The NSA thought on that for a moment, but the DDI spoke first.
“You mean they may not be able to deliver it? To shoot it at us?” Drummond knew he was hoping, but…
“Do I mean that’s a possibility? Sure. But is it a guarantee? Not on your life.” Joe let out a tense laugh. “Wouldn’t bet on mine, you know. Kinda like throwing down your neighbor’s dead cat as a marker in poker.” It was more gallows humor, something Joe had perfected in the recent past.
“Vishkov could have helped them maintain it, or…what, refurbish it?” Bud asked.
Joe laughed again, though this time because of the role he was being cast in. “Hey, who are the spooks here? Come on. Think! Why the hell else would he be there? You think Castro, if he has a good warhead, would waste it?” But that would take a major redo. Joe was doubting his own exhortations.
“You look mighty convinced,” the DDI cracked.
Joe felt the strange aura of déjà vu sweep over him. It was on this same couch, even. “Maybe I’m not, but I’m smart enough to realize that you don’t gamble on something like this. You also don’t bluff. Why should Castro?”
There was nothing more to discuss. “Okay, Captain.”
“Cut the rank crap,” Joe insisted. His Air Force days were long gone. Somehow the title had stuck with him through DOE, probably because bureaucrats thought any one that knew more than them about something, a reality Joe had frequently been called upon to exhibit, had to be someone of rank or stature. “Just Joe, all right?”
“All right.” Bud hated what came next. “Joe, I talked to—”
“Yeah. When do I leave?” Being the only person to ever disarm a live nuke carried with it the curse that you were often considered the only one who could ever do it.
“A few hours.” To make this man do more, when he had already done so much… Given the ultimate in service. “Anything you need is yours.”
“All I need is for you to get me to it.”
“Kind of a repeat performance,” the NSA offered, his knowledge of Joe’s biggest job at the forefront of his thoughts. That one had been successful, but it had also been different.
Anderson knew he didn’t have to answer. Actually he didn’t want to. There were other things more important to say. “I’ll do this.” He looked to both men with a fire in his eyes that could only have been conjured by a mighty wrath. “But I want you to know I hate it. I spent the best years of my life trying to make sure no one got their hands on those things, and all you guys do is keep them around. You keep making them better. What Castro may have down there is ancient, but it can still kill a million people.” That was always a picture his mind trembled at. “A million people. Stop perfecting them, stop making them better, and start getting rid of them.”
“No arguments from me,” Drummond said.
Joe stood. “My wife is gonna be pissed.”
What could Bud say to that? Nothing. The man had maybe a year left, and his government was asking him to come back and give more.
“Maybe I should leave now,” Joe said. “I’m sure whoever I’m going to link up with will want to get used to my sunny personality.”
“No need,” Bud responded. “They’re well versed in the ways of Mr. Anderson.”
Them. “Well, if that don’t beat all. Thought I’d never see those guys again. Rather wouldn’t have, actually, but if it has to be someone, there’s none better.”
“A compliment? Don’t worry, it’ll stay in this room. I wouldn’t want to tarnish your persona,” Bud joked. “And you can’t leave yet, anyway. The President wants to see you first.”
The bureaucratic end of the stick had always been his least-favorite part of the job. Now it was his least-favorite part of retirement. “I’m not the best at political etiquette, you know.”
“He’s no Boy Scout, either.”
“All right,” Joe agreed. “I assume you’ve made arrangements for me to get what I’ll need at DOE.”
“The secretary will personally be waiting for you at Andrews,” Bud confirmed. Andrews Air Force Base was the East Coast staging site for NEST, Joe’s old team.
“Fine.”
Joe Anderson was gone as fast as he had come.
“He’s incredible,” the DDI commented. “Like a machine when it’s time to go to work.”
It was a good way to put it, Bud agreed. “Guess this puts Vishkov in the center, or at least near it. We find him, and we may be able to zero in on the missile. Let’s hope we hear something from the rebels.”
“What about Vishkov himself?” the DDI wondered. “If we find him, I mean.”
Bud’s gaze went cold. What he wanted to do to the renegade Russian was not in his power to accomplish, or to order. It was in someone’s power, however. “He’ll get his justice. I’m sure of that. Remember, we have a very convincing lobbyist with the Man now,” the NSA pointed out, his eyes glancing upward. He wasn’t referring to the President.
It was very early in the morning, the light of the new day still a dream for those fortunate enough to be sleeping, a luxury not often afforded on a regular basis to warriors engaged in battle. Yet, even in the darkness that was the undeniable friend of the fighting soldier, there was work to be done. Night was the perfect environment for the dispensation of violence. It was also the preferred battleground where the quieter arts of war, the ones disdained by the professional soldiers in uniform, were practiced. It was the common domain of the spy.
Antonio was standing, Ojeda and Manchon sitting on the edge of the truck’s rear gate. “You know of him?”
Ojeda folded the paper in half and handed it back to Papa Tony. “The question should be why does your government now want information? They do not tell us this.”
Paredes knew he had to stand up to the colonel. Attempted explanations, of which there were none, would not placate him. The truth might, but the CIA officer didn’t know what the truth was. The only remaining alternative was insistence.
“They would not request information from you if it was not necessary. Two simple questions, that is all.” Paredes noticed Ojeda’s gaze soften. “We have given a great deal.”
“Yes.” Ojeda stood. “We know of him.”
Thank God he didn’t shoot me. “And where is he?”
Why should the Americans care where a miserable little scientist who had fallen out of favor with the presidente was? Why, indeed? “Captain Manchon will show you on the map.”
The information was transmitted through the facsimile function of Paredes’s satellite manpack up twenty-two thousand miles to a Milstar satellite five minutes later. Langley had it seconds after that.