Quickly taking a dozen pictures of the cars and the soldiers guarding them, Sam rolled over onto her side and recorded the position in her GPS and on her map, just in case the GPS went down.
“I hate to say it, but it’s getting late,” said Cardinal, looking down at his watch. “Even if we leave now, it’s going to be dark before we get back to our hotel.”
“We should get going,” Sam said. “We really need to send these pictures back to Mike and see what he makes of them.”
Cardinal nodded. He knew that the intelligence people back home could probably piece together what was happening and give them an idea on what they should do next. Carefully crawling back off the hill, they made their way back to their Rover. Cardinal started the engine, quickly turned the vehicle around, and then started to drive back the way they had come. Fifteen minutes later, a Mongolian Army MI-8 Hip helicopter popped up from behind a ridgeline running alongside the road. It was flying low enough that Sam could see the co-pilot pointing to them as it flew straight over their Rover.
“Looks like we’ve been spotted,” said Sam calmly as she watched the helicopter bank over and then head deeper into the desert.
“I think they’ve got bigger fish to fry than keeping tabs on our little old car,” replied Cardinal as they turned a bend in the road. Up ahead, he saw another column of army vehicles heading straight at them. Leaving plenty of room between themselves and the convoy, Sam and Cardinal sat in their vehicle as a half-dozen jeeps and old-fashioned, Soviet-style armored cars drove by them, sending a thick cloud of dust up into the sky.
Looking at the last vehicle in the convoy, Cardinal nearly fell out of his seat. “Sam, take a couple of photos of that vehicle before it disappears from sight!” Cardinal sat there shaking his head in disbelief.
“What was so important about that last vehicle?” asked Sam, checking the image in the view screen of her camera.
Cardinal kept his eyes fixed upon the road as he spoke. “That was a BRDM-2, a Soviet-era armored car used for reconnaissance.”
“So?”
“Did you see the long rectangular boxes on the back of it?”
“Yes, I have a good shot of them,” replied Sam, showing the image in her camera to Cardinal.
“Well, my love, that was, to be precise, a BRDM-2RKh — a chemical and radiological reconnaissance vehicle. Whatever is happening out in the desert is not good news,” said Cardinal soberly.
“Oh my God,” said Sam, staring back out into the vast expanse of the rocky desert. “What could have happened out there?”
“I don’t know, but we need to get a hold of Donaldson ASAP before the Mongolians get suspicious and detain us for poking our noses where it isn’t wanted.” With that, Cardinal placed their Rover in gear and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The sooner they were on the road heading north, the better.
9
Turning off Independence Avenue, the silver-and-blue Bentley Mulsanne with Mitchell, Atsuko, and her aide inside headed down the narrow and winding ramp built beside the gallery that led beneath the National Mall.
Built as an open-air park, the National Mall was one of the main tourist attractions in Washington D.C., with over twenty-four million visitors a year. The spacious, tree-lined area between Constitution and Independence Avenues extended from the Washington Monument to the U.S. Capitol Building. At just over three kilometers in length, it’s a popular destination for people to walk while they sightsee. The ten museums of the Smithsonian Institution, located within the heart of the capitol, offered visitors a variety of unique exhibits, ranging from all kinds of art to the exploration of space. Some of the other major attractions included the Lincoln memorial, the Botanical Garden, and the many solemn memorials to America’s veterans.
They stopped to have their identification verified by a female Parks Service Police Officer; the limo and its accompanying Hummer proceeded down into the well-lit basement of the gallery. Closed to the public, the underground entrance was for the delivery of new items to the gallery and for VIPs to use, allowing them a small degree of privacy when visiting. Turning a corner, Mitchell could see a delegation of people waiting to greet Miss Satomi. There were several young women dressed in red-and-gold silk kimonos standing beside an open elevator. Just in front of them was an attractive, middle-aged woman in a long, black evening dress with a strand of pearls around her slender neck, her fine gray hair pulled up into a bun on the back of her head. Mitchell recognized her from his briefing file as Mrs. Olivia North, the gallery’s director. Waiting with the director was the Japanese Ambassador to the United States. Wearing a tailor-made, light-gray suit, the ambassador stood there beaming, a smile on his weathered face as the limo came to a smooth halt in front of the greeting party.
Quickly exiting the limo, Mitchell made his way over to Atsuko’s door and then waited. Looking about, Mitchell noted that there were several men hanging about just out of view of a local news camera crew recording the event. Mitchell knew that the men were the security detail for the ambassador. Matsuda’s men silently exited the Hummer and took up posts around the limo.
Mitchell waited a second and then opened the door. With a polite nod at Mitchell, Atsuko stepped out of the vehicle, followed immediately by her ever-close assistant, who knew the protocol drills by heart and hung back slightly. Speaking in fluent Japanese, Mrs. North introduced herself and the Japanese Ambassador to Atsuko, who delicately shook hands with both before following the director to the open elevator, where a Japanese-American exchange student wearing traditional clothing met her. Bowing respectfully, the young woman handed Atsuko a bouquet of white roses. With a smile, Atsuko graciously accepted the flowers and then deftly handed them off to her assistant.
“We are in the basement and on our way up,” said Mitchell quietly. Jackson and Fahimah responded in his earpiece. His friends had been in the gallery for hours already, scoping out the throng of invited guests as they arrived for the unveiling. All told, Mitchell knew that between his people, Matsuda’s, the ambassador’s close protection detail, and the Park police, that there were around twenty security personnel on duty tonight. More than sufficient for a group of amateur eco-terrorists, thought Mitchell as he and Matsuda’s men stepped into the elevator.
The Arthur M. Sackler Gallery was home to thousands of pieces of Asian art. Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and Indian art dating back centuries graced the walls of the gallery. The complex was over 115,000 square feet, with less than half of it being open to the public. Ninety-six percent of the gallery was built underground.
The elevator ride was short. Coming out on the third floor, they were met by more representatives from the Japanese community in Washington. Mitchell saw that the gallery had a diamond-shaped fountain built into the floor. Pink-and-gray granite covered the floors and walls of the gallery.
For the next hour, Atsuko Satomi was ushered around the gallery, meeting one prominent person after another. There were people from the business, diplomatic, scientific, and artistic communities who had all come to meet the rising young dragon from Japan. Mitchell stayed off to one side, keeping a close eye on the crowd. He couldn’t believe how easily Atsuko flowed through the crowds, greeting each person with a warm smile on her face and a polite handshake. It would have driven Mitchell crazy to be this polite with so many strangers. Matsuda and his men were far too conspicuous in their dress and demeanor, but they knew their job and gave Atsuko the space she needed to move freely through the crowded rooms in the gallery.