The Jungle - Cussler Clive (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗
“What he’s telling us,” she said, “is that we are to cede the war on terror. I find it very telling that he mentions Iran.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sunni and Shi’a Muslims do not get along, and the one thing most Arab states agree on is that a bottled-up Iran, with its Shi’a brand of Islam, is in their best interest. But this guy wants our hands off everyone, as if to say whatever differences exist between the two groups is an internal thing and they will handle it themselves.”
“Obviously we can’t do any of these things,” the vice president said ponderously.
“What gets me too,” Fiona Katamora continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “are the time lines that are spelled out. This isn’t the rant of some deranged jihadi sitting in a Waziri cave. This has been carefully thought out. Each deadline is doable from a practical perspective and, while politically unpalatable, isn’t unfeasible.”
“We can’t stop giving aid to Israel,” the CIA director said.
“We can,” Fiona retorted evenly, not raising her voice the way her counterpart had. “We choose to continue funding them because it is in our best interest. If that were no longer the case, we can turn off the money taps anytime we want.”
“But . . .”
“Listen, if this is legitimate, the game’s changed completely. We are no longer in control. Some group out there appears to have unlimited access to our most guarded secrets. At the push of a button they can shut down power grids. Think about that. Think about a nationwide power outage that goes on for weeks or months. Or an air traffic control system that we no longer rely on. Every plane in the country grounded indefinitely. Could this person override the safeties at the nation’s nuclear power plants and cause them all to melt down? I think there are physical safeties in place for that ... But you get the idea.”
“Any suggestions on what do we do?” the president asked in a voice much quieter than he intended.
“We find the person responsible and crucify them,” the veep thundered.
“Where did the fax originate?” the man from the NSA asked.
“Gentlemen,” Fiona said sharply, “do you honestly think whoever masterminded the theft of the presidential authentication codes is going to be caught using traditional police techniques? This guy didn’t walk into a Kinko’s on Mass Ave. to send his message. That signal bounced around the planet for a couple of hours before it reached Eunice’s office. We’ll never trace it. We need to look at this from the other end. Who benefits from this?”
“Al-Qaeda tops the list,” the beribboned admiral from the Joint Chiefs replied.
“Does this feel like something they’d do?” Fiona shot back. “If they had this kind of power, they’d launch an all-out cyberattack that would drive us back into the Stone Age. There would be no demands or warning. No, it’s someone else. Someone new.”
“Any ideas?” asked the CIA director.
“I’m afraid that’s up to you.”
“My first instinct was al-Qaeda too, but you make a compelling argument against them. I’ll talk to my people to see if there is anyone else out there with the wherewithal to pull off something like this.”
“Let’s say they do kill the power in Troy, New York,” Les Jackson said. “What’s our response? What do we do? It’d be political suicide to cut off aid to Israel or even to announce such an intention. Same goes for just releasing the prisoners from Gitmo.”
Fiona Katamora raked her fingers through her raven hair in a sign of frustration. “This isn’t about politics, Les. We’ve been handed a demonstration that tells us we are at this person’s mercy. He has cracked the most secure code in the world and flaunted it in our faces. We either give in to the demands or face the consequences as a nation, not as a political party or as a presidential administration. Do we cave or do we all go down together?” She turned to face the commander in chief. “That’s the question, Mr. President.”
An aide knocked at the door and entered when the president called, “Come.”
“Sir, just to give you an update. The return number printed on the fax is bogus. No such number is listed anywhere in the world. And the White House switchboard has no record of the call ever coming in.”
“The call never even came in? Did your secretary crack up?” the NSA director asked the president. “Is this her idea of a joke?”
The president didn’t know what to say, but he was hoping against hope that his longtime and most trusted secretary was mentally ill and had pulled off this cruel hoax.
“One more thing,” the aide continued. “There was a blackout in Troy, New York, at noon that lasted for precisely sixty seconds. No other areas were affected even though the local utility supplies power to the outlying regions. So far, they have no reason why power faded or why it came back.”
“Dear God,” someone said. “This is real.”
Fiona kept reading from the bottom of the fax. “These are small, benign demonstrations of our abilities. We are not barbarians. We cherish life, but if even one of our demands is not met, we will cripple your country. Planes will rain from the sky, refineries will explode, factories will idle, and electricity will be a thing of your past.
“In time, all people of the earth will convert to the one true faith, but we are willing to allow you to coexist with us for now.” She looked up. “It’s real.”
19
SMITH HAD MADE HIS MISTAKE A WEEK EARLIER. HE’D finally relented to MacD’s relentless calls for a proof-of-life video link to his daughter. And because he believed that Lawless was still under his control, he was lazy when it came to computer security. The video link only lasted a few tearful seconds, but Mark and Eric backtracked its source with ease.
Prior to that, the Corporation had made no headway in its investigation of Gunawan Bahar.
As Cabrillo had suspected, the kidnappers hadn’t taken Pauline Lawless far from where she’d been abducted in New Orleans. In fact, she was being held within the city’s notorious Lower Ninth Ward, the area so heavily damaged by Hurricane Katrina that much of it remained in ruins. It was a smart tactical decision—since the composition of the area had been so disrupted, strangers had a better chance of blending in and not arousing suspicion.
Cabrillo, Lawless, and Franklin Lincoln flew into Houston, where the Corporation maintained a safe house. It was one of a dozen they kept in port cities all over the world and was used primarily to store weapons and equipment that they might otherwise have trouble getting through customs. Even corporate jets are subject to searches, and while officials can be bribed in many airports around the globe, it wasn’t a good idea to try it in the United States.
They rented a nondescript sedan from Hertz, plundered the vaultlike room in the safe house for gear, and were on the road for the Big Easy moments later. They drove the three hundred and fifty miles at the speed limit, with every traffic rule followed to the letter. Cabrillo had Lawless drive. It wasn’t because of his arm, which was back to about eighty percent. He wanted MacD’s mind on something other than his six-year-old baby girl.
Their first stop was Lawless’s parents’ home. The terrified couple who had been watching the child had been told by the kidnappers that any attempt to alert the police would force them to kill her. They had been living with that fear for weeks. As much as MacD had wanted to call them, he agreed with Cabrillo that it was possible one of the kidnappers had stayed in their home or bugged their phone.
The home was in a neat subdivision with towering oaks draped in Spanish moss. Many of the homes were brick and had come through the hurricane unscathed. MacD parked well down the block and out of sight of his parents’ house and waited behind the wheel while Cabrillo and Linc went to check if the house was under observation. Both wore hard hats and blue jumpsuits that could easily pass for utility workers’ attire. Cabrillo carried a clipboard, Lincoln a toolbox.
