Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (18 page)
When they finished in the police station, Carmellini and company went outside, set up four barricades around the nearest manhole, and pried off the lid. As Scout and Earlene worked underground, Carmellini consulted the maps he had stolen during the weekend from the network companies. When Scout called for it, he passed down equipment.
By six that night the ad hoc computer center in the basement of CIA headquarters was receiving the feed from police headquarters. Carmellini stood behind Hudson and Vance and watched as they manipulated the video cameras in public sites all across the city, zooming in, focusing, tracking specific people.
“How is your recognition program coming?” Carmellini asked.
“We should be ready for a trial by tomorrow night. Get it up and running, start hunting glitches.”
“Okay.”
“We managed to hack into three of the larger banks' credit card operations today,” Zelda Hudson reported. “We can do data searches, construct time lines and credit histories, get addresses and references, basically see whatever they have.”
Carmellini clapped.
Zelda bowed her head in acknowledgment as her cheeks flushed with pleasure. The security measures had been unexpectedly challenging, and she had enjoyed every minute of it. With Zip watching, tossing in suggestions, they had gotten it done. “We're a good team,” she told him now, and he grinned at her.
Tommy Carmellini slapped them both on their shoulders, then headed for the cafeteria to get a sandwich as the campus emptied out. Zelda and Zip didn't yet have a car, but they had arranged to ride with a car pool, so he was relieved of chauffeur duties.
He was getting more than a little peeved at Arch Foster and Norv Lalouette. He had been waiting for them to drop the other shoe, and they hadn't. The waiting was hard.
Arch and Norv were slimy and had an odor about them. In contrast, Scout had done a stretch in the joint for stealing money and drugs from people's houses while he was working on their wiring systems, yet he didn't stink like Arch and Norv. Those two â¦
When he finished his sandwich, Tommy walked back across the Langley campus to his building. The guard inspected his badge, then admitted him. On the third floor another guard also inspected his badge. As he walked down the hall the sensors in the ceiling read his badge electronically. He opened the cypherlock to his office, turned on the lights, and punched his secret code into the keypad, disabling the zone alarms. He sat in his chair, stirred through the stuff in his in-basket, looked at the evening through his window, and thought about things.
It would be interesting to see what was in Arch Foster's house or apartment. And Norv's, for that matter. What in the devil were those two jerks up to?
He picked up the telephone book for the Metro area and looked up Foster. Let's see ⦠Foster, A., Alice, Allen, Archibald ⦠Archibald C. A house in Silver Spring, looks like.
Lalouette ⦠He wasn't in the book. Probably an unlisted number.
The days passed one by one, and Jake Grafton felt the pressure intensely. He could almost hear the doomsday clock ticking. Each day, each hour, each minute that passed was gone forever. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and he couldn't get the problems he faced out of his mind.
The computer teams made up of NSA and CIA experts worked hard on software programs, integrating information from dozens of sources, all unauthorized, to which Tommy Carmellini and his friends provided access. Jake put Zelda to work researching Frouq al-Zuair and the Sword of Islam.
He talked to the president's aide twice a day, talked to federal agencies and individual members of his staff at all hours of the day or night. The president, state department, and federal law enforcement agencies were working their foreign resources, covertly and overtly. Everyone was putting in brutal hours. Tempers were short, the pressure intenseâand
that
worried him. If he got too focused on the here and now he would lose track of the big picture. His job, he well knew, was to drive the ship, not stoke the boilers. Fortunately Gil Pascal was shouldering a huge share of the load, which helped enormously.
that
worried him. If he got too focused on the here and now he would lose track of the big picture. His job, he well knew, was to drive the ship, not stoke the boilers. Fortunately Gil Pascal was shouldering a huge share of the load, which helped enormously.
He forced himself to take time to read the papers, to keep up with world events. He even took his wife to a movie, but it didn't help. He ignored the actors on the screen and thought about nuclear weapons.
Toad briefed him every morning on progress with the new radiation detectors before Jake sat down with Pascal to review progress. “The problem,” Toad said one morning, “is that they detect everything. Tons of radioactive materials move through our cities and ports every day, radioactive waste, hospital isotopes, research materials ⦠. Food processors even use isotopes to radiate produce.”
