Spy (32 page)

H
awke was up and moving early next morning. The rising sun sent brilliant red rays streaking across the wave tops and the day dawned, cool and clear. Beyond the walled perimeter of the old Naval Station, Key West was still sleeping it off.

The only audible sound on
Blackhawke
’s topmost deck was the cry of screeching white gulls and black scimitar shearwaters, diving and swooping off the ship’s great stern. That, and the martial tune of the Union Jack on its massive mahogany staff, snapping smartly in a fresh morning breeze.

Hawke found Ambrose Congreve already tucked in to his customary pair of three-minute eggs. Seated all alone on the curved stern banquette, the famous detective was wearing a wide-brimmed Panama and a three-piece suit of pale yellow linen. He was scribbling furiously in the code book.

“Good morning, Alex,” Ambrose Congreve said. His voice was near to bursting with hearty cheer. “Sleep well, old pot?”

“Like a babe in arms,” Hawke replied with a wry smile.

He had finally given up all hope of sleep and risen at five. After a few more necessary phone calls and packing enough gear and tropical kit for two weeks south of the Equator, he’d subsequently gone for a very long swim outside the harbor. He’d pushed himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond just to see if he could do it. He could, and he felt invigorated by the effort. He was more than ready to shove off.

Stiletto
was moored along the breakwater, just aft of
Blackhawke,
and arc lights had been blazing on the dock all night long. She was still taking on provisions for a two-week voyage to the tropics. The crew was also loading additional ammunition for the new weaponry Hawke had added at a yard in the south of England. And racing to finish topping off her tanks. After briefing them, Hawke had ordered everyone assembled on her foredeck to be ready to shove off in two hours.

“Have some breakfast,” Congreve said, offering a plate of salted fish. “Kippers?”

“I’m trying to quit Kippers. Hated the bloody things all my life.”

Hawke pulled up a chair and the steward took his order of fruit, coffee, eggs, and toast with Dundee’s orange marmalade.

Ambrose said, “The oddest thing. I saw Pippa hurrying down the gangway at dawn this morning. Had her luggage in tow and there was a taxi waiting on the dock. She looked…unhappy.”

“I booked her an early flight. She was leaving today anyway.”

“Well, you’re in a mood.”

“I am indeed.”

“I won’t ask.”

“Looks like you’re making progress with the Da Zimmermann code, Constable,” Hawke asked, eying the opened book beside Congreve’s plate. The pages were now much marked up with Congreve’s pencil scrawling and tabbed with tiny yellow stickers from front to back.

“I will tell you one thing. There is going to be an attack of some kind. And it’s been in the works for quite a long time.”

“Where Washington? New York?”

“America, to be sure. But nothing more specific as to date or location yet.”

“Too soon to bring Conch into this?”

“Hmm. What can I tell her at this point, really? It’s odd, but I keep stumbling across the phrase,
his hand on the bible.
Whenever does one put one’s hand on the bible?”

“When you swear to something?”

“Hmm. Anyway, halfway through the novel, the coded message comes to an abrupt halt. Absolute gibberish again after page 230. We’ve hit a wall, I’m afraid.”

“You’re joking. It just stops working?”

“Yes. I’ll keep at it. By the way, Conch was looking for you last night. She rang my cabin. Apparently all hell is breaking loose.”

“Yes. She reached me.”

“And?”

“Ambrose, I’m terribly sorry to do things this way. I know you loathe surprises. But, I’ve canceled your flight for London later this morning.”

“Really?” Congreve said, touching his linen napkin to his lips, “I must say the idea of a few more days in the tropics is not without appeal.”

“I’ve booked you another. In fact, I believe that’s your flight landing now.”

“That thing?”

A few hundred yards away, a large baby blue seaplane was on the downwind leg, about to touch down on a glassy stretch of sea beyond the breakwater. She had her nose up and her floats were just about to splash.

“Yes, that thing,” Hawke said. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it? An old Grumman Goose. A G-21. Built just after the war, but newly rebuilt, I assure you. The current owner replaced her old radial engines with new turbocharged ones according to Stokely. Stokely Jones is aboard that plane, by the way. I invited him to breakfast.”

