Liberation Day (9 page)

“Do this new job for me, and I guarantee you’ll get a Nick Stone passport. All you’ll need to do is swear your oath of allegiance and that’s it, you’re one of the seven hundred thousand new Americans this year.” He switched on the kind of expression you normally only see in stained-glass windows. “You’re one of us now, Nick. All the people you love live here. Think about Kelly. What world do you want her to grow up in? The kind of place where you freak out every time she flies here to see you? Who knows? It’ll take a while, but Carrie will understand. Think about it, Nick, just think.”

I’d done my thinking. I’d heard all I needed to hear.

I stood up, handing him the empty mug. “No. I’ve done my part. We had a deal and my only job now is to make things right with Carrie.”

8

I
ran out into the street. I didn’t need to be Oprah Winfrey or Dr. Phil to work out where she had gone—I mean, where do you go when the man you’ve poured your heart out to turns around and kicks you?

I found the Plymouth and walked down into Little Harbor. She was sitting on the beach, staring out at the houses on the other side of the bay. My footsteps crunched on ice as I approached.

“Carrie, I’m so sorry…”

She turned very slowly to face me. “How could you?” Her voice was weary, defeated, empty even of the bitterness I expected and, I guessed, deserved. “How do you think this makes me feel? I trusted you.”

“I’m not turning into your dad. It was just that once. One job. It’s over now.”

“Of all people…He caused Aaron’s death, remember? The same man who was going to blow up an American cruise ship just so the White House would have the excuse to march back into Panama. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

I hated it when she looked at me like that. It was as though she could see right through me, and it wasn’t a view I’d ever much enjoyed.

“I’m so sad, Nick. I’m feeling bereaved all over again. I feel so goddamn stupid; I thought we had something good happening here.”

I sat down beside her. “Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, but what could I have said to make it sound all right?”

“The truth, that’s all I needed and always need from you. The truth I can handle, the truth I can work with, but this…” She turned away, tears running down her face.

I thought about Zeralda’s head, and gave mine a shake. “Carrie, you remember how it was in Panama. You know how these jobs work. There are some truths you really don’t want to know…”

“This has been the story of my life, Nick. I just can’t risk it all happening again. I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t think I can take it anymore. That man is responsible for so much pain in my life. He sacrificed me and my mom by dedicating himself to his double-dealing world. But even so, I allowed myself to be sucked in, and because of it my husband was killed. I kid myself I blame George for Aaron’s death, but do you know what? Really, I blame myself. I let my own father exploit me, the way he exploits everyone.

“In Panama, he knew I was desperate to get a passport for Luz so we could get back to the States. But I’ve never gotten anything from him for free. Even as a little girl, I always had to earn it first.”

I watched her as her eyes concentrated on the water but her mind was elsewhere. “Aaron was right all along. He told me that once it started and George knew we were desperate for the passport, it would never stop because George wouldn’t let it. And you know what? He was right, because here we are again. How can I let myself be with you until I know you’ve no longer got even a toe in that world?

“I’ve made the mistake of depending on you. Depending on you being there when I wake up in the morning. And, worse still, Luz has started to get used to you being around, too. I’m not going to run the risk of having to tell her that another person she loved, that she relied upon, is lying in some ditch with a bullet in the back of his head….”

I reached out to touch her but she stiffened and moved away.

“You could have applied for citizenship. You could have gone back to school, had a home, you could have had me. Doesn’t any of that mean anything?”

I didn’t answer her immediately. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more. It’s the full fairy tale, for me.” I didn’t know how she did it, but I always found myself saying things to her that I thought I’d kept well buried. “Perhaps the real truth is that I can’t quite believe there’s a place for me in your perfect world. Remember what I said to you in the jungle? My world may look like a pile of shit—”

“—but at least you sometimes get to sit on top of it…”

I looked at her, hoping for even a hint of a smile, but I hadn’t come close.

“That’s not the issue here.” Her voice was still sad and tired. “You lied to me, Nick, that’s the long and the short of it. Nothing’s changed. You betrayed what I thought we had. Oh, God, when I think what I said to you today, I feel so ridiculous.”

