Liberty (32 page)

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Authors: Stephen Coonts

BOOK: Liberty
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Luck's features were set in stone.
“And you fools thought this was going to be easy. Ha!”
Luck made a gesture of irritation.
“The best-laid plans of mice and men …” Sonny Tran continued, rubbing it in. The truth was that he hated Luck and Corrigan and all those comfortable bastards with their money and their cute plans to play the system for their own benefit. How he hated them! He wanted to strangle them all, watch them die with his hands around their lily white throats.
Sonny swallowed hard, put the mask back on. “If I'm
not at the circle, Grafton has sent me to chase wild geese. Or the FBI has arrested me.”
He got out of the car and walked halfway around the circle, then set off north on Nineteenth Street. Two blocks later he paused in front of a coffee shop—closed of course—and stood looking in the window with mild curiosity. A man walked up behind him, then they fell in step.
“No one paid any attention to you, Sonny,” the second man said.
“How would you know? You won't see'em.”
“You overestimate the enemy.”
“Underestimating them can be a fatal mistake. You'll only do it once.”
As they approached a black sedan in the center of the next block, the chess player unlocked it with a button on his key. He seated himself behind the wheel, started the car, and piloted it away from the curb.
“Luck hasn't heard from Vandervelt,” Sonny Tran told the passenger.
“What are the possibilities?”
“He's been arrested. That's the first one. The second is that he didn't do his job so the ragheads killed him. The third is that the ragheads killed him after he had done his job so they wouldn't have to give him any more money and he couldn't tattle on them.”
“We don't need him.”
“True. But we are going nowhere if he didn't do his job, which was to ensure the weapons were properly armed and deposited in Port Said for transshipment. If he didn't do his job, the weapons won't arrive where they are supposed to, and you and I will be well and truly fucked.”
“Not if you kill Luck and Corrigan before they talk.”
“That's true,” Sonny Tran acknowledged.
“So which of your three possibilities is the one?”
“How would I know? We'll have to play it by ear and see how the bones fall.”
“Okay.”
“Want a laugh? They've got me running around with the Corrigan detector looking for bombs.”
“The government knows about them?”
“Oh, yes. A Russian intelligence officer tipped them off. They found out sooner than I figured, but we are still okay.”
“The people you're working for—maybe they know about Vandervelt and how that went down.”
“I can't get close enough. The guy running the show is named Grafton. He has me working with his right-hand man, guy named Toad Tarkington. He sent me out of the office and keeps me running around with Tarkington and the Corrigan detector looking for the bombs.”
“Why aren't you over at the CIA? And who is this Grafton?”
“He's a naval officer, some kick-butt guy the Pentagon calls when the going gets tough. I can't figure out if he's suspicious of me or doesn't like my body odor.”
“Bastard probably doesn't like Vietnamese.”
“Maybe. The FBI gave me a lie detector test. Then this assignment arrived.”
“You've taken those tests before and always passed.”
“Yeah. I just hope I'm not on Grafton's shit list—not at this stage of the game.”
“He's a paper pusher,” the passenger said dismissively. “From basket to basket. We're going to
win
!”
Sonny Tran was thinking about Dutch Vandervelt. The whole ship! As for the man in Cairo, he was dead or wished he was. The missing ship almost certainly meant Vandervelt was dead. If the terrorists had killed Vandervelt to ensure he never talked, Corrigan's man in Cairo was living on borrowed time.
Those guys were venomous and downright homicidal.
So long, Dutch!
The thought occurred to him, not for the first time, that Luck and Corrigan were also going to be unhappy if they suspected they had been double-crossed. The terrorists
might be poisonous snakes; Corrigan and Luck were cornered rats.
“Don't be so damn gloomy,” the man beside Tran said. “Nothing ever goes perfect. Still, for a change, life is breaking our way. For the first time in my life I feel free.”
“Right,” Sonny said.
Seated beside him, his brother, Nguyen Duc Tran, laughed. “The fall of the American empire,” he chortled, “is gonna be one hell of a lot of fun.”
“If we live to see it.”
“We'll see the big pop, believe me. That'll be enough.”
When Nguyen settled down Sonny steered the subject in another direction. “Tell me about Kansas,” he said.
“It went well. Two hundred grand in cash to fund the adventure and a sackful of weapons.”
“Any chance of the law figuring out you did it?”
“I don't think so. Killed them all. Had a wonderful time. The law will think someone did the world a favor by killing some rats.” He laughed. “You and I are going to kill a lot of them.”
On Tuesday morning Jake Grafton wore casual civilian clothes and rode the Metro to the L'Enfant Plaza station. He exited the train and took the escalator up to the large indoor shopping mall. After one wrong turn, he found the bakery shop he wanted and went in. At a tiny table against the rear wall with his back to the entrance sat Sal Molina. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, he was buried in a newspaper while he munched a bagel and drank coffee. After Jake stood in line and got something to eat, he joined Molina. No one in the place paid any attention to either of them.
“Good morning,” Molina said.
