“That was Morgan from Johnson's division. Manuel was found burned alive inside his car on I-80.”
“Oh, God!” Cohen burst out sobbing, anger and despair haunting her face. “Please, John, it has to stop. Please.”
Savas didn't care anymore who saw them together. He walked over and reached around the chair back to hold her. Everything they knew was collapsing around them.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, burying her head in his shoulder.
“I don't know, Rebecca. I don't know. These guys are real monsters. They're ripping open our bellies today.”
The door pushed open slowly, and they stared in shock at the stained and soaked white dress that draped the body of Angel Lightfoote. She smelled of a swamp, and greens and browns polluted the once bright colors of her dress. Her long hair was matted and snarled, hanging in tangled clumps from her head. Her hands were bloodied and bruised, as if they had suffered some blunt-force trauma. But she was alive.
Cohen leapt up, nearly knocking Savas over as she ran to embrace Lightfoote. “Angel, Angel, Angel!” she cried holding the battered woman in her arms. She pulled back and stared into her face, tears on her cheeks.
Lightfoote smiled faintly. “Hi, Rebecca.”
Savas stood and walked over to the two women. “Angel — my God, what happened?”
Lightfoote cocked her head to one side and seemed to look out into the distance. “Evil,” she said simply. “Something evil wanted to kill me. It shot at me. I dove into the water and banged on a rock. I didn't get up until I had swum far enough away.”
Cohen stared mournfully at Lightfoote. “Angel, it's been horrible, everyone…”
“Is dead,” finished Lightfoote. Her expression didn't change.
“We don't know that!” Savas interrupted. “We have numerous…confirmed deaths, Angel. The entire department is being decimated. Larry's dead — killed by a bomb at his house. Several heads of other divisions that have been involved in the case. For us, Matt and Manuel. There are reports that both my apartment and Rebecca's were broken into. Frank managed to overcome his assailant, who fled. J. P. is only alive because some drunk teen plowed into his car in the early morning, setting off the bomb underneath. We don't have any word about other targets.”
“Two, at least, in CIA,” rolled the booming voice of Husaam Jordan as he entered the room. He had a bruised face and an ice pack on his right eye. A fire burned in his left.
Cohen put her arm on his shoulder. “Husaam — my God. You're hurt.”
“You should have seen the other guy,” he said grimly. “Actually, I would not recommend that. They're fishing him out of the East River as we speak.”
Savas stepped toward the CIA agent. “They have targeted CIA? How?”
“There must have been enough unsecured information in the bowels of FBI computing connecting our groups. Many at the CIA felt it was a mistake to enter into these collaborations. I don't think even the worst critics could have anticipated how deadly a mistake it would be.”
He stared intently at Savas. “John, the time has come to move, and move quickly against Gunn. I don't care how we try to sell it, but this should give us the ammunition we need.”
Savas shook his head. “Husaam, I'm sure we can make a strong enough case that Mjolnir is behind all this to convince anyone. But we have nothing, nothing at all directly linking Gunn. Now he's out of the country. We have no reliable information where he is!”
“A warrant to search his office, his house, anything.”
“That takes time.”
Jordan scowled. “As you see, time is running out.”
“Yes, sir. That's affirmative, sir.” Air Force colonel Jim Cranston nodded vigorously, staring at his computer screen. “Only those two — General Marshall and an army doctor named Russell. We've punted this up to State, and they are moving now to bring those two in for control of this situation. It is understood that all information flow outside of approved channels must be stemmed.”
A voice on the other end of the line spoke rapidly, high tension in the voice. Cranston responded. “I can't answer that one, sir. I know the general consensus is that we need to open this up to other agencies, and now with the possibility that it's in the hands of a terrorist organization—this terrorist organization, in particular — I think that voice will become nearly unanimous.”
The colonel listened intently and nodded. “I believe that is true. But it will be beyond our influence at that point. I think they will judge the possibility of leaks a necessary risk. You know my long-standing position on this. I think it's been a grave mistake from the beginning to keep this buried.”
The voice on the other end spoke again, and Cranston shook his head. “No, sir. It's a perfect match. There are no doubts. Serial numbers, make, appearance. ‘Dial-a-yield,’ five to one hundred and fifty kilotons. A blast up to ten Hiroshimas. It's our broken arrow, sir. In the hands of the devil's minions.”
He spoke for several more minutes and hung up the phone, running his hand across his nearly bald head. He stared in front of him. His computer screen displayed the washed-out image taken from the cell phone of Michael Inherp, the long metallic tube of the missile dominating the screen, the numbers printed on its surface: small yet clear. The colonel stood up and walked to his window, staring into the night.
God help us.
54
Three dark shapes rested against the glass like spiders on a wall. Gunn Tower rose mercilessly into the Manhattan sky, the spider shapes dwarfed and vulnerable beside its might.
Jordan released his grip on a suction cup and removed a small disklike object about the size of a Frisbee from his belt. The suction cup remained firmly fastened to the glass, and he placed the device against the building to the right of him. A bright light shone as sparks flew, and within seconds, an ellipse could be seen in the once perfect glass surface. He leaned over, breathing heavily from the exertion, and pounded on the circle. After two strikes, the glass broke inward, leaving a hole in the building. This action was repeated several times as his men repositioned themselves around the growing hole in the glass surface. Finally, Jordan scaled with the suction cups to the metal above the hole and attached a much larger cup into which a secured rope had been fitted. The rope dangled down beside the hole. He grasped it tightly and swung himself inside.
He landed inside a dark office, followed quickly by the rest of his team. He spoke in hushed tones to the others. “We are on the fourth floor, east side of the building. A stairway is around the corner outside this room. It will take us to the floor we are looking for.”
He walked to the door. Although it was locked from the outside, it was simple to open from within. Around the corner they found the stairwell and began a long assent, punctuated by intervals of deactivating security cams. Their labored breathing echoed as they passed more than forty floors. Jordan's legs burned from the lactic acid buildup, and he limped slightly as they progressed, the wounds from Sharjah not completely erased. After forty floors, they felt as if their hearts would explode in their chests. Finally, he halted at the fiftieth floor. For a moment they each caught their breath, their legs shaking, sweat pouring down their faces behind the ski masks.
“We'll pause a minute,” said Jordan. “I'm sorry we couldn't take the elevators. They require keycard access and have video monitors. The office is down the hall.”