for being here. Maybe you want revenge against Arthur Palmer, this fellow Montana, and Justin as well. The letter from you to Justin saying you intended to turn on your own client shoots your credibility to hell. Lastly, and this is part of real life for any president, the actions you want me to take would sink me and my party politically.”

“But sir—”

“I’m not finished,” Gorton said sharply. “At the same time, you have spun out two scenarios with considerable detail. You haven’t convinced me, but if either is close to reality, the consequences could be severe. Therefore, one of my staff will contact an outside contractor we use and get some boots on the ground down there to take a look—wells, cave, the whole shooting match. Now, stand by outside while I confer with Justin.” Gorton’s tone was absolute.

Before Jack could react, the phone buzzed.

Gorton started to push the speaker button, but glanced at Jack and picked up the handset instead. “Yes, Chief?” He listened. “Emergency? Then come in.”

Jack caught his breath. Thank God. The two people he’d been depending on had finally arrived. This would turn things around.

But instead of Debra and Gano coming into the room, a massive African-American man in a khaki suit was standing close behind the Chief in the doorway. The Chief nodded back toward the man and said, “Mr. President, this is Mr. Corte from the National Security Agency. He says there’s an emergency, and he needs to speak with you immediately.”

“I’m already waist deep in emergencies,” Gorton snapped. “Escort Mr. Corte to a seat in the press section.”

Corte stepped forward, nudging the Chief to the side with his elbow. “Mr. President, sir, there’s nothing more urgent than the reason I’m here.” Corte’s bass voice was tight. “We have a
situation.”

That must have been a code phrase because Gorton immediately said, “Very well, come in.”

Corte looked at Jack, nearest to him, then Sinclair. He blinked at each, as if making separate mental files.

Gorton said, “Tell me what this is about.”

“I can’t do that, sir. Only eleven people in the country have the necessary security clearance. These people are not on that list, sir.” He held up an envelope sealed with blue tape. The only marking on the outside read
Top Secret-Crypto: Yankee Fire-Eyes Only.
“This came to your Communications Office and was immediately routed to the National Security Advisor. That was—” He checked a communications device in his other hand. “—eight minutes ago.”

“Give me the envelope.”

“Sir, with these people here, I’m not authorized—”

“I gave you an order, damn it.” Gorton took the envelope, ripped off one end, and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

He read it quickly and gasped, “Sweet Jesus.”

Chapter 49

July 12

1:15 p.m.

JACK SAW THE color go out of Gorton’s face as he read the paper again and cut his eyes to the chronometer on the bulkhead. His mouth opened and closed. Whatever was written on that paper had stunned the president of the United States.

“Corte, get the National Security Advisor on the phone—and someone from DOE who understands this stuff.”

“Sir,” Corte said, “I’ll patch them through to your secure line. We have to keep this inside the room. And these other two gentlemen will have to be placed in quarantine.” Corte straightened to his full height of at least six feet eight inches and took a step toward Sinclair.

Gorton’s balm went up. “You’re not putting the former Secretary of State in quarantine. Both of them stay here. In fact, I hereby grant everyone in this room whatever the hell crypto clearance you’re talking about.”

Uh oh,
Jack thought.
He’s let Sinclair off the hook again.
But Corte’s arrival had also kept Jack from getting the heave-ho from Gorton.

“Yes, sir,” Corte answered. He tapped numbers into a tiny keyboard. “National Security Advisor on the line, sir. She has a copy of the demand.”

Gorton hurried to the end of the conference table and picked up his phone. “What’s this about?” He listened. “How long will that take?” After another pause, he snapped, “Don’t keep me waiting,” and hung up. “Get me the DOE expert,” he ordered Corte.

He handed the paper to Sinclair. “Read this.”

Sinclair scanned the single page. “Son of a bitch.” He read it again, mouthing the words. Then he glanced at Jack and handed it back to Gorton.

To Jack, Corte looked like the type who prides himself on never losing his cool. Yet he was in high-stress mode. Gorton was too. Jack took a chance and held out his hand. Gorton absentmindedly gave him the document.

To: President Jason Gorton

We have hidden a number of dirty bombs in the United States and Mexico. Each bomb contains highly radioactive waste, C-4 and TNT explosives, and drums of JP8 aviation gas.

Our requirements:

Transfer $100 million to us before 7 p.m. today or we will detonate all bombs.

Wire that amount to Union de Banques Suisse, Clearing #230, private account #085-292163-7459650, before the deadline. If you attempt to interfere in any way before we withdraw the funds, we will detonate all bombs.

If you locate a bomb, any effort to tamper with it will detonate it.

When withdrawal is complete, we will reveal the locations of all bombs. A flashing green light will indicate a bomb can be safely disassembled.

