First Team

1

Corrine Alston checked her watch as she finished with the last of her e-mail, trying to decide whether she’d sneak out for a “normal” lunch or just send for a sandwich. Finally, she got up and took her pocket-book, slipped her Blackberry communicator inside, and went to the outer office to tell her secretary, Teri Fleming, she’d be gone for a while. Teri gave her an all-hold wave.

“He wants to see you,” said Teri. “Just buzzed.”

“All right.” Corrine pulled down her suit jacket, then took out her compact to do a quick makeup check. “Anything new with your son?”

“Pitch meeting tomorrow. He’s hopeful,” said the secretary. Teri’s son Billy was in LA trying to make good as a screenwriter, and his various adventures were often the subject of small talk between the two women. Teri probably knew his schedule as well as Corrine’s, and she knew Corrine’s exceedingly well.

“I’ll sneak down for lunch when we’re done,” said Corrine.

“You have the DEC people at one.”

“Hold them if I’m late.”

“You will be,” said Teri. “It’s nearly one now.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Corrine. She stepped out of the office, turned right, then nodded at the Secret Service man in the hallway ahead. Her destination — the president’s office — was only two doors from her own. She stopped, rapped perfunctorily on the doorjamb, and pushed in.

In the four months that Jonathon McCarthy had served as president, the faint lines Corrine had noticed on his forehead during the campaign had furrowed deeper. At times of tension they formed trenches in his forehead and just then they looked like river channels, belying his quick smile.

A Southerner by heritage and inclination — according to his campaign biography his forebears had stepped on Georgian soil as indentured servants in 1710 — McCarthy retained the style and grace of the well-to-do family he had been born into and rose as Corrine entered the room.

“Miss Alston, I’m glad you could join us,” he said.

He didn’t bother introducing the others, as Corrine not only knew them but had helped vet most of them when the president was considering whom to appoint to his administration. Next to the president’s desk sat Defense Secretary Larry Stich, his green sweater clashing with his gray suit and red tie. To his right was the national security advisor, Marty Green. The CIA director, Thomas Parnelles, was sitting in a chair at the other side of the room, his hands in a tent over his nose, partially obscuring the jagged scar on his cheek that reminded anyone who met him that he had worked his way up from the field.

“How was the play?” asked the president.

“It was very good,” Corrine answered, taken by surprise.

“Et tu, Brute?” joked the president, his drawl striking an odd note with Shakespeare’s pigeon Latin.

“Actually, it was Richard II,” said Corrine.

“When I was a king, my flatterers were but subjects; being now a subject, I have here a king for my flatterer.”

“Very good,” said Corrine. While her father had made his money backing movies, classical theater was his first love, and Corrine had seen or read all of Shakespeare’s major plays by the time she was in grade school. Her mother, however, had been an actress, and carefully steered her daughter’s interests toward “more useful arts.”

“I played Richard in college,” McCarthy explained to the others. He laughed. “That doesn’t go out of this room now, gentlemen. I can count on Miss Alston’s discretion as she’s my attorney, but you all are subject to question. If it gets out, there will be lie detectors in your future.”

McCarthy used the lie detector line about once a week, but the others laughed anyway.

The president leaned back in his chair, furling his arms in front of his chest as he always did when he changed the subject to something serious.

“We have a bit of a knot I’d like your advice on, Miss Alston. It’s somewhat delicate, as of course you appreciate.”

Corrine set her jaw, willing all emotion from her face. She called it full lawyer mode, and had learned to do it when, after graduating summa cum laude from an accelerated program, she’d come to congress as a staff lawyer for the House Appropriations Committee. Within a year she had moved over to Defense, and shortly after that went to work with the Intelligence Committee. Still only twenty-six, she no longer needed the set-jaw scowl to get others to take her seriously, but it was by now habit.

Parnelles began speaking, talking in his usual clipped sentences about a combined CIA/Special Forces operation investigating the possible disappearance of nuclear waste in the former Soviet Republic of Kyrgyzstan. The tangled trail of the operation had led to Chechnya, where the operation happened to come across a militant with connections to both al-Qaida and a lesser-known militant organization called Allah’s Fist. In the course of their work, the CIA realized that the subject had also caused the murder of several American citizens in an attack on a shopping mall in Syracuse, New York, twelve months before. They had kidnapped him and taken him to Guantanamo.

“Let me suggest that you’re using the wrong word,” said Corrine sharply. “I don’t believe you’d wish to characterize legal actions authorized by the U.S. government as ‘kidnapping.’ The word you’re looking for is ‘apprehend.’ Such actions have lengthy precedent and are legally recognized. And I’m sure that’s what occurred here.”

Parnelles gave her the sort of smile a father might give a five-year-old who’d just lectured him on not smoking, then continued. The man was being held at the detention facility on Guantanamo under heavy guard. They suspected he had important information about a plot involving a hazardous waste bomb that might be targeted for the U.S.

Corrine realized what the dilemma was without the CIA director having to spell it out — they wanted to put him on trial for the mall attack, but were afraid of messing up the case by interrogating him improperly.

During his campaign, McCarthy had advocated using the criminal justice system to prosecute terrorists rather than the military tribunal system favored by his predecessors. In McCarthy’s view — and Corrine concurred — the entire point of fighting terrorists was to preserve American traditions, freedoms, and institutions. The legal system provided plenty of tools to prosecute such murderers. In Corrine’s opinion, terrorists were not enemy combatants — that status implied a certain dignity and righteousness that they clearly did not deserve.

“What do you think, Miss Alston?” McCarthy asked her when Parnelles finished.

“Should I speak as a citizen, or as the president’s private counsel?” she asked.

“Both,” said the president.

“As a citizen, I think you should tear the bastard’s balls off.”

The president laughed.

“However, speaking as a lawyer, if you want to try him in federal or state court, you have to consider carefully how you deal with him. I would think it appropriate to consult with the Department of Justice.”

“We’ve followed their guidelines,” said Parnelles. “This is new ground.”

“If you’re going to ask about torture,” said Corrine, “that’s not my area.”

Parnelles glanced at the president.

“Not torture,” said McCarthy.

“We have a drug,” said Parnelles. “It’s a kind of ultimate lie detector test. We would use it in conjunction with the interrogation, so we’d be better able to judge how valid the information is.”

“I can’t give an opinion on something like that off the top of my head,” Corrine told him.

“Is that because you think it’s something we wouldn’t want to hear?” asked McCarthy.

He’d become adept at reading her hesitations over the past two years; she had joined his campaign as an intelligence advisor and quickly become an all-around confidante, eventually leaving her Senate post to help him full-time. McCarthy had called her in, as he usually did, not simply because he valued her opinion but because it wouldn’t be shared with anyone else. And if her opinion was something he had to ultimately disregard, no newspaper would ever start a story: Despite receiving legal advice to the contrary…

“There’s a possibility of a gray area,” Corrine said, still hedging. “A voluntary submission—”

“It wouldn’t be voluntary,” said Parnelles.

“Few things in life truly are,” said the president.

“There are legal theories in both directions,” said Corrine.

“Stop speaking as a lawyer, dear,” said McCarthy. He could see clearly which way she was leaning, but the others, less familiar with her, couldn’t.

“I wouldn’t use the procedure, then put him on trial,” Corrine said, pausing as she selected the neutral “procedure” rather than a word that might be more accurate but loaded, like “brainwashing.” “Anything that violates a defendant’s right against self-incrimination is going to be a very big problem. Isolation, stress, and duress — even those techniques can be called into question.”

“What if the information isn’t used at the trial?” asked Defense Secretary Stich.

“You might not, but the defense will if they find out. I would. Even if it’s not directly related to the case, it complicates matters. Even if it didn’t provide grounds for an appeal,” she added, turning to the president, “the political fallout would be unseemly.”

“The information might be vital,” said Parnelles.

“Then do it. But forget about prosecuting him in the States. Use a military tribunal if you have to.”

“Even that has problems,” said Stich. “Or so I’m told.”

“There would be a great deal of value in upholding the rule of law,” said McCarthy dryly. “But there is a bit of a time limit.”

“A statute of limitations?” asked Corrine, not understanding.

“In a way. We have a message predicting that Satan will be struck by May 10. We would be Satan,” added the president.

“It’s credible?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” said the CIA director.

“Well, you’re best off deciding whether you want to prosecute or not before going ahead,” Corrine told him.

They sat silently for a moment. Corrine decided that was a cue for her to leave. “I think I’ll go for lunch,” she said, rising.

“Set a spell,” said the president.

“I don’t know if it would be useful for me to be present,” said Corrine.

“You’re always useful, Miss Alston. I believe the gentlemen are finished for now, and you and I have some other matters to discuss. I’ll get back to you on this, Thomas.”

“Yes, sir.”

Corrine nodded to the others warily, aware that McCarthy actually wanted to discuss it further. One of his aides — Jess Northrup, an assistant to the chief of staff who was primarily responsible for keeping him close to schedule — came in and ran down the afternoon’s appointments. He had a meeting with the head of the SEC, then a round of phone calls, all designed to push far-reaching business reforms. “Leveling the field for common folk to invest in their future” had been one of the president’s important campaign slogans, but doing that in a town tangled with business and political interests was harder than ‘rassling daddy gators — another of the president’s pet sayings.

“Well?” asked McCarthy, as Northrup retreated.

“That’s a deep subject,” said Corrine.

“I hate it when my words are used against me,” said McCarthy. He leaned back in his chair. “I need a set of ears and eyes I can trust.”

“Your problem, Jon, is that you want to have your cake and eat it, too. Either question the prisoner or put him on trial.”

“He’s been questioned. They’re not sure if they can believe what he says,” said McCarthy.

They stared at each other, each silently pondering the dilemma. While the president clearly had a duty to prevent the loss of life, he also had to uphold the Constitution and preserve the rule of law. It was the sort of decision that Lincoln had had to make during the Civil War; McCarthy had written a book about Lincoln before leaving academia to go into politics, and the example of the country’s greatest president was never far from his mind.

“What has he told you so far?” Corrine asked.

“Let’s go back a bit,” said McCarthy. “Way back. I want you to understand the perspective better than Thomas explained it. How’s your Russian geography?”

“I know where Moscow is.”

“Buzuluk mean anything?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Town on the Samara River. Other side of the Urals, a bit middle central. Think of St. Louis, if you could put it in lower Siberia.” The president smirked. “The area’s supposed to be lovely in the spring, if you can ignore the mosquitoes. During the Cold War, the Russians had an experimental lab there. They worked on reactors, alternate designs for submarines, and a series of nuclear rockets. Not much worked for them, but then that’s the nature of experimental labs.”

The president leaned back in his seat. “Well now, years go by, the wastes from the operation pile up. Variety of wastes, mind you — spent uranium, they call it U235 or ²³⁵U, has the number in front of the letter like an exponential equation.”

McCarthy drew out exponential equation in a way that made Corrine smile. He was playing country bumpkin, even though he obviously knew a great deal about the subject. It was a pose he liked to adopt.

“Control rods, contaminated boron-europium, oh a variety of things,” continued the president. “A whole briefing paper full of them. Some last a few hours, some centuries. Some of it very nasty, some no more harmful than the glow on a Timex watch. Well now, comes the time and the lab work is done and all of this waste is set-tin’ around—”

“Is this a Defense Threat Reduction Agency project?” Corrine asked. The DTRA was a joint U.S.-Russian effort to contain waste and warheads. It had met with some success containing radioactive material from antiquated bombs and missiles that had been scrapped under disarmament treaties.

“No, for various reasons this isn’t under their purview. For a while, the Russian Navy took it over — I guess they weren’t satisfied with making a mess up on the Kola Peninsula and thought they’d have a go here.”

Despite the president’s sarcasm, the situation on Kola was a serious one. Literally tons of waste material — including played-out reactor cores — were stored in deteriorating conditions at Russian naval bases on the Berents Sea. Various efforts were under way to clean them up, but there was a great deal of consternation about security at the sites, as well as safety measures.

“Well, this here project is a bit better contained. French company is working with the Russians, packaging up the worst waste into these containers that are easy to handle. Bit like putting a muzzle and wheels on a daddy alligator and carting him through town. The waste is transported from Buzuluk to Kazakhstan, then down to Kyrgyzstan for burial. Some of it, that is. We have monitoring devices in Kazakhstan, and two months ago, someone noticed a discrepancy. Not a large one, mind you, but one that couldn’t be explained easily. So we sent the CIA in to investigate. Which is where Thomas and his people came in.”

“What’s the connection with Chechnya?” Corrine asked.

McCarthy smiled. “Now you know, dear, these terrorist groups can get more tangled than a pair of rattlers sucked into granny’s loom.”

That was a new one to her.

“Can they make a nuclear device from the waste?” she asked.

“Scientists say no. The CIA people think they’re stealing it to build a dirty bomb,” added the president. “But they haven’t quite put the pieces together yet. And that’s where our guest comes in.”

“What did the Russians say?” asked Corrine.

“They were not consulted. That would have complicated things, frankly. They see him as a criminal as well. By the time they’re done with him he won’t be worth talking to. Their prisoners have an unfortunate habit of passing away in prison.”

“You’re not going to tell them what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure anything is. That’s the difficulty. The evidence is less than overwhelming,” admitted the president. “The French company has manifests that show nothing is wrong. We have satellite photos that show all of the railcars used to move the waste arrived intact. But the sensors passed their calibration tests. I need to decide if our prisoner has valuable information or not.” McCarthy shook his head. “My preference would be to prosecute the son of a bitch in court.”

“It’s possible you’ve already lost that opportunity,” Corrine told him.

McCarthy did what he always did when someone told him something he didn’t want to hear: He smiled.

“How reliable is Mr. Parnelles’s interrogation method?” she asked.

“Extremely.”

“And the May 10 information?”

“They’re not sure whether it’s related. It was contained in a message to be delivered at a mosque. The CIA is evaluating it. The interesting thing is that the language referred to a group that hasn’t been heard from in years. Whether it’s true or not, at this point it’s difficult to tell.”

There was a knock on the door, but McCarthy ignored it. He leaned forward. “I want you to assess the CIA operation. It’s unusual.”

“How unusual?”

“Have you heard of Special Demands?”

Corrine shook her head.

“It’s a small unit of the CIA that was authorized by executive order on the NSC’s recommendation just before we came into office. You were out of the Washington loop by then, helping yours truly win the election. It’s not all CIA. As a matter of fact, it seems to rely a great deal on Special Forces, though it uses a CIA officer as a team leader and is under their operation control.”

