02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel (19 page)

Atta Zimler watched the ceiling fan in the little gem shop. He was killing time while waiting for Donkor, the diamond dealer. Donkor was in the back room examining three of the diamonds that Zimler had brought with him. Zimler noticed that the fan was wobbling slightly off-balance.

Donkor reappeared through the faded curtain and swept around to the other side of the counter. He laid a soft cloth on the counter with the three diamonds.

“Do you want to know how to fix that ceiling fan?” Zimler asked, pointing up.

Donkor rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Just get a clothespin. Do you have one? I will show you.”

“Atta, you know something? You’re always trying to remind people how smart you are … I mean … smarter than they are.” The words came out too fast. The gem dealer swallowed.

Atta leaned forward, a little too close, and Donkor took a step back.

“Was that meant to be funny? I’m sure you meant it as a joke.”

Donkor struggled to flash a quick smile, but his lips, suddenly dry, stuck together. “Of course. You know me. Always joking.”

Zimler said, “I want to talk business, Donkor. What will you pay me for all these diamonds?”

Donkor swallowed again. He shrugged. “One million … Egyptian pounds.”

“I said I wanted to talk business. No more of your stupid jokes.”

“Atta, I’m sorry, but that is all that I can pay for these …”

The offer was only a third of what Zimler was expecting, but cash was drying up. Things had become complicated. He could make a clean exit from Dubai with the diamonds, with no trail behind. But the pretty girl at the bank window at the Desert Palm Bank gave him an idea. He had wrangled a dinner date with her. Then another, this time on his rented yacht. Zimler had figured she knew the bank codes so he could get to the bearer bonds he knew would be stored there. But she didn’t have the codes. And even under torture, he couldn’t get what he was after. So he ended up killing her and dumping the body.

It turned out that the Dubai police were quicker to investigate a missing bank teller than he had anticipated. Once more he was on the run. Now he was forced to return to this jewel fence he had worked with for years. A small-time dealer but sufficiently black market and extremely well-connected in the Middle East.

Donkor stood there, shifting on his feet. He erratically reached out to sweep some dust off one of the shelves behind him. Then he brushed his hands and cleared his throat.

“I don’t think you understand the market for these diamonds,” Zimler said in a casual tone.

“Oh, no, but I do,” Donkor replied. “Diamond market is very different now. All of this blood-diamond fuss. Dealers can’t afford to just buy and sell. Now there is a big problem because of conflict gems. People want to know where you got them.”

“You’re not the only dealer …”

“Any dealer will tell you the same. Really, Atta, I’m telling you the truth. And in Zimbabwe, Côte d’Ivoire, places like that, it’s even worse.”

Zimler smiled playfully and took a step back, thrusting his hands in his pockets. He was fishing. “Okay, so you tell me why I ought to take your lowball price, you scoundrel.”

Donkor grinned and loosened up. “Because I’m telling you the
truth, my friend. Look, I’m willing to buy the diamonds. You need the money. Let’s call it a deal …”

That was what Zimler was waiting for. He leaned forward on the counter and picked up one of the diamonds. He then set it apart from the others. “How about this one …”

Donkor leaned toward the counter to inspect it. That is when Zimler struck. His right hand flashed out toward Donkor’s throat and gripped it. The gem dealer gagged and struggled to breathe as Zimler’s powerful fingers closed slowly like an industrial press.

Just when Donkor thought he would pass out, Zimler eased up, but only slightly, keeping his fingers locked around his throat.

“Why do you say I ‘need’ the money?”

The diamond dealer was coughing and gagging. When he could finally speak, he simply said, “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I don’t believe you …”

“I know … you … can kill me … very strong … but please don’t …”

“Why did you say that? Tell me, and I won’t kill you …”

“Just something I heard — ”

“What?”

“You had some kind of problem … in Dubai — ”

“What else?”

“I don’t remember …”

He squeezed a little tighter. “What else?”

“Just the Caesar Demas thing.”

“What about it?”

“He didn’t pay you for some job in the States.”

“What else?”

“That’s all.”

He was now satisfied that Donkor knew enough to be valuable. He released his grip. “I’m removing my hand now. Don’t you move. Just stand there.”

Donkor did as he was told, rubbing his neck and panting for air. Then he said meekly, “Atta, I want to do business with you. But not like this. Let’s deal with each other, please, like businessmen.”

“Is this your final offer?”

Donkor rotated his head a little back and forth and massaged his neck. He was thinking. Then he said, “In cash, yes. I can pay with Egyptian pounds, or euros, or the new international CReDO. Anything you want.”

Zimler countered. “How about other than cash?”

“What do you mean?”

Zimler was feeling pressed. The Dubai thing hadn’t worked according to plan, and he still had several law-enforcement agencies looking for him as a result of the Grand Central Station fiasco. Things were closing in on him. Cash was good to have, but information might be just as good. Maybe better. “You are a man with information, Donkor. How about your cash offer, plus some information I can use. But it better be good.”

Donkor shrugged and gave it a few moments of thought. Then his face lit up. “Well, I just might have some information.”

“Tell me.” Zimler was expecting to get something about the local cops being alerted to his presence in Cairo or Interpol agents nosing around. But what he heard was something different altogether.

