Ted Bell - Spy

“My idea.”

“A feint on the Mexican border. Originating in the Amazon. An attack on a major city. Washington.”

“Washington? How do you know that?”

“Think about it, Alex.”

“The Inauguration. Christ, Conch, of course. That has to be it.”

“It gets worse. Six hours ago that nice sheriff from Texas called me. His deputy followed a convoy of remote-controlled trucks to Virginia. In one truck was some kind of remote-controlled sub. It was placed in the Potomac. We’ve been dragging the river from Fredericksburg to the Pentagon Yacht Basin. Divers are down everywhere. We haven’t found it yet.”

“What about the airborne minesweepers? Those new helos that laser scan from above?”

“Nothing. There is a move afoot to evacuate key government officials from the city. One more thing. I just got a call from FBI Chief Mike Reiter. He says explosion in Rock Creek Park turns out to have involved at least one Chevrolet Suburban packed with Semtex explosives. Secret Service vehicle, Alex.”

“You’ve got assassins inside the Secret Service?”

“That’s certainly one possiblility, however remote. The other is, someone went to a whole lot of trouble to duplicate a government Suburban. We even found pieces of light bars, the same heavy door armor the Service uses. Before the bomb went off, this Chevy was being transported in a remote-controlled tractor-trailer rig. Just like the one that ferried the sub to Virginia.”

“You said, ‘convoy.’ How many of these big rigs, Conch?”

“According to Sheriff Dixon, a dozen remote-controlled trailer trucks are known to be headed to the northeast from Texas.”

“All going to Washington?”

“I hope not. But we have no way of knowing that. I wish to God we did. We have no idea what we’re looking at here. It’s too bizarre for even me.”

Alex was silent for a long moment and then he said, “Conch, this jungle compound I’m about to take out. It is mecca for combat droids. Armed drones, tanks, you name it.”

“I know. I just read Harry Brock’s report. That’s why I’m calling you, Alex. I think there is at least the ghost of a chance that these remote-controlled trucks are a Muhammad Top operation. Perhaps even controlled from his jungle complex.”

“That could well be it. Brock says there is a heavily fortified command-and-control bunker. Twenty-feet down. Two-hundred-foot antenna disguised as a tree.”

“A tree?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Theoretically, I’ve got a dozen or more phony Secret Service vehicles driving around, each identical to the real thing. And possibly packed with high explosives. Could be plastique, Semtex, could be nuclear for all we know. Perfect bombs, Alex, hiding in plain sight. Movable. And, another weapon, possibly nuclear, may be buried in the muck in the Potomac River. I’ve got to run along now.”

“Conch? One thing. They’ve got Ambrose. When they took him, he was deciphering a code log that could make a difference. The man who wrote the code was trying to stop these people.”

“Oh, God, Alex. Poor Ambrose.”

“If he’s still alive, we’ve got a chance.”

“In eleven hours and change, the president puts his hand on that bible and takes the oath of office. That moment in time is the single most vulnerable few seconds this country faces every four years. The vice president, Congress, hell, the entire government is out there on the street standing with him. Tens of thousands of schoolchildren and—oh, Holy God.”

“Conch, listen to me. Can’t you get the president to postpone the ceremony? Move it?”

“Since General George Washington took the oath in 1789, the swearing-in ceremony has only been moved once. Bad weather and Andrew Jackson was ill. You think Jack McAtee is going down in history as the guy who called off his own inauguration at the last minute? What’s your next idea?”

“I see what you mean.”

“With or without that code, Alex. Take out Muhammad Top. I wish to God I could do it for you. But I can’t.”

78

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

J ust before dawn, Agent Rocky Hernandez swung the old Cherokee into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Across the street, the Annapolis harbor looked quiet, sailboats riding at their moorings, peace and tranquility disturbed only by the sound of halyards flapping against aluminum masts in the gusty wind.

The two men climbing out of the car looked frustrated, haggard, and worn. The excitement over Dixon’s breakthrough discovery in Rock Creek Park was long faded. Time was running out. They had spent the last five hours combing the countryside, coming up empty. There was hardly a park, isolated farm, or stretch of rolling Virginia or Maryland woodland within thirty miles of the capital that they had not yet searched.

“Ten minute break,” Hernandez said, “You go ahead inside. I’ll call in, see what’s going on. Please order me a black coffee and a couple of donuts. Maybe they’ll give you some water for Dutch, too.”

Dixon entered the empty diner and took a stool at the counter. He ordered coffee and donuts and a bowl of water for the dog. Abigail, a perky high school senior, brought him the food and drink. “What kind of dog is it?” She stood on tiptoes with the bowl in her hands, looking out the window.

“He’s a hero,” Dixon said, managing a smile.

“Can I take the water out to him?”

“I guess. Truck’s open. He’s in the back. His handler’s out there making a call.”

“Dutch says thanks, he was thirsty,” Hernandez said, taking a seat a few minutes later. He took two gulps of coffee and bit into his donut.

“How is it back in Washington, Rocky?”

The agent looked over at Dixon, his eyes red with strain. “It’s bad,” he said.

“I figured.”

“Chaos. A lot of pressure from the First Lady and others in the Service to evacuate, postpone, or at least move the swearing-in ceremony. Take the whole show inside. Some secret location they’re working on. Outside of Washington. My guys are going crazy right now. The media smells blood and they’re hounding the White House every step of the way. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“We postpone, we move, we evacuate? And nothing happens, we’re idiots. Don’t evacuate, don’t postpone, and something happens, we’re idiots.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Doesn’t matter how I feel. I know how the president feels. In five hours, he’s going to walk down those capitol steps in the sunshine and put his hand on that bible. Period. End of report. I know that man better than I know my own soul.”

“I guess we were wrong about wooded areas,” Dixon said, taking a sip.

“We’ll keep looking, that’s all. The Virginia truck, the Rock Creek truck. Both wooded areas. Secluded. Where the hell else are you going to secretly unload something as big as a Suburban?”

Franklin stared down at his cup in silence.

“A garage,” he said quietly.

“What?”

Dixon, looked at him, his tired eyes alight. “Rocky, how long you figure it takes to run a cross-check on every garage and body repair shop in Washington? Cross-check the ownership? Match the owners against all the names on the DC counter-terrorist watch list?”

The agent slammed his fist on the countertop. “A garage. Jesus. Why didn’t I think of that? Let’s get started.”

Franklin put five dollars on the counter and headed for the door.

HALF AN HOUR later, they were on their third garage. The first two had been small one-man body shop operations, no way to back an eighteen-wheeler inside. The one they were headed for now was off Massachusetts Avenue, near Union Station. It was called the Teapot Dome Body Shop.