Corrine shrugged. “Special Forces and the CIA have worked together for years.”

“On and off, yes. But not precisely like this.” McCarthy paused, the practiced politician cuing his audience to pay attention to what he said next. “I’m worried these people are cowboys. I need someone who can sniff around and report back to me without raising a ruckus. Would you do that, dear?”

“Mr. President. Jon — my job description—”

McCarthy’s laugh would have shaken the walls of a lesser building. “Give me my pen. Let me fix your job description.”

“I’m serious, Mr. President.”

“I’m serious, too,” he told her.

Corrine sighed. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Very good, dear.” McCarthy was instantly serious once more. “We’ll arrange for transportation to Guantanamo first thing tomorrow morning. Best watch what you wear. Some of those poor Marines haven’t seen a good-looking girl like you in a coon’s age.”

2

He was smaller than she expected, stooped over in his orange jumpsuit. His arms and legs were shackled together, and his eyes blinked constantly at the light. With his unkempt hair and beard he looked like a cross between a gnome and a homeless man. He moved meekly, though Corrine had noticed from the tapes she’d reviewed that this was an act; he could inflate his upper body and hold his head erect when he wished. The effect wasn’t quite regal, but the difference was noticeable.

Corrine sat at the wooden table, waiting for him to settle into his seat. When he did, she nodded to the interpreter that she was ready to begin. Two soldiers stood near the door, large batons in their hands; two more stood directly behind the prisoner.

“Are you being treated well?” Corrine asked him.

Kiro — known here as Muhammad al Aberrchmof, the name he had been given at birth — smiled as the translator repeated the question in Arabic, but said nothing.

“Is there anything that you need?” said Corrine.

“Freedom,” said Muhammad al Aberrchmof, in English.

Corrine tried not to look surprised, though the interrogators had told her that he didn’t understand English. They had also predicted that he wouldn’t speak in her presence — as a woman, she was considered about on a par with an earthworm.

“Are there people who should be notified that you are all right?” she said.

al Aberrchmof said nothing.

“Your wife, your children,” she prompted, turning to the translator and repeating the question. “You want them to know that you’re well.”

“I have only myself,” said al Aberrchmof, again in English.

The interrogation team was watching all of this through a closed-circuit television. Though the camera was hidden in the wall, the prisoner probably realized they were watching and intended his performance as a message to them.

But what did it mean?

“It’s a shame that you’re alone,” said Corrine. “Are you willing to cooperate with us?”

“I have cooperated,” said al Aberrchmof.

“You speak English very well,” she said.

al Aberrchmof didn’t respond.

Corrine resisted the impulse to start asking more meaningful questions, fearful that doing so would tip off their importance and complicate the interrogation team’s job.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” she asked instead.

al Aberrchmof began speaking in Chechen. The translator, who had been chosen because he could handle Chechen as well as Arabic, pushed his glasses back on his nose as he struggled to catch all of the words.

As he spoke, al Aberrchmof’s voice gradually faded to a whisper. It was impossible to tell if he was really fatigued or if it was part of his performance.

“The Iranians are working with Allah’s Fist to construct a weapon,” he translated. “They will be launching it soon.”

Corrine waited, as if she were considering this information.

“You are not part of Allah’s Fist?”

al Aberrchmof’s head had slid down toward his chest. Now it rose slowly, a contemptuous sneer on its face. “They do not understand the struggle of the Chechen people.”

“It seems you’re only a late convert to that cause,” said Corrine.

The prisoner held her gaze for a moment, his eyes large as if he were trying to plumb her consciousness. Then he blinked, and once more his head tilted downward.

“What sort of weapon?”

al Aberrchmof didn’t answer.

“A bomb?” she prompted.

Again he said nothing.

“How will they launch it?” she asked.

No answer.

“When will they launch it?”

No answer. She waited for a few seconds, then rose and started to leave.

“A ship,” he said in English as she reached the door. “I believe they will use a ship. It is an Iranian plan. We Chechens care nothing for them. Our concerns are with Chechnya.”

Peter Wilson, the head of the interrogation team, met her in the hall.

“What’d you think?” he asked, leading the way to the base commander’s hut, where they were due for lunch.

“He told me about the Iranian ship,” she said. “Pretty much what he said in interview 12.”

“You remember the tape?”

“Of course,” she said.

“The English is new.”

“He was giving you the finger. Were you surprised he talked to a woman?”

Wilson shrugged. “Maybe we’ve broken him down far enough. Or maybe one devil is the same as another.”

“How real is the Chechen rebel stuff?”

“Hard to tell,” said Wilson. “It’s consistent, but maybe he’s just setting up some sort of political line or defense. The Russians didn’t consider him important enough to go after, and a lot of these guys setup shop in Chechnya only because they won’t be targeted by us. His history of attacks are all against the West.”

“Is he telling the truth about the ship?” Corrine asked.

“Maybe.”

“I think he’s lying,” she said. She hadn’t made up her mind until then, but she realized she was right. “He’s too controlled — he’s giving us this information for some reason. Or for a lot of them.”

“Obviously he has a reason,” said Wilson. He held the door open for her, and they stepped out of the building. A pair of Marines nearby snapped to attention so stiffly they could have served as models for a poster. “But I think he’s telling us more or less the truth. Bits of it anyway.”

“He’s telling us what he wants us to believe, certainly,” she said. She stopped short of the waiting Hummer. “I think I’ll skip lunch, Mr. Wilson.”

“But—”

“I want to go back over the interrogation videos, then I have to get back to Washington.”

“You have to eat, too, don’t you?”

She smiled at him. “If you send over a sandwich, I’d appreciate it.”

3

Ferguson rested his head back on the vinyl cushion of the sofa in the doctor’s waiting room, narrowing his eyes to slits and trying to avoid looking at any of the three overweight women sitting across from him. The room had all the charm of a bus depot, though the doctors who ran the practice had taken a stab at adding a personal touch — the beige walls were divided about chest high by a strip of corkboard with patients’ photos attached. Most were trying to smile.

A television was mounted in a Formica-clad cabinet at his left, playing an endless loop that alternated segments devoted to cardiovascular distress and the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Ferg had sat here long enough to be convinced he had both.

The window at the receptionist station slid open.

“Mr. Ferguson?”

“Ah, the condemned man is called for his supper,” said Ferguson, unfolding himself from the sofa. He ignored the receptionist’s puzzled frown and ambled to the hallway, pushing open the heavily sprung door where a nurse waited to lead him to the examining room.

“You are Dr. Ziest’s patient,” she said, her voice a question.

“Allegedly.”

The nurse gave him an odd look, then led the way to a small room dominated by an examining table and a large medical cabinet. A scale sat opposite the lone chair in the room.

“You reschedule a lot,” she said.

“Classic doctor avoidance syndrome,” said Ferguson, stepping on the scale-and adjusting his weight. He’d lost two pounds since his last visit.

“Dr. Zeist is away,” said the nurse, writing down the weight.

“That’s what they said. Should we check my height? Maybe I’ve grown.”

“Please disrobe.”

“Completely?”

Ferg said it so innocently that the nurse didn’t know how to react. He started to undo his belt.

“Dr. Yollum will be in shortly,” she said, retreating.

“I’ll wait.”

Ferguson took off his shirt but left his pants and shoes on; he knew from experience what the exam would entail. There was a large chart on the door about the different types of diabetes, and an article from Runner’s Magazine plastered to the wall beneath a piece of plastic. The article — which Ferguson had read on his last visit — hailed the possibilities of running as a therapy for insulin-independent diabetes. It was long on feel-good pabulum and short on actual medical science, but had exactly the sort of cheerful tone that most doctors, including Zeist, liked to greet their patients with.

Yollum — Zeist’s junior partner — was either too far behind schedule or too inexperienced to offer it. He rapped at the door, then whipped it open, reading Ferg’s chart and swirling inside with the ferocity of one of the SF team members on a hostage rescue. He opened the folder and slapped it down on the cabinet, smoothing it over and tapping the top page before even looking for his patient.

“They gave you a hell of a dose of radiation,” said Yollum, still looking at the chart. He stood about five-three, and his face was out of proportion to his body — large and square and red, as if he’d washed it with a mild acid before coming to work.

“Yeah. I still don’t need a light to read a book,” said Ferguson.

“Dr. Zeist is away.”

“All I really need is the prescription updated. I’m almost out of the sheets I stole.”

“You really shouldn’t joke about things like that,” said Yollum.

“How do you know it’s a joke?”

“It says in your chart. Double funny bones.”

“Yuk.”

“I do my best.” Yollum took his stethoscope and began doing an exam. Ferg flinched as the metal touched his chest — his recent adventures had left him with several large bruises. He was better off than Guns, though — despite his protests, the Marine had been shunted to a Navy hospital ten minutes after a corpsman took a look at him at Guantanamo.

“You have a number of contusions,” said Yollum diplomatically. “Scratches on your face.”

“Bar fights are my hobby,” said Ferguson.

“Cough please.”

Ferg choked, proving he didn’t have a hernia. Yollum went back to his chart. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Aerobics.”

“Mmmm.” Yollum started hunting through the papers. “Your lab work doesn’t seem to be here.”

Ferg stood and reached into his back pocket. “This is a copy,” he said. “They sometimes get lost.”

Yollum, embarrassed, took the sheet.

“Don’t sweat it, Doc. I’m used to the routine. That’s why I had a copy sent to me.”

Yollum took the lab report, pushing the papers back to see the details of his temporary patient’s history. Ferg watched him stop at the pathology report, his nose twitching slightly as he read the size of the tumor removed from his thyroid — 4.2 centimeters — and the fact that it had spread beyond the thyroid capsule. He moved on, pushing through the reports from the radiologist on the full body scans he’d already referred to, hunting for the stack of lab results, which tracked the levels of thyroid replacement hormone in Ferguson’s bloodstream.

“You’re a little low,” said Yollum.

“Yeah. Sometimes I forget to take the second pill.”

“How often?”

Ferguson shrugged. If he knew how often, he wouldn’t miss it. He thought it worked out to about once a week on average, but there were probably times he missed it more often. Once in a while he missed his morning dose as well, which was much higher; there was always hell to pay for that.

“Dr. Zeist has you on an unusual protocol,” said Yollum. “T-3 and T-4. We usually just do T-4.”

Replacement hormone therapy — necessary for someone like Ferguson who had had his thyroid removed — had the aura of an exact science. It had been done for many, many years; in fact, the replacement hormone drugs were so old they predated key FDA requirements. But the truth was that the exact process of how the different hormones worked in the body was still shrouded in mystery. Though the body converted T-4 into T-3, many patients — including Ferguson — reported that they felt considerably better on a combination. Only a few doctors believed them and were willing to experiment with different dosages; Zeist was one.

“Thing is, Doc, I have a meeting I have to catch. I’d appreciate it if you could write me the prescription. If you want to up the T-3 slightly, I can try it.”

“You interpreted the lab numbers.”

“Dr. Zeist showed me how,” said Ferg. It was a lie — Ferguson had done his own research, and in any event it wasn’t rocket science — but Ferguson knew the fib would make Yollum feel better.

“I’m not saying the protocol is bad. But if you’re having trouble remembering to take the second pill, it’s going to do more harm than good. The replacement drugs are also a kind of chemotherapy for you, and considering the size of the tumor and the scans—”

“I know what the statistics are,” said Ferg. He tried smiling, but he was starting to run low on patience.

Yollum clearly had a lecture on the tip of his tongue about how slow-moving his type of thyroid cancer was, how even someone diagnosed with Stage IV had a chance of surviving five years after surgery and even beyond — but he stowed it at the obvious tone of impatience.

“I’ll write the prescription.”

“I need the lab report back,” said Ferguson. “I found it useful to hold on to copies of my stuff.”

“Of course. I’ll have the office staff make a copy. Bob, you’re due for another scan.”

“Yup.”

“Did you want to set that up now?”

Did he want to? No. The scan itself was a major hassle — you drank a bunch of radioactive iodine and lay in a claustrophobic machine while a special camera climbed over your body and hunted for stray thyroid cells, which by definition would be cancerous. Then you tried not to get close to anyone for the next few days, since you were radioactive. But that was the easy part — in order to do the scan with a high degree of accuracy, you had to go off the thyroid medicine for several weeks. It was like signing up for clinical depression.

“How about the shots?” said Ferguson, suggesting an easier protocol.

“You really have to have a clean scan first, usually two. Maybe next time.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ferg. He wasn’t sure whether to bother with the scan or not; according to all the studies, further treatment didn’t affect survival rates, which pretty much meant they were useless.

“You probably want to discuss it with Dr. Zeist. Come into my office, and I’ll write the prescriptions for you. Government worker, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” said Ferg, pulling on his shirt. “Pay sucks, but you can’t beat the health plan.”

4

To get into the Cube, Corrine Alston had to run a gamut of security checks, then stand in a small booth that looked a little like a stainless-steel shower stall that checked for high-tech transmitting devices or bugs. Corrine swore she could feel her skin tingle as she stood in the device, and when she came out her ears were ringing.

Her guide walked her down the hall of the unpretentious building, which was housed in a corner of an industrial complex not far from the Beltway in Virginia. They were on the ground floor, but the elevator they entered went in only one direction — down. When it stopped, they walked down another hall, past several locked doors, then to a stairwell guarded by two Special Forces soldiers in civilian clothes. This stairwell led down to the operations floor, where a secure conference room and a somewhat smaller operations room used to communicate with SF units and officers in the field was located.

Corrine’s ID and thumbprint were scanned at the top of the stairs. She was then waved ahead without her guide, who lacked the extremely limited clearance needed to descend the steps.

After such a variety of high-tech precautions, the room itself was remarkably plain. There was a whiteboard at the front, an old-fashioned projector, and a small computer projector. A laptop sat on one of the two tables; the man in charge of the briefing used it to project slides onto the whiteboard. The only person in the room that Corrine recognized was Daniel Slott, the deputy director of operations for the CIA. He sat with his arms folded on his lap at one corner of the first table, his gray-speckled goatee shimmering with the reflected light from the computer slide projector.

Slott introduced Corrine to the others, stating her title and adding that she had just returned from interviewing the prisoner at Guantanamo. He gave no explanation for her presence. Though his tones were politic and soothing, the audience would have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to realize he resented her being there.

