Threat Level Black - Страница 14

“Something other than utter. I’ve never really understood what utter meant.”

“You’re a screwup, Fisher. Whatever you touch screws up. You’re lucky the ambassador got you out of Moscow; I’d drop a dime on you myself.”

Fisher hadn’t heard the expression drop a dime since his days as a nugget agent investigating the Mob. It had a nostalgic feel which he couldn’t help but admire.

According to both the NSA and the CIA, the Russians believed that they had broken up a robbery by a group of mafiya, a story supported by the versions of the incident supplied by Dr. Park and his security agent bodyguard. The Korean government had apparently accepted that explanation. But Fisher wasn’t about to point that out to Hunter, who clearly wasn’t in the mood to accept anything short of ritual suicide as an apology for the mission’s failure. For some reason known only to Hunter, the fact that the CIA had taken over the project failed to mollify him; he considered a screwup a screwup. Fisher thought this an unusually altruistic opinion for one so committed to advancing in government service.

“You’re off the case, Fisher,” said Hunter.

“What a shock,” said Fisher.

“I’m not putting up with your sarcastic back talk any longer.”

“Does that mean I can hang up?”

Hunter was silent. Fisher thought he heard him murmuring to himself. It sounded as if he was counting to ten, though Fisher knew for a fact that Hunter couldn’t count that high.

“Homeland Security has requested you be assigned to them,” said Hunter finally. “I’m granting their request.”

“What?”

“Work with Macklin on his task force.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I don’t kid, Fisher.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to report?”

“Macklin is up in New York somewhere. Use your alleged detecting skills and find him,” said Hunter. “I swear, Fisher, if it were up to me, you’d be on a Coast Guard cutter in the Bering Strait, guarding icebergs.”

* * *

Roughly twenty hours later Fisher arrived at National Airport in Washington, D.C., bedraggled, grouchy, and in need of a shave — pretty much top form for any special agent. Technically he was off duty, en route to the special Homeland Security-DIA task force in the New York Metropolitan area. But Justice took no holiday. So he wasn’t surprised to find her screaming when he walked through the lobby at National Airport.

“Fisher. FBI,” he said, flashing his credentials at the two airport cops holding Justice by the arms. “What’s up?”

“We caught her smoking,” said one of the officers. “Then she went ballistic.”

“I did not. You grabbed me—”

Fisher pointed at her. “You got cigarettes?”

“That’s a federal offense?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” said Fisher. He turned to locals. “You have an interview room, right?”

“Well, uh, yeah, but usually we just give a citation and confiscate the smokes.” He held up an entire carton of cigarettes.

“I’ll take them as evidence,” said Fisher. He recalled now that the interview room was down the corridor behind the plain white door marked Private to his right, and took a step toward it.

“I’m not going with you,” said the woman.

Fisher turned and looked at her. He knew her type well; all he had to do was squint slightly and hold up the carton of Salem Lights — no accounting for taste in a felon — and she shut up. The airport cops, however, began burbling about procedures.

“Not a problem. It’s my case,” said Fisher as he nudged the suspect along, heading down the corridor and into the interview room.

Where he pulled out a chair, sat down, and lit up one of his own cigarettes.

“You really have to watch yourself,” he told Justice, whose full name was Maureen Justice and whom Fisher knew, albeit vaguely, as the traffic helicopter pilot for WKDC, a local AM radio station. “ Salem Lights? People have been shot for less.”

“At National Airport?”

“Damn straight. I mean, granted, most of the people around here who have guns are federal employees, so odds are that they wouldn’t hit you even if they emptied their magazines, but you never know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Maureen. She took the carton and removed the top pack, which she’d opened earlier. “I owe you one, huh?”

“Big time,” said Fisher. “And don’t think I won’t collect.”

“Anytime, Andy,” she said, blowing a perfect circle into the air. “Anytime.”

