Blood Covenent, page 30
“You said you had something special—unique almost,” rasped Aswad. His larynx had been partially crushed as a child when the Israeli A-4’s struck back for a kaytusha rocket attack. The little man skittered across the room.
Fakih spread his hands wide. “Special and unique,” he promised. He reached for the remote control lying carelessly on his desk. “And as of today—proven,” he proclaimed. Fakih pressed the power switch. The motor on the VCR clicked to life and the television set powered on. “This happened in America yesterday,” he explained.
The screen displayed the satellite imagery broadcast on CNN from LANDSAT-5 satellite. The brilliant fireball flashed, followed by the darkening cloud filled with debris. The cloud spread like an angry wine stain across a maize-green tablecloth. He let the tape run for a full minute before switching the power off. Fakih licked his lips and hoped Chaim was sure of his strategy.
Aswad turned towards Fakih. His black eyes blazed. “You have one?”
Fakih nodded.
“How much?”
Fakih named his price, an amount that would strain Aswad’s resources, but not break him completely. Chaim suggested that whoever acquired the weapon would probably never be heard from again. Looking at the screen, Fakih understood the sentiment.
CHAPTER 30
New York City
Sunday, July 18, 1999
3:00 P.M. EDT
Harper flipped through the printer pages reading emails Scott Greg had printed out for the seventeen accounts they had identified. They were sorted according to account name and date, and it amounted to a tidy heap. Scotty had retrieved data for the last month. It was tedious to spend a lovely Sunday afternoon, flipping through people’s correspondence. It made him feel dirty.
Harper had spent the morning at a small Baptist church before driving over to Scott’s office. He felt cleansed, standing with a hymnal and listening to a sermon. His thoughts were diverted from the rising pressure to make a connection and find his demon traipsing across the countryside with nuclear bombs. A few short hours later, the Peace of Christ and the promise of salvation seemed so terribly far away. He felt guilty because Lynn would be praying for his safety, and he had forgotten to even call home last night.
He was two-thirds through the pile when he glanced at the next message and noted the user signed off asHarlequin. He paused, staring at the user handle on the page. His breath caught in his throat. He flipped back a page and read:
Trump Tower failed. Staging both teams to active targets. Expect results in the next 10 days against targets 2 and 3.
Harlequin
He looked at the email header and found the account number. He reread the message. It was sent to another user based in the Caribbean. Probably an anonymous remailer site Harper concluded. An anonymous remailer site is an Internet server designed to hide the identity of the mail’s originator from the rest of cyberspace. He pursed his lips and tapped Scotty on the shoulder.
Scotty was wearing an NRA/ILA ball cap and a T-shirt that read: PEACE THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER. The image of an AK-47 with its distinctive banana-shaped magazine suggested Scott’s political incorrectness.
“This one,” said Harper pointing at the address. “I want everything you’ve got.”
Scotty glanced at the account number, turned back to his terminal and clicked his mouse a couple of times until the customer information form emerged on the screen. “We use SQL Server as our database and Access as a front end,” explained Scotty. “Sometimes we even claim we’re a Microsoft solution provider,” he added with a wink.
He clicked the printer icon and spun to the HP LaserJet printer perched precariously next to his Foster Lager pyramid. He handed the sheet over to Harper and said, “What do you want, exactly?”
Harper stared at the form in his hand. It was a blind account with a corporate name attached, probably another dummy corporation that existed in someone’s imagination. He followed the form to payment information and found the account was prepaid for a year. The easy ways to trace it were quickly evaporating.
“How often does he connect? And for how long?” asked Harper. A sour taste filled the spot under his tongue. It was the same phantom he sensed when he killed the twins and examined the photographs Harvey gave him. It was the eyes. They never came into focus in any of the pictures. They were blurry, hooded, or obscured by sunglasses. It was almost tactile to Harper now. He found himself sitting in Yankee Stadium considering what he would do to make the biggest blast, and then it occurred to him.