“Just to give a little background on how serious the matter is,” said Slott, turning to Jack Corrigan, “could you please review the slides on reactor waste.”

“Sure thing,” said Corrigan.

Slott had told him they’d be spoon-feeding a guest from the White House, and so he had dusted off his full set of PowerPoint slides on the waste at Buzuluk. He liked the second slide especially — it showed a pile of reactor rod assemblies on the ground that reminded him of the Tinker Toys he’d had as a youth — except that these were glowing on a clandestinely exposed gamma-ray-sensitive film.

Corrigan quickly went through the background on the experimental reactors built by the Russians and moved on to the waste material stored at the site. A typical reactor fuel load would consist of anywhere from ten to nearly two hundred fuel elements or assemblies; in general these were rods (usually though not always clad in zirconium) that contained uranium oxide pellets. A high percentage of the uranium in these pellets — 3 to 4 percent, similar to the amount in Western commercial operations — were ²³⁵U. Once inserted in the reactor, they were made to undergo a chain reaction that produced a number of by-products, including weapons-grade plutonium.

Not all of the reactors were configured as the ones indicated in his slides, Corrigan hastened to tell Corrine, but this footnote led to another slide indicating how dangerous plutonium was as waste — ten-millionths of a gram would cause cancer if inhaled.

Corrigan clicked into another series of slides on the waste by-products that had resulted from the experiments and reactor production. He especially liked the strontium-90 slide, since it illustrated how strontium could replace calcium in bones. The slides explained that the fuel assemblies themselves became potent radiation emitters, as the cobalt, iron, manganese, and nickel in the rods as well as the stainless steel interacted and transformed during the process. He touched briefly on the difference between alpha waves, which to be honest Corrigan himself didn’t totally understand.

Alpha radiation — actually a helium atom — was easily stopped in the environment, though once in the body it could do very serious damage because it tended to ionize or remove electrons from other elements. Beta radiation in high doses could cause burns; it was emitted during radioactive decay, and, like alpha radiation, was usually a threat once a substance containing it entered the body. Gamma radiation was a problem on a different order — its high-energy, short-wavelength energy penetrated just about anything, even several feet of concrete. Though often compared to X-rays, in general, gamma radiation occupied a different part of the energy spectrum.

The effect of the different radiation-producing materials varied greatly, depending not only on the type of radiation emitted but how the radiation was “received” by the body. Massive external doses could kill immediately, but effects of smaller doses over time were more complex. Strontium in the body, for example, would replace calcium in the bone. There it could cause bone tumors and leukemia. Irradiated iodine might cause thyroid cancer, and on and on, as the slides indicated, documenting radiation amounts and the damage likely at various distances and exposures.

Ferguson had seen these slides several weeks before, and so he turned his attention to Miss Alston, the president’s personal counsel and unofficial babysitter. According to Slott, the secretary of state had gone ballistic when he found out they snatched Kiro without running the notion by him or the Russians, and obviously Miss Alston was the result.

Corrine was good-looking — Slott’s briefing there hadn’t done her much justice — but that only made Ferguson resent her presence even more. She was obviously just another broad who’d slept her way to the top. She came complete with one of those riches-to-riches princess stories the media loved — parents in the movie biz, who dumped their daughter East to GW and then Columbia Law while she was still a teenager, mixing a little righty and lefty influence together. Among the other things the media liked to report on was the marathon she’d run at eighteen.

Ferg lost interest in her as the analysts took over and reviewed the most pertinent intercepts and satellite data. Using Kiro’s information as a lead, the NSA had helped them locate a tanker currently being refitted in Bandar ‘Abbas, Iran. The ship was designed to transport ethylene, which meant it had a large tentlike structure covering the main deck — the perfect place to put dirty nuclear waste.

At 89.9 meters long, the ship had held 2960 cubic meters of fuel before entering dry dock for refitting. Drawing from 2.5 to 3.5 meters, it was designed to navigate on inland waterways as well as the ocean — which meant it could sail upriver to its target. Explosives were stored near the ship, another vital ingredient for a dirty bomb, since the material would have to be spread out over a wide area. The analysts were sure this had to be the dirty-bomb ship — if indeed there was one.

“You want to talk to us about the ship, Ferg?” said Slott.

“Straight operation,” he said. “We go in, we observe, we blow it up.”

Colonel Van Buren, sitting next to him, rolled his eyes. He knew Ferguson was just busting balls — they’d discussed the operation at great length over a scrambled phone as he flew to the States for the briefing. Van Buren had plans for a full-scale assault — two borrowed SEALs units along with his entire Special Forces Army Group, Stealth fighters, and a pair of AC-130 gunships. But he and Ferg had agreed that the initial operation would consist of only a small force. The Team, led by Ferg, would be deposited on shore by the SEALs so they could reconnoiter with the help of local agents. The larger operation would have to wait for hard evidence.

But Van Buren knew Ferguson couldn’t resist tweaking noses. He had obviously already taken a dislike to Ms. Alston. The colonel watched her hackles rise; she had no reason to take the CIA officer lightly.

“You can’t blow it up if it’s loaded with radioactive waste,” said Corrine.

Ferguson leaned over to give her a condescending smile. “Why not?”

“Because of the collateral damage,” she said. “The whole ship — a tanker — filled with radioactive waste?”

“It wouldn’t all be waste,” said Corrigan. “There’d be a lot of explosives to spread it around.”

“Why should we care?” said Ferg, bothered by the know-it-all tone in her voice. Did she seriously think he hadn’t considered the consequences of the operation or his actions?

“It is a legitimate concern,” said Slott. “But I don’t think Bob is serious about blowing it up. As for the composition of the waste—”

“Hey, shit happens,” said Ferguson, sliding back in his seat.

“Ferg and the Team will check the situation out,” said Van Buren, realizing he had to save Ferguson from himself. “Very small group, the way we usually operate. We scout it, then we do what’s appropriate. We’ll have several options. I have a plan already.”

“Van’s right,” said Ferguson.

“According to the analysts, it’s possible that they’re staging the waste from a different site, or that this is only one part of the operation,” said Slott. “If the waste were already at the ship, we think we’d have picked up some readings from different sensors we’ve had in the waterway. We have got some other targets to look at outside of the port before we look at the ship.”

“That’s one reason we want the native,” said Ferguson. “I know that’s a risk,” he added, looking at Slott. The DDO had put considerable energy into rebuilding the humint network in Iran, and Ferguson’s proposal would jeopardize it.

“It is a risk,” agreed Slott. “But then so is the rest of the plan.”

Corrine watched Ferguson as he discussed the situation with Slott; it appeared they would jeopardize if not burn at least one native agent, and they were debating whether to take him out with the Team or not.

What a macho bozo, she thought; he probably would blow up the ship if he had the chance and call it an accident. The president’s fears were on the mark — these idiots were cowboys.

And she still hadn’t figured out exactly how Special Demands operated. Though it was obviously under the deputy director of operations and therefore part of the operations directorate, it didn’t belong to any of the “normal” operation desks or areas and seemed to have unusual access to resources, both within the Agency and the military. Corrine hadn’t had a chance yet to look at the executive order or the NSC paperwork explaining it, let alone go over to CIA headquarters and research the files to get some perspective on Special Demands. That would require some time to negotiate the protocols, and would probably require working in a “safe” — an ultrasecure area where she would be literally locked in with material.

She’d get on that as soon as the meeting was over.

“You have a time frame?” Slott asked Ferguson.

“Van needs another day or two to pull the rest of the elements together,” Ferg said. “Forty-eight hours from now we can go; we’ll have details for you twelve to eighteen beyond that. Swordfish is already in the Gulf. They’ll be ready to go by the time we fly in. Yada yada yada.”

“I’d like to hear the details if you don’t mind,” said Corrine. “What’s Swordfish?”

A smile spread over Ferguson’s face, and he leaned back farther in the chair, his head now draped against the hard back. He waited for Slott — it would have to be Slott — to tell Miss Alston that operational details would be restricted to an absolute need-to-know basis, since even an inadvertent comment could put many people in danger.

But instead of telling her to mind her own business, Slott patiently explained that Swordfish was an in-house term for a submarine adapted for Special Operations. Several were prepositioned around the world; they carried a pair of Advanced SEAL Delivery Vehicles, basically minisubs that could be used to deposit Ferguson and his SF squad near the port.

“What happens if there is waste on the ship?” Corrine asked, stubbornly returning to the point that bothered her the most. “Will you blow it up?”

“Should we?” said Ferguson.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Well that settles it. We won’t.”

“What will you do?” Corrine asked Slott.

“That would be an upper-level decision,” the DDO told her. “At the moment, our main concern is just figuring out what’s going on.”

“You can’t just blow it up,” she insisted.

“Why the hell not?” said Ferguson.

“Because it’ll be radioactive.”

“And?”

“Civilians will die.”

“Better them than us,” said Ferg.

“We’re not going to just blow it up. It’s not our call. Stop egging her on, Ferg,” said Van.

“Is there a definite connection between this ship and the May 10 message?” asked Corrine.

“What May 10 message?” asked Ferguson.

“The one predicting an attack. Because if so, this can’t be part of the operation. It would take weeks for a ship to get from Iran to an American port.”

Ferguson knew about the message, of course, but considered it a red herring; the NSA was always forwarding intercepts, fueling rumors and endless speculation. “It’s irrelevant,” he said, getting up. “Are we through?”

Slott nodded. The others got up as well.

“She bothers me,” Ferguson told Van in the hallway.

“Gee, and here I thought you were in love.” He started walking up the steps. “You can’t just piss people off. You have to play by the rules.”

“I do play by the rules.”

“Whose? Yours?”

“Rules are rules.” They reached the elevator level. Ferguson nodded at the security people, then punched the button for the elevator. “She’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

“They’re just concerned about the prisoner. She’ll be gone in a week.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Ferguson, getting into the elevator. “Want to have lunch?” he asked Van Buren.

“Can’t. Got to go see an old friend.”

“I’ll talk to you before I fly back.” Ferguson saw Corrine approaching as the doors closed. “I’m going to drive out to the shooting range this afternoon,” he added loudly. “If I pretend I’m shooting at innocent children, I’m bound to do pretty damn well.”

“Jesus, Ferg,” said Van Buren, after the doors closed.

5

Though the session had gone longer than he’d expected, Van Buren managed to head out in time to keep his lunch appointment with Dalton. His friend had suggested an out-of-the-way restaurant in suburban Virginia named Mama Mia’s, but the place wasn’t exactly a pizza parlor. A tuxedoed maitre d’ met him at the door. The man nearly genuflected when he mentioned Dalton’s name, leading the way through the dining room to a table at the far end of the room, obviously selected for privacy. Dalton grinned when he spotted him, amused by his friend’s awkwardness in the rather elegant surroundings. The fourth son of a working-class family with eight children, Van Buren still felt considerably more at ease in a McDonald’s — or an Army cafeteria, for that matter.

“You dressed,” said Dalton, smirking, as the host pulled the seat out for him. “I was afraid you’d show up in combat boots.”

“I had a meeting,” said Van Buren. He reached across the table. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m just kick ass,” said Dalton.

The maitre d’ dropped the napkin in Van Buren’s lap with an expert flick of the wrist, then faded away.

“You have to get used to that,” added Dalton.

“Which?”

“Pomp and circumstance.”

“Whoo-haw.”

“Whoo-haw’s good.”

A waiter appeared at Van Buren’s elbow. “To drink, sir?”

There was a bottle of Pellegrino on the table. “I’ll have that,” said Van Buren, pointing at the bottle. The waiter nodded, then disappeared.

Dalton stopped Van Buren from reaching for the bottle. “I can’t take you anywhere. He’s coming back with a bottle.”

“What, you’re too good to share?”

“Hey, I could have AIDS for all you know.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, living in D.C.”

“Nah, Reston’s a million miles away,” said Dalton. They fell into some easy talk about their respective families, both men bragging a bit about their kids. Dalton had a girl who was just entering college. She was heading north to Brown University. A generation ago, her yearly tuition would have paid for a nice house.

“Ridiculous how expensive everything is,” said Dalton.

The food was excellent — Van Buren had a tuna that was delicious despite being barely cooked — and the conversation continued at such a leisurely pace that the colonel began to think his old friend had forgotten why he had set up the lunch in the first place. But that was not true at all; Dalton was merely salting the territory.

“Have you heard about Star Trek?” he said after the plates were cleared away. “It’s going to be upgraded.”

To anyone else in the restaurant, the question would have seemed innocuous, even incoherent. But Van Buren recognized that it was an oblique reference to the Pentagon’s advanced warfare operations center, which was sometimes referred to as the Starship Enterprise. Among other things, the center made it possible for real-time strategic information to be supplied to a commander in the field. The Cube was a scaled-down though more up-to-date version.

It was also, of course, highly secret.

“I’m not sure what movie you’re talking about,” said Van Buren.

Dalton smiled, raising his eyebrows but saying nothing as the waiter stepped over to ask if they’d like dessert. Both men opted only for coffee — decaf for Dalton.

“My company’s going to do the upgrade. And there’s a lot more business on the horizon,” said Dalton. “A lot.”

“Movie business must be nice,” said Van Buren.

“Is it ever.”

The coffee arrived, along with a plate of complimentary cookies. Dalton took one, broke it in half, and nibbled at the edges.

“We need someone who can talk to people, important people, and impress them,” said Dalton. “Tell them what life is like in the real world.”

“Uh-huh,” said Van Buren. He eyed the cookies — they were fancy Italian jobs, the sort his family sometimes got around the holidays — but decided to stick with the coffee.

“You wouldn’t believe the salary,” said Dalton. “And that would just be the start.”

“This a salesman’s job?”

“Hardly.” Dalton sipped his coffee. He’d expected resistance and wasn’t put off. “Congressmen, senators — they need to know they’re getting a straight story. No bullshit. And with what’s happening in the world — God, the stakes are immense. Every edge we can give the people in the field. Well, you know that yourself.”

Van Buren wondered exactly how much Dalton knew about his present assignment. His old friend was obviously well connected — maybe too well connected, he thought to himself.

“We’ve done other projects you’re familiar with,” added Dalton, confident that he had set the hook. His strategy wasn’t mendacious — everything he said was absolutely true, and he knew that Van Buren would do a great job. He also knew that the job would benefit Van Buren as well. And why not? Van Buren had been wounded twice and earned a bronze star; he was a bona fide, no-bullshit hero. He deserved to have a little downhill time.

