Abruptly, Jon stopped and stood still, waiting while the faint glimmering of a wild idea took on real form and substance. Maybe Randi had already given them the hook they would need. A fierce gleam appeared in his eyes. He swung round to Kirov. “I need your phone, Oleg!” he snapped.
“Now!”
Nodding, the Russian tossed him the last of their Covert-One secure cell phones. “Use it wisely,” he suggested drily.
Smith grinned back at him. “Acting wisely is the last thing on my mind right now.”
He moved off out of earshot and punched in the code for Covert-One headquarters.
Fred Klein listened intently while he summarized the situation they faced.
“An ugly dilemma, Colonel,” he said quietly when Smith had finished. “Do you have a plan?”
“Yes, I do. But we need action from Washington to make it work. And we need it as soon as humanly possible.”
“What do you want me to do?” Klein asked.
Smith told him.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. At last, Klein spoke again, sounding troubled. “You’re asking me to skate very close to the line on this one, Jon.”
“I know I am.”
Klein sighed. “The president and I can probably conceal Covert-One’s existence from those involved here in Washington, but I’m worried about Ms.
Russell. She already knows far more about our activities and access than is prudent. What you suggest may very well give her enough information to break through this organization’s cover.”
“She’s already suspicious as hell, Fred.”
“There is a wide gulf between suspicion and certainty, Colonel,” Klein said tartly. “And I would prefer to keep Randi Russell on the proper side of that gulf.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “What choice do we really have?”
“None,” the head of Covert-One admitted at length. “All right, Jon. Stand by where you are. I’ll let you know when we’re reach to kick things off back here.”
“Standing by,” Smith acknowledged.
The line went dead.
Joint U.S.-Gennan Intelligence Secure Videoconference Large television monitors in Washington, D.C., Langley, Virginia, Berlin, Bonn, and Cologne flickered simultaneously to life, linking groups of men and women seated around conference tables separated by thousands of miles and hours of relative time. Those in Germany looked tired and nervous. It was already past midnight when they had been hurriedly summoned back to their various offices for what was being billed as an extraordinary emergency briefing by the new U.S. Director of National Intelligence, William Wexler.
Wexler himself appeared cool and collected. His body language radiated absolute confidence and conviction in what he was about to say. As he spoke, he looked straight into the camera, maintaining the illusion that he was making eye contact with everyone else on the secure circuit.
What none of those joining in this satellite-linked videoconference knew was that a feed was also going straight to the White House. And Fred Klein, watching the transmission with President Castilla from the Oval Office, cynically suspected one reason for Wexler’s apparent ease was because the former senator was used to delivering televised speeches that he either did not understand or did not believe.
After a few preliminary formalities, Wexler jumped straight to the core of the matter. He spoke clearly and concisely. “Intelligence agencies of the United States have now definitively identified the production site of the biological weapons being used against us, against our NATO allies, and against countries around the border of the Russian Federation.”
Those listening and watching sat up straighter.
The screen split, with half showing a satellite photo taken months before.
It depicted a large fenced-in complex spread across what appeared to be a low ridge. One of the several buildings was circled. “These weapons are being secretly manufactured at a laboratory near Orvieto, in Italy,” Wexford said firmly. “A lab that is part of the European Center for Population Research, the ECPR.”
Shocked murmurs spread through the background audio feed.
Wexler overrode them. “The intelligence confirming this target is clear and irrefutable. Accordingly, the President of the United States has authorized an immediate all-out military assault on this clandestine weapons facility.”
The German and American intelligence officials fell silent, plainly stunned by what they were hearing.
The satellite photo disappeared, replaced by a map showing Italy and the seas around it. Another circle appeared on this map, enclosing a graphic of ships positioned in the Mediterranean Sea, off Italy’s western coast. “A U.S.
Marine Corps quick-reaction force is now prepping aboard the ships of the Sixth Fleet,” Wexler continued. “This force will be in position to conduct the raid within two hours. Several teams from our Special Operations Command are already in place several kilometers to the north and south of Orvieto? preparing to set up roadblocks on the main highway.”
One of the Germans spoke up. A crawl beneath the screen identified him as Bernhard Heichler, a high- ranking officer in the Bundesamtes fiir Verfassunsschutz. “What do the Italians think of this riskv plan of yours?” he asked stiffly.
“To ensure complete surprise, this assault is being made without the knowledge or consent of the Italian government,” Wexler replied coollv.
Heichler’s mouth fell open, a reaction shared by many of his colleagues, of both nationalities. “Then why are you giving us this information?”
With a slight smile, Wexler dropped his next bombshell. “Because the man responsible for creating this biological weapon is Professor Wulf Renke,” he told them. “One ot your own countrymen, and a dangerous criminal von have long hunted.” Speaking firmly and forcefully, he outlined what U.S. intelligence now knew about Renke, including his escape from German justice with Ulrich Kessler’s assistance.
“We would like you to form a task force of experts to assist us in exploiting every scrap of intelligence our Marines lay their hands on,” Wexler said carefully. “Their mission will be to ferret out any critical information contained in the lab’s phone logs, computer files, and shipping records, and to interrogate the prisoners we intend to capture.” He smiled winningly. “Now? Are there any questions?”
Immediately, a confused babble of voices broke out, with everyone trying to speak at once.
Castilla hit the mute burton on his remote. The agitated voices fell silent.
He turned toward Klein, with a thin smile on his broad, blunt face. “Looks like that little stunt of ours just tossed a coyote right into the middle of some real nervous cattle.”
“Yes, sir,” Klein agreed.
“You think this will actually work the way Colonel Smith hopes?” Castilla asked quietly.
“I hope so,” Klein said, equally quietly. “If not, Jon and the others are not likely to survive the next several hours.” He checked his watch. The furrows on his high forehead grew deeper. “One way or the other, we should know very soon.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Estelle Pike sat primly at her desk in the antechamber outside the Oval Office, typing up one of President Castilla’s handwritten action memos to the National Security Council. Her eyes flicked rapidly from the screen in front of her to the scrawled notes on her desk, and then around the rest of the room.
The other desks and workstations were empty. She smiled slightly. One by one, she had found errands for her assistants to run in widely scattered parts of the White House office complex.
A white-gloved steward entered the room, carrying a covered tray.