“Well, I should be delighted to see him again. But, Alex, you can’t expect me to actually fly in a contraption like that? Where the bloody hell are you sending me?”

“Ambrose, our only hope is to crack that bloody code book. I think it’s the only way to figure out what these bastards have planned. So I need you to get down to Manaus and find the ambassador’s widow. Today. You’ll be met on the other end by an American named Harry Brock. CIA, and a good one. A NOC, as it happens.”

“Not On Consular. Nonofficial.”

“Yes. If he buys it, there’s no receipt. He’s making all the arrangements at that end. You two have one mission. Find Zimmermann’s widow, wherever she is. Take your book. Get to the bottom of that bloody code as quickly as possible. I don’t exaggerate when I say deciphering that thing as rapidly as possible may prove to be vital. For all of us.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Alex.”

“Look at you, Ambrose,” Stokely said, suddenly appearing on the top step of the starboard staircase, “Got the whole Sydney Greenstreet vibe going on.”

“Ah, Stokely!” Ambrose said, rising from the table to embrace the huge man. “Marvelous to see you,” he said, pounding his broad back.

“Stoke,” Hawke said, hugging him as well, “Have some breakfast.”

“Is that crate airworthy?” Congreve asked, nervously watching the ungainly Blue Goose taxi across the water toward the fuel pier.

“Man, I hope.”

“Ambrose, you and Stokely simply must find that widow alive. She’s the only one who can possibly help us now.”

“I agree. I don’t hold out much hope for cracking the balance of the book without her.”

“
Stiletto
should arrive in Manaus approximately forty-eight hours from now. God willing, and a calm sea, she’ll be safely berthed at the Jungle Palace hotel at 0700 hours day after tomorrow.”

“And
Blackhawke?
”

“She stays here.”

“I’ll see you in Manaus, then, Alex,” Congreve said, rising from the table. “Godspeed.”

Stoke said, “We take off for Shit Creek at eight, Constable. Don’t forget your paddle. And, don’t be late.”

“
Late
does not appear in my vocabulary.”

The resplendent criminalist doffed his tan Panama hat and disappeared down the after staircase.

“So, tell me, boss, how the hell are we supposed to find this bad boy in all that jungle?” Stoke said.

“I’m working on that.”

Stoke smiled.

“Bring your laptop, boss. We get lost, we’ll just go to Google and punch in ‘Amazon.com.’ ”

M
uhammad Top, wearing a custom leopard-skin burka and one of his trademark bowler hats, was seated at the controls of a war machine headed east along M Street. He was nearing the target. The softly flashing blue and yellow lights above the Ogre’s control and fire monitors bathed his twisted features with an unpleasant sheen. The massive tank was designed to be autonomous on the battlefield.

But what a thrill it was to be at the controls of such a monster.

The Day was coming. The Hour approached. The Minute. Not quite yet, but soon, very, very soon. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he spun a cursor, using all the electronic marvels at his disposal to maneuver the great mechanical brute through the snowy streets of Washington, DC.

In his headset, he could hear the squealing protests of the massive caterpillar tracks as he rounded a tight corner into a broad avenue. He had tamed the beast. He could make it go anywhere he wanted. Over the onboard Bose audio system, in his stereophonic headphones, he was enjoying one of his many guilty Western pleasures. The Stones.

His left hand hovered over a small toggle switch just now illuminated on a panel just below the monitor. The Ogre’s Fire Control System was armed and in READY mode.

In a few moments, he would strike the first blow. He would see the flash and hear the thunderous roar of his anti-personnel cannons. Only then, when those who opposed were all dead and posed no further threat, when he had a clearer picture of his target, would he launch his missiles. They would streak away toward their target, creating glowing orange holes where once proud monuments to a former civilization had stood.

The Day was less than seventy-two hours in the future.

He was in drive-by-wire mode, guiding a giant hulking monster, nicknamed the Ogre, through the middle of the New Year’s first massive snowstorm. It weighed slightly in excess of one hundred tons. Despite its heavy composite armor, it was capable of speeds up to sixty miles per hour and could climb steps at angles of thirty degrees.