“Well,” Donkor said, “that American guy is not far from here right now. He’s up in Israel, supposedly. Don’t know why. Just that he is meeting with the Israelis.”

Zimler looked into Donkor’s eyes. He stared him down. “What American guy?”

“You know,” Donkor said cautiously, “the guy you were chasing down on the Demas job. The American …”

“Joshua Jordan?”

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Zimler’s mind lit up like a kaleidoscope. A whole spectrum of possibilities lay before him.

“Donkor, do you think you can get some more information on Jordan? Where he is right now?”

Donkor nodded. “I think so, maybe. Yes. So, do we have a deal? For the diamonds?”

Atta Zimler smiled and held out his hand to shake. “Of course. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

At Hawk’s Nest, Abigail Jordan was sitting with Victoria, Pack McHenry’s wife, on the big wraparound porch. The perfectly quaffed platinum blonde in her late fifties said she was flying through Denver on the way to Los Angeles. She had an urgent message that she needed to deliver to Abigail in person, something from her husband Pack that had surfaced just after their recent visit together in Washington.

Abigail had brought out some tea, but neither was drinking it yet.

Abigail and Victoria had hit it off fabulously in D.C. when they had brunch together. Though Victoria never said it out loud, Abigail had assumed that she had experience in the clandestine services herself, just like her husband. It was implied in the way she talked — her knowledge of national security issues and the “agency” lingo she used so proficiently. Just a hunch. But Abigail was sure she was right.

Victoria asked, “You’re running things in the Roundtable for the time being?”

“Until Josh gets back.”

“Pack speaks very highly of you, and of Josh too.”

“Funny. Josh thinks the same about you and Pack. It’s too bad our talks are always so crisis driven. So little time for real conversation. That’s why I enjoyed our lunch together.”

When Victoria spoke next, there was regret in her voice, “Well, Abby I’m afraid we need to get down to brass tacks.”

“I understand. So, speaking of crises, you said you had a message?”

Victoria’s expression changed. It was all business. “Here it is. Pack
says the most recent intel — and I am talking within the last twelve hours — is that we now know the targets and the general staging areas.”

Abigail felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach. “For the attacks?”

“Yes. Pack has filtered this information down the line to the right people in the federal agencies, but he wants to scream bloody murder because no one is listening, or if they are, then their hands are tied.” Victoria paused before she delivered her caveat. “This information is arguably classified. I emphasize
arguably.
Do you want to hear it? You know the repercussions.”

“I know the consequences if we do nothing. Josh and I don’t believe in sitting on the sidelines. So tell me what you can.”

“The targets are New York and Washington, D.C. The staging areas are lower New York State, or possibly New Jersey, and Virginia, respectively. The nuclear devices are small enough to be transported by a medium-sized truck, much smaller than a semi. And we’re just a matter of days away. Pack is over in Paris right now, coordinating this information. He’s getting this from one of the Russian republics. So that’s what I know. What can your people do?”

“John Gallagher, a former special agent for the FBI, is out on his own right now trying to turn up leads. We couldn’t get a consensus from the Roundtable for any specific funding.”

“Did Pack’s budget summary come through?”

“It did, and I sent it immediately to each member of the group. Josh and I are willing to put up some money. Beverly Rose Cortez has personally pledged a boatload. But everybody’s jittery. The Department of Justice is looking into our operations … you know what that means.”

Victoria gave a look that let Abigail know they were on the same track. Victoria pushed her teacup away. “Before I go, I’ll give you the account information and routing numbers to wire the money. Pack has lined up men, equipment, as much as he can, you know, to try to interdict these mass murderers, just in case the Feds really do stand down on this. But this whole operation is off ledger. So it has to be privately funded.” Then Victoria added, “And one more piece of data. According to Pack, the Russians said that the staging site for the Washington
attack was — and this is a direct quote from surveillance — ‘a blast from the past,’ whatever that means.”

Abigail leaned back in her chair. She took a deep breath. This was no time for hand-wringing. Action needed to be taken. She said, “I’m going to contact John Gallagher immediately and give him this information. This is frightening, like a bad dream … We’ve got to stop this horror from happening, but everybody, everything is moving in slow motion.”

“Do you have any family in D.C. or New York? You may want to get them out right now.”

“No, thank goodness. We have a penthouse. No one’s there. But … oh no, our housekeeper’s still in New York. I’ll need to find a reason to get her out of town. Cal is here with me and has a few more days before classes start up. And Deborah should be back at West Point by now …” Abigail knew she was missing something in her thinking about her daughter, but she kept talking. “How close is West Point to D.C.? Dear Lord, it’s only about forty miles. I have to get her out immediately.”

“We have a condo in Manhattan too. I’m out of town now until we find out what’s happening. And Pack of course is over in France …”

Abigail looked off to the mountains and drifted away for a second. Then she said, “You and Pack must spend a lot of time apart.”

“Part of the deal, I guess. It gets a little easier with time. But it’s never really easy. You try to manage, try not to become strangers; you work at loving each other, to keep it together. And the pressure, of course, of what he does …”

There was a catch in Victoria’s voice. Abigail heard it. She reached over and squeezed her hand and then found herself getting teary eyed. “I do wish Josh was here. All this is overwhelming.”

