Читать книгу: «Lethal Diversion»

1

Denny Seles, the Special Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in his black SUV for a moment, watching the scene. He was pushing forty, and while he’d long since gotten used to the middle-of-the-night phone calls that were part of his job, they didn’t usually come from the Coast Guard. More often than not, it was one of his field agents calling about a body. The flashing lights of an ambulance, along with two police cars, a fire truck and two other unmarked vehicles lit up the night. He flicked the Detroit Lions air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror, a superstitious habit he’d picked up along the way, and stepped out of the SUV.

Faintly, over the sound of voices and vehicles, he could hear the lapping of the waves of Lake St. Clair. He guessed that the large, white yacht grounded on the beach was the source of the call he’d received less than half an hour before.

“You must be Special Agent Seles?” a man said, stepping out of the crowd and extending a hand.

At six foot one, Denny wasn’t considered small, but the man standing before him had him by a good three inches. He was tall and lanky, but offered a tired smile.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Special Agent in Charge, Denny Seles.”

“Chief Richard Cline, sir,” he said, and they shook hands. “When the local guys told me your office had jurisdiction, your name and number were what they gave us. So you’ll be taking over this mess?”

“If the local guys are right about jurisdiction, then yeah. Tell me what you got.”

“A local fisherman called us in with a report of a boat run aground. We dispatched both a boat and a ground crew to the coordinates. Our ground crew got to the vessel first and backed out to wait for law enforcement as soon as they’d verified that everyone aboard was dead.”

“You logged the caller’s information?” Seles asked.

Cline nodded. “It will be in my written report, which will be on your desk by 0800.”

“Good,” Seles said. “Tell me what your ground crew found inside the boat.”

“You’ve got three dead—two with bullet wounds to the head, one with a knife wound to the throat. But I think the important information, sir, is that this isn’t an ordinary yacht.”

His tone caught Seles’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this isn’t a lake cruiser. This ship has been modified to sail the high seas, complete with an extendable mast system and sails. She came from deeper waters than Lake St. Clair.”

“A lot of ships in the Great Lakes are modified or even built to sail on the ocean. How do you know this one actually came from somewhere else?” the agent asked.

Cline chuckled. “I’m not guessing, sir. We ran the numbers on the hull. This boat was logged in the Mediterranean Sea three months ago and docked in Gibraltar around that time. All the permits for a non-commercial ocean crossing were found aboard.”

“Interesting,” he said. “You know anything else?”

“One last thing, sir. Beneath the table in the galley was a hidden, refrigerated compartment. It was empty, and when the local guys gave me the go-ahead on federal jurisdiction, I went ahead and ordered our forensic team to come in and do a full sweep.”

“You suspect something more than drug-smuggling?” Seles asked. “Out here?”

“A refrigerated metal compartment, sir? For drugs?” The chief shook his head. “It doesn’t add up.”

Seles nodded, appreciating the man’s professionalism. He hadn’t dealt with the Coast Guard much, but every time he had, they’d been genuine pros. “Okay. Thanks, Chief. I think I’ll go have a look-see.”

The large yacht had come aground among the jagged rocks of the coast near Grosse Point, and it was canted awkwardly to one side. He was a bit skeptical about climbing up, but his hesitation was overcome as Chief Cline moved easily onto the sloped deck. Seles mimicked his steps and was soon on the slanting deck himself.

Two bodies were pressed against the rail and the polished wood was streaked with blood. The shots had been up close and personal, as the powder burns on their clothing were easily visible in the bright light being supplied to the scene by the Coast Guard. Staring at them, Seles could feel his stomach tightening. All of the anti-profiling training in the world didn’t change his gut reaction after he’d spent two tours fighting in the Persian Gulf.

“I made sure our men didn’t move the bodies,” Cline was saying. “And we haven’t let anyone else do much with the scene. Pissed the coroner off to no end that the locals were called, but I don’t answer to county folks and I wasn’t about to let them contaminate the scene. God knows how much damage our guys already did by accident.”

“That’s good work, Chief. Where’s the third?”

“Down below deck,” he said. “Follow me.”

Seles’s shoes slipped as they worked their way below deck. He made his way down the steps and came up short as the container hidden beneath the galley table came into view. The heavy metal top lay open and the cooling lining looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. Denny immediately agreed with the chief’s assessment and walked carefully into the room.

“How long before that team of yours gets here?”

“They’re here now, sir,” Cline said. “Shall I have them come aboard?”

“Do it,” Seles said, then waited as Cline used his handheld radio to call them up.

A couple of minutes later, two men in hazmat suits walked on board, each carrying different types of detectors. The first team member who made his way into the cabin struggled with the lack of maneuverability of the suit in the confined space, and waved the second man back to the deck. Then he turned and stared at them wide-eyed. “What are your men doing in here without protective gear?”

“Hang on,” Cline said, “before you get hazmat-crazy. We brought you in to look at this container to see if you could get any tracings off it. We weren’t really expecting some major decontamination scene.”

The man’s eyes moved to the open container and then up to Cline’s. “Your call, Chief,” he said. Stepping forward, he ran his detector along the inside of the box, then pulled back and took off his helmet.

“It’s your scene, Chief, but are you in charge of this mess?” he asked.

Cline shook his head and jabbed a thumb in Seles’s direction. “That’s your man,” he said. “Special Agent Denny Seles, FBI.”

“Makes sense.” The man grunted. “Can I talk to you privately, sir?”

Seles could see the chief becoming flustered and getting ready to protest.

