Aim and Fire (13 page)

“I never assume anything—it’s simply an easier way to get in touch with me, and, should you decide to accept, then I don’t have to drop it off. If you decide not to take the job, DHS will send it back to us.”

“I wouldn’t count on getting it back in a timely fashion.”

Tracy grimaced as she thought about the long delays in getting even the simplest tasks finished.

“We’d be able to keep track of it regardless. I think we’re here,” the FBI agent said.

Tracy looked up to see not the train station she had expected, but a single-story redbrick elementary school that looked very familiar. “This is—”

“North Chevy Chase Elementary, if the directions were right. I think the program has just begun, so you shouldn’t have missed much,” Stephanie said.

Tracy looked from the school to the blond woman and back again. “But—how did you know?”

“You know that old cliché that says the U.S. government is supposed to know everything? Well, in certain very small areas, that happens to be true.” She leaned back in the leather seat. “Your boss said you had to miss a school recital to meet with me. He seemed very pleased by the idea, so I thought the least we could do was get you here on time, or as close as possible. Finding your fiancé’s name was easy, and the rest came from the school’s Web site.” A faraway look crossed her face for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I know all about making sacrifices for the job, Tracy, and even with the importance of what we’ve just discussed here, you shouldn’t have to make this one.” She smiled and patted the seat beside her. “Leave the folder here—we’ll messenger it 116

back to your department. Go on, and please don’t let this influence your final decision in any way.”

“Thank you very much.” Tracy got out of the SUV and reached back in to shake Stephanie’s hand. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve made my decision.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Tracy hurried into the building, eager to surprise Paul and Jennifer, but also dazed to be pondering the momentous decision before her, and wondering how she would explain it to both of them.

Sepehr al-Kharzi sat on a wooden stool in the spotless bathroom at Spaceworks and inhaled a deep breath of the white-tiled room’s fresh scent. He was barefoot, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows. One of the twin sinks was filled with warm water, the other was empty.

“Bismillah,”
he said softly, bowing his head briefly before beginning
wudu,
the ritual Muslim ablution, which started by washing his hands in the water three times.

Cupping a handful of water, he filled his mouth, rinsed it thoroughly, then spat it into the other sink and repeated the process twice more. Next he gently sniffed water up each nostril to clean them, repeating that process three times, as well. He washed his face from ear to ear and from his hairline to his throat, cleansed his arms up to the elbows, then ran his wet hands over his hair from his forehead to the back of his head. Placing his index fingers into his ears, he washed the inside and outside of them three times, as well. Finally, he completed his task by washing his feet to the ankles.

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Driving across the country, al-Kharzi had barely had time to perform the washing ritual. But now, for the first time in several days, he felt clean.

Joseph Allen was waiting for him in the office.

“Better, I trust?”

He nodded. “How is it going?”

“We’re running tests on the device now. The most wor-risome issue was the condition of the case—we found a small crack along a bottom seam, which may have released a minuscule amount of radioactive material. We’ve sealed it, and so far there seems to be no further trouble with it.”

He raised a hand to interrupt. “Is there any danger that the leaked material will be discovered?”

Joseph considered that, then shook his head. “The estimated amount was so small that it would be almost impossible to filter out from background radiation that is encountered every day. The Americans would need the latest technology to isolate it. The other matter was a power drain on one of the battery connections, which is being examined now, and will be replaced if necessary. Everything else is in order—including the plutonium. The last steps will be to install the altitude detonator, place Allah’s Fist into the rocket, and then it will be ready to go.”

“Allah’s Fist—I like that. Good, very good. Were there any problems getting it into the country?” al-Kharzi asked.

Joseph looked slightly pained at the question. “The team did have to go to their contingency plan when the vehicle was stopped shortly after crossing the border. Despite re-assurances from our transporters, the Border Patrol found them. They eliminated all witnesses, then took the vehicle and completed the transfer. I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything about it on the news—there has been coverage on the major networks for the past twenty-four hours.”