“I can’t go into the specifics. You could ask around, though. Vealmont Systems does have a reputation in the right circles.” Dalton reached in his pocket and took out his business card, sliding it on the table. “The number on the back is the first year’s salary. You’d be a vice president.”

Van Buren slid over the card, staring at the front quixotically for a moment. He hadn’t realized that his friend was president of the firm.

The number on the back was 500k.

“Half a million?”

Dalton just smiled.

“Salary?”

Dalton continued to grin.

“To do what?” asked Van Buren.

“Serve your country,” said Dalton, his voice as serious as it got. “Help make sure the right technology gets to the people who need it.”

“This is a lot of money,” said Van Buren.

“That’s true. There’s very little overhead. The government already funds most of the R&D.” Dalton leaned forward. “Don’t let the zeroes throw you off. It’s the going rate around here, believe it or not. Everything’s more expensive these days. Look at college. The job’s an important one.”

“Who do I have to kill?”

“No one.” Dalton shook his head. “This is Washington, Charles. You’d be surprised at the number of people who consider that a paltry salary. And they haven’t done half of what you’ve done for your country. Nor would their hearts be in the right place.”

Van Buren, a little too stunned to really process anything else, simply nodded.

“This is the sort of thing you’ll be in line for after you make general anyway,” added Dalton, addressing what he expected would be a consideration once Van Buren thought it over. “Here you get a head start. You can bring Sylvia and your son here, have a good life. It’s not nine to five, admittedly, but there are opportunities, a lot more opportunities than in the Army. The work is important. It’s just that you won’t have people shooting at you anymore.”

“Mmmm,” said Van Buren, draining his coffee.

6

The mosque was a humble one, erected by traders more than a thousand years before. Its walls had seen the rise and fall of many fortunes; the trade route that once passed within sight of the spiraling minaret was long forgotten. Holes pockmarked the walls inside and out; the air within was stale, as if the building were afraid to expel the breath of its ghosts. But for Samman Bin Saqr the mosque was as treasured as any in his native Yemen — all the more so for the fact that it was considerably safer.

The man before him had interrupted his meditation to tell him that it was the Americans who had kidnapped Muhammad al Aberrchmof, known to them by the nom de guerre of Kiro. In some ways this was a relief — Kiro had seen himself as something of a rival, and Samman Bin Saqr had evidence that he was plotting to siphon off some of his material to use on his own.

Kiro, perhaps under the influence of his new Chechen friends, had been interested in cesium 137. Samman Bin Saqr had good stores of this gamma-ray-producing material, amounting to well over fifty pounds more than he actually needed. The waste was one of several used in many medical applications and particularly easy to obtain; had the circumstance been right, Samman Bin Saqr would have given Kiro some for his own use.

But the circumstances were not right; Kiro was not a stable man, as his sudden devotion to the Chechen cause proved without a doubt. His recent inquiries — Bin Saqr had learned that he had gone so far as to send a messenger to speak to a man who had plotted against the Russians with a similar bomb in the 1990s — had alarmed the Russians, who quite properly feared that their capital would be targeted. They had arrested the messenger; surely Kiro had survived only by bribery.

Samman Bin Saqr closed his eyes, trying to gauge the effect of Kiro’s capture. He had been careful to limit his access to information, but the Americans might yet stumble on something that would lead to him.

No. Allah would not allow it. Still, the timetable must be moved up, even if it meant the mix of waste would not be optimum. Imperfection on this round would give him something to improve for the next.

Bin Saqr’s inspiration had been to mix waste containing high-alpha radiation — obtained primarily from radioactive control rods and, in two cases, a very small amount of spent uranium fuel — with gamma-producing materials. The idea was to present the American Satan with a panoply of threats — short- and long-term. When his device exploded, the highly radioactive alpha-producing particles would be pulverized, entering the lungs of all those within a mile or more radius. Some would die immediately; others would linger in their illness.

The gamma waves would do their duty more slowly, seeping into their bodies and causing leukemia and other cancers over five or ten or fifteen years — his legacy to the future.

How many people would die? The scientists he had consulted could not agree. There was no model for such an event. It might only be a few hundred, and most of these by the explosive force needed to shatter and spread the waste material.

Or it might be millions. There was no way of knowing.

What he did know was that the effect would be deep and lasting fear. And Islam would be one step closer to the necessary final confrontation.

There were many things to be done yet, adjustments to be made to assure success. But he was sure that he could accomplish them; so much else had been done in so short a time.

“Honored one?” asked the messenger, waiting to see if there was an answer. Samman Bin Saqr had forgotten him temporarily.

“I will return immediately. Send word to proceed expeditiously,” he said. Then he closed his eyes once more, picturing before him the delicious image of the American paradise in ghostly ruins.

7

Conners felt a brief wave of nausea hit him as he waited in the chamber between the SF section of the USS Wappingers Falls and the ASDS, or Advanced Seal Delivery System, a high-tech minisub “parked” against the hull above. The host submarine was a member of the Virginia class of (relatively) low-cost attack boats designed primarily for action in littoral or coastal waters. The boat had pulled to within ten miles of the Iranian coast and waited for darkness; the rest of the trip would be by ASDS.

The SF soldier’s stomach problems had nothing to do with seasickness; the submarine was absolutely still in the water, or at least seemed to be. Conners tracked it to do with the volatile reaction of mustard and ham stemming from lunch. His wet suit snugged tightly against his stomach, pressing the two ingredients tightly together.

One of the Navy SEALs charged with “delivering” them ashore asked if he was ready.

“Beyond ready,” said Conners.

Ferguson, going over some last-minute details with one of the submarine’s officers in the corridor behind him, laughed.

Two ASDS crewmen were already aboard the minisubmarine. Unlike the earlier Seal Delivery Vehicle, the ASDS was a “dry pants” vessels; it kept its passengers warm and dry as it drove through the ocean, conserving their energy for the mission itself. Ferguson and Conners, along with the six SEALs who would make sure they got ashore, would swim the final half mile or so, and were geared up for their excursion in lightweight SCUBA outfits.

From the outside, the ASDS looked like a boxy, oversized torpedo. Powered by batteries, it had tail fins and thrusters allowing it to thread through minefields, along with sophisticated sonar and sensors that could be used for a variety of surveillance tasks as well as self-preservation. Most often, however, the ASDS was little more than an undersea taxi, delivering its cargo to the hostile shoreline undetected. One of the SEAL team members dubbed it the Super Mario, after the pizza deliveryman in the famous video game.

Which made Ferg and Conners the pizza.

Pepperoni and anchovies, the way Conners’s stomach felt as he climbed aboard. The ASDS was parked next to a companion in what amounted to a garage on the top of the submarine. With the systems checked and active, the captain gave permission to begin flooding the compartment, opening the garage door for junior to drive off on his date. Door open, the ASDS slipped sideways from its hangar, then pushed silently from the Wappingers Falls, its pilot and navigator carefully double-checking their preplotted path against the shifting realities of the ocean.

An hour later, Ferguson and Conners did one last equipment check and pulled their gear next to the hatchway at the stern of the boat. Their CIA-engineered breathing gear was even smaller than the Draeger gear the SEALs used, though like that breathing apparatus minimized telltale expelled air bubbles. Extremely lightweight, the face-formed masks they wore were connected to what looked like an oversized inflatable bib strapped to their chests. Once ashore, the equipment could be rolled up to the size of a portable umbrella. The downside was that it couldn’t hold much oxygen; it was intended to get them from the vessel to the surface and back, with about eight minutes to spare.

But then they weren’t there to tour coral reefs.

“Gonna be cold,” warned one of the SEALs, as Conners got ready to follow Ferg out.

He wasn’t kidding. Though they were wearing wet suits and the Gulf water was warm by ocean standards, Conners shuddered as he released himself under the ASDS and began stroking toward the surface. Ferguson bobbed in the water a few yards away. The SEALs — perfect mother hens — swam around them, fussing and fretting, making sure that their two charges and their gear were okay. They were barely a hundred yards from shore, close to the remnants of an abandoned pier once used by an old cement factory on the shore beyond.

The minisub had used a special radar to scan the shore just to make sure no defenses had sprung up overnight; even so, the SEAL swimmers conducted their own survey using night-vision devices adapted to a water environment. They held their hands out, keeping Conners and Ferg back until they were sure it was safe to proceed.

“Gentlemen?” said Ferg. The swimming gear was equipped with com devices.

“Just checking the lay of the land, sir,” said the petty officer next to him. “Don’t want to deliver you into a machine-gun nest.”

“You won’t get a tip if you do,” said Ferg.

The deliverymen finally gave the okay, and the pizza began swimming toward the shore.

A half hour later, Ferg and Conners unpacked a pair of bicycles from the long plastic cases their SEAL companions had towed behind them to shore. Gear stowed beneath the broken timbers of the pier, they began pedaling toward their rendezvous point with an Iranian who had been recruited a year before by the CIA.

The contact was the most vulnerable point of the mission. Ferguson never completely trusted a foreign agent, no matter who vouched for him or what he’d done in the past. But the native would make it considerably easier to check the onshore sites that might be connected to the waste operation.

The cement factory sat at the far end of what in America would have been a port-area industrial park. There were several other abandoned facilities along the long access road to the highway that went north to the port itself. At the intersection with the highway sat a large area devoted to cargo containers; even though it was three o’clock in the morning, several work crews were unloading and moving containers. The two Americans pedaled past quietly, heading toward a field at the right side of the road where their contact, Keveh Shair, was supposed to be waiting.

A small pin of light flashed in the distance as Ferguson and Conners approached. Stopping immediately, they split up, Conners moving to flank the position in case it was a trap. His stomach felt much better now that he’d gotten out of the wet suit.

Ferguson slung his MP-5A5 — a SEAL-issued version of the familiar submachine guns designed to withstand a wet environment — over his back and started walking slowly toward the light. Rubble lay everywhere before him in the lot, and even if he didn’t want to give Conners time to find his position, he would have had to move slowly. The two men were connected through their Team communications system.

“Stop,” said a voice in Farsi.

A pair of shadows appeared roughly where the light had been. Ferg wasn’t wearing a NOD, and had trouble making them out.

“How we doing?” he asked Conners.

“Two guys, guns. Truck back by the road.”

“OK,” said Ferg quietly. The shadows were moving toward him. He held his hands out, said the password — Ayatollah.

One of the shadows laughed.

“I thought it was funny, too,” said Ferg.

“Mr. Ferguson?” said a heavily accented voice in English. “I’m Keveh.”

The two shadows materialized into a pair of bears. The one on the left had an early model M-16 in his paws. The one on the right stepped toward Ferguson, extending his hand.

There was a black pistol in it, aimed now at his head.

“Shit,” said Conners over the com system.

Ferg stood motionless.

“Where did you go to school?” demanded Keveh.

“Yale.”

“Who was your Philosophy Two teacher?”

“Xavier Ryan. Never met a Greek he didn’t like,” said Ferg. “Which is why he only lasted a year. I had Daniel Frick for conceptual physics. Now that was a kick-ass class. You know, if you run fast enough, you don’t weigh anything?”

“Excuse the precaution,” said Keveh, lowering the gun.

“Not a problem,” said Ferg. “What’d you do, download my course transcript?”

“A friend checked it. You understand here, there are precautions. I understood there would be two of you.”

“Yeah. He has you both covered at the moment. Excuse the precaution.”

The Islam Qaatar, originally built in India, was one of two ships being worked on at the Al-Haamden Dry Dock. It was impossible to see the ship from the road, but the yard looked as if it were only sparsely guarded.

“Easiest thing for us to do,” Ferguson told Keveh as they drove by a second time, “we go in as workmen. We don’t have to stay very long; we just plant some automated sensors and split. Maybe I take some pictures.”

“I don’t think so,” said Keveh. “They’re bound to have a list of who works there.”

“You sure?”

Keveh shrugged.

“How about a government inspector or something?”

“Doesn’t happen.”

“Then we’ll have to figure something else out. Let’s go grab some food,” said Ferg.

The Iranians took them to the edge of the city in an area that was the equivalent of an American middle-class suburb. The houses were only two or three years old, fairly close together, with identical white facades offset around the circular roadways. It was still dark, but Ferguson and Conners went in through the side door under the carport, stumbling against furniture before Keveh met them with his pin flashlight pointed toward the floor. He led them into a back room that had twin beds, then disappeared to get some food.

“I don’t trust him,” said Conners.

“Specific reason or general paranoia?” asked Ferg.

Conners shrugged. He didn’t have a real reason.

Ferguson took out his sat phone. While he could communicate with the submarine and Rankin by calling a number that connected with a SpecOps/Navy ELF underwater system, there was no need; they’d planned to spend the day reconnoitering. He called Corrigan instead, telling him they were ashore safely and proceeding.

“Anything new?” Ferg asked.

“Corrine Alston is pissing off everybody in sight,” said Corrigan. “She’s been in the library.”

“Good place for her.”

“Slott’s trying to find out what the hell the story is. I have Lauren babysitting her. I don’t trust her with any of the guys. Her legs are too sleek.”

“I hadn’t noticed. Any new satellite data?”

“Still being studied.”

“Jesus—”

“We may have something for you in a couple of hours.”

“All right. I’ll call you back,” said Ferg, as Keveh returned with a bowl and two plates.

Conners and Ferguson sat against the beds to eat, the bowl between them and their plates perched on their knees. The food was a kind of meatless stew. Conners had only a few bites; now that his stomach had settled he didn’t want to provoke it again. Ferguson, though, ate two helpings, then eyed what was left on Conners’s plate.

“All yours,” said Conners.

“Better not,” said Ferg. “Might make me fart.”

“At least.”

Ferg pulled up his shirt and retrieved the plastic envelope containing the satellite photos and diagrams of the dry-dock area. He penciled in the guard post he’d seen, shading the two spots where searchlights covered the perimeter. The security was concentrated around the roadway, probably intended more for its deterrence value than anything else. It was possible that there were cameras or high-tech detectors scattered around the yard; there was no way to tell for sure until they were inside.

He expected there would be more guards. The situation didn’t look promising.

“Maybe everybody’s so afraid of getting their hands chopped off for stealing that they don’t steal,” said Conners. “Or maybe this isn’t the boat.”

