Payback

Omar Bashir raised his hand to knock on Smith’s office door, but hesitated. He had to collect himself, calm his nerves. He was still smarting over his last encounter with Smith, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Smith see it. He took a deep breath, exhaled, smoothed his jacket, and knocked.

“Come!” yelled Smith through the closed door. Bashir entered and found Smith was reading a report. He didn’t look up. Bashir was annoyed but stood patiently. It was a power move—Bashir wasn’t as important as the paper on Smith’s desk.

Bashir stared out the window over Smith’s head and let his mind wander . . . .

A dozen youths were lined up, backs against a crumbling stone wall, waiting in the hot sun. Israeli soldiers slowly and lazily searched each boy and asked a few questions. When they finished patting down the last boy, they smoked cigarettes, joked amongst themselves, and made insulting comments about their detainees. The boys could do nothing but wait and sweat in the hot sun. It was infuriating.

It did no good to complain, or even show signs of discomfort or irritation. At best, any show of anger or weakness would make the ordeal longer. At worst it could mean arrest. So Omar and his friends stood silently, answered questions, and waited.

A message finally came over the radio, and the soldiers left. Bashir’s friends cursed and threw insults at the receding vehicles. Bashir didn’t. Any fool could see that these soldiers were not having fun. Detaining twelve-year-old boys was not what they had in mind when they’d joined the army. Bashir had more patience than the soldiers. That was how you won.

“Yes, Bashir?” Smith’s voice brought him back to the present. Smith hadn’t looked up, and was still reading the report.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

“Please sit.”

“Thank you.” He sat.

“Well?”

“Sir, I was contacted by Agent McCaig yesterday. Last night, actually.”

Smith’s head jerked up from the report. His eyes bored into Bashir. Bashir found himself leaning back in his chair, startled by the intensity of Smith’s anger. A fraction of a second later, Smith’s face smoothed out again, his dark expression replaced by the more-familiar bureaucratic demeanor.

Bashir got the unsettling feeling that Smith had suddenly turned into a dangerous adversary.

“Well? Are you going to tell me about this, or just sit there?”

“Uh, yes, sir. Actually, sir, I’ve written a full report. I sent it to you before I came, so it should be in your Inbox. I just wanted to tell you in person in case you had any questions. Sir.”

“Fine. Give me the thirty-second version.”

“Well, sir, Special Agent McCaig called me using a burner phone. It was purchased in a Target store in a little town called Patterson.”

“Where’s Patterson?”

“Over in the Central Valley just off I-5, not far from Stockton and Modesto, sir.”

Smith nodded and leaned back in his chair, still staring at Bashir. “Go on.”

“I told him that he was a person of interest being sought by the FBI, and that he should turn himself in to the nearest police department or FBI office.”

“Like a good agent. Of course you did.”

“He asked me to do him a favor, sir. I told him that I couldn’t do that, and reiterated my earlier suggestion that he turn himself in. Agent—that is, Mr. McCaig, asked me to do some research about the terrorist Zarrabian and to let him know what I found.”

“What did he want?”

“He wants to know if Zarrabian’s family is alive, sir.”

“And this is all in your report?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you tell him you’d find out?”

“No, sir. Of course not. Even if the FBI looked into Zarrabian’s background, it would be part of an ongoing investigation and I couldn’t share it with him.”

“Agent Bashir, you realize he was playing you, right?”

“Sir?”

“He wants the FBI to look into this for some reason. Maybe to distract us, or maybe he’s with Zarrabian and they’ve cooked up some plot to cause an international incident. Can you imagine what could happen if the USA contacted our spies in Iran right now with the supposed goal of finding the wife and daughter of a terrorist?”

Bashir shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, sir, he never said anything about a wife and daughter. Just family, sir.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed momentarily, but Bashir saw the expression before it evaporated.

“Of course not, agent Bashir. Family, wife, son, daughter, whatever. As I was saying, the United States is on the verge of war with Iran. If McCaig is with his old buddy Zarrabian, who knows what they’ve cooked up? Thank you for your report, Bashir. What case are you working on?”

“The same one, sir. The hacker who is stealing credit card numbers and PINs.”

“Good. Excellent. That case is going to be high profile when we bring in that hacker. The public is tired of stolen credit cards. Concentrate on that case and you could find your career moving forward. I’ll have a close look at your report and forward it through the proper channels.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure you know, Bashir, that there’s more to this terrorism case than the public knows.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you did the right thing, coming to me. And you can rest assured that this information will get into the right hands. But there are national security issues here that are on a need-to-know basis, and it’s important that you tell nobody else. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

Smith stood up and walked to his window, scanning the San Francisco streets below. “Bashir, you seem to have a fondness for retired Special Agent McCaig.” He turned to face Bashir. “Am I right?”

“I learned a lot from him, sir.”

Smith grabbed another chair, pulled it over in front of Bashir, and sat down. He leaned forward with a concerned look on his face. “Bashir, did you know McCaig and I have worked together for over fifteen years?”

“No, sir. I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. Not directly, like partners. Back when McCaig and I were in Texas, we were on the same teams, off and on, a dozen times. And when I got promoted in Texas, I made sure I kept McCaig on my team. He’s smart and seems to think like a crook. He knows what’s in their minds. When the Righteous Sons of Joseph Smith started giving us trouble down there in Cordo, I thought McCaig was the right man for the job, but it went down badly. I’m not saying it was McCaig’s fault. I’m not sure anybody else could have handled that situation any better. But the way it went down, I think it broke his spirit. He was never the same after that.”

“He seemed to me like a good agent, sir.”

“Oh, sure, he did his job. But he was just marking time, waiting for retirement day. I felt sorry for the guy. I was offered the chance to come here and run the San Francisco division, and I brought McCaig with me. He still did his job, but I kept an eye on him. I was worried that he was unstable, that he might blow up some day or injure a suspect. I kept him off the violent cases.”

“He seemed OK to me, sir.”

“Well, I’m sure he did. Did you know he grew up in California?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“He was a farm boy from the Central Valley. I figured living closer to home would do him some good. His retirement was just around the corner and I felt sorry for the guy. I knew if I brought him out here to California, he’d be a solid worker, and when retirement day came, he wouldn’t have far to move to be home again.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why did you put him in charge of the Golden Gate Bridge case? I mean, if he was just doing time waiting for retirement?”

“Well, that’s a good question. But you were there, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I was. You got a phone call during your finance meeting.”

“It wasn’t my call. Someone higher up bypassed me. Maybe an old crony of McCaig’s who wanted to give him a second chance? I don’t know. Anyway, what I’m getting at, Bashir, is to be careful. McCaig was a good agent. One of the best. But this Golden Gate Bridge case, well, something went wrong. He withheld critical information, and from what you’re telling me now, it may be he’s been in contact with Zarrabian.”

“He didn’t say that, sir. Only that he wanted to know about Zarrabian’s family.”

“You didn’t ask him why?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, like I said, son, I can tell you have a fondness for Special Agent McCaig. He was your first partner, and he’s a likable guy. A little rough around the edges, but a good guy. He probably taught you a lot. Still, you need to careful. You could get sucked into whatever he’s doing and be in a lot of trouble.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”

“OK, then. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir, can I ask one question?”

“Of course.”

“How can Mr. McCaig be in contact with Zarrabian if Zarrabian is dead, sir?”

Smith blinked rapidly for a moment before he caught himself. But not before Bashir saw it.

“Good question, Bashir! You’re right, of course. I was just reading some email about how McCaig hinted that Zarrabian was alive when those news reporters accosted him on his retirement day, and I guess I mixed up reality with McCaig’s fantasy. My advice stands, Bashir. You be careful, OK? McCaig will be fine, I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding, but you don’t want to get mixed up in it. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Bashir strolled slowly back to his office and sat down. That had been a very odd meeting. He filed it away in his brain to contemplate later. It was time to head for his daily brain-dead time—the stakeout.

He clicked his mouse to wake up the computer, then opened his email. Nothing new. Bashir wondered who would actually see the email he’d sent Smith. The report about McCaig’s phone call had taken him a while to write. He’d worked hard to get just the right nuance, to tell the truth but not reveal his true feelings about McCaig. Had he done it right? He clicked his Outbox to re-read it.

His email to Smith was gone.

McCaig cracked open an eye and looked through the dusty window of the borrowed Mercedes. He was parked in the middle of a large rest stop parking lot, far from anyone else. Heat waves shimmered off the pavement. A few crows hopped slowly under a deserted picnic table, pecking at odds and ends.

One family was braving the heat, sitting on the lawn in the meager shade of a tree. Probably on a long trip, thought McCaig. Two pudgy boys, maybe eight or ten years old, were poking and shoving each other occasionally; their skin was turning pink in the heat, and McCaig could see sweat soaking through their thin T-shirts. The parents probably hoped the brief excursion from the car would quiet the boys down, but McCaig suspected they were regretting the experiment.

Occasionally a car would arrive and discharge its occupants. McCaig could almost see the heat hit them as they emerged. They’d head straight for the restrooms, do their business, and rush back to the air-conditioned cocoon that protected them from the reality of these farmlands. He wondered if these travelers had any idea what life was like for the farmers and ranchers who settled this valley a century and a half ago.

A motorcyclist crouched in the shade against the side of the rest room building. He still had his helmet on but the faceplate was flipped up. Smoke drifted from a cigarette in his hand, which he occasionally put to his mouth. But the motorcyclist never inhaled the smoke. The cigarette was a prop.

McCaig saw the motorcyclist glance his way. He gave McCaig a barely perceptible nod. McCaig nodded back. Zarrabian had the raw end of this deal, riding the motorcycle from the old farm house to this rest stop in the blistering heat. McCaig had the Mercedes’ engine idling and air conditioner on. To anyone watching he was just another traveler taking a nap on the interminable stretches of Interstate 5 between Los Angeles and San Francisco. But Zarrabian had no such luxury.

A movement at the rest stop’s entrance caught his eye. An RV arrived—a compact, mid-sized model. It drove slowly into the parking lot, then turned and headed directly toward him. Through the windshield, he could make out Christine, wearing huge sunglasses and a baseball cap.

Christine parked the RV next to the Mercedes and left the engine idling. McCaig shut off the Mercedes’ engine and climbed out into the blistering heat. The side door of the RV opened and Christine’s figure filled the doorway.

A few minutes later they were headed north, with the motorcycle securely strapped into a rack on the RV’s bumper. McCaig was in the passenger seat, and Zarrabian sat behind them.

“This is quite a vehicle,” said Zarrabian.

“I love it,” said Christine. “The kitchen’s small but has everything you need. There’s a queen-size bed in the back, and the bathroom even has a shower. We’ve got a generator, air conditioner, and fifty gallons of water. We can live in this thing for a week or two if we want.”

“Where the hell did you get this?” asked McCaig.

“Grant, that’s my boss, had someone buy it at a huge used-RV lot out near Stockton. Figured it wouldn’t attract any attention out there.”

“Just like that? He drops what, sixty thousand or so?”

“Something like that. I told him last week I needed a blank check, and he said I had it.”

“Nice. What about the Mercedes? We just leave it at the rest stop?”

“Someone will be by in an hour or so to get it.”

“Damn. I want your job.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“So what now?”

“We need to find a place where we can get Internet access. Fast Internet access. We’ve got work to do. I feel like we’ve been blind since yesterday morning.”

Zarrabian leaned forward. “I know a librarian who might be willing to help.”

Saylor Dylan drummed her fingers on her desk impatiently. Across the room in the library’s children’s section, a brother and sister were starting to push and poke each other. Each new feint, blow, or twist was slightly more vigorous than the last and was followed by hushes and giggles. Soon she’d be over there scolding them, just like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Parents weren’t supposed to use the Rio Vista Public Library as a babysitting service, but Saylor knew life wasn’t that simple.

Everyone had been sure that Saylor, the six-foot-tall, slender, spiky-haired beauty of UC Berkeley’s Library Science Master’s program, would graduate magna cum laude or suma cum laude, accompanied by the tune of fabulous job offers from the top libraries in the country. She was sure too. It was what she’d worked for, and when Saylor worked for something, she usually got it.

