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  Laramie had been through this before, at least a routine variation of it. Anyone working above the intern level in the Directorate of Intelligence was subjected to the “Scuds,” CIA’s routine psychological profile-refresher and lie detector exams. Laramie was long since in on the meaning behind the nickname: they hit you with annoying, hastily launched, generally ineffective missiles, hoping to put you on the defensive and force a mistake in case you might have something to hide. If you didn’t, the semiannual, four-hour sessions were a joke.

  Since she’d endured her most recent bout with the Scuds only six weeks back, it was fairly evident to Laramie that the thirtysomething woman whose reflection appeared on a darkened portion of the monitor in her viewing cubicle had not come for another routine inquisition. The purpose of the visit was clear as day: they’d discovered her e-mails to Senator Kircher.

  She wondered what it meant that they knew what she’d done. What they had in store for her. Then she wondered what they were doing with the intel they must have known she’d discovered-were they acting on it? Or just punishing her for leaking it? If history were any indication-

  The woman asked Laramie to accompany her and led the way up the elevator to the fourth floor, home of the Internal Investigations Unit. The woman took her into an enclosed room equipped with a mirror, encouraged Laramie to take a seat in one of the room’s two chairs, and left, closing the door behind her and locking Laramie in.

  Considering that Scud sessions typically began with a lie detector exam, that an investigative officer accompanied you through the entire process, and that the officer, until now, had never failed to offer up a cup of coffee to kick things off, it occurred to Laramie there was a pretty good chance she had one hell of a long day ahead of her.

  Cooper found there wasn’t much in the Langley database on the topic of who controlled the real estate on the island called Mango Cay. Abandoning the ostensibly far-superior CIA search engine for plain old Google, he verified from the chair on his porch that real estate falling under the jurisdiction of Martinique could not be owned by foreigners, and, as in the British Virgins, a lease-hold system had been established to circumvent such revenue-killing nationalism. Property secured by foreign interests in both Martinique and the BVIs involved the transfer of what was usually a ninety-nine-year lease, ultimately rented from the federal government of France or the United Kingdom, respectively; it was the lease rights that were purchased or transferred by private property “owners” in the case of a local sale.

  Cooper made some calls and ultimately found a clerk in the appropriate records hall in Martinique. The midday sun had begun to bear down on him, the old porch oriented poorly when it came to the blistering afternoon heat. Nonetheless, he managed to score from the clerk the reasonably uninteresting and possibly useless ownership history of Mango Cay. The current leaseholder was a Delaware corporation called Global Exports, whose signa-tory officer was somebody named Spencer H. Gibson. Global Exports had bought the Mango Cay lease just over ten years ago. The prior owner, according to the clerk, was a Liberian firm called Freedom Partners, LLC, which had controlled the land for nine years. Two individuals held it prior to that; Cooper jotted down the names as the clerk rattled them off. Before the clerk’s list of four ownership entities, the land had apparently been classified as uninhabited public property.

  By the time he’d hung up on the clerk, Cooper had already clicked back into cyberspace and determined that no particular Agency record existed on anybody named Spencer H. Gibson. He was also unable to find any CIA-originated intelligence on either Global Exports or Freedom Partners, and the earlier owners, two American multimillionaires, were now deceased. Cooper dialed up the phone numbers the clerk had given for both Global Exports and Freedom Partners, reaching a disconnection notice for Global Exports and a loud, repeating bratt-bratt noise when he tried Freedom Partners. He tried the number a few more times and kept getting the same sound.

  Annoyed and overheated, Cooper leaned his head back and fell asleep in the chair, the sun stinging hot on his face.

  They kept her in the Scuds unit for thirty-eight hours. Sleep was not permitted and no food was provided. The throbbing headache that resulted from Laramie’s inability to quench her caffeine addiction would have made it impossible for her to sleep in any case, but with the added irritation of the headache, enduring the last hours of the interrogation nearly did her in. There were moments-for instance, the utterance of the thousandth repeat of the identical question, queried by the sixth interrogator of the session, with Laramie strapped into the lie detector seat, EKG stickers adorning breasts, belly, hips, wrists-when Laramie was forced to dig her fingernails into the skin of her palm, even to bite a bleeding incision into her tongue, in order to keep from leaping from the chair and bashing the interrogator’s brains in.

