Independence Day (39 page)
How long had he been there? Was it Malnikov?
The man had a backpack and long hair. He walked quickly, with a slouch, down the block, away from the safe house.
At the corner, the stranger looked back at Vernacular House. He stared at it for several moments, then turned and kept walking.
Instead of crossing the street, Dewey followed him. When Dewey reached the corner, he crossed the street, just as the man jerked around and looked back. Seeing Dewey, he started to run.
Limping, Dewey charged after the man.
A block in the distance, he watched as car lights went on.
Dewey pulled the gun from his pocket, just as, from somewhere behind him, he heard a horrible explosion. A moment later, he sensed the ground tremor beneath his feet, then felt a violent wall of air kick him from behind. He was thrown instantly forward by the savage blast of air, the red taillights of the escaping car his last sight as he shut his eyes and braced himself for the fall.
PRESNENSKY DISTRICT
MOSCOW
Malnikov was seated on a leather sofa in his office. It was hot inside the windowless room. He was in a tank top and jeans, and was barefoot. He could’ve turned on the air-conditioning, but he didn’t. Not for any reason. The truth is, he wasn’t thinking about how uncomfortable it was. He was thinking about the conversation with Hector Calibrisi.
In his hand, he held a glass of 1986 Henri Jayer Richebourg, a Burgundy from the C
ô
te de Nuits region of France that cost Malnikov €24,000.
Malnikov didn’t like being threatened. It was humiliating. What had started with the meeting with Cloud had only gotten worse. He knew Calibrisi was cutting him a wide berth, and yet there was no mistaking who controlled things. Langley did. He’d done something very wrong, but Calibrisi had laid down a sharp gauntlet.
Find Cloud or die.
“Fuck him,” he said, not for the first time, as he replayed his conversation with the CIA director.
Malnikov could take his chances. It would require a heightened level of security. If Cloud did succeed in detonating a nuclear bomb on U.S. soil, Malnikov would have a target on his head. Yet Calibrisi and everyone else in American government would be distracted for years to come.
His head ached. The internal struggle between love and loyalty to his father and absolute hatred at the feeling of being threatened tortured him.
He winced at the memory of Cloud’s words:
I knew your father would never be stupid enough to acquire a nuclear bomb, and you would.
It was true. His father wouldn’t have done it. But if he had, Malnikov’s father wouldn’t shy away from responsibility for his actions.
“You made your bed,” Malnikov said aloud. “Lie in it. Be a man.”
He felt a vibration in his pocket. Pulling out the cell, he read the caller ID:
::
CALIBRISI H.C.
:
:
“Hello, Hector.”
“I need you to go to our safe house and meet our guy.”
Calibrisi gave Malnikov the address of the safe house.
“Is this the guy all over the news?”
“Yes.”
Malnikov downed the rest of the wine, then stood up and walked to his desk. From on top of the desk, he took the gun, a Desert Eagle .50 AE, and tucked it into a concealed holster at the front of his pants. He pulled a leather coat from the back of the chair and pulled it on.
“What’s his name?”
“Dewey Andreas.”
GEORGES BANK
ATLANTIC OCEAN
80 MILES EAST OF PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA
Four hours later, a boat appeared on the southwestern horizon.
Faqir raised the mike to his mouth: “Is that you,
Dogfish
?” he asked. “Over.”
“Yeah. We see you. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Roger that,” said Faqir. “Thank you.”
“By the way, you guys see anything?”
A small burst of anxiety hit Faqir in the spine. What did he mean? Was there a warning out for them?
He hit the mike.
“Come again.”
“Any bluefin? We’re headed north.”
“No,” said Faqir.
“Where you guys sailing out of?”
Faqir took a map of the eastern seaboard. He’d already studied it, but now he realized he could inadvertently get himself in trouble. If the
Dogfish
was from whatever port town he said, he could be fucked.
Faqir felt his stomach tightening.
“Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” he said, naming a bigger city where, theoretically, one ship captain might not be aware of another.
“Nice place. We’re out of Halifax. See you in a few.”
Faqir hung up the mike, then leaned over and threw up in a trash can beneath the console.