But then came the night that changed everything. It was barely distinguishable from dozens of other nights: a bit of wine, a lot of the ganja, crazy libertarian radical political talk, and sex. It always ended with sex, sometimes with one of the few male librarians at Berkeley, but more often with creative combinations of females and males. She’d discovered early in her studies that librarians were not all the prim and proper “Marian the Librarian” of The Music Man (although she and all her friends agreed that Marian Librarian was, without a doubt, the very best song of Meredith Willson’s long and distinguished composing career).

Saylor had gravitated toward the radical element of her class. Their radicalism was expressed in an amazing variety of directions, from feminism to libertarianism to communism to anarchism (which struck her as an odd thing for a librarian to advocate). But in spite of their different philosophies, the group found camaraderie in their mutual dislike for the ordinary and their distrust of government.

And Saylor quickly discovered that their dislike for the ordinary carried into their sexual enterprises.

That one night, barely distinguishable from so many other nights, changed everything. She looked over at the brother and sister again and thought of Marina, her own little girl. These two were, what? Maybe eight and nine years old. In five more years, maybe Marina would be shoving and poking a little classmate in this very library, and Saylor would be shushing her own daughter.

She smiled at the thought. Yes, that night had changed everything. Marina had become the focus of her life.

The other unexpected turn in her life had been this tiny town. She’d been showered with interview offers from New York, St. Louis, San Francisco, Boston, Seattle, and even an inquiry from Toronto. But tiny Rio Vista had a city councilwoman who loved libraries and reading and went on a campaign to restore the town’s library. The job offer had been surprisingly generous, and the cost of living was low. She couldn’t afford day care and rent on a starting salary in the big cities. Here, she and Marina lived well.

But baby or no, her spiky hair, sometimes tinted with blue or pink highlights, made her the talk of this tiny, conservative town. Let them talk. One of the great things about civil-service jobs was they were strictly merit-based. A Master’s with top honors from the University of California at Berkeley made it almost impossible for the hiring committee to turn her down.

To her surprise, the job she thought would be drop-dead boring proved to be anything but. The Rio Vista Library was in sad shape when she arrived. It had few new books, out-of-date computers, and looked run down and dingy. Saylor turned her radical energies on all of these things, and inch by inch transformed it into a clean, modern, well-stocked library with modern computers and high-speed Internet access.

It still served as a babysitting service for working mothers, but rules were meant to be broken. Life was rarely fair. Besides, these two particular siblings were relatively well behaved. She’d transformed them from sullen video-game players into voracious readers. That was worth a lot.

Five twenty-five. Almost closing time.

The sound of the front door made her turn her head. She expected the children’s mother, who usually arrived about this time. Instead, a woman with long, chestnut hair wearing huge sunglasses and a baseball cap came in from the shimmering evening heat. She marched straight to the front desk.

Saylor stood up. The woman was quite a bit shorter than her, yet Saylor got the odd feeling she was looking up at a taller woman. “May I help you?”

“I have it on good authority that you are an excellent librarian.”

Saylor thought this was a very strange statement, and raised an eyebrow in response. “OK.”

“I also suspect,” the woman continued, “that like most librarians, you are dead set against censorship.”

“I’m a librarian. It goes without saying.”

“And by your choices in style, I’d believe you are politically liberal.”

“My personal views are not your business. Can I help you with something?”

The woman’s sunglasses hid her expression, but Saylor got the impression she was being scanned from top to bottom. The woman’s demeanor finally relaxed. “I believe you can.” She took off her sunglasses and lifted her hat. “I’m Christine Garrett. Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV. I won a Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism, which I’m sure you can confirm in your reference section. I need your help.”

FBI Special Agent Omar Bashir finished drying his plate, knife, fork, and cup and carefully put them back in the cupboard. His little apartment had a dishwasher, but he never used it. One or two meals a day alone—it would take two weeks to fill the dishwasher with dishes. It was much easier to just get the job done by hand. He dried his hands and hung the dishtowel neatly on its peg.

Five steps to his living room and he sank into his oversized tooled-leather chair-and-a-half. It was nice.

Bashir contemplated his little apartment. With his modest FBI starting salary, Bashir had made the choice to go compact to save money and then use the money he saved to fill the place with the best-quality stuff he could afford. His first paycheck had gone to the big leather chair, followed quickly by a massive stereo system, a top-of-the-line Mac Pro with two high-resolution screens, a Mac laptop for portability, a beautiful coffee table, some simple but elegant pictures he’d found at a street fair, and a genuine Persian rug to soften the hardwood floors.

He grabbed his laptop off the coffee table and checked his email. Junk and spam. Nothing from McCaig.

The message he’d crafted for McCaig had been a challenge. He wanted something that McCaig would spot on the Craigslist Rants and Raves section, but that everyone else would think was just a normal rant. The Rants and Raves section was filled with nonsense, genius, racism, love, heartbreak, and hope. Posts ranged from barely literate to masterful, centered somewhere around the writing abilities of the typical American high school graduate. Which is to say, Bashir waded through a lot of crap before getting the feel of a typical rant.

Maybe his message had been too obscure? Would McCaig figure it out? He clicked on his browser and went to the Rants and Raves page. He found his post.

Bruce Springsteen: Hey Boss
Hey Bruce, you are The Boss. You earned the name. I love your music. I miss our partnership. We made good music together. I learned so much from you. Things aren’t the same since you left. In fact, things just aren’t right. I couldn’t do what you asked. You warned me, and now I’m listening, Bruce. Things are not right. I’ve tried to find a new Boss, but there’s nobody like you Bruce.

Would “Hey Boss” catch McCaig’s eye? If it did, would McCaig know what the message meant? To Bashir, it jumped out. In fact, it seemed too obvious. Would anyone else see it and know he was trying to contact McCaig?

Stop being paranoid, he told himself. Even if someone suspected, which was highly unlikely, and they tried to trace it back to the origin, they’d discover it went through two privacy “anonymizers” that hid its true origin. Very hard to trace. And if somehow they did trace it, they’d find out it was to a fake email account. And if they tried to trace that, they’d discover the email had been set up through TOR, “The Onion Router.” TOR wasn’t just hard to trace, it was impossible. Even the NSA hadn’t fully cracked TOR. There was no way to connect the Craigslist “rant” to Bashir.

Six p.m. The clock seemed frozen. Even though it was only thirty minutes since the last check, he clicked on the TOR browser app and logged in to his fake email account again. Nothing.

His mind drifted back to the meeting with Smith. The more he thought about it, the less he liked it. Smith’s attempts at manipulation were surprisingly transparent and ugly. The guy was normally such a rigid, bureaucratic suit-and-tie guy. This time, he’d lost his cool, tried to cover it up, used scare tactics, and finally tried to act fatherly. All done badly. Bashir was almost embarrassed for Smith, but his disgust at Smith’s amateur psychology overrode any pity he might have had for the man.

And then, the slip about Zarrabian being alive. That had sent alarms ringing in Bashir’s head. That was big. Really big. And it was clear Smith was lying when he tried to cover up his slip. Zarrabian alive? McCaig on the run? It didn’t make sense.

Bashir didn’t consider himself much of a psychologist or sociologist. He just paid attention in life. There are things people say, and then there are the things they don’t say. It’s in their body language, choice of words, the tension in their voice, the shifts of their eyes. These things are at least as important as their words. Whether it’s a soldier at a checkpoint or a boss in a law-enforcement agency, knowing the difference between bluster, indifference, and danger is how you survive.

Smith was hiding something, and he was afraid of something. That much, Bashir knew. But what?

He idly checked his fake email account again and was startled to see a reply. He hesitated, almost not daring to open it. Probably spam—it was scary how fast the spammers found you. He clicked the email.

Re: Bruce Springsteen: Hey Boss
The Boss never forgets his fans. Did you know I’m playing tonight? It’s a private party for Saylor. Dylan might be there. Call! 9PM. --Bruce.

Saylor glanced at the clock. Nine p.m. Christine Garrett should be here soon, assuming she was keeping her promise.

Saylor rocked Marina gently, swinging the librarian’s chair back and forth with a task the office-chair’s designers surely hadn’t anticipated. Her little girl was fast asleep, breathing softly, swaddled in her favorite blanket and wrapped in her mother’s arms.

Some time during the evening, the town’s lone night-time patrol cop would cruise by, checking the library to keep away miscreants and vandals. The first time he’d spotted her working late, he’d knocked to “double check” that she was all right. He was a kind man, around her age, handsome and fit. He obviously liked Saylor, but he wasn’t her type. After a few more checkups, he’d gotten the message that she wasn’t interested. Now he just politely waved if he saw her working late. It was nice to know he was around.

This town held few men her age with whom she shared any interests. There were few young men at all. She and a couple of girl friends, single moms she’d met when they brought their kids in, would sometimes joke about the dearth of available bachelors. “Does he have all of his teeth? Is he off parole? Go for it!”

There was a light tap on the door. Saylor went to the door and peered through the glass. It was Christine Garrett. She was accompanied by two men. Saylor opened the door and immediately tensed. She recognized both.

The first was the FBI agent whose picture had been all over the news. He was a “person of interest,” and anyone who saw him was supposed to call the FBI. She thought that there was something fishy about that “wanted” announcement—she had a deep mistrust of the government. Most FBI, NSA, and CIA business was inherently fishy, in her opinion, but she never expected to see this FBI agent face to face.

The second was Middle Eastern. He had been here before. She remembered how he’d gone straight to the computers, politely turning away her offers of help. Now he was in the company of Christine Garrett and retired FBI Special Agent TJ McCaig, the very man who’d cast doubt on the government’s official story, and who admitted he was friends with the terrorist he was pursuing. On top of that, the government had gone overboard to contradict McCaig—the attack on McCaig’s credibility came from the White House itself. There could be no doubt who this Middle-Eastern man was.

“Ms. Dylan,” began Christine.

“Call me Saylor.”

“OK, Saylor. Thanks for letting us use your library. It means a lot. Really a lot. I don’t know how much you follow the news . . .”

“I follow it.”

“Right. Of course. So this is retired FBI Special Agent TJ McCaig.”

Saylor nodded.

“Pleased to meet you,” said McCaig.

“And this is,” said Christine, then hesitated.

“I know who he is,” said Saylor. “This is not exactly what I expected when I agreed to help you. This man—Zarrabian, is it? Isn’t he supposed to be dead?”

“It’s a long story,” said Christine, “which is why we’re here.”

“He’s the most wanted terrorist in the world. You just waltz in here like it’s nothing? Why shouldn’t I call the police right now?”

“He can’t be wanted,” said McCaig. “He’s dead, remember?”

Saylor gave him a withering look. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’ll be straight with you,” said Christine. “I had a colleague dig around about you and your political views during your time at Berkeley. War protests, an arrest at a sit-in, and now blogs, tweets, discussion groups . . . you’re not exactly enamored of our government.”

“So I’m a radical liberal, bordering on libertarianism, with strong socialist tendencies. Therefore I must hate the government. Therefore I’ll welcome a terrorist with open arms. Do I have that right?”

“I didn’t presume—”

“You did presume. Ms. Garrett, I’ll give you thirty seconds to give me a better answer than that. Then I’m calling the police.” She looked back and forth between McCaig and Zarrabian. “Assuming, that is, that your two accomplices don’t tie me up or something.”

“No, I won’t tie you up,” said McCaig. “He probably won’t either.”

“Well? Twenty-five seconds,” said Saylor.

“Every argument should stand on its own merits,” said Christine, “but I can’t explain this in twenty-five seconds. So I’m going to rely on my reputation, something I hate to do. You know who I am. I’m a liberal, like you. I’ve made my career reporting on corruption, greed, graft, the environment, local and state politics, and anything else you’d care to name. I’ve been nominated for journalism awards, earned a Pulitzer Prize, and was honored by the ACLU last year for a series I did on the rights of undocumented immigrants. Surely you know I’m devoted to honest and accurate reporting.”

“Keep going,” said Saylor.

“Agent McCaig spent twenty-eight years in the FBI, and until just a few days ago was considered one of the most honest and competent men in the agency. Since you’re a librarian with a graduate degree, you may have read more than the superficial stories about what happened in Cordo, Texas.”

