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  “Keep digging into it,” Whitcomb said to Cohn, making a note of his own. “If they’ve had an accident we’ll have Secretary Jameson offer our assistance in cleaning it up. Give us a chance to be helpful and get a closer look at the Raipur facility while we’re at it. Any other comments on Larry’s report? No? General Vaughn; you have the floor.”

  There wasn’t, as it turned out, much new on the Military Intelligence front either. Logan, when it was DHS’s turn, had a few new wrinkles on cyber-attack tactics that McPherson hadn’t heard, and he took nearly two pages of notes with an eye toward how they might affect the Bureau. It was his turn next, with not much more to add than Vaughn had.

  “It looks like civilization is at least holding its own for the moment,” Whitcomb said when McPherson was finished. “Questions about Frank’s report?”

  “I’m still not happy about these merger talks between the Klan and those neo-Nazi groups,” Duvall said, tapping the end of her pen against her list of notes. “What makes you so sure they aren’t going to get together?”

  “The size of the egos involved,” McPherson told her. “They recognize that holding these talks buys them some free publicity—”

  “All of it bad, of course,” Logan murmured.

  “There’s no such thing as bad publicity for people like that,” McPherson pointed out. “Seriously, Cynthia, I wouldn’t worry about it. They all have their little duck ponds, and none of them is going to give up any real power to the others. It’s all for show.”

  Duvall didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and laid down her pen, a probably unconscious signal that she had no further questions. Whitcomb glanced inquiringly around the table, and then leaned back in his chair. “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s hear this week’s Goose List.”

  As always, McPherson threw a surreptitious look at the far end of the table. As always, Vaughn’s lip gave just the faintest twitch of disapproval. At sixty-three years old, the general had grown up in a time and subculture where the term “to goose” carried a very definite and decidedly undignified physical context. Whitcomb, fourteen years his junior and from a different part of the country, either wasn’t aware of the other meaning or simply didn’t care. For him, the name “Goose List” referred merely to those people and nations he’d honked off that week.

  Three months after its introduction, Vaughn was still not happy with the term. But then, McPherson had always considered Vaughn too stiff for his own good. The man had been born forty years old and probably already in uniform.

  “I mentioned earlier the Indian and Pakistani statements,” Duvall said, shuffling one of her papers to the top of the stack. Unlike Vaughn, she’d taken to the Goose List concept like a duck to bread crumbs. “Apparently, Iran’s also decided to be mad at you on their behalf. The Iranian foreign minister delivered a speech a couple hours after the Pakistani statement in full support of their non-interference demand.”

  “Not surprising, given their aspirations,” Whitcomb said. “Anyone else?”

  “Mexico’s rather peeved about your comments at last Friday’s press conference,” Logan said. “The one where you denounced their continued ineffectiveness on the cross-border drug issue. One of their people, I forget which one, blasted you on one of the talking-head shows Sunday.”

  “They should be happy Operation Calling Birds wasn’t directed at them,” Vaughn rumbled. “We could just as easily have hit Mexican sites instead of Colombian ones.”

  “I’m sure that thought has occurred to them,” Whitcomb said. “As a matter of fact, if the DEA’s final report gives the raid high enough marks I may consider making Calling Birds an annual event. With a different target each time, of course.

  “Our Christmas Eve present to the world’s drug lords,” Vaughn said.

  Whitcomb nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I’d suggest we not make any sweeping plans in that direction quite yet, sir,” Duvall cautioned. “The Colombian government is still nearly as mad at us as the drug lords are—General Lopez had some scathing things to say about you yesterday. A few more of these unilateral raids and you risk wiping out years of bridge building with our southern neighbors.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Whitcomb said. “Most of Lopez’s anger is for public consumption. Besides, I don’t mind taking heat if a problem gets fixed in the process. Anyone else?”