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Al-Kharzi shook his head. “I haven’t had much access to television lately. Is there a concern about discovery?”

“No, current reports indicate that they believe it was a fight among drug smugglers, and even if they did figure out what might have happened, it will be too late.”

Smiling, al-Kharzi clapped his fellow terrorist on the shoulder. “Good, good. All the same, I would feel better if you strengthened the guard rotation. I trust the cameras are all in place and working?”

“They are tested every week, and I will order the perimeter patrols increased to around the clock until our launch.”

“Thank you, my friend. I do have one other request at the moment—the rocket that you’re using to deliver our device—may I have a closer look at it?”

“I thought you would never ask. Come.” Joseph led him through the main building to the entrance, nodding at the man behind the desk. They walked outside and across the grounds to where the sleek, gray, three-story rocket rose into the air like a steel finger pointing toward the heavens. Four slender fins protruded from the lower half, and al-Kharzi bent down to see a complicated-looking flared nozzle underneath. It was mounted on a joint that allowed the controllers on the ground to direct the thrust, steering the rocket, in effect. He shook his head in admiration—while he was a master of armed insurgency, terrorism and fourth-generation warfare, he would be the first to confess that he did not have the slightest idea how this vehicle worked beyond a very basic explanation.

However, he could certainly tell anyone what it could be used for—sowing terror across half a continent.

Joseph had put on a pair of sunglasses, and stood with his arms folded across his chest, like a father watching a favored child. “Built with the most generous assistance of 120

the United States government. We were scheduled to try for the X-Prize last year with a manned model, but unfortunately, our rocket developed an oxidizer-flow problem, which necessitated our dropping out of the contest.” The grin on his face belied the truth of his words.

“How does it work?”

“We use nitrous oxide as the oxidizer, which is forced into the combustion chamber, where it is ignited to burn the fuel—in this case synthetic rubber—that lines the chamber. Once that reaction happens, the hot gases produced are channeled out of that nozzle at the bottom to provide thrust. However, it is our guidance system that is the company’s pride and joy—we even hold two patents on the refinement of the system. With a range of twenty-five hundred miles, just about any target east of the Mississippi is within reach.”

“And you know that I want as many of them blanketed as possible.” Al-Kharzi frowned. “Aren’t you concerned about being discovered?”

“My friend, you are too used to working under the fear of constant scrutiny. Here, we labor in plain sight every single day, and until twenty-four hours ago, there was absolutely nothing to hide anywhere on this property. I pay the taxes for our land and assets every year, and my employees do the same. They contribute to the company’s 401K plan, and we even give to local charities. My people are using the degrees they received from universities here to create the next generation of technology. We are the model of every American company chasing after its piece of the so-called dream.” His genial smile turned grim, like a predator’s. “The only difference is that we have a much different interpretation of how that dream will play out.

Once the payload is inserted, and our holy vessel takes to Aim and Fire

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the skies over this nation, our own dream, one that you and I have been working toward for the past fifteen years, will be realized, and this nation will know our might and tremble like it never has before.”

The main door of the complex opened, and an engineer dressed in a white lab coat walked out to them. “Dr. Allen, all modifications to the payload are complete, and it is operating within normal parameters. We are ready to begin the loading with your permission.”

“Go ahead.” Allen turned back. “Would you care to begin the countdown to put our operation truly into motion?”

Taking one last look at his instrument of destruction—

hidden in plain sight in the very nation he was about to attack—al-Kharzi smiled. “I would like that very much.”

The school play was an amazing production of
The Fairie
Queene
by Edmund Spenser. The gifted and talented class had been delightful, and Paul had been extremely pleased when Tracy had slipped into the seat next to him as the curtain rose. Regardless, Tracy had been distracted by her conversation with Agent Cassell and the decision that lay before her. Her desire to accept the job was overwhelming—a success could only help her career—but every time she looked at Jennifer’s face as she pirouetted and ruled over the rest of the cast as Gloriana, the title character, her heart almost broke at the thought of leaving her, even if only for a few days.

