The Last Line (36 page)

“If their targets are Washington and New York City,” Teller continued, “there really are only a few places they could put them ashore.” He slowly moved the map image, their viewpoint drifting north along the coast. On the big screen on the wall above the table, the terrain had the look of ground slipping away beneath a low-flying aircraft. “Those weapons are small, but they're heavy and awkward. They'll need to put them ashore in a small boat or raft, and they need to do it where the submarine won't be seen. They can't approach D.C., not very closely. A Kilo wouldn't make it very far up the Chesapeake Bay. Too shallow for it to stay submerged, and the Potomac River isn't navigable for anything larger than a speedboat. So it's too risky to try that route.

“No, if they want to put a weapon ashore, it would be from the Atlantic Ocean itself—maybe along here, Chincoteague Island … or farther north … Assateague, south of Ocean City. Or up here south of Bethany Beach, in Delaware. Those beaches all are a little over a hundred miles from D.C., right? Two major ways they could go—Route 1 up the coast, or Route 50 from Ocean City across the bay at Annapolis. More choices if they stick to back roads. A car meets the boat at night on the beach with a prearranged signal. A few hours later, the weapon is parked on the street near the White House.”

“What's your point?” Larson asked.

“If we know the Kilo is going to be off this stretch of coast—that's maybe, what? A hundred thirty, a hundred fifty miles, maybe, from the mouth of Chesapeake Bay to the mouth of Delaware Bay? It should be easier to find it there than somewhere out in the middle of the ocean.”

“Find that sub,” Procario said, “and
that
will be the confirmation you want.”

“I'll remind you gentlemen that we don't even know there
is
a submarine,” Vanderkamp said.

“We found the contract with the Russians at Cerros!”

“Yes, but not the submarine.”

“Jackie spotted the IR footprint of the thing!”

“Mm, yes. But that data is subject to … interpretation. Ms. Dominique is not a trained photo analyst.”

“I'm beginning to think you people wouldn't accept the facts if we deposited that Kilo on Langley's north parking lot!”

“Are you aware, Captain,” Larson said, “that there have been rumors of a Kilo submarine being sold to the drug cartels for decades, literally? Are you aware of the name we have for it?”

“No. What?”

“Sasquatch. Because there is never any proof it exists.”

“We zapped you photos of the contract,” Procario said. “That should be enough proof for anyone.”

“Not if the opposition is deliberately attempting to obscure what's really happening,” Vanderkamp pointed out.

“And what do
you
think is really happening?” Teller demanded.

Wentworth shook his head. “Captain Teller, this interview is at an end. We—”

“Look, has the navy already been brought in on this?” Teller asked. When there was no immediate answer, he looked at Wentworth. “Damn it, you've got to look! Even if we're wrong, you can't afford to take that chance! We're talking about a couple of small nuclear weapons here!”

“Both the navy and the U.S. Coast Guard have been alerted,” Wentworth said.

“I know,” Teller said. “We had INSCOM flash COMSUBLANT this morning. There are some L.A. class subs operating out of Norfolk that—”

“That's all well and good,” Wentworth said. “But, honestly, we don't expect anything to come of it. Kilo submarines are extraordinarily quiet, incredibly hard to find and track. The chances of anyone finding it are … astronomical.”

“Then I suggest,” Teller said quietly, “that you get your ass in gear and start looking
hard.
Or else you start evacuating the city.”

“
That
certainly is not an option,” Wentworth said. “Gentlemen, we appreciate your concern. We truly do. But sometimes officers in the field get … a little too close to their missions. A little too emotionally involved. You both know as well as I do that raw data must be properly assimilated, properly analyzed, and properly fit together with the other pieces of a
very
large and complex puzzle. Your efforts in Mexico are deeply appreciated, and we
are
grateful. Don't think we're not. And we will do what we can to … control the fallout from your more, ah, aggressive actions down there. But your reports will not mention contradictory material that will only confuse the issue more. Am I clear?”

