The Threat

But no one did. Roald left other messages, left her number on pagers. Still no response. By 4 A.M. Dan was getting nervous. Where was the CIA? The FBI? He couldn’t believe no one else had picked up these clues. Or maybe they weren’t clues, and he was seeing mirages.

He was sitting with eyes closed, worrying, when Ed Lynch shook his shoulder. “I’m awake,” he snapped.

“I called the UPS hub office in Los Angeles. Told them I was the warehouse manager at International Blessings, and wanted to check on our shipment.”

“That’s underhanded and brilliant, Major. What did they say?”

“Three containers. That’s a big shipment, apparently.” He read off the back of a phone message form. “They’re marked for Sudan. Flight 3913. I got the shipment number.”

Once more Dan thought of the empty containers air transportation security had noticed being shuttled around. He was starting to see what that must have been about. Getting familiar with the air carrier’s procedures, schedules, maybe even doing a dry run. Smoothing out any snags, so the final operation would go smooth as silk.

“Routing?”

“Ontario, California — that’s near L.A. — to Washington, D.C., via the UPS national hub in Louisville, Kentucky. Container transfer at Washington International for the overseas flight to Sudan.”

“Great work, Ed.” He slapped the major’s shoulder and walked the info back to Roald, realizing on the way that Washington International Airport, more commonly known as Dulles, was only about thirty miles from the White House.

A man with slicked-black hair had his head bent together with the captain’s. When Dan tapped a knuckle on glass Brent Gelzinis looked up, annoyed even before he saw who it was knocking. Uh-oh, Dan thought. Roald beckoned him in.

“What are you trying to do now, Lenson?” the assistant national security adviser snapped.

This wasn’t going to be easy, trying to deal with the man he’d called a weasel only yesterday. He laid the printout in front of him, trying for professionalism. “Trying to abort a terrorist strike, sir. Flight 3913 from Los Angeles to the Sudan, via Washington International. Taking off at 0130 local time, that’s 0430 Washington time. This morning. Carrying three containers from International Blessings, an Islamic charity based in Pomona, California. That’s a suburb of Los Angeles. The containers will transfer at Dulles. If we’re right, you’ll find enough radiocesium in them to contaminate most of the District of Colombia.”

Gelzinis didn’t look impressed. “‘If we’re right’—what does that mean? Who reported this? CIA? FBI?”

Dan didn’t answer. Neither did Marty Harlowe, whose presence Dan sensed behind him by her scent. Roald cleared her throat. “Commander Lenson’s people have put together some indicators. Pretty strong ones, I think.”

“Confirmed?”

“We’re checking them out. But we don’t have confirmation yet.”

“What about the intelligence agencies? Did you bother asking them?”

Roald said quietly that she’d tried, but couldn’t reach anyone. Gelzinis snorted, made a pushing-away motion. “Which means they have no indicators. Or they’d have someone at the airport.”

“Not necessarily. They may have no idea—”

“I’m surprised you called me, Jennifer. Not that I mind coming in, but … obviously our counterdrug people, Lenson here, they’ve picked up some rumor. He’s to be … complimented for bringing it to your attention. But if you’ve done your best to check it out with the proper agencies, left messages for action in the morning, as far as I can see, our responsibility ends there. And you have the morning summary to prepare.”

Dan saw Roald stiffen. Gelzinis waited. Then added, when neither responded, “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” Roald said.

* * *

But Dan didn’t leave when the assistant did. He couldn’t. The others stayed too. They didn’t say much. Just watched him until he went back to Roald and asked if there was any other way they could get that aircraft looked at before it took off. Get someone to check it out. Confirm what he suspected, or prove him wrong.

“Brent made it clear he’s not going to wake Mrs. C.”

“Right. But damn it, he’s assuming the CIA knows everything. You and I both know, Jennifer, there have been times that wasn’t true. Not to mention that we can’t get them to actually do anything in the middle of the night.”

“Well, there’s the DOMS route,” Roald said.

“What’s that?”

“Director of Military Support. Another way to get Defense to react if NMCC won’t.”

She explained that the secretary of the army was the executive agent for military support to civil authorities. “We use DOMS a lot when U.S.-Mexico border issues crop up. Which I guess this might fall under, in some sense … But we can’t just tell active-duty forces to go do this, go do that, inside the U.S. That’s just not our bailiwick.”

“How does that work? And how long does it take?”

“Well, that really should go through channels too. I convince Mrs. Clayton. She calls the secretary of defense, Weatherfield. And he—”

“And that’s faster … how?”