“Yeah,” said Ferg. He pulled the area diagram to the top of his small stack. The two lots directly across from the dockyard warehoused construction materials, which arrived from an area to the south and were moved via flatcars. One of the photos showed items being taken off by crane in the eastern portion of the yard. There were two long sheds at the extreme western end, and what looked like train rails buried in the pavement running to the fence separating the dock area. If material were being brought down to be placed in the ship, it could come into the warehouse area, be stored in one of those two buildings — or any of the others for that matter — then moved across by flatcar and switcher engine simply by taking the fence section away.

“You’re assuming they’re not breaking the waste into smaller containers somewhere else,” said Conners.

“They may be,” said Ferg. “But this would be an obvious place, and since the sat boys haven’t seen it anywhere else, looking here makes sense.”

“I guess. Didn’t move the needle on the rad meter when we drove past.”

“Yeah,” said Ferg. “But we can’t totally rely on that. Maybe it’s shielded.”

Conners, starting to sense a bust, said nothing.

“Easy to get into the warehouse area,” Ferguson told him. He jabbed at the diagram. “We can walk right up this road. Guards are here and here. They have nothing on this side because of the water. So we come around here, look for radiation, check the sheds out, then go over to the shipyard.”

“Going to take nearly an hour,” said Conners. “That’s about a mile and a half you’re talking just to get into the site. Hour at least on each of the buildings, then we have to get around that fence. Going to be a long night.”

“Yeah.” Ferg leaned back against the bed. “You tired, Dad?”

Conners shrugged. “Not really.”

Keveh knocked on the door, then came in, holding a small ceramic teapot and three cups. He put the pot down and settled across from them.

“You have milk for that?” Conners asked.

The Iranian looked at him as if milk were the most ridiculous thing you could put in tea.

“Cream or something like that?” Conners asked.

Keveh shook his head.

“Be tough,” Ferg joked. He took a sip. The liquid tasted like a cross between Earl Grey and 30w motor oil.

“I was thinking we’d take a drive through the countryside,” Ferg told his host. “Couple of things I want to look at.”

Keveh nodded. Ferg unfolded his map of the port area and gave him a general idea of where they were going. Keveh nodded.

“When’s a good time?” asked Ferg.

The Iranian shrugged. “Now.”

“Well, let’s go then.”

“Scuff your shoes first,” said Keveh, pointing down. “Those will stand out if we get out of the car. Nothing’s new here.”

8

After hours of staring at the computer screen, the glare from the overhead fluorescents began to feel like sharp fingernails scratching at Corrine’s eyes. She hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep for the past four or five days, and between the fatigue, coffee buzz, and all the data she’d been trying to assimilate, she felt like she was back in law school, cramming for a final. She punched the keys to kill the file and stood up, looking at her watch.

It was 6:05 P.M.; she’d missed lunch and dinner. Corrine got up from the desk, remembering that there was a package of Fig Newtons in her pocketbook, which because of security requirements she wasn’t allowed to bring into the reference area. She also wasn’t allowed to wear her shoes — instead, she had a pair of ill-fitting cardboard slippers that made her feel as if he she were a patient at a hospital with a library.

That’s what they called it, with a little sign on the door. They even had a little old lady with bluish hair to help you.

As counsel to the congressional Intelligence Committee, Corrine had been briefed on a number of clandestine operations, including two or three that featured cooperation between Special Forces and the CIA. The history of such operations extended to the Kennedy presidency; while they had been severely curtailed in the wake of the Vietnam War, they had gradually come back into favor and in fact enjoyed some success in Afghanistan during the war on terror. But the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office and “the Team” were unique in several ways:

1. Missions were authorized and conducted without any paperwork whatsoever — no findings, no bureaucratic review, no audit, no log, no mention anywhere in the extensive operations files. Whereas a typical — if there were such a thing — CIA mission would stem from an NSC finding, Special Demands specifically didn’t need such findings, and in fact none were in the records, which meant there had been none. Nor were there any records of direct executive orders from the president authorizing specific Special Demands programs or missions.

2. Missions were not authorized or reviewed at any level below or above DDO; there was apparently no way for anyone outside of the extremely small group of people involved even to know about them.

3. The Team apparently combined collection and paramilitary functions — it collected intelligence, then immediately acted on it. While this, of course, had happened throughout the CIA’s history, and in fact started during the OSS days, the line here seemed deliberately fused, with the same mission gathering intelligence, then immediately acting on it.

4. In Corrine’s experience, backed up by her review of the Agency’s records, most operations involving cooperation between the military and the Agency’s clandestine service were of relatively limited duration, ending when a specific goal was achieved. From what she had seen, the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office and its missions weren’t tied to specific operations. In this way, the model seemed to be the information side of the Agency, which provided intelligence to the military services on an ongoing basis. Not only could the goals change mid-mission — as they apparently had here — but the unit existed forever.

5. There were no apparent audit controls, and in fact Special Demands seemed to have an almost unlimited budget, with access not only to the extensive resources of a specially created Army Special Forces Group, but a variety of other service assets as well. The man in charge of the military end of the operation — Colonel Van Buren — answered not to USSOCOM, but to the head of Special Demands. Unlike other Special Forces groups, his core unit was not assigned a specific geographical area. It appeared to consist of only one battalion — smaller than the normal three combat battalions and nearly another’s worth of support people — but even that wasn’t clear from the documents Corrine had reviewed. While there were some military constraints on him — for example, he had to draw his men from SF units — from what Corrine could gather he existed entirely in a bubble, with no interference — or guidance — from higher-ups.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, about the Kiro or current mission in the Agency’s own secret files.

Which spoke volumes, in Corrine’s opinion. The president’s characterization of the unit as “cowboys” brushed the tip of the iceberg.

This was exactly the sort of situation that had led to CIA assassin teams and unchecked, unlawful, and ultimately self-defeating operations in the 1960s. In some ways, the present situation was even worse — not only had technology improved tremendously in the past forty years, but the capabilities of the SF unit was far beyond anything available during the Vietnam War.

If she was reading what she’d heard and seen at the meeting correctly, Special Demands short-circuited the normal CIA chain of command, with the field officer actually running the show. Ferguson was too young to have extensive experience, and the DDO was clearly overwhelmed with his other responsibilities to pay too much attention. The SF colonel seemed to have decent sense, but he was more Ferguson’s equal than his boss. Corrigan was just a staff lackey, treated as such.

Not only did this stripped-down structure invite abuse, it encouraged mistakes. The Iranian ship was an international incident waiting to happen.

It was also a mistaken lead. Granted, it was logical; the prisoner had a clear connection to the group thought to have purchased the ship, and there were satellite photos and other data showing that trains did follow a path that would make diversion possible. But the Iranian government had infiltrated the local branch of the Islamic group two months before, and there was no sign at all of their involvement. The ship wasn’t guarded by Iranian police or troops, and the funding conduits they normally used for “overseas education” did not include anything related to the ship.

And if the May 10 message was correct, the ship couldn’t be the delivery vessel; it wouldn’t even be ready to sail by then. Admittedly, the message seemed like a red herring; it did no more than predict “disaster for Satan’s paradise.” Except that the language was similar to what Allah’s Fist had once used, it would seem no different than any dozen predictions the NSA and CIA routinely collected and dismissed.

Corrine had also taken the time to bone up on radiation hazards. The issue was extremely complicated — considerably more tangled than Corrigan’s slides had shown. High-alpha waste such as the material believed stolen in transit was extremely dangerous, but only if pulverized and inhaled. That was why Corrigan had mentioned the need for explosives — the waste would have to be spread into the air by a large explosion. Gamma generators, by contrast, were not quite as dire. But they, too, had an effect, usually over time. Overall, the exact health hazard was difficult to estimate, even after exposure, except under very controlled conditions, when the exposure was recorded with the help of a film device worn on the body. A single gray — a dose equal to one joule of energy absorbed by one kilogram — would cause radiation sickness, which meant nausea, vomiting, and dizziness; that level of exposure could lead to death in a few days — or not at all. Much lower doses might not make a person sick immediately, but could cause or perhaps encourage cancer — the exact mechanism wasn’t fully understood.

Part of the difficulty in assessing the risk came from the fact that data had to be collected sporadically, largely from accidents and errors. Corrine had read reports on three accidental nuclear-waste releases during the Cold War at the Soviet Union’s Chlyabinsk-65 plant. Stripping Soviet propaganda and correlating exposure levels, one of the studies found that 95 percent of the cleanup team at a tank explosion had been exposed to cancer-causing levels of gamma radiation in less than a day. That would be consistent with the effects of an explosion of a tractor trailer’s worth of strontium-90, the material mentioned in Corrigan’s report. In a less dire accident ten years later, 41,500 people at Lake Karachay were “minimally” and “briefly” exposed to cesium-137 and strontium-90 when the radioactive dust was swept up during a wind storm. According to the study, 4,800 received doses above 1.3 centisieverts, enough to increase cancer risks significantly.

Leukemia, birth defects, lung cancer, stillbirths, sterility — the effects of even a mild exposure measured in curies, perhaps from a few hundred pounds of high-level waste, were definite yet unpredictable, a macabre lottery of death and illness, impossible to predict.

That was the point. You couldn’t know exactly how bad it would be, and so you would fear the worst. You would be paralyzed by the ambiguity, terrorized by the possibility of death.

Dirty death.

The threat was real. But it was besides the point. She hadn’t been sent to assess it, just check on the Team.

In Corrine’s opinion, the only sensible thing to do was to abolish Special Demands. Her case depended largely on this one operation, since it was the only one she knew of. Nonetheless, it made for a good set of exhibits for the prosecution.

“So, Counselor, did you find anything interesting?”

Corrine looked up, surprised to see Daniel Slott, the CIA’s deputy director of operations, standing near the door as she retrieved her things from the locker outside the library.

“Always,” she said.

Slott scratched the thick five o’clock shadow on his cheek. “Have you had dinner?” he asked.

“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” said Corrine, pointedly glancing at Slott’s wedding ring.

“I’m not trying to pick you up,” he said. “Just, if you need background, I can supply it.”

“I don’t know that it’s necessary, thank you.”

“Is there a problem I ought to know about?” said Slott.

“You tell me,” said Corrine.

“I don’t think there’s a problem at all.”

“One thing that wasn’t clear to me,” she said, deciding to do a discovery interview before presenting her brief. “What exactly is the oversight procedure on Joint Services Special Demands Project Office?”

“Usually we refer to it simply as the Team.”

“Yes?”

“I review everything.”

“How is it that there are no specific findings prior to a mission?”

“Not necessary,” he said. “As a matter of fact, the NSC specifically stated that Special Demands is under the direct supervision of an individual appointed by the president, which has been, is, me.”

“The streamlined procedure was designed because it wasn’t intended to authorize this sort of operation,” she said. “Special Demands was intended to be used to develop weapons and other devices that might have applications for your agency and the Special Forces units. Wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t limited,” said Slott.

Corrine, who had studied the NSC minutes and knew that was the only matter discussed, zipped her pocketbook and started toward the door. Slott followed.

“Listen, we’ve got an important operation running here — it’s proof the system works,” he said.

Corrine didn’t bother answering.

“It’s not like I can go out and start World War III,” added Slott.

“Mr. Ferguson can,” said Corrine. “There are no holds on him.”

“Of course there are.”

“Name one.”

“Me. Van Buren. The people in the field.”

Corrine remained unimpressed.

“Ferguson is one of our best people. I trust him completely.”

Slott reached out and grabbed her arm. She jerked back, adrenaline rising; she’d flatten him if she had to.

“We shouldn’t be enemies here,” Slott said, letting go. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re not enemies, that I know of,” she told him, walking away.

9

The tracks leading to two of the three railroad yards Ferg wanted to look at were ripped up and missing in spots, and when the radiation detector didn’t pick up any readings nearby, Ferg decided not to bother with them. The third was located about thirty-five miles northeast of Bandar ‘Abbas, in a town that wouldn’t have seemed terribly out of place in middle America — once you adjusted for the veils, beards, and minarets.

The rail spur skirted the town; the siding Ferg was interested in sat in a valley at the eastern edge, linking with a large complex of buildings and steel warehouses. Most of the buildings looked dilapidated, but there were two in the center of the complex in good repair.

There were also at least a dozen armed guards.

“What do you think?” Ferg asked Keveh.

The Iranian shook his head. He had no idea what they did inside.

“Why don’t we drive in and see what happens?” Ferg asked.

“They may shoot us.”

“There is that,” said Ferg.

They drove past the road leading to the site, then up around another set of roads that brought them near but not to the train tracks. Ferg and Keveh got out, leaving Conners and the other Iranian with the car. Ferg walked down the siding toward the gated rail entrance to the facility. There were a pair of guards inside the fence about two hundred yards from him; it was impossible to tell whether they were paying mention or not. A boxcar sat on the tracks near one of the dilapidated buildings; there was a tanker car beyond it.

“What if I’m a foreign investor who wants to buy some of the old buildings?” Ferguson suggested to Keveh.

“Very suspicious.” Keveh squinted and shielded his eyes from the rising morning sun.

“Yeah, but will it get me in?”

“Better if I say I’m from the Revolutionary Council at Bandar,” said the Iranian.

“Who am I?”

“A foreign expert on railroads — on steel,” said Keveh. “A Russian. Better from Russia — they won’t be interested.”

“I like that. I always wanted to play with trains.”

An hour later, Ferguson and Keveh drove inside the complex, watched but not stopped by the guards. They’d left the others outside, watching as best they could from the road near the town.

As Keveh circled around toward the two train cars, Ferguson slid out his radiation tester. The tester could record sixteen data points or levels for reference in both REM and Rads, and could detect energy levels down to 1 nR/hr, the low end of normal background radiation. Its isotope identification mode tracked a variety of isotopes stored in its memory, and it could record and retain up to thirty-two bits. (Depending on the type of radiation, REMs and Rads were considered essentially the same measure, indicating how much energy was being absorbed and potential biological damage done. At high alpha levels, however, the Rad measurement was more useful. A REM was equal to.01 sievert.) He had a larger device in his pack that could record becquerels and curies for a hundred data points; this used a gas tube and was bulky, and its precision wasn’t really necessary. (In fact, the difference in measurements were mostly a matter of math. One becquerel represented the disintegration of one nucleus per second. While standards varied wildly, a waste tank might generate one hundred curies, which was 3,700 billion becquerels. The effects of exposure would vary depending on time and distance as well as the nature of the exposure, but a person working in a uranium mine would be “allowed” a safe exposure to 3.7 becquerels per liter of air a month.)