She clapped at the right places, and gave Jennifer a big hug when she came down off the stage after taking her bows before the enthusiastic audience, but let Paul take the lead in the after-play celebration. She did not hesitate to lavish praise on Jennifer’s performance, which had been very good, but all the while a part of her wished the day would come to an end so she could discuss the offer with her fiancé.

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With an exhausted Jennifer tucked into bed, she and Paul could finally relax in front of the plasma television.

Her head rested on his shoulder as they listened to the light rain on the living-room windows. Now that the moment had arrived, she was unsure as to how to bring it up. Better just to come right out with it, she thought.

“Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“The reason I was late was because I had a visitor today.

From the FBI.”

“Oh, what did the feebs want?”

“You’re incorrigible.” She took the remote and hit the mute button. “They offered me a coordinated assignment out of town.”

He looked directly at her. “Where?”

“I can’t go into specific details, but it would be on the U.S.-Mexico border.”

“What? Why did they ask you—never mind, you probably can’t tell me.”

“Afraid so. I would be gone for at least a week, maybe two.”

He sat up. “And you said?”

“That I would think about it and let them know tonight.”

“That isn’t a lot of time.”

“It’s important that I give them an answer right away. I would be leaving as early as tomorrow morning.”

“I take it you’re seriously considering going?”

“I wouldn’t be talking about it with you if I wasn’t. This could give my career a boost, and, let’s face it, I need it right now.”

Paul turned off the television, darkening the room a bit.

“Or it could get you shot or killed, as well. I mean, have 124

you been keeping up on events down there? There’s been reports of the Mexican army providing escort for drug smugglers, special-forces soldiers going over to work for the bad guys. It’s dangerous down there, I mean really dangerous. You can’t tell me exactly where?”

“Sorry. But this isn’t any different than when you’re packed up and sent off to Bahrain or Somalia or somewhere equally dangerous. And don’t even think of trying to play the gender card on me,” she said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, but keep in mind that when I go to these places, I have bodyguards accompanying me for safety. I hope to God that they’re providing you with a contact down there.”

“The briefing agent said I’d be working with the Border Patrol agent who first brought this to our attention.”

“One guy? That’s reassuring. Will you be carrying?

When’s the last time you qualified on the range?”

“Possibly, and I requalified last month. I shoot monthly, as you well know.”

He rose from the leather couch and paced the room, running a hand through his already-tousled blond hair. “I don’t know, Tracy. We were going to take that trip to the coast next weekend. Now we’ll have to postpone it.”

“Paul, tell me you’re not using Jennifer as a reason I should turn this down.”

“No, but our schedules are crazy enough that it was hell just getting that time off together. And as for Jennifer, I’m not using her. I’m telling you that she is a reason. Look, Marilyn was a workaholic—twelve-hour days, extended business trips—she only took two weeks off to have Jennifer, then she was running around the world again. When I found out my newborn daughter was being nursed by a nanny, I dropped everything, came home and took care of Aim and Fire

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her for the next three years. Fortunately, the firm I was with was very understanding.”

Paul ran a hand across his face. “Once I realized that Marilyn had agreed to have a child primarily because she thought it was what I wanted, and that she really had no maternal attachment to Jennifer, that’s when we started talking seriously about splitting up. And, well, you know the rest. I swore that I would never put my daughter through that again. I know government work comes with a price—I’ve worked plenty of late nights, too, but I always made time for my daughter, as well, even though it almost killed me sometimes. Now I—we—have finally got Jennifer to where she’s accepting you not just as my girlfriend, but as a mother—” He paused at Tracy’s surprised look, then continued. “Yes, she’s called you that more than once. Anyway, out of nowhere comes this trip—