Chapter 3

Blitz had somehow managed to forget that he had invited Howe to have lunch with him Monday until the Secret Service people called up to his office. He decided to have him come up, even though going out for lunch would be impossible: The NSC had scheduled a meeting on Korea at one, and he was supposed to go over to the Intelligence Council immediately afterward. And he was just about to take part in a phone conference with the head of the CIA and the field agent who had managed to botch the snatch of the E-bomb scientist in Moscow.

In fact, he was deep in conversation with the CIA people when Howe walked into the office.

“Sit, sit,” he told him, waving him into a nearby chair as he listened to a report of the botched mission. “Mozelle will have something sent in.”

Howe shrugged and sat down.

“He was attending the sort of conferences that you would attend if you were interested in disabling electrical systems on a wide-scale basis,” said Madison, the CIA officer in charge of the operation. He’d been asked whether the scientist was really in a position to know about E-bombs. “We have some blanks on his background, but he could have helped design a weapon. Whether he would know about its distribution or not is an open question. And we haven’t turned up anything on delivery systems related to this.”

One of the CIA desk officers picked up Madison ’s thread, recounting NSA intercepts related to the scientist. The North Koreans had accepted the Russian explanation that a rogue mafiya group had tried to hold up the foreigners and the local militsiya had saved the day, thanks to a phone tip from the restaurant, which the Korean bodyguard claimed to have made but which the U.S. had been unable to trace. Nonetheless, there were sure to be repercussions for the scientist as well as the security people.

“What about the DIA reports?” asked Blitz. “Do we have anything new?”

He glanced over at Howe on the chair nearby. The colonel was wearing the same suit he’d worn the week before. More than likely it was the only suit he owned.

“We’re working on a new batch of intercepts,” one of the NSA people said over the conference line. “We should have them in time for the afternoon NSC session.”

“But we’re agreed there’s a threat?” said Blitz.

“There is a threat. The question is how severe.”

“Where would they use the weapon?” he asked.

“Drop it over Seoul and the place goes dark for six months,” said one of the CIA experts.

“And if they can smuggle it over here?” asked Blitz.

“Same thing. But we have nothing to indicate that they have, beyond the DIA’s suspicions.”

Blitz frowned and leaned back in the seat.

* * *

Howe shifted uneasily, waiting for Blitz to get off the phone and consciously willing himself not to listen to the conversation.

He’d made up his mind Sunday that he wasn’t taking the job. And it had nothing to do with the money.

He’d taken a long walk around the National Mall on Saturday. Nearly deserted because of the late-winter cold, it had helped remind him of the importance of what happened in Washington. The memorials to Lincoln and Jefferson, the stark Washington Monument, the FDR Memorial, the sleek sadness of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial-duty had a somber weight here, an importance beyond the lunches and VIP tours.

Standing in front of the Reflecting Pool, gazing at the Lincoln Memorial, he had asked himself why he was hesitating to make a decision. Ordinarily he made decisions quickly and firmly. It was partly natural inclination, partly training as a pilot. You set your course and then proceeded.

And yet, he had hesitated over this. He had to admit it: Even though he knew he didn’t want the job, the lure of the money and the trappings of power were enticing.

As was the sense of duty.

Howe watched Blitz on the phone. The national security advisor alternated between frowning and nodding his head, until finally he signed off from the conversation.

“Very well,” said Blitz. “Get back to me then.”

Blitz swiveled around and slapped the button on the panel behind his desk, killing the connection. Then he jumped up and extended his hand to Howe. The effect was comical, and Howe felt himself smiling despite his best effort to maintain a serious demeanor.

“How are you, Colonel? Have a good weekend?”

“It’s been fine,” said Howe. “How about yourself?”

“Going crazy,” said Blitz. “ Korea has us shaking our heads. One second it looks as if it’s going to implode; the next it seems ready to launch World War III. We’re trying to stay on top of the situation.” He paused, and Howe thought he had decided he’d said too much. But then he continued: “The question is how much risk to take in retrieving information. How to make it proportional to the payoff.”