Caparelli had no desire to invite Lomax into CROSSWIND’s main facility, so he’d chosen Lafayette Square. The constant stream of bicyclists and joggers, and tourists snapping pictures of the White House across Pennsylvania Avenue, and especially the many trees still in full leaf would make any third-party observation of their meeting more difficult. The Department of Homeland Security wasn’t the only one interested in obtaining CROSSWIND’s secrets, and Caparelli was on guard against them all.
It was 10:00 a.m., but the day was already unseasonably humid and hot in DC. The sky’s uniform gray haze didn’t even offer the promise of a rainstorm to bring relief. Caparelli had been up since 3:00, when Caidin called CROSSWIND to report the results of his link experience with Laura. Only adrenaline was keeping Caparelli’s exhaustion at bay.
Yesterday, when he’d first met with Lomax, Caparelli had believed Laura was irretrievable, along with the information that had cost her her life. That was the only reason he had stepped into the lion’s den that was the Department of Homeland Security. He needed to have them working for him, without jeopardizing CROSSWIND’s independence.
But by linking to Caidin last night, Laura had succeeded in her final mission: to report. The next move was Caparelli’s: Act on her report and create a new plan. Conceiving that plan had consumed the rest of his morning. Now all he had to do was continue his manipulation of Lomax and the DHS.
For his part, Lomax seemed to embrace the heat, as if invigorated by it. He carried a bottle of water, barely glancing at Caparelli as they fell into step with each other along a pedestrian path. The big man’s eyes moved constantly over the shifting scene in the park, a soldier on patrol, looking for snipers and IEDs in every shadow, and enjoying the rush of it.
“I thought CROSSWIND’s source had dried up,” Lomax said.
“We have more than one.”
Lomax smiled, and didn’t ask him who the new source was. To do so would be, both knew, a waste of time. But the tone of his next question was a shade condescending. “So, do we know exactly how many Russian terrorists we’re looking for today?”
“If you don’t think this is important, why agree to meet?”
Lomax took a quick swallow from his water bottle, wiped at his thick mustache. “I gather data points. Finer minds than mine determine their worth. I’m assuming your new source brought you new intel.”
“The target.”
Lomax didn’t break stride, but Caparelli was gratified to see his expression change. Now he was serious. “Go ahead.”
“The UN next Thursday. When the president speaks.”
“Your source told you this? Definitively?”
“Given other information we have, it’s the only target that fits.”
“Why not the Greenbrier’s Anti-terrorism Conference or the joint session with the Brit prime minister at the Capitol?”
Caparelli knew this was where he’d have to tread delicately. “The security perimeters at the Greenbrier and around the Capitol are more than adequate to prevent an attack.”
“Adequate. For an attack by whatever mysterious weapon you say the Russians have.”
“We have a handle on its capabilities. It has a limited range.”
“Which is?”
“Fifteen hundred meters.”
Lomax slowed his pace. “Unless you’re talking about a tactical nuke with a blast radius of a mile, no one’s going to get close enough to launch any kind of missile. Or have any kind of sight line to any of the three venues, UN included.”
“It’s not a missile, and they don’t need line of sight. They just have to be within a mile.”
Lomax halted. “It’s back to sounding like an explosive.”
“You saw the photographs. Victims are subjected to severe trauma, but not from blast effects.”
“If it’s not explosive, that leaves chemical, biological, or radiation.” Lomax held Caparelli’s gaze for long moments. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“No.”
“Unbelievable.” The big man’s jaw tightened. “You have the balls to say CROSSWIND is aware of a threat to the president, and you won’t share the information.”
“I understand your frustration. All I can tell you is that we now know the technology is something we’re also developing. I can’t say more.”
“CROSSWIND is an intelligence-gathering operation. And now you’re saying you’re also developing weapons?” Lomax leaned closer, not for privacy this time, for intimidation. “I can get clearance.”
It didn’t work. “You can try,” Caparelli said. “But it’s need-to-know. And all you need to know is that the Russians plan to get within a mile of the president when he’s in New York. Your job is to stop them.”
Lomax shook his head in disbelief. “Look. This isn’t a pissing contest. It isn’t personal. You have to give me something. The second source.”
“CROSSWIND. That’s the source.”
Lomax snorted. “Goddamn magic intel.”
Caparelli was inured to this reaction. “Our track record speaks for itself.”