Ferg took the first level as they got out of the car; it was flat. He walked to the tanker, holding the device on the metal skin. The needle didn’t budge, even on its most sensitive setting.

He went to the boxcar — empty — then along the track, stooping at a connection as if he were truly inspecting it. The rail line was very old and not used much, but undoubtedly in good enough shape to handle cars. The building at the left beyond the boxcar had a rail running into it.

“Company,” said Keveh. A small Gator-style ATV with two guards had appeared from around the corner of one of the sheds and was heading their way.

“Keep ‘em busy,” said Ferg.

“What?”

“I have to take a leak,” he said, trotting toward the building.

He pretended to check left and right, then stood next to the side and held out his counter.

Nothing. Ferg pretended to concentrate as Keveh called to him. He held up his hand and waved, as if intent on finding a spot to do his business.

A single window stood at the side of the building near the corner. Ferg glanced back, saw that the guards weren’t following, and walked toward it. He couldn’t see through the dirt on the window, so he walked past, feigning interest in the trucks as he turned the corner of the building.

There were several windows there, the first with a face in it. The face glared at him, its eyes furrowing into its head above a stubby beard. Ferg waved, and held up the radiation meter, as if it were something the face ought to be familiar with. The frown only deepened.

Ferguson moved on to the next window, leaning over and looking through the dirt.

It was some sort of warehouse for DVDs, or maybe a manufacturing operation. There were several piles of boxes near the floor, a woman smiling. He couldn’t read the writing. He pushed his head closer, put his hand up to cut off the glare.

There were different covers, but they all had young women on them.

Good work, he thought to himself; I’ve busted a DVD-pirating operation.

Ferg headed back. As he turned the corner he saw that the guards had become a little more threatening — they had their pistols out. Keveh, his face red, was talking nonstop to one of them, who was shaking his head.

Ferguson shoved his meter in his pocket and walked toward them. He couldn’t understand the particulars, but the gist was fairly clear — the guards didn’t like the fact that they were nosing around. Ferg gave them a long blast in Russian as he approached, asking if they were filming porn inside and, if so, could they take some walk-ons. Fortunately, neither man had a clue what he was saying.

“Counterfeiting DVDs,” he said, in English, to Keveh, encasing the explanation in a sentence of more Russian nonsense.

Keveh gave him a look that didn’t need to be translated. Then the guard issued his own command, gesturing with the gun.

“Guess it’s time to leave,” Ferguson said to Keveh. He took a step back in the direction they had come.

A warning shot in the dirt nearby stopped him.

“Okay,” he said, turning around. “Sprechen sie Deutsch? Parla Italiano? Speak En-glishy?”

The guard’s only answer was to raise the barrel of his gun so that the next shot had a reasonable chance of hitting him in the throat.

10

Corrine stopped at a deli on her way back to the office, grabbing a half hero for lunch and dinner; she was so hungry she ate most of it while driving back. Teri had gone home already, leaving three prioritized piles of letters and other matters to review on her desk. Corrine ignored them as well as the full queue of e-mail on her computer, concentrating instead on writing a memo to the president about Special Demands. She pounded the keys in a rapid flow of logic, producing over twenty pages in little more than two hours. She was just about to hit the spellcheck when she heard someone knock on the outer door. Figuring it was one of the Secret Service people discreetly checking to see if the light had been left on accidentally, she yelled out that she was fine and went back to poring over the screen, sorting out contractions and typos.

“I think the electorate would be thrilled at your work ethic,” said the president behind her.

Corrine felt her face flush. “You surprised me, Mr. President,” she said, turning around from her computer.

“I have that effect on people,” he said, peeking at the computer screen. “Addressed to me?”

“I haven’t finished it yet.”

“How was Cuba? Warm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Our guest?”

“Interesting, but not very talkative,” said Corrine. “I already told you the decision should be deferred while they’re pursuing his present information.”

“E-mail is not the same as a personal report.”

“I’m working on my report now.” She folded her arms in front of her breasts, feeling almost as if the president had barged into her bathroom as she came from the shower.

“I understand the CIA director and the deputy director of operations are on my agenda for the morning.” McCarthy raised his eyebrows just enough to suggest a wink as he continued. “What is it they’re going to complain about?”

“They got to you already?”

The president reached for the seat near her desk. He pulled it over and sat down, pulling the pant legs of his gray suit back ever so slightly and exposing his snakeskin boots. “Now just remember, dear, the shoe leather is snake. My legs will hurt if you start to fib.”

Corrine had heard the line a million times. “It’ll all be in my memo.”

“Horse’s mouth is always better, not to mention quicker,” said McCarthy. “And I am by no means suggesting that you’re a horse.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Corrine told him what she had found — an operation with no checks in place and, it seemed to her, ample opportunity for running amuck.

“They’re completely outside any oversight,” said Corrine. “The fact that they’ve used a structure intended for something else is, at the very least, a serious red flag.”

“You’re sure it was intended for something else.”

“I’ve seen the minutes.”

“And they would be accurate.” The president let just the hint of amusement enter into his skepticism; he knew the past administration extremely well. “They don’t have to report to anyone?”

“Just the DDO.”

“The person I appoint,” said the president. He was drawing an important distinction — the NSC directive did not state that the DDO was in charge of Special Demands.

“Slott’s been with the Agency for years; his loyalties aren’t to you,” said Corrine. “I don’t think he has any perspective at all.”

McCarthy propped the side of his face against his hand, as relaxed as if he were discussing how they dealt with critters on his Georgia farm. “The problem is that they don’t have intelligence findings before proceeding?”

“The problem is they don’t have anything. Decisions are being made by the officer in the field and a Special Forces colonel who has enough firepower at his fingertips to start a world war. Slott is a rubber stamp at best. This is exactly what led to catastrophe in the sixties. It took decades to recover from that. Some say they still haven’t.”

“Well now, they’ve told me what’s going on,” said the president. “Shouldn’t I trust them?”

“There’s no way for us to know for sure what they’re doing,” she explained. “The NSC isn’t involved, there’s no paperwork, no procedures, the director doesn’t have to be notified, they don’t have to report to the congressional committees — we have to completely trust the people involved.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t trust anyone. First rule.” Corrine shook her head. “The operation in Iran is a perfect example. What happens if they’re captured? Or worse, if they find a dirty bomb on that ship and blow it up? Not to mention that, in my opinion, they’re going off on a wild-goose chase.”

McCarthy sat back up. “How’s that?”

“It’s obviously meant to throw them off the trail. The Iranian government took over the Islamic organization months ago. Our guest told them that to throw them off. He’s probably hoping we’ll give the Iranians trouble.”

“And how do you know?”

“I’ve done a little research. Where do you think I’ve been the past few days?”

“That didn’t occur to them?”

“Probably, but they won’t admit it. They get a hot lead, and they pursue it. That’s how they operate.”

McCarthy put his hand to his chin, rubbing the nubby whiskers of his five o’clock shadow.

“If they really want to find out where the waste is going,” Corrine told him, “we should track it from Buzuluk.”

“They said they tried,” said the President.

“As far as I could find out, they only used satellites and detectors; they weren’t actually there. Big difference seeing the bear than hearing about it,” she added, using one of his phrases.

McCarthy rose from the chair without saying anything. He walked over to her desk, reaching around her to the computer.

“Here,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Insert your recommendation here.”

“Which recommendation?”

“The one that recommends that the person in charge of Special Demands be outside the CIA and Special Forces command structure, as permitted by the authorizing directive and executive order. And the law.”

“Uh—”

“To be more specific, that the president’s counsel be that person.”

“But—”

“Then a little lower, down here, plot out your recommendation for following the operation. I think that might be the first thing you do, assuming you’re right about the ship.”

“But I can’t do that.”

“Can’t do what, dear?”

“I can’t get involved in this.”

“Whyever not? You have experience working with the Intelligence Committee. You obviously aren’t intimidated by the CIA boys. And I’d bet even those hard-assed Special Operations people’ll be eating out of your hand in short order.”

“But I’m a lawyer. I’m your lawyer.”

“I hope you’re not bringing up the matter of your job description again.” McCarthy straightened, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“I am.”

“I’m beginning to believe you are angling for a raise, Miss Alston.”

“You set me up, didn’t you?”

“How’s that?” asked the president.

“You want to exercise more control over them, but you didn’t want to make it look like it was your idea. So you’re using me. You sent me — you used me.”

“Nevuh would I use a woman.”

“How much did you know about Special Demands before you called me in? Or this operation?”

“I didn’t know everything you’ve told me,” said McCarthy.

“That sounds like an answer a lawyer would give,” she said.

“Touché, Counselor. Touché.”

11

The hardest part was waiting before launching the mission. Rankin busied himself with equipment checks and plans, but eventually all he could do was sweat, the excess energy seeping out from the pores of his skin. He wanted to be onshore, rescuing Ferguson — bailing the asshole out, as usual — but prudence dictated they wait until dark. Conners had the site under surveillance; the situation was pretty stable, given the circumstances.

Though in Rankin’s opinion, a bullet in the head might teach Ferguson a lesson.

Rankin had learned to meditate while recovering from a shoulder injury when he was a corporal; he didn’t use the full lotus position he’d learned in the yoga class — too goofy in the submarine, with SEALs all around — but he did sit still in the mess area, hands resting on his knees, eyes zoned into a distant space. It helped for a while, settling his muscles and controlling his breath, but inevitably the adrenaline of the people around him pierced through the temporary veil.

When the time finally came to climb into the escape chamber and board the minisub, Rankin moved slowly but deliberately, as if trying to hold his muscles in check. He sat on the bench of the ASDS next to the SEAL team’s leader, a large, blond-haired master chief petty officer from Minnesota about Rankin’s age. The others called him MC, partly because of his rank and partly because of his name — Mark Carpenter. But he also had the air of an emcee, silently surveying everything and calmly maintaining order.

When the ASDS was ready to slide off the submarine, MC looked at Rankin, lowering his head slightly as if to say, “Are you ready, Soldier Boy?” Rankin nodded. Rather than speaking, MC tapped the navigator, who passed the signal on to the helmsman.

The submarine pushed through the water, a bit unsteady at first. The ride took barely twenty minutes. Rankin wasn’t a very strong swimmer, but the watchfulness of the two SEALs assigned to shepherd him to shore irked him; Rankin felt like a recently weaned lamb, crowded by two sheepdogs all the way to shore.

He saw the signal when they were still a good thirty yards from the rocks. The others made him stop and tread water while the coded sequences of signs and countersigns were exchanged and repeated. It was absolutely prudent and necessary, but Rankin felt mostly annoyance, and when the SEALs finally started swimming forward he realized that he had grown somewhat used to working with Ferguson, whose easygoing demeanor infected everything the Team did, even authentication procedures.

It was an odd realization — if anyone had asked, Rankin would have said flatly that Ferg was far, far too ready to cut corners and take chances.

Conners squatted near the rocks with the flashlight when Rankin pulled himself onto the dry land.

“Hey,” said Conners. He put his hand out and helped him up.

“Yeah,” answered Rankin.

“They’re just local security people, as far as I can tell,” Conners told him. “I got it all psyched out.”

Rankin called over the SEAL team leader and introduced him. Conners filled them both in on the layout and lineup. The other local Iraqi spy was watching the site. They’d gotten close enough to use the boom; the people at the factory had bought the Russian cover story and were torn between demanding a ransom and just letting the two men go.

“I just talked to our guy. No change,” said Conners. He had sketched out the facility on a piece of paper. “Pretty straightforward. Two guys at the front gate, a couple of roamers. Pretty light security. No problem with eight guys.”

“You sure there’s no change?” asked Rankin.

“Fifteen minutes ago, no change. We’ll call again once we’re close. He doesn’t talk English,” Conners added. “I used the handheld to get some Farsi and English back and forth.”

“Is the waste in there or what?”

“Can’t tell for sure,” said Conners. “But I don’t think so. They’re counterfeiting DVDs.”

MC took the paper from Rankin.

“Come on,” said Conners. “Our bus is over here.”

“Bus?” asked Rankin.

“What, you expected a BMW?” said Conners. “The guy who’s watching the facility has a brother who owns two buses. He’s our driver. It looks like a school bus. Don’t worry, he says we won’t get stopped.”

“Why don’t we just get a fuckin’ fire truck and go lights and sirens?” said Rankin in a sneer.

“I thought of that,” said Conners. “But I couldn’t find one.”

“You’ve been hanging around Ferguson too long,” said Rankin.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

You’d think they’d give us some free samples to while away the time,” said Ferguson.

Keveh didn’t laugh.

Ferg got up slowly from the plastic chair, holding his hands out so that the guard at the door would realize that he was just stretching his legs. The Iranians didn’t seem to know what to do with them; Keveh said one of the guards had mentioned that they had to call their “administrator,” who apparently wasn’t at the factory. They obviously weren’t going to call the police — the bootlegging operation was illegal and would either get them into trouble or necessitate a serious round of bribes.

Ferguson had floated hints that they would pay a ransom, but their captors hadn’t actually asked how one might be paid. He figured Conners and the cavalry would wait until dark to bail them out; with a little luck this would be merely a burp in their schedule.

The guard stared at him as he stretched. He had a pistol at his belt, easily take-able — obviously the man wasn’t too experienced guarding prisoners. Ferg figured it was safe enough to wait; besides, the security office was next door, and there was no telling whether there might actually be someone who knew what he was doing there.

Ferguson began stretching; he felt cramped as well as tired — then pulled over one of the plastic chairs. The guard said something in Farsi. Ferg motioned that he was going to do a push-up against the seat, then did so, hamming the routine up.

“What are you doing?” Keveh asked.

“Limbering up,” said Ferg.

“He thinks you’re nuts.”

“That’s good.” Ferguson reeled off a few sentences of Russian about the beauty of the white leopard in winter, then added in English “You think they’re going to feed us?”

“The guard doesn’t know.”

“Send him out to ask,” said Ferg. “I’m getting hungry.”

Keveh asked in Farsi if the guard might get them some food. The man shook his head, then explained that he was not in charge — they would have to wait there until his superior arrived. He, too, was hungry.

As the guard was speaking, Ferguson heard footsteps in the hallway. He rested his left hand on the chair, listening. There was a loud pop in the distance, from near the entrance — with a swift motion Ferguson picked up the chair and tossed it at the guard’s face, following underneath with a dive at the man’s midsection. Ferguson twisted around and up, pushing his legs underneath him and pinning the hapless guard to the ground. A quick kick to the man’s chin ended any possibility of resistance.