He walked down the stairs that led belowdecks. He went to Poldark’s cabin. Poldark was unconscious, though still breathing. Faqir tried to wake him, reaching his hand out and gently shaking his shoulder, but there was no response. Faqir covered Poldark with a blanket, then moved down the hall. He opened a door to the bunkroom.
“Let’s go.”
The approaching boat was smaller, less than half the size of the
Lonely Fisherman,
a purse seiner with a forward wheelhouse. It was dark blue, with long stripes of white along the hull. It was a neat-looking boat, with fresh paint and well maintained.
Faqir stood in the wheelhouse, looking out the window at the approaching boat. His eyes moved to his own deck, and he saw two of the Chechens. They were seated in between piles of ropes, slumped over, hidden by the side of the hull. Each man clutched a submachine gun. They sat in silence, still, watching for Faqir’s signal.
The
Dogfish
chugged slowly aft of the ship, then puttered abreast, coming up along the
Lonely Fisherman
’s port side. As it moved across the final few feet of water separating the two vessels, Faqir made eye contact with MacDonald, captain of the
Dogfish,
who stood at the helm. He was balding, with gray hair along the fringes of his scalp and a tan face. Two other men stood behind the wheelhouse on the deck of the boat, both dressed in yellow all-weather fishing gear, creased in stains and wear. One of the men from the
Dogfish
tossed a rope line onto the deck of the
Lonely Fisherman,
just as Faqir nodded to the two gunmen.
Faqir stepped through the door of the wheelhouse onto the deck of the ship, waving at the men on the smaller boat.
“Hello,” he yelled.
Faqir stepped to the rope line and picked it up.
Suddenly, both of the Chechens stood up, turned to the
Dogfish,
and opened fire.
The unmuted rat-a-tat-tat of submachine gun fire erupted above the sound of ocean and boat engines.
Slugs ripped through both men at the same time; a streak of bullets cut red across one man’s chest, spraying blood down his chest and torso as he was kicked backward. The other man was struck in the head; the slugs tore the top of his skull off as he dropped to the deck.
The
Dogfish
made an abrupt lurch as MacDonald jammed the throttle forward, then ducked.
Both Chechens opened fire. But the captain was shielded.
Faqir sprinted toward the bow of the
Lonely Fisherman.
He leapt to the rail, then jumped out into the air. He landed on the back transom of the
Dogfish,
clutching the transom as his feet touched water, now churning in the wake of the boat’s engines.
Faqir pulled himself aboard. He sprinted across the deck toward MacDonald. MacDonald turned, saw him, and reached for a knife. As Faqir entered the open-back wheelhouse, MacDonald thrust the blade at him. Faqir ducked, then kicked out MacDonald’s legs. MacDonald fell to the ground, screaming. Faqir stepped on the back of his neck and grabbed his forehead with both hands and yanked back, snapping his neck.
He stepped to the bridge and turned the boat around, bringing it back to the
Lonely Fisherman.
He steered the
Dogfish
alongside it, then stopped and moved to the deck.
“Tie us off,” he barked to the gunmen. “Give me a gun.”
Faqir searched the
Dogfish
for other men but found none. He went back to the bridge of the
Dogfish
and ripped the VHF radio from the wall. He returned to the bigger ship and climbed aboard.
“Are they packed up?”
“Yes, Faqir.”
“Get rid of the dead men, then come below.”
Over the next hour, the six Chechens, along with Faqir, carried both bombs slowly up the stairs and placed them aboard the
Dogfish.
Faqir tore the VHF radio from the
Lonely Fisherman
and handed it to one of the Chechens.
“Put it aboard the boat.”
Faqir went belowdecks to Poldark’s room. He lifted the blanket to carry the old man up the stairs, but Poldark was dead. Faqir sat down for a moment and closed his eyes.
“A prayer for you, Professor,” Faqir whispered. “May you find your peace and may the heavens thank you for your bravery.”
In the engine room, he grabbed a gas container. He took it up to the deck, then poured it on the deck.
In the wheelhouse, he picked up the mike from the
Dogfish
VHF radio. He moved the dial to channel 17, the international channel for distress calls.
“
Mayday, Mayday,
” he shouted. “This is the
Dogfish. Mayday.
We have a fire in our engine room. We are taking on water and need immediate assistance. I repeat,
Mayday.
