Ground Zero Read online

  Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs

  Eileen found Joe Tanner’s car where he'd agreed to meet her. Garden of the Gods was quiet and still in the late afternoon heat. The deep red of the rocks were paled by the sun. Eileen saw him as she parked her car next to his. He was sitting half-way up the slope of a rock, in the shade, in a white T-shirt and black sweat pants.

  Eileen chunked the door shut and climbed the rock, the soles of her shoes gripping firmly. They looked like women’s dress loafers but they had the structure of running shoes, a recent invention that police were finding very useful. She found a flat place next to Joe and sat down. The shade was cool and good after the heat of the car and the sun. The rock gave a good view of the spires of the Garden, and the sprawl of the city beyond.

  “This is a pretty spot,” Eileen said mildly. Tanner turned his attention away from the view and looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed. Lack of sleep? Tears? Eileen didn’t know.

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” Joe said finally. “I don’t think I could be inside right now. I didn’t even go running, I’ve just been sitting here.”

  “I’m sorry about Art,” Eileen said, and waited for the accusation. She should have found the murderer before now. She should have stopped this from happening. She turned her view to the drowsing city beyond the red-gold spires of the Garden and waited.

  “He should have called you,” Joe said surprisingly. “Art was all heart and brain and no common sense. He figured out who the murderer was, and the murderer found out.”

  “How do you figure that?” Eileen asked casually.

  “Because he was killed at the Center,” Joe said. “He was there at midnight and he was doing something. He told me about the tiles, by the way. I never thought of them either. Then Art must have remembered something else. I’ve been awake all night trying to think of what it could be. Whatever it was, he was on the right trail.”

  “I wonder,” Eileen murmured.

  “Oh, come on,” Joe said harshly. “Don’t try that detective Colombo bullshit on me. Who do you think you’re dealing with, a bunch of idiots?”

  “I don’t think I’m dealing with idiots,” Eileen said steadily. “I haven’t found the murderer yet, now have I?”

  Joe surprised her with a deep and husky laugh, then turned his head away and coughed. He kept his head averted for a few moments.

  “God I miss Art,” he said finally, turning back to her. “Do you think I did it? Killed them?”

  “I know you didn’t kill Art,” Eileen said. “Unless you’re not acting alone.”

  “Sure, one of Doug’s conspiracy gang,” Joe said. He blinked firmly a couple of times to clear his eyes. “Tell me. Why is it easier now?”

  “For some, there's no feeling at all, after a while,” Eileen said.

  “But not for you.”

  “No, not for me.”

  There was silence between them. Joe was looking at her curiously, and for the first time Eileen felt uncomfortable. He was really looking at her.

  “Do you think there’s a conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know,” Eileen said, and shrugged her shoulders. This was getting no where, and she was finding herself increasingly aware of losing her grip on the conversation.

  “Hey, I’m really hungry,” Joe said. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

  Eileen’s stomach responded before she did; her last meal was the huevos rancheros at Doug Procell’s house that morning. The growl was audible to both of them. Joe grinned, and then laughed, and Eileen laughed with him. Nobody who laughed like that could be a vicious murderer, her heart insisted. What the hell was wrong with her?

  “Come on,” Joe said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand to her. “Let’s get some food.”

  “I know a place near here called Joni’s,” Eileen said, getting to her feet and brushing off the seat of her slacks.

  “Oh, yeah. Old Victorian House. I’ve never been there. I’ll treat.”

  “That would be a bribe, Joe,” Eileen said severely, feeling like bursting into very undetectivelike laughter. “It will have to be my treat.”

  “Okay,” Joe said immediately. She had not taken his hand, so he dropped it reluctantly to his side.

  “You first,” Eileen said, and Joe immediately understood. He grinned sarcastically.

  “Of course, Detective,” he said, and turned to go down the rock. Then he turned back, and his face was so serious Eileen nearly took a step back.

  “Don’t trust anyone,” he said. “I’m glad you don’t trust me either. You shouldn’t trust anyone until you find out who this is.”