“That was a political cover-up if ever there was one,” said Saylor. “You got screwed, Mr. McCaig.”

“Exactly,” said Christine. “So here’s the closer. Why would McCaig and I, two people whose lives show dedication to truth, democracy, and justice, show up here with the most wanted terrorist in the world?”

“I have no clue,” said Saylor.

“But you do know one thing, don’t you?”

Marina started to stir, and gave a little cry. Saylor instinctively held her tightly, and rocked her. Saylor looked back and forth between her three visitors. Finally she spoke. “Yes. There must be more, lots more, to this story than what I’ve heard on the news.”

“Exactly. My twenty-five seconds are up and you’re still not on the phone.”

“Ms. Garrett told me you were top of your class at Berkeley,” said McCaig. “I believe it.”

“Keep talking, Ms. Garrett.”

“We’re not the enemy,” said Christine, “and Colonel Zarrabian is not a terrorist. It’s complicated, very complicated. We think there’s a conspiracy at the highest levels of government. And I’m not talking about some conspiracy dreamed up by tin-foil-hat-wearing nut-jobs who see spooks behind every tree. This is the real McCoy.”

“Suppose I don’t call the police. Yet. What do you need from me?”

“We need time, and we need to use your computers. There are things, it’s, well . . .”

“Ms. Dylan,” said Zarrabian. His voice startled her. “Let me be blunt and say things Ms. Garrett is reluctant to say. You are correct that I am the man who destroyed the Golden Gate Bridge. You also know that a second attack, one that could have been catastrophic, was stopped yesterday. You saw this news?”

“Of course,” said Saylor.

“Those men trained with me. I knew them. There is a third team. They will strike soon. We must stop them.”

“We?” said Saylor. “We’re going to stop them? What are you, a bunch of vigilantes? Are you channeling Schwarzenegger, or maybe Bruce Willis? You three are going up against armed terrorists? It would make much more sense to call the FBI and tell them where these guys are and what they’re going to do!”

“I am the FBI. Or was,” said McCaig. “That didn’t work out so well. It’s complicated. First, Colonel Zarrabian doesn’t know where or what they’re going to do. That’s why we need to use your computers, to figure it out. Second, did you forget where this started? Does ‘government conspiracy’ ring a bell?”

“I don’t need your sarcasm, Mr. McCaig,” said Saylor. “OK, I’m not buying this conspiracy theory yet. But you’ve got me boxed in. Your reputations do impress me. I shouldn’t be wowed by your reputation, Ms. Garrett, but I am. Maybe there are hidden cameras somewhere and some TV host is going to jump out and say ‘Surprise, Saylor! See that camera over there?’ Because the only other possibility is that you people are actually serious.”

“Deadly serious,” said Zarrabian. “Make no mistake. This is not a game, Ms. Dylan. It is no joking matter. These men are as real as I am standing here before you. They could kill thousands of people and cause billions in damage. We must figure out what they plan to do. If the conspiracy originates in the government, as we believe, then we must find another way to stop them.”

“So we’re going do some hero thing? Maybe sneak up behind them and stab them in the back?”

“You’re a librarian,” said Christine. “You know the power of the press. The way to get past government conspirators is to shine a bright light into their dark, smelly business.”

“You guys are serious, right? I know, asked and answered. But this is a lot to swallow all at once, even for me. You get that, right?”

“Yes, we—” said Christine, but Saylor continued talking.

“A well-known reporter marches into my library. Who’s with her? The world’s most wanted terrorist who killed some cops, destroyed a major landmark and transportation corridor, and dropped a few hundred cars and trucks into the deep blue sea. And he claims to be what? Misguided? Now you’re sorry about the bridge, and we’ll all forgive you?”

Zarrabian took a step forward. Saylor backed up and kept her distance.

“Ms. Dylan,” said Zarrabian, “How old is your baby? Eighteen months, perhaps?”

“My daughter. She’ll be eighteen months old next week.”

Zarrabian gave a sad smile. “I had a wife and daughter. I was told they were both killed by an American cruise missile, that the United States launched an unprovoked act of war against Iran, killing many innocent civilians, including my beautiful wife and daughter. I was kept isolated for six months, my heart broken, my anger growing. They showed me and the other men false news stories about a war between our two countries. We believed our actions were legally and morally justified. Yesterday, I learned from Captain McCaig and Ms. Garrett that it was all a lie. There was no cruise-missile attack. My wife and daughter may not be dead. It was both the happiest day of my life and the most shocking. It has been a very difficult twenty-four hours.”

He fell silent, staring at the floor.

“My God,” said Saylor. “If that’s true, it’s horrible.”

“And then I was told that my country was launching a legally justified attack against the United States of America, and that as a soldier, I was carrying out legal wartime activities.”

“Your government never ratified the Geneva Convention. How can you claim that you’re following rules of war that your country never agreed to?”

“You have a beautiful daughter, Ms. Dylan, and you get to hold her in your arms every day,” said Zarrabian. “Now there is hope that I may see my daughter again some day. If I am lucky, I will spend my life in prison, and perhaps she can visit me. If I am not so lucky, I will be killed in the next few weeks. Either way, it will be OK, because now I know that my little girl is alive, that she has a mother to love her, and that she will grow up to be a woman and have children of her own.”

Saylor looked down at Marina, sleeping in her arms. The thought of losing her was unimaginable. She looked back at Zarrabian. She could see the sadness and sincerity in his face.

The light of headlight beams swept across the parking lot.

“Uh oh,” said Saylor. “Everyone over there, behind those shelves. Officer Raphael is making his rounds.”

Christine, McCaig and Zarrabian quickly moved out of sight. Saylor sat down behind her desk and leaned forward into the light of her reading lamp, pretending to read. The patrol car cruised past the front doors. She looked up, spotted Officer Raphael’s wave, waved back, then returned her attention to her book.

She was about to drop the charade and call the others out when there was a rap on the door. It was Officer Raphael. She unlocked the front door.

“Hey, Raph, what’s up?”

“You’re working late, Saylor.”

“Yeah, I had some stuff to clean up; some kids thought it would be funny to mix up some of the bookshelves. Plus I’ve got a big book order that needs to get sent off by morning. I’ll probably be here for a while.”

“You want me to bring you anything? Hamburger? Burrito?”

“That’s real sweet of you, Raph, but I already ate.”

“OK, well . . . hey, you know anything about that RV that’s parked down the street? It’s a very odd place for someone to park.”

“RV? No. Well, maybe. There was a couple in here from out of town just before closing time. Looking for travel info. Maybe they walked over to Denny’s or something. Why? Is it illegal to park there overnight?”

“No. Some towns don’t allow it, but it’s not like we have a lot of people in RVs cluttering up our little town. Just damned strange, that’s all.”

“Yeah, for sure. Hey, if I see them tomorrow, I’ll see what I can find out.”

“OK. Well, good night, Saylor. You take care.”

“Good night, Raph. Thanks for keeping an eye on things.” She locked the door and watched him drive off slowly.

“So,” said McCaig a minute later. “Is this the part in the movie where we find out the heroine was talking to the cop like nothing was wrong but sending silent SOS signals with her eyes?”

“Use your head, Mr. McCaig. If I wanted to turn you in, I sure wouldn’t have left my baby behind my desk!”

Christine glared at him.

“OK, sorry. My suspicious nature gets the better of me sometimes. Does this mean you believe us?”

“No. Just that you’ve got my interest. Come on, we need to get away from the windows in case Officer Raphael comes by again. There are some computers in the back you can use.”

Saylor lowered her book and adjusted Marina’s sleeping form a bit. She was reclined on one of the library’s reading-room couches, an acquisition she’d fought hard for at the City Council meetings. A library should be a comfortable, welcoming place. It should feel like your own living room, not like some run-down bus station with hard wooden chairs. She’d won the argument when, the third time it was up for discussion, she’d arrived early at City Hall and replaced the city councilor’s cushy armchairs with library chairs.

She looked over at her three visitors. A reporter, a disgraced FBI agent, and a terrorist, each hunched over a library computer. The computers’ screens lit their faces with an eerie blue glow in the dark rooms. Saylor heard occasional mouse clicks and keyboard clacks from time to time.

If someone had told her this morning that her day would end like this, she’d have laughed. It was beyond incredible. It was just ridiculous.

“I could help if you’d let me,” she said, breaking the silence.

Zarrabian glanced her way briefly. Christine didn’t respond. McCaig leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and turned to her.

“You really don't want to do that, Ms. Dylan,” he said.

“I’m a librarian. Research is what I do. I’m good at it.”

“No way. Right now you’re a small-town librarian who was tricked by three conspirators. You don’t know why we’re here or what we’re looking for. You officially don’t even know this guy is a terrorist. After all, last you heard, the president himself said the guy was dead.”

“So?”

“If we tell you what we’re doing, you lose any vestige of plausible deniability. You’ll be willingly and knowingly aiding the world’s most wanted terrorist. You might get out of prison in time to see your grandchild graduate from college.”

“How can he be the world’s most wanted terrorist if he’s officially dead?”

“You’re missing the point. This isn’t a game.”

“I’m not missing the point, McCaig. I’m already in.”

“And you can still get out.”

“Whatever.”

“You don’t have to stay. I know this is your library, but we’ll be good. I promise we won’t steal any books or put chewing gum under the tables. Why don’t you go home, put Marina to bed, and get some sleep?”

“How long is this going to take? You’ve been at it for over an hour already.”

“Until we find the answer. Maybe all night.”

“And if Officer Raphael knocks on the door, what are you going to tell him?”

“Will he?”

“Hard to say. As long as my car’s outside, he’ll figure any lights in here are me. It’s not like there’s anything else going on in this town.”

“He seems like a nice guy. Good looking, too.”

“And?”

“Just sayin’. That’s all.”

“What, you’re the Rio Vista matchmaker service now?”

“Just sayin’. Forget it.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like old guys in suits telling me how to run my life. I don’t need a man to complete me. Marina and I are doing just fine.”

“Old guy?”

A laugh escaped from Christine.

McCaig looked at her. “What, you think that’s funny?”

“Let me help,” said Saylor.

“She’s a big girl, TJ,” said Christine. “Don’t be so condescending. Quit acting like an old guy or I’ll start calling you one. If Saylor wants to help, read her in.”

There was a distant knock on the library’s door. Saylor stood and laid Marina on the couch gently. “Like I said, Officer Raph could be back any time. I’ll go chase him away.”

McCaig watched her form recede into the main room. There was another knock, this time louder. He heard the click of the door, and then voices. One was Saylor’s, but the other was not Officer Raph’s.

“I’d better go check, see who that is,” said McCaig. He went to the library’s lobby. Saylor and Bashir were arguing. In the dim light coming in from the parking lot, he could see Saylor’s form blocking the doorway. As McCaig approached, he heard Saylor’s strident voice and caught words like “search warrant” and “government property.”

“Ms. Dylan, let him in,” said McCaig. “He’s OK.”

She held her position. “What the hell? This guy is FBI!”

“Yeah, and he was my partner. Let me talk to him, OK?”

She moved back from the door and let Bashir in. “Over there. Behind those stacks, OK? Officer Raph could be by any time.” She locked the front door and walked away.

“Come on, Omar, back here,” said McCaig. Bashir was watching the receding form of Saylor, barely visible in the dim library. McCaig finally elbowed him.

“Oh, sorry boss. She’s pretty tall.”

“And has a Master’s degree and a little baby.”

“Really?”

“Really. Cute kid, too.”

They found a table and sat. An Exit sign over a side door cast a dim light on them.

“You made it,” said McCaig.

“Yeah. It took about three seconds to find Saylor Dylan all over the internet, but that was all about Berkeley. It was like she disappeared from the radar when she graduated. I finally found some city council minutes that had her name as librarian.”

“Why didn’t you email? Isn’t that what Christine put in the Craigslist message? Or what do they call it, the rant?”

“Boss, there’s some weird stuff going on. They might be watching my phone.”

“Listening in on you? Damn, what’s going on in San Francisco?”

