Liberty

CHAPTER TWELVE

The conference room in the bowels of the Executive Office Building was stuffy that Saturday night. Only half the lights were on and the air-conditioning was apparently off, no doubt as a result of some bureaucratic decree.

Jake Grafton arrived a few minutes early and discovered that he was the first arrival. Admiral Stuffy Stalnaker, the CNO, and General Alt, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, arrived within seconds of each other, followed by Sal Molina and Emerick of the FBI. Molina was half-Hispanic, a lawyer from Texas who had been with the president for many years. He was short, balding, with a spare tire, and freely admitted that he wanted to run for the Senate someday. Jake remembered seeing op-ed pieces in the newspapers that opined that Molina was a real power in the White House owing to the high regard in which the president held him.

The CIA’s Avery Edmond DeGarmo and General Newton Cahn, the army chief of staff, came in next. As people came in they engaged others in private conversations. Emerick and DeGarmo were huddled in a corner whispering inaudibly when the national security adviser, Butch Lanham, bustled in and surveyed the crowd as he dropped into a chair at the head of the table. Two of his aides, both women, sat in the corner to take notes.

Lanham was one of the new breed of managers in business and government who worked very hard at trendy athleticism. He didn’t just play tennis and racquetball, lift weights and jog — he competed in triathlons and participated in strong-man competitions. How he managed to sandwich the sweat in around his work and family responsibilities was a minor mystery. Jake had seen Lanham on television a few times, but had never before met the man in the flesh. He didn’t now — Lanham didn’t speak or look at him. Without a word to anyone, he glanced at the women to ensure they were seated with pens poised over notebooks, and began.

“We’re here to discuss Rear Admiral Grafton’s decision to deploy the Corrigan radiation detectors only in Washington and New York City. Is our information accurate, Admiral?”

“Corrigan can only deliver one detector every two weeks,” Jake said, and found that his voice sounded unnaturally harsh. He made a conscious effort to sound calm, unflustered, and normal. “We’re hoping each has a five-mile detection range under average urban conditions, but we won’t know until we play some more with the first one, which we just received. In my judgment, we are better off covering those two cities, which I would call the primary targets of terrorists, until we have enough of them to ensure complete coverage. Then we can start covering lower-priority targets.”

“Who sets the priority?” DeGarmo muttered.

“Is that a question of Admiral Grafton, or an incisive comment?” Lanham retorted sharply.

“Question.”

“Sir, I put New York and D.C. at the top of my list,” Jake replied calmly. “Economically and politically, they’re the most important cities in the world. I think we should keep adding detectors as they become available in those two cities until we reach some reasonable level of protection. Then we can focus on other cities, which I suggest be picked based on strategic criteria. The idea is prevent attacks. Preventing all attacks is an impossible goal — a realistic strategy is to prevent the ones that will hurt us the most.”

“Mr. DeGarmo, your thoughts, please,” Lanham said.

“I don’t think New York and Washington are in much danger. After the terror strikes of September eleventh, I think it most likely that the terrorists will strike somewhere else, if they strike at all. The newspapers and television have aired the hell out of the troops with Geiger counters manning roadblocks and searching railroad yards. Any terrorist with a television has to know that we’re looking for nukes.”

“Keeping the fact that we’re using Geiger counters a secret was impossible,” Jake said mildly, without a trace of rancor. “Indeed, one of the things we’re looking into is the possibility of building Trojan detectors and publicizing them. We could always substitute real detectors for the fakes as they become available.”

“Hmm,” said Lanham, and glanced at Emerick, the FBI man.

Emerick took his time before he spoke. “If there is an attack anywhere in the U.S., the decision to protect only those two cities with Corrigan detectors will undoubtedly be revealed by the press. If the attack hits one of those two cities despite our precautions, Grafton will look like an incompetent. If an attack hits elsewhere, the president looks incompetent.”

“Jesus, you make it sound like we’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” General Alt rumbled. “If it’s heads they win, tails we lose, why’d we even bother coming over here tonight?”