We want only money. After receiving payment, we have nothing to gain by detonation and will not do so.

There will be no further communication until we inform you of the locations of the bombs. Do not doubt our ability or our willingness to carry out our threat.

Jack carefully set the page on the table. He couldn’t get his mind around the magnitude of this threat. The specificity of detail was chilling and made it credible. But would it be called off even if payment were made?

“Corte,” Gorton said, “do the people who wrote this know what they’re talking about?”

“No doubt about it, sir. The C-4 will rupture the nuclear waste containers and release intense radioactive contamination. The TNT, detonated a second later, will disperse the radioactivity. Burning aviation gas will create a plume of smoke sufficient to carry radioactive gasses for hundreds of miles.”

“
Hundreds?”
Gorton repeated in disbelief. His face was like a zombie mask. Instead of taking command, he seemed incapable of speech.

“Mr. President,” Corte said, “I have Dr. Poindexter from DOE holding on the line. I’ve given him the parameters of this
hypothetical
situation. Dr. Poindexter is Director of—”

Gorton snapped back into the moment. “I don’t care what his title is. Put him on the speaker.”

Corte glanced at the others as if about to make another security objection, but apparently thought better of it. “He’s on the speaker, Mr. President.”

“Dr. Poindexter, Mr. Corte briefed you about a hypothetical situation we’ve been discussing here. Tell me what would happen if someone set off a dirty bomb with the characteristics Corte described to you.”

“Mr. President, there are so many variables that—”

“Take your best shot or get me someone who will.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Dr. Poindexter was clearly agitated by the unexpected call from his Commander-in-Chief. “First, the blast and shrapnel from explosion of a medium-size dirty bomb could flatten buildings and start fires in an area of about eight acres. After that, radiation would be a serious hazard to anyone nearby, including law enforcement and emergency response personnel. Cleanup workers and people living or working in the area would also be at serious risk. We estimate that cleanup of a single urban area would cost more than $4 billion and take three years, maybe longer.”

Gorton sucked in a breath, blew it out. “How far would radioactivity spread?”

“In a form people could inhale, not far unless there was a substantial fire in connection with a blast, or high winds. In those cases, radioactivity could be carried in a plume of smoke that could put people within fifty square miles at high risk of irradiation and contamination.”

“Exactly what does that mean for people on the ground?”

“Some would inhale radionuclides carried by the plume. Others would be poisoned by gamma radiation deposited on the ground. Drinking water would be contaminated by radioactivity. People wouldn’t know anything was wrong until symptoms of radiation poisoning knocked them flat. After that—”

“That’s enough, Poindexter. I have the picture. Keep this conversation secret. That’s an order.” Gorton clicked off the speaker. “We’re in a hell of a mess. Corte, can you trace this e-mail?”

“We’re on that, sir, but unless the senders are idiots, it won’t lead back to them. We also have people analyzing the language to see if it suggests some specific nationality.”

“Piss poor help considering the amount of money we give the NSA every year.” Gorton rubbed his forehead. “And we’re blind. We don’t know how many bombs or where they are. There’s no way we can stop them.”

“Actually,” Jack said, “I think—”

“All right, Justin,” Gorton said, ignoring Jack, “let’s walk through this. The money they want isn’t much compared to the damage they can do. We can tap our war slush fund at Defense or disaster relief money at Homeland Security. So why not pay?”

Sinclair, who had been fidgeting, wanting to be called on, jumped in. “If you pay and you never hear from these guys again, the leaders of the other party will call you a patsy.”

“My job is to protect the people. Because of 9/11, I’ll make hash out of the guy who says I should have gambled. And if I pay and bombs go off anyway, I did my best. So the real downside is if I do nothing and a dirty bomb goes off in, say, the San Francisco financial district. Corte, get me the Treasury Secretary. He’ll have someone who knows about the mechanics of transferring funds.”

“Mr. President,” Corte said, “with all due respect, it would be a mistake to think of this as blackmail. NSA got this e-mail to you so fast because it fits six of our seven criteria for a valid terrorist threat. This has to be treated as—” He paused, apparently to give weight to the word. “—terrorism.”

Gorton’s upper body recoiled as the implications hit him.

“And in the case of terrorism,” Corte went on, “there is an established procedure to follow. You immediately assemble Defense, CIA, FBI, and the Homeland Security team on a secure conference hookup. Terrorist attack protocol requires that Air Force One get airborne without delay in case the attackers have also targeted you. All unauthorized persons must disembark at once and—” His expression changed to a slight smile. “—be detained and isolated to ensure secrecy.”

Gorton, eyes fixed on Corte, shook his head and frowned. “But the demand was only about money.”