This creature that killed without remorse and sent children to prosecute his war was just like Harper. The bogus corporations, the layered bank accounts, the dead ends on the email, and the constant distance he maintained were things Harper would do. Moving the weapon by a third party was a stroke of genius. He used a totally disconnected third party to perform the transfer—
Harper caught his breath and asked, “You got a Yellow Pages?”
Scotty shrugged and started to bring up the Internet site for the New York area. “No, I need the book.”
“This is faster.”
Harper nodded, “Yes, I realize it is, but he used a book.”
“Who?”
Harper stared at the email in his hand and whispered, “Harlequin.” He had a name and a face. Harper flexed his fingers. His phantom was taking shape from the shadows.
Scotty cocked his head sideways. “Hey, you okay?”
Harper snapped back to the present. “Yes, never better.”
“I think they got one at the receptionist desk. You want me to get it?”
Harper shook his head. “No, no you keep at what you’re doing. I’ll get it.”
He found the Yellow Pages in one of side drawers. He flipped through until he came to a spot between FLORISTS and FUNERALS. The list labeled FREIGHT, LIGHT stared back him from the pages. So, what poor soul ended up carting your bomb to Westchester?
“Hey, Jim,” shouted Scotty.
Harper stared back down the darkened corridors. He cut the page out of the Yellow Pages and started back to Scotty’s cube. “Yeah?”
“I got another email!”
Harper started running.
Scotty looked up from his terminal and said, “This is what it says: ‘The New York attacks have failed. Proceeding to Boston and Washington. Expect greater success soon. Harlequin.’”
Harper pulled Scotty out of his chair and settled down behind the terminal. He looked at the black on white letters glowing on the screen. He turned back to Scotty and said, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his wallet, “Go get yourself a pizza.” He pushed the money at Scotty.
Scotty looked at the money and protested, “But, I’m not hungry—”
“Go!” commanded Harper.
“But why—”
Harper turned again explaining, “Because I don’t want to ruin your life. I don’t want you here now. Go get a pizza and forget about me.”
“You ain’t a cop,” said Scotty.
Harper shook his head. “Never said I was.”
“Then what are you?”
Harper sighed, “Someone who doesn’t exist. Look, you seem like an okay guy, and you’ve help me a lot, but I need you to vanish for an hour.”
“You ain’t gonna torch the system are you?”
Harper smiled. “No.” Then he added quietly, “On my word of honor, I won’t hurt your system.”
“But I need to vanish?”
“Now.”
“One hour?”
Harper nodded.
“Will you be here when I get back?”
Harper shook his head.
“And if I find any more emails?”
“Call me.”
Scotty smiled. “Then you ain’t mad at me.”
“Hardly.”
Scotty nodded, “I don’t understand it all, and maybe that’s part of the story, but thanks for the twenty.”
He headed down the darkened corridors, and Harper followed him to the door. He grabbed some strapping tape from the packing room and bound the handles for the entryway doors tight, before he turned back to Scotty’s cubical.It was time to go to war. First, he picked up the phone and dialed Louis Edwards’ number, then he started working on Scotty’s terminal. He had a face and a name. Thirty minutes later he finished, or rather, it had started. Harper was reaching out through cyberspace to catchthe Terror of Tehran.
* * * *
Menorca, Spain
The Mediterranean breeze cooled the northern coast of Menorca. The fortified estate’s evening lights blazed for the moment. The German shepherd and Doberman pinscher canines ran free in the darker and wilder areas of the compound. Stray rabbits and ground squirrels trespassed at their own risk. Buried inside one of the subbasements was a two-man team monitoring the perimeter motion sensors, FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) green monitors and personnel beacons used to track men and dogs. A small IBM RS-6000 managed the basic process control for the security perimeter.