  “That’s what they pay me for,” Eileen said with a confidence she did not feel.

  “OK,” Joe said, and turned to make his way down the rock. “Let’s take my car, so you can hold your gun on me while I drive.”

  Eileen didn’t have to see his face to know that he was smiling again.

  Mashaad, Iran

  Muallah felt reborn as he bathed in the warm Arab water. The few hours of sleep had been deep and restful and he woke humming with energy. He dressed quickly and rolled out his prayer rug for morning prayers. His prayer rug was an oddity, an ancient Persian weave that showed the mosques and towers of a city on one half of the design. Most Arab designs were abstract; the idea of representational art was considered sinful and an attempt to emulate Allah. This rug, which Muallah found in Baghdad over twenty years ago, was very rare. He knew at once that it was meant for the One of the Prophecies. The city over which he knelt every morning was the re-birth of the Arab Empire. Allah had promised this to him, in return for his service and devotion. Muallah prostrated himself on the rug, facing Mecca, and prayed.

  When he left his room the smell of good coffee filled the air. His team was awaiting him in the large central room. The coffee was untouched, of course, for he would have the first cup. They knelt, twelve men with faces all alike in their devotion, waiting.

  “Allah be with you!” Muallah said with a broad smile. The men smiled back at him, except of course for Ali who never smiled. “Come, let us share coffee and break our fast, and we shall begin.”

  “Do we leave today?” the helicopter pilot, Assad, asked.

  “This afternoon,” Muallah promised. The pilot nodded and chewed his lip. His craft was an old Soviet Hind, lovingly maintained. Assad was a worrier, however. He wanted his Hind to be perfect, and there was always something leaking or separating or wearing out.

  “The helicopter is ready,” Assad said stoutly, at a raised eyebrow from Muallah. As soon as the coffee was over, however, Muallah knew that he would rush to his machine for last preparations.

  “The weapons are ready,” Haadin said.

  “We just need to know where,” Rashad said eagerly, sipping his coffee.

  “There is a silo outside a town named Turtkul, in Terkmenistan,” Mullah said. He nodded at Ali, who unrolled the maps they’d carried from Paris. Ali held one half of the map and Rashad held the other. The small town of Turtkul was marked with red pen. “We should be able to fly there within a few hours.” The men leaned over the map, their coffee forgotten in their hands. Muallah sipped his with appreciation, leaning back against the comfort of the richly embroidered pillows.

  “Is it well guarded?” Haadin asked.

  “These silos are nearly forgotten,” Muallah said scornfully. “The rotting hulk of the Soviet Empire fills the air with its stench. There may be four, five soldiers at most. They won’t be prepared for us.”

  “Mahdi,” Assad said softly. Assad, the worrier. Muallah knew he was a weak team member -- perhaps because he loved his helicopter so much. The worship in Assad’s eyes was dimmer than in the others. He loved his Hind, perhaps more than he loved Muallah. That was annoying to Muallah. But Assad and his Hind were vital.

  “Yes, my son?” Muallah said gently, though Assad was at least a decade older than he.

  “What do we do here, Mahdi? How does this fulfill the Prophecy
?”

  Muallah couldn’t help himself. He was so filled with excitement and delight, so ready for action after years of planning and waiting, that he threw back his head and laughed. His coffee cup rattled on the tiny saucer. His Chosen Ones smiled at his laughter, not knowing why he laughed but glad that he was laughing. Assad, too, smiled. But his eyes were dark and worried above the smile.

  “My son, it is time,” Muallah said. “All of you, it is time to know the whole plan.”

  Ali, who knew the plan, watched the other team members instead of Muallah. As Muallah explained his plan, Ali gazed from one man to another. His eyes were as expressionless as his face. If any faltered, they would not leave the room alive. Ali reached inside his pocket and caressed the coil of wire that always lay within.