  Ironically, it was the interrogation simulation they’d given her at The Farm that gave her the chops to survive the thirty-eight hours intact. One of the first lessons they’d conveyed to the fresh batch of recruits back then had been simple enough to remember now: never go belly-up. No matter what they had on you, never admit that you did anything wrong, who you worked for, or whatever it was they were trying to get out of you-or so went the lesson. The principle was intended for use in the unlikely event a DI analyst subjected to torture in a Syrian prison just happened to possess the secrets underpinning America’s national security, but it proved particularly useful as a guide on what to admit, and what to deny, as the Agency’s own investigators sought to pry various confessions from her on the topic of her supposedly treasonous activities.

  They had everything-she wasn’t sure how they had it all, but they did-everything she’d said into a pay phone, cell phone, home phone, some things she’d said aloud to herself at home, the text from each of the e-mails she’d let fly to Senator Kircher from Kinko’s and Morpheus. They knew about her relationship with Eddie Rothgeb, they had transcripts of every conversation she’d had with the mysterious W. Cooper, and they had meticulous documentation of her precise whereabouts within the confines of the headquarters building, pretty much minute by minute.

  What Laramie decided to do was admit to divulging classified intelligence to Eddie Rothgeb and W. Cooper; she chose not to go belly-up on the Kircher e-mails. She’d devised this strategy on the walk over to the IIU wing from her cubicle, and stuck to it for the duration of the session. She found she had some ground to stand on, since she’d never put her name on anything, had never sent or received anything relating to the senator from home, or the office, or anywhere tied to her real name; she’d been careful with her language in the summary she’d sent, steering clear of names, departments, and specific intel and analysis that could be directly tied to her. She didn’t actually see how it really made any difference that she refused to own up to the cyber communiqués with a U.S. senator who supposedly oversaw the government’s intelligence operations, but stonewalling the interrogators at least gave her something to focus on during the caffeine-deprivation marathon. She also guessed that anybody inside or outside CIA contemplating bringing criminal charges against her would see the Kircher leak as the most egregious of the offenses she’d committed over the past three weeks of her life, and any physical evidence they’d have linking her to Kircher would be dicey at best. She’d passed the lie detector tests with flying colors.

  While she chose not to own up to the Kircher notes, she found, oddly enough, that the line of questioning pursued by the roster of interrogators focused almost solely on her correspondence with W. Cooper. Between bolts of pain from the caffeine headache, she found this emphasis disturbing, presuming Cooper was in fact who he purported to be. She had a pretty good hunch he wasn’t anything or anybody different than he claimed, and at least until recently she’d done all right sticking by her instincts. Cooper himself had pegged her as a human lie detector machine. Why, then, the fourth degree on her phone calls with an Agency operative?

  At 11 P.M. the day after they’d com
e for her, the last interrogator in the succession of faces told her she was free to go. She was made to sign a document agreeing to the fact that her employment status had officially been categorized as “suspended without pay pending internal investigation” and that she was now legally required to notify the gentleman listed on the document if she intended to leave the greater Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area for any period of time whatsoever. Laramie knew from the expression on the last interrogator’s face that she wasn’t free to go anywhere-they’d follow her everywhere she went, as had now been bluntly pointed out to have been the case for some time.

  On the way home she pulled into the same 7-Eleven where she’d first used a pay phone to call Cooper and bought a vial of Advil, a Diet Pepsi, and a PowerBar. She swallowed eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen between Power Bar chunks and drove home, noting with neither surprise nor concern that one particular set of headlights seemed to find its way into her rearview mirror regardless of where she turned or how fast she drove. The car would drop back, vanish when she made a turn, then reappear, never coming closer than a few hundred yards behind.

  As she pulled into her condo complex, she observed the guest parking lot adjoining her unit now featured three black sedans and one minivan, no single one of which she had ever seen parked here.

