The Cutout

Every camera and fiber-optic insert along the gurney's path was shot to hell.”

Eric, Caroline thought. He could have looked at the embassy's blueprints and predicted with certainty where the security equipment would be placed. The realization came to her with a sick sense of disbelief that Eric could have betrayed a U.S. installation so easily to someone like Krucevic. She closed her eyes to shut out the image of the tilted platform, the twenty-eight dead. And thought of something else: If Eric had told his 30 April cronies where to find the cameras and fiber optics, he'd as much as told them about his Agency past. Which meant that they knew everything that mattered.

Did they even know about her?

She felt chilled to the bone.

“So your VTC room is out, as well as cable channels.”

“They'll be up and running in another twenty-two hours.”

“It'll take at least a week to get the building completely secure and operational,” Tom Shephard said. He ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “It's like these guys had a three-D map of the building downloaded off the Internet, or something.”

So much for her cutout channel. And the ambassador's residence was bugged.

Caroline would have to call Headquarters from a corner pay phone and speak in riddles.

“They certainly hit the embassy fast,” she commented.

“From the news coverage, it looks like nine minutes from explosion to kidnapping.”

“Which means they practiced.” Paul Doughertys eyes were alight, as though he'd awakened this morning to find himself cast in a techno thriller.

With the faintest suggestion of indulging the children, T. Hunter Price drawled, “This is infinitely fascinating, but it has nothing to do with the problem at hand. That being the location of Vice President Payne.”

“Go ahead, Hunter,” said Shephard with studied politeness. “If you know where she is, we'd love to hear.”

“I wouldn't dream of stealing your moment, Tom,” Price replied. “I merely attempted to focus. The ambassador's time is short.”

“Mr. Shephard has clearly profited from the fresh air,” Dalton declared placidly, “and may be allowed to proceed. Tom, tell us what you've learned from the crater.”

“We think the bomb was in a television broadcast van parked right next to the Gate,” Shephard said immediately. “We'll know more once Forensics has cataloged and thoroughly tested the wreckage, but the truck axle has already surfaced and been ID'd.”

“That was quick,” Wally observed.

“Luck.” Shephard shrugged. He was studying the path made by his forefinger as it trailed across the surface of the ambassador's card table. “The truck belonged to Berlin's TV Channel Four. The two cameramen and the reporter who were supposed to be in it were found floating in the Spree last night. They'd been assigned to cover the Veep's speech. They never arrived.”

“So instead of renting a van to park under the Gate, 30 April stole one and killed its occupants. These guys weren't about to leave a paper trail.”

Shephards eyes flicked over to Caroline.

“Multiple murder increased their risks considerably. But it also covered their tracks more effectively. No rental documents, as in the Oklahoma City bombing or the hit on the World Trade Center. And being a real broadcast van, the truck looked far more plausible in place.”

“What about the medevac chopper?” Caroline asked. “Has anyone located that?”

“Possibly.” Shephard focused on his finger again. “Somebody parked a helicopter near the rail lines south of Templehof yesterday that's the old East Berlin airport and set it on fire.”

“Destroying any traces of prints or fibers,” Caroline said.

“Most of them. Yes.”

“Have any of the local hospitals reported a missing medevac pilot?” Wally asked.

“A young woman by the name of Karin Markhof,” Tom Shephard told him. “Still no trace of her. Either Markhof was paid to turn over the bird to 30 April and got out of town fast once the Brandenburg blew or she's lying dead somewhere.”

“She's dead.” Caroline said it without hesitation. “Krucevic leaves nothing to chance.”

“Then let's hope he screws up somewhere down the line. Because that's all we've got.”

Wally stroked his goatee, eyebrows furled like question marks. T. Hunter Price adjusted his tie. Dougherty looked from face to face like an eager puppy.

“Does the station here have any 30 April assets, Wally?” the ambassador inquired.

“A few, sir.”

“What's 'a few' Wally? Exactly?”

“Two,” the Chief of Station conceded. “In the developmental stage.”

“Which means you've got squat,” muttered T. Hunter Price.

“We've got a woman who works in the Berlin office of VaccuGen, Krucevic's main front company,” Wally shot back. “She's not on the payroll, which means she hasn't been vetted, and I'm not at liberty to discuss her particulars. But one of my officers has been developing her for months.”

“And?”

“Fred is still trying to make contact.”

Price threw up his hands in mute eloquence.

“What about the other recruit?” Caroline asked.

“He's a different kettle offish. Brilliant, oddball, and an unreconciled Communist. Krucevic wants to own him, but our guy thinks Krucevic is poison. He cracks security systems for a living.”

“So how'd he come to us?” Caroline asked.

“He applied for an embassy job. As a security expert.”

“Fascinating,” bur bled T. Hunter Price.

“You just brought this crook in, I suppose, to discuss your mutually shady pursuits over a glass of Schultheiss. And in the process, you probably gave away the embassy's fiber optics and security installations, Wally, to no less a personage than 30 April's chief safecracker. I congratulate you, friend. I really do.”

“Horse pucky,” the station chief said. “I didn't interview him at the embassy.”

But he had flushed an angry red.

“Have you talked to him since the bombing?” Tom Shephard was rigid with interest.

“Last night. I didn't tell him why we wanted Krucevic.” Wally glanced around the table. “Nobody in Berlin knows for a fact that 30 April did the Brandenburg, much less the Vice President, so I made it a fairly general query. But my guy thinks Mian is headed for Hungary. Krucevic told him to get to Budapest and await instructions. I asked him nicely to keep us informed.”

Budapest, Caroline thought. I'm wasting my time here in Berlin.

“So this asset of yours is working for the terrorists.” Shephard was scowling.

“He's not an asset. He's a developmental.”

“Which means you're not paying him.”

“Not formally. No.”

“But you're considering placing him on your payroll. A borderline criminal who consorts with terrorists.”

“You want a terrorist asset, Tom, you've got to get your hands dirty.”

It was the oldest debate in the counterterrorism game: how to penetrate the organizations you pursued without adopting their methods. Most of the people at the CTC, Caroline thought, would agree that it was impossible. You could trace a terrorist's funds. You could blow up his training camps and operational bases.

But you could not learn his most private thoughts, his most diabolical schemes, without an ear in his private councils. That meant controlling one of his own.

Paying for terrorist treason. And that single fact almost guaranteed that someday, somebody in the halls of Congress or the pages of the Washington Post would accuse you of bankrolling a monster.

“Hungary,” the ambassador said thoughtfully. “It's a big place. But this is good, Wally. It's a start. I suggest you get on the horn to your opposite number in Pest and direct him to work his assets.”