America (59 page)

“Islamic terrorists can be placed in three general categories,” Ilin said conversationally. “The foot soldiers are recruited from refugee camps and poor villages throughout the Arab world. These young men are ignorant, usually illiterate, and know little or nothing of the western world. They are the shock troops and suicide commandos who smite the Israelis and murder tourists in the Arab world. They speak only Arabic. They blend in quite well in Arab society, but are essentially unable to function outside of it. These are the troops that Bin Laden and his ilk train as Islamic warriors in Afghanistan and Libya and Iraq.”

Grafton nodded.

“The second category, if you will, are Arabs with better educations, usually literate, some even possess a technical skill. The fundamentalists actively recruit these people, appeal to their religious sensitivities, wish to convert them to their perverted view of Islam. Since these people have often lived outside the Arab world, they can move freely in western society. These people are dangerous. They are the ones who hijacked the airliners that crashed into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. By the way, the plane that hit the Pentagon was supposed to crash the White House. The one that crashed in Pennsylvania was supposed to hit the Capitol Building.”

“Umm,” Jake said. He knew all of this, of course, but Ilin had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting and he was willing to let him tell his story his way.

“The third category of terrorists can be thought of as generals. Bin Laden and his chief lieutenants. Financiers, bankers, technical advisers, and so forth. These people are Muslims. For whatever reason, terrorism appeals to their ethnic and religious view of the world.”

Ilin paused and glanced around him, almost an automatic gesture.

“And there is a fourth category. Few of these people are Arabs, few are Muslims. They see profit in terrorism. Some of them take pleasure in the pain the terrorists inflict, for every reason under the sun. These people are enemies of America, enemies of western civilization. I came today to talk to you about several people in this category.”

“This fourth group,” Jake mused. “Are any of them Russians?”

“Russians, Germans, French, Egyptians, Japanese, Chinese, Hindu, you name it. America is the big boy in the world—many people have grievances, real and imagined.”

“Hate is a powerful emotion,” Jake muttered.

“One of America's many enemies is a Russian general named Petrov. He doesn't hate America, he loves money. A few weeks ago he sold four missile warheads for two million dollars.”

“To whom?”

“They call themselves the ‘Sword of Islam.' Petrov is in charge of a base near Rubtsovsk. The man who led the team that picked up the weapons was Frouq al-Zuair, a man who has been knocking around the Middle East, causing random mayhem for many years. He hacked some tourists to death in Egypt and evaded the roundup of extremists by escaping to Iraq. Who his friends are, where they are, I don't know. In fact, I am not supposed to know about Petrov or al-Zuair or the weapons.”

“But you do know?”

“A little, yes.”

“Is it true? Or fiction that you are supposed to pass along?”

“True, I think. Although one can never be absolutely sure. And honestly, the Center doesn't know I am telling this to you.”

“How'd you hear of it?” Grafton was shoulder to shoulder with Ilin.

“That I can't tell you. Suffice it to say that I believe the information is credible. I know of Petrov. He's capable of a stunt like that. I'm passing it to the American government to do with as they see fit. For what it's worth, most of our senior politicians don't know of this matter and would not admit it happened even if they did know. They can't afford a rupture with the United States.”

“Are you saying I can't use this information?”

“Your government shouldn't brace Moscow on it. They'll deny it. And don't let my government know where you heard it. I'm a dead man if it gets back to them.”

“I'll do the best I can.”

“So we get around to your question about how I knew you had been assigned to the antiterrorism task force. We have a mole in the CIA.”

“Jesus,” Jake muttered, shaking his head.

“His name is Richard Doyle. Don't let him see anything with my name on it.”

“What if we arrest him?”

“That's up to you. As long as he doesn't learn that I betrayed him.”

“We may use him to feed you disinformation. There's a spy term for that, though I have forgotten it.”

“Richard Doyle is a traitor,” Janos Ilin said softly. “He signed his death warrant when he agreed to spy for the communists fifteen years ago. He's been living on borrowed time ever since.”

“Fifteen years?” Jake was horrified.

Ilin took out his thin metal case, opened it and extracted another cigarette. He played with it in his fingers. His hands, Jake noted, were steady.

“Fifteen years … and now he gets the chop.”

“Unfortunately Mr. Doyle must be sacrificed for a larger cause.”

“Who made that decision?”

“I did,” Ilin said without inflection. “A man must take responsibility for the world in which he lives. If he doesn't, someone will do it for him. Someone like bin Laden, Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mao … murderous fanatics are always ready to purge us of our ills.” He shrugged. “I happen to believe that the planet is better off with civilization than without it. This tired old rock doesn't need six billion starving people marooned on it.”

“And you? Are you a traitor?”

“Label me any way you wish.” Ilin grinned savagely. “I don't want to read about four two-hundred kiloton nuclear explosions devastating the only superpower left in the world. Russia needs a few friends.”

“Where are the weapons now?”

“I don't know. They could be anywhere on the planet,” Ilin said and puffed slowly and lazily. Airplanes came and went overhead. The breeze was out of the west and carried the smell of the Hudson.

“What kind of information is the SVR getting from Doyle?”

“That's an interesting question,” Ilin said, brightening perceptibly. “I don't see all of the Doyle material, but one listens, makes guesses, surmises. Doyle is quite a source. Almost too good. I got the impression that his control and the Center have wondered at times if perhaps he was a double agent, yet his information has been good. From across a surprisingly large spectrum of the intelligence world.”

“He's getting intelligence from someone else inside our government?”

“He's remarkably well-informed.”

“Any guesses where some of this other stuff is coming from?”

“Somewhere in the FBI, I would imagine. Counterintelligence.”

“Want to give me a sample or two?”