Victoria glanced at her watch. “Abby, dear, I have to go. Don’t want to but I must.”

Abigail nodded and got up with her.

“So,” Victoria said, “with Josh overseas you’re holding down the fort here?”

“I guess so. But I feel like the hostiles are closing in, surrounding the fort.”

“That doesn’t sound like the person I’ve heard so much about … the woman with an invincible faith in God.”

“God’s the invincible one. I wish my faith was unshakable. When I feel weak, vulnerable, that’s when I just drop down before the Lord and claim His grace. I figure if He loves me enough to send His Son to
save
me then He’s more than able to direct me.”

“I was raised a churchgoer, but Pack and I … that hasn’t been part of our life. Some of his Patriot group, they’re like you, really into the born-again Jesus thing. Makes me think …”

Victoria paused, as if she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Instead she gave Abigail a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then headed to her rental car.

Abigail ran inside to call Deborah, then stopped in her tracks. In the stress of the moment, she had completely forgotten that Deb wasn’t at West Point. A momentary rush of relief washed over her as she remembered that Josh had taken her to Israel with him.

But just as quickly she had another thought. Was her daughter any safer in Israel?

Gallagher was like a hunting dog listening for the whistle. He was straining to hear Abigail’s voice on the phone over the sound of traffic. “’Blast from the past’? Somebody in the Russian camp used that phrase?”

“Yes,” Abigail said. “Victoria was very precise about it. Maybe it means nothing, but I thought you ought to know.”

Gallagher was still in Richmond. He had tried a few of his local FBI contacts, fishing for information, but came up dry. He’d been standing in line at an espresso shop, with coffee and baked goods in hand, when Abigail’s call came. So he had to set the cup and bear claw down on a table and headed outside.

To Gallagher, the assignments were clear. “Okay, I’m in Virginia now Abby. I need to know that Pack McHenry’s folks can handle New York while I work the Washington angle from here.”

“I’ll call Victoria. I don’t think she’s boarded yet.”

“Oh, and for what it’s worth, ask Cal if he’s got any brilliant information for me.”

“Cal?”

“Yeah. Hope it’s okay, but I threw him a little research bone. He wanted something to do. So I had him look up some stuff for me.”

“John, I think Josh wanted to keep him out of this …”

Gallagher smelled a family feud. “Sorry, Abby, hope I didn’t interfere.”

“No, it’s okay.” Abigail sounded upbeat. “Bless you, John, for wanting to include him. I’ll talk to Cal.”

After they hung up, Gallagher called Ken Leary, who was back at his office. He was put on hold. Finally Ken picked up.

“Ken, I need everything you’ve got on the plans of the old Soviet guard and their plans for nuking the United States.”

“Gee, thanks. You got a warehouse or two? I’ll need ‘em so I can fill them with everything we’ve got on that. Really, John …”

“I don’t want the entire history of the Cold War. We’re talking the suitcase-nuke scenario.”

“I’m not an expert on Soviet stuff. But I’ll see what I can do.”

Just then Gallagher’s call-wait light flashed on his Allfone. He put Ken on hold and took the call.

“John, this is Cal.”

“Right. Hey, I’ve got a call going here. Can this wait?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got something interesting — ”

“Interesting is not what I need. We’re up against it here, Cal.”

“Well, you wanted research on Soviet plans for portable nukes inside the U.S. Well, this thing popped up …”

“Quickly …”

“Well, a former KGB agent wrote a book years ago about Soviet plans to hide nukes in Virginia — ”

“Whoa, hold up, cowboy; I’m going to loop someone in.” Gallagher clicked back to Ken Leary and said he’d patch him into a three-way but reminded Ken that this would be a young civilian doing the talking.

“Okay, Cal, keep going.”

“Well, the former KGB guy’s name is Stanislav Lunev. He defected to the U.S. in ‘92. His book was published by Regnery in ‘98. He says the Kremlin had plans to plant nuclear weapons within driving distance of the Capitol, in a remote area of Virginia.”

“Like where?”

“Shenandoah Valley.”

“Okay. Good work, Cal. You passed the test. Thanks. Now I got to go. Good talking with you. Bye.”

After clicking off with Cal, Gallagher went into his jackhammer routine with Leary. “Ken, get everything on this Lunev. See about the backstory. Get the debriefings.”

“I vaguely remember this guy.”

“Me too. Some of my compatriots at the Bureau thought he might be a master exaggerator, but this Shenandoah Valley stuff is news to me. Maybe this is the ‘blast from the past’ that the Russians are talking about.”

Ken Leary’s voice went up an octave. “I think the debriefing interviews would be in the archives at the Counterproliferation Center at the Agency. I’ll need information about the places where the Russians scouted out nuclear hiding spots.”

“Exactly. Now, go, go, go.” Gallagher clicked off and fished in his pocket for a prescription bottle. He popped a pill in his mouth. He’d finally given in to the doctor’s orders to deal with his acid reflux. His chest was burning like a bucket of molten steel.