Blacklist Aftermath

27

Fisher caught himself holding his breath as Charlie brought up the I-70 traffic cams from Topeka. They watched as the lead thorium truck was directed off the highway and toward a dirt lot behind a row of warehouses. From there, Charlie switched to the ghost truck’s dash cam, where the driver tapped a command into his keyboard, hit the panic button, then hopped out of the cab.

The SMI next lit up with similar traffic cam footage from the other trucks scattered across the United States, all seven being directed to areas away from the highway to disable their vehicles. Fisher watched one driver in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and the SMI noted that a detonation there would have effectively closed the I-24, I-75, and I-59 interchange, where three hazmat trucking routes converged. Chattanooga’s 180,000 citizens would’ve been thrust into a radioactive hell, even as the Tennessee River carried contamination southwest into Alabama and Mississippi. He could barely imagine what would happen if all eight had gone up simultaneously.

“Madame President, we need a thorough investigation into the Yucca Mountain site security,” said Grim. “Hazmat and EOD teams need to search every one of the trucks. The thorium needs to be removed and transferred to secondary trailers.”

“We’ll be on that immediately,” said Caldwell. “And, Mr. Kasperov, if we do find explosives aboard any of those trucks, then you realize that what you did today saved thousand of lives.”

“Thank you, Madame President. But you must understand that oligarchs have little tolerance for failure.”

“What do you mean?”

Kasperov frowned, glanced at the team, then spoke evenly, “I mean it’s not over. I believe they sent one man to oversee operation, triggerman if you will. He would locate one or more of trucks using spotters along route. He would wait until best moment to destroy them.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying I know this man, and right now, he’s calling his bosses in Moscow for instructions.”

“What instructions?”

Kasperov’s expression turned grave. “Mr. Fisher, there is always plan B.”

Fisher lost his breath. “We need to find this guy — right now!”

“The NSA’s got tabs on all the big players in Russia,” said Grim. She faced Kasperov. “I need to pursue those names you gave us.”

Kasperov closed his eyes. “Some of these men were once my friends.”

“Not anymore,” said Fisher.

“Can I borrow a computer?” he asked resignedly. “I will help you.”

Briggs rose from his station and escorted Kasperov to his chair, where the man sat and began typing in the names he’d given them: Perov, the arms manufacturer; Yanayev, the aerospace mogul; and Kargin, the investment banker. Charlie and Grim were already patched into his screen, and Grim directed the SMI to access the NSA’s databases and began searching the phone records of those three men, keying in on calls placed within the hour between Moscow and anywhere in the United States. Charlie was monitoring the same feed.

“Got something,” he said. “Gotta be it. It’s the only one. Call coming in to a dacha outside Moscow, one of Kargin’s lines. Well, this is strange. Call was placed from the Omni Houston Hotel at Westside. But it’s not a smartphone. Long distance using the room phone.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” asked Grim.

“Maybe he thinks he’s been compromised already,” said Fisher. “Didn’t want to use his own phone. Maybe that phone was the trigger.”

“Either way we would’ve traced him, so it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. “I’m already in the hotel, bringing up the security cameras.”

“Flight deck, change course. Get us to Houston,” said Fisher.

“Roger that,” said the pilot. “Any plans to land or just recon?”

“I’ll let you know. What’s our ETA?”

“We’re already in the gulf with a significant tailwind. You want me to crank it up, I’ll get you there in less than twenty minutes.”

“Roger that. Top speed.” Fisher swung around to regard Grim. “Any of the trucks near Houston?”

“No. Not sure why he picked that location. Just random, maybe. Wouldn’t matter where he was if he planned to remote detonate via cell or satellite phone.”

“Check this out, guys,” said Charlie, transferring the hotel’s security camera footage to the overhead screens.

A group of three men were hurrying down a hallway. They were dressed in designer suits and were led by a fourth, an older man, at least sixty, with a gray widow’s peak and carrying a briefcase.

Charlie froze the image and zoomed in on their faces.

“That’s him,” said Kasperov, pointing out the gray-haired man. “I know him only by his nickname, ‘Chern.’”

“Facial recognition in progress,” said Charlie as the image was immediately cut and lifted out of the footage to run against hundreds of thousands of others captured within the Russian Federation.

“Wow, this guy’s really underground,” said Charlie. “Usually get a hit within seconds.”

“He’s supposed to be member of SBP, Presidential Security Service, but he serves unofficially as President Treskayev’s courier. I suppose even this is not true anymore. He’s left to work for oligarchs.”

“And to be honest, sir, I don’t think he ever worked for the SBP,” said Charlie. “We’ve got good records of that organization, and if he’s been there a long time, trust me, we’d have his face.”

Charlie switched to the exterior views from the hotel, and they watched Chern and his men climb into a slate blue Infiniti G37 luxury sedan. Charlie ordered the camera to zoom in and got the tag number. “Rental car out of the airport. Got the record here. Bogus ID and credit card.”

“Charlie, we can’t lose him,” said Fisher.

“We could have local authorities pick him up,” said Briggs.

“He’s already spooked, and he’s too important to trust with some local yokels. Plus we’ve got operational security to consider. Let’s see if we can get to him first.”

“I agree,” said Grim. “We’ll keep Houston police and the local feds on standby.”

“They’re on I-10,” said Charlie. “Just got him on the traffic camera. But they’re heading west, away from the airport.”

Grim zoomed in on the SMI’s map. “The executive airport’s about eighteen miles west of the hotel.”

“Flight plans of everything coming in and out of there,” said Grim.

“I’ll pull those,” said Briggs.

Kasperov rose from his chair and, still staring at the monitors, drifted over to Fisher and muttered in Russian, “This is quite a team you have.”

Fisher nodded. “If you would’ve told me last year I’d be working with them, I would’ve laughed at you.”

“And why is that?”

“Being a team player’s not exactly my MO.”

“I understand. I spent most of my life alone, behind a computer — and now I’m beginning to regret it. But I guess it’s not too late… for either of us.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Hey, Grim, there’s a private charter on the ground that’s fueling up right now,” said Briggs. “Flight plan shows it’s heading to Denver.”

“And from there they fly up to Anchorage and on to Russia,” said Grim.

“Flight deck, get us to the Houston Executive Airport,” said Fisher. “Briggs, get ahold of that charter pilot. Tell him I want to speak to him.”

“You got it.”

“Sounds like you have a plan,” said Grim with a gleam in her eyes.