Emerick eyed Alt without warmth. “I’m merely pointing out how the cookie will crumble. The public’s perception of the government’s competence is damned important, and you know it.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what the public thinks,” Alt shot back. “Our job is preventing terror attacks. That’s Grafton’s mandate, and by God, he’s working hard at it.”

Butch Lanham stirred around, making some noise and moving until he had everyone’s attention. “Mr. Emerick’s point is well taken. If the government allows itself to be perceived as protecting some citizens and abandoning others, it jeopardizes its mandate to rule.”

“Deciding how and where to employ radiation detectors strikes me as a military decision,” General Alt said. “Admiral Stalnaker?”

“Yes.”

“General Cahn?”

“Of course it’s a military decision. No commander has the luxury of protecting every inch of the home terrain. Risks must be weighed, assets counted, decisions made.”

“And the thrust of that remark is …” Lanham asked, pretending to be obtuse.

Alt looked Lanham square in the eye. “The president has appointed Admiral Grafton to a military post. In the natural order of things he’s going to have to make military decisions — all military commanders do. The discretion and authority to make those decisions go with the job. If it doesn’t, the president needs to can him and make the decisions himself. Or appoint someone else and give him the authority. Hell, he could have appointed you, Butch, but he didn’t.”

Lanham didn’t rise to the bait. “The characterization of Grafton’s decision is not in question, Mr. Chairman. The question is simply this — was the decision Grafton made in the best interests of the United States? In other words, was his decision correct?”

“He made a judgment call,” Alt shot back. “Whether we agree or disagree with his call — whether we would have made the same decision in his place — isn’t the issue. The president appointed a military commander. That’s a fact. There he sits.” Alt jerked a thumb at Grafton, but he didn’t take his eyes off Lanham. “You and DeGarmo and Emerick seem to want to second-guess him. Ask the president to fire Grafton and give you the job.”

Butch Lanham tapped his forefinger on the table a time or two. “The president has never suggested in my presence that Grafton has complete and total discretion. If you gentlemen think the president lacks the authority to overrule a military decision — any military decision — you need to reassess.”

“Oh, he’s got the authority, all right,” Alt said. “I just don’t think he should use it here. I recommended Grafton for this job. Stuffy did, too. I stand by my recommendation. Grafton made a military decision for sound, justifiable reasons, and we need to back him up.”

“We didn’t delegate our responsibilities to Grafton, and neither did the president,” DeGarmo said heatedly.

“The president gave the man the job. Are we going to let him do it or aren’t we?”

“I’m not questioning his integrity or fucking military honor, just his decisions,” DeGarmo shot back.

The three of them butted heads for several minutes, and finally fell silent.

Lanham sighed deeply, then scratched his head. Authority flowed from the president — the question, Jake thought, was, How much authority had the president given Lanham? Then he found out.

Sal Molina spoke for the first time. “The president has confidence in Jake Grafton. He’s appointed the best officer he could find, and he’ll back him to the hilt.” Molina stood up, picked up a notebook he had been doodling in, and tucked it in an inside coat pocket as he headed for the door.

The meeting broke up quickly. Jake spent a few minutes visiting with Alt, Stalnaker, and Cahn while the civilians left.

“You haven’t won,” Alt told him. “That isn’t the way things work inside the Beltway. DeGarmo and Emerick fanged you for a reason — they are now on record as saying you screwed up. If indeed things don’t work out, sooner or later the president will have to pay attention to them.”

Jake knew Alt spoke the truth. “I’ll continue to do the very best I know how, General. That’s all I can promise.”

“We know that,” Stalnaker replied curtly. “Why do you think we backed you up? Don’t mushroom us — keep us informed. No surprises, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t know who has the backbone at the White House. We know it isn’t Lanham. Maybe it’s the big banana, maybe it’s Molina. Regardless, they may chicken out in the dawn’s early light — guts aren’t required in politics.”

