Blindfold Game

JANUARY

HUGH COULD BARELY WALK when the Federal Express DC-10 rolled to a stop at Stevens International in Anchorage. It had taken eight hours and change en route from Tokyo, crammed into the cargo net seat the crew had hung from the fuselage. The ambience of the airplane, one enormous cavern crammed with pallets and igloos lashed down with a spaghetti-like construction of webbing and belts, was not enhanced by what seemed a preponderance of crates of chickens. Every time the airplane hit an air pocket the chickens clucked and shrieked and little feathers floated out through the cracks of the crates. Hugh would inhale one of the feathers and wake up in the middle of a sneezing fit. Why the hell anyone would air-freight chickens to America was beyond him. He would have thought there were already plenty in residence.

He was cold, too, having only the lightweight jacket he started out with in Washington three days before. Four days? Or was it five, with the delay in finding a plane going in the right direction? He’d lost track, and besides he was going back over the date line again. Even if he was right about how long he’d been on the road, he was going to be wrong about what day it was when he got there.

This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He’d signed up for a silver Aston Martin, a Walther PPK and a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Not to mention Halle Berry in a bikini. Not barely endurable trips in flying warehouses. Not making end runs around a boss too motivated by politics and patronage to be effective. And most especially not duct-taping people to chairs and beating on them with claw hammers.

He stumbled down the stairs the ground crew brought to the forward door and almost ran into Frank Clifton, captain of the aircraft.

“Whoa there,” Frank said, steadying him.

“Sorry, Frank,” Hugh said. Frank looked cheerful and well rested. Hugh hated him. He mustered up what shreds of civility he had left and managed a smile. “I appreciate the ride.”

Frank shrugged. “My pleasure. Lucky I was on my way back from Manila when you called the office.”

“I know.”

Hugh had inherited Frank from the previous holder of his job. Frank Clifton had flown cargo for Flying Tigers and now flew DC-10s for FedEx. Agents and case managers became very adept at finding pilots who would turn a blind eye at an extra body riding in the back of their jets. It was a useful option in intelligence gathering in that cargo jets went everywhere, including places passenger jets would never dream of landing, and it was very cost effective, usually entailing a bottle of Glen-morangie, paid for out of petty cash. Management probably knew all about it but turned a blind eye, because you never knew when helping out your government was going to translate into another federal subsidy, which couldn’t hurt the golden parachute waiting for the CEO to don and bail.

The pilot regarded him quizzically. “So, what’s the big emergency, buddy boy?” He reflected. “Well, not that a ride in last class on a commercial liner is much better these days.”

“I can’t say,” Hugh said. “Not yet, anyway. It’s important though, Frank. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He managed another smile. “I gotta go.”

“Need a ride?”

Hugh blinked at him, and then around at the spread-out, much-added -to package-sorting warehouse, the huge hangar built to annual DC-10s, the seven-he counted-other DC-10s lined up in a proud row on the tarmac outside. It was dark, with stars and a hint of pale green aurora on the northern horizon. The cold seared the insides of his nostrils and he hunched his shoulders inside his sport jacket and tried not to let his teeth chatter. January in Alaska. He’d forgotten. “What time is it, anyway?”

Frank consulted an enormous silver watch the size of a horse’s hoof, bristling with accessory rings and function knobs. It looked like it could jam the Internet all by itself. “Five thirty-seven.”

“What day is it here?”

Frank looked at him with a sapient eye. “January ninth. Do you need a ride or not? I’ve got my truck in the lot.”

Hugh forced his tired mind to think. “Let me make a phone call first, okay?” He fumbled for his cell phone.

“Sure, but no point in making it in the cold.” Frank led the way to a door leading into a small room in the main office building. It was furnished with some shabby couches and a couple of beat-up coffee tables. A counter held a sink and a coffeepot and a miniature refrigerator, and copies of Northern Pilot and Aviation Week and Penthouse littered every available surface. It was warm, that was the main thing, and the warmth made Hugh realize just how cold he had been. His hands shook as he punched in an autodial number on his cell phone, and it was only by clenching his teeth together that he kept them from chattering.

The number answered on the third ring. A warm contralto voice said drowsily, “Hello?”

“Lilah? It’s Hugh.”

“Hugh? What are you- What time is it?” There were rustling sounds. “Hugh Rincon, it’s not even six a.m.!”