  The garage door opened at the base of her town house and she slid inside.

  It wasn’t until she pulled on the emergency brake and killed the engine that Laramie acknowledged how hungry she was. Still behind the wheel, she punched 411 on her cell phone, connected to Domino’s, and ordered a large pepperoni-and-green-pepper pizza. The delivery took a great deal longer than thirty minutes, and Laramie had a pretty good idea why. She didn’t ask the guy delivering the pizza whether he’d been pulled over by the police halfway through his run, or whether, when he was pulled over, the cops searched his Altima bumper to bumper, but figured that was about the size of it. The boy drove off-subject, no doubt, to another stop-and-search, probably for that same ineffective blinker.

  She tried to make a phone call and got nothing in the way of a dial tone. She tried her cell phone, and got a message saying her service had been temporarily interrupted. She nodded, assuming they’d realized she could make calls with it once the pizza boy showed. Unfazed, she booted up the Dell desktop she kept in an alcove between the kitchen and living room, took a shot at checking for any e-mails, and failed to get an Internet connection. The Explorer status bar explained itself by saying, CANNOT LOCATE SERVER.

  She changed into her nightshirt and looked in vain for a bottle of wine until she stumbled upon the jackpot of an unopened bottle of champagne in the back of the fridge. She shot the cork at the ceiling, kicked the lid off the pizza box, and never quite got around to turning on the television set while she sat on the couch and polished off all the Dom and seven-eighths of the pie.

  She was thinking something to the effect that both Cooper and her father, when he’d been around, really had something with that alcoholism bit as she leaned her head back into the cushions and passed out for the night.

  36

  The hardware behind Spike Gibson’s perimeter security system required so much processing capacity that Gibson had been forced to invent a daisy-chained combination of servers to support it. He initially bought Crays, then later switched to Apple/IBM dual-G5 processor-based CPUs; he acquired the equipment through a ladder of American shell corporations, none traceable to the next.

  His software oversaw a vast web of data capture, including military-grade radar and sonar systems, surface and submarine motion sensors, closed-circuit digital video feeds, and online control of a private satellite outfitted with spy cameras. The complexities of the system were such that during each twenty-four-hour period, the system required a short period of time-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds, to be exact-to reboot.

  During the reboot window, the system’s data-capture inventory was tested in its entirety; all hardware, including processors and memory, were examined and updated; and all data collected during the prior twenty-four-hour period was digitally archived. Emergency power capacity for the island was tested-the power grid fed by the nuclear power cell in the main cavern was switched for five minutes to a gasoline-powered generator, then for another two minutes to a battery cell. In order for the system to work without any error whatsoever over the course of more than a decade, the daily reboot was a necessary evil, which Gibson attempted to minimize but still found imperative.

  At least that was how he had explained matters to General Deng.

  Gibson thought it more effective to spare General Deng the details, and thus had informed him of the daily reboot as a side note. Deng had never asked for clarification, and his apparent indifference to this minor nuisance worked particularly well for Gibson, who had, due to the window of darkness offered by the preposterously redundant daily reboot, conducted a highly regimented salvage operation of his own.

  Over the course of the past eighty days, the daily increments amounted to just over nine hours of cumulative time, which proved plenty for Gibson’s team-Hiram, Lana, and the rotation of disposable laborers-to make significant headway toward his aim of pilfering four W-76 thermonuclear warheads from the Trident missiles in the cavern. The extraction involved a transfer of the warheads to the cargo cave-or in Deng’s parlance, the Lab-located three-quarters of a mile from the main missile hall.

  The work had to be performed during the main transfer phase of the reboot session, since it was during this period that the cavern’s floodlights popped off and the cavern-based closed-circuit video cameras closed down to facilitate the daily archiving function. Had Gibson conducted his operation at any other point during the day, Deng could have seen what he was doing; the mainframe simulcast all data streams to an encrypted hard drive in whichever of Deng’s War Rooms the general planned to occupy next.

