Eileen Reed - Ground Zero Part 13

Ali's expression was more than infatuation, George realized uneasily. It was adoration. Ali nodded and left. George looked around for the first time. He had been so dazzled by Muallah, he had noticed nothing. The apartment was old and very small, but extremely clean and decorated in a distinctly Arab style. There were small lamps, a length of rich Persian carpet, and pillows arranged around a low coffee table inlaid with mosaic in tile.

"Shall we have some coffee?" Muallah asked, gesturing with his arm toward the coffee table. "We have known each other so long, you and I, and here we are meeting for the first time. We shall relax, and talk."

George settled on the richness of the pillows. Muallah clapped his hands sharply, and a young woman appeared. She was robed and veiled in the traditional Arab way, with kohl-rimmed eyes. She carried a coffee service in silver on a gorgeous tray. Her eyes never glanced at George. She looked only at Muallah, with the same intent adoration as Ali.

"I thought we were going to be alone," George said as the woman poured coffee and settled back on her heels next to the table. The coffee smelled delicious, strong and fragrant and fresh.

"We are alone," Muallah said with a slight frown.

"I have spent long in America," George said, smiling uncomfortably. "American women-"

Muallah waved his hand in dismissal.

"Are rubbish," he said shortly. "As all America is rubbish."

Muallah sipped his strong coffee in the small cup, and George copied him. The coffee was deliciously hot and strong, and George used the moment to try and get his mental feet underneath him. Finding that his German buyer was really an Arab was a shocking discovery.

George, like most Russians, had a deep distrust of all things Islamic. He'd deliberately avoided selling to the Arabs. George's grandmother claimed that she was descended from Batu Khan, grandson of Genghis, who plundered the whole of Russia and Poland in the thirteenth century. Grandmother took care of George when he was small, and some of his fondest memories were of sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table while Grandmother kneaded dark bread dough with her strong arms.

She would tell him story after story handed down through the generations, embellished over time until they had the patina of fairy tales. Their ancestress was a lovely woman, as beautiful as a princess, who willingly became one of Batu's many concubines. She had a paiza, a special coin, that allowed her to travel wherever she wished in the conquered lands. Grandmother let George hold the paiza once, a strange worn piece of ordinary metal carved with what looked like snakes and swans. It went to his sister, not to George, when Grandmother died. The paiza had been handed down through the females of George's family for generations, undoubtedly cherished because it was worthless base metal and could not be sold for food.

So George had Mongolian blood, however diluted, royal blood of the Khans. He'd felt a sense of pride about that. But the Arabs had fared even more poorly than the Russians under the Khans.

Once the most civilized in all the world, the Arabs had great technology, medicine, and literature before Hulagu Khan, another grandson, pillaged and subjugated the Arab world. Hulagu had the last of the caliphs rolled up in carpets and trampled to death by horses, a story that George's grandmother told with relish.

George, remembering his grandmother's stories, had done a little research in the fabulously free libraries of America. The Arabs had nearly risen to conquer again before the Ottoman empire took over. The empire had kept the Arab lands until the British took over the rotting hulk of the Ottomans. Who was to say there would not be another reversal now that the Arabs had technology and education? Oil brought the Islamic world out of the Dark Ages and into the modern world, but their culture was still-George glanced over at the submissive girl and looked away again quickly-barbaric.

Now he found he'd been dealing with Arabs all along. But there was nothing to be done about it. George gave a mental shrug and determined that he would make the best of this situation. Muallah did not know that George was a descendant of Hulagu Khan. And George didn't care whom he dealt with, not really, he told himself. He would make his final sale and disappear. It was long past time to stop playing the game.

"Americans are such rubbish, my friend," Muallah said thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. "And rubbish is meant to be burned, is it not?" He smiled at George, showing dazzling white teeth, and gestured to the girl to serve them more coffee.

13.

Schriever Air Force Base.

