James Huston - Fallout

“The Indians already know him. They know what he can do with a MiG.”

Luke glanced at his watch. “I can’t get to San Francisco in three hours.”

“We’ll get you there.”

“How?”

“Helicopter.”

“There’s no helicopter anywhere near here.”

“It’s hovering five miles from here. It just picked up Vlad and came straight here from Tonopah. They’re waiting to find out if you’re going. As soon as you say the word, they’ll set down on your beautiful, newly paved runway and take you to San Francisco.”

“What about the school? You guys shut it down after the attack.”

“The government still wants you operating.”

“If I go, I want your word. The school goes on, with me or without me. Win or lose in India.”

Morrissey hesitated. “You have my word.”

Luke saw the hesitation. He looked at Helen, who nodded her agreement. “What do you think, Katherine?”

She looked at Morrissey, then Helen. “I’m sorry. I’ve seen the government at work too many times. They’ll lie right to your face if it’s to their advantage.”

“I wouldn’t,” Morrissey said, stung by her comments.

Katherine raised her eyebrows. “You’re with the CIA and you wouldn’t lie to him if you thought it was in the national interest to do so?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

Katherine smiled. “I might have been born yesterday, but I wasn’t born at night.” She looked at Luke. “Unless they put it in writing and I keep the document, I wouldn’t count on it.”

Luke went to the kitchen and took out a piece of paper from a drawer. He handed it to Morrissey. “Put it in writing.”

Morrissey hesitated. “I’ll have to be vague, at least about what you’re doing.”

“Just put in there that the school is to remain open and that that is the will of the United States government.”

Morrissey’s pen hovered over the paper, and then he began writing. When he finished, he handed the document to Luke, who passed it to Katherine without even reading it.

Katherine read every word. Then she nodded at Luke. “This will do it.”

“Bring them in,” he said to Helen who left quickly.

Katherine was somber. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she said to Luke.

“I know. But somebody has to stop him.”

“India can do it without you.”

“Probably. But if they can’t, it’ll start a war,” he said.

“You really think so?” she asked.

“I’ve got to stop Khan. I didn’t get it done here. I’ll do it there.”

Morrissey closed his briefcase and handed Luke a passport and a ticket. The passport had his picture on it but was in the name of Robert Boswick.

Luke looked at it and frowned. “What’s this?”

“We don’t want Khan hearing about this. He has a lot of friends. We want him to assume that if we’re onto him, all we’d ever do is pass it to India. He has no fear of them.” Morrissey’s face was dark. “He’s much more resourceful than we gave him credit for.”

They got up and headed toward the back. As they walked, Luke asked Katherine, “You okay with this?”

“You’re taking a risk you don’t have to take. India can take care of itself.”

Luke shook his head. “It’s not about India. It’s about Khan. He tried to ruin us, Katherine. I owe him. I owe Thud.”

“He’s not a threat to us anymore.”

He stopped. “I wouldn’t ever be the same person if I just let this happen. I’d be cowering in a corner somewhere,” he said. “I’ve got to get this done.”

There were a lot of things she wanted to say, but she could tell by the look on his face that none of them would make any difference.

They went to the back of the house. He heard the deep rumbling of a jet-powered helicopter and looked in the direction of the noise. He watched as the dark Sikorsky S-76 settled quickly onto his runway, throwing sand all around on either side. The side door came open, and a man in a flight suit and helmet motioned for him to climb aboard quickly. Luke looked back at Katherine and waved awkwardly before dashing for the helicopter.

The special agents pressed their backs against the wall outside Merewether’s apartment. They’d been waiting in shifts in their cars for days. No one had tried to enter the apartment since Merewether’s disappearance. No cleaning service, no friends, no family—no one. Not even the manager. No lights had come on, the phone didn’t ring once—they had it tapped—and no one showed any interest in Merewether at all. It had made for a dull stakeout.

Then, just at dusk, Merewether had driven up in his antique Volkswagen Bug with the rusted bumper and parked on the street. The FBI agents had thought they were hallucinating. They expected someone to come at some point, but not Merewether himself. Not in his car, not so obviously.

Merewether had gotten out of his car and gone to the elevator. The FBI agent stationed outside had immediately radioed the others, then hurried to the elevator and to Merewether’s floor.

They waited outside his door, their guns drawn. The lead agent knew very well what his instructions were. If Merewether returned, they were to wait to see if he called anyone or tried to make any contact with anyone that might lead them to the Pakistani who’d set up the entire thing—who had himself conveniently disappeared.

The lead agent stood next to Merewether’s door. He could hear the television: CNN. Typical Washington, he thought. In D.C. everybody does their work, then runs home to see how much of it was legitimate, determined by how much of it makes it onto CNN. In D.C. if you’re not on television, you don’t exist.

The agent checked his watch and looked at the other three agents. They were to wait thirty minutes or until Merewether left. Whichever came first. Then they were to arrest him on a list of federal offenses as long as his excuses were sure to be. The lead agent carried the arrest warrant in his suit pocket. He waited a minute and checked his watch again. He knew Merewether wasn’t leaving. He must have something else in mind, some specific purpose that would make him come back to this apartment, after being gone long enough to have seen his name in the papers. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to escape. His apartment was on the seventh floor of a high-rise with no way out except through the door next to the agents.

CNN droned on in the background as another seventh-floor resident came out of the elevator and passed the FBI agents in front of Merewether’s apartment. He looked at them and their drawn guns and hurried by, quickly turned the corner, and glanced back, horrified and intrigued.

Twenty-seven minutes. The agent had waited long enough. He reached across the door with the back of his right hand and rapped sharply. “FBI, open up. We have a warrant for your arrest!” The agents breathed more deeply, ready for whatever Merewether had in mind.

“FBI! Open up!” he repeated with an insistent, no-nonsense tone.

Still nothing.

“Open up! FBI!” he demanded. No response. He looked at the other agents. They were all in agreement. He nodded. They all knew what the plan was and what each one’s role was. The lead agent tried the doorknob. It was locked. He examined the construction of the door. The usual hollow-core apartment door with cheap hardware. One kick, he thought. He went to the other side of the hallway, across from the door, took one quick step, and kicked with all the force of his leg right next to the doorknob.

The door flew open. Merewether had closed the dead bolt behind him, and it tore through the frame and the wallboard as it was forced open. “FBI!” the agent yelled as he moved rapidly into the apartment with his gun ready, looking for any danger. The other three agents flowed into the apartment behind him and fanned out to cover the entire hallway from the living room to the kitchen. The apartment lights were on in all the rooms they could see. The television was on, too, but no one was watching it.