That didn’t take long,Fisher thought. While in Third Echelon’s custody, the man named Nassiri had met Redding’s interrogations with stone-faced silence. However they’d done it, the FBI had apparently found Nassiri’s “Talk” button.
The director of the CIA interjected: “According to our database, the family name of Nassiri originates in the Mazandaran region of Iran.”
There were a few moments of silence, then the Chief of Staff said, “Son of a bitch.”
“Nassiri further claims he had been instructed to guide the Tregointo the Virginia coastline and then, if still alive, kill himself in ‘a glorious blow against the Great Satan.’”
“Straight from the Pasdaran hymnal,” said the Secretary of Defense.
Fisher had had his own dealings with the Pasdaran. Officially called the Pasdaran-e Enghelab-e Islami, or the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Pasdaran were elite troops chosen for their dedication to Islam and to the religious leaders of Iran. The average Pasdaran soldier’s zealotry made a Palestinian suicide bomber look meek.
“Good Christ, what are they thinking?” said the head of Homeland Security. “Didn’t they realize what this would bring down on them?”
Of course they know,Fisher thought. The extremist leadership in Tehran would like nothing more to finally join battle with its prime enemy. For them, this was a divine mission.
“Anything else on the FBI side?” the Chief of Staff asked.
“I’ll have more for the morning briefing, but we’re still working on the remains from the Freeport City coffee warehouse—”
“How are certain are we that these are the bodies of the Trego’s crew?” asked the SecDef.
“Ninety-nine percent. Autopsies are under way right now, so we should have some answers soon. As for the Duroc—the yacht—we believe it picked up the Trego’s crew and transported them to Freeport City. She exploded at sea before we could intercept her. There were no survivors, no remains. We’re working on nailing down the registry.”
An aide entered the room, walked the the FBI director, handed him a note, then left.
“What is it, Jim?” asked the Chief of Staff.
“Another piece of the puzzle. The financial information we recovered from the house in Guatemala City was tracked back to a bank in Masqat, Oman. It’s a coporate account under the name Saracen Enterprises.”
The NID was taking notes. He said, “We’re on it.”
The FBI director closed his folder. “That’s all I have for now.”
The Chief of Staff turned to the NID. “Doug?”
The NID stood up and walked to a nearby monitor, which came to life showing a satellite view of Slipstone. The image was in shades of gray, save for a few spots of orange-red.
“These are radioactive hot spots around Slipstone. We’ve coordinated satellite coverage with the EPA to find the limits of the contamination and quarantine the water supply. So far, it looks like there is no leakage into the surrounding ground water or geological structures.”
“What are we talking about here?” asked the Chief of Staff. “What’s the contaminate?”
“Cesium 137. It’s a common waste element produced when uranium and/or plutonium are bombarded by neutrons. In essense, it’s radioactive waste from either a reactor or the remnants of bomb production. Unfortunately, in the world of nuclear physics, cesium is a dime a dozen. Finding precisely where it came from is doable, but it’s going to take some time.”
“How persistent is this stuff?” asked Homeland Security. “How long before the town is habitable again?”
“The half-life of cesium 137 particles is thirty years. In other words, Slipstone will be off-limits to all human life long after most of us are dead.”
THEmeeting was adjourned and Fisher sat in silence, watching the attendees file out.
He was stunned. He’d heard the initial death toll predictions, but hearing them recited in such clinical fashion chilled him. Five thousand dead . . . Slipstone a ghost town, uninhabitable for a generation or more. . .
Lambert appeared before the screen. Over his shoulder, the situation room was empty.
“So: You heard.”
“I heard,” Fisher replied.
“Here’s how it’s going to happen: By the close of business today, Congress will officially name the government of Iran as the perpetrator of the Tregoand Slipstone attacks. In a unanimous vote they’ll reaffirm the President’s authority to use all available military force in response. By this time tomorrow, the Joint Chiefs will have an operational plan on the Secretary of Defense’s desk. Forty-eight hours from now, a U.S. Navy battle group will begin moving toward the Gulf of Oman.”
It would happen, of that Fisher was certain. Whether it would precisely match Lambert’s scenario he didn’t know, but what his boss had just described was a fair prediction of what was coming. The only evidence that contradicted the seemingly irrefutable Iranian angle was his report of a Chinese crew aboard the Duroc,now scattered along with its crew on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
The question was, how and when would the President choose to respond to the attacks? Full-scale war with boots on the ground in Iran; precision air strikes; tactical nuclear weapons?
“Where does this leave us?” Fisher asked.
“Same place, just a tighter deadline. If there’s something more to all this, we’re running out ot time to find it. But wherever the evidence leads, we have to have all of it. Grim, are you on?”
“I’m here. Sam, two items of interest: One, the data you pulled from the Duroc’s helm console was heavily encrypted—another Marcus Greenhorn masterpiece, but so far it looks like other than the trip from its home port in Port St. Lucie to the Bahamas, it had been up and down the Atlantic Coast, following the deep-sea fishing lanes with a couple stops in Savannah, Hilton Head, Charleston—places like that.
“The stomping grounds of the yacht-owning rich and famous,” Fisher said.
“You got it. I’m still working on an owner, but whoever the Durocbelongs to, they’re wealthy. Item number two: We’ve traced the serial numbers you took from the Trego’s engines. According to Lloyd’s of London, the engines were installed two years ago aboard a freighter named Sogonat Kolobane Shipyard in Dakar, Senegal.”
“Nassiri claims he boarded the Tregooff the coast of Mauritania,” Fisher said. “Dakar’s only a hundred miles from the border.”
“And I’ll give you ten to one the Sogonand Tregoare one in the same,” Lambert said.
“Either that, or it was a swap. Do we know where the Sogonis now?”
Grimsdottir said, “I’m looking. As for the shipyard: I’ve tried to hack into their computer system, but it’s rudimentary at best—e-mail and little more. All records are likely kept as hard copies in the shipyard itself.”
Fisher thought for a moment, then said, “Last time I was in Dakar was two years ago.”
“Then I’d say you’re long overdue for another visit,” Lambert said. “Pack your bags.”
24
DAKAR, SENEGAL
FISHERpulled his Range Rover off the road onto a dirt tract bordered on each side by jungle, and then doused his headlights and coasted to a stop. He shut off the engine and sat in silence—or what passed for silence here. He was surrounded by a symphony of the jungle’s night sounds: chirping frogs, cawing birds, and, high in the canopy, the shrieking and rustling of monkeys disturbed by his arrival.