On the way out of the building, Jake informed Alt that the new Corrigan detector was malfunctioning. He explained the problem: “The thing is indicating there’s a bomb under a golf course, a false positive. I wonder if the air force could fly a nuclear warhead into Andrews and let us calibrate the thing again.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The black stretch limo drove slowly around Dupont Circle. Precisely at midnight, one of the spectators at the chessboards walked away from his group and crossed the circle at a crosswalk. The next time the limo stopped at the light, the spectator climbed into the backseat.

“Good evening,” Karl Luck said.

The new passenger glanced at the window between the passengers and chauffeur to be sure it was closed. “I thought Corrigan was coming tonight.”

“He’s at a reception.”

“Must be nice.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Luck said testily. He rode silently with his hands in his lap while the chauffeur worked the car around the Lincoln Memorial and then southward beside the river. The limo finally stopped in the parking lot for the Jefferson Memorial; the chauffeur came around to open the door for Luck. The man from Dupont Circle opened his own door and stepped out.

When they were standing by the reflecting pool, Luck asked, “How’d the thing work?”

“As advertised, except for one false positive. They didn’t expect perfection. Grafton reported a successful test to the White House this afternoon. Even as we speak the president is presumably shaking Corrigan’s hand and thanking him for saving Western civilization from the forces of evil.”

Luck was a trim man in his fifties, with close-cropped iron gray hair and a square, chiseled jawline. He glanced speculatively at the other man, then asked, “Do they know where the weapons are?”

“Not yet. They are pinning their hopes on the detection gear.”

“They had better start investigating the terrorists. Those clowns probably left a trail a blind man could follow.”

“One wonders. Sophisticated systems detect sophisticated networks. Criminals who don’t know what a telephone is are not going to incriminate themselves on one.”

“Are they looking?”

“The elephant is stirring itself.”

“Anything I should pass on?”

“Yes. Our approach to Tommy Carmellini didn’t work out. Perhaps I should have undertaken it myself, but I didn’t. The two men who tried it have struck out.”

“Carmellini? I’ve forgotten — why did you want him?”

“He’s in Grafton’s inner circle, and I’m not.”

“Are you neutralizing Carmellini?”

“Yes.”

“What is your next move? How are you going to get inside?”

“I’m not going to try. Too dangerous, in my judgment. We’ll have to make do with the information I can learn and not worry about what’s going on behind the door.”

“Anything else for Corrigan?”

“Not tonight.”

They walked back to the limo and got in.

Thayer Michael Corrigan was having a wonderful evening. He and his wife had received an invitation from the first lady to attend a reception in the Hay-Adams Hotel ballroom to raise funds to refurnish the White House after the rebuild was completed with taxpayers’ dollars. The core of the executive mansion had been destroyed a year ago by a missile attack from USS America after it was hijacked. The Congress would have funded both the rebuilding and the refurnishing, but the president wanted private industry to contribute in a major way. Naturally he and the first lady were heading the fund-raising effort. Of course the nation’s top industrialists were lining up at receptions such as this to make six- and seven-figure tax-deductible donations. And to talk to the politicians.

Tonight the president and first lady were flanked by senior congressional leadership as they shook hands and schmoozed about the issues of the day with the leaders of America’s major corporations. Money was not mentioned. There were pledge cards on the little table by the door, but that was about it. Anyone curious about how the donated funds were going to be spent could note on the card that he or she would like a call from the foundation staff during business hours.

The folks who were “in,” though, got a personal briefing from the first lady, who liked to discuss color schemes and furniture. While Lauren Corrigan hovered with three other women near the first lady, T.M. mixed and mingled with the movers and shakers.

The important thing at these functions, he thought, was to be seen as belonging. Say little, listen, be pleasant, and be accepted as “one of us.” He circulated, he spoke to the right people, he greeted people he hadn’t seen in a while, he introduced himself to people he didn’t know, all in a way subtly designed to welcome them to the group to which he belonged. That was the art of it, which he had worked for years to acquire.

The commodity being bought and sold was not antique furniture, carpets, or wall treatments. Oh no. The commodity was access to power. Everyone in the room knew it, and everyone got a little tingle from the thought that he or she was standing dead center on the hub of the universe.

