The phone would have fit easily in Khorasani’s hand, but the debris that had melted to it was two or three times as large. Khorasani turned it over, unable to discern anything from it.
A satellite phone, maybe? An Israeli would have one.
Or a cell phone, which a member of the Guard would have. The remains were too mangled to tell.
“Colonel, the ayatollah wishes to speak.” Khorasani’s communications aide had walked up unobtrusively. He handed him the secure sat phone.
It was twice the size of the one in the wreck. Khorasani handed the melted mess back to Navid and told him to put it in his staff car.
“Reverence,” he said, putting the phone to his ear.
“What progress have you made?” asked the ayatollah.
“We have found the men who stole the bus. They are dead.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, your excellency.”
“They were responsible for the explosion?”
Khorasani hesitated. Saying yes would simplify things for him, but it could also come back to haunt him as well.
“I have no evidence yet. The Israelis are very clever and would do much to disguise themselves.”
“But you are sure they were responsible.”
Khorasani considered what to say.
“Be honest,” the ayatollah reminded him before he made up his mind.
“I have no indication that any outsides were near the facility,” confessed Khorasani. “I am only starting my investigation. This seemed like a good lead, but to be frank, I see nothing at the moment that connects it. And my aides—the preliminary inquiries would suggest an accident. Everything we have seen suggests no one was aboveground when the explosion occurred.”
“You are saying it could have been a quake.”
“I’ve been told that is . . . unlikely.”
The ayatollah, who was a member of the ruling council, had undoubtedly been told the same. He let the matter drop. “Have you spoken to the pilot who shot down the plane?” he asked instead. “Find out what he saw. Perhaps it was a B-2.”
“That is on my agenda, your excellency.” The wreckage had been recovered; it was a light plane, flown by a man tentatively identified as an Iranian. Perhaps he was a spy, but more likely an unfortunate smuggler bound for Iraq. Considerable money could be earned ferrying certain people and items from the country. But pointing that out would not be useful at the moment.
“Report to me. Speak to no one else.”
The line went dead. Khorasani handed the phone back to his aide. “Tell Major Milanian that I wish to speak to him as quickly as possible. He will need to investigate this site. It would be best if he could get here before it is much darker.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“The pilot—the one who shot the plane down last night. Find out where he is stationed. I wish to speak to him.”
“I believe it is the same squadron that responded to the vehicle,” said the aide.
“Really?”
“They were given responsibility for this area.”
“Excellent. Find his name,” said Khorasani, walking to his vehicle.
4
Washington, D.C.
“SENATOR, HE INSISTS IT’S PERSONAL. HE’S NOT HERE for funding, or legislation. He really emphasized that.”
Zen frowned at the intercom. It was his own fault, though; wanting to get Rodriguez off the phone when he’d been at the baseball game, he invited him to come in person whenever he wanted.
Even that would have been acceptable had the Nationals not proceeded to give up six runs in the top of the first.
“All right. Send him in.” Zen wheeled out from behind the desk. By the time Cheryl knocked and opened the door, he was sitting a few feet from the door.
“Senator.” Rodriguez, visibly nervous, extended his hand.
“Gerry. How are you?” Zen shook his hand. The night before, he thought he vaguely remembered Rodriguez. Now he couldn’t place him at all. “It’s been too long.”
He nearly bit his tongue. He hated being a BS artist—it was the normal political crap: beentoolong, howareya, goodtaseeya, wereallymustgettogethermoreoften.
Trivial phrases, meaningless, expected, but using them made him feel like a phony.
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” said Rodriguez.
“I don’t,” admitted Zen. “Not well, anyway. Dreamland seems like a million years ago.”
“I know. It was, um, well, the experiments didn’t go that well. So, um . . . I guess I’ve changed quite a lot.”
Rodriguez—the friendly junior doctor who’d worked out with him pre-experiment?
Yes.
“Sure—you jogged with me while I used my chair, right? Or maybe it was a fast walk.”
“Definitely a jog,” said the scientist. “If not a run.”
“You’ve gained a little weight, Jersey,” said Zen, suddenly remembering Rodriguez’s nickname. “You’re not running anymore, I’m guessing.”
“I do, but a lot less than I should. And, uh, a hernia operation a couple of years ago slowed me down.” He gently patted his stomach. “Put on about twenty pounds I haven’t been able to get rid of.”
More like thirty or forty, thought Zen, but now that he knew who Rodriguez was, he felt more comfortable. “So what have you been up to?”
“Well, I left Nevada for a few years, to work at Stanford. Then I came back with the Spinal Cell Clinic. I, uh, well, I helped start it. I’m one of the partners.” Rodriguez shifted in the chair. “I—we’ve been doing very interesting, very important work over the past few years. I guess, well maybe you saw the piece on 60 Minutes the other night on Mark Huntington.” Rodriguez sat.
“He was one of your cases?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. As you saw, he can walk now.”
“I met him,” said Zen. “I met him right after his accident at the bowl game. And I saw him again a few weeks ago. You’re right. He can walk. It’s a phenomenal story.”
“There’s a lot of hope for the procedure.”
Zen glanced quickly at his watch. It wasn’t a dodge; the Iranian “earthquake” had greatly complicated his schedule. “Doc, I have a lot of things I have to do today, including getting down to the floor in ten minutes. You’ve sold me. You have my backing. Tell Cheryl what you need. To the extent that I can help—”
“I’m not looking for backing. Or money. We’re funded through the next decade. And, to be honest, the patents—we may actually, um, stand to make a considerable amount of money.”
“Well, why are you here?”
“We want to try the process on someone who was injured at least ten years ago. Someone in good shape, willing to put the time in. Someone we already had a lot of baseline information on. You’d be the perfect candidate.”
5
Washington, D.C.
ONCE UPON A TIME, MARK STONER HAD BEEN A CIA paramilitary officer. He had been a good one. Even exceptional. Paras, as they were often called, were all highly accomplished, but Stoner stood out as a man of great skill, courage, and flexibility. He had worked with some of the best operators in the Agency’s clandestine service, and in other agencies as well, including the secret Air Force units that operated out of Dreamland.
Stoner had no memory of any of that. He had seen all of the records of his missions, scant as they were; none were familiar. On the bad days he could feel the echo of long-ago wounds he’d suffered. But he could make no link between the aches and pains and whatever had caused them.
His mind was a blank when it came to his past. He had no retained memory of anything beyond the past few months. He couldn’t remember his elementary school days, his high school years, college. He didn’t know the names of his teachers or the faces of his best friends. He could close his eyes and think of his childhood home and it wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t remember the faces of his mother and father—long dead, he was told—not even with the help of photographs.