Payback

121

Rubens stared at the map on his computer screen, showing the area Babin could have reached by now. The purple swatch covered almost three-fourths of the country, with the tip just reaching toward the Beltway below Washington, D.C.

The truck in Texas appeared to have been the one Babin had taken from Mexico. The rear compartment had contained bathtubs — and the bumper had traces of blood. But that was all that had been found. How long the truck had been in the lot, where the blood had come from, what had happened to the bomb, assuming it had been there… no one knew.

All sorts of other leads were being investigated in Mexico as well as the U.S., including the murder of a truck driver near Mexico City and another closer to the border. But real information — the sort that would help them find Babin and the bomb — remained elusive.

At Montblanc’s suggestion, several psychologists had been consulted about the situation; all thought it likely that Babin would try to seek revenge against the people who had wronged him. This seemed rather obvious to Rubens as well.

The warhead’s arming mechanism had to be altered for it to explode. Babin had an engineering background and knew explosives; he was probably capable of doing the work.

But where? And when?

On this the psychologists divided. Washington, D.C., was an obvious target. So was Langley, Virginia, the home of the CIA. Beyond that, it was very possible that any city might do.

And when? Right away, said a narrow majority of the psychologists. He’d been waiting for years and now had his chance. At his own leisure, said the others. He’d been waiting for years and could afford to wait for weeks or months or even far longer.

Rubens thought sooner. But he had no evidence. And evidence was what he needed.

Large parts of the picture were still unseen. What was the connection between Babin and General Túcume? The housekeeper Karr had talked to had been taken into Peruvian custody, but she had apparently supplied very little information. Others in Túcume’s circle were still being debriefed, but the CIA summaries of the interrogations had no references to Babin, with the exception of a very brief appearance in Lima the night before the dam broke on the general. Investigators were trying to track down the men who had been under his command at the time the weapon was found; so far, they had little luck.

Eventually, they would have more information. But eventually might be too late.

If a bomb exploded — if hundreds of thousands, maybe a million, Americans died — Rubens felt it would be his responsibility. A classic intelligence failure, by definition.

And yet they were looking at every possibility.

Rubens killed the computer program and secured his desk, throwing the security blanket over it. He walked to the small space between the desk and door, stopped, and put his hands together in a simple yoga pose, steadying his breathing. He took two very long, slow breaths, then arched his back, rising on his toes as he brought his arms up and around.

As always, the stretch calmed his restlessness somewhat. And as always, the calm had dissipated by the time he reached the Art Room level in the subbasement below.

“Still status quo,” said Chris Farlekas, the on-shift Art Room supervisor. “Lia DeFrancesca and Tommy Karr are with the task force around Washington, D.C. We have a helicopter which can take them to the scene if a truck is apprehended. I tried to tell Lia, gently, that it was all right for her to take a break if she wanted.”

“I don’t imagine she took that very well.”

“No,” said Farlekas.

Since he’d been trained to disarm Russian warheads, Karr was an important asset; there were only a few dozen such experts in the country, and Karr had the advantage not only of having actually worked on a live warhead but of being able to tap the Art Room’s experts as well. Lia, on the other hand, was Lia. And no one was going to force her to take a rest until she felt like it.

“Even Mr. Karr will have to take a breather at some point,” Rubens told Farlekas. “Don’t push him too far.”

“I’m not pushing him. He’s alternating with two other people from the Energy Commission.”

“Very well. I am going to speak to Johnny Bib’s people. Buzz me if you need me.”

Rubens walked up the corridor and up the stairs to the computer labs where many of Johnny Bib’s people were working. If he were national security adviser, he would make sure there were more Tommy Karrs on the front lines of the nation’s intelligence services. He’d do more to get the CIA and the military working together. He would use intelligence to help the president make more timely decisions…

Why was he torturing himself with so many “ifs”? Did he want the job? The opportunity was lost; he’d said he didn’t want it. To change his mind now would make him look weak. Indecisive.

Would it, though? Was he not entitled to a mistake?

Not a mistake — a reconsideration.

Rubens went through the suite of rooms, looking in on a few of the analysts and cryptographers, making his presence known but not interrupting them. When he saw Ambassador Jackson leaning over Robert Gallo’s shoulder in one of the rooms, however, Rubens couldn’t help but ask what they were doing.

“A theory,” said Jackson. “On a target.”

“How about Philadelphia?” said Gallo.

“Why do you say that?”

Gallo began telling Rubens about a Russian intelligence file listing phone calls that had been made to Babin in the months before Iron Heart. The file included three calls from Philadelphia pay phones.

“Philadelphia is where Evans comes from,” explained Jackson.

“He was probably trying to recruit him,” said Rubens — though there were other possibilities.

“Yes, but that’s not actually the point,” said the ambassador. “Babin knows where Evans lives, where his family is.”

“And he would blame Evans for betraying him,” said Rubens, finally understanding.