“Ten minutes,” called McMurray, oblivious to Richard’s panic. This was going to be the biggest bang of his career. After spending more than a decade and a half with explosives, this was his Nirvana.
While McMurray and Richard were waiting for that colossal explosion, the Intelligence Community experienced a seismic blast that was significantly larger on the Richter scale of importance. Zak Goldberg’s Morse code message had been sent from Michael Buckingham to Robert Baxter, head of the CIA Office of Middle East and African Intelligence. Buckingham trusted Baxter to get the message immediately, regardless of the time zone change. Baxter never seemed to sleep. Come to it, he never seemed to leave his office. There would be no problem with getting his immediate attention.
Baxter did indeed receive the message the moment it came in, and sent the report on to Jeremy Kendall, who was the Director of Intelligence of the CIA. From there it landed at the White House, and, recently added to the list of recipients, the TTIC control center, where Dan had Johnson displayed it on all nine of the 101’s. The theory was that images repeated multiple times had greater impact. Dan did not announce anything. He simply displayed the message and waited for the busy background noise of beepers, telephones, pagers, and conversations to subside. The silence that spread through the room was similar to the sudden hush caused when a maestro walked onstage unannounced. Dan was about to raise his conductor’s wand and start the show when a distressingly familiar noise broke the silence.
“I’ve got it!” yelled Turbee, in obvious triumph. “It’ll be two hundred fifty meters across; twenty seven meters 258 meters across, 27 meters at its deepest point, providing the Semtex is properly detonated.” He had just finished a burrito, and was jumping around the mess he always left after food.
“Turbee, what the hell are you ranting about now?” asked the irritated maestro.
“The crater, sir. The size of the crater. You know, the hole in the desert in Libya. There’s this big betting pool in Las Vegas on how big the crater will be, and I’ve been able to apply some discrete fluid mechanics equations to the vectors—”
“Stuff it, kid. We’ve got serious shit happening and we don’t care about the size of some crater or betting pool. Stick with the program,” interrupted Dan.
“E-mail it in, anyway,” whispered Khasha, who worked at the station next to Turbee’s. “Make some money. Buy me dinner. Ignore the pompous ass.”
“Well, why not?” he whispered back. The pool had been growing rapidly, and the winner would stand to make a tidy sum. Within seconds, Turbee had sent in his estimate on the crater size, and put the $1,000 bet on his American Express.
Now that he’d dealt with the interesting stuff, he turned his focus to the screens behind his boss.
“This came in less than an hour ago,” Dan was saying. “The transmission is from the Jalalabad area of Afghanistan. The source is Zak Goldberg, who is the CIA’s top asset in Afghanistan. He’s been operating undercover there for close to four years. Buckingham, the Embassy Chief in Islamabad, is of the opinion that this message should be considered solid and accurate information, with a high degree of reliability. Most of the Langley people involved seem to agree. As you can see from this communication, it is an indication of a serious, severe, and imminent threat to the country. Please take your time to read this. Let it sink in for a bit.”
He stepped to the side, gesturing dramatically at the image displayed behind him. All eyes turned to the screens at the front of the room, and read the message Zak had sent.
HAVE RECEIVED CREDIBLE, VERIFIABLE INFORMATION THAT A MAJOR TERRORIST STRIKE AGAINST THE USA IS IN ADVANCED PLANNING STAGES AND WILL BE PUT INTO EXECUTION WITHIN DAYS. LIKELY DATE OF ATTACK WILL BE EARLY SEPTEMBER THIS YEAR. POSSIBILITY THAT ATTACK WILL BE BY WATER. ATTACK DESIGNED TO CAUSE 100 TIMES THE DAMAGE TO AMERICAN LIVES AS PAST ATTACKS. EMIR GLOATS THAT THIS COULD DESTABILIZE AMERICA ENTIRELY. REPEAT — THIS INFORMATION IS HIGHLY CREDIBLE. PASHTUN DRUG LORDS ARE WORKING WITH EMIR. WILL TRAVEL WITH THEM TOMORROW TO FIND OUT MORE. MISSION HAS BECOME EXTREMELY DANGEROUS BUT THE MAGNITUDE OF THE THREAT REQUIRES THAT I CONTINUE. WILL ATTEMPT TO COMMUNICATE AGAIN TOMORROW.
For a few moments silence reigned in the control room. At length Dan himself broke the tense calm.
“Does anyone here know Zak Goldberg? Do we have an assessment of the quality of his information?”
“I never knew him personally, Dan,” Rhodes spoke up. “But I was head of the Middle East Intelligence Directorate for a long time. I know his reputation. He’s as close to platinum plated as an agent can get. He has intimate knowledge of the lay of the land there. He grew up hanging around places like Rawalpindi, Kandahar, Jalalabad, and Kabul. He knows the customs and speaks the native dialects perfectly. He had a very impressive career with the Marines, and an even more impressive run with the Firm before he went underground in Kabul four years ago. If Zak says it’s a credible threat, and about to be put into execution, then it’s a credible threat and about to be put into execution. Zak is the best there is.” His brow knit together, transmitting his growing worry. Zak’s position at the moment didn’t sound like a good one.
“Johnson, get the station chief at Islamabad on the line, would you? He can give us the goods,” commanded Dan.
After 15 minutes, Johnson gave up. Apparently the President, the Secretary of Defense, the heads of the CIA, FBI, and NSA, and just about everyone else, ranked ahead of Dan’s agency. All those who could do so had pulled rank to get to the station chief in Islamabad. As Dan fumed about life’s slights and inequities, Rhodes came up with a suggestion.
“Dan, Goldberg has a very close friend. Since childhood, same back-ground — they grew up together in Islamabad. They did the armed forces together, then the CIA. That person happens to be the agent looking after the Libyan Semtex project.”
At the mention of the Semtex, Turbee, who had lost interest, was suddenly paying attention again. Rhodes smiled when he saw the attentive gaze snap back onto the enfant terrible’s face.
“You mean Richard Lawrence?” asked Dan.
“The very same. Get Johnson to dial him up. He’ll probably give you the straight story.”
“Over to you, Johnson,” Dan ordered.
Five minutes later, Richard answered his phone. The call was routed through TTIC’s state-of-the-art control room speaker system, so that everyone could hear the call.
“Richard, this is Dan Alexander of TTIC. Could I ask you—”
“T-Who?” came the impatient voice.
“TTIC,” repeated Dan. “The Terrorist—”
“Sorry. Don’t want any. I’m in the middle of important stuff here.” There was a sharp click as Richard hung up.
There were eye rolls from almost everyone except Turbee. This was humor he could recognize; this was Homer Simpson. His shrieking laughter cut through the silence in the room.
“Turbee, shut the fuck up. Johnson, get that asshole back on the line.” Dan rubbed his temples, trying desperately to think around Turbee’s laughter.
In due course Johnson did get Richard back on the line. This time Rhodes led the charge, and the interview went a bit more successfully.
“Richard, you know Zak Goldberg better than anyone. He’s given us some disconcerting information about a possible terrorist strike. I can’t go into details with you here and now, but can you tell me your view as to the reliability, the quality of Intel passed along by him?”
“Sure, that I can answer. I’ve been in this business for years. I’ve known Zak all my life. There is no one finer, none more careful. He’s doing what he’s doing right now because he is the best. If he says there’s going to be a terrorist attack, and gives you chapter and verse, then it’s going to happen, unless you stop it. Period.”
Similar validation and corroboration was being received up and down the command chain. If Goldberg said it, you could take it to the bank. This was the real deal.