Ogre would accept commands from either human or non-biological intelligence. There was also a manual override system that allowed the Ogre to act autonomously. In that mode the tanks were fully functional on their own, receiving real time data input and making fluid battlefield decisions as conditions warranted. It was this specific function that had so electrified Khan in the early days of the planning.

Top, however, had always envisioned a more personal approach to destruction. He didn’t want to be seated deep inside a concrete bunker in the fucking jungle when the glorious Hour came. He wanted to be there in the front row when the devil finally got his due. He hadn’t told Khan about his feelings. Khan believed in the perfection of machines. He believed the fewer humans involved in making war, the less chance for plans to go awry. He was right, of course, if you didn’t count the victims.

The digital information now being fed to the Ogre’s CPU was precisely replicating the official NOAA weather forecast for the following week in the Mid-Atlantic States.

A massive low-pressure system was moving across the Midwest directly toward the nation’s capitol. The onboard dynamic weather analysis presented the tank “Sensor Command” with an up to the second picture of the developing storm system and alerted the driver to every nuance of temperature, wind speed, barometric pressure, and, most importantly, road and off-road conditions.

The snow was nearly blinding. Only the radar and GPS functions now depicting real time obstacles on his satnav screen kept him on course. Five minutes earlier, he’d almost found himself careening past the Jefferson Memorial and plunging into the icy Potomac. But a loudly bleeping alarm sensor had alerted him to his course deviation and saved him at the last instant.

The icy Washington roads, barely visible and unfamiliar, presented the human sensor operator with a bewildering challenge. Still, with the well-practiced Top at the controls, the enormous treads had been successfully grinding up the miles since his insertion inside the District of Columbia’s theater of operations.

Top had been manning the controls for nearly an hour. With the exception of that one minor mishap, he had successfully navigated a crossing of the Key Bridge. He had then entered the maze of confusing side streets of Georgetown. He was now rounding Washington Circle and preparing to move the beast left onto Pennsylvania. So far, he’d been un-opposed by forces of any significance. Two DC police cruisers had chased him for a few blocks, but he’d dispatched them with only his .23-millimeter machine guns.

He heard a disconcerting alarm sounding. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blinking dot of orange light moving across the computer-generated map of Washington, DC. It was coming this way. At a disturbingly high rate of speed. The words
Manned Armed Vehicle
flashed at the bottom of the screen.
Jara,
he whispered, shit. A tank.

Top spun his turret toward the location of the glowing dot five kilometers away. He had his electronic jam screen up. He didn’t think the thing could get close. He wondered why EMP hadn’t knocked the vehicle’s guidance systems out. Perhaps it was operating visually. In any event, he had plenty of low-yield missiles yet to expend and he was unafraid. He felt, not without reason, invulnerable.

He spun his fire control cursor, moving a bright red dot across the screen with well-practiced ease. When the red dot and the orange dot merged, he stabbed at a yellow button on his panel.

Both blinking lights disappeared, praise be to Allah!

Then he turned his gaze to the icy road dead ahead. He was nearing one of his primary targets. He could feel the shudder of nervous excitement building inside. It was a feeling very much akin to lust.

Top’s right hand, the one gripping the joystick, trembled slightly as he twisted the throttle, shoved the stick forward, and accelerated. It was cramped inside, and though there was artificially cooled air, his face shone with a thin coating of sweat.

He successfully navigated the sweeping left hand turn at forty miles and hour and slowed the machine as he pulled up abreast of the White House. With darting jabs at his controls, he armed the main fire control systems and reached out for the small joystick that operated the giant tank’s turret. A second later, he had the North Portico of the White House squarely in his primary gun sight.

A great lantern hung suspended by chains from the porte-cochere that sheltered the North Portico. The lantern glowed a soft yellow through the sleeting snow. He’d seen countless photographs of this famous scene in his life, harried diplomats coming and going through this storied portal, trying to save the world from people just like him.

A burst from his forward machine guns obliterated the lantern. He moved his hand over the primary weapons control panel. He would fire his first missile right through the Great Satan’s door!

“T
HAT’S ENOUGH,”
he heard Dr. Khan say in his headset. “Come on out. Playtime is over. We’re due at the river for the demonstration.”