“Down,” Ferguson yelled at Keveh, grabbing the gun from the holster. “Get over to the side. They’re using flash-bangs. Keep your eyes closed and head covered.”

He crawled out of the way just as the hinges of the door flew open with the loud report of a shotgun blast. Rankin and a SEAL in battle dress and blackface pushed into the room with a bang; within three seconds a gun barrel pointed at each occupant’s head.

“Watch where you point that thing, Skippy,” said Ferguson, who’d put the pistol he’d taken under his body.

“You’re lucky I don’t pull the trigger.”

“Then you’ll have all those friendly fire reports to fill out,” said Ferguson. He held up his hands so it was obvious to the others that he was a good guy, and gestured to Keveh. “He’s ours.”

“They’re all right, they’re okay,” said Conners, rushing in behind them.

Rankin pushed the Iranian guard to the corner of the room, trussing him with plastic cuffs. Ferguson, meanwhile, went out into the hall.

“Right, turn right,” yelled Rankin, following him out.

“Gotta get my hideaway,” Ferguson told him. “They took it.”

“Fuck that,” said Rankin. “Let’s go.”

“That stinking Glock is my personal weapon,” said Ferguson. He trotted down the hall toward the far end of the corridor, where two SEALs were watching the approach from a second hallway. Ferguson signaled to them to follow, then went toward the office where he’d been searched.

He kicked the door in and threw himself back as the two SEALs poked their guns inside. The lone occupant was hunched behind a desk in the corner. One of the SEALs shouted in Farsi for the man to throw down his weapon. He shouted again, and the man raised his hands to show he wasn’t armed.

As Ferguson slipped between the SEALs into the room, he spotted a shadow in the corner of his eye. With a quick lunge he pushed on the door and then grabbed his would-be assailant, disabling him with an elbow shot to the solar plexus after pulling him forward. A gun flew to the ground.

“Fucking rent-a-cops,” he said, grabbing the Beretta from the floor.

Tears were falling down the other man’s face.

“Oh we ain’t going to hurt you,” Ferg told him. “We ain’t even going to tell the mullahs on you. Where’s my fuckin’ gun?”

As the man babbled in Farsi for his life, Ferguson noticed a metal cabinet against the wall. He went to it, pulled at the door; when he saw it was locked he blew off the handle with a bullet from the Beretta. The thin metal mechanism shattered, and the doors slapped open.

His Glock was on the top shelf, along with his rad counters and the small plastic container with his synthetic thyroid pills, which was what he had really wanted to retrieve.

“Are you fuckin’ comin’ or what?” demanded Rankin from the hallway.

“On my way,” said Ferguson, gulping the pill he had missed.

A bus, Conners?” asked Ferguson.

“The train was busy.”

“Kinda feels like we’re going home after the big track meet,” said Ferguson. “And we lost or something.”

“I wouldn’t call the mission a smashing success,” said Rankin.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” said Ferguson. No matter what the circumstance was, Ferg thought, Rankin could be counted on to have a stick up his ass.

Generally sideways.

“So, Ferg, you star in any of their movies?” Conners asked.

“I wanted to, but there was a language problem,” Ferguson told him.

“What are we going to do now?” Keveh asked.

“Well you and your buddy can either be evacked to the U.S. or just go home.”

“People saw us.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Ferg told him. “Come back with us. The SEALs’ll take care of you. Right, MC?”

“Sure,” said the SEAL team leader.

“We’ll stay,” said Keveh.

“You sure, buddy?”

Keveh nodded.

“Good. All right, Skip and I’ll go check the ship out.”

“What about me, Ferg?” asked Conners.

“You hang back with the bell-bottom boys, Dad. You look tired.”

“Fuck you.”

“Nah, you do. MC, I’ll take two of your guys for backup. That cool?”

“We’ll all go with you.”

“Too many people,” said Ferg. “Dad and I already figured it out. We need you to stay on the perimeter so you can cut off anybody that comes up from that barracks at the north. If we’re quiet, we’re in and out.”

“What if you’re not quiet?” asked MC.

“Then we’re in and out a little faster, and you guys get some action,” said Ferg. “We’ll try for quiet. Worst case we go out on the water side.”

“What about yourself?” said Conners. “You’re not tired?”

“I never get tired.”

“You on amphetamines?” asked Rankin.

“I’m high on life, Skippy.”

“I just saved your ass,” said Rankin.

“And I’m glad you did.”

“Show a little respect.”

“I respect you, Skip. I just don’t want to sleep with you.”

“I don’t get you, Ferguson. I don’t get you at all.”

“The day you get me, Rankin,” said Ferg, “is the day I hang it up.” He smiled at him. “But thanks for saving my ass anyway.”

12

They cut the fence and went in, skirting around a set of floodlights to reach the side of one of the warehouse buildings. Ferg’s sensor was clean, and both buildings were empty.

The ship was a little better guarded. Two sentries walked a line that swung across the rail access; they had decent lighting and a clear field of vision beyond a pair of shacks and assorted machinery sheds about fifty feet from the hull. The lights strung around the yard cast a pale yellow haze over everything, but was strong enough that they didn’t need their NODs.

“Good place for a crossbow,” said Ferg, sizing it up.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have one,” said Rankin.

“They don’t even talk to each other when they pass,” said Ferg.

“Maybe they don’t like each other.”

The men wore berets and couldn’t see each other until they were about ten feet apart. In fact, they hardly glanced toward each other. Rankin and Ferguson agreed that if one were eliminated, they could sneak up behind the other and attack as he walked toward the intersection of their rounds.

“You think we have enough time to take one, grab his uniform, then meet his partner in the middle?” Ferg asked.

Rankin studied them, using a small pair of folding binoculars — personal equipment, like the Uzi he favored. “Not the whole uniform. But you’d just need the shirt maybe. Have to be the guy on the left.”

‘Why?

“Other guy’s too short. Shirt’ll never fit.” Rankin watched them walk. He guessed that they would be tired and more than a little bored; guard duty sucked no matter where you did it. “When he gets to that rope at the far end there, see by the ship? I could climb up on that scaffold and jump.”

“He’d see you.”

“Not if I come off the top of the scaffold.”

“That’s twenty feet,” said Ferg.

“Yeah.” Rankin said it like it was a dare.

Ferguson called him on it. “Well go ahead. Don’t break anything.”

“You, with me,” Rankin told one of the SEALs. They trotted back toward the fence, then crossed over toward the north side of the yard, crawling forward amid the stacks of equipment and materials. To get to the scaffold, they would have to cross about ten feet of well-lit ground; Rankin wasn’t so much worried about being seen as casting a shadow.

As he waited, sizing up the situation, the guard came around to the near side. Rankin saw him clearly — his eyes were focused, wary; he didn’t have the bored look most guys would have pulling a late-night shift in the middle of nowhere. It occurred to Rankin that either the Iranian was pretty dedicated or had been tipped off, or maybe both.

The sentry turned, his boots scratching against the concrete. Rankin realized belatedly that he could have rushed him — they were no more than eight feet apart, and it would have taken no more than a second and a half to take him. He’d been so fixated on the idea of climbing the scaffold that he’d missed a far easier chance.

“Next time he comes,” he told the SEAL. “When he swings around, I’m up, and I get him.”

Ferguson checked in with Conners and the rest of the SEALs, who were watching from the perimeter. They had the main guard post covered, along with the approach to the shipyard.

“Somebody’s on the ship,” Conners told him. He’d climbed atop the bus and could just barely make out the deck. “Up near the bow.”

“Just one person?”

“Hard to see, but it looked like one person, moving.”

Ferguson watched as the guards returned. “How we looking, Skip?” he asked Rankin over the com system.

When Rankin didn’t answer right away, Ferg feared that the SF soldier had already changed places with the guard and was going to do the act solo. But that wasn’t like Rankin — a second later he responded.

“I get him this round,” said Rankin. “Be patient.”

“Alien concept.” Ferguson slid forward on his knee as the guard on his side passed, positioning himself to cut the man down if he heard anything.

The sharp steel blade felt warm against Rankin’s thumb. He could hear the sentry’s footsteps as he approached. They seemed to take forever.

He’d practiced this sort of takedown a million times, but he’d never done it for real; there wasn’t much cause in real operations to sneak up on a man with a knife and slit his throat. Getting close enough to do that meant putting yourself at enormous risk, and it was almost always easier and smarter to use a gun and be done with it.

The scraping stopped. Rankin, hunched down in the shadow of a large pump, felt his lungs freeze.

Finally, the scraping resumed. Rankin could hear the feet twisting as the sentry turned and started to retrace his steps. One stride, two strides, three —

The SF man leapt up into the light, pushing air into his lungs, then clamping his mouth closed as he jumped out. The Iranian was farther than he’d thought — a step, another step — the man started to turn.

The knife caught the side of his neck first. Rankin’s left arm fished wildly, searching for the gun, his right hand pushing the knife along the sentry’s skin.

The gun fell to the ground. Rankin felt something heavy in his hands. He heard the Iranian cough, then gasp for air, whispering a prayer in Farsi as he died.

Quickly he pulled the man’s body to the side. He dropped the knife, unbuttoning his shirt — there was no bulletproof vest. Rankin pulled the shirt over his, hunched over — this wasn’t going to work. He grabbed the man’s beret and pulled it over his head, low, then took the AK.-47 he’d been holding and began walking, telling his lungs to breathe now, it was all right.

The guard approached the other warily, either because his timing was off or he’d heard something. Ferguson had anticipated this — he had the SEAL covering him toss a rock in the other direction, and in the half second it took for the sentry to swing around, he sprang. The stock of his MP-5 caught the man in front of the ear; he flew to the ground as if propelled by a cannon.

“Shit,” said Ferg, afraid he’d killed the bastard.

He rushed over, kicking the gun away and grabbing one of the plastic restraints from his belt. The sentry was out cold, though he seemed to be breathing. They hauled him over to the side, out of the light, behind a pair of tanks used for welding.

“You should’ve waited till I was closer,” said Rankin.

“Blood on your hands,” said Ferguson. “He give you problems?”

“Yeah.”

“All right.” Ferguson bit his lip; too late to worry about that now. “There’s a guy on the ship near the bow, according to Conners.”

He went toward the stern, where several lines hung down. They each took a rope, leaving the SEALs to cover the approach below.

Ferg pulled himself over the rail at the top, pausing to get an idea of what was nearby. The superstructure of the ship blocked off the view of the forward area.

A ship this size could hold tons and tons of waste. Blow the sucker up in LA harbor, New York, Boston — pick the symbolic target of your choice.

But his rad counter was still. If they were setting it up as a dirty bomb, either they hadn’t gotten very far, or the waste was still heavily shielded.

Rankin met him on the other side of the railing. “This way here is clear,” he told Ferguson, pointing to the starboard. “There are some large metal girders or something, like a base for a weapon or a crane or something, beyond the superstructure.”

Ferg leaned over the side and waved the SEALs up. One stayed at the rear of the deck near the ropes as the other three men moved forward around the side of the ship. The railing ended abruptly; Rankin took a step too close to the edge and nearly fell off.

Where an oil tanker would have a relatively clear deck forward of the superstructure at the rear of the ship, the Iranian vessel had what looked like a long metal house extending most of its length. While designed to carry ethylene — a colorless, flammable gas — the compartments were being completely renovated, and Ferguson could peer through the open end of the structure and see well into the interior. At the starboard side of the decking area closest to him sat what looked like an oversized rack of bottles, with a rack twisting down toward the hull; some of the mechanism was obscured by tarps.

“You know what that is?” Ferg asked the SEAL.

The SEAL — Petty Officer Sean Reid — studied it for a few seconds.

“Looks like they’re making it into a minelayer,” said Reid, craning his neck so he could see below. “The roof covers up the mechanism. They’ll line the mines up below, right there, they kind of squirt them out over around that spot — I can’t see because of the covers, but probably there’s like a hatch. Slide open.”

“What kind of mines?” asked Ferg.

“Well — mines.”

“You’re sure?”

“It looks like it, sir.”

The SEAL had a way of saying “sir” that implied it meant, “you dumb shit.”

Ferguson reached into his shirt pocket for the digital camera. Flipping it to the night-shot setting — it was a near-infrared view — he slid gingerly through the opening of the deck housing and walked forward on a wide piece of wood, apparently something the workmen had placed there, and took some pictures. Below was a large empty compartment with ropes and tools at the bottom.

All this way, just to find a minelayer. Slott was going to love hearing that.

So would Alston. Ah well, thought Ferg, give the folks back home something to gloat about.

He was just starting back when he heard a sound behind him. Before he could even curse, the light burp of AK-47 broke through the night. As he flattened himself against the board, both Rankin and the SEAL nearby opened up on the Iranian watchman, who was firing from the front of the ship.

“So much for the subtle approach,” said Ferg, half-crawling and half-jumping to the solid decking near the superstructure.

The three Americans moved swiftly to the stern, where the other SEAL waved them forward. Gunfire erupted near the main entrance to the dry dock; above the crackle of automatic rounds came two sharp snaps, the report of Remington 700 sniper rifles being fired — a pair of SEAL marksmen had found their targets.

“Left, left,” shouted Rankin, as more gunfire broke out behind them. Following his own instructions, he pivoted, gun on hip, shooting through the clip as two Iranians ran into the semicircle of light.

“Enough of this shit,” said Ferguson, standing and icing the spotlights with his submachine gun.

They were about halfway to the fence when a heavy machine gun opened up from the warehouse yard. Its bullets crashed through the lot, throwing a hail of cement shrapnel before them.

Then another gun picked up the job, its bullets closer.

“Not going that way,” said Ferguson.

“Then how are we getting out of here?” said Rankin.

Ferguson looked back at the ship. The other guard posts were on the city side, near the road.

“We swim for it,” said Ferguson. “You guys up for it?” he asked the SEALs.

“Uh, we can make it,” said Reid.

“Okay. Because I figure that’s going to be the easy way out.” He pushed up the com system’s mike bud as more gunfire flared, this time over near the highway that ran to the east. “Conners, what the hell are you guys doing out there?”

“We just stopped a truck from coming in.”

“Good. More reinforcements coming?”

“Maybe. A lot of shit moving north of you,” said Conners. “What about those machine guns?”

