Ground Zero Read online

  Lucy had her fingers at her temples and realized vaguely that the tips of her fingers were wet with sweat. George Tabor was dead. Travers was his alternate set of identification. He’d been murdered so quickly it was chilling. Lucy knew he’d carried something out of the country and it had to be something from the Missile Defense program. How sensitive was it? Why had George been murdered? He was a valuable agent, a spy with a lot of successes under his belt. Most large organizations would be happy to welcome George into their ring. He would be an asset.

  Unless the organization George dealt with didn’t like him. Or didn’t like what George was. Lucy massaged her temples. Perhaps there was something in the CIA files on George’s contacts. She had to get access through Mills to see those files, though. Lucy sighed heavily. She dug a package of crackers out of her desk and forced herself to eat five of them before she went to see Mills.

  Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base

  The room was crowded and noisy. Eileen could not see Terry Guzman. Joe Tanner stood in his rumpled navy suit, talking to a Colonel. Eaton, was she? Arthur Bailey was already in the little room that he shared with Joe, the Truth Team room. Eileen noticed a poster of national flags hung on one wall, and smiled, thinking of Joe playing a War Game where England was the enemy. Art was sitting in front of his console, looking intently at the screen. Nelson Atkins stood with Colonel Olsen and Major Blaine. The pre-murder Blaine was relaxed and confident. He slowly ate a chocolate donut and licked his fingers clean afterwards. Nelson looked nervous. He picked at the hairs on his arm and kept looking around with darting, bird-like movements. Lowell Guzman was in his tiny room. His headphones were on and he was flicking switches on his communications set, a square wooden box lined with brightly lit buttons. He kept tapping at his mike, as though it weren't working. Eileen looked into the next room. It was empty.

  Terry Guzman walked into the Center. From Sharon's story, Eileen expected her to be there already. Perhaps she'd been to the bathroom. Her lipstick was fresh and peach-colored. Her suit was pale green. She was stunning. Eileen fumbled for a moment before she managed the 'Pause' button on the tape. Terry stood, vibrantly alive, frozen on the screen. The lines of discontent were there, but the way she held herself made such tiny details irrelevant. Eileen pressed the 'Play' button. Terry walked to Major Torrence, the Ground Weapons Commander, and started speaking. Her voice was lost in a dozen different conversations. Eileen would capture her conversation later, as Tanner showed her. Right now, she wanted to absorb the whole scene. The murder scene. These were the last minutes of Terry Guzman's life.

  Terry smiled and spoke to Major Torrence. She touched her brown hair, shifted from one round hip to the other, threw her head back and laughed. She was holding a notebook in one hand. She held herself like a young girl, light on her feet, her chin proudly level on the slender neck that was only just beginning to show the signs of age. The lights dimmed, and Terry made a smiling farewell to the Major. She strode towards the room in measured, even strides, swinging the pretty fanny just a little. As she entered, she did not look back. She examined her console, picked up her headset, and sat down in the chair. Eileen could see every inch of the tiny cube. The door swung outwards, not in. No one could be hiding behind the door. The console table was a spindly affair, a platform on a single stalk of a leg. No one could be hiding behind the console table. Besides, even if they were, how would they then get out? Terry checked her microphone. A person walked in front of the cube, blocking Eileen’s view for a moment. Terry was now taking off her headset. She came to the door. Nelson Atkins walked to her and spoke to her for a moment. She nodded, and Nelson swung the door shut.

  Eileen leaned back and breathed. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until now. She rubbed a cold hand on her forehead. Terry would not come out of that room alive.

  She found the mouse key and pressed 'Rewind.' The rest of the audience had been a blur. It was time to see what everyone else was doing. Eileen opened her notebook and read down the list of names. Besides the Gamers, there were twelve audience members and the Command Team, Major Torrence, Colonel Olsen, and Colonel Eaton. Major Blaine told her the audience was in full sight of the cameras for the full hour and a half of the Game. She would check on that. Right now, Eileen added a name to the list. Terry Guzman. She put a check mark next to the name. She had watched her on the tape. After a moment, she made two columns on the paper. The first column she titled “Watched on Tape”. The second column she titled “Listened on Tape.”