Eileen was late. The number of cars heading out to Schriever at 8:00 A.M. was astonishing. Eileen sat in b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper traffic and drummed her fingers on the wheel and looked at the cattle moving through the summer gra.s.s. There was a big hill at the edge of the horizon, and the sun had risen right through the notch the road made in the hill. The light was blinding even though the sun was well up into the sky. Eileen looked at the streams of cars and thought about Harben's warning. In winter that hill would be treacherous. In winter the sun would be just at eye level at eight o'clock in the morning.

As she approached the bottom of the hill she saw a garbage truck pull out from a dirt side road. The truck accelerated toward her, huge and dirty, and as it pa.s.sed her she saw another one pull out of the same road. This was the landfill for Colorado Springs, Eileen realized. She hadn't known where it was located. Her own garbage was carried out here each week, to be churned up and buried. She moved forward in the traffic another few car lengths and looked at the truck as it thundered toward her.

"John Richmond," she said to herself. "John Richmond died when he hit a garbage truck." Eileen tapped her fingers impatiently on the wheel and looked over at the Procell file. "I can see it now, a spy getting all dressed up in overalls and a cap, and stealing a Great Western garbage truck." Eileen laughed aloud. "Right," she said to the file. She felt much better.

Eileen parked in the same place she had the day before. She remembered how many of the Gamers had mentioned how long it took to get to their desks.

Major Blaine was waiting.

"Took a while, eh?" he said. "I was late too. Let's process you through."

They entered the security building, and Eileen smiled at the sound of the gates clicking and clacking as people pa.s.sed through. Most people had bored, impatient expressions on their faces, putting their faces to the retinal scanners as though it were the most natural thing in the world for them to do.

"You can get used to anything, I guess," Eileen commented absently. She was looking in the crowd, looking for someone. She wasn't sure what she was looking for until she realized she was looking for the murderer.

"It's worth it to be safe," Blaine said. He was next in line at the scanner.

They processed through the scanners without comment. Eileen drew a deep breath when she entered and let it out when the door clicked open. Evidently Blaine was right and her guns were not going to cause problems.

"You'll be looking at tapes today," Blaine said. "I'll be tracking the visitors' military clearances. We'll get together for lunch at eleven-thirty or so. I'll call you."

"I'll be in the Gaming Center," Eileen sighed. She still didn't have a handle on Major Blaine. As far as he was concerned, she was a member of his team and he was running the show.

"The Games are canceled, so there won't be anyone in the Center," Blaine said. "I have it all arranged."

They walked along the side of the CSOC building. The early-summer sun was brilliant and already hot, but the shade of the huge building made the sidewalk chilly. Eileen couldn't wait to get rid of Major Blaine.

Paris, France.

"It is late, my friend," Muallah said. The coffee was gone, and the tiny sandwiches, and the rich little seed cakes. George was exhausted and humming with caffeine all at the same time. And he was waging a battle to keep from falling under the spell of this remarkable man. To say Fouad Muallah was a gracious host was completely inadequate. He listened to George. When Muallah turned his dark gaze on him George felt as if he were being bathed in a soothing light. Muallah spoke lightly of the doc.u.ments he'd purchased from George, in an offhand yet flattering way that made George feel good all over. He found himself wanting to like this man. He was vaguely surprised at himself. Whatever mistrust he had toward his ancient enemies seemed to be dissolving in the remarkable personality of this person, this Muallah.

"The hour is late," George admitted.

"You have something for me, my friend? Some last delight that you managed to spirit away from under the noses of the infidels?"

"Yes, I have," George said, smiling foolishly. What was wrong with him? "This one is very good. Something you've wanted for a long time."

"You have the locations," Muallah said, leaning forward intently.

"I have the locations," George said. His warmth started to seep away, leaving him feeling chilled and confused. "The locations of every missile silo in the republics of the former Soviet Union. But why would you want them?"

"Does it really matter?" Muallah asked charmingly. "I will pay you handsomely as always, Mr. Tabor. I always keep my promises. Fifty thousand American dollars, in cash. Tonight, if you can deliver the doc.u.ments."