“I know, I’m sorry. Is Kyle there?”

“Who is it, honey?” he heard Kyle’s voice say.

“It’s Hugh,” she told him.

“Hugh?” Kyle said into the phone. “Where the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing calling at the crack of dawn?” Kyle’s voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Sara? Your folks?”

“No, nothing like that. I have to talk to you, Kyle, right away.”

“Are you in Anchorage?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you at your office.”

“For crissake, just come to the house.”

“No,” Hugh said. “The office. I’m grabbing a ride, I’ll meet you there.”

“Hugh-”

“Fifteen minutes.” Hugh hung up, and followed Frank outside to a brand-new Dodge Ram Power Wagon. Frank was believer in conspicuous consumption. The truck seemed to ride at least ten feet above the ground. Hugh struggled in, muttered, “FBI headquarters, Sixth and A,” and passed out before the truck had warmed up enough for Frank to judge it safe to be put into drive.

Hugh had spent the hours prior to departure from Tokyo on the phone with the director in Langley, who stubbornly refused to connect the dots, the same dots Hugh had spent the last two months painstakingly tracing in a trail that led from the bombing in Pattaya Beach, the sighting of Fang and Noortman there, to Peter the Wolf in Odessa, to Harvey Mott’s report, to Hugh’s shakedown of Noortman in Hong Kong, who in his terror had confirmed much of this continuing story and who had added a whole new chapter that Hugh had utterly failed to sell to his boss. At this point Hugh was frantic to find a true believer.

“If it was Egypt, Hugh, my boy, or Iran,” the director had said in benevolent tones, “why, that kind of rumor I could see, that I could generate interest in.”

In the White House, Hugh correctly deduced, but by then he was angry enough to be indiscreet. “Sir, this isn’t a rumor. We have confirmed reports of Korean terrorists training in al-Qaida camps-”

“Do you have proof of al-Qaida involvement in this particular operation?” the director said sharply.

Hugh set his teeth. “No, sir.”

The director lost interest. “Hugh, I think it’s time for you to come home. Let us debrief you, get all the facts laid out on the table-”

“With respect, sir,” Hugh had said, “there isn’t time. According to my informant, their plan is already in motion. We have to act. We must act. Now.”

There was a momentary silence. The director was probably surprised that the worm had finally turned. “Hugh, my boy,” he had said slowly, “I understand your concerns, and I appreciate the hard work you’ve put into this operation, but like I said, you come on home now. I’m not even going to slap your wrist for hightailing it out of here without permission. I tell you what, we’ll put some people on it, some good people, we’ll investigate these reports and track this celium of yours down.”

“Cesium, sir,” Hugh said, biting off the words. “Cesium-137. I’ve got a lead on its whereabouts and I want to pursue that lead. Sir.”

The director’s voice cooled. “You said you were in Tokyo, did you not? There is a Northwest flight out of Narita that’ll put you into Dulles at eight-oh-five tomorrow evening.” There was a forced chuckle. “Seems odd to think of flying almost seventeen hours and getting in the same day you leave, don’t it?” He became very brisk. “I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the counter, Hugh. We’ll see you in the shop tomorrow. Good night, my boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Hugh said, hung up, and started calling all the pilots listed on his cell phone directory. His fifth try produced Frank, who himself happened to be on the ground in Manila, loading a shipment of semiconductors just prior to taking off for Tokyo to pick up a shipment of Sony digital cameras, en route to Memphis with a stop in Anchorage for refueling and crew change, a piece of luck second only to being able to pick up Noortman in the restaurant. Well. Maybe third, after recruiting Arlene.

Arlene, to whom he had said before going through Hong Kong security to the gate to board his plane, “This never happened. You were never here. Write no reports, no memos, submit travel expenses only by hand and only to me. If I’m fired before you make it into the office, you might get stuck with them.”

She shrugged. “I was there. I heard him talk. You had to do this.”

He nodded, grateful that here at least was one person he didn’t have to convince of anything. “I’ll handle the charge for the Hong Kong ticket on your credit card. Leave. Now.”

She had nodded, asking no questions, and the last he’d seen of her was the bottle-green back of her blazer as she left the terminal. Watching the sliding electric door whisk out of her way, he thought that he was going to have to find some way to show his appreciation of her professionalism. Always supposing his own head wasn’t served up on a platter when he got back to Langley.