“They’re a pain in the ass. Look, we’re going to go out by the water.”

“You sure?” asked Conners.

“That way you guys can just slip south rather than trying to hold the fort against the entire Iranian Army, such as it is. Listen, they’re working the ship up as a minelayer. Not quite what we were looking for, but they’ll want to know back in Washington.”

“You’re not going to tell them yourself?” asked Conners.

“I’ll tell ‘em, Dad. Don’t fret.” The machine guns began firing again — this time considerably closer. “We’re outta here, boys.”

Rankin took point, running along the dock area toward the water. As he passed a set of large wooden boxes, he saw an Iranian duck behind cover up near the bow. He waited to fire, closing the gap. Rankin was less than five feet from him when the man leaned out from around a portable generator to see what was going on. The bullets from the American’s Uzi slapped through his skull, tossing blood and bits of bone away like drops of rain brushing dust from a windowsill. Rankin kicked the body over, frowning when he saw the man hadn’t been armed. He swung around quickly, then continued forward. A shadow loomed down from the forecastle of the ship; Rankin threw himself onto his back and emptied his clip in its direction. As he rolled back over and started to reload, the figure reappeared, raising a rifle.

The burst that took down the Iranian sounded like a quick drumroll on a metal garbage can top. Rankin looked up to see Ferguson running forward, the SEALs trailing behind.

“Don’t mention it,” Ferg yelled through the com set.

A five-foot chain-link fence sat at the end of the cement area; beyond it was a level jetty of rocks. Misjudging his height in the dark, Ferguson tore the seat of his pants on the top of the fence, and the scrape burned like a bullet wound.

Rocks jutted toward the water in a sawed-off W pattern at the base of the fence. The lights of the city to the north shone faintly on the water, making it the color of newspaper that had faded in the sunlight. Ferguson pulled off his boots but left his socks on, waiting at the edge of the jetty as the others caught up.

“That way,” said Reid, pointing toward the water. “They’ll bring up the raft and meet us. They’ll have the gear.”

“Shit,” said Rankin.

“If you need help, holler,” said Reid.

“I can fuckin’ swim,” said Rankin. “My gun’s going to get screwed up.”

“Don’t be a sissy, Skippy,” said Ferguson, slipping into the water. “Pop’ll buy us new toys when we get home.”

Rankin cursed as he jumped into the water behind the CIA officer. It was shallow — barely reaching his knees. It was also cold; he started to shiver as he waded out behind them, his Uzi strapped to his back.

About fifty yards from shore, Ferguson started to feel tired. He stopped for a moment, treading water, hoping that the burn in his shoulders would dissipate. The current pulled him north, in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go; he started stroking again, kicking harder and putting his head and shoulder against the low run of waves the way a running back might try and wedge himself into a line. Reid stroked about five yards beyond him, guided toward the rendezvous point by his waterproof GPS device. A set of low buoys lay in the distance ahead.

“How we doing?” Ferg asked, as Reid stopped to let the others catch up.

“Got a ways to go,” he told him. “You all right?”

“Not a problem for me,” said Ferg.

“I’m fine,” snapped Rankin on the left.

“Let’s go then,” said Reid.

“If I wanted to do all this swimming, I would have joined the fuckin’ Navy,” said Rankin.

The SEAL team leader tried to talk Conners out of going on the raft; he wanted him to go back to the ASDS.

“We may have to swim from the channel up there, and that’s a long swim,” the leader of the SEAL team said. But Conners refused; he thought he’d be more useful with them. Not only did his com system connect directly with the rest of the team, but he had the sat phone in case they got stranded ashore. Besides, he wasn’t about to swim out to the rendezvous alone, and it seemed to him the team couldn’t spare even a single man to play shepherd.

MC didn’t argue, mostly because there wasn’t time. As they set the raft in the water, the team members took up a post and oar without a word passing between them. Conners put his knee on the inflated gunwale, doing his best to copy the man at the port bow ahead of him as they stroked into the black-pearl darkness. There wasn’t a special SEAL stroke per se, yet the men had a certain quiet rhythm that propelled the raft forward quickly. Perhaps it came from hours and hours of practice in the cold and dark, or maybe it was injected during BUD/S somehow, the basic underwater demolition/SEALs training camp where recruits to the program were made or, more often, broken. Conners could only admire the teamwork and do his best not to screw it up.

They paddled for a good five minutes, then on some silent signal stopped — a vessel was making its way down the coastline, a pair of searchlights splaying out toward the shore.

“Patrol boat,” the master chief told Conners as the craft cut its speed and the lights stopped moving toward them. It cut across their path. “It’s a little north of our guys. James, Fu — meet them.”

The two SEALs slipped into the water, pulling on masks and fins and taking extra Draeger gear for the others with them. The LAR V Draeger diving gear was a self-contained, “closed-circuit” breathing apparatus. The green oxygen tank held pure oxygen. As the diver exhaled, his breath recirculated through a special filter that took out carbon dioxide. One of the system’s major advantages was the lack of telltale oxygen bubbles as the diver swam. It was also extremely lightweight, though its size was one limit on its endurance.

A minute after the SEALs had disembarked, MC raised his hand forward. He and the other SEAL began paddling, pushing the boat toward the open water. The patrol boat, meanwhile, circled north. Its searchlights swung together.

“Tommy,” said the team leader.

The man at the starboard bow slid back into the well of the tiny boat, pulling gear from one of the waterproof bags. A heavy machine gun on the Iranian patrol boat began to fire. Tommy rose, and there was a sharp crack — one of the lights went dark. The SEAL steadied his sniper rifle and fired again, but the second light stayed lit. It swung in their direction as the patrol craft’s engines revved.

“You owe the team a case,” laughed MC.

The gun cracked again, and the second light went out. A half second later, the low, sharp rap and fizz of a grenade canister leaving a launcher filled Conners’s ears. A heavy machine gun on the patrol boat began firing.

“You owe a case, too,” snickered Tommy from the front, as the grenade exploded well aft of the charging patrol boat. The grenade launcher whapped again, and this time it found its target, exploding on the forward deck of the Iranian vessel, where its shrapnel killed one of the machine gunners.

That didn’t stop it. Conners heard a shriek and instinctually ducked; a second later the rubber raft pitched hard to the starboard, nearly throwing him into the water. He knew the shell — fired from a 76 mm cannon — had missed, but there was more gunfire and more explosions, and the thick shadow of the patrol craft kept coming toward them.

“Into the water,” said MC. Before Conners could push himself over the side he found himself submerged. He struggled for his breathing gear, lungs starting to burst. He bit water, then something hard; a giant fist grabbed him around the chest and spun him around. Something punched him in his face, and he felt his legs starting to spasm. His age and relative inexperience in the water had caught up with him, and he realized that MC hadn’t been overprotective.

Screw that, he thought, pushing back to the surface.

“Breathe,” said a voice as he cleared his head. The SEAL team leader was treading water a few inches away. Conners grabbed the Draeger mouthpiece and shoved it between his teeth.

“You swim OK for a soldier,” said MC when he gave it back.

“For a geezer, you mean.”

MC — who was probably about his age — laughed. “Come on. We got work to do.”

“I’m right behind you,” said Conners.

When the shooting began, Ferg dived, stroking hard in the direction where Reid had been. Adrenaline sped through his veins; he broke water as a fresh string of bullets crossed just to his right, more like bees dive-bombing an enemy than hard and vicious pieces of lead smacking into the water.

Something floated ahead. He pushed his arms in the water and kicked hard, came to it — Reid, who’d been nailed in the arm and leg.

“I don’t think I can swim too fast,” said the SEAL.

“I don’t think you can swim at all,” said Ferg.

Something exploded nearby. The patrol vessel spun around, suddenly interested in something else.

Ferguson grabbed hold of Reid.

“No, turn yourself around,” said the sailor, explaining how to properly tow him through the water. Ferguson let go and looped around, his muscles groaning.

Rankin and the other SEAL were a few yards away. Reid checked his GPS; they were only about ten yards from the rendezvous point.

“We may have to go back ashore,” said Ferg. “Let’s swim south.”

“Nah,” said Reid. “MC’ll be out here in a few minutes.”

“Fuckin’ patrol boat’s going after them,” said Rankin.

“You don’t know MC,” said Reid.

13

Corrine went home to her condo after the president spoke with her, intending to go right to bed though it was still early. She hadn’t had much sleep in Cuba or over the last few days, and she knew she was beyond tired.

But she couldn’t settle down enough to rest. The idea of being involved in a CIA-Special Forces operation both thrilled and terrified her. As counsel to the Intelligence Committee, she had occasionally daydreamed about what she would have done in different situations that were presented in reports and briefings. That was just a fantasy, though — she didn’t have the background or training to be a CIA case officer, let alone get involved in SpecOps warfare.

Then again, the problem here wasn’t expertise, it was oversight. And judgment.

She went upstairs and changed into her flannels. Corrine started to pull back the covers on her bed, but as soon as her fingers slid below the fold of the sheet she realized she couldn’t settle down. She paced the hallway, went down to her living room, and put an aerobics video into the machine, thinking to work off some energy and put her mind on hold. But rather than soothing her, the workout left her more agitated. She went to the closet and took out some of her dumbbells, starting her regular routine—”regular” being a relative word since she’d started at the White House. After curls and alternating presses she skipped to some lat work, loading up the small metal bars and finally starting to sweat.

Then she realized she was still in her pajamas.

It was too late to change — she worked through the rest of the workout, pushing for a few extra reps on each set, putting her muscles into it, trying to work fast enough so that the rhythm of her breathing kept her from talking out loud.

Not talking — more like ranting. She’d been bamboozled into a no-win job. The president wanted her to be his personal spymaster.

Corrine imagined the congressional hearing when this all hit the fan. There’d be knives in her back from the CIA, the Pentagon, USSOCOM, the Democrats, the Republicans. Hell, even the DAR would find a way to blackball her.

But if she didn’t take the job, who would? Because McCarthy would find someone to do it. He was determined to protect America, and that’s what Special Demands was designed to do. Not break the law, just skirt around it when necessary.

If the right person kept it on track, it would succeed.

Why not her? Passing a Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) session and surviving Q Course wasn’t what was important — they already had a host of people who could do that. They had hardware, intelligence, muscle — what they needed was conscience.

And actually, she had taken their stinking SFAS, the three-section, twenty-one-day physical and psychological exam that weeded out individuals for Q Course, which all SF soldiers had to pass through before wearing SF tabs. She’d volunteered as part of her first congressional committee job during one of the debates over allowing women in SOF combat units. Corrine had insisted on the full damn thing, and hung in there when they were all smirking behind their face paint.

Not that her showing had done anything for the debate. Nor did she think that she was really qualified — just that she could take what the bastards dished out.

She would have liked to try the Q Course, though, just for the hell of it.

If I don’t take the job, who will? The idea stung her brain, just as the gradually building acid in her muscles stung her shoulders and arms. Tired at last, Corrine left the weights in the middle of the floor and went upstairs to her bath, filling it with warm water as she stripped off her clothes. She slipped into the water, easing back against the side of the tub.

Who, if not me?

Someone Slott could twirl around his finger. Then things would be even worse — they’d be cowboys with the imprimatur of the White House.

Corrine’s agitation began building again.

She’d have to do something right away to get their attention and respect. She wasn’t going to be one of the guys — that wasn’t possible, and not just because she was a woman. She didn’t want to be. They were never going to like her. But she had to show them that she had balls.

Or whatever gender-inappropriate sneer they were using these days.

She’d run the surveillance mission herself. That would prove her bona fides.

More likely, it would make her look like an ass. Corrine put the idea out of her head, then rose, pulling the plug on the drain. She actually felt tired, finally.

Too bad. There were phone calls to make, things to do. Corrine wrapped a towel around her and went to make a pot of coffee.

14

Ferg actually found it easier to swim pulling Reid, either because of the adrenaline rush or the other man’s powerful kick. The swells from the patrol boat’s wake reared across the channel, the water surging up like a pile of dirt plowed by a bulldozer blade. Something had drawn the craft to the south, and as it started to fire its cannon, Ferg realized it had to be the SEAL team.

“Well that was altruistic, but not terribly bright,” said Ferg.

“What?” said Reid.

“How close are we to the ASDS?” asked Ferg.

“Mile to the south. Long swim.”

“We’re going to have to go ashore,” said Rankin.

“Hey!” said a voice in the distance. It seemed to come from the wake of the gunboat.

“Hey,” said the other SEAL. “James?”

“Where the hell have you guys been?”

“Looking for you.”

He handed out swimming gear, including a small inflatable life jacket that they put on Reid. He offered one to Rankin, who refused it at first.

“Don’t be macho, Skip,” said Ferg, who took one for himself. “We may be in the water a long time.”

Rankin finally took the bib, sliding it awkwardly over his neck and trying to square away his gear.

The patrol boat had stopped firing and seemed to have stopped moving. Thin needles of light scanned the water in front of it.

“Our best bet’s to get south,” said Ferg. “We can head back and make shore where Conners and I landed yesterday, round up Keveh, then look for the others.”

“What about the ASDS?” asked the SEAL who’d brought the gear out. “MC wanted us to meet him there.”

“Even if we can get past that patrol boat, I don’t want to leave the other guys here,” said Ferg.

“You think they went ashore?”

“They may be dead,” said Ferg.

“Nah,” said James.

“It’s okay,” said Reid. “Head for the ASDS. MC’ll be there. Guaranteed.”

There were trucks and lights passing on the shore. The patrol boat was a low shadow in the channel, temporarily quiet.

“All right, we’re going back south,” said Ferguson. “No more debate.”

They’d gone only a hundred yards when one of the machine guns on the patrol boat began firing again. Two or three seconds later, an explosion that sounded something like a grenade going off inside a fifty-gallon drum shook the vessel. A whistling shriek like the exhaust of a steam kettle followed.

“Wu knows how to place ‘em,” said James, increasing his pace.

The other SEAL had taken a limpet mine and attached it to the hull of the patrol boat. The Iranian crew started firing every weapon they had, but it was far too late — the high-explosive mine had blasted a huge hole in the thin hull, and the boat quickly settled at the stern. One of the Iranian’s guns either overheated or jammed somehow, and there was another explosion, this one unmuffied by the water; a fire flared, and rounds began cooking off like firecrackers.

“Nice of them to provide a light show,” said Ferg, changing direction as the fire died out. “Which way is our sub?”