  “Speaking of crime lords, Russia’s mad at Thursday’s statement that further investment would be tied to a crackdown on their organized crime networks,” Cohn said. “North Korea says you’re a puppet of South Korean financial interests, the Chinese are concerned about our debt structure, and Argentina’s blasting you on both Calling Birds and your Mexican statements.”

  “You can forget the Argentinean stuff,” Whitcomb said, waving it away. “It’s a new government, and they’re trying to show how independent they are of Big Brother to the north. Anything new with the various terrorist groups?”

  “Oddly enough, they’ve all been pretty quiet,” Cohn said. “The bombings in Iraq and Israel are about all they’ve got to show for the week.”

  “There hasn’t been any increase in chatter, either,” Duvall added. “Either everyone’s on vacation or they’re all in think-tank mode trying to come up with what to try next.”

  “Well, stay on it,” Whitcomb said grimly. “They may be waiting for the UN conference in hopes of grabbing extra publicity.” He turned to McPherson. “Frank, you’re being rather quiet. Am I so loved and adored by all our nation’s citizens? Or are my enemies’ press-release writers sunning in Rio with all the terrorists?”

  “Enough of them are still at their desks,” McPherson assured him. “Particularly those on Reverend Kirkwood Lane’s staff. I take it you didn’t catch the Call for National Salvation rally Sunday afternoon?”

  Whitcomb shook his head. “I was on the phone all day with the Middle East,” he said. “You can add everyone embroiled in this Third Temple controversy to the Goose List, by the way, Cynthia,” he added, tapping her note pad.

  “They don’t appreciate your mediation efforts, sir?” Cohn asked.

  “The Israeli government used to,” Whitcomb said wryly. “I don’t think they do anymore. Of course, Rabbi Salomon never did.”

  “In my judgment, sir, it’s a waste of your effort,” Vaughn said. “The Middle East is one of those permanent no-win situations for U.S. Presidents.”

  “Perhaps,” Whitcomb said, his voice taking on a dark edge. “But it’s also the powder-keg most likely to kick off World War III. Anything I can do to help blow out matches is worth the effort.”

  “I understand the inherent dangers of the situation, sir,” Vaughn said, a little too stiffly. “I’m merely suggesting that the people involved will have to find their own solutions.”

  “I agree,” Whitcomb said. “But one of the biggest stumbling blocks is the question of security guarantees, and at the moment we’re the only kid on the block who can make promises like that with any hope of making them stick.”

  He looked back at McPherson. “So what’s Reverend Lane’s problem with me this week?”

  “The usual,” McPherson said. “You’re a traitor to the Founding Fathers, a blot on the American landscape, and your UN policies are starting us on the road to a one-world government and Armageddon.”

  Whitcomb snorted gently. “If we don’t give the UN some real teeth to go with all the peacekeeping roles we’ve saddled them with, he’s likely to see more local Armageddons than he can stomach.” He threw a look across the table at Vaughn. “Very likely starting with the Middle East. A UN security guarantee would be a lot easier for most of the parties over there to swallow than one issued from Washington.”

  “Maybe your whistle-stop tour will finally get that point across to the people,” Duvall said.

  “I hope so,” Whitcomb said ruefully. “So far, nothing else has. Any words of support for Reverend Lane from the other right-wing groups?”

  “Not so far,
” McPherson said. “You can bet they’re privately cheering him on, though.”

  “Well, keep an eye on him,” Whitcomb said. “He may be completely sincere in his concerns, and Lord knows I half agree with him every time Secretary-General Muluzi delivers himself of one of his West-baiting tirades. But we’ve all seen the kind of trouble that can come when inflammatory rhetoric percolates into the shallow end of the gene pool. The last thing any of us want—including, I dare say, Reverend Lane—is another Oklahoma City.”

  “Amen,” Vaughn murmured.

  Whitcomb threw a quick look around the table, then nodded. “That should do it for today. Thank you all for coming, and I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

  Amid the general rustle, McPherson collected his papers back into his briefcase and headed out the door.