“No.”

“The Sword of Islam,” Jake mused. “I've heard of them. Rumor has it they were involved with something called the Manhattan Project, but we assumed it was that.” He pointed toward the southern skyline.

“That would be a dangerous assumption,” Ilin said. “Four tactical nukes, warheads for long-range, stand-off anti-ship missiles. Ship-killers. Each packs roughly twenty times the yield of the weapons you used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Easily transported. If competent technicians get their hands on them, they could be used as portable bombs.”

“Handy.”

“Quite. I would imagine each would weigh about a hundred kilos. Probably the size of a small suitcase. As some wit pointed out years ago, the terrorists could disguise them as cocaine and bring them in through Miami airport.”

“Any other thoughts?”

“Don't assume that the target is America. Oh, certainly, America is the great Satan and all that, but the real target is western civilization.” He flipped away his cig. It took a curving path into the dark water. “This talk of justice I see in the press worries me,” he continued. “This war is beyond courts and lawyers, with their sophistry and legalisms. Your enemies will win a victory if you give them a courtroom forum. If you people don't understand that, you are lost.”

He smacked his hands together. “You Americans, you think the terrorists' strike on New York and Washington was futile, that random death cannot destroy America, cannot crack the foundations of liberal civilization. But it can. It has! People are frightened, in America and around the world. This web of airplanes and computers and telephones and banks that move capital freely—all of that is in danger from religious fanatics who wish to destroy this secular edifice that feeds and clothes and houses billions of people. They want to create chaos, prove the primacy of their cause. In the new dark ages that will follow, they will build their holy empire. Think of it; billions of ignorant, starving people bowing toward Mecca five times a day.”

“They haven't won yet and they won't win in the future,” Jake Grafton shot back. “If they succeed in bringing about a holy war—Islam on one side and civilization on the other—Islam will lose.”

“From your vantage point that would appear to be a safe prediction,” replied Janos Ilin. “These fanatics wish to shatter the primacy of the rich nations, foremost of which is America. They think that the struggle will radicalize the Islamic masses and destroy the secular Arabic governments that attempt to straddle the cultural divide. The goal is to re-create the glorious past, build a united Islamic nation intolerant of dissent, obedient to their vision of God's laws. The sword of Islam will be tempered in the blood and fire of holy war.
They will win because God is on their side.
They believe that, so it isn't bullshit! They don't care a damn who they kill or how they kill them. When infidels die, the world is a better place. On the other hand, if true believers die, they go straight to paradise.”

“Whirling dervishes,” Grafton muttered.

“Many Muslins thought that bin Laden was the Mahdi, the Islamic messiah. He certainly saw himself in that role. In any event, the Muslim world is under severe stress, so we're doing holy war again.”

“The war has begun.”

“The first battles have been fought,” Ilin agreed. “The terrorists have won some and lost some. People are terrorized. As they see it, the war has just begun.”

Ilin turned to face upriver, leaned back against the railing. “In all my years in intelligence, I have never seen a covert operation as large as the September Eleven attack. Quite remarkable.” Ilin sighed. “It was only possible because Americans are so trusting, so unsuspicious.”

“Not anymore,” Jake Grafton said sourly.

“Your countrymen have had an expensive education,” Ilin agreed. “One would suspect that future terror attacks will be low-tech, with only one or a few perpetrators. Poison in a municipal water system, adulterated food, something along those lines would maximize their chance of success and minimize the risk. And create terror. Yet, someone paid General Petrov a large sum of money for nuclear weapons.”

Ilin held out his hand. Jake shook.

“Good luck, my friend.”

“Thanks for coming, Ilin.”

Ilin nodded once, glanced again downriver, then walked away. Jake watched him walk the length of the pier and disappear up the sidewalk into the trees.

One of the closest fishermen reeled in his bait and disassembled his rod. When he had his gear stowed in carrying cases, he came over to where Jake stood, still looking downriver.

“What did he have to say, Admiral?”

The questioner was Commander Toad Tarkington, Grafton's executive assistant. He had been with Grafton for years. He was several inches shorter than the admiral, with regular, handsome features marked with laugh lines.

“He says that several weeks ago some Russian general sold four missile warheads to an outfit calling themselves the Sword of Islam.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, the story sounds plausible. He claims that the SVR doesn't know he is giving us this information, which he is donating to the cause of civilization out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Where are the weapons now?”

“He says he doesn't know.”

Toad pursed his lips and whistled softly. “Four warheads! As usual, we're right on top of events.”

“Makes you want to cry, doesn't it?”

ALSO BY STEPHEN COONTS

NOVELS

Liars & Thieves

Saucer: The Conquest

Liberty

Saucer

Hong Kong

Cuba

Fortunes of War

The Intruders

The Red Horseman

Under Siege

The Minotaur

Final Flight

Flight of the Intruder

The Traitor

WITH JIM DeFELICE

Deep Black: Jihad

Deep Black: Dark Zone

Deep Black: Biowar

Deep Black: Payback

Deep Black

NONFICTION

The Cannibal Queen

ANTHOLOGIES

On Glorious Wings

Victory

Combat

War in the Air

Praise for Stephen Coonts!

AMERICA

“The master of the technothriller spins a bone-chilling worst-case scenario involving international spies, military heroics, conniving politicians, devious agencies, a hijacked nuclear sub, lethal computer hackers, currency speculators, maniac moguls and greedy mercenaries that rivals Clancy for fiction-as-realism and Cussler for spirited action … [Coonts] never lets up with heart-racing jet/missile combat, suspenseful submarine maneuvers and doomsday scenarios that feel only too real, providing real food for thought in his dramatization of the missile-shield debate.”