“We’re still checking. Marseille Provence Airport security is handled by a private security firm, Societe Provence National de Valeurs Mobilieres. They detained her at the request of La Piscine.” He’d used the well-known term for the French foreign intelligence service, the DGSE, known in the intelligence world as the Swimming Pool because their headquarters in Paris was located next to the office of the French Swimming Federation. “They turned her over to four DGSE agents who took her away in an unmarked van, except La Piscine claims they never sent a request to hold her. Whoever took her wasn’t DGSE. The van was last seen heading up the A7 toward Cavaillon. That’s all anyone knows.”
“So the Swimming Pool doesn’t know where she is, and you guys don’t know who she is. Just out of curiosity, do you have anybody working this besides me?” Scorpion asked.
“For what it’s worth, what you provided from Utrecht was gold, plus your lead on al Jabbar, the constellation Orion, was the key that enabled NSA to break the code the Islamic Resistance is using. Rabinowich has a whole fancy explanation he’s dying to show you, if you give a damn,” Harris said. “Apparently ‘al Jabbar’ was a keyword for the code, only with the Arabic letters reversed and each letter used only once, so the keyword would be ‘RABJL,’ or whatever. The important thing is that we now know the target and when the attacks are supposed to take place.”
“So do I. The Palazzo delle Finanze, site of the EU conference to consider Israel’s application for permanent associate membership with the European Union. That’s why I came to Rome instead of Genoa.”
Harris nodded. “Exactly. Once we knew about the Zaina making an unscheduled stop in Genoa, we should’ve figured. It wasn’t just the Camorra getting the containers through customs. The Palestinian didn’t want to transport U-235 across any borders. You did a hell of a job,” Harris said, raising his glass to Scorpion and taking a sip. “Too good.”
“What happened?”
“The DNI stepped in. He says that now that we know the target cities and the date, it’s a straightforward counterterrorist op. He’s given it to the Crash and Bangers,” he said, referring to the Pentagon’s Defense Intelligence Agency. “We’re out of business.”
“Are they crazy or just totally fucking insane?” Scorpion put his drink on the table. “I’ve been hunting the Palestinian. I’ve got a feel about him. Crash and Bang won’t stop him.”
“For once, we agree. It’s Washington. The CIA and the DIA are like the Yankees versus the Red Sox. General Clayton made the case that nuclear was DIA’s baby. And I haven’t told you the really bad news.”
Scorpion went dead still, knowing instantly what it was; the loose end that had been dangling in front of him all along. All this time he’d been telling himself there was no nuclear bomb, that like Groesbeck had said, twenty- one kilos of U-235 wasn’t enough. Now he remembered something else the professor had told him: that if there were another thirty kilos of U-235, he would definitely worry.
“You’re a bird of ill omen, Bob. Now that I think of it, you always were.”
“We had a Russian source on the weaponized plague bacteria. We were able to get a sample to CDC. Turns out it’s completely resistant to all normal antibiotics, except one that’s still in development.”
“Don’t tell me. That Swiss drug company I sent you.”
“Bingo,” Harris said. “And here’s the icing on the cake. Their entire supply of antibiotics for the rest of the year has been bought out by that Muslim company in Luxembourg for transshipment.”
“Don’t tell me,” Scorpion said. “They’re going to send it to Tehran. This thing’s got Iranian fingerprints all over it.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a photo of the Eighth Imam’s shrine in the imam’s office in Utrecht,” Scorpion said. Harris nodded grimly.
“Speaking of Tehran,” Harris continued, “an Iranian ship, the Shiraz Se,” the Shiraz Three, Scorpion mentally translated, “sailed from Bushehr and transited the Suez Canal. She left Port Said three days ago. We have no idea where she was headed or where she is now.”
“There are nuclear reactors at Bushehr,” Scorpion observed.
“While the ship was in the Persian Gulf, a U.S. Navy patrol detected traces of radiation.” Harris took out a cigarette and lit it. “I gave up smoking fourteen years ago. I just started again,” he said, and Scorpion wondered if he was telling the truth. With Harris, you never knew.
“When were you planning on telling me?”
“We didn’t know about the Shiraz. The DIA didn’t pass it on to us. Sometimes you wonder whose side they’re on. Or maybe they didn’t think it had anything to do with what we were doing. Remember, your op was a sideshow on a strict ‘need to know’ basis. No one knew about you except you, me, Rabinowich, Rick”-he was referring to Harris’s immediate boss, Richard Haley, the director of the National Clandestine Service-“the DCIA and General Brown, the President’s National Security Advisor. That’s not all.”
“Don’t stop now. You’re on a roll.”
“Rabinowich thinks the twenty-one kilos were at ninety-plus percent, not seventy-six. The NSA picked up a COMINT from the Russian MOD. The Russkis are really scrambling. It seems our friend Checkmate may have lied when I met him in Estonia.”
“A Russian spy lying. Imagine!”
Harris took an awkward puff and exhaled, and Scorpion wondered how much of this was a show for his benefit. “I know. I keep thinking about that horrible prophetic line of Winston Churchill’s, ‘The terrible ifs accumulate.’”
“So who are the SAS teams for?” Scorpion asked, making a gesture that took in the paramilitary operatives around the safe house. “To protect you against Islamic Resistance or against the DIA?”
Harris grimaced. “Maybe against you. Look, don’t worry, you’ll be paid in full.”
“You better believe I’ll be paid in full,” Scorpion said, going out to the terrace. He added ice to his drink and looked out over the valley and the hills. The sun cast the shadow of the sniper on the roof onto a tree in front of the villa. Harris followed him out on the terrace and stood beside him.
“The worst part is we’re done. Crash and Bang’s on their way to Rome. By tomorrow they’ll be over it like white on rice. The Palestinian’s their baby.”
“They won’t stop him. They don’t know what he’s going to do, where he is, or what he looks like.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
Harris waited, like a good salesman who knows the customer has to talk himself into it. He’s good, Scorpion thought. Give him that. The son of a bitch is good. “The job’s not done,” Scorpion said.
“We want you to stay on it-on your own.”
“Who’s we?”
“Rabinowich and me.”
“What about Haley?”
“He doesn’t want to know. As far as he’s concerned, we’re done. It’s DIA’s baby now. Anything you do that comes back to bite us, I’ll be the first to deny it. You’re a rogue agent, completely on your own. The official line will be that you betrayed us.”
“Completely on my own? No backup, nothing?”
“You and Rabinowich. He volunteered too.”
“I should do this why?”
“Because they’ve declared war on us. Not just us,” Harris amended. “It’s Rome, for chrissakes. It’s Western Civilization, Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, the Sistine Chapel, though God knows, I’m a nonbelieving Catholic who hasn’t seen the inside of a church since the day as a teenager I figured out that sex with girls felt good.”
“It’s no good,” Scorpion said finally. “Crash and Bang’ll cover the palazzo, but when it comes to the Palestinian, I don’t know any more than they do.”
“That’s why I brought this setup. Line’s totally secure.” Harris gestured at the computer inside. “Rabinowich wants to talk to you.” They walked back in and Harris typed on keys and brought up a link to a Web cam showing the top of Rabinowich’s balding head as he fiddled with something on his computer. “Hey Dave, we’re here,” Harris said. Rabinowich looked up, his paunchy face looking like he hadn’t shaved in days.
“You’ve put on weight, Dave,” Scorpion said.
“It’s terrible,” Rabinowich nodded. “I just have to look at a lettuce leaf and I pack it on. You on board?”
“I need something. This guy’s a ghost. He can cross borders like he’s invisible, put together a nuclear bomb
