“That means a clock.”
“Maybe. But let’s let the SEALs search a while before we get esoteric.”
“And how long will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
The CNO eyed Grafton. “Can you find the watcher?”
“We can try, Cart. That’s all I can promise. It could be a civilian or sailor. The FBI and Homeland Security will give us some agents, a few dozen. The cover story is the security exercise at the base; our guys will do some discreet whispering about a terrorist threat. That’s the best story because it allows us to question everyone about themselves and other people and look at ID. I’ve cleared it with Sal Molina. If the news breaks, the pundits and politicians will get their undies in a twist, and we’ll just have to live with that. Still, don’t get your hopes up. We’ll need some breaks. And some luck.”
“Why do I have this feeling our luck is running out?” Admiral McKiernan mused.
“Better have every ship in the fleet searched. If a bomb goes off in Norfolk, half the people on earth will think it was one of ours. We’d better make sure it isn’t.”
“The orders were issued yesterday.”
Jake Grafton nodded and scratched his head. What if they didn’t find the bomb in time, or the watcher got worried and triggered it? Or the Chinese somehow used a satellite to trigger it? It would be, he knew, the end of the America he had known and loved.
Or what if the news — or rumor — got out that the sailors searching ships and the SEALs searching harbors and buildings were looking for a bomb? Mass panic in southeastern Virginia. Packed roads, car wrecks, people driving like maniacs. Dozens would die. Moving some of the medically fragile might kill them. Those without transportation would shout that they were being abandoned to be cremated alive. Even if there was no bomb, the political repercussions of a panic disaster would make massive waves for years. That was Sal Molina’s nightmare.
Jake glanced at the admiral. “What about that incident a few days ago in the South China Sea? The Poseidon that had a close encounter with Chinese fighters?”
“We can’t back off,” McKiernan explained. “Japan, the Philippines, South Korea and Vietnam can’t go it alone.”
“A carrier in the South China Sea to intercept the fighters?”
“We are going to escort patrolling Poseidons with air force fighters for a while. Truth is, we can’t spare a carrier there right now. Our ships are committed to the hilt. We just don’t have enough carriers if China presses harder.”
And if five of America’s carriers are wiped from the board, Jake thought, America will face an impossible task of trying to juggle assets between the Middle East and western Pacific. There won’t be enough anywhere.
The FBI was on the Chinese guy in apartment 209 like stink on a skunk. They had a van parked in back of the place that could pick up any electronic emissions from the building, and two cars with two agents each in front and back. In addition, there was a car with two agents across the street at the McDonald’s and one a half block to the right of the apartment house at a gasoline station/convenience store.
I went to the van from the building on the next street, so anyone watching out the window wouldn’t see me enter it. The sign on the side of it said it belonged to a plumbing firm, one with the slogan “We fix it up so it goes down.”
Inside, I introduced myself and displayed my CIA card. They glanced at it and said, “They told us you might be by.” Cooperation between federal agencies is a wonderful thing.
“Got something for you to look at,” the guy introduced as Nate said, and passed me several photos. Sure enough, they had him. Taken from a surveillance camera that I doubted that he had seen, the blown-up photos were of an Asian man about fifty-five, with a distinguished haircut and even features, dressed well in a suit and tie, wearing a dark topcoat. No hat. “We got those this morning when he went out for a bagel and newspaper,” Nate said.
“That’s him,” I said. “Who is he?”
“His car is registered to Jerry Chu. Wears Virginia plates. He transferred the registration from Massachusetts eighteen months ago. He used to work for Whitewater Encryption Systems. Born in California to Chinese immigrant parents, educated at Cal Poly. Whitewater was the fifth high-tech company he worked for. The personnel department there told the local police he resigned eighteen months ago. He left no forwarding address.”
“Encryption systems,” I mused.
“Yeah.”
“This guy got a bank account?”
“At least one, at the Potomac Valley Bank.”
“Safety deposit box?”
“No.”
“Can I use my cell without screwing you up?”
“Go ahead.”
I called Sarah Houston and kept it on a high professional plane. “Tommy. I have a question. Ever hear of Whitewater Encryption Systems?”
“Yes.”
“Talk to me.”
“They signed a contract a while back with Los Alamos National Laboratory to commercialize a new technology the wizards thought up. Supposedly it took the geniuses twenty years to develop. The tech harnesses the quantum properties of light to generate truly random numbers to encrypt data and messages. Not a prime number or square root of something. Quantum mechanics. Einstein would be impressed. In theory, using their technology, they can generate unbreakable crypto codes.”
“How about in practical terms?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”
“Why didn’t NSA glom onto this and classify it?”
“Obviously they didn’t want it. Perhaps because they didn’t invent it. I don’t know. You’d have to ask them, and of course, they won’t answer.”
“Thanks,” I said, and started to hang up. Very professional.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” she said.
That caught me a little off guard. I thought we had just had a one-night stand. But—
“Pizza?” I suggested.
“Ugh. Chinese.”
“You got it.”
I hung up. “Got any coffee?” I asked the tech team, who had pretended they weren’t listening. Good guys. The coffee was from a thermos, and still warm. I drank it black.
I watched people come and go. Most went out the front of the building, of course, but the folks who came home late last night and couldn’t find parking in front went out the back. Most of them seemed to be young professionals and were gone by nine in the morning. Then things really slowed down.
I was working a crossword puzzle in the Post at noon when Nate got a phone call. He listened a bit, then grunted and hung up. “He went out the front three minutes ago. Got in his car and drove away.”
I got out my cell phone. “Give me your cell number.” He did so, and I entered it. “Keep him out until I come out or call you.”
“Sure.”
I donned my jacket and put on my latex gloves. “The fire department has been briefed?”
“Of course.”
I got out of the van, walked around the front of the vehicle and headed for the back entrance to the building. The day was not pleasant — a low overcast and a wet cold wind that was cutting on exposed flesh. I let myself in with a pass card the FBI had supplied and headed for the elevator. Was lifted all the way to the top floor. I didn’t see anyone. So I took a smoke grenade out of my pocket, pulled the pin and tossed it down the corridor.
Then I took the elevator down to the second floor. There was a fire alarm mounted on the wall by the elevator. I broke the glass and pulled it. It went off with a noise loud enough to wake the almost dead.