My heart was pounding as I stood behind her, trying to think what I could say. “We just need time, Carrie. We just need time…”

She shook her head. The tears were running off her face now and onto her down jacket, staining the nylon a darker green. “You’d better go. Both of us have got to do some thinking. I don’t think I can just now. When you’re ready to come back to me on my terms, Nick, give me a call.

“Until then, if it has to be you who does my father’s dirty work for him, Nick, it has to be you. I’ll never forget what you did for us in Panama. I’ll always admire the man you are, and I’ll always love the man you might have allowed yourself to be. But don’t expect Luz and me to come and put flowers on your grave….”

9

N
avigation lights flashing in the gloom, an American Airways jet thundered down the runway and took off, quickly disappearing into dense low cloud. I turned back from the window and looked at George. His finger was jabbing a copy of the
The Boston Globe
so I could see the front-page pictures of dead Taliban scattered across Afghanistan.

“A wounded animal is the most dangerous of all, Nick. There will be another strike; it’s just a matter of where and when.” He gave me a look of such intensity that I began to realize I was going to be going sooner rather than later. “We’ve received grade-A int in the last few days that they’re putting something together for Christmas. But we have no idea of the target—and that’s where you come in.”

We’d come straight to the Hilton at Logan Airport, and it had already been getting dark when we arrived. He had booked the room well in advance. The asshole had known precisely how Carrie would react when she heard the truth, and had still been in the kitchen, waiting for me, when I got back to the house. He didn’t exactly have to twist my arm to get me working for him again. I’d already made up my mind on the walk back to Gregory Street—or, rather, it had been made up for me. The fact was, I had nowhere else to go. What was I going to do? Check into a motel down the road and try to patch things up with her over the next few months, between serving beers at the yacht club? Go back to the U.K.? There was nothing for me there except trouble; George would make sure of that. No, if I wanted to stay in the U.S. to see Kelly and perhaps really get a life, I had to play by his rules. My immediate objective had to be to earn a real passport, and when the job was over, just see which way the wind was blowing. Well, that was where my half hour of thinking had taken me, and it had seemed to make some kind of sense at the time.

“You have to ask yourself, Nick, which is scarier, the noise or the silence? Even before nine-eleven, we knew that there were al-Qaeda active service units—ASUs—out there, and they haven’t gone away.” He was sitting at the desk to the left of the TV and minibar; the chair had been turned to face the bed, where I was lying against the headboard.

“You got anything on them?”

“I wish…” He jabbed at the newspaper again. “The word is they’ll all have mad eyes and beards—not so. This side of the Atlantic they’re just ordinary, respectable people. Computer technicians, accountants, realtors; sometimes even born and raised here.” He looked around the room. “Even hotel receptionists, some of them married with two-point-four children, a minivan, and a mortgage.

“They don’t have to hide themselves in ethnic ghettos, Nick. They live in our neighborhoods, shop in our malls, wear Gap, hey, even drink Coke.” He took a can from the minibar and lifted the pull tab. “These folks are well-spoken, intelligent pillars of the community. They come here as kids, lie low, blend in, bide their time—classic sleepers. But they don’t even have to be foreigners. Guys are converting to Islam by the hundreds in our own prisons and, believe me, they’re not turning into Allah’s answer to Billy Graham….”

He sat back, the can resting on his knee. “We don’t know who, or how many, are in the ASUs. All we know is these sons of bitches are ready and waiting to press the button on December twenty-fourth.”

He pulled some papers from his alloy briefcase, along with a fistful of airline tickets for Nick Scott.

“These are copies of stuff found by Special Forces in Afghanistan, transcripts from tactical interrogations of prisoners, and more in-depth material from al-Qaeda, rendered in Pakistan.” He sat back in the chair while I scanned the first few pages. “It confirms three things. One, al-Qaeda has the know-how to build radiological bombs. Two, they’ve gotten their hands on substantial quantities of radioactive material in the U.S. And three, they plan to use it December twenty-fourth. Dirty bombs—you know what I’m saying, don’t you?”