Thayer Michael Corrigan got more than a tingle — he ate it with a spoon. His whole life had been spent on a journey to this place. Standing here now sipping a very dry chardonnay, chatting with two senators and the chairman of one of the largest corporations on earth, he was pleasantly surprised when the president appeared at his elbow, squeezed it as he spoke to the group, and pulled him gently away for a private conversation.

“I’ve been hearing good things,” the president said softly, so softly that Corrigan had to bend down slightly to hear. “But we need more of the latest radiation detectors, and we need them as soon as you can get them built.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. President.”

“I wouldn’t even mention it on a social occasion, but the matter is urgent. The need is great. This is our country we’re talking about, T.M.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Knew you would.” The president patted his arm twice, then moved on.

A waiter walked by with whiskey, so Thayer Michael helped himself. He sampled the amber liquid. Oh, my, yes! Tasted great, and warmed you all the way down. When T.M. finished the first glass, he stepped six feet to the nearest waiter with a tray and helped himself to another.

Yeaaaah, this is the place, the summit of Mount Olympus. From here you can see the little people digging and scratching for a living, see the stupidities and follies, see yesterday and tomorrow, watch the galaxies spin. Zeus on his mountaintop and God in his heaven never had it any better, and that’s a goddamn fact!

How happy can one man be?

Tommy Carmellini could smell the shit. His bowels had moved, and he hadn’t even known it. The sun was up and light was again leaking into the hangar where he lay. Not a sunbeam, just light.

His feet felt hot, painfully hot, but there was nothing he could do about it. The lime in the concrete must be burning his skin.

He worked hard at focusing his eyes. Could he see better?

He told himself he could, that his vision was coming back. If his visual acuity returned, the drug was wearing off. Soon he would be able to move. He would kill those two greasy sons of bitches, strangle them with his own hands. He would be waiting when they returned, snap their necks like twigs.

The anger ran through him like hot lava. Oh, what he would do to Arch Foster and Norv Lalouette. Just plain murder would be too easy for them. Oh, yes. He would strangle the life from them as he looked into their eyes.

Thinking of strangling, he tried to flex his fingers, make them move. That was the project, and he worked on it. Worked, worked, worked.

Of course, his fingers didn’t move, the ceiling of the hangar was still slightly blurred, he couldn’t even move his lips or close his mouth. But he had to. He had until tonight.

If he failed he would simply disappear, vanish like Richard Doyle … and God only knows how many others.

Jesus, his mom couldn’t even collect his government life insurance for seven years. Wasn’t that the time a missing person had to be gone before the government declared him dead? Funny he should think of that now. Pathetic, really. Foster and Lalouette are even fucking over my mother, for Christ’s sake!

As he tried to bend his fingers, he listened to the airplane noises, the noises of cars and people going about the business of life. While he lay here dying.

Without food and water he was gradually getting weaker. If Foster and Lalouette gave him another injection when this one began to wear off, he would lie here paralyzed until he died of thirst. His heart would eventually stop when his blood got too thick.

But he didn’t have that kind of time. They were coming back tonight to load him on a plane and take him somewhere — probably over the ocean — and dump him out. Concrete shoes. Foster was right — the impact with the water would probably kill him. The concrete would take his corpse to the bottom, where it would never be found.

He kept trying to flex his fingers and move his tongue. Futilely. The drug held him firmly in its death grip.

On Sunday morning Toad asked Jake, “How’d it go last night, Admiral?” Jake hadn’t mentioned last night’s summons, but naturally Toad knew.

“I still have a job.”

“So what was the flap all about?”

Jake sketched it for Tarkington.

“People in your meetings are going back to the office and spilling their guts to DeGarmo and Emerick?”

“Of course. They work for them.”

“They work for you now. Can the bastards and let’s get other people.”

“Who will do the same thing,” Jake muttered. “Let me tell you about life, Toad. You can function just as long as your superiors have faith and confidence in you. When they lose it — your fault, other people’s fault, whatever — then you have to leave and make room for the next guy. Your time at the plate is over.”

“You’re right,” Toad admitted. “Marriage is the same way, I guess.”

“I suppose.”

