Sensing a complicated mathematic dissertation looming, Rubens cut Johnny off.
“It’s a guess, whether the computer does it or not. But assuming this is him,” Rubens said quickly, “what did he do next?”
“His face doesn’t show up on the surveillance tapes at the exits, so it’s likely he took a flight out,” she said. “Eliminating the gates we have good views of, there are nine flights he could have taken over the next four hours. Passengers on the planes were eliminated for various reasons, if someone was making a connection with the same name, if someone used a credit card, wrong gender, known age—”
“We’ve narrowed it to thirteen people,” said Johnny Bib, for once cutting to the chase. “Thirteen—
Thirteen, of course, was a prime.
“There are four flights I think we should concentrate on,” continued Telach, doing her best to ignore Johnny Bib. “Houston, two to New York, and one to Mexico City.”
“Mexico,” said Johnny Bib.
Telach, probably nearing the end of her patience with the eccentric analyst, sighed. “Mexico was mentioned in several of the intercepts relating to al-Qaeda two months ago, and there have been a number of money transfers routed there. But—”
“And the flight number is 7-3-3,” added Bib.
More prime numbers. Rubens shuddered to think what Bing would say if she thought he committed Desk Three resources based on a crazy mathematician’s mystical appreciation of numbers.
“We need something better than that,” Rubens told Johnny Bib. “Keep working on it.”
Ordinarily, Rubens didn’t answer his personal phone when it was forwarded down to the Art Room, which it was programmed to do automatically when he was there. But it happened that he was near the phone set when it rang; glancing at the caller ID panel, he saw that the caller was Irena Hadash.
“William Rubens.”
“Oh, Bill, thank God. I didn’t know who to call. There are two FBI agents here and someone from the NSC. They’re telling me I have to surrender my computer.”
“Your computer?”
“I need it for work. I come home at three to make sure I’m home in time for Stacie; without the computer I can’t work.”
“Why are they taking your computer?”
“They’re looking for government property. I don’t understand.”
“Irena, I can’t leave where I am now,” Rubens told her. “But I’m sending my personal attorney there, James Darcey. Do absolutely nothing until he arrives. You can trust him, I assure you.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about the expense.”
“Are they going to take my computer?”
Very possibly, Rubens thought; he would have Darcey find her a replacement if that happened. Searching for something reassuring to say, Rubens told Irena that it was common for classified documents and papers to be secured after a top official’s death.
“But they did that already,” objected Irena.
“Yes. Darcey will straighten this out.”
“Will I see you later?”
“Yes.” Belatedly, he realized he had misinterpreted the question. “I’ll get there as soon as I can, but it will be hours. Unfortunately. I’m in the middle of something difficult to leave. Trust James. I’m calling him now.”
Bing had one of her aides return Rubens’ call, but this was just as well; Maria Mahon had worked with Hadash and Rubens knew her well. When he told her why he had called, Mahon’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“There are several sets of documents missing, code-word classified. They’re numbered PDF documents.”
“Surely no one thinks George’s daughter took them.”
“I don’t think that’s the point.”
No, of course not. Investigations such as this had been used in the past to throw a little mud on national security figures. It didn’t matter what the documents were. Hadash would look bad — as would those who were associated with him.
But this sort of play could easily backfire in this case, given how close the president and Hadash had been. Bing would pretend to steer clear of it, while encouraging it behind the scenes.
“What does the new director think?” Rubens tried to make his voice as neutral as possible, but evidently it didn’t work; Mahon didn’t answer right away. That told him she was, at best, neutral. He’d hoped for an ally on the inside.
“I don’t think she has an opinion. We’re supposed to cooperate, if requested.”
“I would appreciate knowing if I can do anything to assist,” said Rubens.
“I’ll keep you updated,” she said, her voice still soft. So perhaps there was hope yet.
“I’m sure George would have appreciated that,” said Rubens as he hung up. Sometimes it paid to make a direct play at emotions.
CHAPTER 109
Dusk came early to the thickly treed plantation about an hour and a half north of New Orleans. By then, four dozen federal officers — mostly from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, but with a smattering from Customs and the Marshals Service, and led by a core team of FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) agents — were aligned within striking distance of the compound. Another two dozen state police officers were preparing to shut down traffic on the nearby roads. An army reconnaissance aircraft — officially, an RC-7B four-engined Bombardier/de Havilland DHC-7 equipped with an integrated surveillance package, referred to as a “Crazy Hawk”— had flown over from Biggs Army Airfield in Texas and was circling overhead. Had there been time, the aircraft’s optical and infrared video information would have been sent to the equivalent of a small workstation on the ground; in this case, Desk Three had fashioned an uplink to the Art Room, which then radioed information not only to Lia and Karr but to the head of the HRT team and three other FBI agents selected as team leaders. Satellite communications systems allowed everyone to talk to each other. A Coast Guard Dauphin helicopter and a small Bell chopper belonging to the state police rounded out the armada.
The question was, would the force be anywhere near enough? Peering through a pair of night glasses from the front of the state police helicopter, Lia couldn’t even see the road she’d taken past the compound because of the thick vegetation shielding it. Of the three large buildings where the terrorists might be gathered, only one could be seen from the air. At least the grounds of the abandoned plantation were dry; had the terrorists located a little farther south or to the west, the swamp alone would have protected them.
“What do you say, princess?” snapped Karr over the Deep Black com system. “Ready to rock?”
Lia swept the glasses to the west, eying the clearing where Karr and four members of an FBI Hostage Rescue Team — a cross between SEAL Team 6 and a SWAT team — were to land.
“Your landing zone is clear,” she told him.
“Get those ground boys moving,” said Karr, practically singing. “We’re zero-five from touchdown.”
Karr’s intense enthusiasm irked her. Most people got dead serious before an action; Karr seemed to get jollier.
Lia gave the go-ahead to the ground units, beginning the complicated ballet. As the state police cut off access on the roads, four different teams would move toward the compound. A fifth team would arrest the two