“No, boss, not listening in. They’d need a warrant for that. But they don’t need a warrant to find out what numbers I called. I wouldn’t put it past Smith.”

“Smith? Nah. The man’s a pussy. A bureaucrat. Hell, we’ve got bigger fish than that to fry.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be so sure, boss.”

“So what’s the news? Did you find out about Colonel Zarrabian’s family?”

“Seriously boss? You know the rules better than I do. I can’t share anything about an ongoing investigation. You know that.”

“Then why are you here? Why the ad?”

“Because of Smith.”

“Smith again? The man’s a paper pusher.”

“Remember I told you I’d have to report your last phone call?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Smith’s pissed at you. Really pissed. He tried to hide it, but I’m pretty good at reading faces. He took my report and said he’d pass it along, but boss, I know the man was lying. He buried my report. Somehow he deleted it from my computer too. He’s not going to investigate Zarrabian’s family, either. Why is he burying this?”

McCaig looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. That is odd.”

“Well, I don’t know either, boss. And even before that, he was so pissed at you, he’s taking it out on me.” Bashir related how he’d been assigned to the most boring stakeout in history, and how Smith had humiliated him in the hallway in front of a dozen other agents.

“And that’s why you’re here?” asked McCaig.

“No. I mean, that’s part of it. But here’s the real kicker. He slipped up and talked about Zarrabian as though he were still alive. I called him on it and he shrugged it off. 'Just a hypothetical,' he said. But I know better, boss. It was a slip, and he knows.”

“Yeah, I thought so. It’s part of what I tried to warn you about.”

“OK, and that’s not all. I told Smith about your phone call. I’m sorry, but I had to.”

“Of course, Bashir. I planned on it.”

“Really? That’s what Smith said you were doing. So you were playing me?”

“No, I really wasn’t. I really do want to know about Zarrabian’s family.”

“So that’s the other thing. When I mentioned your request, Smith specifically mentioned a wife and daughter, then tried to backpedal again. But he knows about Zarrabian’s family, doesn’t he?”

“You said it, not me.”

“You told me something was wrong with this case. I don’t know about the case, but something’s sure wrong with Smith, and you’re in his sights. What the hell did you do, boss?”

“Smith. Wow. That’s the last thing I expected. He had me fooled. But damn, now it makes sense. A lot of stuff makes sense. Did you know we were both in Texas before this?”

“Yeah, he told me.”

“When he got promoted to San Francisco, I thought I was finally rid of the guy. He’d been riding me for years. I really dislike him. Next thing I know, the moving truck shows up. You’re headed for the Golden State, they say. Some bull about my exemplary career. He’s telling everyone I’m his right-hand man, and he needs me on his team. I just about choked on my coffee when I heard that.”

“So what makes sense now?”

McCaig stood up and paced under the dim light of the Exit sign. He stopped a couple times and turned as if to speak, then resumed pacing.

“Boss?” said Bashir.

McCaig sat down. “OK, listen. I know you’re a sworn FBI agent, bound by law and by honor and all that stuff. And I know you take it seriously. Like I do. I wouldn’t have a partner who didn’t.”

“OK, sure.”

“And I’m not going to ask you to violate your oath or your duty.”

“Um, I hear a big ‘but’ coming.”

“But if we’re going to continue this conversation, I need you to keep an open mind for about an hour. I need you to swear this to me. One hour. Then you can arrest me and anyone else you feel like arresting. Or not, depending on how you see things.”

“You’re getting me interested.”

“Just one more thing, Special Agent Bashir. And this is important.”

“OK.”

“Do you remember the oath you swore when you became an agent?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah. Damned genius kid with a perfect memory. Say it.”

In the dim light, McCaig could see Bashir’s eyes close for a moment while he recalled the event.

“I, Omar Bashir, do solemnly affirm that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will . . .”

“That’s enough,” interrupted McCaig. “Did you swear to support and defend the government?”

“Uh, no. The Constitution.”

“Right. Did you swear to support and defend any person in the government?”

“I see where this is going, boss. No. I swore to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And you’re about to remind me that some enemies might be part of the government.”

“Exactly.”

“Boss, that’s standard stuff. You don’t need to remind me. Corrupt government is the worst enemy of all. It threatens democracy itself.”

McCaig looked relieved. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. So will you swear you’ll give me one hour before you make any judgment?”

“OK.”

“Say ‘I swear,’ OK? Humor me.”

“I swear, boss.”

Saylor was dozing on the couch cradling Marina, and Christine and Zarrabian were hunched over their computer screens when McCaig came in with Bashir. Zarrabian glanced over his shoulder, then jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. The crash startled Marina awake, who started squalling loudly. Bashir whipped his gun from its holster and aimed it at Zarrabian. Saylor wrapped her arms around Marina and twisted to shield the baby with her body. Christine, seeing Bashir’s gun, jumped up from her chair and backed away. Zarrabian raised his hands.

“Whoa! Whoa!” said McCaig. “You swore! One hour!”

Bashir didn’t take his eyes off Zarrabian. He held his gun steady. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here. Sir.”

“Oh, cut the ‘sir’ crap and lower your weapon! This isn’t who you think it is.”

“Don’t screw with me. It’s Zarrabian.”

“What, zombie Zarrabian? Arisen from the dead?”

“I don’t know how, boss. You said on TV you thought he was alive. You even got fired for it. But you were right, weren’t you? And Smith too.”

“One hour, Bashir. You promised. You swore.”

“You misled me! An oath made under false pretenses doesn’t hold!”

“No false pretenses, Omar. And if you’ll just put down that damned gun and listen, I can explain. And yeah, OK, this is Zarrabian. But I still say he’s not who you think he is.”

“You’re scaring the baby!” said Saylor. “I don’t know what’s going on, they haven’t told me yet, but I know this man Zarrabian isn’t going to blow anybody up in the next hour. He’s just sitting here using my computers. Put down your gun, OK?”

Zarrabian finally spoke. “Please, Mr. Bashir. I did not expect you here, and I am disappointed that Captain McCaig surprised you this way. Tact is not in Captain McCaig’s toolbox. But here we are. So please keep your weapon handy if it comforts you. I will give you my word. I will not try to escape or harm anyone.”

“And I’m supposed to believe a terrorist.”

“Oh, hell,” said McCaig.

“Omar,” said Christine. “Haven’t you noticed that everyone else here believes him?”

An hour later, Bashir picked up his weapon from his lap where it had been resting and carefully reholstered it. He shook his head. They were sitting in chairs in a semicircle around Saylor’s couch, with Marina soundly asleep again after her brief outburst.

“This is incredible,” said Bashir.

“It’s your government at its best,” said Saylor. “I was beginning to think I should abandon my radical roots—maybe abandon the Libertarians and register as a Democrat. To hell with that.”

“Governments always have corruption,” said McCaig. “It’s like a perpetual cancer. The question isn’t whether the patient is sick, it’s whether you can catch the cancer and cut it out before the patient dies. And keep doing that, forever.”

“There’s one more piece, boss,” said Bashir, “Remember I told you that Smith buried my report about your phone call? You said that finally made sense. What’s that about? What’s Smith got to do with this?”

“No, it wasn’t the phone call and your report that made sense. It was everything before your report. Smith is the one who put me on this case. In advance. He knew the Golden Gate attack was going down.”

“You mean . . . how can that be?”

“We know this goes straight to Washington, right? The director probably got a call suggesting he ought to use Special Agent McCaig. The director would think a call like that was inappropriate, but he wouldn’t ignore it.”

“So why you?”

“They wanted a loser on the case. After the Cordo disaster, Smith made it plain he thought I was a loser. And he was right; my heart wasn’t in it any more. I did my job, but Smith knew I was just marking time until retirement. Just the guy to do a half-assed investigation of their conspiracy.”

“You were a good agent. You taught me a lot.”

“Thanks, Omar, but I really was slacking. I was in a funk. Anyway, think about the timing. They had to start planning this a year ago, maybe more. I have no idea how they managed to kidnap Colonel Zarrabian and fifteen other professional soldiers out of Iran. That had to be a lot of work. A lot of planning. And brainwashed them or something, too.”

“That kidnapping?” interrupted Zarrabian. “It would not have been as hard as you imagine.”

“How is that?” asked McCaig.

“You Americans believe that international borders are like big lines drawn on the ground, with nice fences and border guards. It is nothing like that between Iran and Iraq. We fought a bitter, useless war with Iraq for eight years with no success. Then in just a few days, America destroyed Saddam Hussein’s government and army as if it were just a joke. The Iran-Iraq border was completely unguarded. Now my country has taken control of almost a third of Iraq’s oil, and Iraq is now our largest trading partner.”

“What?” said McCaig. “Iran controls a third of Iraq? No way. That’s ridiculous.”

“He’s right,” said Saylor. “And the Kurds control another third of Iraq. The official government that we installed after the war only controls a fraction of the country.”

“Crossing the border is common,” said Zarrabian. “We don’t send soldiers to Iraq—the United States did that for us. We send imams, bankers, food, industrialists, bribes, and customers. Iranians can cross the border and travel freely in Iraq so long as they dress as civilians.”

Christine shook her head. “Wow. I’ve investigated a lot of stories in my time, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Huh,” said McCaig. “I didn’t know that.”

“Most Americans don’t,” said Zarrabian. “In fact, I traveled to Iraq many times to shop with my family as tourists, and several times to make military observations. It would not be difficult for Americans to kidnap an Iranian who was visiting Iraq.”

McCaig continued. “Anyway, Bashir, to answer your question, the reason they moved me to San Francisco was to have an incompetent senior investigator available. They kidnapped the colonel and his fellow soldiers and planned these so-called attacks. They had to plan for the aftermath too. They had to make sure the investigation went their way. So Smith got promoted and transferred to San Francisco so that their man would be on the scene when Golden Gate attack went down. And then Smith made sure I got dragged out here to California with him.”

“Wow,” said Bashir. “This is a lot to take in, but it makes sense.”

McCaig turned to Bashir. “So you’re in?”

“I’m still here,” said Bashir.

“You realize you’re making a big mistake, right?” asked McCaig.

“What? What do you mean?”

“You’re jeopardizing your career, Agent Bashir. Strictly speaking, you’re breaking the law. You should have Zarrabian in handcuffs, and maybe me too. Do you understand this?”

“Didn’t we just figure out this is a big conspiracy? That Smith is one of the bad guys?”

“Yeah, but think carefully what you’re doing. What happens if the bad guys win?”

“I end up in prison if I’m lucky, or dead if I’m not,” said Bashir.

“Exactly. I’ll keep you company. But you have to be sure this is what you want to do, because you can’t turn back.”

“Christ, McCaig,” said Christine, “which side are you on? Now you’re trying to convince him to arrest you?”

“It’s OK, Ms. Garrett,” said Bashir. “I swore an oath to defend the Constitution. Not Smith, not the director, and not the president. The Constitution. So thanks, boss, but I’m in.”

McCaig nodded.

“Colonel Zarrabian, there is one more thing,” said Bashir. “My official inquiry about your family was blocked by my superiors. But there was nothing to stop me or any citizen from doing research on my own time. Your wife and daughter are alive and well.”

Zarrabian looked at Bashir for a moment, then at the floor. He finally cleared his throat and looked back up. “Thank you, Mr. Bashir.”

Bashir hesitated for a moment, then continued. “I tried many things, but finally found information about your wife by hacking into the medical database of a hospital in Tehran. She spent several days in there.”

Zarrabian looked up in alarm. “In a hospital? What was wrong?”

“She is very healthy, Colonel. And your newborn son is doing well too.”

Zarrabian’s eyes blinked for a moment, then he took a deep breath and exhaled. “This is, well, thank you, Agent Bashir. Thank you.”

After a few more moments of respectful silence, Saylor sat up and slid Marina carefully from her lap to the couch. “OK, let’s get back to work. And McCaig, no more of your BS about plausible deniability. We’re way past that, and I’m putting myself in charge of research. Got it?”

“Uh, sure,” said McCaig.

“Research is what I do, and I’m good at it. Agent Bashir?”

“Please, call me Omar.”