I knew what he was saying. These things had radioactive material packed around conventional explosives. When detonated, the immediate explosion would cause just as much damage as a conventional weapon, but it would also blast radiation into the surrounding atmosphere. An area the size of Manhattan—or bigger, if the wind blew—would have to be cordoned off while they sandblasted buildings, replaced pavement, bulldozed contaminated earth—and for years after, the lines of cancer victims would grow outside every hospital. Dirty bombs are a perfect terrorist weapon; they don’t just blow you up, they rip out the nation’s heart.

George was reading my thoughts. “We’re talking Chernobyl, Nick. Chernobyl, in our own backyard…” He paused, holding up his hands, fighting back the words. “And if that happens, they’ve won. No matter what happens after. Just imagine what will happen if a truck with maybe four thousand pounds of HE—homemade explosive—and radioactive waste drives at ninety miles an hour into the White House fence, right onto the lawn, maybe into the house itself. Now, imagine another heading into Rockefeller Plaza, when you can’t move for Christmas shoppers, and another, say, on Wall Street. Or maybe not trucks, maybe twenty people on foot, in malls across Boston, carrying two, three, four pounds of contaminated HE in a shopping bag or strapped under their winter coats. Imagine them detonating all at the same time. Imagine that, Nick. I do, and haven’t slept for weeks.”

He squeezed the empty can of Coke like he was throttling the life out of it, and this time it wasn’t part of the act. “According to these documents, their guys have been stealing and storing isotopes for two years, the stuff used in hospitals and industry. We’re talking a big enough stockpile to make either a lot of small devices or maybe five or six Oklahomas—we could be talking about both truck and pedestrian attacks.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “We have one straw to grasp at. These guys are on a suicide mission. But,” he raised his right index finger, “
but
—they’re not going to do a damned thing until they know family business is taken care of.”

“You mean, the ASUs won’t commit until they get confirmation that Dad has a new Land Cruiser with all the extras?”

“Exactly. They may be crazy, but they’re not stupid. So, here’s my thinking. The setup funds for these attacks have been coming into the U.S. for nearly three years, and they’d have had everything in place before hitting the World Trade Center because they’d know the shutters would come down straight afterward.

“We know from the Zeralda connection that al-Qaeda channeled the cash to their ASUs in the U.S. via three
hawalladas
based in the South of France. These guys would also get the compensation money to the ASUs’ families, via their counterparts in Algeria.” He smiled for the first time since we’d entered the room. “But that isn’t going to happen now, since you did your John the Baptist trick with Zeralda. All
hawallada
activity has come to a halt in Algeria, and other al-Q money-movers have followed suit.

“So, the way it looks is that these French
hawalladas
have a mass of cash—around three million U.S.—which they still have to get to the families. If not, no attack.

“We know from our source in France that an al-Qaeda team is on its way there—they’re going to physically package up the money and take it back to Algeria.” He paused, to make sure I got the message. “Your job, Nick, is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

In George’s language, we had to “render” them. In mine, once we had identified the three
hawalladas
with the help of information from the source, whom I’d be contacting once I got into France, we were to lift them, drug them, and leave them at a DOP (drop off point). From there, they’d be picked up and taken aboard an American warship that would be anchored near Nice on a goodwill visit. Once on board, a team of interrogators would get to work on them right away, to find out who their U.S. counterparts were. There’d be no time to bring them back to the States, it had to be done in-theater. They wouldn’t enjoy coming around in the belly of that warship; the inquisitors would be doing their stuff to protect their own flesh and blood back home, not some far-off bit of desert or jungle. It makes quite a difference. Once the
hawalladas
had been sucked dry, maybe they’d have their heads chopped off, too. I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t much care.

“The FBI and CIA are doing everything they can to locate these ASUs,” George said. “But as far as I’m concerned, these
hawalladas
are the quickest route to fingering the guys sitting at home in New Jersey or wherever with a truckload of cesium wrapped around some homemade explosive.”