Death Wave

“You have a one-thirty appointment with ANSA, sir,” she told him. “White House basement.”

Rubens groaned inwardly. He made a serious error letting Lia descend into that crater, and he didn’t want to leave the Art Room. Feng might kill her at any moment.

“I hate to ask it of you, Ann, but is there any chance in hell General James can see me later in the day?”

“I doubt it, sir. He was tight for time as it was, and told me it had ‘fucking well better be about Armageddon or worse,’ his words, sir. I gather he’s going to be flying to London this afternoon.”

“Right.” Rubens thought hard for a moment. There was nothing he could do for Lia if Feng decided to pull a trigger. He also needed to keep his eyes on the bigger situation. He needed the President to sign off on sending Marines into La Palma, and he wasn’t going to get it without ANSA.

He’d already flagged his request to James as Yankee White urgent. You did not use such a high-level code without very good and immediate reason. Worse, if he delayed, he would end up talking to Wehrum, James’ chief aide, and Wehrum was a political enemy who would block Rubens just for the hell of it.

“Mr. Rubens?” Ann Sawyer asked. “Can I confirm?”

“Yes, Ann. Confirm me for one thirty, WHB.” He snapped the phone shut and checked a wall clock. He would have to leave within the next few minutes to be sure he was there on time. “Marie!”

Marie Telach looked up from her console, startled. “Yes, sir?”

“Status on Black CAT Bravo, please.”

“They’re at Sigonella, sir.”

Sigonella was a joint Italian-NATO air base in Sicily, the location of a U.S. naval air station, NASSIG, which served as the hub of U.S. military operations in the Mediterranean. Yesterday, Rubens had ordered a Close Assault Team to fly from Pax River to Sigonella, where it would be closer — about three thousand miles — to the scene of the pirate hijacking in the Gulf of Aden. If something had happened to shut down the SEAL assault on the Yakutsk, he’d wanted a second force ready to go in.

Sigonella was also about two thousand miles from La Palma.

The situation on board the Yakutsk was well in hand. They wouldn’t need CAT Bravo there. “Okay. Tell the CO of CAT Bravo I want his team to deploy to Rota immediately. Have them stay at Readiness Green-One. Second, see what we can do about getting Dean and Akulinin to Rota as well.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Third, I want your best people monitoring Ms. DeFrancesca at all times. I want to know exactly where she is, who she’s with, and what’s happening. Support her every way you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next, check whatever records we can snag on flights out of Karachi, Tuesday through Thursday. I want to know how they might have gotten ten suitcase nukes to La Palma, and when.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Raise Ms. Howorth.”

“She doesn’t have a comm implant, sir.”

“No, but she has a cell phone, and La Palma has a cell network for European tourists. I want her and Carlylse out of there. They can’t help Lia, and if the Jackal picks them up they become tactical liabilities.”

“Right.”

He thought for a moment more. “Okay. There’s a major observatory on La Palma, isn’t there? Some sort of big scientific facility?”

“Yes, sir. La Roque, up on the north end of the island.”

“Have Ms. Howorth see about getting in touch with the public affairs people there, at least for a start. If the JeM is pretending to be a scientific research expedition of some kind, the Jackal might have talked with someone official there — getting permission to put up those roadblocks, to shut down park trails, that sort of thing. She might also talk with the island’s guardia. I want to know how extensive this thing is — how many people the Jackal has on the island, where they’re located, whether they’ve infiltrated local organizations like the guardia or the observatory. Find out who on the island is responsible for watching those volcanoes, and where they’re based. La Roque? Or someplace else?”

“Yes, sir.”

Was there anything else he could do? There was not, he decided. Everything rested now with ANSA and, ultimately, with the President.

If he could get permission to deploy the CAT to La Palma, he would, but Rota would do for now. Rota was another U.S. naval air station, located across the bay from Cadiz, sixty miles north of the Straits of Gibraltar and just 850 miles from La Palma. That was a two-and-a-half hour flight for a C-130 Hercules.

However, the CAT Bravo team numbered just forty men, too few for a simultaneous assault on all ten drilling sites on La Palma.

For this job, Rubens needed U.S. Marines.

SAN MARTIN VOLCANO

CUMBRE VIEJA

LA PALMA, CANARY ISLANDS

SUNDAY, 1658 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Lia’s knee shot up, catching the guard in the crotch. He doubled over, white teeth bared by his grimace, but the other guard, standing behind her, placed his hands on Lia’s shoulders and slammed her down onto the folding metal chair.

“Let me go, you bastards!” she screamed, still playing the role of outraged tourist. “You have no right—”

“Excuse me, but we have all the right we need,” Feng told her. He patted the pistol, now resting in the leather holster on his hip. “So sit still and behave yourself while we decide what to do with you.”

Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. The guard kept his hands heavy on her shoulders, pinning her to the chair.

They’d taken her to one of the tents near the parked helicopter. It appeared to be used for storage, with a number of large crates stacked up in the back and along both sides of the interior. Feng was examining the items they’d just taken from her — a compass, her BlackBerry, the binoculars in their case, her wallet — all laid out on a folding card table. He pulled her ID card from the wallet and looked at it.

“Cathy Chung, U.S. State Department, GS-14,” he said, reading it. He flipped it over to check the back. “At this point, I think we can assume this is a false ID.”

“You’d better pray it’s false,” she snarled. “When State gets through with you—”

Feng smiled. “They’ll what? Slap me with sanctions?” He dropped card and wallet on the folding card table in front of him, picked up her BlackBerry, and thumbed through several apps. Finding nothing of interest, he opened the binoculars case.

“Very fancy,” he said. He held the device to his eyes and pressed several of the buttons on the small control panel on top. “CIA issue?”

“You can get them in any good electronics store back in the States.”

“Electronic binoculars? I think not. As a senior executive for COSCO, I have a good understanding of what’s available to consumers. Is this how you turn them on?” He stepped to the entrance of the tent and aimed them up at the crater rim. “Yes. Zoom control … and is it also a video recorder?”

He continued playing with the button controls. Lia watched him in silence. He was looking at the crater’s north rim, not the west, where she’d left CJ and Carlylse, and she hadn’t been so amateurish as to have left data in the device’s memory. He turned and came back into the tent. “Quite ingenious. Does it let you transmit your recordings to a remote site? Possibly by satellite?”

“To my laptop with a cable connection, yes,” she lied.

“I assume that’s in your room. We’ll send someone down there later to retrieve it.” He set the binoculars on the table. “So … what is it you expected to learn, coming up here like this?”

“I already told you. I was looking for Herve.”

“Your taste in men is deplorable. I was most upset when you simply left me in Spain. I thought we’d come to an understanding.”

“I got cold feet.”