“OK, Omar.” She gestured at the computers. “I’m guessing you’re pretty good at this too. The rest of you, your jobs are to answer questions, and answer them well. Got it?”

Saylor glared around the room with the authority of a librarian in her element. They nodded. Omar sat at one of the computers behind Saylor and opened a web browser.

Saylor continued, “You spent what, two hours researching already? What did you find?”

“There are 75,000 dams in the United States,” said Christine. “We’re pretty sure the next group of terrorists is going to blow one of them up and cause a devastating flood.”

“And why do you think that?” asked Saylor.

Christine nodded to Zarrabian.

“The name of the operation was ‘Noah’s Revenge,’” said Zarrabian. “And the team included a mining engineer and a demolition expert. Both of these men are experts with explosives.”

“And so your theory is that ‘Noah’s Revenge’ means a flood, and the only way to cause a flood is to demolish a dam.”

“Exactly,” said McCaig.

“And these explosives experts support your theory?” she asked.

“Seems like it,” said McCaig.

Saylor’s brow furrowed and she turned her eyes to the ceiling for a few moments. “OK, and you are sure of these facts, Colonel Zarrabian?”

“Yes.”

“Then I agree, we should be looking at dams. What else have you found?”

“Not much,” said McCaig. “There are just too many of them.”

“You’re trying to find something, but you’re not sure what. The correct approach is to eliminate data that is of no interest.”

“What does that mean?” asked Christine.

Bashir turned around and faced them again. “I found this right off the bat. There are concrete dams, rock-fill dams, earthen dams, wooden dams, and steel dams. There are arch dams and gravity dams, hydroelectric dams, drinking-water dams and irrigation dams. There are dams built on rock foundations, and dams built on dirt. High dams and wide dams. Huge dams and tiny dams. Dams on major rivers and on tiny streams, and dams that only hold water that is pumped in.”

“You found that just now?” asked McCaig.

“He’s got the right idea,” said Saylor.

“If you wanted to blow up a dam,” asked Christine, “wouldn’t you go for the obvious ones like Hoover dam? Shouldn’t we be looking at those?”

“No way,” said McCaig. “Hoover, Shasta, Hetch Hetchy, you’d need a B-1 bomber to breach one of those. We’re looking for one that a small group could take out with just the explosives they could carry in one vehicle. But it has to be a dam that would cause a lot of damage if it broke. Like take out a city or destroy a couple million acres of farms.”

“You’re starting to get it,” said Saylor. “You just eliminated all of the large, concrete dams in America. Don’t guess which dam they targeted. Instead, figure out what would not interest a terrorist. That’s usually much easier, and you’ll probably eliminate most of those 75,000 dams. Then look at what’s left, and maybe something will jump out at you.”

“Not just the concrete dams,” said Zarrabian. “Any dam with a concrete facing, and dams that are rock filled. They would be impossible to blow up even with hundreds of pounds of explosives.”

“What does that leave?” asked Saylor.

“I’d say we can also eliminate all of the wood and steel dams,” said McCaig. “They’ll all be small and uninteresting.”

“That leaves earth-filled dams,” said Saylor. “Now you are thinking like a librarian.”

An hour later, Saylor pushed her chair back from the computer and twisted her head from side to side, stretching her neck. Bashir glanced over his shoulder momentarily, but then returned his attention to the computer. McCaig stood up from the couch, stretched, and yawned loudly. Zarrabian and Christine looked up from reading the books they’d found.

“You guys have been quiet for a long time,” said McCaig. “Is there even a remote chance you’re going to find something?”

“We’ve made a lot of progress,” said Saylor.

“Progress? Does that mean you’ve found it?”

“We’re down to a few dozen dams. Agent Bashir, I mean, Omar, found an online database operated by the United States Department of the Interior. He downloaded the data and created a database on this computer. For the past half hour, we have been using database queries to narrow our search, eliminating categories of dams that a terrorist would find uninteresting.”

“And?”

“We've narrowed the problem down from 75,000 dams to to eleven.”

“Wow,” said McCaig. “I’m impressed. We’re almost there.”

“No, we’re not,” said Christine. “If we can’t narrow it down to exactly one, we’re still screwed.”

“She’s right,” said Bashir, turning from the computer. “So let’s start the dirty work. One by one, fact by fact, and see if we can eliminate any more. Even if we can’t narrow it down to one, maybe we can rank them most-to-least likely or something.”

“So can you tell us what it took for a dam to make it onto our final list?”

“Well, it’s a little complicated, but roughly speaking these are all compacted earth or hydraulic fill earth dams. Basically, they’re dirt. They’re among the biggest dams in America—in the world, in fact. And each one is on a river with at least one big city downstream that would have a catastrophic flood. And they have to be full of water. We tossed some of the big ones, particularly in California, like the San Luis and Oroville Dams, because both of those are down almost a hundred feet due to the drought.”

“So, for lack of a better plan, let’s start with the biggest dams and work down from there,” said Saylor. “What’s first?”

Bashir turned back to his computer and did some fast typing and clicking. A moment later, he turned back. “It looks like the Oahe and Garrison dams are tied for first place at about twenty-three million acre feet, followed by the Fort Peck Dam at about nineteen million acre feet.”

Christine snapped her book shut and sat up straight. “Jesus Christ, what rivers are those three on?”

Bashir looked back at his computer. “They’re all three on the Missouri River. In fact . . .” He clicked and brought up a map, scrutinizing it for a moment. “All three are in a row. Fort Peck is first, then downstream is Garrison Dam, and downstream from that is the Oahe Dam.”

“I remember this. Some guy on the Internet wrote a hypothetical story about terrorists blowing up Fort Peck.”

Bashir spun back to his computer, typing furiously with Saylor bent over his shoulder watching.

“Holy, holy crap,” he said a moment later. “I think she’s right.”

They all gathered behind Bashir’s chair.

“Oh my god,” said Saylor. “This is awful. This has to be the one. Montana. Fort Peck, Montana. This dam has the one. It’s the proverbial perfect storm: unprotected, easy to destroy, and an unbelievable amount of damage.”

Bashir clicked his mouse and scrolled the screen to see more.

“And it’s all right here on the Internet.”

“Fort Peck, Montana?” said McCaig. “What, they’re gonna drown some cows?”

“Yeah, some cows. Then some towns you haven’t heard of like Frazer and Poplar, and on down the river through a half dozen more small towns to Williston. The flood might even run backwards up the Milk River and take out Nashua.”

“Never heard of those places. How many people?” asked McCaig.

“By the time it gets to Williston, maybe twenty or thirty thousand people have fled, and a few thousand might be dead.”

“That’s not good,” said McCaig. “Still, it seems like a small target. Why not a dam where there are more people?”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” said Saylor.

“Watch this,” said Bashir. “There are a lot of anti-dam activists, mostly ecologists and engineers. They put a simulation on the Internet of what would happen if the Fort Peck dam breaks.”

He clicked a button, and a map of the Missouri River started changing. The slender blue line of the river below the dam changed to a red color before swelling and widening, traveling down the Missouri River Valley.

“See there at the bottom of the map? It’s the time since the dam breach, in hours on the left. On the right, that’s an estimate of the death toll.”

Saylor narrated as they watched. “The real trouble starts when the Fort Peck flood hits Lake Sakakawea and the Garrison dam, the next dam down the river. It’s too much water, and Garrison dam breaks too. Now instead of nineteen million, we have over forty million acre feet of water.”

“This is more than a few cows,” said McCaig.

“The river is just getting warmed up,” said Saylor. “Eight hours after the dam goes, the flood wipes out Bismarck. Remember that from grade school? It’s the capital of North Dakota. A hundred thousand people, but most of them escape because there’s time to warn them. Then the water hits a third dam, Oahe, which breaks. Now we have over sixty million acre feet of water loose in the Missouri River Valley.”

“That sounds like a lot of water,” said McCaig.

Saylor continued. “Then another state capital, Pierre, South Dakota. Sioux City, a hundred thousand people. Omaha, Nebraska, eight hundred thousand people. Then Kansas City, St. Louis, Memphis. Millions of people. Through Arkansas, Mississippi, and into Louisiana, where it takes out a third state capital, Baton Rouge. Finally, the entire city of New Orleans.”

There was silence. The computer simulation had stopped, but it showed a red swath of destruction that cut the country in half.

“Damn,” said McCaig.

Saylor looked at her screen again. “Nobody really knows, but a good guess is tens of thousands dead, millions homeless, and every major insurance company bankrupt. The stock market would collapse.”

“And there’s not a single highway or railroad left that goes across the country,” added Bashir. “Every bridge across the Mississippi River is out. The whole country is cut in half.”

“Fifteen percent of the country’s electricity generation is destroyed,” said Saylor.

“Huh,” said McCaig. “You say New Orleans would be destroyed?”

“That’s what this says. Underwater. And it would probably break levees all over the place. The Army Corps of Engineers would have a hell of a time putting that river back in its banks.”

“Did you know New Orleans is the biggest seaport in the world?” said McCaig.

“No way,” said Christine. “New York and Amsterdam are huge.”

“I worked there one summer on a case,” said McCaig. “If you include all the facilities on the river from New Orleans to Baton Rouge, it handles more tonnage each day than New York or Amsterdam.”

“My God,” said Christine. “Everyone worries about nuclear terrorism. A nuclear bomb in New York City wouldn’t do as much damage as this.”

“You are getting too excited,” said Zarrabian, who had been quietly watching from behind. “There is still no proof at all that this is the target. You are confusing drama with good detective work.”

Saylor looked at Zarrabian and nodded. “He’s right. Just because some guy wrote a scary article and someone else made cool animated graphics, those things don’t add any weight to evidence.”

“Tell me more about this dam,” said Zarrabian.

“Well here’s something,” said Bashir. “It already failed once, back in 1938 right after it was finished. It’s a hydraulic fill dam, meaning they built it with mud that they dredged up using river water. They miscalculated the weight and the strength of the shale. Almost two thousand feet of the dam collapsed into the reservoir.”

“And the dam burst?” asked Christine.

“No, it was still mostly empty.”

“So basically, the mud did what mud does,” said Christine.

“Did they fix it?” asked McCaig. “I mean, I guess so since the dam is there today, but what did they do?”

“Yeah, they fixed it. But it took two more years. And eight guys died that day. Six of them were never found, and are still buried in the dam somewhere.”

“That is it!” said Zarrabian. “That is the key! This is the right dam!”

“What?” said McCaig.

“There is no doubt. I overheard the soldiers talking one evening after supper while we trained for our missions. They all laughed about something, and the team leader said ‘We will send those six men’s bones to New Orleans.’ The Fort Peck dam is their target.”

“Morning, Saylor,” said the waitress. She bent down and smiled at little Marina in her high chair. “Good morning, cutie! How are you this morning?” Marina smiled at the waitress and banged a spoon on the tray.

“Brought some friends this morning?” asked the waitress.

Saylor glanced around the table at her bleary-eyed companions. Bashir didn’t look too bad, but was still in the same rumpled shirt and slacks he’d come in. Christine and McCaig looked like they’d barely slept in the short four hours since they’d left the library. Zarrabian was waiting in the RV, and had assured them he’d make do with whatever they brought back.

“Morning Jeanie,” said Saylor. “Yeah, an old college buddy of mine and, uh, these are his parents.”

McCaig raised his eyebrows and suppressed a smile.

“They were passing through the area and surprised me.”

“Well, glad to have you. What can I get you?”

They all ordered, and a minute they later eagerly embraced the four steaming cups of coffee that arrived.

“Well, what now?” asked Saylor.

Bashir shook his head. “I have no idea. I’m used to working with the Bureau. Someone brings in a problem, some evidence, you make sure it’s legit, then you go to the boss and see if it’s worth starting an investigation. By the book. Now . . . I don’t know.”

McCaig put down his coffee. “And that’s exactly what we’ll do: investigate and find the crooks. Only we do it on our own this time.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Bashir.

“No, but what choice do we have?” asked McCaig.

“Well, I know one thing for sure,” said Christine, “You don’t get a story from 1,500 miles away. We have to get to Fort Peck.”

“Agreed,” said McCaig. Bashir nodded his head too.

