21.

ABOARD THE USS DONALD COOK (DDG-75).

NEAR CDIZ, SPAIN.

General Torey Krug was standing with five other men on the bridge of the USS Donald Cook, an Arleigh Burkeclass guided missile destroyer. They were all looking at the same thing: an illuminated plasma screen tied in to various naval and land-based units. The screen looked like an air traffic control screen, though instead of tracking commercial airliners, this one displayed U.S. military assets, in real time, in the geographic area south of Spain. Krug and his senior officers were tied in to a gamut of teams, including two other Aegis destroyers, two submarines, UAV command centers, and on-the-dirt commanders, including members of SEAL Team 6, now in fastboats off the coast of Spain.

At that moment, those military assets were all doing the same thing: searching for a boat.

The focus was the crowded stretch of water between Spain and Morocco known as the Strait of Gibraltar. Twenty-two UAVs had been scrambled to the area. Gray Eagles, Raptors, and several other drones were flying in low-hover lines back and forth across the narrowest section of the waterway, between Tarifa, Spain, and Eddalya, Morocco, a nine-mile stretch of water Krug believed was the best opportunity to stop the rogue nuclear bomb before it got to open water and the relative freedom of the Atlantic Ocean.

The challenge for Krug and his team was multifaceted. They had only a vague description of the boat. That description, moreover, was of a type of vessel that was extremely common. Already, they'd pinpointed ten trawlers matching the description. They had no idea how fast it was moving. In addition, it was nighttime and, despite various thermal-sensitive cameras, it was difficult to see, and what they were able to see was starting to blend into a continuum.

With the help of the Spanish and Moroccan navies, along with local police forces, a small armada of speedboats patrolled the waters, looking for anything suspicious, their officers equipped with Geiger counters. Already, several boats had been boarded, without result.

Reflexively, Krug kept looking over at the line of clocks displaying time in various countries. It was five A.M. in Spain. Dawn was coming. On the one hand, the improved visibility would help. On the other, each passing hour diminished the chances of finding the boat.

A scratchy voice came over commo.

"General Krug, I'm putting up live video. This is UAV 16-Y. We have a report of a suspicious-looking ship close to the coast, near Nador, Morocco."

"Roger, Major," said Krug, scanning the plasma for the UAV, then reaching out and tapping a small icon. Suddenly, a grainy video started running on the plasma. It showed an empty stretch of water illuminated by the UAV's powerful spotlight. A boat came into view. It was a motorboat, approximately forty feet long, with three uniformed men aboard. A hundred yards past them was a dilapidated fishing scow, running lights on, listing in the water, seemingly adrift.

"Send them in," said Krug. "Keep the bird overhead."

Krug and his men watched as the motorboat from the Moroccan Navy pulled up alongside the trawler and tied off.

A Vietnamese flag was flying from the aft of the ship. Its name was painted on the stern: BIN THIN CHA.

Sea God.

Two of the officers scaled a steel ladder and climbed aboard. They moved to the wheelhouse, the image blurry but decent enough to capture their movement.

Each officer clutched a submachine gun as he moved. A short time later, the two gunmen emerged, shaking their heads, indicating they'd found nothing.

One of the men pointed at his helmet.

"Patch him into commo," said Krug, pointing to one of his staffers.

The plasma cut into two live feeds. One was the UAV feed, the other was from a camera mounted to the officer's helmet.

The officers charged belowdecks, down a badly lit set of steel stairs. They moved along a dark hallway, opening door after door, finding nothing. Then, near the front of the ship, one of the officers opened a door, revealing a horrible scene of carnage. The ground was littered with the corpses of fishermen. The floor was a miasma of blood.

The officers moved from corpse to corpse, searching for anyone still alive.

"In the corner," barked Krug, seeing a slight movement. "Get over there!"

One of the officers stepped to a man in the corner. He was a young Vietnamese man. His chest was covered in blood. His eyes were shut. The officer shook him, softly at first, then with force, trying to wake him. The man opened his eyes.

"Put it on speaker," said Krug to the officer.

The officer set his phone near the dying man's ear.

"Nhng g h mun?" asked Krug.

What did they want?

The fisherman struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Vt liu n," he said, coughing.

"Explosives," Krug, translated. He turned back to the image of the dying man on the screen.

"Bn b tn cng cch y bao lu?"

When were you attacked?

"Dm qua," the Vietnamese man whispered.

"Last night," said Krug.

Krug looked at the map. He took a ruler and did a quick calculation, estimating the time it took the trawler to travel from Sevastopol to Nador, then measuring the time between Nador and the Strait of Gibraltar.

A dejected look appeared on his face. He glanced around the table.

"Get Brubaker on the line," said Krug. "Hector too. They're through the strait. They have open water to the U.S. East Coast."

22.

CIA.

SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP.

BRIEFING COMMAND CENTER.

LANGLEY.

Calibrisi, Polk, and a half dozen other senior-level intelligence officials stepped into what looked like a small movie theater, with luxurious, reclining leather chairs arrayed in three ascending rows before a 140-inch screen.