Teller stood abruptly. “Clear. C'mon, Frank. We're outta here.”

“Your security oaths are on file. Play the cowboy on us, Captain, and you
will
be in prison for a very long time.”

“I don't think so,” Teller said as he reached for the door.

“What do you mean?” Larson demanded.

Teller gave him a cold smile. “‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'”

WASHINGTON MALL

WASHINGTON, D.C.

1445 HOURS, EDT

A shadow fell across Preston, and he looked up. “You have the advantage of me, sir,” he said.

“I would say that I have you in
checkmate,
sir,” the other man said.

“Eagle?”

He nodded. “Duke.”

The man sat next to him on the bench. Preston glanced around in all directions, but no one was close.

Of course, if the CIA had Preston under observation, they could be training a long-range microphone on him at this moment. Or the bench could have been bugged, though he'd selected it randomly. The large yellow plastic shopping bag resting by his feet was how Reyshahri had recognized him.

There was also a radio, a small boom box, beside him on the bench. He switched it on, loud. If they were under audio surveillance, the music—harsh and urgent—should provide enough white noise to drown their conversation.

“It's good to meet you at long last, Mr. Duke,” Reyshahri said. “My superiors told me to tell you … the information you've provided us has been extremely useful.”

“Simply establishing my bona fides,” Preston replied. “You have no other reason to trust me.”

“Why this meeting, then? It's dangerous to meet.”

Preston shrugged. “I
did
want to know who I was working with. To take your measure. I'm a good judge of character.”

“You know absolutely nothing about me.”

“I know you are Saeed Reyshahri, that you are a
sarvan
in the Vezarat-e Ettela'at va Amniyat-e Keshvar.” He stumbled a bit at the Farsi pronunciation but managed to recover. “I know you are dedicated, competent, and thorough. Ten years with the Sepah, three with VEVAK. You've trained Hezbollah and are well thought of by your superiors. Colonel Salehi wrote an absolutely glowing report in your record. You live in an apartment in the Hassan abad-Shomali district of Tehran and have a wife, Hasti, and a daughter—”

“How do you know all of this?”

“It is my job to know things, Captain.” He hesitated. “You are ready for tomorrow?”

“I am. My associate and I meet the submarine tonight.”

“Two weapons, five-kiloton yield. Your choice of targets, one here, one in New York City.”

“Our choice, yes. So that no one else knows where they are.”

“Good. And detonation is by telephone?”

Reyshahri nodded. “We arm the weapon, leave it, and dial a number later, from a safe distance. Our confederates in New York City do the same with theirs.”

“And the number?”

“What?”

“The phone number that detonates the weapons.”

“Why should I tell—”

“In case something happens to you, of course! I can still detonate the weapons if you do not.”

“I … see.” Reyshahri appeared to think it over, then shrugged and recited a ten-digit number.

Preston commited it to memory. “One number, two warheads?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think that's everything, Captain Reyshahri. I will walk away from here first. You stay here a few moments, in case someone is watching. I will leave the yellow bag under the bench.”

“What's in it?”

“Something to help you with your mission here in D.C.” He stood, looked around again, then picked up the blaring radio and switched it off. “I wish you the very best of luck, Captain.
Khodawbeh ham-rah.
”

He walked away, leaving the VEVAK agent on the bench.

KILO CLASS SUBMARINE

SUBMERGED OFF BETHANY BEACH

DELAWARE

1505 HOURS, EDT

Captain Second Rank Sergei Alekseyevich Basargin pressed his face up to the eyepiece of the periscope, slowly panning the instrument to take in the sweep of white-sand beach. The view was repeated on a television monitor on one bulkhead of the control room. North, a pair of large cranes framed the entrance to Indian River Inlet; automobiles, quite a few of them, could be seen moving north and south on Highway 1, which ran directly above the beach along this stretch of coast.