Yevgeny Yarovitsin flipped the business card between his fingers. He no longer used his birth name. He preferred to be thought of as an extravagant Italian or Frenchman—never really correcting either impression—who enjoyed his privacy. He swirled the expensive cognac in his snifter and reread the inscription: Kudrik and Associates. He had not thought about theJew for a long time. He looked back to his guest standing in the shadow of two Basque bodyguards. Their Benelli automatic shotguns ready to obliterate the slight man who walked with a limp.
Chaim Wanberg studied the former KGB officer. The fireplace flickered orange and yellow light across the expansive living room. It reflected well off the polished hardwood floors and ebony grand piano. The crystal goblets and rare artwork, some of it even stolen, watched the scene quietly. Yarovitsin was older than the photographs Chaim had on file, but he was obviously the same man.
Yevgeny flicked his hand and the two shotgun-wielding men vanished silently from the room. He beckoned Chaim further into his lair and said, “Kudrik is an old and established name. How is it you are associated with him?”
Chaim stepped forward until Yevgeny held up his hand indicating he should sit in a particular chair. Once seated he said, “You could say you and I have worked in similar jobs, albeit for different employers.”
Yevgeny set the snifter down and settled into a facing chair. “What line of work might that be?”
“Secrets,” whispered Chaim.
Yevgeny flipped the card to the corner table and slung a leg over the arm of the easy chair he was sitting in. “You come to my house, present me with a card—designed to generate some interest—and walk amongst my people. What makes you think you’ll walk out of here alive?”
Chaim looked around the impressive room again before answering, “If I don’t, then my people will avenge my life, and yours will be worthless.”
Yevgeny considered the older man again. “Now, you propose to threaten me.”
Chaim waited out the uncomfortable silence and realized Yevgeny was waiting for a flinch. “Perhaps we could cut to the heart of the matter.”
“Ah,” murmured Yevgeny. “The reason for the card and your subterfuge. Yes, what will you offer me to keep your life?”
“Nothing,” Chaim said flatly. “I came here on business. I offer you a straight business proposition.”
Yevgeny picked up his snifter and sipped the cognac. “I’m listening.”
“Where are the bombs you planted in Israel?”
Yevgeny narrowed his eyes, and said, “What bombs?”
“David Kudrik’s bombs. The ones he developed at Arzamas-16. The ones you placed across Europe, Asia, and the United States. The ones you’ve been selling to the highest bidder.Those bombs, ” answered Chaim. He felt surprisingly calm.
“Ah,” murmured Yevgeny again. This one was very well informed. He reconsidered his instinct to let him live. It occurred to him that he might have to flee Menorca. “Why should I tell you?” he demanded.
“I’ll give you three reasons. First, I’m prepared to pay for the information, but it had better be accurate. Second, I’ll respect your privacy and leave you in peace. Third, I won’t tell your former employers or the Americans where you are. You did catch the news last night?”
Yevgeny swung his leg off the chair, remembering Michael Rehazi and the time in Geneva. A tremor rippled down his arm. Were the Iranians foolish enough to use a bomb against the Americans? True, the American President had proven his ineptitude many times, but even he would be forced to respond. “What news?’ he asked cautiously.
“The video tape I brought with me.” Chaim glanced about the room before finding it standing upright on a desk. “Why don’t you play it?” he suggested.
Yevgeny stared at the tape as if a king cobra was slowly bobbing and weaving upwards from the desktop. He stood unsteadily and forced strength back into his legs. He found himself back in Andropov’s Kremlin apartments. Korean Airlines flight 007 had been shot down a few days prior and Major Yarovitsin was holding a list for seventy-five nuclear weapons in his hands. He had asked:
“Do you have a target list in mind?”
Andropov’s eyes blazed. “Terror! I want terror and fear sitting across from me at the negotiating table.”
He pushed the videotape cassette into the VCR and powered up the large screen television. Had Rehazi unleashed the terror? Was fear now manifesting itself in the world’s most potent nuclear arsenal?
The machine came to life and the same CNN clip Fakih Al-Zeid had played for his client danced across the sixty-inch screen in vivid horror.