"I can deliver them," George said slowly. He was so tired. There was something tugging at his mind, but he couldn't seem to clear his head enough to figure out what the tugging meant. He felt the way he did the one time he tried marijuana. For a moment he studied the remains of the seed cakes with a frown, then the thought seemed to float away like a balloon. "I-I'm not used to doing this face-to-face."

"Ah, but I am," Muallah said. "Do not be uneasy, my friend. It is just the same as your drops and safety-deposit boxes. Except here we do our deals in warmth and friendship, with food and drink."

"Of course," George said, feeling ashamed. "I don't mean to be paranoid." Muallah raised an eyebrow at him. "Er, mistrustful. Do you have the money for me?"

Muallah snapped his fingers without looking around. The veiled girl rose to her feet and padded quickly to the door. Ali came in and, at Muallah's nod, went into another room and returned with a cheap plastic briefcase. He set the case by George's feet.

George flicked open the case and glanced at the contents. He'd seen so many piles of money delivered like this, he could make a quick estimate of amounts in a flashing glance. The money was all there, or close enough not to matter.

"Excellent." George smiled. He felt better, looking at the cash. "We can take care of our transaction right now." He unbuckled his belt and pulled it free. The concealed zipper in the back held the developed film: locations, maps, satellite photos, the whole package. Terry Guzman had really delivered. She had no way of knowing it would be her last delivery, but she'd still made it a good one.

"Very nice," Muallah murmured, looking at the film through the light. George replaced his belt and smoothed his shirt. Muallah smiled at George. "Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me."

"My pleasure," George said. "If it would not be rude? I am so tired from my flight-"

"Of course, of course," Muallah said, carefully placing the film on the mosaic table. He rose to his feet and clasped George's arm in his own as he escorted him to the door. "You must be very tired, Mr. Tabor. Again, I must thank you. Sleep well."

Muallah took one step back as something impossibly tight snapped around George's throat. It had to be Ali, a garrote, George thought numbly. I should have known, I should have known.... The tightness increased around his throat, and George saw a small porcelain lamp go flying into the air as he tried desperately to ease the constriction. Black blossoms started to flower in the air, exploding silently. A spindly little table skidded in front of him and toppled over, one tiny leg broken in two. The flowers grew bigger.

Then George could breathe again, and the relief was incredible. He shook his head and looked around. He was having that old nightmare again, he realized. His restaurant hummed around him. Waiters in spotless white and black hurried by with full platters. The candles shone on the beautiful tables. Georgian ladies, released from their long Soviet peasantry, showed their creamy white shoulders and delicious bosoms in modern gowns. St.u.r.dy Russian men smiled and tilted their winegla.s.ses, good color blooming in their clear cheeks. There was vodka, and the smell of good Russian beef, but suddenly overwhelming was the smell of strong coffee. Arab coffee.

George looked down in horror and saw a slender side table with a shattered leg. He tried to draw a breath and could not. Then he relaxed. He was back in the restaurant with the waiters and the beautiful ladies. He was home, at last.

"He fought like a warrior, Mahdi," Ali said thoughtfully.

"He was rubbish," Muallah said with a shrug. "He served his purpose. Dispose of the body."

Muallah turned without looking back and walked to the mosaic table. The films were there, the lovely priceless films. He picked them up and held them to the light, ignoring the sounds behind him.

Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base.

The Gaming Center was locked and taped. Blaine had taken care of that ch.o.r.e the night before. The tapes of the Game were left in the video machines. If anyone tried to tamper with the door, the seal would have broken. A tired-looking Air Force soldier stood at the door.

The door to the Center had a spin lock exactly like a safe's. Blaine knew the number but fumbled with the lock before the tumblers finally fell and the door opened and broke the seal. Blaine wrote his initials and the date on a piece of paper that was stuck in a pocket next to the door. On the paper was a long list of initials and dates.

"Every time the Center is opened or closed, it goes on this record." Blaine showed the record to Eileen. Eileen took it and glanced down the list. Most of the initials were AB. Arthur Bailey. She put the sheet with her notes.