“These guys who carried tales — you still have confidence in them?”

“They did what I thought they would do. Nothing more.”

“You realize, I suppose,” Toad said thoughtfully, “that if there is a nuclear explosion in America, low-order, high-order, whatever, you are going to get crucified.”

“I figured that out while the president was explaining the job, Toad.”

“Admiral, excuse me for asking, but why in hell did you take it?”

“Somebody has to do it.”

“You really think Lanham or DeGarmo or Emerick wants to sit on the hot seat?”

“They want me to do it their way so if things work out they get the credit. Yet if things go to hell, they don’t want to get splattered. They’re bureaucrats, still playing the goddamn game.”

After a moment, Jake asked, “What did Bennett find out last night?”

“He spent the night in the van, Admiral. Said he can’t find a thing wrong with that gadget.”

Jake explained his request to Alt last night for a nuclear weapon with which to calibrate the Corrigan unit. “Follow up, will you, Toad? Call his E.A. If there’s anything wrong with the Corrigan unit, we’ve got to get it fixed. And if the design is bad, I want to know ASAP.”

That would be a hell of a disaster, Toad thought. He kept his thought to himself, however. “Aye aye, sir,” he told his boss, and went to his office to use his encrypted telephone.

The telephone rang on Sunday as Callie was cleaning away the lunch dishes.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Grafton, this is the security guard in the lobby. You have a visitor. She said her name is Anna Modin.”

Callie searched her memory. Modin?

“She said a mutual friend sent her, a Mr. Janos Ilin.”

It took Callie several seconds to process it. Then she made her decision. “Send her up.”

Callie replaced the instrument in its cradle. She was home alone. Jake was at Langley, naturally, and Amy was having lunch somewhere with friends.

When the doorbell rang, Callie opened it. The woman standing there was perhaps thirty, with long black hair. She was wearing a dress that hung well below her knees and sturdy shoes with modest heels. A large purse hung from her shoulder. She had no luggage. Her stockings were torn in several places, her hands were scraped, and she had a large bruise on one arm.

“Mrs. Grafton, my name is Anna Modin. Your friend Janos Ilin sent me to see your husband.” Callie Grafton, linguist, recognized the Russian accent instantly, although it was subdued.

“Please come in,” Callie replied in Russian.

Modin smiled. “He said you speak Russian.”

“A very little,” Callie said as she closed the door behind Modin. “Tell me, please, if Mr. Ilin is Russian, why is his first name Hungarian?”

Modin turned to face her. “His mother was Hungarian,” she said simply, meeting Callie’s eyes.

Callie nodded. That was what Ilin had told her last year when she met him. “Do you live in the Washington area?”

“No. I just arrived at Dulles Airport and gave the taxi driver this address.”

“Oh, my! Are you hungry, thirsty?”

“I slept a little on the plane, but I’m tired and filthy. Something to drink would be nice.”

“Come into the kitchen.” As she led the way she said, “My husband is not here right now.”

“Ilin asked me to talk to him as soon as possible.”

Callie poured Anna Modin a soft drink over ice and offered it to her. Then she went to the bedroom to call her husband.

When he answered, she said, “Jake, there is a woman here who says that Janos Ilin sent her. She just flew into Dulles and wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Hmm,” Grafton said.

“Did you know she was coming?”

“No.”

“So what should I tell her?”

“Make her comfortable and I’ll be home in about an hour.”

Although Anna Modin spoke with a detectable accent, her command of English seemed to be excellent.

“Is this your first visit to America?” Callie asked.

“No. I made trips for business to New York several times when I was working for a bank in Switzerland.”

“Do you work for Ilin?”

“He is a friend,” she said, which Callie thought evasive.

Callie pressed: “Are you in Russian intelligence?”

“No,” the Russian woman said positively, and added, “Janos Ilin is a friend.”

Callie pursed her lips thoughtfully. The truth of that statement was an issue for Jake and the intelligence professionals to decide. “Tell me about yourself,” Callie said, changing the subject. “Where were you born, where did you go to school?”

When Jake came home he joined the women in the living room. They were nursing soft drinks.