  The machine made a whirring noise and stopped. Eileen pressed 'Play.'

  Paris, France

  Muallah stood on his apartment balcony, breathing the muggy air of Paris as though it were the finest morning breeze from the desert. He looked at the teeming city around him as though he already stood on the balcony of a palace, looking at his subjects. They would be his subjects.

  “Prophecy is the Lamp of the world’s light;

  But ecstasy in the same Niche has room.

  The Spirit’s is the breath which sighs through me;

  And mine the thought which blows the Trumpet of Doom.”

  Muallah savored the words, repeating them slowly. al-Hallaj had said those words in Baghdad in 922, before he was executed. Some said it was a prophecy fulfilled when the Ottoman empire collapsed. Muallah knew differently. The prophecy was yet to be fulfilled. The prophecy was speaking about him.

  “Mahdi,” Ali said quietly behind him.

  Muallah waited a moment and then turned, to see Ali waiting patiently. Ali would wait until darkness fell, until Ali shriveled and died from lack of water, until Muallah was ready for Ali to speak. All Muallah’s people felt this way about him. This was one of the reasons Muallah knew he was touched by Allah. This was one of the reasons Muallah knew he was the One of the Prophecies.

  “Yes, my Ali?” Muallah said gently.

  “Achmed has a transport, Mahdi. A four wheel drive Mercedes, but old and battered as you requested. They await us in Mashaad. I have purchased our plane tickets. Will you see them?”

  “I trust they are good,” Muallah said with a wave. Ali’s face flushed with pleasure. “Have Sufi pack our things. We shall not return here.”

  Muallah turned away and contemplated the city again. The Trumpet of Doom was a prophecy not for the fall of the Ottoman Empire, but for the fall of the Western Empire. It was time for the rebirth of the Arab Empire. Muallah had worked and waited many patient years, waiting for the right information to fall into his hands. At last the foolish American-Russian had given him what he had to have. The dead spy had delivered to him the location of the Trumpet.

  Fouad Muallah would blow the Trumpet of Doom, as the prophecy had said. Out of the ashes of the Western Empire the Arab Empire would be reborn. Muallah would be the One of the Prophecy, the Emperor. He drew a deep, satisfied breath and recited the poem again, savoring the words as they flowed off his tongue in gorgeous Arabic.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base

  The tape was in the pre-Game stage. Eileen was watching Lowell Guzman, who casually took a sprinkle donut and ate it. Weren't the sprinkle donuts reserved for the memory of Sully? Eileen knew they were. An eccentric memorial like that was unforgettable. Yet there was Lowell, eating the Holy Donuts. Odd.

  The door to the Center opened. The real door, not the one on the tape. Someone was coming into the Center. Eileen fumbled for a moment before pressing 'Pause' on the recording. She turned.

  The person who stepped through the door was the tall gray-haired Game Director. Eileen thought for a moment and then came up with the name.

  “Nelson Atkins?”

  “Yes, you remembered.” Atkins said. He was more composed than the day before, although the skin around his eyes was pouched and webbed with stress. He was wearing slacks and shirt and a western style string tie. The tie clip was silver and turquoise and looked Navajo. It was a handsome piece of jewelry.

 
“That's my job,” Eileen said. She stood up to shake Atkin's hand.

  “I don't want to bother you, I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need,” Atkins said. His grasp was firm and dry.

  “Art helped me set up the video tapes,” Eileen said, and gestured to the control panel behind her. Atkins nodded.

  “Good. I figured he would. I brought the personnel files you wanted.” Atkins held out a bulky accordion folder. “These aren't classified but they are very personal, so if you'd be careful with them -- “

  “I will, thank you,” Eileen said.

