Dana Stabenow - Blindfold Game

Frank’s 747 wouldn’t be in for hours, so he hunted up a cybercafe that served coffee and checked his e-mail, hoping Peter would have been sighted, Fang apprehended, the two Koreans identified, anything he could take to the director as proof. There was nothing. Nor had Sara replied to the e-mail he had sent from DC before he left. When his cell phone rang and it was Frank, wanting to know where the hell he was, he’d been genuinely surprised at the passage of time.

“Hugh,” Frank said.

“Huh?”

“Wake up.” Frank shook his arm. “We’re here.”

Hugh blinked blearily through the windshield and saw the immense brown brick shoebox squatting ten feet away. A figure stood on the corner, huddled into a parka. It stepped forward into range of the streetlight and Hugh saw Kyle’s face peering out from the wolf ruff around the hood. “Thanks, Frank,” he said, opening the door and stepping gingerly onto the ice.

“You’re gonna tell me what this was all about someday, right?” Frank said.

“If I can,” Hugh said, and shut the truck’s door firmly behind him. Frank demonstrated his displeasure by kicking up a little snow when he pulled out of the parking lot, but Hugh wasn’t paying attention.

“Hugh,” Kyle said, pulling Hugh into a bear hug and whacking him on the back hard enough to make him slip and almost fall. Icy parking lots. Something else he didn’t miss about home. “What the hell’s going on?” Hugh’s teeth had begun to chatter again and Kyle said, “never mind. Come on, let’s get in out of the cold.”

KYLE CHASE’S OFFICE WASon the third floor, a square box with a desk, a chair, and a couple of bookshelves. Every horizontal space was piled high with paperwork, magazines, and books. Kyle removed a stack of newspapers and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition from what was revealed as a second chair. “Sit down before you fall down.” He busied himself at a coffeepot on a table.

He was almost as tall as Hugh and had almost as much hair, although his was black. His eyes were blue and his smile was quick and wicked. He was almost as smart as he thought he was, and he, like Sara and Hugh, was a rabid overachiever, which meant he was a rising star with the FBI. He’d had to ask to be posted to Alaska, but he’d always wanted to come home, and in spite of much headshaking on the part of his superiors, who freely prophesied that he was killing his career, he had prevailed. “There must have been something in the water in Seldovia,” Hugh said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Thinking out loud.”

The coffee finished brewing and Kyle poured two mugs full, not neglecting creamer and a huge hit of sugar for Hugh. “Terrible Trio,” Hugh said, raising his mug in the traditional toast.

Kyle smiled. “Terrible Trio,” he said and clinked mugs with Hugh. He sat down behind his desk.

Hugh drank. Strong enough to melt the bowl off a spoon and sweet enough to send him into a diabetic coma, the coffee had a reviving effect. “Is Lilah as beautiful as ever?”

“You know she is, you just saw her in October.”

“Kids good?”

“As good as the little monsters ever are,” replied their loving father. “Come on, Hugh. You look like hell. What’s going on? Are you sure Sara is okay?”

“She’s fine,” Hugh said. “So far as I know.”

“Oh. Ah. Well. What’s going on, then? These aren’t my usual office hours. It’s gotta be good to get me in here this early. Or a friend,” he added pointedly.

“The FBI still regard Alaska as one of four states on a short list where the threat of domestic terrorism is regarded as real?”

Kyle stared at him, puzzled. “Are you awake yet? You know we do, along with Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho. It’s why our manpower’s been so beefed up here over the last five years.”

Hugh had had a long flight during which he had marshaled his arguments and worked out a way to phrase them that would make his case without tempting Kyle to have him committed. “Have you considered the possibility of an attack from an international source?”

Kyle set his mug down with a thud. “What the hell’s going on, Hugh?” His eyes narrowed. “Does the CIA have information to that effect? And if it does, why haven’t we been notified?”

“Let me talk it through,” Hugh said.

Kyle looked at him for a long moment. Hugh Rincon was tall and blond and brown-eyed without being in the least bit pretty. His ease of manner belied his intellect, both of which were obvious without being offensive. He was, in short, the kind of man other men liked and all women loved. He always had been, Kyle thought ruefully. Kyle was lucky he’d seen Lilah first. Not that Hugh had ever given anyone but Sara a second look.

Across the desk Hugh shook off his fatigue and turned a mental switch. He spoke as if he were giving this briefing for the first time, a little tentatively, as if Kyle was the first focus group for this particular presentation. His speech was deliberate without being pedantic, but even if he had turned into the world’s worst teacher his subject would have guaranteed Kyle’s interest. “Given Alaska’s strategic location on the Pacific Rim, and given the great circle route reality of international commerce, I don’t think it’s unrealistic that intelligence agencies in Alaska hold a watching brief for terrorist traffic coming in the opposite direction from Asia.”

Kyle thought. “What would be the target if, as you suggest, we did have terrorist traffic coming at us from Asia?”

“In Alaska, the first target we think of is, of course, the terminal in Valdez,” Hugh said. “Fourteen percent of the nation’s annual supply of oil travels through that port in very large crude carriers.”

“Given the regularity and efficiency of USAF patrols-”

“Understood. I consider that threat remote. However, speaking of the air force, there are two large military bases in the state with nuclear weapons on site. They’re attractive targets, and they have the added advantage of being perceived as too far off the national radar to worry about.”

“Location, location, location,” Kyle said, expecting at least a smile. He didn’t get one.

“As for targets beyond Alaska, try every shipping port, oil refinery, and military base on the West Coast of the U.S. All they’d have to do is put a bomb on a VLCC and sail it into any harbor with a refinery from Bremerton to San Diego. Very big boom.”

Kyle relaxed a little. “Is that realistic?”

“You tell me, Kyle,” Hugh said, his voice hard. “Was Oklahoma City realistic? Was 9/11 realistic? No, they won’t try that exact MO again, but who knows what else they’ve got up their sleeves? We have information that Bin Ladin has his own personal fleet of oceangoing vessels. Some sources number it at as high as twenty vessels total. Where are they? Where are they going? Who, and, even more importantly, what are they bringing with them? You know the story of Container Bob, right?”

Kyle shook his head.

“The Italians stumbled across an Egyptian-born Canadian named Amid Farid Rizk inside a container en route from Port Said to Rotterdam, changing ships in Gioia Tauro. He never would have been caught if he hadn’t decided to drill more holes for air and the Italian police hadn’t heard him. The container came equipped with all the modern conveniences, including a heater, a toilet, and a bed. Not to mention the satellite phone, the laptop, and the Canadian A &P certificate.”

“Jesus,” Kyle said, shaken in spite of himself. “He was an airplane mechanic?”

“You bet. We checked. He did the work. The certificate was valid.”

“So it was a test run?”

Hugh shrugged. “We don’t know. The container’s final destination was listed as Halifax, Nova Scotia.”