“And we have to get there before this goes down. That’s where the story is, and that’s where your crime is going to take place.”

“So you just show up? Then what?” asked Saylor.

“I’m not sure,” said Christine. “But it’s a long drive and we’ll have a lot of time to think. Between me, Bashir, McCaig, and Zarrabian, we’ve got some good brains.”

“What about me? You got me in on this, now you think you can just leave me behind?” asked Saylor. “I want to go.”

“No way,” said McCaig. “For a hundred reasons, not the least of which is your baby. And you can probably figure out the rest of them yourself. The fewer the better on a mission like this. Besides, what do you think you can do? No offense, but this could be dangerous.”

“I can do research, help you find information,” she said.

“You can do that from here. I’m sure Bashir can find a secure way for you to contact us.”

“Piece of cake,” said Bashir.

Saylor leaned back with a disappointed sigh. “You’re right. But I had to ask.”

“And I know this sounds melodramatic,” said Christine, “but these really are dangerous people. They’re willing to start wars. Killing us wouldn’t be a big deal to them. I’d like to go into this knowing that someone else can tell the story if I can’t.”

“Seriously?” asked Sayor.

“She’s right,” said McCaig. “This is deadly serious.”

“Wow, OK then. So again, what’s your plan?” asked Saylor.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve gone after someone powerful and dangerous,” said Christine. “You have to find their weakness and go after that. For these guys, it’s that they can only operate in the dark. We’re going to shine a bright light of publicity into their cave and let the public see what’s really going on. And let me tell you, there are few things more dangerous to politicians than an angry public.”

“Easier said than done,” said Saylor.

“Well, Americans are famous around the world for distrusting their own government. Conspiracy theories are as common as flies on a dead fish. We don’t need a case that will stand up in court, just enough to open a can of worms that our enemies can’t shut again.”

Bashir broke in. “What about me? I’m no journalist. I could be in San Francisco in an hour, and nobody would be the wiser. Maybe I’d be more help there; you know, keep my ear to the ground and stuff.”

“No way, Bashir,” said McCaig. “You have many talents, but lying isn’t one of them. You think you’re just going to go back and chase that credit card hacker, pretend the last twenty-four hours never happened, all the while knowing that the biggest act of treason in the history of your country is days, maybe hours, away?”

“No, probably not,” said Bashir.

“Omar, I need you,” said Christine. “We’re a team, and there are still too many missing pieces in this puzzle. You know a lot.”

“He does,” said Bashir, nodding at McCaig. “But me? I just got here.”

“I need your ideas and your insight. You were there at the bridge. You know Smith. You know more than you think, Omar. And besides that, you’re the best techno whiz I’ve ever seen, and I’m going to need someone who can keep me connected to the Internet in the middle of Cowtown, Montana.”

“I’ll tell you why you’re really going, Bashir,” said Saylor. “I got in trouble a couple of times at Berkeley. Iraq was an immoral war that was being fought on false pretenses. American boys, including a couple friends of mine, were coming back maimed and devastated at what they’d seen and done. So we broke the law and got thrown in jail, because that was the only moral course of action. I think you have that kind of morality too.”

Bashir dropped his head and stared at his plate for a long moment, then looked back at Saylor. “Yeah, I’m going.”

“I have an idea,” said Christine, but the waitress interrupted with a big tray filled with steaming plates of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and hash browns. The waitress got everyone’s meal in front of them quickly.

“Can I get you folks anything else?” she asked.

“No, this looks great, Jeanie,” said Saylor.

Christine dug into her meal and was about to take her first bite when McCaig spoke up. “Well? You have an idea?”

Christine’s fork paused in mid air, then she put it down.

“It’s time to go on the offensive. We’re sitting ducks right now. They’ve got us on the run, and that pisses me off.”

Lieutenant General Patterson looked up in surprise as Erica Blackwell burst into his office. She slammed the door behind her.

“You couldn’t knock? Maybe ask my assistant if I’m busy?”

“We’ve got a problem, Jack.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess. That FBI agent and reporter are saying Zarrabian is alive.”

“Worse. We could handle that. My contact over at NSA set up a nationwide Internet trigger that watches for certain keywords—you know, things people search for on Google and Bing. Last night, someone did a long series of searches for dams and terrorism.”

Patterson sat up. “Well, that’s not good. But it could be anyone, right? Just searching for dams? That’s gotta be common.”

“No, it’s much worse than that. They started searching for types of dams, dam capacities, then how to blow up a dam, then dams and terrorism. And here’s the home run, Jack. They zeroed in on the Fort Peck Dam in Montana.”

“Shit.”

“Once they found that, they did all sorts of related searches, looked at satellite views, street views, the history of the dam, and worst of all, they found a series of articles about how the dam is an ideal target for terrorists and how a terrorist could blow it up.”

“Fuck. OK, you’re right, that’s pretty bad. But again, it could be anyone. Lots of people read those articles.”

“Jack, the search came from a library in a little town called Rio Vista. It’s about a half-hour drive from the general area where McCaig made that phone call to his former FBI partner. You think that’s a coincidence?”

“Not likely.”

“And it was more than one person; at least two, and possibly three or four, were all doing similar searches from the same location. The searches came too fast for it to be one person. And get this: it was late at night, when that library was supposed to be closed. We called the local police and got connected to the cop who was on patrol last night. Real nice guy. He said he’d seen the librarian working late, but nothing unusual; she was by herself. She works late all the time. Then the cop got curious, you know, like what’s up? Why are you asking? Our guy gave him some vague answer about illegal Internet activity, just checking, thanks for your help.”

“And the cop didn’t see anything else?”

“No. He even got out of his car and chatted with the librarian briefly. Didn’t see anything. Then my guy asked the cop if he’d seen anything at all unusual, and the cop said, no not really, but there was an RV parked near the library, which he thought was odd for his little town.”

“So the librarian was definitely there late last night.”

“Right. And there had to be other people there too.”

“We’ve got to assume they’ve found something,” said Patterson.

“We do,” said Blackwell. “But I can’t see how this actually changes anything. What if they guessed it’s Fort Peck. Does it matter?”

Patterson swiveled his chair around and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Blackwell waited for a long minute. He finally turned back.

“Christine Garrett doesn’t have anything solid. It’s just speculation, right?”

“Right.”

“So she can’t go on the air with it.”

“No.”

“And if the attack happens before she goes on the air, then she’ll look stupid if she tries to say she knew about the attack ahead of time, but didn’t report it. Right?”

“Yeah. Right,” she replied.

“She’s got nothing. Just guesses. She won’t go on the air with it. The bitch is smart, really smart. But it won’t do her any good.”

“Hello, I’m Christine Garrett. Welcome to our program. With me today is Colonel Ahmad Zarrabian of the Islamic Republic of Iran Army, also known to most Americans as the terrorist whose team destroyed the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Colonel Zarrabian has agreed to speak to me about one topic only. Normally I would not agree to an interview in which the topic and questions are dictated in advance; however, I am making an exception today. The information that Colonel Zarrabian will reveal is of vital importance to America’s security and to our political process. I should also add that this interview is being conducted in a moving vehicle in an unknown location. Shortly after we conclude this interview, Colonel Zarrabian will disappear once again.

“Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Colonel.”

Zarrabian nodded.

“Colonel, most Americans have all seen the videos and photographs of you and your team as you prepared to destroy the Golden Gate Bridge. One event stands out, and has raised questions everywhere: just before the two Marine helicopters fired at and killed your team, you climbed over the side of the bridge and descended on a rope. Because of this, you are alive today. It looks to many as though you were trying to escape, to abandon your own team and leave them to die. What do you say to this?”

“It is false. I would never abandon my men.”

“Why did you climb over the railing?”

“We had a small team of seven men. Each man’s job was critical to the success of the mission. Just before the two helicopter gunships arrived, I discovered that one of my team members, a man named Ibrahim, was missing. I spotted a rope tied to the railing of the bridge. When I investigated, I found that Ibrahim had climbed over the railing and lowered himself to a beam on the bridge’s framework. He was using a cell phone to contact someone. I instantly knew that he was a traitor.”

“Why is that?”

“My orders were clear: the men were not to have phones, computers, tablets, not even book readers. We carried no devices that could be tracked or used to send messages. Furthermore, Ibrahim had no opportunity to acquire a cell phone. We remained hidden at all times, and my men had no access to retail stores.”

“So the fact that he had a cell phone meant he had defied your orders?”

“Yes. And that he had an accomplice who left a cell phone where Ibrahim could find it.”

“He knew he would die soon. Perhaps he merely wanted to speak to a loved one one last time.”

“No. He had climbed to a safe place where he wouldn’t be killed by the helicopters. It left no doubt.”

“What did you do?”

“I killed him.”

“Why? Your operation was coming under attack. Shouldn’t you have ignored Ibrahim and focused on your mission?”

“I rarely lose my temper, Ms. Garrett, but in this case I let my emotions rule me. The man betrayed his country and his fellow soldiers. There are few greater sins. He deserved to die.”

“Moments after you killed him, the Marine helicopters fired on your team. You only survived because you had descended Ibrahim’s rope so that you could kill him.”

“Yes.”

“Many viewers will recall that you and I met by chance because I was in a sailing race at that moment and rescued you from the water. Just before you killed Ibrahim, I saw a speedboat below the bridge holding the lower end of Ibrahim’s rope. Can you tell us about that?”

“I would not have been surprised if the United States had discovered our operation and arrested or killed us. That is a risk we took. But this was more. This waiting boat tells me that his escape must have been arranged in far advance. It also shows that Ibrahim betrayed the American people.”

“Betrayed America? How? Wasn’t Ibrahim doing his job by infiltrating your operation?”

“No. Ibrahim was put on our team months ago. We were training in the desert in Arizona, and—”

“You trained here, in America? In Arizona?”

“Yes, in the desert of Arizona. Once Ibrahim had infiltrated our group, your government could have arrested us at any time. They would have found trucks, explosives, and detailed maps and plans. We would have been imprisoned for life.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“You have asked the key question, Ms. Garrett. Why did they wait?”

“And this is why you’ve agreed to this interview, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have an answer? Why did the government wait to arrest you?”

“There can be only one reason: someone in your government wanted a highly public success, one that was widely reported. American intelligence has been too successful at finding and arresting terrorists, and the public is no longer afraid. Funding for the CIA, NSA, and Homeland Security is drying up. American citizens are safe, and they no longer want to pay the taxes that safety requires.

“Imagine if they had arrested us in the night, somewhere deep in the sand dunes of Arizona’s desert. We would have been taken in secret for interrogation, perhaps to Guantanamo Bay, and then locked up forever or simply killed. America would be safe, but the voters would have no appreciation for the excellent intelligence operation that uncovered our operation. Do you remember the old film Superman, starring Christopher Reeve?”

“Superman? Of course,” said Christine. “How is that relevant?”

“There is a scene where a robber shoots at Lois Lane. Superman, disguised as Clark Kent, catches the bullet in his hand and saves Lois Lane’s life. But he cannot reveal his heroism to the beautiful Miss Lane, so he must endure her scorn and contempt.

“This is the same problem your politicians face. Their successes must be secret, and the protection they provide must be invisible. Unlike Superman, who wanted love and admiration, these politicians crave money and power. And they are not getting it.

“This is why your politicians in Washington decided to let us proceed with our mission: to increase fear among the voters.”

“Colonel, are you saying someone in Washington deliberately allowed you to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge for political purposes?”

“Yes and no. Yes, they let us proceed. But no, they did not plan for our operation to succeed. They kept a very close eye on us. They intended to intervene at the last possible moment so that they could kill us on television with the entire nation watching. Ibrahim kept them informed of our every move. Unfortunately for them, things did not go as planned. They, what is your expression? They cut it too close.”

“That is a very strong accusation. You can’t expect us to believe this on your word alone. You could have had many reasons for killing Ibrahim.”

“There is much more evidence that supports my claim. The strongest evidence is the military response. My team researched military bases in California very carefully before we planned this operation. You recall that a Harrier jet arrived first, followed by two Marine SuperCobra gunship helicopters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“There are no aircraft like that stationed anywhere near San Francisco. There are fighter jets near Sacramento and Fresno that could be airborne quickly, but they are not ideal for attacking a bridge. Their missiles could have destroyed the bridge. There are closer air bases, but they only have heavy transport aircraft, not tactical fighters.”

