Unable to sleep, Corrine got out of bed at 4:30. She took a shower and got dressed, then left her room in the embassy annex to go over to the main building, where a command center had been set up to keep track of the president’s progress. He was running late: no surprise there. Air Force One was now scheduled to touch down at 9:12 a.m.
The precision of the estimate would have amused him.
Corrine poured herself a cup of coffee, checking the overnight reports. While she’d been preoccupied with the First Team and the possible SSN-9 missile, the Secret Service, military security, and Iraqi interior ministry had been chasing down literally dozens of other rumors and possible plots. A suspected suicide-bomb factory had been raided overnight; rather than giving up, the five men inside had ignited their weapons store. Two of the soldiers involved in the raid had died. A truck filled with rocket-launched grenades had been stopped on the highway leading to the airport a few hours ago; its driver had been shot. A patrol of American soldiers had been sent into a town to the west of the airport after a report that a surface-to-air missile had been spotted; a firelight had followed.
Corrine imagined McCarthy looking at the reports. He’d nod, then say something about how much trouble it was to shoe a horse that hadn’t been properly cared for. “Doesn’t mean you give up,” he’d say.
She’d heard him use that expression several times about Iraq and many more times about other problems in general. That was one of the things she liked most about him: he was always realistic and somehow optimistic at the same lime. “Look far enough ahead,” he’d say, “and you can’t help but smile.”
She was about to check in with Corrigan when one of the Secret Service people interrupted to tell her that the caravan for the airport was about to leave.
“Can you arrange for me to take a later one?” she asked.
“This is the last one, ma’am. They’re going to shut down traffic at six.”
Corrine managed to squeeze into one of the three vans that were heading over to the airport. The procession was sandwiched between a pair of armored Humvees. Two Delta plainclothes bodyguards sat in the front of each of the vans. Corrine barely had time to buckle her seat belt before the van started moving; by the time they left the compound the trucks were doing over fifty.
Speeding onto the highway, Corrine caught a glimpse of pink at the edge of the horizon, a brilliant band of predawn light greeting the day. Jonathon has a good day for it, she thought. He was the sort of man who liked to smile at the sunrise, saying good weather was in his genes.
“Faster!” yelled one of the men in the front of the van.
As Corrine started to look up to see what was going on, something exploded. Her body become weightless, even as her eyes remained fixed on the beautiful fringe between earth and heaven.
24
Thomas Ciello sat in his office staring at the computer. On the left part of the screen was a summary report by one of the CIAs weapons teams about the possibilities of a missile being used in Iraq. Prepared six months before, the paper declared that
On the right part of the screen was a report from the Agency photo-interpretation team that had just finished examining the area around Baghdad at Ferguson’s request, looking for a Scud missile or a prepared launch site. The report filled two pages, but the summary amounted to a single word:
Thomas had looked at the satellite and U-2 photos appended to the report and found nothing to suggest that the interpreters had missed something. A new series of infrared images would be available in a few minutes, and he was already near the top of the dissemination list.
Needing a break, he got up and went to his desk, retrieving a candy bar from the bottom drawer. As he unwrapped it, he started skimming through Professor Ragguzi’s book again. He hadn’t gotten very far the other day, thrown off by the Turkey reference. Now that he knew it wasn’t a mistake, he could start reading again. It was as if he’d been blinded by that, as if all he could see were errors or potential errors. Now that he understood the professor’s point, he could read it again with a clearer, fairer mind.
Oh, he realized. That’s the problem. Everyone’s looking for the missiles.
He pushed the candy bar into his mouth, threw the blanket over his desk, and ran to talk to Corrigan in the Cube.
25
Rankin pulled the sat phone from his pocket as it began to vibrate. He pried the antenna out from the body of the phone awkwardly as he drove, both hands on the wheel. The others were dozing, and the truth was he felt like pulling over and joining them.
“You need to look for sewer pipes,” said Corrigan.
“What are you talking about?”
“Hold on.”
A new voice came on the line. It was Thomas Ciello. “They’re hiding the missile somewhere.”
“You think?” said Rankin.
“A sewer pipe or something like that. I have the interpreters on it. There are a couple of places in Tikrit. I think you should go there.”
“Why would they hide it in a sewer pipe?” Rankin’s experience with intelligence types had not been very good, and Thomas was crazier than the rest.
“Not in it; with it. From the air, it would look like it belonged. You’d really have to get up close to check it. I have them looking at old sites,” added Thomas. “I think maybe it was in a pile for a long time and then recently moved. There are about forty sites within the hundred-mile range, and nearly double that if we got to a hundred and fifty miles. It would be nearby, I think. I mean, we could look through the whole country, but—”
“A hundred and
“Oh yeah. I was going to tell you that, too. That’s the total range Vassenka can achieve. There are a few simple modifications. The rocket fuel has to be properly prepared, but once that’s taken care of, everything else falls into place.” The analyst spoke quickly, as if he were afraid that he would run out of breath before he got his entire idea out of his mouth. “It’s probably going to be set up at the last minute, so maybe there’s a place with an overhang or something they’re counting on, even say a tarp or something. I wanted to look at every mosque that had a roof repair recently or ongoing, and—”
“Could you hide rocket fuel in a kerosene tank?” asked Rankin. “Not a tank; a tank car. Like a train.”
“Kerosene?”
“It said kerosene.”
“The Russians developed it from the V-2. There were experiments,” said Thomas.
“What are you mumbling about?” asked Rankin.
“I have to get back to you.”
“Do that.” Rankin tossed the phone to Guns, sitting in the seat next to him, then pulled a U-turn across the two lanes of traffic.