April was early in the beach season—the waters of the Atlantic were still bitingly cold—but quite a few beach umbrellas and sunbathers were visible on the sand. Automobiles had been driven down to the high tide line. Fat, wealthy, pasty skinned Americans enjoying the sun.

Well, not all were fat. One of the crewmen laughed and pointed. “Ha! Look at
that
bikini! Why does she even bother?” Others laughed.

The submarine was just over five kilometers from the shore in water just twenty-five meters deep at midtide. That was excruciatingly shallow; the Kilo, seventy-five meters long from prow to screw, measured just fourteen meters from her keel to the top of her sail. That left precious little room for maneuvering, and a mistake could end with the vessel embarrassingly grounded off the coast of Delaware.

His orders called for him to get closer inshore yet, but he was not about to try that in daylight. Already, there was a serious danger that an aircraft overflying the beach would see the dark shadow of the submarine lurking beneath the surface.

He increased the magnification on the digital periscope camera, zooming in a bit closer on the young woman who was spreading a blanket out on the beach. The image was blurred and wavering, but the watching crew was certainly enjoying the show.

Basargin, in fact, was not an officer in the Russian Federation Navy—not any longer. Money for that organization was extremely tight, had been tight since the collapse of the Soviet Union. In 2009, Basargin had been forced to retire—“beached,” as his British colleagues so quaintly put it. Three years later, some former comrades of his had approached him with an offer. They were working with the
mafiya
—one of the dozens of criminal networks that were about all in the
rodina,
the motherland, that worked any longer. They'd managed to secure a diesel submarine, one of the older Project 877 Paltus boats, and they were going to rent it to certain clients in Mexico for one year. A crew of former submariners with 877 experience had already been gathered in St. Petersburg. All they needed was a captain.

The operation was fairly straightforward: to take the boat to a designated point in northern Belize, and there take on board two men and a small cargo. He was then shown two locations on a chart where those men and their sealed crates would be deposited—at night and on deserted beaches.

The journey would be made slowly and submerged, using the snorkel all the way. Secrecy was absolutely vital. Basargin knew that drugs were involved. What else could it be? It didn't matter. The Americans, hungry for an inexhaustible supply of drugs, were what kept the drug lords in business—and there would always be people willing to move those drugs, for a percentage of the fabulous profits involved.

The two clients stood silently a few meters away, watching the monitor. The Arab, Hamadi, watched the display of skin with unbridled disgust, the Mexican with dull disinterest.

“We will go in tonight, as planned,” Basargin told them. “You will be able to watch for your signal on that monitor.”

“I no mind tell you,” Hamadi said in heavily accented Russian, “I happy to go in shore. You submarine ship … is crowded, and is stink.”

Basargin smiled at the Palestinian. “Crowding and the stink one can get used to,” he said. “For most of us, the problem is boredom.”

A sudden burst of cheering sounded through the control room, and Basargin looked up, then smiled. The young woman had just removed the top of her swimsuit.

He let them watch a moment more, then gave an order. “Conn! Bring us around and take us away from the beach. Dead slow! If you kiss the bottom I will fine you your wages for the voyage!”

Despite the view, he sought the safety of deep water.

They would return after dark, when Bethany Beach was deserted.

CAFETERIA

CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

1532 HOURS, EDT

Teller collapsed into a seat at a table in one of the Langley headquarters cafeterias. Jackie Dominique was there waiting for them, a tray in front of her.

“God,” she said, looking at his face. “That bad?”

“Worse. Why do you ask?”

“They've completely reversed course,” Procario said, joining them. “One-eighty. There are no nukes in Mexico.”

Teller gestured hypnotically with his hand. “These are not the nukes you're looking for. Move along.”

“Shit.”

“How about you?”

“They questioned me about James's murder,” she said, “and about my conversations with de la Cruz. Oh, and they asked me a lot of questions about you two.”

“Yeah,” Procario said. “They're scared we're going to tell someone that the nukes are already on the way to Washington.”

“But why?” Dominique asked. “Did someone get to them?”