Lomax scanned the passing crowds, as if running each individual through a personal facial recognition routine. “The Russians, then. Has your source provided more intel about them? We still got ten of them in the wind?”
Caparelli chose his words carefully, hiding his relief. “We understand there are two groups.” He was puzzled to see a flash of quickly suppressed heightened interest in Lomax. “The first are military, combat experienced, six or seven.”
“And the second?”
“They’re the ones who’ll deploy the technology. If you stop the first group, the second won’t be a threat.”
“How many needed to deploy their weapon?”
“Unknown.”
Lomax frowned, thoughtful. “The UN’s security perimeter is larger than the ones around the Greenbrier and the Capitol.”
Caparelli continued with what his plan required. “Size may not be the most important factor. The Greenbrier’s a resort set in open countryside—there’s no way to sneak up on it. And DC’s always tightly controlled. But Manhattan … the boundary’s porous.”
Lomax gave him a sharp look. “Porous? With what we have in place, it might as well be a wall of iron.”
“On the surface, sure. But that city’s a warren of underground passages, storm sewers, subways … All it takes is one forgotten bootlegger’s tunnel, one old unmapped sewer line that passes under the perimeter.”
“Not a problem,” Lomax said. “Even if the Ruskies can pass under, they can’t come up.”
“They won’t have to,” Caparelli said. “As long as they get within a mile. The photographs are the evidence of the weapon’s capability.”
“So, in a perfect world, I do what?” Lomax asked. “Cancel the president’s speech?”
Mission accomplished, Caparelli thought with relief. The DHS continued its unacknowledged partnership with CROSSWIND. “That’s a last resort. In a perfect world, you stop the Russians.”
* * *
Five minutes later, drenched in sweat from his stroll with Caparelli, Lomax was on his way back to St. Elizabeth’s in the back seat of a departmental limousine. Not a dot of perspiration shone through the close-cropped military haircut on Ames, the Secret Service agent and friend who sat beside him. The limo’s air-conditioning was set to frigid.
A privacy screen sealed them both from the driver. Armor plating, Kevlar, and thick, blast-proof glass sealed them from world. Ames had his earpiece in, and had heard every word Lomax and Caparelli had said to each other in Lafayette Square. The mike had been in the cap of Lomax’s water bottle.
“The big takeaway,” Ames concluded, “was Caparelli’s statement that there’re two groups of Russians working together—one for action and one for deployment. He doesn’t have the whole story.”
Lomax drained his water bottle and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “And we do?”
“We have my new girlfriend, Major Kalnikova. Her team was in pursuit of the first team—it has the superweapon. They’re not working together.”
“That’s what she told us,” Lomax cautioned. “Whether it’s true…”
“She’s on morphine and hypnotics. I doubt she has the capacity to lie.”
“My friend, the woman’s on drugs, has only one hand, and yet we’ve still got her tied down to her hospital bed. She’s Russian special forces. Don’t underestimate her.”
“Hell, I want to marry her. But all right. Let’s play it out. Scenario one: She’s telling the truth. What’s the outcome?”
Lomax checked his watch. “In that case, within the hour we’ll have the laptop she stashed in her motel room in Colorado Springs. It has the GPS tracking specs for the van stolen from the warehouse in New Mexico, and we’ll grab the Russians with the weapon by end of day.”
“Scenario two: She’s lying.”
Lomax shrugged. “So there’s no laptop.”
“Or,” Ames said, “there is a laptop, and it points us in the wrong direction, or gets us following a Greyhound bus or a big rig heading in the wrong direction. Or the Russians it does point us to are in the stolen van, all right, but they’re a decoy team. And then, even if we take them out, we still won’t know if our Russian major told us the truth or lied. Not until the president is, or is not, attacked.”
Lomax looked out through the heavily tinted windows. Faceless crowds passed, oblivious to the fragility of their peace and well-being. “Combat’s so clean. Good guys and bad guys. Just kill all the bad guys and that’s that.”
“If only,” Ames said.
Lomax sighed. “I do miss it. The simplicity.”
“Our next step is about as simple as it gets,” Ames said. “We act on the major’s intelligence, but don’t trust her.”
“That’s your definition of simple?”
“What’s the alternative?”
“The major’s not the only game in town.”
His fellow Marine didn’t understand.
“Caparelli’s got his own second source,” Lomax said, setting in motion his next mission. “Turns out, we’ve already been tracking him. And now we’re going to make him ours.”