“I disagree,” said Mason, secretary of homeland security. “We should tap into their knowledge base immediately. This is not just America’s problem. It’s everyone’s problem.”

“General Krug,” said Brubaker, “any thoughts?”

“We’re way behind here,” said Krug. “If this bomb went missing four days ago, it’s through the Bosphorus Strait by now and probably most of the way across the Mediterranean. I wouldn’t bother with Russia, Ukraine, or anything other than the nine-mile stretch of ocean between Gibraltar and Tangier. If they make it past Gibraltar, they will enjoy open ocean all the way to the U.S. East Coast. There are simply too many boats and too much ocean.”

“What do you look for?” asked Raditz.

“We should assume they’re sophisticated enough to know they’re being watched and spectragraphed,” said Krug. “They’ll need a vessel that blends in and also is able to make a transatlantic crossing. My guess is they’re on some sort of deep-sea fishing trawler, a few hundred feet long. There are literally hundreds of thousands of them floating around. I think we need to get UAVs over the Strait of Gibraltar immediately, along with whatever warships we have at Naval Station Rota in Spain. SEAL Team 6 has some men at Rota as well, and I’d position them in fastboats.”

“How long to get everything in range?” asked Raditz.

“A few hours.”

“Get them moving.”

“I suggest we run this out of Langley,” added Krug.

“Why Langley?” asked Brubaker.

Krug cleared his throat.

“Because the truth is, if they make it past Spain, it becomes an intelligence operation,” he said. “Bill, you might as well start involving yourselves now.”

“I hear you,” said Polk, “and we’re ready to fill that role. I’ll have Control set up a secure uplink.”

“I’ll get the ships, SEALs, and drones moving,” said Krug. “Josh, you got anything else?”

“No, not at the moment. Let’s reconvene in an hour.”

Piper Redgrave, head of the National Security Agency, spoke up.

“I need to interrupt here,” she said. “I have to bring something to everyone’s attention that could be related.”

“Piper,” said Brubaker, “tell me it’s something good.”

Redgrave was silent for a few pregnant moments. She cleared her throat.

“We broke into a server we know to be run by an Al Qaeda tertiary in Damascus,” she said. “There is high-frequency chatter across the terror complex focused on a second major attack on the United States. They’re calling it ‘nine/twelve.’”

The conference call went silent.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Brubaker. “When were you going to elevate this?”

“We decrypted it half an hour ago,” said Redgrave.

Again, the call went silent.

“Mike,” said Brubaker, breaking the quiet, “we need to get the president up to speed. Bring Secretary Black with you. Brief him on the way to the White House. Hector, Bill: NCS has tactical command control. I want live protocols run in through Langley, then distributed across interagency in real time. The Milstar data is critical at this point. But it’s not as critical as the chatter. Piper: NSA has to dig deeper, and it needs to happen immediately. Open up PRISM, MYSTIC, ThinThread, and any other signals archives NSA has access to. We need to get to the bottom of this nine/twelve chatter and determine if it’s related to the nuclear device. God help us if it is.”

10

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

LANGLEY

Calibrisi, Polk, and several other NCS staffers, analysts, and case officers were in Calibrisi’s glass-walled seventh-floor corner office when Calibrisi’s phone buzzed. It was Jim Bruckheimer from the NSA.

“Tell me you found Bokolov,” said Calibrisi.

“Yeah, we got ’em,” said Bruckheimer. “But we have something even better.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We tracked Bokolov to southern France,” said Bruckheimer. “Fifteen minutes ago, he bought a forty-four-thousand-dollar Rolex Daytona at a jewelry store in Cannes. They must pay those Ukrainian generals well, huh?”

“Someone did.”

“That’s what we assumed, so we did a little more research. A month ago, Alexei Malnikov wired him eight million dollars from a Zurich bank account.”

Calibrisi looked at Polk. Both men knew Malnikov, along with his father, Yuri. Alexei Malnikov ran the largest criminal enterprise in the world. Langley had helped the FBI track down Malnikov’s father off the coast of Florida the year before, providing informal “off-log” support for the highly publicized arrest of the head of the Russian mob, a man now confined to a prison cell in Colorado.

“We scanned Malnikov’s bank accounts,” added Bruckheimer. “No significant payments were made to him. However, four days ago, he paid someone a hundred million dollars.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. The account he wired it to isn’t there anymore. It’s almost as if it was created a half second before the wire, then disappeared.”

Calibrisi picked up his cell phone. He stepped to the corner of his office, out of earshot of the others.

“Control,” came the female voice.

“Get me John Barrows.”

*   *   *

A tall, gray-haired man was standing on the fringe of the seventeenth green of Augusta National Golf Club, watching one of his clients prepare to putt.

He felt a small vibration in his pocket. He wasn’t supposed to have his cell phone with him. It was strictly forbidden at Augusta. Yet certain phone calls were more important than being a member of the most exclusive golf club in the world.

Barrows watched his client, a businessman from Omaha, tap the ball. He glanced down at his cell as the ball rolled in a poetic curve across the ice-hard green.

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

This was one of those phone calls.

Barrows lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Hector.”

“I need to speak with one of your clients.”

“I have a lot of clients.”

“He’s Russian.”

Barrows cut away from the green and walked toward a line of dogwood trees, looking about for anyone who might be watching him.

“I really don’t think my client is in any mood to do the head of the Central Intelligence Agency any favors,” said Barrows. “Being locked up in a windowless six-by-six cell has made him a little grumpy.”

“I’m not talking about Yuri,” said Calibrisi, his tone polite but unmistakable. “I need to speak with Alexei Malnikov, John. It needs to happen immediately.”

Barrows glanced at his client, who was walking toward the eighteenth tee.

“Are you prepared to work with me on a transfer of Yuri Malnikov to a more suitable facility?” asked Barrows.

“If I’m not on the phone with Alexei Malnikov in the next five minutes,” said Calibrisi testily, “he’ll be going to a place that makes Yuri’s cell look like a suite at the Four Seasons. Got it?”

“Stay by your phone.”

*   *   *

Alexei Malnikov stood on a terrace outside his suite at the Bulgari Hotel Milan, looking down at La Scala. He wore Derek Rose black silk pajama pants. In the darkness of the Milan evening, he was practically invisible, except perhaps to the woman inside the suite.

He’d flown from Moscow to Paris, then to Milan. Somehow, he thought that getting away from Moscow would ease his mind about the entire interaction with Cloud, but it hadn’t. He realized how quickly and precipitously his world could, and probably would, come crashing down around him.

His cell phone made a low beeping noise.

“Hello?”

“Alexei, it’s John Barrows. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“In exactly three minutes, your cell phone is going to ring. Answer it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know what you did, and I don’t want to know. But you need to answer the phone.”

“Who is it?”

“Hector Calibrisi,” said Barrows.

Malnikov shut his eyes.

“Why is he calling me?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” said Barrows. “And don’t attempt to bullshit Calibrisi. If you lie, no one can protect you. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s after you.”