  To date, Gibson had succeeded in extricating 2 of the cavern’s 168 warheads from their homes inside the Trident missiles.

  On the afternoon of the second day of Julie Laramie’s interrogation, the daily reboot commenced on schedule at 3:52:38 P.M. A second later, the bank of floodlights lining the ceiling of the missile cavern doused. Pale yellow emergency lighting, emanating from bulbs built into poles lining the walls of the cavern, flickered to life.

  Two seconds after the pale yellow darkness had consumed the cavern, a pair of figures emerged from the tunnel entrance through which Deng had brought his guided tour. While impossible to detect by the digital cameras’ dormant chips, the two figures were Hiram and the wino. Hiram drove one of the carts and kept a black rod draped across his lap. The wino carried a heavy black duffel bag.

  As the duo approached missile 6, Hiram exited the cart and opened the cage door of the two-person platform secured to the outside of the missile’s external silo. When the wino didn’t walk into the lift unprompted, Hiram zapped him with the rod, the cattle prod doing the trick. Hiram retrieved a chunky harness, an apron, and a rope-and-pulley assembly from the cart-affixed, on one end, to a winch at the rear of the cart-and followed the wino aboard the lift. As the lift reached the twenty-foot mark, Hiram doffed the heavy apron, opened the lift, and gestured for the wino to get to work.

  The wino hastily withdrew a rubber plate and series of tools from the duffel bag; he used the plate as a shelf, affixing it to a length of pipe and dumping the tools across it. It took him thirty seconds to unscrew and open an access panel on the side of the missile; with Hiram and his cattle prod lurking behind the metal skin of the access door, the wino conducted a meticulous, though not precise, series of tasks, on which Hiram had instructed him earlier.

  Including the wino, a sequence of three slaves had been working for weeks at removing one of this missile’s four warheads, extricating the warhead rivet by rivet, seven minutes at a time, from the Mk-4 MIRV to which it was secured within the missile. Inside the access panel, the wino chewed through struts with saws, whacked at chunks of metal blocking the
extraction path, and hammered and chiseled at rivets, all the while sucking down metal sawdust and soaking up enough radiation to peg a Geiger counter against its stop. The heroin Hiram had been injecting into the wino’s bloodstream did not appear to affect the performance of his assigned tasks.

  Though Hiram could not see the re-entry vehicle from his protected vantage behind the access door, he knew the MIRV to resemble a cruise missile without the wings. Having logged nine cumulative hours of such extraction work, Hiram also knew each C-4 Trident I to contain four such MIRVs. This meant that each of the forty-two Tridents was therefore capable of delivering four one-hundred-kiloton nuclear detonations to four independently targeted locations of up to one thousand miles apart. On this particular W-76/Mk-4, Hiram’s slaves had logged two hours, thirty-one minutes, and forty-two seconds to date, leaving Hiram with what he estimated to be one minute and fifteen seconds before the wino got the last rivet out.

  Hiram swung the rope over a strut and clipped the hook at its end to the harness. At the three-minute mark in the reboot sequence, the last extracted rivet made a ping against a sheet of metal somewhere inside the projectile; Hiram reached around the access door, handed the wino the harness, and took the lift down to the floor.

  Nearly five minutes of the reboot had elapsed when the wino signaled as instructed that the harness was ready. Gloved now, and strapped to a portion of the scaffolding, Hiram used the rope to begin hauling the 375-pound warhead out of the missile and into the lift, aided by minimal guidance from the wino. With a minute thirty to go, Hiram swung the warhead into the rear of the golf cart. He let the rope go slack; the warhead, settling, sunk the vehicle against its axles. Hiram quickly unfastened the rope from the harness.

  With Hiram’s foot to the floor, the cart inched back across the cavern, gaining enough momentum to make it into the transport tunnel just before the elapsing reboot sequence resulted in the closing and locking of the tunnel door. The wino ran, stumbled, then finally managed to fall into the passenger seat beside Hiram as the door slammed shut behind them, neither of them able to see the bank of floodlights pop, click, and flutter to life within the cavern on the other side of the door.