Frank’s 747 wouldn’t be in for hours, so he hunted up a cybercafe that served coffee and checked his e-mail, hoping Peter would have been sighted, Fang apprehended, the two Koreans identified, anything he could take to the director as proof. There was nothing. Nor had Sara replied to the e-mail he had sent from DC before he left. When his cell phone rang and it was Frank, wanting to know where the hell he was, he’d been genuinely surprised at the passage of time.

“Hugh,” Frank said.

“Huh?”

“Wake up.” Frank shook his arm. “We’re here.”

Hugh blinked blearily through the windshield and saw the immense brown brick shoebox squatting ten feet away. A figure stood on the corner, huddled into a parka. It stepped forward into range of the streetlight and Hugh saw Kyle’s face peering out from the wolf ruff around the hood. “Thanks, Frank,” he said, opening the door and stepping gingerly onto the ice.

“You’re gonna tell me what this was all about someday, right?” Frank said.

“If I can,” Hugh said, and shut the truck’s door firmly behind him. Frank demonstrated his displeasure by kicking up a little snow when he pulled out of the parking lot, but Hugh wasn’t paying attention.

“Hugh,” Kyle said, pulling Hugh into a bear hug and whacking him on the back hard enough to make him slip and almost fall. Icy parking lots. Something else he didn’t miss about home. “What the hell’s going on?” Hugh’s teeth had begun to chatter again and Kyle said, “never mind. Come on, let’s get in out of the cold.”

KYLE CHASE’S OFFICE WAS on the third floor, a square box with a desk, a chair, and a couple of bookshelves. Every horizontal space was piled high with paperwork, magazines, and books. Kyle removed a stack of newspapers and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition from what was revealed as a second chair. “Sit down before you fall down.” He busied himself at a coffeepot on a table.

He was almost as tall as Hugh and had almost as much hair, although his was black. His eyes were blue and his smile was quick and wicked. He was almost as smart as he thought he was, and he, like Sara and Hugh, was a rabid overachiever, which meant he was a rising star with the FBI. He’d had to ask to be posted to Alaska, but he’d always wanted to come home, and in spite of much headshaking on the part of his superiors, who freely prophesied that he was killing his career, he had prevailed. “There must have been something in the water in Seldovia,” Hugh said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Thinking out loud.”

The coffee finished brewing and Kyle poured two mugs full, not neglecting creamer and a huge hit of sugar for Hugh. “Terrible Trio,” Hugh said, raising his mug in the traditional toast.

Kyle smiled. “Terrible Trio,” he said and clinked mugs with Hugh. He sat down behind his desk.

Hugh drank. Strong enough to melt the bowl off a spoon and sweet enough to send him into a diabetic coma, the coffee had a reviving effect. “Is Lilah as beautiful as ever?”

“You know she is, you just saw her in October.”

“Kids good?”

“As good as the little monsters ever are,” replied their loving father. “Come on, Hugh. You look like hell. What’s going on? Are you sure Sara is okay?”

“She’s fine,” Hugh said. “So far as I know.”

“Oh. Ah. Well. What’s going on, then? These aren’t my usual office hours. It’s gotta be good to get me in here this early. Or a friend,” he added pointedly.

“The FBI still regard Alaska as one of four states on a short list where the threat of domestic terrorism is regarded as real?”

Kyle stared at him, puzzled. “Are you awake yet? You know we do, along with Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho. It’s why our manpower’s been so beefed up here over the last five years.”

Hugh had had a long flight during which he had marshaled his arguments and worked out a way to phrase them that would make his case without tempting Kyle to have him committed. “Have you considered the possibility of an attack from an international source?”

Kyle set his mug down with a thud. “What the hell’s going on, Hugh?” His eyes narrowed. “Does the CIA have information to that effect? And if it does, why haven’t we been notified?”

“Let me talk it through,” Hugh said.

Kyle looked at him for a long moment. Hugh Rincon was tall and blond and brown-eyed without being in the least bit pretty. His ease of manner belied his intellect, both of which were obvious without being offensive. He was, in short, the kind of man other men liked and all women loved. He always had been, Kyle thought ruefully. Kyle was lucky he’d seen Lilah first. Not that Hugh had ever given anyone but Sara a second look.

