The Chief of Staff considered this, then said, “Moving on. Jim, if you would… ”
The director of the FBI opened a folder, shuffled his notes, then started:
“Seventeen hours ago, our Special Agent in Charge on the ground in Slipstone acquired surveillance tapes of the local water treatment plant. Subsequent study of these tapes led our team to put out a nationwide BOLO for a late-model white Chevy Malibu, which was seen parked near the plant. Two unidentified men were recorded exiting the car, after which they disappeared from view. Twenty minutes later, they reappeared and drove away.
“An anonymous tip led to the traffic stop of the white Malibu by the Texas Highway Patrol units outside El Paso, Texas. The two occupants of the car were of Middle Eastern origin. They were in possesion of false drivers’ licenses, two semiautomatic pistols, and cash in the amount of three thousand dollars. The men were transported to the El Paso County Jail for questioning.
“After initially refusing to cooperate, one of the men let slip details that confirmed their presence at Slipstone’s water treatment plant, as well as their plans to exit the country. Using flight and credit card information, we’ve determined their destination was a house in Guatemala City, Guatemala.
“A raid of the house by the Guatemalan National Police turned up a cache of documents, which was immediately turned over to our local Legat, or Legal Attaché. We’re still in the process of sorting through the documents, but so far we’ve determined the two men were ultimately bound for Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Ashgabat is fifteen miles from the Iranian border.”
Even from seven thousand miles away, Fisher felt the tension in the room skyrocket at the mention of Iran. This was the first true evidence pointing to the perpetrator of the Slipstone poisoning — and possibly the Trego incident. Fisher saw the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was taking copious notes. He knows, Fisher thought. Unless something changed, he’d soon be asked for military options for Iran.
The NID added, “The CIA sent its chief of station from Uzbekistan over to Ashgabat to beat the bushes. Problem is, we haven’t had a solid presence in Turkmenistan for decades. We’re just now redeveloping a network.”
The FBI director continued. “The Ashgabat lead has been partially confirmed by the lone crew member captured from the cargo ship Trego, who was transferred to our custody from another agency three days ago. This subject claims his name is in fact Behfar Nassiri and that he spent time in Ashgabat before leaving to board the Trego at sea, off the coast of Mauritania.”
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 Trego into 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.”
The meeting 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 Trego and 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.