  “Can I do anything else?” Atkins asked. “I know we're all suspects, even me. I want to help if I can.” He held out his hands in an open gesture. Eileen noticed they were big hands, and they looked familiar. Eileen recognized after a moment the calluses that could only come from horseback riding. Atkin’s hands looked like her father’s hands.

  “No, don't think so.” As Atkins nodded and turned to go, Eileen said, “Wait. There is something.”

  “Sure,” Atkins said. “What?” There was no hesitation, no furtive guilt or telltale dampness around the forehead or upper lip. If this plain, sturdy man were a murderer, he was hiding it very well.

  “Why is a clearance so hard to keep? Art just mentioned it to me a few minutes ago, and you told me yesterday if I arrested someone they'd lose their clearance.”

  “Jeff Blaine told me you were in the military,” Atkins said. “Didn't you have to worry about them there?”

  “Not really,” Eileen said wryly. “You really had to screw up big time to lose your clearance in the Air Force. Drugs, conviction. Arrest wouldn't do it, or every Saturday night a dozen airmen would lose their clearances.”

  “Not in the civilian world,” Atkins said. He put his hands in his pockets and leaned a big shoulder against the door frame. “If you get too deep into debt, you're out. They run a credit card check yearly.”

  “Who does?”

  “The DIA. Defense Intelligence Agency. They do civilian clearances. If you have too much drinking, any drugs, any arrests, any big financial problems, you're out. Still, though, we have those spies like the Walker Ring, or Aldrich Ames. They do a lot of damage, selling secrets.”

  “I know they do,” Eileen said. The hatred against spies ran deep in any pilot or soldier. Eileen knew if she'd had to fight in her plane she'd be going up against technology that was stolen from her own country. There was nothing worse than a spy. Eileen felt that they were the worst of thieves, stealing from a whole country instead of just one person.

  “We hate them too, here,” Atkins said. He jingled the change thoughtfully in his pocket. “After you play a few War Games and lose, you don't mind the background checks so much. I don't think anyone minded.”

  “Are those background checks in these folders?” Eileen asked.

  Atkins shook his head. “Those are kept at DIA. I suppose you could get them from DIA. I've never seen them, myself, not even my own. I wouldn't want to see them. They get really personal.” Atkins looked away, into the Gaming Center, where the screens whispered with their spider web pattern, repeating and repeating. His eyes looked sad. “I wonder what happened to her,” he said, and Eileen realized Atkins was looking at Terry's door. “I wish I knew.”

  “Me too,” Eileen said. “I appreciate the files.”

  “Okay,” Atkins said. “If you need anything, let me know. I'd appreciate if you'd keep the files with you until you can give them back to me personally. I wouldn't want anyone else seeing them.”

  “No problem,” Eileen said.

  After the door swung shut, Eileen sat down with a huge sigh, the folder in her hands. Nothing about Nelson Atkins betrayed anything but the most profound innocence.

  She looked at the folder. She could go over that later. Right now, the tape had barely begun. Eileen found the proper button and pressed 'Play.'

  Joe Tanner: “Art, pal, we better not hit that packet problem during the big follow-on.”

  Art Bailey: “We won't. Don't worry. You better worry about that racquetball tournament you and Meg are playing next weekend. I'm not looking after the kids all day to have you guys lose, you know.”

  Joe Tanner: “Win or lose, we're still expecting supper. It better be good, too.”

  Art Bailey: “Pizza is always good. Close the door, it's time.”

  The door closes upon them.

  Roberto Espinoza: “So we have the Church retreat in two weeks, and I don't care what happens here, I'm going to make it this summer. A week of fishing and praying and hiking...”

  Doug Procell: “That sounds great. I don't know about the praying, but the fishing and hiking parts sound good.”

  Roberto Espinoza: “You'd like that too, I bet. It's very spiritual. Plus, the North Fork runs right through the retreat grounds and it's private fishing.”

  Doug Procell: “Ah, man. You dog. Wouldn’t you know it, private fishing. I’d be taking a retreat about once a week in the summer, eh?”