“We're running in place,” Jake muttered. “We don't have anything to grab on to.”
“Hey, CAG,” Toad said, “something good will happen. We'll get a break. You gotta have faith.”
“Hey, CAG,” Toad said, “something good will happen. We'll get a break. You gotta have faith.”
Jake stared at Tarkington, who hadn't called him CAG in years. The old naval aviation acronym stood for Commander Air Group and was pronounced to rhyme with “rag”; it had been Jake's title when he and Toad met years ago on a cruise to the Mediterranean.
“You gotta have faith,” Toad stated dogmatically. “The good guys always win in the long run.”
If only that were true!
“That clockâ” Jake pointed at the government-issue electric clock that hung on the wall opposite his desk. “Take it down and get rid of it. I'm tired of looking at it.”
Toad bit his lip. “Yes, sir,” he said.
On the evening of the seventh day after leaving Karachi,
Olympic Voyager
passed Sharm el Sheikh and entered the Gulf of Suez. The next morning at dawn she picked up a pilot at the port of Suez and entered the canal. Nine days after leaving Karachi, she eased against a quay in Port Said, at the northern end of the canal.
Olympic Voyager
passed Sharm el Sheikh and entered the Gulf of Suez. The next morning at dawn she picked up a pilot at the port of Suez and entered the canal. Nine days after leaving Karachi, she eased against a quay in Port Said, at the northern end of the canal.
From his perch on the wing of the bridge, Dutch Vandervelt watched as the passenger went down the permanent ladder on the starboard side of the ship to the gangway the dockworkers had pushed against the lower steps. Once on the quay they crossed it and disappeared from view. The first mate had only spoken to him on two occasions after their conversation on that first night. Once the man asked for a ladder to get to the containers stacked above deck level, and the next time, as the ship entered the Red Sea, he reported that the job was done.
“I am finished. I shall leave the ship at Port Said.”
“What about your tools, your gear?”
“Everything is in the other two containers. Off-load all six at Port Said.”
“Are the weapons armed?”
“Don't ask foolish questions,” the man snapped. “I
have installed new shipping documents on the containers. Off-load them at Port Said and forget you ever talked to me.”
have installed new shipping documents on the containers. Off-load them at Port Said and forget you ever talked to me.”
That, Dutch Vandervelt knew, was sound advice. He lit a cigarette and watched a dock crane lift the first container from the top of its stack. Lee, the second mate, supervised the hookup. Once he looked up at the bridge at Dutch, who pretended not to notice.
The stevedores were hooking up the second container when Dutch realized Captain Pappadopoulus was standing beside him. Fortunately the breeze carried away his stench. An unshaven, heavyset man, the captain wore filthy trousers, carpet slippers, and a shirt that had once been white. He hadn't bothered to tuck his shirttail into his trousers. He put a hand on the railing to steady himself and peered myopically at the containers on the deck.
“Get them off my ship,” he shouted hoarsely at Lee, and waved his other hand, making a brushing gesture. “Get that shit off my ship.”
“Captain,” Vandervelt said, “this isn't the time or place to make a scene. Why don't you go below?”
Pappadopoulus glared sullenly at his first mate. “Don't give me orders, you son of a bitch. I'm the master of this vessel.”
“I'm not giving you orders, sir. I merely made a suggestion. Your officers and crew will get the containers unloaded expeditiously and have the ship under way in about an hour.”
“Never should have agreed to this fucking deal,” Pappadopoulus muttered, and turned to look again at the offending containers. “I've spent my life sailing from Third World shithole to shithole, hauling trash, dealing with trash.” He glanced again at Vandervelt. “Trash like you. All my wasted life. But I was honest, did honest work, earned honest money. Not much of it, you understand. Still, the money was clean. Didn't stink. Wasn't bloody.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Clean money, by God. Not like this Arab shit.”
For the first time he looked at the quays and piers and warehouses and the pollution cloud tailing out to sea from the city. “The asshole of the world, by God.” He snorted. “Appropriate, I suppose.”
Now he half turned and stared owlishly at Vandervelt. “I haven't got that many years left. You're young. Sold your fucking soul young. I pity you, you miserable bastard.”
Pappadopoulus headed for the ladder. He kept his hands on the railings or hatch or bridge fixtures as he went, whatever he could reach, steadying himself against the nonexistent roll of the ship.
