“He was not involved in what happened?”
“No, sir,” Bud responded.
“Not at all,” the DCI agreed emphatically. “He was used.”
“I don’t believe I need to know any details about the asset, Herb. Bud?”
“I agree.”
The president felt relieved, though he had no idea why. “Good. Go on.”
“While Qaddafi was in Rome for the surgery, an agent of ours was ordered to switch the blood supply for the colonel. The agent was employed by the hospital, so it was relatively easy. Again, we don’t know if he was a plant specifically for this purpose or if he had been working there for some time. Checking could be detrimental.” Bud waited. He knew a question was coming.
“And why was the blood switched?”
“To assassinate Colonel Qaddafi.” Again Bud paused. The president did not react. “Our agent replaced the blood designated for the surgery with tainted blood.”
“Tainted?” the president asked, coolly.
“Yes. The blood was purposely contaminated with trace amounts of plutonium chloride. That’s plutonium in salt form, and it dissolves rapidly in fluids. It doesn’t act as a poison. It does, however, do horrible things to cells, especially blood cells.”
“And the effect?”
Bud drew a breath. “Our indications are that the colonel is presently suffering from advanced leukemia.”
“Can you explain the Agency’s logic behind this?”
“I think so,” the DCI said, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully. “I’ll ignore the obvious because I have no way of knowing why a few men chose to ignore the law. However, there was considerable intelligence from our asset concerning the colonel’s reneging on his promises to end support for terrorism. He may have been gearing up for revenge attacks on Americans. He has never forgiven us for killing his daughter in the eighty-six raid. Plus, there may have been some direct PLO pressure during and after the Gulf War. My predecessors believed this was the best solution. It would provide a reasonable cover, possibly even to the colonel himself, and with a little disinformation — leaks about his ‘long-term illness’—there could be a logical explanation. That, though, is where my predecessors screwed up.
“Tracing leaks is not difficult. We usually pass information to European sources first. That gets it into their press fast, and ours pretty soon after that. All intelligence services have usual channels for routine disclosures.”
“Routine I can understand,” the president said, “but this was not routine. Not by any stretch.”
“I know. Why they handled the operation that way… I don’t know. I’m at a loss, but the fact remains: That aspect of the operation virtually assured that Qaddafi would find out that we were responsible.”
“So, this is his revenge. And he’s still alive?”
“We don’t know for certain,” Bud responded. “He hasn’t been seen in public for six months. He even missed the Pan Arab Summit in Tunisia four months ago. As for revenge…maybe.”
“It seems fairly obvious.” The president raised his brow. “Or not?”
“There’s more, sir.” Bud ran through the rest of the information quickly in his head.
A deep, nasal breath. “Yes?”
“As we said before our asset has been giving us valuable intelligence on terrorist networks and activities for some time now, including a warning earlier this year that an attempt on the life of the president was being trained for. He gave specific details that match very closely with the actual assassination.”
The president’s eyes went wide. “We knew there was a threat before…and nothing was done?”
“Yes, sir, and President Bitteredge was informed. He refused to allow any overt safety measures to be taken because of the chance it might compromise our asset. It was his decision.”
“So some wild, unauthorized operation carried out years ago has led to this? God!” He stood, shoving both hands deep in his pockets.
The DCI was pleased that the man was angry. Truly angry.
The president looked back to Bud. When their eyes met the anger drained instantly, replaced by a sense of coming disbelief. “Your face tells me there’s more, Bud.”
At least this is the last surprise — I hope. “Mr. President, just before this meeting Director Landau informed me of some very disturbing news — especially so considering what we’ve just seen. Herb…”
“Mr. President, it is our belief that the Libyans may have the capability to construct a nuclear weapon.”
Slowly the president sat down again. “And it may be on that plane.” His teeth were clenched. “I do not expect that it’s an accident this is all happening at this time. I would like some explanations. One minute.” He walked to his desk and picked up the interoffice phone. “Mary, I’d like you to notify my nine o’clock that we’ll have to reschedule… No, no specific time yet… Thank you.” He took his seat again and motioned to the DCI.
“Sir, have you heard of Anatoly Vishkov?”
“A vague memory, that’s all. Nothing specific.”
Herb continued. “He’s the thorn in the side of the Russians, and a major reason the Cubans are still at odds with their former big brother over reforms. He was a nuclear physicist, still is, but now he has no real allegiance. Sort of a wunderkind weapons designer, until he took a trip.”
The president remembered. It showed on his face. “He was the one who defected.”
“Correct,” the DCI affirmed. “An act more damaging because it was to a ‘brother’ country. I know, it seems strange, but the Soviets of old could accept someone like Vishkov coming over to our side. But to defect—emigrate may be a more choice word — to a fellow Communist country? And worse yet, the Cubans let him stay…and guaranteed his safety. A lot of things have changed in Russia but not so much that their military would let a scientist of his caliber leave their domain. Especially the Strategic Rocket Forces. They keep a tight hold on their people, and they do consider them their people. Their own domain. That makes Vishkov a very lucky, and a very shrewd, man. The only reason Castro hasn’t given him back is because he is married to the sister of a very high-ranking military officer, General Eduardo Echevarria Ontiveros. He was with Castro during the revolution, even at the attack on the barracks.”
“So this general is protecting Vishkov?”
“Correct, again, Mr. President Our sources indicate that a byproduct of all this business with Vishkov is a strain between Castro and a small faction of the military with ties to Ontiveros.”
“Then how does Vishkov fit into the picture? Is he working with, or for, the Libyans?”
Landau shook his head. “Not directly. Let me explain. We assume that he began marketing his designs after his defection. Selling them. Probably for cash, but we’re not one hundred percent sure of that. He might not actually need the money, but it’s certain he’s getting a bundle of it. To date, through intermediaries, he has sold designs for two weapons. Unfortunately, we were unable to acquire only one of the sets — the Libyans got the other one.”
“Whoa! Whoa! Hold on. We bought one of his designs?”
Landau might have been a subordinate, but not in wisdom. Holding such back was not his way. “If we didn’t, someone would have, and I am prepared to keep Vishkov in furs and caviar as long as necessary to keep his designs out of the wrong hands.”
The president hadn’t experienced a subtle lecture since his college days. It reminded him that being wrong was a variable whenever one made snap judgments. He knew that, as the nation’s leader, he couldn’t base his decisions on emotions. There was still much to learn. “You’re right, Herb. Point well taken, and I’ll personally kick in for the next can of beluga.”