"I'll keep this for a while," she said to Blaine. "There might be something here."

"You're dismissed, Airman," Blaine said to the young guard. The guard saluted and sighed and headed down the hallway.

They opened the door and walked up the sloping hallway to the Gaming Center. Only a few lights were on. The screen-saver pattern whispered on all the computer screens. Blaine left Eileen at the door and went to turn on the lights.

Eileen looked at the room, feeling as if she was being watched. Probably those d.a.m.n screensaver patterns again, with their spiderweb images. Or maybe she just knew the Center had a secret.

After five minutes in the television studio, Eileen stopped Blaine.

"Look," she said. "You don't even know how to turn on the power to these boards, much less how to play the tapes back. Just stop messing with it and call one of those Gamers over here."

Blaine looked up from his seat in front of the console. He looked stubborn for a moment, then relented.

"Okay, I guess I don't know how. I swear I've watched it a hundred times, when they have demonstrations in here."

Eileen watched as Blaine picked up the phone, feeling satisfied. Now, why was she wondering if Blaine would call over Joe Tanner? She smiled and dug in her pocket for one of the spare toothpicks she'd swiped from the Omelet Parlor.

"Art? This is Major Blaine." Eileen grinned to herself and peeled the wrapping from the toothpick. Now, this was interesting. What was it about Joe Tanner? Not just that he got her a cup of coffee. Perhaps because the gift was so thoughtful. And his innocence seemed so strong. It couldn't be his looks. If it were just looks, Eileen would be thinking about the gorgeous 'Berto. Joe Tanner intrigued her somehow. He had to be the murderer. He had the best motive: Terry had basically killed his girlfriend.

"What are you smiling at?" Blaine asked. "You look like you're holding a conversation with somebody."

"With myself," Eileen said. "Being a civilian, I can do that. I even talk to myself occasionally." She showed her teeth at the Major and inserted the toothpick in the corner of her mouth.

"Art Bailey is coming over," Blaine said after a moment of frowning at her, which she steadfastly ignored.

"Okay."

There was silence as Eileen looked over the darkened room. She stared at Terry's door. She looked at the cameras. She studied the way the lights were set into the ceilings, the way the doors were hinged. She ignored Major Blaine. She thought, and tried to ignore the little voice that kept asking her how she was going to solve the murder when she didn't even know how it had been done.

Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia.

Lucy Giometti was unloading a grocery bag full of food into her desk drawer when Mills walked into her office.

"Good morning," she said.

"What's the latest?"

Lucy sighed. He couldn't even say good morning. She kept on unpacking food. She'd thrown up twice that morning already and she didn't feel very well. The double beef burrito on the way home last night was pure ambrosia, though. She'd slept soundly all night.

"Well, I don't think the Guzman murder was planned by Tabor or his buddies. And that's my opinion only," she added. She sat down at her desk and started keying into her computer systems. "I'll get you a whole report as soon as I'm finished."

"I appreciate it," Mills said, and without another word he turned and left her office. Lucy sighed and watched her computer software a.s.semble itself on her screen. She pulled open the desk drawer and contemplated the bright packages within. She'd make it through this day too, she thought. When would that baby stop making her sick?

When her computer systems were ready Lucy pulled up the file she'd started on George Tabor. She picked up the phone and dialed the animal shelter in Denver.

"Humane Society, this is Debbie," said a cheerful woman's voice.

"Hi, I'm wondering if you could do me a favor," Lucy said. "I'm looking for a dog, a springer spaniel?"

"We have one here," Debbie said. "But she wasn't lost, she was left for adoption."

"Did the person who left her tell you her name?"

"Well, I think so." She sounded eager. "We write them up by the kennel doors. Hang on just a second."

Lucy held the phone to her ear and typed busily, opening connections to the different computer databases that might give her the information she needed. Faintly, she could hear the sound of dogs wailing. She wondered if one of the howls could be Fancy's.