they looked beautiful.
128
“Town police in Wellington, Pennsylvania, are asking for a license plate ID on a Forester. A Subaru Forester!”
The shout from one of the people at the back of the Art Room was like a bolt of lightning. Everyone stopped what they were doing.
“New York plate,” added the young man, instantly depressed. An assistant computer scientist, he had been pressed into work as a monitor, using a computer tool that watched queries on the various state motor vehicle departments to see if any matched the Deep Black watch lists. He punched the keys to capture the plate number, then thumbed through a menu of state registrations for a search through a Department of Transportation connection arranged when the crisis began.
“Oh my God! This is something! The plate comes from a Nissan Maxima, not a Subaru. This is something.”
Telach walked over to the young man and put her hand on his shoulder. The Forester was a small SUV, with an interior capacity that could just squeeze the weapon inside.
“Easy, Peter. Let’s do this together.” She knelt down next to him and hit one of the function keys, bringing up ID data on the local police agency. “Call the dispatcher on the Homeland Security line and ask for the vehicle ID. Then check it against the stolen vehicles.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Peter, pounding on a numeric keypad.
Telach tapped a large red button that sent the data to a window on Rockman’s console.
“They already have the number,” said Peter. He punched it into the computer. A second after he hit the enter key, the screen blinked back with a long list; one line in the middle was highlighted.
The vehicle was registered to a man in Texas, who lived a few miles from where the abandoned truck had been found.
“Jeff, get Charlie down to look at this car right away,” said Telach.
She glanced down at her belt and hit the key on her communications set to alert Rubens that she needed him.
129
“You ever hear of a place called Wellington?” Dean asked Daniels.
“Little town outside of Philadelphia. It was mostly farms ten years ago,” said the state trooper.
“We have to get there. Local police found a car that was stolen in the same area that the truck from Mexico was found.”
“How come they haven’t reported it?”
“They’re doing it right now,” said Dean, reaching to the switch to connect with the pilot. “Trust me on this — like I say, my information is always a little ahead of the curve.”
The big helicopter scattered dirt and papers before it as it fluttered down in the small lot near the road of the county highway. Dean hopped out, trotting toward the row of revolving police lights nearby. Two sheriff ’s deputies met him; Daniels and two of his aides trailed behind.
“Where’s the vehicle?” said Dean.
They led him to a battered Subaru Forester, surrounded by local detectives and policemen.
“You FBI?” asked a white-haired man in a blue uniform.
“Dean. I work with Homeland Security.”
“I’m Chief Dalton. We’re waiting for some crime scene people from the state police.”
“Yeah, they’re on their way. That’s Daniels, from the state police,” Dean said, thumbing behind him as the captain huffed across the macadam. “He’s in charge of the task force.”
Dean took his phone out as he walked over to the car so he could talk to Rockman without looking too peculiar. He bent down in front of the car, reading the New York license plate for verification and examining the front of the car. It looked as if it had been in a light fender bender. Bits of wood were stuck in the front grille. Dean stepped back, looking around.
“Part of a broken crutch.” he told Rockman, walking toward it.
“Mr. Dean, this is Rubens. Describe the crutch as precisely as you can for Mr. Rockman. Then please do two things. Find out if there are any tire tracks or other indications of what sort of vehicle the weapon was loaded into —”
“It’s asphalt pavement. No tracks.”
“I see. Then please describe the pieces of wood you mention to Mr. Rockman, and any other items at the scene, inside and outside of the car. Any items at all.”
Rubens walked to the front of the Art Room and stood over the communications console. He put his finger on the button of a voice-only scrambled phone, connecting himself to George Hadash in the situation room under the White House.
“We have evidence that Babin has reached the Philadelphia area.”
“The warhead?”
“We have no direct evidence of the warhead. However, we have wood that might have been part of a crate. I urge a full Red Sky alert at this time.”
130
“Tommy, this is Rubens.”
“Hey, boss,” said Karr. “Got something?”
“We’ve discovered a vehicle we believe Babin used about twenty miles southwest of Philadelphia. Mr. Dean is there now. The president is going to declare a Red Sky alert.”
“OK.”
“Instruct your pilot to proceed outside of the probable shock area. Mr. Rockman will give you precise directions.”
“Boss—”
“Stay outside of the danger area until the weapon is located. You understand.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“I have something more. Stand by. Mr. Bibleria’s people are just presenting me with information.”
“Lia, check this out,” said Karr, poking her in the back with his handheld computer.
She turned around and took the device. The screen was filled with text.
“What am I looking at?”
“They found a vehicle in Pennsylvania they think Babin used. We have to stay away from Philadelphia. This is some data about someone the police a couple of towns over picked up on the highway, nearby according to Johnny Bib. She’s from Peru. Gotta be a connection. Talk to Telach while I get our flight plan worked out with the pilot.”
Lia looked at the information. According to the bulletin, which had been shared over one of the Homeland Security information sites, the young woman — Calvina Adnese, according to her passport — was nineteen. Her