“Janos Ilin asked me to give you this,” she said, and handed the admiral the CD that Ilin had given her.

“What is on it?”

“Accounting records from Walney’s Bank in Cairo.” She removed a second CD from her purse and flicked it with a fingernail. “Perhaps it would be better if I started at the beginning.”

“Please do,” Jake prompted, and laid the CD she had handed him on the coffee table.

Anna Modin talked for almost an hour. She told how Ilin recruited her years ago, working in Swiss banks, the move to Cairo, Ilin’s message about the bombs, Abdul Abn Saad, Nooreem Habib, the killer in the park — she told all of it, including Ilin’s message about the bombs. “They were aboard a Greek freighter, Olympic Voyager, which departed Karachi sixteen days ago.”

Jake’s horror showed in his face. “Sixteen days? You tell me now?”

“When Ilin learned of it, he told me to deliver the message to you. I came as quickly as I could.”

Jake Grafton couldn’t sit still. He rose and went to the window and looked out. Sixteen days! Well, there was no more time to waste. He turned from the window and went back to the coffee table. He picked up the CD she had given him. Anna handed him the second CD.

“This is the one Nooreem Habib lost her life to get?”

“Yes. She said it contained the names of people who gave money to the terrorists, including dates and amounts.”

Jake put both compact disks in his pocket. “I would like to talk with you later this afternoon. Will you stay for dinner?”

“If you wish. But first, I have a question.”

“Okay.”

“Who are you? Ilin gave me your name and address, but he never said what you did, who you serve.”

“I’m just a guy working for his country, just like every soldier, sailor, policeman, fireman, and civil servant you ever met.”

“Just a guy,” Anna Modin echoed.

“I’ll see that she gets some rest,” Callie told her husband, who kissed her on his way out the door.

Sixteen days, Jake thought. A ship that sailed at ten knots — most of them went faster — would cover 240 nautical miles every day. Sixteen days, 3,840 miles. At fifteen knots, 5,760. Twenty, 7,680 miles.

“Tell me about your friend who was killed, Nooreem Habib,” Callie prompted.

“She was not a friend. Like me, she was a friend of Janos Ilin, and she made the CDs. Abdul Abn Saad would have found her eventually.” Anna was losing her composure. She rubbed her eyes. “Do you have vodka or whiskey?”

Callie inventoried the liquor shelf in the kitchen, then poured Modin a bourbon on the rocks. She accepted it gratefully; sipped it in silence.

She was calmer when she asked for another. As she sipped the second, Callie said, “It sounds as if being a friend of Janos Ilin is dangerous.”

Modin thought about that comment, then said, “He said Jake Grafton was his friend.”

Callie didn’t know what to say to that. She decided that she needed a drink, too. When she returned from the kitchen, she tried to change the subject. “So this is your first trip to Washington?”

“Yes.” Modin nodded and blinked, almost as if she were clearing her thoughts.

“You must be exhausted. How about a nap and a bath?”

“I have no other clothes. My bag was in the taxi by the cemetery, and the taxi driver sped away, I think.” She rubbed her eyes, then put the empty liquor glass on the table before her. “I thank you for your hospitality. I do not wish to be a burden. I have money. I have delivered my message. After your husband and I talk, I will go to a hotel.”

“While we wait I would suggest a hot bath and a nap while I wash your clothes,” Callie said. She showed the other woman the towels and soap, then closed the bedroom door to give her some privacy.

The weapons, Callie knew, were the warheads Jake was worried about.

Sixteen days … After she put Modin’s clothes in the washer, she went out on the balcony of the apartment and automatically checked the potted violets. She stood in the sun with her arms crossed, facing the city, but her mind was on other things.

Jake Grafton spent four hours Sunday afternoon in the Pentagon talking to people in federal agencies who, like him, were too busy to take the day off. It was the Coast Guard officer, Captain Joe Zogby, who produced the first hard information. “Olympic Voyager is a Greek ship. The company that owns it is headquartered in Athens. They tell us that the ship left Karachi sixteen days ago, should have completed her transit of the Suez Canal last week, and is now en route to Marseilles. Estimated time of arrival is Wednesday evening local time.”