  “Wait up, Frank,” a voice came from behind him.

  He turned to see Cohn hurrying to catch up. “Larry,” McPherson said. “Early enough for you?”

  “Quite, thank you,” Cohn said, puffing slightly as he came up. Sixty years old and more than a little overweight, he’d more than once been referred to as a coronary waiting for a convenient opening in the man’s schedule. “And thanks so much for making the first twenty minutes of it a waste of time,” he added.

  “Hey, you got to eat your danish in peace for a change,” McPherson pointed out as they continued down the hall. “Besides, the President made it three minutes till, remember?”

  Cohn grunted. “Right. I forgot. Speaking of which—or of whom—what do you think of our Fearless Leader?”

  McPherson glanced behind them. General Vaughn was just leaving the conference room, ramrod stiff as always; behind him through the open door he could see Whitcomb and Duvall still conferring at the table. “Specify topic.”

  “The perverse pride he takes in this Goose List of his,” Cohn said. “He seems to almost gloat over the fact that he’s making enemies hand over fist.”

  McPherson shrugged. “At least you always know where he stands,” he said. “Unlike certain other governmental tap dancers we could both name. My father used to tell me that if you didn’t have any enemies you weren’t making your position clear enough.”

  “My father used to tell me never to stand next to someone who’s throwing manure at an armed person,” Cohn countered. “I can’t help wondering when one of his geese is going to get tired of lobbing verbal grenades and try the real thing.”

  “That thought has occurred to me,” McPherson admitted. “But I don’t know what to do about it except stay on our toes.”

  “Mm.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “No, I agree,” Cohn said. “I just . . . something’s in the wind, Frank.”

  McPherson cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Nothing concrete,” Cohn said. “But I’ve got a gut that’s been in Intelligence work since the Carter administration. That gut doesn’t feel right about things this morning.”

  “Maybe it was that last danish.”

  Cohn threw him a glare. “I’m serious.”

  “I know,” McPherson soothed him. “And I respect your gut and its hunches. I’m just not sure what we can do about it other than what we’re already doing.”

  “Me, neither,” Cohn conceded, turning his glower on the Secret Service agents ahead, lounging with deceptive casualness near the elevator to the underground garage. “I just wanted you to be on the alert. Maybe talk to your buddies in the DEA and NSA—they always pay more attention to you than they do me.”

  “A strange fact, but true,” McPherson agreed. “Okay, I’ll make some calls.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Secret Service men passed them out, and a few minutes later McPherson was back on the slush-covered streets of the capital, fighting yet another wave of morning traffic. He and Cohn had locked horns frequently throughout their respective careers, and there had been many times he considered the older man to be the epitome of pompous assdom.

  But McPherson’s own Federal government experience only dated back to the second Reagan administration, and he wasn’t about to dismiss even vague Cohn hunches out of hand. The very first thing on the morning’s agenda, he decided, would be to make the calls the other had suggested. After that, he would pull up the latest status reports and go over them with a finer-tooth comb than usual.

  He swore under his breath as a Ford Explorer swerved into the street two cars ahead, nearly taking off a BMW’s bumper as its tires hit a patch of ice. And it had looked like such a peaceful week, too.

  02

  It had been over an hour since the Pakistani container ship Rabah Jamila had left its dock at the Vietnamese port of Da Nang. Sitting cross-legged on his cot in the twenty-foot-long cargo container that would be his home for the next few days, Eleven rocked back and forth with the rhythm of the jostling waves and decided odds were good they had cleared the harbor and were in the open sea.

  Though he could certainly be wrong about that, given the almost total lack of sensory cues inside the container. Ten would know; he was the expert seaman of their two-man team. But Ten was in the next container over, and the general had given them strict instructions to avoid using their radios unless absolutely necessary. With the Rabah Jamila cruising serenely along, and no one from the crew bursting into his hideaway to demand some answers, chatting with Ten hardly qualified as absolutely necessary.