“Morning, sir,” Jake Grafton replied, and checked the interior of his bagel to be sure the cook had left the cheese off the egg.
“I'll say this for you, Admiral—you have more enemies in this town than any other sailor I know.”
“The navy teaches you how to make a splash.”
“So tell me about this woman who showed up on your doorstep.”
After a glance around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, Jake did so. “Harry Estep and I think she's telling the truth, for whatever that's worth,” he concluded. “Harry says the CDs are gold.”
Molina had asked no questions during Jake's recitation.
Now he said, “I got a call last night from Emerick.” Emerick was the director of the FBI. “The little weasel was complaining that you want to put that Russian woman in the Federal Witness Protection Program.”
“Someone will probably kill her if we don't,” Jake said.
“He was bitching that she was in the country illegally, that the tourist visa she got in Cairo was fraudulently issued by an ex-boyfriend.”
“Bet he also said that she was probably a Russian spy.”
“As a matter of fact, he did. So did DeGarmo when I talked to him.”
Jake bit off a mouthful of bagel and chewed thoughtfully.
“One of these guys is going to leak this to the press,” Molina said thoughtfully. “Or to one of their friends on the Hill.”
Grafton captured Molina's gaze. “Your problem,” he said distinctly, just loudly enough for Molina to hear. “If you want some free advice, cut their nuts off before they do it. Don't wait.”
“Uh-huh.”
“While you are at it, you might cast a cold eye on your good buddy Butch Lanham. He's trying to screw up the courage to do some leaking to a reporter.”
“How do you know that?”
“You don't want to know. Believe me. What is it with that guy, anyway?”
Sal Molina grimaced. “He wants direct access to the president. Access is power in Washington. He wants my head on a plate.”
“Hell of a guy.”
Molina went on to another subject. “DeGarmo also complained about a CIA officer attached to your staff who had some kind of aerial adventure Sunday evening.”
“Guy named Carmellini. Two agency colleagues tried to kill him,” Jake said, then sipped his coffee. “They put him in concrete boots and were going to dump him into
the ocean still alive. Sort of what Lanham is trying to do to you and me. Carmellini killed them first.”
“And the reason?”
“They tried to blackmail him into telling them what's going on in my office. Access. That's what he and I think it was all about, anyway.”
“DeGarmo was bitching that you and this guy—Carmellini? —won't tell him or the FBI anything about the blackmail end of it.”
“Yep.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Sure you want to know?”
“Try me.”
“They thought they had Carmellini on the hook for an old killing.”
Molina pursed his lips. He had a hell of a poker face, but his surprise showed. Whatever he thought he was going to hear, that wasn't it.
“Did he do it?” Molina asked after a bit.
“I didn't ask him,” Jake replied curtly.
“What do you think?”
The admiral shrugged. “Probably did.”
“And you want this guy on your team?”
“You surround yourself with people who can do the job you need to accomplish,” Jake explained. “So do I. But we play on different fields. I don't care about gilt-edge résumés or family connections or Ivy League degrees. Carmellini's a good thief and a hell of a burglar and he knows how to get stuff done.” He turned over a hand. “Trustworthy people with brains and balls are hard to find these days.”
Molina couldn't let it alone. “Who'd he kill? Girlfriend or mom or the kid next door?”
“A guy he ran across in Cuba a few years ago.”
“You don't seem very upset about it.”
“I'm sure he had a good reason. You could find out more if you want to, but I advise you not to try. And I
suggest you stop asking questions that you won't like the answers to.”
Sal Molina nudged the remainder of his breakfast with a finger and made a face.
Jake pressed. “Don't get cold feet now. You let me spring Zelda from prison.”
“You trust her?”
“Not really. Bureaucrats wringing their hands, worrying about the regs and their careers aren't going to get it done. I think she can help. I need to tell her about the items we're looking for. She can't help me search the haystack unless I tell her what the needle looks like.”
“She doing you any good now?”
“Yeah. She hacked into the FBI's investigative files. I'm seeing everything Emerick is.”
Molina sat frozen, staring at him openmouthed, speechless for probably the first time in his life.
“Just because the president told Emerick and DeGarmo to cooperate didn't mean they were going to do it,” Jake explained. “Bureaucrats protect their rice bowls. It's the survival instinct, I suppose.”
Molina snorted.
Jake continued: “Now for the bad news—Emerick isn't seeing much. The FBI's computer systems are hopeless. They have thirty-four different databases over there, most of which can't talk to each other. The systems are difficult to search, and in some cases searches are futile because the field offices are as much as six months behind on data entry. I hear a lot of agents keep private case files on paper.”
“Zelda hacked into the CIA computer yet?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge. I told her to stay out of it.”
“Will she do what you tell her?”
“That's the question.”
Molina tried his coffee and found that it was cold. He made a face. “How many spots are on Emerick's hole cards?”