  Roberto Espinoza: “Prayers and the right fly, works every time. Hey, let's go. It's show time.”

  They go into their rooms, and the doors close upon them.

  Sharon Johnson: “Yes, I'll be done with my class in another week.”

  Nelson Atkins: “So how is it going?”

  Sharon Johnson: “It's a tough course, but I think I'll do okay on the final. It seems to take so long, but I'm getting there. I have to go now, I need to check out my headset.”

  Nelson Atkins: “All right.”

  The door closes upon her.

  Lowell Guzman, on the sound system: “Art, can you hear me?”

  Arthur Bailey, on the sound system: “Loud and clear, Lowell. What's up?”

  Lowell Guzman: “I was having trouble with my headset, but it seems to be okay now.”

  Arthur Bailey: “Sounds good now.”

  Lowell Guzman: “All right, then. I'm almost ready.”

  The door closes upon him.

  Nelson Atkins: “We'll be starting in a few minutes.”

  Terry Guzman: “I know that. Thank you.”

  Nelson Atkins: “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

  Terry Guzman: “I'm fine and I won't screw up. Is that what you were trying to say, Nelson?”

  Nelson Atkins: “Terry, now...”

  Terry Guzman: “Don't worry, Nelson, you'll give me a complex. You know I'll do great, I always do, don't I? Now quit hovering and get on with it.”

  The door closes upon her.

  Fort Rucker Army Base, Alabama

  “What do you mean, canceled?” Stillwell asked. He’d been waiting for so many hours in the plastic chair his butt was beyond numb. Nobody told him anything, just asked him to wait, please sir.

  Now it was past lunch and the flight sergeant finally let him know the Chinook was not leaving today, in an absent-minded manner that left Stillwell wanting to choke him senseless.

  “What about another transport?” Stillwell asked, gritting his teeth.

  “No available spaces, sir,” the sergeant said. “You’ll just have to come back at dawn tomorrow, sir. I’m sure she’ll be ready for take-off then.”

  Stillwell gave up. He’d been in the Air Force long enough to know when to surrender to bureaucracy. Whatever was out in Colorado Springs would just have to wait another day for Major Alan Stillwell.

  Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base

  Eileen stretched and sighed. Terry's voice was husky and teasing and very cold. She looked at her list of check marks. All the Gamers were covered. Now it was time to see who left the room during the game. She leaned forward to pick up the mouse again and the phone rang, startling her. It rang again, and she shrugged and picked it up.

  “Miss Reed?”

  “I thought you called everyone by their first names.”

  “You and the SecDef, I guess,” Art laughed. “I was wondering if you wanted some coffee. Joe mentioned it. So we tried to figure out if offering you
coffee would mean we were sucking up to you, then we decided, screw it. Want some coffee?”

  “I would love some,” Eileen said gratefully. “If you poison it then I'll know you're the ones, right?”

  “Well, your replacement would,” Art replied cheerfully. “I'll be right over with a cup.”

  Eileen put the phone back in the cradle, and grinned at it. “Send Joe,” she said to the dead line.

  Art brought the blue mug and a white carafe.

  “Only the best for our women in blue,” Arthur said. He put down the carafe and expertly poured a cup. He handed it to Eileen and perched a hip on the edge of the table.

  “I know how it could be done, if I weren't here and didn't know it didn't happen that way. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” Eileen said, and sipped the coffee. As excellent as yesterday.

  “Someone hides in the room. Somehow. Okay, the room is too small. But let’s say. The door shuts, murderer kills her as soon as she puts on the headset.”

  “How does murderer exit?”

  “In the confusion surrounding the body, the murderer steps from his hiding place and becomes one of the horrified crowd.”

  “Nice. I saw it on late night TV last week,” Eileen said dryly.

  “Me, too,” Art said, and his shoulders slumped. “Besides, I was there. There wasn't anyone in the room.”

  “I've been watching the tapes. I've zoomed in so close I can see a stray hair fall from Terry's back and land on the carpet behind her. Nothing.”