“Let the terrorist do what he wants with the city as long as his kids are safe, right?”
Marv looked over at Kalinikov incredulously. “You’re actually having fun with this, aren’t you?”
Kalinikov smiled. “Of course.”
“What about you, tough guy?” Marv asked. “What would you do?”
Kalinikov gave it some thought. “Me? I’d probably track the terrorist down and kill him.”
Marv appraised Kalinikov as if seeing him for the first time. “You’ve got some years on you, Norm, but I’ll bet you could kick some butt when you wanted.”
Kalinikov gave him a paternal smile. “You have the wrong guy, Marv.” He gazed back out the window toward the tail of the spiraling line of cars. Toward Payson.
“I don’t even like watching hockey on TV,” Kalinikov added. “Too much violence.”
Lynn Harding was sleep-deprived and she knew it. Three straight days without more than a two hour nap. As the ASAC of the Baltimore Field Office, she’d just lost four of her fellow FBI agents to a Russian assassin hired by Temir Barzani. All of this led to a nervous stomach and bags under her eyes.
She sat in a booth along the side of the War Room, fifty feet below ground and tried to catch her breath. There were three separate booths along the perimeter of the room set up for officials to make and take calls without interrupting the flow of conversation around the table in the middle of the room. The booth looked very much like an old fashioned telephone booth with a much more comfortable seat and a soundproof glass door which allowed private conversations.
Her hand trembled from both physical and mental anguish as she pushed the button on her cell phone.
“Hey, Lynn,” Nick Bracco said in her receiver.
Just hearing his voice calmed her nerves. “Nick, how’s it going?”
“I’m still breathing, so I’ve got that going for me.”
Harding gazed out the booth window at the circle of men hunched over the round table with varying degrees of ugly expressions. Most hadn’t left the building in days and their ties were dangling from the back of their chairs while their shirts were opened to the third button or more.
“Nick,” Harding said, “it’s getting rough down here.”
“What’s going on?”
“Ken is pissed that Walt went over his head to the President.”
“Of course.”
“Well, now Ken has intelligence from Switzerland that a half a million dollars has been wired from Kharrazi Construction Company in Istanbul to a Swiss bank account.”
“Sure, payment for the murders of our team,” Nick said bluntly, putting it together quicker than even she’d expected.
“Yes, however that’s not how Ken is spinning this. He’s suggesting this is payment for an assassination of President Merrick. He suggests we focus our attention on the D.C. area and find this Russian before he gets to Merrick. He wants everyone to return back home to track him down.”
“Oh, so now all of a sudden he believes The Russian is in America?”
“Yes.”
“And if he’s wrong about this, he can say he was just protecting the President.”
“Uh huh.”
There was silence while Nick seemed to think it over.
“He doesn’t like Walt sending support my way, does he?” Nick said.
“No. Once this LAX thing blew up, he wanted everyone back here.”
“Boy.” Nick breathed out a long breath. “I knew the guy hated me for bagging Kharrazi, I just never knew how much.”
Harding said nothing. She waited to hear something she could use. Information was the most potent currency an intelligence agency could traffic. Those with it had the leverage. The average civilian had no idea how much the FBI and CIA used this leverage to maintain their status. Each one fighting for their own budget survival.
“I’ve got hunches, Lynn,” Nick said, “that’s all.”
Lynn glimpsed out the window and saw CIA Director Ken Morris glaring at her as if she’d just poured sour milk in his coffee.
“I’ll take it,” Lynn said, desperate for something to use against the CIA director’s power play.
“Well, Barzani’s still here for sure,” Nick said. “He called to threaten me, maybe hoping to rattle me, I don’t know. But he said if the President didn’t announce a reduction in troops in Turkey at his press conference tomorrow night, Arizona was going to look very different. Not America. Arizona. I think he’s planning something big here. He’s had months to prepare.”
“What have you come up with?”
Silence.
“Nick?”
“Nothing. I’ve got a weak lead from a Turkish cigarette left behind at Barzani’s safe house, but otherwise … nothing.”
“What about tonight? Has Barzani got something planned?”
“I don’t think so. He knew about the Prime Minister’s visit to the White House. He seemed to allow a reprieve until the President’s speech.”
Harding closed her eyes and took long, deep breathes. She could almost feel Morris staring at her from the table. They had just twenty-four hours before the President’s speech.
“Nick,” she said, “your best guess. What’s going to happen tomorrow night?”
“The President isn’t removing troops, is he?”
“No.”
She could hear Nick breathing, but nothing else.
Harding twisted her back, which was stiffening from all the sitting. “Nick, I don’t want Walt’s job.”
“I know that, Lynn.” Nick snapped. “This is bigger than our careers.”
“So why don’t you give me something I can run with?”
After a few moments of silence, with a reluctant tone, Nick finally said, “Palo Verde is the country’s largest nuclear power plant.”
Harding smiled with relief.
“Is that enough to keep Walt safe?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But it might be enough to save the country. I’ll take your instincts over Ken’s any day.”
Chapter 21
Tommy sat at the bar and picked at the stale peanuts while nursing down his beer. Special Forces, FBI and National Guard were scouring the town for this Lister guy while Tommy was stationed at the Sonoran Brewhouse. A local pub where Eddie Lister was known to hang out.
The place was a dingy pub with wood columns along the ceiling and booths along each side of the main room. At least it was quiet, making it easier for Tommy to inspect each individual as they entered. He watched a West Coast college football game on the TV while keeping an eye on the door.
A little after 10 P.M. a man came in and stood inside the doorway allowing his eyes time to adjust to the darkness of the dreary tavern. Tommy watched through the mirror behind the bar as the man headed his way. He was tall and athletic-looking, maybe early-fifties. Sitting a couple of stools down from Tommy, he ordered a draft beer. He wore a button down shirt and blue jeans. Too fancy to be a local. Since they were the only two people sitting at the bar, the man took notice of Tommy and raised his glass in a mock toast. Tommy returned the gesture.
It was the fourth quarter of the football game and UCLA was beating Oregon State by three touchdowns. Tommy was losing his patience waiting for this guy to show up, especially since he didn’t have any action on the game.
“You’re not from around here,” the man next to him said.
Tommy turned in his seat to face him. “You pick that up with just my clothes?”
“Naw,” the man said. He seemed to have a mid-western accent. “I’m good at reading people. Sort of a hobby of mine.”
Tommy placed his elbow on the bar and rested his head in his hand. “Really?”
“Sure,” the man said, picking up a peanut from the wood bowl and popping it in his mouth.
“Okay,” Tommy said. “Where am I from?”
Now the man swiveled to face him. He appraised Tommy with a pair of intense eyes. “From your attire, to your demeanor, to your accent … I’d have to say somewhere around the East Coast, maybe Washington D.C. area.”