“I did well?” Top asked his superior, exiting the Ogre Tank Simulator. It was even colder in the underground bunker than it had been inside the simulator. And he didn’t have the Stones to keep him company, heat his blood.

“Yes. You did well. Almost perfect, in fact.”

“Only machines are capable of perfection, Leader,” he responded, knowing the words Khan wanted to hear.

“It’s a pity you won’t be driving one of these brutes north, Muhammad.”

“Yes. I come by these skills naturally, Dr. Khan,” Top said, accepting his fleece-lined bomber jacket from one of the technicians. “My father commanded the 192nd Armored Division in the Valley of Tears. Golan Heights. 1973.”

“I knew your father well. He was a fierce warrior. But he lost. A mere 150 Israeli tanks stopped 1,400 invading Syrian tanks in the bottleneck. It was a disaster. I vowed that day never to see a repeat of your father’s humiliation.”

Abu Khan knew whereof he spoke.

In 1973, in the Yom Kippur War, Dr. Abu Musab al-Khan had commanded all the mechanized armor divisions deployed on the Golan Heights. It was a mere two-hour tank ride south to Israeli territory. The Golan Heights protected Israel’s north. Any attack from Syria had to be topographically channeled through one of only two passes in which armored vehicles could cross.

The surprised and vastly outnumbered Israeli troops held off the invaders for a vital 48 hours. In that time, they were able to mobilize and deploy the necessary forces required to beat back and ultimately defeat the Syrians.

Khan had long since redeemed himself. He had been responsible for the Syrian build-up of highly advanced weaponry in response to the Yom Kippur disaster. Now, in order to implement Hafez al-Assad’s vision of a “Greater Syria,” Khan’s generals possessed 4,000 manned tanks on the Golan crestline.

The troops had doubled in size and were equipped with Scud-C missiles, twice as powerful and four times more accurate than the Iraqi Scuds that rained down upon Israel during the Gulf War. When war came, his plan was to unleash vast numbers of the new Scuds against Haifa and Tel Aviv, sowing widespread civilian panic and seriously disrupting Israel’s emergency reserve mobilization.

But Khan had far grander ideas. At a secret meeting in Damascus, he had seen Top’s Latin American battle plan in its infancy. It immediately dawned on him that here was a chance to build, test, and field his dream. A remote-controlled air force. And a mechanized army incapable of human foibles and battlefield stupidity because it would be autonomous once launched.

“You’ve created an invincible army, Leader.”

“Yes, God willing. Because there is no chance of human error. Keep that in mind when you play your little war games, Muhammad, my brother. The Day approaches. It is out of your hands now.
Inshallah.
”

Top looked Kahn squarely in the eyes. In truth, he had come to believe in the vision. The wizard from Damascus believed that infallible machines should strike the first blows in this jihad. Death would roam the streets of Washington, unseen and unexpected. The Cause would be better served if Abu Khan and Muhammad Top were here in the bunker on the Great Day. Let infallible machines do the work of destroying the enemy’s military and political infrastructure.

Then send the armies north to wreak havoc on the civililan population.

“Yes, Leader. It is out of my hands.”

“I believe the
Bedouin
is ready for inspection?”

“She is. Let us go at once.”

Bedouin
was a small, unmanned submarine that would ultimately carry a single but very lethal piece of cargo. The sub could be operated from remote locations up to 7,000 miles away. Inside
Bedouin
was a 150-kiloton nuclear weapon. The warhead was shielded to provide protection from the electronic pulse of any simultaneous nearby nuclear explosions. In two hours, the Volkswagen-sized sub was due to be airlifted to Manaus for further shipment to Mexico. From there,
Bedouin
would be transported by tractor-trailer truck to a pre-determined location in America.

The location was a small farm just outside of Lee’s Ferry, a tiny town located on the Potomac River in Virginia. It was called Morning Glory Farm. Apple orchards. The farm was owned by an extremely wealthy individual from Rio de Janeiro. He in turn was owned by a large multinational company headquartered in Dubai.

The man, a German, had been a traitor.

But the traitor was dead now.

His name had been Zimmermann.