“That’s why I’m calling you into this thing. I need a first-rate mind helping me here. I’m concerned that once this wave of attacks is done, something bigger is heading our way.”
“What could be bigger?”
“That’s what I need you to figure out. I need you to work in isolation to read through this file here and tell me what you think it means.” Hellerman pushed a manila folder across the table to Jeremiah, who reached out with his long, black fingers and pulled the file toward him. “Don’t take it to the ops center. Just need you over here, maybe down in the basement, studying all of this.”
“The basement?”
“Follow me,” Hellerman said. They stood and the vice president led him downstairs. He opened the door to his lair and showed Jeremiah the basic components. “Here’s the tracking chart. They were supposed to hit Florida, but never did. I think local law enforcement got in front of that one. But as you can see, the others have panned out.”
Jeremiah stood, awestruck, at the vice president’s research and his elaborate maps and matrix.
“How did you crack this code, sir?” Jeremiah asked, never removing his eyes from the data displayed on the wall. He took his right hand and touched each of the large squares with predicted attacks and then touched the map where the attacks had occurred, or not.
“Combination of signals intercepts and some tracking I’ve had some folks do to find Lantini. Pretty embarrassing, you know.”
Jeremiah finally broke away from the charts and looked at the folder in his hand.
“How can I help?”
“I need you to find the link. It’s in there somewhere, but I’m certain Lantini is behind this thing. He’s working Ballantine, you’ll see.”
Hellerman paused.
“But I also think Colonel Jack Rampert is connected to this thing. That’s what I need you to find out. Spend some time down here reading through those reports.
“And find me a link to Rampert.”
CHAPTER 49
Matt Garrett pushed the Porsche to 100 mph down the long, straight stretch of Interstate 64 between Richmond and Williamsburg.
“Dial this number,” he said handing the cell phone and a slip of paper to Peyton, who was sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing black dungarees and a dark navy button-down shirt with a black turtleneck underneath. She was wearing a similar outfit at his request, though she had a dark-blue denim jacket atop her black turtleneck.
“Yes, sir,” she said, saluting him with her right hand.
She punched in the number and then handed him the cell phone.
“Meredith?” he said.
Peyton snapped her head toward him and mouthed the word, “What?”
He held up his hand, warding off her suspicions.
“Meredith, this is Matt. Can you hear me?”
He waited.
“Bad connection,” he said, turning toward Peyton.
“I’m crushed,” Peyton said.
“Meredith, I can barely hear you.”
Peyton looked at him and rolled her eyes. She saw a road sign that said Norge and figured it was no wonder he had a poor cell phone connection. They were in the middle of nowhere.
“What?… Who?… I would hope Hellerman knows what’s going on,” Matt said.
Peyton looked at Matt with a quizzical expression.
“Tell her you’ll call her back when we get to civilization,” Peyton said.
“We’re heading to Blake’s. I’ll call you when I get there,” Matt shouted into the phone, as if that would help her understand him better.
He looked at Peyton and flipped his cell phone shut.
“Can’t believe we’re in the twenty-first century, I’m on an interstate, and I can’t talk on the cell phone,” he said.
Peyton put her hand on his leg and said, “We’ll be there soon.”
“Do you think we should call Rampert?” he asked her. He had been debating the issue since Blake had given him the information about the Sherpa landing on the Chinese ship. He could feel the tape in his pocket. He had some definite ideas as to whose voice was on the tape, but had not revealed those thoughts to Peyton.
“The tape for your brother. That’s your plan, right?”
“Right.”
“If that’s the plan and you think Rampert can help you find your brother, then I think it’s a possibility. You know you can’t trust any of those guys, though, right?”
“I know,” Matt said. He was thinking about the value of the tape. If the voice on the tape was who he thought it might be, then it would be very good evidence in a treason trial. And while it was clear that Ballantine was not acting alone, what was not so clear was whether he had inside help. The connection between the tape and the current events, he figured, could be very real.
“I’ll think about it.” What was hanging in the balance, it was clear, was not only the retrieval of his lost brother, but finding the possible inside man on the attack plans.
Matt continued driving, lost in his thoughts, watching familiar landmarks tick by. They passed the Hampton Coliseum and then found themselves negotiating the Hampton Roads Tunnel, cutting through Norfolk, and getting onto the Virginia Beach Expressway. They hit Atlantic Avenue and then found Blake’s house in the Bay Colony subdivision.
Blake’s home backed up to Broad Bay and the Lynnhaven Inlet, a deep-water tributary that fed into Chesapeake Bay near the Bay Bridge-Tunnel complex. They drove along a paved road that led them past several large mansions and ended at Blake’s driveway.
“Wow, your friend Blake has it going on,” Peyton said as she eyed the two-story brick home. “Nice pad.”
“Blake did pretty well a couple of years ago during the stock market bubble. Got in and out at the right time.”
“I’d say so,” Peyton replied, stepping from the Porsche and looking beyond the house to the broadening inlet. She could see the elevated bridge of Shore Drive that spanned the mouth of the inlet where it fed into Chesapeake Bay. Silhouetted by the setting sun was the barely noticeable bridgework of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.
They walked along the sidewalk, framed by a well-manicured lawn on one side and high Boxwood shrubs sitting beneath the home’s tall windows on the other.
“Hey, guys, you made pretty good time,” Blake said as he stepped from the front door and walked down the slate porch. He had changed from his motorcycle garb into the type of black wetsuit worn by surfers.
“Blake, this is Peyton.”
“Peyton, how are you?” Matt noticed Blake was not his usually charming self.
“Doing well, thank you,” she replied.
They walked inside the well-decorated home. Sandi’s touches were visible everywhere. There was a mixture of surfing and beach artwork coupled with more traditional colonial themes. Somehow the couple had made the mixed decor work.
“Matt, you remember Sandi, right?” Blake asked.
The blond woman was standing next to a surfboard in the foyer. It was artwork but would probably hold up well in the waves, also. She, too, wore a dark wetsuit.
“Sandi,” Matt said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Good to see you again, Matthew. We’ll take care of this business.” She placed her hand lightly on Matt’s arm.
“Sandi, this is Peyton, a friend from Washington, D.C.”
Peyton stepped forward, shook Sandi’s hand, and said, “Nice to meet you.”
“Okay, let’s go over some initial thoughts: weapons, cameras, and so forth,” Matt said, ready to get down to business.
“I spent some time on that already,” Blake said. “Got a bag full of guns here and a good digital camera for nighttime pictures. Boat’s out back, ready when you are. But I need to talk to you upstairs first.”
They went upstairs while Sandi intercepted Peyton.