”
“
Dogfish,
” came a faint voice.
Faqir stepped from the bridge and threw the
Dogfish
’s radio into the sea. He lit a lighter and touched the flame to the deck. Fire shot out along the wood, quickly spreading out. By the time he climbed aboard the
Dogfish,
the entire deck of the
Lonely Fisherman
was aflame, with clouds of black smoke rising into the sky above.
“Cast off!” he barked.
He stepped to the bridge and pushed the throttle forward, aiming for the East Coast.
“Find the paint,” he yelled. “Get rid of anything with the name on it. Hurry up.”
NATIONAL ARCHIVES
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The helicopter swooped low through the nation’s capital, coursing along the National Mall and then banking left and hovering for a moment before descending toward the roof of the National Archives building.
Calibrisi looked at Katie and Tacoma. He handed Katie a thick green card the size of a business card.
“His name is Stoddard Reynolds,” said Calibrisi. “Give him this. You’ll need it to get in the room.”
“What is it?”
“That card gets you entrance into certain places during times of national crisis,” said Calibrisi.
“Is that the one for getting on the doomsday plane?” asked Tacoma.
“Don’t lose it. I’ll be at the White House. Call me if you find anything.”
Katie opened the chopper door and climbed out, followed by Tacoma. The blue Sikorsky shot up into the sky as Katie and Tacoma walked toward a man standing at roof’s edge.
“You must be Reynolds,” said Katie loudly, above the sound of the helicopter.
“Follow me.”
They rode an elevator to the basement of the building, then followed Reynolds down a long corridor. A stairway went two stories lower. After another long corridor, they came to a large steel door.
“Swipe the card,” said Reynolds.
Katie held the card over a digital scanner. A second later, they heard the steel locks clicking. A green light appeared above the door.
Reynolds reached for the latch and pushed it open, then pointed.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Are you coming?”
“No, I don’t have access. I’ll be waiting right here when you’re done. You need to lock it from the inside.”
As they entered the vault, fluorescent lights went on. Tacoma shut the door, then locked it.
The room was massive, at least a hundred feet long and equally wide. For the most part, it was empty, like a library that has been shut down and cleaned out. Only in the center of the room was there anything to see. There, steel filing cabinets ran in a straight line. There were thirty in all.
Katie and Tacoma approached the cabinets. Each five-foot-tall cabinet held four drawers. The cabinets weren’t labeled.
Tacoma came to the first cabinet and pulled out a drawer, then reached inside and removed a thick black manila folder. On the cover of the folder, words were typed:
OPERATION TRIANGLE 14
Tacoma opened the folder and started reading.
“Motherfucker,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
Tacoma kept reading, but didn’t answer. After a minute, he shut the folder, then put it back in the cabinet and slammed it shut.
“What was it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said quietly.
“Rob—”
“It was Cairo,” said Tacoma. “A year ago. Remember Bill Jarvis?”
“Yeah, sure. He was station chief for a while, before he got killed in a car accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” said Tacoma. “We did it. These are the termination files.”
“Meaning what?”
“When we have to take down an agent. These are the end-of-action reports.”
Katie nodded, then started walking down the line of cabinets. She found a cabinet that interested her and pulled out the top drawer.
“These are completely unorganized,” said Katie. “We could be here awhile.”
She looked back at Tacoma, who was still standing at the first cabinet.
“Don’t be so na
ï
ve,” she said.
“Don’t you want to know what happened? Like to Rodney? Haven’t you ever wondered?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Katie. “Shit happens. Look at where we are. What did you think these were? Now start looking.”
SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
The Situation Room was crowded with the president’s top military, homeland defense, and national security team, including Vice President Donato, the seven members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff: the chairman and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Army chief of staff, the commandant of the Marine Corps, the chief of naval operations, the Air Force chief of staff, and the chief of the National Guard Bureau. Also present were key cabinet members and Agency heads: Calibrisi; Defense Secretary Harry Black; National Security Advisor Josh Brubaker; Tim Lindsay, the secretary of state; George Kratovil, director of the FBI; Arden Mason, secretary of homeland security; Piper Redgrave, director of the National Security Agency; Martha Blakely, the secretary of energy, and John Wrigley, the secretary of commerce.