“Find out if we have a battle group in the Med,” Jake said to Toad. “Send an op immediate message, have them find that ship. Ask for a photo overflight, then have them stay on that ship day and night until it’s searched.”

Toad shot out of the office.

“It’s night in Athens,” Captain Zogby continued. “State says they will have someone from the embassy visit the owners’ office and get a complete crew list and manifest.”

“Let’s have State request that the French authorities intercept the ship and search it,” Jake said. “Maybe we can get them to hold her in quarantine until we can get someone over there with sensitive Geiger counters.”

“I’ve already talked to State, sir,” said Captain Zogby. “They’re working on it.”

“Very good.”

“There’s more. As she was crossing the Indian Ocean Olympic Voyager reported that she lost four containers over the side.”

“Reported to the owners?”

“Yes, sir. And the owners reported the loss to their insurance company, Lloyds, which reported it to the Global Marine Distress Safety System. Coast Guard headquarters printed out a portion of the daily listing for me.” From his attaché case he produced a dozen pages of computer printout, which he passed to the admiral. The entry of interest was circled in red ink.

Jake looked up from the list. “Do losses like this happen often?”

“It’s been estimated that as many as ten thousand containers a year are lost in transit. On the other hand, over a hundred million containers are delivered annually across oceans. Container ships often stack those things six high. A stack that large can weigh eighty tons. Normally only the outboard stacks on both sides of the weather deck are secured with fasteners; which are steel turnbuckles. In a heavy sea the bottom containers can be crushed as the ship rolls, creating slack in the system that causes the fasteners to fail. Sometimes the fasteners weren’t properly secured when the ship was loaded. Sometimes the fasteners just fail catastrophically. If the outboard stack goes over the side, occasionally the inboard stacks go, too.”

“Why does the Coast Guard get a report?”

“We meet and inspect any ship that arrives in an American port that reported a cargo loss while in transit. We inspect the remaining containers, condemn those that are damaged. Most other countries don’t do that, though. The worst of it is, lost containers don’t always sink. Occasionally they float around on or just below the surface like little steel icebergs, going wherever the wind and current take them. NIMA”—the National Imagery and Mapping Agency—“tries to track floating containers with satellite data. It’s hit-or-miss.”

“Does Egypt search ships that report losses?”

“I don’t know, sir. I doubt it. The insurance and shipping companies regard the losses as the normal cost of doing business.”

An hour later Jake had NIMA searching the databases to see if the analysts could spot the Voyager’s lost containers. Since the loss report contained the date, time, and position of the loss, his task was not as hopeless as one might imagine.

He also got on the telephone to Coast Guard headquarters. That evening Coast Guard officers equipped with Geiger counters were on commercial flights to Athens, Marseilles, and Cairo to search the docks for radiation.

He felt hopeful. Finally, they had hard information to work with. The leads might turn up nothing, but the inaction was killing him.

T. M. Corrigan’s man in Cairo was an Egyptian who called himself Omar Caliph. He was as loyal and trustworthy a man as money could buy. Honest he was not, but then, Corrigan didn’t care about that — he wasn’t honest either. Omar had worked for Corrigan on numerous projects in the past and had done highly satisfactory work, so he had been picked for this job and promised a mint, so much money that Omar knew he could — and probably of necessity should — retire when this gig ended. He fully intended to do so and had already made a deposit on a house in Argentina.

Omar Caliph lived in a new high-rise apartment building in a wealthy district in Cairo. From his windows on the tenth floor one could look across the sprawling slums of Cairo and the Nile and see, on a good day, the pyramids. He paid the equivalent of $2,000 American in rent and thought he had a bargain. The problem in Egypt — and most of the Third World — was that there were a great number of very poor people, a few enormously wealthy ones, and very few people in the middle. This absence of a middle class was nearly universal throughout the Arab world except for those few small countries that had spread the oil money around in the hope of buying social peace for the rich. Omar had been born and raised in the slums of Cairo; the journey to the tenth floor had taken him a lifetime.

