The secretary of state said, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend…but who really was our enemy on this one?”
“All of them were, and remain, our enemies. We remain at war with terror as a whole, not with a specific name or group.” The president headed back to the Oval Office, taking big, confident strides, and plopped onto a sofa.
The secretary of state took a wingback chair, crossed his legs, and straightened a perfect crease in his trousers. “This started with an extremely deadly device in the hands of a crazed fanatic,” he said. “Now the fanatic himself is dead.”
“But where is the poison gas? Has it fallen into the hands of someone or some group we know nothing about?” The president was somber, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Did Swanson find the papers? Why haven’t we heard from him? “Guys, we have to make sure that monstrous thing does not reach America. If we have won some political leverage in this mess with Mr. Saladin, we need to cash it in now.”
“So go on television with an address to the nation.” Steve Hanson was already arranging the details in his mind. “No politics at all, no swipes at our critics, just a direct appeal to all Americans to pitch in and help. Better than that, make it a worldwide appeal, because the other nations also remain at risk until that poison threat is nullified.” The secretary of state nodded agreement.
“Pulpit time,” said the president. “We need to warn the people without unduly alarming them.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Steve Hanson.
“Ken,” he asked, “what’s the international community doing? Anything?”
“They are all keeping their cool right now, Mr. President. The strike in London sobered them all, and none of them want to be on the wrong side of this issue. Until that weapon is located, nobody wants to create problems. They may need the help of their neighbors in a big way if they are picked as the next target.”
“Anything new on the Saladin auction?”
“Apparently that is at a standstill. Any nation or group that entered the bidding is keeping its actions very private, but who would be around to orchestrate that show now? With Saladin dead, the auction may be dead, too.”
“Hopeful speculation,” said the president. “There is always a number two man who becomes the number one man. If he has the plans, he can just step in and run the show. How do you rate the chances that somebody else is going to get hit?”
“Honestly, Mr. President, my gut tells me that it is going to happen.”
The president nodded and went back to his desk and sat down. “Yeah. We’ll keep up the pressure. I don’t like having the United States of America in the crosshairs.”
“We are doing everything we can, sir. We will lay out all the details at the National Security Council briefing. The news of Saladin’s death will be leaking out of France by then. Pressroom will be in an uproar.”
The president put his glasses back on and picked up a pen. As always, paperwork awaited. “Thanks for coming by, Ken. See you downstairs in a little while.” When the door closed, the president touched the intercom and told his secretary not to let anyone in for the next fifteen minutes and to pass the word along to the Secret Service guards on all the doors.
Hanson stood before the big desk. “I just finished the debrief with General Middleton. Kyle Swanson got in and did the job, but the house blew up before he could grab any papers. Then he was snatched by our joint task force, brought back here, and worked over a bit, even waterboarded. He kept his mouth shut until Trident got him out. He’s okay, and the operation is safe.”
“We tortured our own guy?”
“Swanson is fine. Kyle had a brief firefight with some other guy at the house. He recognized him, but with a bomb ticking down inside the house, Swanson did not have time to pursue. Later, when he was being questioned, he was shown some photos and was able to confirm the identification. Apparently it was Saladin’s right-hand man, a British-trained sniper who goes by the name of Juba. Kind of a legend in the dirty warfare trade.”
“He may have the weapon, then?”
“Yes, sir. Or at least control of it.” Hanson paused. “We’re going to have everybody working to find him, so should I keep Trident rolling?”
“Absolutely. And tell them I said they did well in France.”
When the president was alone in the Oval Office, he looked at the paintings on the light vanilla walls: confident Franklin Roosevelt, somber Abraham Lincoln, elegant George Washington. Each had led the nation through times of crisis and into a brighter future. I’d sure like to talk to those guys, he thought. Too bad this job didn’t come with a training manual.
His shoulders slumped; he pushed the papers aside, took off his glasses again and buried his face in his hands. He rubbed his eyes hard.
That weapon of vile poison was coming this way. He could almost feel it vibrating or doing whatever the hell those things did. America was a big place, a gloriously spread-out country with more freedom for individuals to roam than any other nation in the world and a security net that had gaping holes. He thought about how previous administrations had not even been able to stop millions upon millions of poor laborers from sneaking undetected across the southern border, and he understood that the northern border with Canada, although perceived as safer, was much longer and just as unprotected. The coasts and ports were funnels for dangerous men and cargo. So what chance did he really have against a skillful and determined team of terrorists? The tragedy of 9/11 had only proven the seriousness of the problem. The president sat there with the lives of 304 million men, women, and children weighing upon him and knew that he could not guard them all.
America could never be totally protected from those who wished to do her harm. To think she could be was an impossible dream.
SAN FRANCISCO
Juba was enjoying himself in the grandstand at AT &T Park, eating salty peanuts and drinking cold beer as a cool and steady breeze sailed up the bay and spilled over China Basin Park. Canoes and kayaks floated in McCovey Cove to await the splash of home run balls. The San Francisco Giants were playing baseball against the team from Arizona, but that was not the point. He was there to recon a potential target zone.
Almost as soon as he entered the arena and walked past the monstrous, skeletal Coca-Cola bottle tilted at a twenty-five-degree angle next to a huge four-fingered old-style baseball glove, he knew he had found just the place. From the mezzanine level, Juba could see downtown San Francisco and the long bridge across San Francisco Bay. Oakland was only ten miles away. There was a medium crowd that evening, about twenty-five thousand fans, but the New York Yankees were arriving in two days and all of the stadium’s 41,503 seats would be filled. The decision made, he used his cell phone to call a number in Nogales, Mexico, and gave the man who answered a brief message.
After the game, Juba wandered down to Chinatown for a hot and spicy meal of garlic chicken before returning to his hotel and tuning in the world news on the thirty-two-inch LCD high-definition television set in his room. The news readers were still carrying on about London and the death of Saladin in Paris. Soon they would have a fresher subject. A better kill zone was being staked out at AT &T Park.
Then he turned to his laptop and transferred a retainer fee to the account of a private detective in Connecticut who was hired occasionally for discreet jobs and background checks. The detective believed the client was a major computer company that required the utmost confidentiality. When the money transfer was confirmed, Juba sent the detective an e-mail telling him to find former U.S. Marine Kyle Swanson.
THAT NIGHT, XAVIER SANDOVAL was in the confessional of a little church in the hills outside of Nogales, Mexico. The religious quandary was nothing new to him, a mysterious puzzle that had haunted him for the past three years. He was not a Muslim, and in fact didn’t believe in any organized religion, but the ancient pull of the Roman Catholic Church still tugged at him. It was difficult to give up the teachings of a lifetime.