Already seated were six members of CIA paramilitary, the six men selected to go to Russia.

Three wore tactical gear. These were the commandos who would lead Phase Line One: John Dowling, Dave Tosatti, and Benoit Fitzgerald. The other three men were dressed in casual clothing. This was the Phase Line Two team, and included Dewey, Bond, and Joe Oliveri.

"Gentlemen, beginning approximately one week ago, signals intelligence indicated a dramatic increase in chatter across the terrorist complex concerning an impending high-target strike on the United States," said Polk. "They have a name for it: they're calling it 'nine/twelve.'"

The lights dimmed as the screen abruptly lit up with the only known images of Cloud they had: the Malnikov sketch, the nightclub photo, and two photos showing him with Katya Basaeyev.

"His name is Cloud," said Polk, pointing at the screen. "It's an alias. He's a computer hacker. Up to a week ago, he acquired a medium-sized Soviet-era nuclear bomb, capable of wiping out an area the size of downtown Boston. We believe he placed the device on a ship at the port of Sevastopol on the coast of Ukraine, and that the ship is now headed for the United States."

The screen flashed a photo of a modern glass-and-steel building set on a green lawn.

"Early this morning, based on intelligence from NSA, we captured a scumbag and known Cloud associate named Al-Medi. Under interrogation, he coughed up where Cloud will be tomorrow evening. This is a dacha outside Moscow where he will be attending a dinner party. That's why you're here. Your job is to infiltrate the Russian theater and capture Cloud-alive."

Calibrisi turned and glanced at the photo of Cloud.

"As of right now, Cloud is the only person who knows where that ship is going. We need to find him."

Calibrisi was silent for a few moments, scanning the six commandos with his eyes.

"I like to think all CIA missions are important, and they are. But this one is quite obviously different. This was why you joined the military. This was why, forty years ago, I joined the military. It sounds like a cliche, but it happens to be true. Your country needs you right now. You're the difference between the peace and stability, the silence, the calm, that Americans have come to know, and a catastrophe of untold horror, a catastrophe that will destroy families, neighborhoods, a catastrophe that will scar America for generations to come."

Calibrisi turned to Polk.

"Mission architecture is still being designed," said Polk. "We need to get you guys moving. Dowling, Tosatti, Fitzgerald: there's a Black Hawk on the helipad. Wheels up in five. You'll receive instructions on your way to Frankfurt."

"Yes, sir."

"Bond, Oliveri, you two are to go to CMG and get wardrobed. Then you'll fly to Saint Petersburg."

Polk glanced at Bond, then Dewey.

"Dewey, Hector and I need to see you in the director's office."

23.

DIRECTOR'S OFFICE LANGLEY.

"Go ahead in, Dewey," said Lindsay, Hector Calibrisi's assistant. "They're expecting you."

He pushed in the thick glass door. He stepped inside the CIA director's expansive corner office, which looked out over a neatly manicured lawn and, behind it, a dense forest of sugar maples and birch trees rustling in the morning breeze. It was a bright, sunny summer day.

Calibrisi was standing behind a rectangular glass-and-steel desk, sleeves rolled up, top button unbuttoned, leaning forward, scanning a document.

Seated in front of Calibrisi's desk was a bald man in a suit, with horn-rimmed glasses: Bill Polk.

"What do you need?" asked Dewey.

Dewey was dressed in an orange T-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops.

"We want to talk to you," said Polk.

"Sit down," said Calibrisi.

Dewey remained standing just inside the door.

"It's about Saint Petersburg," said Polk.

"Bill wants to take you off Saint Petersburg," said Calibrisi. "I'm on the fence."

Dewey nodded.

"What happened in Mexico?" asked Polk, shooting Dewey a cold stare.

Dewey stared back at Polk, in silence. His eyes moved over and met Calibrisi's.

Behind Calibrisi, on the credenza, was a silver-framed photograph of Jessica.

"I froze up," said Dewey. "It won't happen again."

From behind his tortoiseshell glasses, Polk's eyes darted to Calibrisi, who remained silent.

"If something goes wrong in Moscow," said Polk, "we're relying on this man to perform at a level that right now he's just not capable of."

"I'll be fine, Bill," said Dewey.

"He's on a team with one of our best agents," added Calibrisi. "Pete asked for him."

Polk shook his head, then turned to Dewey.

"You're a talented operator. But right now, you're damaged. You need to get your head back on straight, and a mission that could get very messy, very quickly, inside a dead zone, is not the place for mental therapy."

Dewey stared back at Polk, in silence, dumbfounded.

"You know what the Russians do when they capture a NOC?" asked Polk.

Polk looked back at Calibrisi. Calibrisi remained silent.

"Fine, I'll tell him. If Russia captures you downrange, inside their country, in the middle of an operation, you'll never step foot outside Russia for the rest of your life. Never. We will be unable to retrieve you. They'll wrench what information they can out of you. That'll take about a month, then you'll be shipped off to a gulag in the middle of Siberia, maybe Krasnokamensk, or even worse, one of the countless prisons that doesn't have a name, a territory somewhere with a number on it."

Dewey stared down at the rug.