Douglas Preston - Brimstone

Rain continued to drum on the roof. There was the flicker of lightning over the river, a faint roll of thunder.

"We don't really know what BAI does in this Italian plant, but we have some indirect evidence that they may be working on a project for the Chinese. Last year we monitored a string of ballistic missile tests over the Lop Nur desert testing grounds. It seems the missile in question is a new type, specifically designed to penetrate America's planned antimissile shield."

Pendergast nodded.

"What makes the missile special is a new aerodynamic form, combined with some special surface or coating, which together make it invisible to radar. It doesn't even leave a heat trace or turbulence wake on Doppler. But here's the rub: whatever it is the Chinese have done, it isn't working. Up to now, all their missiles have broken up on re-entry.

"That's where BAI comes in. This is right up their alley. We think the Chinese hired BAI to solve the problem. And we think they're solving it at the Florentine plant."

"How?"

"We don't know. The breakups seem to have had something to do with a resonance spike that occurs at re-entry. The shape of the missile is so constrained by having to remain invisible that it's almost unflyable. A similar problem occurred with the stealth bomber, but it was solved with some heavy computing power and wind-tunnel research. But here the missile is moving a hell of a lot faster, it's ballistic, and it's up against a much more sophisticated radar. The answer lies somewhere in the field of eigenvalue mathematics, Fourier transforms, that sort of thing. You know what I'm talking about?"

"At a basic level."

"The mathematics of vibrations, resonance, and dampening. It has to be perfectly aerodynamic while having a surface that's black to radar. This missile can't have any curves, hardness, or smoothness-those would cause reflection or turbulence you could see on the Doppler-and yet it has to be aerodynamic. If anyone can rise to the technical challenge, BAI can."

"Is this file for me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The agent looked at Pendergast for the first time, and his mask of expressionlessness fell away. What Pendergast saw was the face of a very, very tired man. "It's the same old story. The CIA is subject to partisan political pressure. Bullard has friends in Washington. I was told to deep-six the Bullard investigation. After all, he's raised millions for the reelection campaigns of a half dozen key senators and congressmen, as well as the president. Why, we're asked, is the CIA harassing a fine, upstanding citizen when there are so many foreign terrorists out there? You know the refrain."

Pendergast simply nodded.

"But screw it, this bastard is selling America down the river. He's a traitor, just like those good old American companies that sell dual-use technology to Iran and Syria. If Bullard gets away with this, the U.S. will have laid out a hundred billion dollars developing an antimissile system that will be obsolete on deployment. And if that happens, it's the CIA that's going to get hammered. The administration will experience sudden and complete amnesia as to how they deliberately shut down our investigation. The Congress is going to demand an official inquiry on the so-called intelligence failure. We'll be everyone's whipping boy."

"Something we at the FBI know a little about."

"I spent eighteen months investigating Bullard, and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to let it go. I'm a patriotic American. I want you to nail Bullard. I don't want a nuclear missile to take out New York because some American businessman paid off a few congressmen."

Pendergast put the folder to one side. "Why me?"

"I've heard you're pretty good, even if you are FBI." The man allowed himself a cynical smile. "And I liked the way you dragged Bullard down to headquarters like a common criminal. That took guts. You really pissed some people off. Big time."

"Regrettable. But I fear it is not the first time."

"You better watch your ass."

"I shall."

"You won't find any smoking guns in the file; Bullard's covered his tracks well. You've got your work cut out."

He started the engine, flicked on the headlights, pulled through the turnaround, and headed back up to the traffic droning southward into lower Manhattan. He said nothing else until turning off the highway at 145th Street, the skyscrapers of Midtown like glowing crystals in the distance.

"You never heard of me, I never heard of you, and this conversation never took place. That file has been cleaned of intelligence markers, so even if it gets back to the CIA, no one will know where it came from."

"Won't they suspect you, anyway? It was your case."

"You worry about your ass, I'll worry about mine."

He left Pendergast a few blocks north of his house. As Pendergast was exiting the car, the man leaned toward him and spoke once again. "Agent Pendergast?"

Pendergast turned back.

"If you can't nail the bastard, kill him."

{ 32 }

The man calling himself Vasquez looked carefully around the little space where he would be spending the next several days of his life. A few minutes earlier he had tensed, preparing for an unexpected opportunity, when the door of the porte-cochère opened across the way. A quick check through the scope confirmed the target was leaving. However, another man had been with him. Vasquez had laid aside the rifle and made a note in his log:22:31.04 . The two men walked to a car parked a few yards down the street, an unmarked law enforcement Chevy, obviously a government model.

As the car had pulled away, there'd been a brief flash of white in the doorway of the porte-cochère; Vasquez saw the retreating figure of a man in a tuxedo, shutting the door again. Butler, from the look of it. But who heard of a butler in this part of town?

Vasquez refused to allow himself any regret. Finishing a job so prematurely just never happened. Besides, it always paid to be overly cautious. Putting his notebook away, he went back to preparing his kill nest. The abandoned room of the old welfare hotel was a wreck. There were used needles and condoms piled in a corner; a torn mattress on the floor with a dark stain in its middle, as if somebody had died on it. As his hooded light moved around the room, cockroaches fled in panic, their greasy brown backs flashing dully, countless legs rustling like leaves. But Vasquez was used to such things, and he was well pleased with his accommodations. He had, in fact, rarely seen a setup quite so ideal. He replaced the small piece of plywood from the boarded-up room's lone window and went back to his preparations.

Yes, this would do perfectly. The window faced north, looking out over the great dark bulk of the ruined mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. It was a crazy place for the target to live, but each to his own. Three stories down and across 137th Street was the porte-cochère, its semicircular driveway running under a brick and marble arch. He could just see the edge of the door the target used for ingress and egress: the one he had just come out of. So far he had used no other door-but then, Vasquez had been watching for only twelve hours.

Yes, this was a fine setup. In this part of Harlem, there were no inquisitive doormen hanging out in front of their buildings; no hidden video cameras; no old ladies who would call the police at the mere howl of an alley cat. Here, even gunshots didn't necessarily trigger a call to the police. What's more, Vasquez had found this abandoned building directly across from the target residence. It had a basement entrance hidden from the mansion, leading to an alley fronting 136th.

You couldn't ask for better.

The target, an FBI agent, seemed to be a man of regular habits. In the coming days, Vasquez would ascertain just how regular those habits were. As with hunting any animal, success lay in learning the creature's patterns of behavior. Vasquez intended to become an expert in this particular creature. He would learn by what doors he came and left, and when; he would ascertain who lived in the old mansion, who visited, what kind of security was in place. By understanding the movements, he would gain an insight into the man's psychology. Even people who varied their habits out of fear of assassination always varied them in a pattern. From what little he'd observed, he already realized he was dealing with an exceptionally cautious, intelligent target. But then, Vasquez always assumed at the beginning that the target was smarter, craftier, cleverer than he was. Vasquez had stalked and killed them all: federal agents, diplomats, mobsters, minor heads of state, even physicists. He'd been in the business twenty-two years in as many countries, and he had learned a trick or two. But it was wise to stay humble.