  Or rather, chatting with Choi. Rhee chatting with Choi.

  Choi. Rhee. He ran the names through his mind again. Unfamiliar names. Totally unlikely names.

  Still, that’s what was printed on the forged South Korean military IDs they were carrying, so he might as well get used to thinking of himself and his partner that way. Particularly since they would eventually be playing those roles for the captain and crew.

  He smiled to himself in the darkness. The absurdity of the whole thing was almost tangible, the sheer brazenness of it even more so. Neither he nor Ten looked the least bit Korean, and even with the full-face masks they would be wearing there was a good chance some sharp-eyed crewman would notice. And on top of that, the South Korean forgeries they carried weren’t even all that good.

  But the general had assured them that this would work. So far, the general had never been wrong about such things.

  Besides, absurdity and brazenness had already taken them farther than any reasonable man would have thought possible. At the back of Eleven’s container, its thick protective casing bolted securely to the wall and floor, was the tactical nuclear weapon the general’s men had spirited out of India’s newest weapons development lab.

  How the general had pulled that one off he didn’t know, and was pretty sure he didn’t want to. Still, if that other group could manage their part of this master prestidigitation, he and Ten could certainly manage theirs. Pride alone dictated that.

  He grimaced. No, not pride. Survival. Theirs, and that of the country they all loved.

  A soft sound of grinding metal snapped him out of his thoughts. Silently, Eleven got up from his cot and crossed to the other side of the container, taking care that the long suppressor on his shoulder-slung Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun didn’t clang into the supply locker or the holding tank for his portable toilet.

  The sound changed pitch as the drill bit finished off the outer metal shell and started through the interior padding. Flicking on a low-level finger light, Eleven waited.

  A moment later the bit broke through, scattering flecks of padding into the air. It withdrew, and a thin metal tube poked tentatively through the opening. Eleven pulled it all the way through, exposing the flexible coax cable that had been snugged inside it. He pulled through enough of the cable to give himself plenty of slack, then connected the end to the jack in his headset.

  “Clear?” Ten’s voice came in his ear.

  “Clear,” Eleven confirmed. “Are we out of the harbor?”

  “Feels like it,” Ten said. “Check your exits.”


  “No need,” Eleven said. “I’d have known if they’d loaded anything on top of me.”

  “The plan says we check,” Ten said. “I’ll tell you when to start improvising.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eleven sighed, swiveling the MP5’s muzzle back out of the way and crossing to the ladder fastened to the wall by his cot. The slender, meter-long testing wand was secured beneath the cot’s frame; pulling it out, he climbed to the ceiling and eased the wand around the light-blocking baffles and up through one of the concealed ventilation holes.

  As expected, the wand was unobstructed for its entire length. “Clear on top,” he announced, resisting the temptation to deliver his report in formal parade-ground intonation.

  “Clear on top,” Ten echoed his own situation. “Check sides.”

  The port and starboard sides, to Eleven’s complete lack of surprise, were blocked, with the adjoining containers no more than a few centimeters away from his. The bow end was clear, which meant his little mobile home had been placed at the front end of the stack of containers as planned. The aft end, though, was a surprise. “Stern’s clear,” he reported, frowning as he waggled the wand around, searching for the next container over. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Mine’s blocked,” Ten told him. “The container that was supposed to be behind you must have been canceled at the last minute. Just as well you checked.”

  “Indeed,” Eleven agreed politely, though offhand he couldn’t see any reason why he would need to use his container’s stern exit instead of simply going out through the top when the time came. “What now?”

  “I’ll deploy the scanner antenna,” Ten said. “Might as well see what this ship’s normal radio chatter sounds like. After that I’ll set the GPS antenna and get a position reading.”

  “Be sure to plug the scanner into the phone so I can hear, too,” Eleven reminded him. “Anything you want me to do?”

  “Go ahead and tape down the phone line. After that, you’re off duty.”