“What’s your name?” the agent asked.

“Mike Kaminski, Petty Officer, First Class,” he said.

“Okay, listen, Petty Officer. We’ve all been doing this a long time and your chief here was the one who had the foresight to get you guys en route before I even got here. Why the secrecy?”

The man straightened his spine. “No disrespect intended to the chief, sir. What he doesn’t know, he can’t talk about.”

“Let’s just have it,” Seles said. “I’ve got my suspicions, but I want confirmation and that’s where you come in.”

“All right,” Kaminski said. “That’s a lead-shielded, refrigerated container. Very recently, it held uranium.”

“Can you tell what kind?” Seles asked.

“Weapons-grade variety,” he said. “And from the looks of the container, I’d say you’re dealing with a substantial amount.”

“Give me an estimate,” Seles said.

“Easily twenty-five kilograms or more would fit inside that container, especially in rod or brick form.”

Seles sighed and nodded. “Okay, gentlemen. No one outside this room talks about this or gets this information until I say so. Understood?”

Both men nodded at once. “Chief Cline, I want your ground team to set up a hard perimeter, and no one—that includes local law enforcement—gets through. Tell them...” He paused as he considered and discarded several stories, then settled on one. “Tell them there’s a minor chemical spill of some kind in here and until we get it cleaned up, no one’s allowed aboard.”

“We can handle that,” Cline said.

“Good,” Seles replied. “I’m going to have some teams in here shortly and they’ll go over this boat, the bodies, everything, with a fine-toothed comb. No one touches anything else.”

“We got it,” Cline said.

“I’ll be back in a few,” Seles said, “but I’ve got to go make some calls.” He worked his way back out to the deck, down to the rocks, and from there to his SUV. Once he was inside, he pulled a number up on his list and almost laughed. He’d never thought to call it in a million years. He dialed, waited and a moment later a woman’s voice answered.

“Office of the Director,” she said. “This is Melinda Harris speaking.”

“This is Special Agent in Charge Denny Seles, Detroit,” he said. “I need to speak to Director Wallace, please.”

“He’s in a meeting, sir,” she said. “I can have him call you.”

“Interrupt him,” he said.

“Sir, he’s in an important meeting and—”

“Miss, this is a national-security issue. Put me through right now.”

She paused for a moment, then said, “Hold please.”

Seles waited on the line for Wallace’s voice, which he knew from phone conversations and the rare meeting in person.

“Seles, what the hell could be happening in Detroit that is so important that you pull me out of a meeting with the...never mind. What’s so pressing?”

“I’ve got a national security matter,” he said. “It’s serious.”

“In Detroit?” Wallace asked, sounding incredulous. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Someone, somewhere near here, has weapons-grade uranium. We just found the boat they used to bring it in.”

Wallace was quiet for a moment, then Seles clearly heard him say, “Melinda, clear my schedule and get me the White House on the other line.”

* * *

HAL BROGNOLA SAT in his hot tub simultaneously trying to position his kinked back in front of the jets and keep his cigar stub out of the water. He never smoked cigars, but he enjoyed chewing on them, and his taste in them was far too expensive to lose one in the water. As the Project Director for Stony Man Farm he could arrange for strike teams, clear up a terror threat and avert international disasters, but the day-in, day-out tension would make any man long for a massage. He’d have to settle for hot-water pressure jets, and as he relaxed, it began to work its magic on his sore muscles. He closed his eyes, sighing in relief.

He dismissed the first ring of his cell phone as a dream. It had to be. The second ring, however, reminded him that wanting something to be a dream often clashed with reality. Only a handful of people in the world had his number. He pushed himself out of the hot tub and reached for his phone, noting that the call was from a secure, blocked line.

“Hal Brognola,” he said.

“Hal, this is the President.”

Brognola felt his tension return with a sudden vengeance. “Mr. President, sir.”

“Hal, there’s a situation in Detroit,” the President said. “It could be very serious.”

“Go ahead, sir,” Brognola said.

“The Coast Guard found a boat run aground in Lake St. Clair. Three dead men and a container that had recently housed uranium. Hal...we have weapons-grade radioactive material on U.S. soil.”

“How can we help, Mr. President?”

“All the usual organizations are already doing their song and dance. They’ve activated the Detroit Emergency Operations Center and all the field agencies are coordinating through them.”

“That sounds right,” Brognola said. “Do you foresee a problem of some kind, sir?”

“I wish we had foreseen any of this. That’s the problem.”

“We can only react to what’s in front of us, Mr. President.”

“All right, Hal, here’s the deal. All our normal agencies are going to be up to their eyeballs in protocol and their little fiefdoms and covering their own asses. I’ve already had the Directors of the NSA and the FBI in here, shouting at each other about whose fault it was. In the meantime, before they get it all together, these terrorists could blow up Detroit. I want you to send someone in to cut through all the red-tape bullshit. If he runs into any snags with the locals, tell him to have them authorize through the Office of the President. I want this found and handled.”

Brognola knew that sometimes fate put the right man in the right place at just the right time. “As it happens, Mr. President, I have a man in the area already who will be perfect for the job.”

“Then get him working, Hal. We don’t know what we’re up against or how long we’ve got until these bastards do whatever it is they plan to do.”

“I’ll contact him immediately, Mr. President,” Brognola said, hanging up with a polite goodbye.

The man for the job was Mack Bolan. And if there was anyone who could hunt down and stop bad guys, it was Striker. The man sometimes called the Executioner.