This evening he was standing at the window thinking about Argentina when he heard the doorbell ring. He glanced at his watch. He was expecting no one, and the security guards in the lobby had not called. It was probably his wife — she was shopping and may have forgotten her key. He went to the door and opened it. Two men stood there with drawn pistols. Omar stared at the guns. It was several seconds before he realized that Abdul Abn Saad was standing behind the gunmen looking at him.

Before Omar could react, the gunmen pushed the door completely open and forced their way in, pushing him back toward the center of the room. Abdul Abn Saad entered behind them and closed the door. He also shot the bolt.

One of the gunmen pushed Omar into a chair while the other man went off through the apartment. Nothing was said for almost a minute, until the man returned. He spoke to Saad. “No one else is here.”

Saad took a seat opposite Omar Caliph.

“Did the thought ever occur to you,” Saad said, “that you might know too much?”

The color drained from Omar’s face. “What?”

“You are a man of the world who has had experience in extralegal matters,” Abdul Abn Saad continued smoothly, “so I wondered if it occurred to you that if we didn’t kill you, Corrigan probably would? After all, you are the only link between us.”

Omar Caliph realized that he was in deep and serious trouble, the worst of his life. “Mr. Saad, I have never whispered a word of our relationship to any living soul. Why in the name of Allah would I? Doing so would be equivalent to signing my own death warrant. We both know that.”

Saad stood and walked slowly around the room, fingering the objets d’art, letting the tension build. It was then that Omar realized that Saad was wearing gloves. So was the other gunman whom he could see.

“Someone betrayed us,” Saad said slowly. “Bank records were copied and the copies stolen. Why now? I asked myself. Why not six months ago, or last year? Why now? And the answer I came up with is that someone is probably investigating the money trail between America and the Sword of Islam. Someone knows too much. You are not the only possible source for this knowledge, but you are the most probable one.”

Omar Caliph tried to speak but couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on Saad, who finally turned to face him. “You were the go-between. Now you are the only man alive who can personally testify about the people at both ends of the transaction.”

“Abdul Abn Saad, I swear on the beard of the prophet—”

“Someone betrayed us. Was it you?”

Omar tried to sort it out. “I swear on the beard—”

“The attack on our computer records is a serious matter. Lives are endangered — the very movement is endangered. I must identify the traitor. Was it you? Corrigan? Or someone who works for him?”

“It wasn’t me,” Omar blurted. “I swear on the grave of my father. It must be Corrigan! I never trusted the man.”

“It was not Corrigan,” Abdul Abn Saad said flatly. “He would have no conceivable use for copies of records. He might wish to destroy the records themselves, but no such attempt was made. This was an operation by an intelligence agency. The question is which one. And where was the leak?”

“In the name of Allah, have mercy on me. If I had betrayed you or knew anything about it, do you really believe I would still be here? In my own apartment? Awaiting your revenge? You know it isn’t so! I am not a fool! I have done only what I was hired to do — negotiate with you, transfer the money, and arrange for a ship. Nothing less and nothing more.”

Abdul Abn Saad stood in front of Omar Caliph and stared into his eyes. Finally, he sighed. “I believe you,” he said flatly. “You have appealed to Allah for mercy, so you shall have it.” He glanced at the man standing behind Omar’s chair and nodded a quarter of an inch.

The gunman struck Omar on the head with the butt of his pistol. He collapsed in his chair.

“Put him out the window,” said Abdul Abn Saad, then turned and walked from the room. Standing in the hallway outside the apartment he tried the door, ensured that it had locked behind him. As he walked down the hall he removed his gloves and pocketed them.

He was out of the building crossing the sidewalk when he saw people on the street pointing upward and heard them saying, “It was a man, apparently a suicide …. He fell from up there …. Landed on the roof of the foyer.” The foyer protruded from the building.

Abdul Abn Saad didn’t bother to look. His chauffeur was holding the door to the limousine open, so Saad took his seat and waited for the chauffeur to resume his. Then the limo rolled away into the crowded streets.