“Two things you should know about this. The American advanced warning satellites identified this a nuclear detonation and confirmed using spectrum analysis that the bomb’s origin is Soviet. The other thing they are claiming, although I really don’t know how long this will last, is that this explosion was the result of a massive natural gas line rupture. I suppose some people will believe it, but not everyone.
“Oh, one other thing,” added Chaim as an afterthought. “The Americans almost launched a first strike retaliation against Russia. Your former employer’s nuclear forces are on a war footing and the Russian President has been moved to Yamantau. You know, the civilian leadership’s bunker complex eight-hundred-fifty miles east of Moscow. These are some very pissed off people.”
Chaim observed Yevgeny’s hunched shoulders and the sweat forming along his spinal column as it bled through the expensive silk shirt. “I’m not really sure who would like to talk with you more—the Americans or the Russians, but the conversation certainly wouldn’t be pleasant.”
Yevgeny turned back to Chaim, holding a pistol in his hands, and Chaim said quietly, “If I don’t walk out of here, the Americans will be told about you within the hour. If your idea of fun is playing tag with the Sixth Fleet, be my guest. There are other ways to handle this. Like I said, I only want to know about Israel’s weapons, and I’m willing to pay two million dollars for the answer, plus the other—incentives.”
Yevgeny waggled the pistol then dropped it on the desktop. The weapon bought him nothing. “Keep your money, Jew,” he snarled. He was already considering what he would take and what he would leave behind. He walked over to another spot in the room and touched a panel. It slid back revealing his computer. A few short keystrokes later, the location of the Tel Aviv weapon rolled out of the printer. He tossed the paper at Chaim and said menacingly, “Keep to your word Jew. I have ways of hunting you down as well.”
Chaim nodded and walked out the door. The database containing the location of everything Yevgeny knew about was probably small enough to fit on a floppy disk. No doubt, it would vanish from the computer Chaim had just seen before the night ended. A tempting morsel, but Chaim had what he needed to keep Israel secure.
CHAPTER 31
Washington, D.C.
Monday, July 19, 1999
9:00 A.M. EDT
The beltway bristled with Monday morning commuter traffic. The Metro trains left their suburban stations bound for the federal government’s heartbeat. Some who detrained at Crystal City or the Pentagon knew about a readiness alert called on Friday afternoon. Others, who had spent a white-knuckled weekend watching the movement of Russian strategic forces, the dance of tanker aircraft with the B-52 and B-2 bombers inside the Arctic Circle, and the heavily-coded message traffic fromLooking Glass, realized how close they had come to the unthinkable.
The vast majority of Americans lost interest in a story about a gas line explosion in Connecticut, and a substantial percentage were busy pursuing their summer vacations. The twenty-four hour news cycle focused its myopic attention on the death of John Kennedy, his wife, and her sister four-and-half-miles off Martha’s Vineyard. With morbid fascination, the news channels followed the tragic end to a young man’s life. Baggage, wreckage and search vessels provided the images reported during the weekend. The administration looked for a way to insinuate itself into the story and turn a public family’s private tragedy into the nation’s. The national drama would continue to play into the next weekend, and any remnants of a pipeline explosion would be localized.
The Connecticut story was not pursued with the same rabid fascination accorded school shootings or the latest bombing campaign. A terrible tragedy, and certainly a fair warning about mending America’s aging infrastructure of gas pipe lines, bridges, and sewer systems. For the truly inquisitive, promises or threats were made as required. The crisis of American infrastructure and the predictable billions it would cost to address the problem did not make compelling weekend television.
The gas line explosion story quietly made its way off the television screen and retreated to the back pages of theWashington Post . The unruly Internet news sites that no one could control printed their stories and a sizeable audience read them along with their email on Monday morning. Even the mavericks could not get anything beyond the tight-lipped FEMA news releases. The early announcement about a bomb flickered briefly on the newswires before being replaced by the more accurate and boring pipeline story. Eventually, someone would check to see who owned the pipeline, and discover the only thing buried in Westchester Connecticut was the truth.