  There would be no turning back now, for any of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Colorado Springs

  Joni's was uncrowded, quiet, and cool. The house was left largely intact, with separate parlor, dining room, and living rooms. The walls were decorated in the fussy, crowded Victorian way. The tables were generous and the chairs comfortable. There were no more than two or three tables in each room. The air smelled of fresh bread and herbs.

  As they stood in the front hall a tiny woman appeared from the back and smiled broadly at Eileen.

  “Eileen!” she said, and held out her arms. Eileen grinned and hugged her.

  “Joni, this is Joe Tanner,” she said, and the woman looked sharply at Joe. Joe smiled politely. Joni was an old woman, with a network of wrinkles across a miniature face. Her eyes were bright and sharp. Her lined cheeks were rosy from cooking. She had small white teeth and a halo of white hair, held back by a girl's flowered headband. She was wearing a flowered dress and a calico apron, a childish costume that suited her.

  “Joe,” Joni said. “Eileen finally brings a man to my place! I celebrate. Sit in your usual spot, my dear, I'll bring your coffee. Would you care for coffee, Joe?”

  “A big glass of water, first?”

  “Of course.”

  Joni whisked back down the hall.

  “She's a good friend,” Eileen said with a half-embarrassed smile. “She got robbed two years ago and I handled the case. We ended up friends.” She indicated the passageway with her hand, and Joe followed her into the dining room. There were four small tables, one in a bay window nearly covered with vines. Eileen sat down in the bay window table.

  “This is really nice,” Joe said. “It's like being underwater.” The westering sun poured through the leaves, lighting the alcove with shafts of gold and green. The afternoon breeze made the shafts dance and flicker, moving through the open windows and stirring the napkins on the table.

  “My spot,” Eileen said. “Joni doesn't save it for me, particularly, but if I call ahead she will, and if it's empty it's mine. I come here for breakfast almost every Sunday.”

  Joni appeared and set down water and coffee, giving Joe another of the quick, bird-like glances.

  “I'm fixing roughy with Jamaican sauce today, sound good? You like fish?” She addressed her question to Joe, ignoring Eileen.

  “Fish would be fine,” Joe said.

  “Good,” Joni said abruptly, and vanished.

  Eileen poured cream from a tiny porcelain pitcher, stirred her coffee, sipped it, and sighed in pleasure.

  The Pentagon

  The film Lucy Giometti was watching was produced in the same television studio where Eileen Reed was spending so much of her time. The film was professional and crisp, with the flavor of a documentary. The narrator had a deep bass voice, soothing and beautiful.

  “The so-called Star Wars program was canceled in the mid-80’s,” the narrator said. “But the new Ballistic Missile Defense program was born out of the ashes, born in secret and built under the blackest program since the Manhattan project.”

  Somehow the dramatic words sounded just right in that buttery rich voice.

  “The President had made his decision,” the narrator said. “The missile defense program would not be canceled . The following film is from a test made a little over a year after the public cancellation.”

  The view switched to an object in space, shiny as a tin can and shaped vaguely like one. Lucy wondered how large the object was, since there was nothing to compare it against. Then an arm came into view, the arm of the astronaut who was operating the camera. The object was tiny, Lucy realized. It was smaller than the astronaut.

  “This is a Brilliant Pebble,” the narrator said proudly, sounding like a father introducing his son, the doctor. Lucy grinned around her chicken.

  The Pebble floated above the huge blue curve of the planet.

  “Man, look at that little sucker,” the astronaut-cameraman said in a Dallas, Texas voice. “She's so tiny. You gonna do this test or am I gonna float on my ass out here all day?”

  The Pebble responded by unfolding her delicate eyes. The goggles turned towards the astronaut and he burst into delighted laughter as the Pebble appeared to wink at him.

  “Wiggle that fanny, honey,” the astronaut said, then laughed again as peroxide jets squirted out and made the little Pebble appear to dance back and forth.

