“Now that you mention it.”
“Well, thanks. That certainly reinforces my self-image.”
“I’m just kidding.”
“For that you owe me at least another two hours at the range.”
“Duly noted. I’ll mark it down,” said Adin.
They headed for the door. By the time they got outside, it was dark, the ebbing tide of rush hour in Washington, the red taillights of cars streaming down Pennsylvania Avenue.
They walked on talking and laughing. By the time they covered the few blocks to the condo, Sarah wondered where the time had gone. Minutes later they stepped off the elevator upstairs. She glanced up at him and said, “So what does your schedule look like tomorrow?”
“You’re worse than a child at Christmas,” he told her.
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t wait to go back and shoot.”
“Or you could loan me your pistol and some bullets and I could set up targets in the hallway of the condo. After all, it would make Herman feel better if I spent a little time with him shooting.”
Adin laughed.
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you busy tomorrow? After work, I mean.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t you come to dinner, say about seven? I’ve got some steaks in the fridge, and I do a wicked salad.”
“Do you think it would be all right with Herman?”
“Once you two get to know each other, it’ll be fine,” said Sarah.
He looked at his watch. “It sounds like a date,” said Adin. “Tell Bugsy I’ll see him tomorrow night.”
She gave him a sideways glance and smiled.
“Sorry, I’m late. I gotta run.” Adin started to move backward down the hall toward his room. “See you tomorrow night.”
“You like rice or potatoes with your meat?” she asked
“Whatever you have will be fine,” said Adin.
“I have dog kibble.”
Adin laughed. “See you.”
“Bye.”
He disappeared around the corner.
Sarah turned the other direction and walked back toward her condo.
Once inside the apartment Adin wasted no time. He went to the bedroom and tossed the fanny pack with the empty handgun onto the bed. He would clean it later.
He reached into the closet, lifted the empty sports bag off the hook, then changed into his running togs, shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of Nikes.
Adin opened the top drawer of the desk and grabbed the phone inside. He disconnected the charging cord and connected the earbuds with the small, wired mic. He dropped the phone and the wired mic along with his wallet and ID into the sports bag and left the apartment.
Downstairs he nodded and smiled to the female agent at the front desk. He watched as she made an entry in the log showing the time of his departure. Besides the ubiquitous security cameras, those residing in the condo complex were checked in and out by the security staff. Adin had had to sign the register and agree to provide security for Sarah before she could accompany him to the range.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk and began to jog back toward the FBI building. He crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and ran toward Constitution and the Mall.
Hirst didn’t stop until he reached the area near the Tidal Basin, where he took a seat on one of the benches. He unzipped the sports bag and opened the top wide. He didn’t take out the black phone. Instead he propped it up so that the stub antenna would have a clear, unrestricted line of sight into the open heavens above the Mall.
Adin plugged the two small buds into his ears and left the tiny mic dangling on the wire just below his chin. He reached in the bag, got his wallet, and retrieved a small folded piece of paper from the section of the billfold. Then he punched a series of numbers on the phone. The first was a code to power up. The second, only two digits, was a quick-dial number to the party on the other end.
The satellite telephone operated behind two levels of encryption, one provided by the manufacturer and a second layer of algorithms added by the people who had modified the phone and given it to Hirst. It was set up to dial a single number.
Adin waited for almost a minute while the signal worked its way to the satellite in low orbit 485 miles above Earth.
He listened anxiously for the three-second high-pitched tone. When he heard it, Adin waited until it stopped. Then he spoke, not in English or Hebrew, but in Farsi, a single word: “Redwing!”
The magicians who modified the phone had installed safety mechanisms. Both the password and the digitally confirmed voiceprint of the person saying it were required before the satellite would allow the signal to be transmitted to the party on the other end. Anyone finding the phone, even if they could power it up, would never be able to complete the connection or trace it to its ultimate destination without the password delivered in Adin’s voice.
It took another seven seconds for the call to reach its destination. When it did, it was answered in a crackling tone, again in Farsi: “Hello, Redwing. Thrush here. Ready for data burst.”
Adin waited a few seconds so that he wouldn’t step on any words coming the other way. There was always a delay on the satellite. “No burst. Request voice trans.” He waited again. Adin did not have time to prepare a keyed- in message that would allow him to send the information in the form of a high-speed data burst. This was the preferred method of transmission since the time of exposure to interception was always much less.
A few seconds later the response came back: “Voice trans authorized. Ready… Transmit.” They had turned on the audio recording device.
He waited again, and then spoke: “Cover intact. Contact made. Leopard in Paris. Repeat, Leopard in Paris.”
Zeb Thorpe had bought into the cover story that Adin Hirst was employed by the Israeli Security Agency, Israel’s counterpoint to the FBI. The ISA was responsible for Israeli internal security. The FBI swallowed the cover because it had been carefully laid.
The FBI had checked with Tel Aviv in the hours after Adin arrived and requested confirming documentation. This was standard procedure. They were blinded by the fact that everything, right down to Adin’s picture, squared with information on file in Israeli records.
Adin had been sent out by his handlers soon after word leaked that the White House was beginning to panic over two missing NASA scientists. And Adin knew why. They were trying to put the cork back in the bottle, but it was too late, unless Madriani screwed up the works again.
He looked at the small folded piece of paper from his wallet. It was a quick, nearly illegible note in Adin’s hand, a copy of the message left on the kitchen pass-through written down by Sarah on the phone as she spoke with her father.
Adin talked slowly and clearly into the tiny mic below his chin. “Current location, Hotel Claude Bernard. Repeat, Hotel Claude Bernard. This is urgent. Employ immediate dispatch. Use all available methods. Message ended.” Adin pushed a button on the phone and terminated the call.
Newspaper accounts that were now nearly a year old had mentioned Madriani by name in connection with the failed attack on the U.S. Naval Base at Coronado in California. Rumors persisted that the Coronado attack involved a radioactive device. The government denied it. The feds had sought to discredit the rumor by publishing it in thousands of conspiracy-riddled comments on nut sites across the Internet. American intelligence had learned that the fastest way to hide the truth was to soak it in paranoia and hang it out on the web for the world to see.
But when Madriani’s name popped up again, this time in connection with the failed Washington bombing, even the legitimate press began asking questions. They wanted to know if the two attacks were linked. If not, how did the FBI explain Madriani’s presence in both cases? What was the connection? The government’s response was