“So where did the Harrier and helicopters come from?”

“A Wasp-class United States Navy helicopter-carrier ship just happened to be passing at the very time of the attack. A few hours earlier or later and they would not have been able to send their aircraft to attack my team.”

“That sounds like very good luck. Why is it evidence of a conspiracy?”

“We planned to carry out our operation and destroy the bridge a week earlier. Ibrahim caused a delay. He damaged some of the electronic detonator equipment, and we had to wait while he repaired it. And when he finally did, he was adamant that we attack the very next day.”

“Again, Colonel, this could just be back luck. A coincidence.”

“I do not believe in coincidences, Ms. Garrett. United States Navy aircraft carriers rarely sail near the American shore. This carrier was only near San Francisco for a few hours as it sailed past on its way north. Ibrahim knew this, and delayed my team until that exact time. There can be no doubt that he knew the navy ship’s schedule, and he knew that it would have armed aircraft ready to launch. There is only possible source for this information: someone in the American military told him.”

“Tell us about the attack on the LNG supertanker in Boston Harbor. Did you know those men?”

“I did. We trained together. Their leader was Jahandar. His rank was the equivalent of your lieutenant.”

“Do you believe the United States Government also allowed them to go forward and killed them at the last minute in order to get publicity?”

“Yes. I knew of their plans. The government claims that an anonymous caller warned them of the operation. This is a lie. I have seen the news stories and analyzed the building. It would have been impossible for anyone on the ground to spot the Lieutenant Jahandar’s men. Only a person in a low-flying aircraft could have seen them, but no aircraft were allowed in the area due to the security perimeter around the tanker ship. So who called in this anonymous tip? Nobody. Because the someone in your government knew of the attack in advance, and deliberately let it go forward for maximum publicity.”

“That is the end of the questions that were prepared in advance. Do you have anything else to say?”

“That is all. Thank you for conducting this interview.”

“Christ, we’ve got problems, Jack.” Erica Blackwell jabbed the remote control button and the TV screen went dark.

“Bullshit,” said Patterson. “What, they think they’re dealing with kids?” He scoffed. “They got it all wrong. This is a pissant conspiracy theory. Hell, even Nixon would have laughed at these clowns.”

“Jack, that was solid reporting. We can’t shrug this one off.”

“But their theory is completely wrong!”

“It’s not completely wrong. They’ve got some facts.”

“But they missed the key to the whole operation.”

“That’s why you’re the army man and I’m the politician, Jack. Right or wrong, it can still bring down an administration.”

Patterson rolled his eyes.

“You think this is funny?” she asked. “Jack, we’re in trouble here, and all you can do is roll your eyes? This isn’t fucking high school! You’re in the White House, and we’re playing for keeps.”

“Jesus Christ, Erica, don’t be so dramatic,” said Patterson. But a moment later, seeing the fury build in her eyes, he relented. “OK, you’re right, Garret found something and we can’t just ignore it. We’ve got to get in front of this and do damage control.”

“Damned right.”

“So do what you’re so good at. Where do we start?” asked Patterson.

“I think we can do this one by the book. First we’ll go after Garrett herself. Right after that terrorist landed in her boat we started dredging up dirt on her, just in case we needed it. Turns out she’s got a nasty divorce that included an abortion against her husband’s wishes and allegations of infidelity, and he was all too eager to spill it all during a sworn deposition for her lawyers. So we start by leaking that to Fox News, tabloids, talk shows, and the gossip outlets.”

“I like it,” said Patterson.

“It gets better. Turns out she had to retract a story when she was first getting started, or parts of it at least. She caused a lot of embarrassment to her TV station. Something about a politician snorting coke at a sex party, but her source was just lying. She didn’t get two sources for the allegation, and she didn’t check out the one source she had.”

“But that was what, twenty-five years ago?” asked Patterson.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Blackwell. “We attack her personally and professionally—a one-two punch. The public will eat it up.”

“What about that?” he say, nodding at the TV.

“We don’t say anything. Maybe get some third-level bureaucrat to go on record saying it’s beneath the dignity of the White House to comment on crazy conspiracy theories. Then an ‘unnamed source’ leaks a story that FBI Special Agent McCaig may be under criminal investigation for covering up his relationship with a terrorist.”

“Yeah, I like that,” said Patterson. “And maybe they have evidence that he deliberately botched the investigation. We tell them to re-run that interview where he says, ‘payback time’ and get people thinking about double meanings and hidden messages.”

“You’re getting the idea. It’s not about facts, it’s about viral misinformation. And taking someone down. You know why people watch that stupid talent show, American Idol?”

“I’m guessing good music isn’t the answer.”

“No. They watch it for the same reason they watch car races. They want someone to crash and burn. They’re not interested in the winner. So we’re going to give them a car wreck and then hand out cans of kerosene to the tabloids that call themselves newspapers. And I guarantee you they’ll pour it on the wreck and strike a match.”

“Maybe we can get the Navy brass to say something, like you know, ‘The idea that the United States Navy was involved in any way with a political conspiracy is blah, blah, blah, and an insult to the integrity and blah, blah.’”

“That’s a good idea,” said Blackwell.

“OK, it sounds like you have this handled. But we have another problem,” said Patterson.

“What’s that?”

“The senator wants us to end the whole thing. For good.”

“Christ, Jack. You mean . . . you know you can’t do that, right?”

“We may not have any choice.”

“Jack, listen to yourself. When we started this, it was all going to be simple. One or two flubbed attacks by so-called terrorists who were clueless and expendable. Work up the voters so that they’ll let us do what this country should have done a long time ago.”

“We’re still going to do that, Erica.”

“Yeah, well our so-called terrorists were too smart by half. They blew up a bridge, got a SWAT team killed, and one of them escaped. Then team number two drilled a big hole in the side of an LNG supertanker. And now you’re talking about the cold-blooded murder of an FBI agent and a reporter. Jack, don’t go there.”

“I can’t ignore the senator. Trust me, that’s not an option.”

“You can’t commit cold-blooded murder! A reporter? And right after a bombshell story?”

“Well, that’s unfortunate timing, isn’t it?”

“Are you even listening to me? We can get this back in control. We have a plan, Jack!”

“We do, Blackwell. And you’d better make it work, because if you don’t, we have a backup plan too. Got it?”

“Not we, Jack. I can’t be part of that.”

He spun back around. “You’re in. Get it? You don’t get to back out, Blackwell. If this ship goes down, you’re going down with it. You might as well help me keep it afloat.”

“Don’t threaten me, Patterson. I’m not backing out. But we have a solution. You just have to let me do it.”

“You’d better.”

Blackwell’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. “Shit.”

“What?”

“They just tracked Christine Garrett on a flight to Salt Lake City.”

“Jesus Christ. Did they follow her?”

“No, they found this after she landed and was gone. She used an assumed name.”

“And McCaig?”

“We still have no idea were he is.”

“Salt Lake City. He’s probably driving, and she’s gone to meet him. Now they’re halfway to Montana.”

“You don’t know that. They could have a lot of reasons for going to Utah.”

“I don’t believe in fucking coincidences,” said Patterson. Then he stood stock still, frozen in thought. A few seconds later, he broke out of it. “I know how to fix this. I need you to do something. Listen carefully.”

“What?”

“Just listen. Call the director at the FBI. If they have any kind of tail on McCaig and Garrett, any orders at all, tell them to knock it off. Tell them it’s a matter of national security that they leave McCaig and Garrett alone, and that the White House will take full responsibility. You can hint that other agencies are involved. Got it?”

“What the hell, Jack?”

“You got that?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Just do it! And all that other shit you just said, do that too.” Patterson turned from the window and headed for the door. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Isn’t that what they say? I’ve gotta go,” he said.

“Jack, stop!” said Blackwell. “You’re going to go off again half cocked without consulting me. We’re in this together! Goddamn it!” she shouted as the door slammed behind him.

Christine watched parched grass and scrub brush roll past her window. It seemed like hours since she’d last seen a tree. Nothing but low, undulating hills covered with brittle grass and brush, followed by more of the same, hour after hour as their little RV rolled north. Whoever had written America the Beautiful must have been somewhere else when inspiration struck.

Ahead lay Montana. One of the biggest criminal conspiracies in American history was converging on the Fort Peck Dam, and she might be the only reporter there—certainly the only one who knew what was actually going on.

Bashir and McCaig reminded Christine of wolves cast out from the pack, lonely and shivering in the cold. Their careers had been devoted to upholding the law. Now they were alone, not knowing whom they could trust. They had redoubled the strength of their partnership, almost like brothers, or maybe like a father and son. Neither had expressed a concrete plan of action, but Christine had a sense that something was up.

Zarrabian? He played his cards close to the chest. Christine knew his motives were those of a soldier: protect his country. His fellow soldiers were walking into a deadly trap, created by one of the cleverest deceptions in military history. If they sprung that trap, it would trigger a war against their own country. But these were her thoughts. Zarrabian wasn’t talking much.

She ought to feel excited. This was the biggest story of her career. She’d reported some good stories, even a couple great ones. But nothing like this. There would never be another story like it. She would be the reporter whose name would be forever associated with the worst government conspiracy in the history of America. Assuming she could actually report it.

So why didn’t she feel energized?

She was usually immune to the emotional impact of her stories. Her job was to investigate impartially, to remain detached, and especially to stay out of the story itself. But this one was getting to her. How was it possible that a conspiracy of this magnitude had survived this long without being discovered?

She was going to break this story. It was important. But would it matter? Or would the Internet drown the whole thing in a sea of misinformation, disinformation, and conspiracy theories?

The attacks on her had already started. Somehow they’d dug up the deposition transcripts from her divorce, along with all of the salacious details of her abortion. The news was rife with adulterous innuendo about a good friend, whose real involvement had been to help her realize the abuse wasn’t her fault. He’d been nothing more than that, contrary to her husband’s jealous claims. Now his name was getting smeared alongside hers. It made her sick.

And of course they’d found her erroneous story about the politician snorting coke. God, what a mess. She’d learned a lot that day. Her producer had yelled at her until she wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He didn’t fire her, but he did make her write an apology and retraction and personally deliver it on the air live.

Now both stories were making at least as much noise on the attack-dog TV networks as her piece about the terrorist conspiracy. Every late-night comedy host had all mentioned her in at least one joke. CNN and MSNBC had reported the stories but had avoided the lurid exaggerations and had reminded viewers that this was clearly a counterattack intended to discredit her breaking story about the terrorist attacks.

At least Grant had put on a strong defense for her.

She should have known this would happen. She’d put herself in the line of fire of powerful people. Why was she surprised that a few bullets had winged her? At least they hadn’t scored a career-ending hit yet.

Were real reporters a thing of the past? Was genuine news getting submerged in a quagmire of viral memes, uninformed bloggers, and “news” organizations that were nothing more than fronts for special-interest groups? Was it all about attack, counterattack, misinformation, and lies?

McCaig’s voice startled her. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

“Not much to say.”

He glanced over at her and raised a skeptical eyebrow, then returned his gaze to the road.

They’d left Salt Lake City in the dead of night. Zarrabian had taken the first shift at the wheel and was now in the bedroom in the back sleeping. Bashir was sitting at the RV’s dining table with his computer. They’d stopped at a big-box retail store in Salt Lake City, and Bashir emerged with a shopping bag of electronics and cables.

When he got through hooking things together, Bashir explained that they now had secure, untraceable Internet access. Their Internet presence shifted from country to country, never staying more than five minutes. One Google search would seem like it was from a citizen in Germany, the next from India, and after that maybe Brazil or Canada. One minute it looked like they were on an old PC with out-of-date software, and the next minute they appeared to be using a new Macintosh with the most modern browser available. Nobody could trace their activity to an RV driving across Utah, Idaho, and Montana.