  “Could you can that, Major?” an irritated voice said over the communications link. The astronaut's body floated upwards a few inches; he had shrugged inside his suit. The Pebble turned slowly until it faced the blue earth beneath it. The goggle eyes continued to scan back and forth, steadied by tiny bursts of peroxide jets.

  “Beautiful,” the astronaut murmured.

  “We have Brilliant Pebbles,” the narrator said. “The BPs are loaded with command software. They can destroy ballistic missiles in flight much like the Patriot missiles destroyed incoming SCUDs during the Persian Gulf War.”

  “I heard the Patriots actually weren’t very effective,” Mills said.

  “Disinformation,” Lucy and Jefferson said at the same time. Lucy smiled at the aide and he grinned back. She knew there was something fishy about those pooh-pooh reports after the war was over. She watched CNN every night and saw the missiles getting hit by Patriots. Somehow she couldn’t make herself believe all the reports about how they ‘didn’t really work very well’.

  “The Patriots had to be discredited or foreign governments might become suspicious about our ‘cancelled’ missile defense program,” Jefferson explained to Mills.

  “We also have ground based missiles much like the Patriots, even more powerful than the original missiles, capable of destroying a delicate re-entry vehicle in flight and rendering the incoming missile harmless,” the narrator continued.

  There was another shot, this time one familiar to Lucy from her memories of the Persian Gulf war; a hissing screeching missile launching itself skyward from a rack mounted on some sort of truck, and then the spectacular fireworks as the missile hit something in the sky. Lucy began to nod as the narrator continued, discussing the plans for the future installation of Patriot-type missiles around American cities.

  The end of the documentary showed another shot from the Shuttle. The earth floated before them, blue and white and pure. For a moment the image held, and then faded. Lucy couldn't take her eyes from the earth. It was heartbreakingly pure and beautiful. The image faded and the President's image appeared.

  “I may not be the President now,” he said. He was correct; he'd left office at the last election. “But what we Americans have is a great thing. We can stop a nuclear missile from destroying a million innocent people. No country knows that we can do this. Most Americans don't know that we can do this. But now you know.”

  The President leaned forward, and seemed to be looking directly at them.

  “Your heart should be full of pride at your people, your countrymen and women who made this possible. We have to keep funding for the shield. For all our sakes. For all our children's sakes.”

  The screen held on him for a moment, then went dark. Lieutenant Jefferson went to the back of the room and the lights ca
me up.

  “This is shown to Senators and Representatives, isn't it?” Lucy asked Admiral Kane. He was looking at her with sad eyes.

  “Yes it is. Any Congressman who wants to get feisty about “black project” defense spending gets a little trip to this theater. The members of the Armed Services Committee have seen this film. We get our funding.”

  “Why isn’t it made public?” Mills asked in bewilderment. “I don't understand. We could be heroes to the whole world.”

  “The world is much less peaceful now that the Cold War is over. Nuclear weapons are in a lot of hands that I don’t even care to think about.”

  “The shield works partly because few hostile countries know we have it,” Jefferson explained. “Once they knew, they'd start figuring out ways to defeat it. Since they don't know --” he shrugged.

  “I see,” Lucy said. She was beginning to see, and she didn’t like the direction her thoughts were heading.

  “What about hand-carried nuclear devices, you know, like truck bombs?” Mills asked. “What good is the system against those?”

  “Carry a nuclear device in a truck for a week and see how much hair you have left,” Jefferson commented with a small, cynical smile.

  “If a truck bomb could be nuclear, there probably would have been one by now,” Kane agreed. “We’re still worried that someone will figure a way to shield a bomb and transport it and set it off, but the logistical problems are intense. Governments are more likely to use a nuclear device and they are most likely to use airborne methods of delivery.”

  “Airborne,” Lucy murmured.

  “Can't other countries see the Brilliant Pebbles?” Mills asked.

  “Oh, you mean with telescopes?” Jefferson smiled. “A Brilliant Pebble is tiny. Each one is about as big as a medium sized dog. Space is big. We can't even track them on our radar systems; we see them through radio signals that they send to us.”