Across the desk Hugh shook off his fatigue and turned a mental switch. He spoke as if he were giving this briefing for the first time, a little tentatively, as if Kyle was the first focus group for this particular presentation. His speech was deliberate without being pedantic, but even if he had turned into the world’s worst teacher his subject would have guaranteed Kyle’s interest. “Given Alaska’s strategic location on the Pacific Rim, and given the great circle route reality of international commerce, I don’t think it’s unrealistic that intelligence agencies in Alaska hold a watching brief for terrorist traffic coming in the opposite direction from Asia.”

Kyle thought. “What would be the target if, as you suggest, we did have terrorist traffic coming at us from Asia?”

“In Alaska, the first target we think of is, of course, the terminal in Valdez,” Hugh said. “Fourteen percent of the nation’s annual supply of oil travels through that port in very large crude carriers.”

“Given the regularity and efficiency of USAF patrols-”

“Understood. I consider that threat remote. However, speaking of the air force, there are two large military bases in the state with nuclear weapons on site. They’re attractive targets, and they have the added advantage of being perceived as too far off the national radar to worry about.”

“Location, location, location,” Kyle said, expecting at least a smile. He didn’t get one.

“As for targets beyond Alaska, try every shipping port, oil refinery, and military base on the West Coast of the U.S. All they’d have to do is put a bomb on a VLCC and sail it into any harbor with a refinery from Bremerton to San Diego. Very big boom.”

Kyle relaxed a little. “Is that realistic?”

“You tell me, Kyle,” Hugh said, his voice hard. “Was Oklahoma City realistic? Was 9/11 realistic? No, they won’t try that exact MO again, but who knows what else they’ve got up their sleeves? We have information that Bin Ladin has his own personal fleet of oceangoing vessels. Some sources number it at as high as twenty vessels total. Where are they? Where are they going? Who, and, even more importantly, what are they bringing with them? You know the story of Container Bob, right?”

Kyle shook his head.

“The Italians stumbled across an Egyptian-born Canadian named Amid Farid Rizk inside a container en route from Port Said to Rotterdam, changing ships in Gioia Tauro. He never would have been caught if he hadn’t decided to drill more holes for air and the Italian police hadn’t heard him. The container came equipped with all the modern conveniences, including a heater, a toilet, and a bed. Not to mention the satellite phone, the laptop, and the Canadian A &P certificate.”

“Jesus,” Kyle said, shaken in spite of himself. “He was an airplane mechanic?”

“You bet. We checked. He did the work. The certificate was valid.”

“So it was a test run?”

Hugh shrugged. “We don’t know. The container’s final destination was listed as Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“What did this Rizk say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He got himself a smart lawyer who got him bail. He was in the wind by November.”

“What was his lawyer’s name?” Kyle said. “Just in case I ever decide to rob a bank in Italy.”

“That’s not the point, Kyle.”

“What is the point then, Hugh?” Kyle said, mimicking his tone.

“My point is, they’ve been practicing traveling in container ships,” Hugh said.

“Okay,” Kyle said, putting his mug down and placing both hands flat on his desk. “What the hell’s this about, Hugh? You hitch a ride from Tokyo on a cargo jet, you get me out of bed to come down here, and so far all I’m getting is a lecture on terrorism. A lecture I’ve already heard.”

Hugh held up a hand. “Bear with me, okay, Kyle? Please?”

Kyle took a deep breath, exhaled. “All right. Go ahead.”

“I don’t know about you, and I admit, maybe it has something to do with where I was born and where a lot of people I love still live, but I’ve never been as concerned over terrorists in the Middle East as I have been terrorists in Asia.”

“Like North Korea,” Kyle said. “It’s why you took your master’s in Asian studies. I know all this, Hugh.”

“What do you know about North Korea?”

Hugh hadn’t meant it to sound like a challenge, but Kyle responded as if it were. “Since the end of World War II, the Korean peninsula has been split into two, with the north under Chinese domination and the south under Western, uh, influence. South Korea has a stable government, a booming economy, and a well-armed and well-trained military. North Korea? North Korea is starving to death, mostly because instead of figuring out how to feed their people they’ve concentrated fifty years of gross national product on the development of long-range missiles and research into weapons, including chemical, biological, and, yes, nuclear.”

“Not bad,” Hugh said, complimentary, and Kyle gave a curt nod. “They know how to do it well enough that they’ve been exporting their expertise overseas, most recently to Iran. I’ve been to the Korean DMZ, Kyle, and it’s not a pretty sight. Every now and then North and South shoot at each other across the DMZ, air to air, ship to ship, whatever’s handy. The North has missiles in place targeting the South’s nuclear power plants. Instant dirty bomb.”