Salt Lake City was six hours behind them. The Fort Peck Dam was still six hours ahead. Her destiny. Maybe the destiny of the whole country. They had no idea if they’d be there in time. No idea where or how to find Zarrabian’s fellow “terrorists.” Just a 134-mile-long lake with 1,500 miles of shoreline and 350 square miles of water to search.

Hell, was Fort Peck really the target? Was this all just a fantasy, an air castle they’d built out of bricks molded from speculation and guesses? Would they get to Fort Peck and find nothing more than a lake and a few fishermen?

Over the drone of highway and engine noise, Christine heard rustling and voices from behind her. Zarrabian emerged from the bedroom. Bashir looked up from his computer screen. He nodded at Zarrabian, but Christine could see that Bashir was very uncomfortable in Zarrabian’s company.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Christine.

“Well enough, thank you,” said Zarrabian. He sat down across the table from Bashir.

“Hey, who’s turn is it to drive? I’m tired,” said McCaig.

“Mine,” said Christine.

“My shift is over,” said McCaig. He set the cruise control and stood up, one hand on the steering wheel.

“TJ, don’t be an ass! You’re going to get us killed! Sit down!”

“Nah, what are we going to hit out here? That truck a mile ahead? Sit down and drive. I’m going to let go of the steering wheel in three, two . . .”

She slid around him and took over the controls. “You’re a maniac!”

“My mom and dad used to switch drivers without stopping all the time on the drive to Phoenix to visit my uncle. I thought it was a hoot.” He dropped into the passenger seat.

“It’s a wonder you survived to the age of eighteen, McCaig.”

“Since we’re all awake, and out in the middle of nowhere, I have a question,” said Bashir.

McCaig swiveled the passenger-side chair around to face Bashir and Zarrabian.

“OK, what’s up?”

“A serious question. Maybe we should pull over so we can all talk about this?”

“I can hear just fine,” said Christine from the driver’s seat. “And I don’t want to stop out here. A cop or good Samaritan might come along and decide to stop to see if we need help.”

“Right,” said Bashir. “OK, so back there in Rio Vista, we got excited about channeling Sherlock and being clever. Grab our stuff, jump on our horses, we’re all riding off to Montana to save the day. We’re trying to stop a terrorist attack, but how?”

“No,” said Zarrabian.

“Definitely not,” said Christine. “You may be the smartest geek I’ve ever met, but you’ve got to think bigger.”

“What?” asked Bashir.

“Catching the criminals is way more important than stopping the crime,” said McCaig.

“But this isn’t just a crime like some bank robbery! Tens of thousands of people could die! What were the numbers? Billions in damages, insurance industry bankrupt, stock market collapsed, all the bridges out, the biggest seaport in the world destroyed? No way we can let that happen.”

“Have you thought of the cost of a war?” asked Zarrabian.

“I, uh . . .”

“If the Fort Peck dam is breached, tens of thousands of Americans may die,” said Zarrabian. “It is a guess, we can not know. But if the criminals in your government are not caught, there will be another war. An illegal, unnecessary war fought so that industrialists can put more money into their bank accounts. Instead of ten thousand dead Americans, there will be a hundred thousand dead Iranians and many thousands of young American soldiers. Just as there were in Afghanistan and Iraq, and in Vietnam and Korea. America often forgets the true cost of war.”

“Think about the cases we’ve solved,” said McCaig. “Sometimes we’ve got the bad guys nailed, red handed. We could arrest them any time we wanted. But we hold off, because they’ll lead us to bigger fish. Right?”

“Well, sure. But we don’t let them murder some innocent just because we wanted the bigger fish, do we?”

“Depends,” said McCaig. “Probably not, but you have to look at the consequences. If some guy has a nuclear weapon, you really want to get it, even if a few people get hurt along the way. Right now we want to save the dam, but catching the bad guys is way more important.”

“I guess so,” said Bashir, “But if this is some government conspiracy, there’s no way it can be the whole FBI. Smith is part of it, and we don’t know about the director. But there’s no way the Salt Lake district is going to be in on this. Why can’t we just tell them what’s up? They’d have to respond. They could stop the attack on the dam. Especially if Ms. Garrett, er, Christine, went public with the story.”

Christine shook her head. “So how does that catch the bad guys?”

“Well, there’d be an investigation, right?” said Bashir. “And we know Smith is in on this, and we’ve got Colonel Zarrabian here, and maybe with some help we could bring in the other Iranians and get their testimony. Maybe Smith would plea bargain, spill the beans on the next guy up, and we could get to the top.”

McCaig shook his head. “We’ve got nothing concrete to pin on these guys. We don’t have one handful of manure to throw at them. And for people like this, you need a whole bucket full if you want any to stick. We’re just pissants. Nobodies. We’re barely a weed in their driveway when they back out.”

“And if Colonel Zarrabian turns himself in, he’ll disappear into some hellhole like Guantanamo with no trial and no conviction,” said Christine.

“If he lives that long,” said McCaig.

“And you two won’t be exempt, either,” she continued. “You’d discover the attack machine of tabloid radio and TV. I may be a respected reporter, but it would be me against a whole army of their attack-dog reporters and commentators. You’d be smeared so badly in the Court of Public Opinion that your own grandmother would disown you.”

“I guess,” said Bashir, looking down.

They fell silent. Outside, the low, rolling hills were beginning to glow a deep orange as the sun sank into the West. A few towering clouds glowed pink against the darkening sky.

Zarrabian broke the silence. “Captain McCaig and I had much time to talk on the drive from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. We have an idea.”

Christine twisted in the driver’s seat and looked straight at him, then at McCaig. “When were you going to tell us about this?”

“Now. We’re all finally awake,” said McCaig.

She turned back to the road. “OK, I’m listening.”

“Well,” said McCaig, “As we see it, there are two realistic possibilities. The first, call it Plan A, is to find the third team before they attack the dam. Maybe we can stop them. If not, it’s almost certain they’ll all be killed.”

Zarrabian spoke up. “If I find them, I will explain to them that they are being used to create anger against our own country and start a war, and I will attempt to convince them to halt the mission.”

“And if that works, he’s got to get them somewhere safe where you can do an in-depth interview,” said McCaig.

“It will be difficult,” added Zarrabian. “They will be very suspicious. You must remember how hard it was for me to come to the truth. I trusted Captain McCaig’s integrity, but these men will have no such friend.”

“Won’t they trust you?” asked Christine.

“More than they will trust you,” said Zarrabian, “but this will be a difficult story for them to accept.”

“And even if the colonel can find them and convince them to abort their operation, there’s still the problem of getting them out of the area without being apprehended. We have no idea how big this conspiracy is, or what risks they’re willing to take. But chances are good that there won’t be roadblocks until around the time they expect the attack. So the colonel has to find them before that or it gets much riskier. The earlier the better.”

“This is a very good plan,” said Christine. “If this works out, it's more than a smoking gun. It’s a bombshell. This will be the news story of the decade. It will bring down the government.”

“OK, but don’t get too excited,” said McCaig. “It’s far more likely that the colonel won’t be able to find them, or that if he does, they won’t listen to him. So that brings us to the second possibility.”

“That they’ll launch their attack and all be killed, just like the others,” said Bashir.

“Exactly,” said McCaig.

“And that’s your ‘Plan B?’” asked Bashir. “To let them die?”

“Nobody is letting them die,” said McCaig. “They are being murdered, and we’re trying to stop it. But we have to be realistic. We’ll probably fail. So we have to plan for that, too.”

“How?” asked Bashir.

“We must make their deaths serve a purpose,” said Zarrabian.

“Yes,” said McCaig. “And it’s all about timing. Christine, you’re going to interview the colonel, get the full story from his point of view. The key element is that he’s going to reveal that there is a third group who plan to blow the Fort Peck Dam.”

“In other words, the next chapter of what I broadcast yesterday?”

“Exactly,” said McCaig. “And here’s the bombshell: the government knows about this and is letting them go through with it. Instead of arresting them, they’re going to kill them, just like they did the other two groups.”

“It won’t fly,” said Christine. “Once I go on the air, they’ll just go in early, take those guys out, and deny everything. They could even hush the whole thing up; nobody would ever know. Both Zarrabian and I would look stupid, and it would destroy the credibility of yesterday’s broadcast. I’d be the laughing stock of the Fourth Estate.”

“It will fly,” said McCaig. “It’s all about timing. You’re going to air that interview the moment the attack starts, and not a second before. It will be too late to call the attack off. They’ll murder their so-called terrorists, and when the smoke clears and they start doing high-fives, your interview will be staring them in the face. The colonel will have predicted their every move.”

“Wow,” said Christine. “This is . . . I think this could work.”

“I can’t believe you’re OK with this,” said Bashir. “You’re talking about men’s lives.”

“They are soldiers,” said Zarrabian. “A soldier offers his life to protect his country. If their deaths stop a war, it is a fair price.”

“Omar, you of all people should know that life is unfair,” said Christine. “Especially in war. Or when you’re trying to stop one.”

He shook his head.

“But there’s still Plan A, where we find them and stop the attack,” said McCaig. “If Plan A works, we need an escape plan—and a place for you to do the interview. Fort Peck will be swarming with cops, as well as the FBI and National Guard. You’ll need hours in private to do your interviews and a way to broadcast your story. We’ll need to get far away.”

“Garrison Dam,” said Christine. “We’ll go there.”

“Garrison?” said McCaig, “Why there?”

“It’s a couple hundred miles from Fort Peck, and maybe fifty miles from Billings where there’s an affiliated TV station of my network. I can get in touch and have them send a news van out to meet us.”

“OK, that’s good,” said McCaig.

“And while we’re driving from Fort Peck to Garrison Dam, I’ll have five hours to do interviews that we can dump to the network once we arrive at Garrison Dam. But mostly the reason to use Garrison is for the effect. I’ll do all of my intro and background using Lake Sakakawea as the backdrop. Maybe get a shot of the so-called terrorists looking out over the lake, too, talking about what they were up to. I’ll give the gruesome low-down on what would have happened if they’d blown up Fort Peck Dam, the water would just now be arriving here and would breach this dam, then cut the country in half.”

“That’s good, I like that,” said McCaig.

“Very dramatic,” said Zarrabian.

“Then what?” asked Bashir. “Won’t you get arrested for harboring fugitives or something?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” said Christine. “It’s still a long way away.”

“So, Colonel, let’s get started,” said Christine. “TJ, come take the wheel, you get to drive again. Omar, you’re going to be my cameraman. And I hope you know how to transmit this interview from the middle of nowhere to my boss.”

“No problem,” said Bashir. “Let’s get to work.”

“I’m an FBI agent, and I just let the most wanted man in America drive off,” said Bashir. “Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?”

Bashir, McCaig, and Christine watched the form of Zarrabian and his motorcycle recede down a narrow dirt road, leaving a wind-blown plume of dust that drifted across an endless rock-strewn field of dry grass. A few moments later, he disappeared behind a low hill.

McCaig and Christine turned and walked back to the RV, but Bashir stood still, staring down the dirt road as the last puff of dust drifted away, leaving no trace of Zarrabian.

“Come on, Omar,” said McCaig. “We’ve got a job to do.”

“You sure this is the right thing, boss? How do we know Zarrabian is going to do what he promised?”

“Taxes and death,” said McCaig. “We don’t. We have to hope and trust.”

“That’s easier for you than me, you know.”

“You realize he could have left any time, right?”

“I suppose.”

“A real terrorist would have left long ago. Or more likely, would have killed us and then taken our RV. He’s already shown us some trust.”

“Yeah.” Bashir turned back toward McCaig and Christine. “Let’s just go.”

Zarrabian gripped the motorcycle’s handlebars tightly and twisted the throttle, leaning over the handlebars to hold the front wheel on the ground as the machine climbed a steep hill. Chunks of grass and dirt flew from the rear wheel as it slipped, lost traction, and grabbed again. He flew into the air briefly at the hill’s crest, then slammed on the brakes and brought the machine to a halt before it could tumble over the low bluff into the lake below.

He cut the engine and pulled off his helmet. Quiet fell over the rolling hills, broken only by an occasional breeze rustling the sparse trees and dry grass. The morning sun glinted off the waters of Fort Peck Lake. One small fishing skiff, piloted by a lone fisherman, motored slowly across the water.