“A trick,” Corte stated in his decisive, resonant voice. “After they collect the money, they come back with more demands, including political. They’ll try to spook you into going public and starting a panic. Then they’ll start detonating bombs, showing that even after a warning we can’t stop them. That’s how terrorism works.”

“But if it is a terrorist attack we have to—”

“Yes, sir, execute Plan Sapphire immediately.” Corte sounded eager. He looked like an action guy, ready to start down a track he’d trained on.

Gorton nodded reluctantly. “I have no choice. We’re not going to make the same mistakes that—”

“No sir, not on your watch.”

“And these United States of America,” Gorton said, jaw jutting, “sure as hell aren’t paying one American dollar to a bunch of goddamn terrorists. I won’t negotiate with them either. That’s my policy, by God.”

Jack had never seen a tide turn so fast
.
The instant after Corte gave his tirade about terrorism, Gorton had stopped thinking and started spouting dogma that made no sense. Switching to autopilot made decision making under pressure unnecessary. Once the “terrorist attack” bell sounded, Gorton could be criticized only if he departed from the script. He’d risk disaster before doing that.

Jack decided he had to make Gorton listen to him, so he slammed his palm on the conference table.

Corte’s hand snaked inside his khaki jacket and came out holding a black revolver aimed at Jack’s heart.

Everyone froze.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” Jack said quickly. “I had to get your attention. Look, this
is
blackmail, not terrorism. I know who sent that blackmail note. He can and will carry out his threat.”

“How can you possibly know who it came from?”

“You know the answer, too. It’s Tomás Montana at Palmer Industries.”

“Sir, we have a plan to follow in this situation,” Corte rumbled immediately.

“Oh my God, Strider,” Sinclair groaned, “you’re still beating that drum?”

Jack shot both men a grimace and said, “I’m not guessing. Montana had access to the nuclear waste in that cave and to trucks that can deliver dirty bombs. At least four of those trucks left the cave yesterday afternoon. My man followed them. In the past, all these trucks made the same circuit and returned to the Palmer plant. But this time, one truck went south in the direction of Mexico City. Another headed into Chihuahua City, but it could have gone on to Monterey or even Tampico. Only two went back to the Palmer plant.”

“If that’s true,” Gorton said, “what provoked this e-mail threat?”

“Montana thought he’d get a huge bonus by secretly dumping hazardous waste into the aquifer. He knows that’s been ‘outed’ and he won’t get it. Then, as soon as he got reports of someone flying over the cave site and being seen inside the mine shaft that intersects with the cave, he knew that was likely to be shut down too and he’d be the subject of a manhunt. For him, money is all that matters—and this blackmail is his fail-safe plan.”

“If this e-mail came from Montana, could he really make good on his threat?”

“The bomb components were available at the Palmer plant or at the cave. All he needed was a few hours to load those trucks. If his ultimatum works, he lives like an emperor. If it doesn’t, he takes revenge and disappears.”

“Mr. President,” Corte held up the communications device he’d just consulted, “there’s no Tomás Montana on our Watch List, and we have no intelligence on him. However, we’ve intercepted a lot of chatter in the last twenty-four hours from a nasty terrorist group called Gundah Resistance that specializes in high explosives. You can’t just roll the dice and hope this isn’t a terrorist attack.”

“Terrorist groups,” Jack said, “have political objectives. That e-mail is only about
money.”

“This
is
political,” Corte insisted. “Maybe they’ll attack cities in both countries to start an international conflict. Mexico will blame the U.S. Every disagreement over immigration, oil, drug smuggling, whatever, will become more hostile.” He glared at Jack. “Don’t tell me that’s not political.” He turned to face Gorton. “Sir, procedure requires you to get Air Force One and the F-18s in the air right now.”

“Mr. President,” Jack said, “you don’t know how many trucks or where they are, so it’s too late to stop Montana before his deadline. You have to pay the money now and go after him later.”

Sinclair gave a dismissive wave. “Montana’s a desk jockey who spends every day processing crap. He doesn’t have the balls to pull off something like this threat. Don’t let yourself be shaken down by terrorists. Listen to me. I’ve been down this road before, and Corte’s a professional. We don’t cave in to terrorists.”

Jack read Sinclair’s strategy in a flash.
In Corte’s scenario, if Gorton refused to pay and dirty bombs went off, the bombers would be labeled terrorists. The national security apparatus would launch an international hunt among the usual terrorist suspects—and that wouldn’t include Justin Sinclair. If Gorton treated it as blackmail and paid the $100 million, Montana would be a credible perpetrator, especially since he would have disappeared. Sinclair’s links to him could be a major issue. Corte’s terrorist theory let Sinclair off the hook. So, to focus suspicion away from Montana, Sinclair would back Corte all the way.