He was leaving her alone on the yacht for the night. Then, perhaps, she might have the chance to escape.
83
Carver had been wrong. There were people Grantham could call. Had to call, in fact. He could not hope to keep this operation completely private anymore; there was far too much at stake. But if he was going to spread the word, he had to do it discreetly. Like all senior MI6 officers, he had close contacts with his counterparts in the CIA. While Carver was upstairs, clearing out of his room, Grantham stepped outside and considered his options. He needed someone he could trust enough to call on a personal, off-the-record basis.
Ted Jaworski was dragged from sleep by the ringing of his bedside phone. His hand reached out from beneath the blankets and scrabbled for his handset. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the caller ID, then mumbled, “Jack, hi… do you know what the friggin’ time is here?”
“A little after four. But this can’t wait. Is your line secure?”
“Sure-what the hell is this about?”
“We’ve obtained information-stumbled across it, really-about one of your people, an ex-army general, Kurt Vermulen.”
Jaworski was getting out of bed now, figuring he’d better take the call somewhere more private. He put a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s okay-go back to sleep,” to his wife as she looked up at him blearily.
“Uh-huh-what kind of information?” he asked Grantham.
“It’s complicated. But the bottom line is, last night Vermulen obtained a document which contains the precise locations and arming codes of more than one hundred Soviet nuclear weapons.”
“What did you say?”
“You know those legendary missing suitcase nukes? Turns out it wasn’t a legend. They really are out there. Vermulen knows where to find them, and we think that’s what he’s going to do, probably within the next twenty- four hours.”
Jaworski stopped dead in the corridor and gave a low whistle.
“My God, she was right…”
“Sorry?”
“Something someone over here said…” Jaworski replied, moving again. “Put it this way-this doesn’t come as a total surprise.”
Grantham sounded mildly irritated. “So you know about McCabe as well?”
“Okay-now there you got me.”
“Waylon McCabe. He’s some bigshot from Texas, fundamentalist Christian.”
“Oh, sure, know the name… what about him?”
Jaworski had made it to his home office. He slumped into the chair behind his desk as Grantham replied.
“I don’t know, exactly. But whatever Vermulen is up to, McCabe is backing him. Right now, Vermulen is somewhere in the Adriatic Sea, on McCabe’s yacht, and we think he’s headed for Kosovo. One of the bombs is planted there.”
“How do you know?”
“Friends in Moscow. Turns out this was a KGB operation. Some of their people knew where the damn things were all along. I’ll bet they’ve got their own copy of this list, just haven’t seen fit to pass on the information, even to their own government. You’d better have a word with the White House about that. Someone should call the Kremlin, tell them to force the top brass in the FSB to hand over the list. Suggest it’s their last chance to do this hush-hush, or else you’re going public. You need to see it. So do we, come to that. I get the distinct impression both our countries are littered with bloody bombs.”
“Yeah…” said Jaworski distractedly, squeezing a rubber ball in his spare hand.
“You sound remarkably unconcerned by what I’ve just told you.”
“Oh, no, I’m concerned, all right, Jack. You can trust me on that. But what you just said, that wasn’t exactly a surprise, either.”
“What? You knew about these things all along?”
“Kind of…”
“And when, exactly, were you planning to inform your closest ally of the dangers we both face?”
“When we knew exactly what that danger was.”
“Well you know now.”
“Sure do, and we’re going to do something about it, too.”
“Do keep me posted on that,” said Grantham sarcastically.
“Don’t worry, Jack. The day is young. But you and I are going to be talking a lot, a helluva lot, before it’s through.”
Jaworski ended the call. Then he started dialing. And suddenly his attitude wasn’t half so casual.
Dawn was still more than an hour away when Kady Jones arrived at Andrews Air Force Base. She’d been woken by a series of firm, insistent taps on the door of her Washington hotel room. She stumbled out of bed and
