Eventually, they would have more information. But eventually might be too late.
If a bomb exploded — if hundreds of thousands, maybe a million, Americans died — Rubens felt it would be his responsibility. A classic intelligence failure, by definition.
And yet they were looking at every possibility.
Rubens killed the computer program and secured his desk, throwing the security blanket over it. He walked to the small space between the desk and door, stopped, and put his hands together in a simple yoga pose, steadying his breathing. He took two very long, slow breaths, then arched his back, rising on his toes as he brought his arms up and around.
As always, the stretch calmed his restlessness somewhat. And as always, the calm had dissipated by the time he reached the Art Room level in the subbasement below.
“Still status quo,” said Chris Farlekas, the on-shift Art Room supervisor. “Lia DeFrancesca and Tommy Karr are with the task force around Washington, D.C. We have a helicopter which can take them to the scene if a truck is apprehended. I tried to tell Lia, gently, that it was all right for her to take a break if she wanted.”
“I don’t imagine she took that very well.”
“No,” said Farlekas.
Since he’d been trained to disarm Russian warheads, Karr was an important asset; there were only a few dozen such experts in the country, and Karr had the advantage not only of having actually worked on a live warhead but of being able to tap the Art Room’s experts as well. Lia, on the other hand, was Lia. And no one was going to force her to take a rest until she felt like it.
“Even Mr. Karr will have to take a breather at some point,” Rubens told Farlekas. “Don’t push him too far.”
“I’m not pushing him. He’s alternating with two other people from the Energy Commission.”
“Very well. I am going to speak to Johnny Bib’s people. Buzz me if you need me.”
Rubens walked up the corridor and up the stairs to the computer labs where many of Johnny Bib’s people were working. If he were national security adviser, he would make sure there were more Tommy Karrs on the front lines of the nation’s intelligence services. He’d do more to get the CIA and the military working together. He would use intelligence to help the president make more timely decisions…
Why was he torturing himself with so many “ifs”? Did he want the job? The opportunity was lost; he’d said he didn’t want it. To change his mind now would make him look weak. Indecisive.
Would it, though? Was he not entitled to a mistake?
Not a mistake — a reconsideration.
Rubens went through the suite of rooms, looking in on a few of the analysts and cryptographers, making his presence known but not interrupting them. When he saw Ambassador Jackson leaning over Robert Gallo’s shoulder in one of the rooms, however, Rubens couldn’t help but ask what they were doing.
“A theory,” said Jackson. “On a target.”
“How about Philadelphia?” said Gallo.
“Why do you say that?”
Gallo began telling Rubens about a Russian intelligence file listing phone calls that had been made to Babin in the months before Iron Heart. The file included three calls from Philadelphia pay phones.
“Philadelphia is where Evans comes from,” explained Jackson.
“He was probably trying to recruit him,” said Rubens — though there were other possibilities.
“Yes, but that’s not actually the point,” said the ambassador. “Babin knows where Evans lives, where his family is.”
“And he would blame Evans for betraying him,” said Rubens, finally understanding.
122
Dean had gone over to a nearby diner for dinner and was just getting back to the cottage when his cell phone began to ring. He knew that it had to be the NSA; they were the only ones he had given the number to.
“Dean,” he said, flipping it open.
“Charlie, we need you to go to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,” said Chris Farlekas. “To the state police headquarters there.”
“How are you, Chris?”
“Very busy at the moment. How long will it take you?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty far away. If I left now. . six or seven hours by car maybe.” He glanced up and saw a bat dart overhead, grabbing flies in mid-air.
“You won’t go by car.” Farlekas was silent for moment, apparently consulting with someone. “Can you get to a city called New Milford, Pennsylvania?”
“It’s more like a village. Yeah, it would take about a half hour.”
“Leave now, please. A helicopter will meet you outside the city, at the police barracks. We’re making the arrangements right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“The item you were looking for in Peru may be on its way to Philadelphia. I’d prefer not to discuss it on this line. If you would kindly change, we’ll be able to use our usual method while you’re on your way.”
123
One of the things that had made the SA-10 warheads easy to get out of Russia was their compact size and weight. But these were relative qualities: the crated warhead was so heavy that it snapped the makeshift wooden ramp Babin had Tucume place between the back of the car and the cargo van he wanted to transfer it to. He saw the disaster happening in slow motion — the wood splintered, the front of the crate tipped, and the crate fell between the two vehicles.
Babin closed his eyes as it slipped. When he opened them, he realized it wasn’t quite as bad as he had feared: the bomb had enough downward momentum to slide halfway into the van, where it got stuck, wedged more in than out. The front of the crate, which he’d taken off to get the bomb in, had come apart, but the weapon itself was still firmly in its skeleton cradle.
Tucume cursed. It was the first time Babin could remember him using any profanity since they had met.
Babin peered into the van, then moved to the crate, pushing against the side in the vain hope that it might slide in. It was a useless gesture; it didn’t even help him vent his frustration.
“Let me see one of your crutches,” said Tucume.
Babin gave it to him, and the general climbed into the van. He tried using the crutch as a lever, but the crate didn’t move.
When Tucume came out, he was holding the top of the crutch in his hand. The bottom had broken and was still lodged between the box and the side of the truck.
“I’m sorry,” said Tucume.
“I have another idea,” Babin said, ignoring the now-useless stick. “Get in the car.”
Calvina watched the two men as they maneuvered the vehicles and the large crate, trying to push the box into the van.
The van did not belong to them. She knew this because of the way they had had to start it, jiggling with something under the hood and dashboard. She realized now that the trucks and the red car probably had not belonged to them as well and wondered if the papers were stolen, too.
Until that moment, she had trusted the