Dutch Vandervelt caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a bridge window. He looked pasty-faced and drawn.
The old man was a sot, a worthless friggin' drunk, but he called it right. Vandervelt had sold his soul for money, and he knew it. “I pity me, too,” he muttered.
Oh, shit, what
had
he done? Why oh why had he ever agreed to do this?
had
he done? Why oh why had he ever agreed to do this?
For money!
He did it for the money. And if those bombs ever exploded, he was going to have to live with it the rest of his life.
He paced the bridge thinking about that.
On her fourth day in Zurich, Anna Modin returned to the hotel in the afternoon after another round of meetings with Swiss bankers. A consortium of companies wanted to sell computers and software in the Middle East; their European banks wanted Walney's to finance the buyers and bear the risk if the buyers defaulted. Of course, the credit ratings of some of the buyers were less than sterling. Negotiations had been tense.
She had three messages on her voice mail. The first two were from bank officers in Cairoâshe had already called them before she left the host bank. The third message
was from a man who merely said the. name of a local restaurant and a timeânothing else. She played the message three times before she erased it.
was from a man who merely said the. name of a local restaurant and a timeânothing else. She played the message three times before she erased it.
It was Ilin's voice. Modin was sure of it. She hadn't talked to him in three years, but she was certain.
Anna Modin glanced at her watch. She had thirty minutes.
Frouq al-Zuair sculled the rowboat along the waterline of
Olympic Voyager
on the side of the ship away from the quay. The filthy water of the harbor had the clarity of motor oil and in a pinch could be used as a substitute for it. With zero visibility, there was no way for a diver to work except by feel. Consequently the diver was under the boat, being towed along with a rope around his waist. Fortunately the swell from the sea was almost nonexistent here in the harbor. Bubbles from the diver's scuba gear merged with the ripples of the boat.
Olympic Voyager
on the side of the ship away from the quay. The filthy water of the harbor had the clarity of motor oil and in a pinch could be used as a substitute for it. With zero visibility, there was no way for a diver to work except by feel. Consequently the diver was under the boat, being towed along with a rope around his waist. Fortunately the swell from the sea was almost nonexistent here in the harbor. Bubbles from the diver's scuba gear merged with the ripples of the boat.
Zuair glanced upward at the wing of the bridge. Anyone standing there could see this boat near the ship's hull, but that was a chance he would have to take. He glanced at the other ships in sight. No one seemed to be paying any attention to this rowboat.
Sinking a seagoing ship before she could get off a distress signal or a passing Samaritan could rescue the crew was not a job for an amateur, a fact of which Zuair was keenly aware. He had given the problem much thought. Starting a fire in the engine room would do it, of course, but the ship might drift for days. He could carry plastique aboard, yet knowing where and how to place the charges so that she would sink quickly would require a demolition expert with a thorough knowledge of the ship's systems.
The best bet, he decided, was to place charges below the waterline, then detonate them. No doubt there were acoustic transmitters that could be reliably used for underwater charges, but he didn't have access to those. He was using what was available.
He had made up four bombs containing twenty-five pounds of plastique in each. He had rigged up motorcycle batteries to fire the fuses, three for each charge, and a twenty-four-hour timer to trigger them. Each bomb was wrapped in thick polystyrene and sealed to keep the water out. This package was placed inside another polystyrene bag, one containing six powerful electromagnets and two batteries, and after all the air was carefully squeezed out, sealed again. The switch to turn on the power to the electromagnets was inside the bag; the diver would have to manipulate it by feel.
The four bombs lay in the bottom of the boat. He had sealed them up just an hour ago, immediately after he started the timers. The timers were ticking.
He stopped the boat about seventy-five feet aft of the bow and tugged on the diver's rope. The hull of the ship was encrusted with weeds and crud that the diver had to scrape away with a tool he had attached to his wrist, or the electromagnets would not stick. Zuair checked his watch. The minutes passed slowly. Three minutes ⦠four ⦠five. At six minutes the diver's head reappeared in the narrow gap between the boat and the ship's hull. The man's head broke the surface, then a hand. The diver was in a black wet suit, wearing a mask, scuba tanks, and a mouthpiece.
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