On the south wall a life-sized bronze figure of William Donovan, leader of the World War Two Office of Strategic Services, kept endless watch on those who passed. Wild Bill would have been astounded at what his OSS had become.
They walked down a hallway lined with portraits of former Directors of the agency. At the end of the corridor Burch used a card to bring down an elevator from the Seventh Floor. It was always the Seventh Floor, capital S, capital F. The intelligence empire of the U.S. was largely run from there. Every career CIA officer wanted to make it to the Seventh Floor.
Burch showed Carter into the executive dining room and left. DNCS Hood rose from a comfortable leather chair and came forward, hand outstretched.
"Nick. Thank you for coming."
"My pleasure." Hood's hand was dry, his grip a practiced firmness.
Hood was lanky and tall, cadaverous in his look, with watery blue eyes. He was sixty-four years old and in less than the best of health. His skin was dry and colorless. He wore a plain suit that failed to reflect his position of power.
Carter considered Hood brilliant and effective, a five star general in a dirty, undeclared war that operated far outside the convenient fictions of public thinking about right and wrong. He was ruthless in his pursuit of America's enemies.
The DCNS was career Agency, like his boss. Unlike his boss, he had put in a lot of years in the field before he'd been given a series of bigger desks. He'd been boots on the ground in the bad old days of Vietnam, East Germany and the Russian war in Afghanistan. He looked like what he was. An old spy come in from the cold, near the end of his career.
Hood and Carter had common ground between them. No one knew what it was like in the world of clandestine ops unless they'd been there. They shared a mutual desire to protect the country. Nick was prepared to respect him. He didn't know if he would like him.
They sat down at the table. Two place settings of linen, white china, crystal and silver shone against the polished walnut surface. A steward entered, poured coffee and water and set a fresh salad in front of each man.
Carter waited.
"This thing in Africa." Hood sipped his water. Right to business.
"Yes. Thanks for your help in getting my team out of Khartoum."
"Khartoum is one reason I wanted to chat with you today."
Nick took a forkful of salad. "They were determined to protect that truck. My team saw something loaded on it before the fireworks started. We think it might have been VX."
"A reasonable assumption. However, it wasn't VX."
Hood waited while the steward placed plates of thick prime rib before them. Nice potatoes, greens. Fresh horseradish. Sprinkles of something green. All very nice. Nick noticed the bulge of a pistol under the steward's jacket. The steward left the room.
"If it wasn't VX, what was it?"
"Bausari has gotten his hands on a WD-54 SAM. A big one. Six kilotons."
Nick set his fork down. He'd just lost his appetite. SAM. Special Application Munition. "A backpack nuke? One of ours?"
"Yes."
"Didn't we stop making those?"
"We did, in '88. But several were kept in storage at Ramstein. One went missing sometime in '93. An arms dealer named Yuri Azhrakov ended up with it. We've learned he sold it to al-Qaeda."
"Why the hell didn't you let us know? For that matter, why didn't you have your own guys on it?" Nick felt his blood pressure rising. "You told us you weren't interested, that you didn't think that truck was important."
"We didn't know, then. We weren't sure. We knew that plant wasn't making VX…"
Nick was angry. "So you let us go in there and, as far as you're concerned, waste our time and resources. Put my team in danger. Why?"
Hood shrugged. "Wasn't my call, Nick. For what it's worth, I apologize. But when you called for help, we did our best to back you up. Please, let's not get into blame here. We're both on the same side. We need to move on. We need to work together. Someone's got it who doesn't like us. You seem to have a lead on that. We need your help, now."
"Does the President know about this?"
Hood looked at Nick. "No. Director Lodge has decided we need to get more information before we inform him. The DCI doesn't want to unduly alarm him."
"You have got to be kidding." Nick forced himself to be calm. "Six kilotons. If something like that went off in Washington or New York…"
He left the thought unfinished.
Hood cut a piece of rib, chewed. "What did you discover in Mali?"
Nick briefed him.
"You think this secret order of assassins is back in business."
"It doesn't make much sense, but that's our conclusion."
Hood seemed thoughtful. "Shia. Bausari is a Sunni. They don't cooperate."
Nick drank some water. "This cult thought of itself as guardians of the pure Faith. True believers. They thought everyone except them was a heretic."
"I hate true believers," Hood said. "They make so much trouble. Unless they're on our side, of course."
Hood paused as the steward cleared the plates and poured fresh coffee.
"That will be all, Robert."
"Yes, Director." He left the room.
Hood said, "Someone killed Imam Ahmed Sahar in Kabul this morning. They left one of those tokens on the body."
"That's bad news." Nick toyed with a spoon. "He was our last hope for a negotiated peace over there. It throws the whole thing back into the fire."
"Exactly. What is your analysis?"
"Without more info? If they found one of those discs, it's the assassins. Taking out the Imam is a strategic move. The killings of Senator Randolph and the Brit make it look like Iran is behind it. Off the cuff, I'd say we're dealing with an organized and well-funded group of terrorists we haven't run into before. They're doing a pretty good job of fanning the flames. If they're working with Bausari it makes them an even higher priority threat with that nuke loose."
Nick picked up his coffee, drank, set the cup down.
"We don't think it's Tehran. Our reading is the deliberate clue that this is a Shia op, meaning Iranian, is misdirection."
Hood nodded. "That is my analysis as well, but you and I are in the minority." He sipped coffee. "This artifact in the cave. Do you have anything else?"
"Not yet. It's probably a relic of Muhammad. From what we know about the assassins, it could be the sign they've been waiting for. One of my team has been digging into that. If it turns out to be the sign, the assassins will think it signals the imminent coming of the Mahdi. That's bad news for everyone who's not Muslim."
"Like Chinese Gordon."
"Gordon?"
"The British general commanding Khartoum back in the nineteenth century. He was besieged and those idiots in London dithered over whether or not to reinforce him. He was fighting someone who claimed to be the Mahdi, a tribal leader with an army. They took Khartoum and slaughtered the British. The rebellion was crushed, but it was a little late for Gordon."
"If someone shows up with a sign from Muhammad and says he's the Mahdi, he could kick the Jihadist war up to a different level."
Hood nodded. "Indeed. Especially with an atomic bomb."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
"A suitcase bomb?" Stephanie went pale. Selena and Ronnie were stone faced. Lamont was at Bethesda, but Nick knew he'd have something to say about it when he found out.
"More a backpack than a suitcase. With the shielding, it must weigh over a hundred and fifty pounds. Not your average carry-on."
"Hood is certain of this?"
Nick nodded. "Yes. He's nervous."
"Gee, I wonder why? Rice will put Langley's balls in a wringer when he finds out. And we have to tell him."