“The most promising leads are in Florida. The joint task force down there is tracking seventeen groups that might be terrorists. Emerick has his right-hand man, Hob Tulik, down there personally running the show and reporting back daily. They're hoping one or two or three or four of those cells will lead them to the bombs.”
“What do you think?”
“I hope to God they're right.”
Sal Molina looked slowly around the room, taking in everything. His gaze returned to Jake Grafton's face. The gray eyes looking into his were the color of the North Atlantic in winter. “Find the fucking things,” Molina said. “I don't care what you have to do.”
“Okay.”
“So tell me about this thing you found buried in a golf course.”
“We don't know what it is. A bomb is a possibility, obviously.”
“You gonna dig it up?”
“Not right quick. Whoever put it there probably has an eye or two on it.”
“What do you want me to tell the president?”
“Whatever you think appropriate. He trusts your discretion and good judgment. Use them.”
“Brains and balls, huh?” Molina extracted a packet of Rolaids from a pocket and popped a couple in his mouth. As he chewed he said to Grafton, “I can see how you earned your reputation.”
“Which is?”
“The toughest nut-cutter in uniform.”
Jake snorted derisively. “Don't say that to my wife. She still thinks I'm a nice guy.”
“You got her fooled. Congrats. I wish you every happiness.”
Sal Molina arose, tucked his newspaper under his arm, and headed for the door. Jake went to the coffeepot for a refill.
Two hours later when Molina briefed the president, he said, “Jake Grafton's the guy for this job, all right. He may be the most dangerous man alive. Emerick and DeGarmo haven't a clue who they're dealing with.”
“Can he find those bombs?” the president asked.
“I don't know,” replied a pensive Sal Molina. “Maybe we're all walking the plank together, living out the last few days of Western civilization.”
Thayer Michael Corrigan and Karl Luck were concerned. Where
Olympic Voyager
had gone they had no idea. Not a word from Dutch Vandervelt or Omar Caliph in Cairo. Obviously things weren't going as planned. The problem was figuring out whether the random friction of life or an unknown factor was hindering the grand plan.
Luck normally communicated with Caliph by the use of encrypted e-mail, yet now Omar wasn't answering. Luck finally sent a man from the law firm Corrigan Engineering used in Cairo. The news, when he received it, was grim. Omar Caliph had leaped to his death from his eleventh-floor apartment this past Sunday, an apparent suicide. Rumor had it he left no note.
Corrigan stared at Luck after he relayed the news. “First Vandervelt, now Caliph. It's almost as if the terrorists knew we were going to help the feds find the bombs.”
“They couldn't know that,” Luck said. “Vandervelt didn't know and neither did Caliph.”
“Perhaps they don't suspect us,” Corrigan mused. “It seems more probable that, as a precaution, they are killing everyone who might betray them.”
True, he had provided the money for the bombs, but that bought him nothing in the eyes of the terrorists. As far as they were concerned, if a bomb ultimately exploded he would get his money's worth. Even if he and all his friends were dead. After all, if the destruction of your
enemies wasn't worth your life, you didn't hate enough. And they did.
They couldn't know that Corrigan didn't want the bombs to explode, any of them.
Precautionary murder. The next move on the board, he concluded, was for the terrorists to murder him and Luck, sever the last of the ties.
Corrigan had never used that tactic himself, preferring to solve his problems with money and occasionally blackmail. Money works wonders, he knew, because he lived in a place and time and among a people where money was very important. Although money meant little to the Islamic terrorists, he had thought he could induce them to play the role he devised for them. And yet, he realized early on that he had never before played such a dangerous game. He had won all his life by preparing for every contingency. He intended to win this game, too.
He got on the exercise bike and began riding while he thought about it. Frouq al-Zuair and Abdul Abn Saad were damned dangerous men, not greedy engineers in Georgia. He knew a killer who could eliminate them. Corrigan hadn't planned on doing it so soon, but every day that passed increased the risk. Why wait? The bombs were on their way, the terrorists had done their job.
“It's time for the Russians,” he told Luck.
“I thought so, too.”
“After they do the ragheads, they need to eliminate Sonny Tran. His usefulness will be at an end.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On your way out turn on the television to CNBC so I can watch the ticker. And send my secretary in. Have her bring her notepad and
The Wall Street Journal.
”
Luck went to do as he was told.
When he reached his office in the tombs of Langley, Jake Grafton called General Alt on the secure telephone. The executive assistant put him straight through to the chairman. Jake explained the problem. “Either something is
buried on Hains Point or the Corrigan detection unit is defective. We must establish which is the case as soon as possible.”
“Which is more likely?”
“We calibrated the Corrigan unit again today on a live weapon. Everything seems to be working the way it's supposed to.”
“So what's under that golf course?”
“General, I don't know. It's what might be down there that has me worried.”
“The heart of Washington,” the chairman mused. “Heck, I live right across the boat channel in Fort McNair.”
“The seat of American government is within a mile and a half of that site,” Jake remarked. “We're talking the Capitol, the Pentagon, the White House, the Treasury, Federal Reserve, Supreme Court, FBI—”

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