“Didn’t our going into Iraq tone down their rhetoric a little?”

Hugh’s short laugh was without humor. “They figure the only way to keep us from doing the same to them is to keep building bigger and better and more weapons. And they’ve been force-fed hatred of Americans with their mother’s milk for going on sixty years now.”

“I’ve read the reports, Hugh. I am the agent in charge of the Joint Terrorism Task Force in Alaska.”

“Yeah, well, I just read a news release from the Korean Central News Agency which said, in part, and I’m quoting verbatim here, that ‘the U.S. is restless with its ambition to conquer the world.”“

Kyle had to smile. “Funny. I don’t feel all that ambitious.”

Hugh shook his head. “Not so funny. That peninsula is a pile of kindling just waiting for a spark, and the first people who are going to have to respond to the fire are right now sitting up over there on Government Hill, warming up their F-15s.”

“Okay,” Kyle said, “they’re pissed and they’re motivated. What does that have to do with terrorism? Is Kim Jong II sponsoring state terrorism? What are we looking at here, another Lockerbie? Another Cole?. Another 9/11?”

Hugh drank the rest of his now tepid coffee and set the cup carefully on Kyle’s desk. “I think the men responsible for the Pattaya Beach bombing in October are planning to launch a Scud missile with a cesium-137 payload at a target somewhere on the western coast of North America. Do you know what cesium-137 is?”

Kyle’s voice failed him. He shook his head.

Hugh told him.

“Jesus Christ,” Kyle said, stunned. “Hugh, are you sure?”

He met Kyle’s eyes and said firmly, “I’m sure, Kyle.”

“Then I don’t get it.” He aimed an exaggerated look over Hugh’s shoulder. “Where are the marines? Why aren’t you out at Elmendorf briefing the pilots so they can take these guys out? Why come to me?”

“Do you know anyone at Kulis?”

“The Air National Guard base? Sure. Why?”

“Do you know where Sara’s ship is?”

Kyle’s expression changed. “Hugh.”

“I know she’s on the Sojourner Truth. I know the Sojourner Truth’s on patrol in the Bering Sea.”

“It was,” Kyle said.

Hugh looked at him.

“The Sojourner Truth interdicted a Russian processor fishing on our side of the Maritime Boundary Line. The Coasties boarded them, arrested the crew, confiscated the vessel, and are now on their way with it into Dutch Harbor to turn it over to the authorities.”

“You sound like you’re reading a press release.”

“I am. Actually”-Kyle looked at the clock on the wall-“they’ve probably been and gone by now. I read all about it on District 17’s Web site yesterday. Wanna see?”

“No time.” But for the first time that morning Hugh couldn’t stop a grin. “That’s my Sara.”

“Ride ‘em, cowgirl,” Kyle said, and sobered. “Seriously, Hugh, what are you going to do now?”

“I can’t get my boss off the dime,” Hugh said, his smile fading, too. “I’ve got to find that damn freighter before I take another run at him. When I do-”

“If you do. There’s the hell of a lot of water to look in, Hugh, and boats don’t exactly leave tracks.”

“It was scheduled to leave Petropavlovsk on the seventh-what day is it again?”

“The ninth. Was your source on the departure date reliable?”

Hugh thought of Noortman curled into a fetal position on his living room floor, his knee swollen up to the size of a basketball. “I don’t know. He would have said anything to make us stop.”

“Stop what? Hugh?”

“Can you check to see if Sara’s ship is in Dutch Harbor yet, and if not, where it is?”

Kyle gave Hugh a long look. “Sure. I can do that.”

“And then could you call your buddy at Kulis, see if they’ve got anything going in that direction, and ask if I can bum a ride?”

Kyle shook his head and reached for the phone. “Sure. I can do that, too.” He began to punch in a number and paused. “You know, Hugh, when I suggested you figure out a way to spend more time with Sara, I wasn’t suggesting professional suicide as a means of making that happen.”

Hugh looked back without smiling. “Where are Lilah and the kids?”

“At home. Lilah’ll just be getting them ready for-” Kyle stopped. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

He hunched over the phone with a will. Hugh slid down to rest his head against the back of his chair and enjoyed the first slackening of tension in what felt like days.