“About two weeks. They all leave in a hurry a few days ago, including Mr. Hendriks.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Probably to his home in Amsterdam. He doesn’t come to Bermuda so much anymore without his family.”
The police lieutenant reappeared with his men. “The house and grounds appear empty, Agent Belova. I’m afraid you might be chasing a false lead.”
>
“The garage,” she said. “I want to see the garage.”
They made their way to the freestanding building. As they approached a side entry, they could see it was a large structure, its size concealed by thick foliage. A padlock secured the entrance, and the lieutenant called for a bolt cutter from a support vehicle. He snipped the padlock free, shoved open the door, and they stepped inside.
The research lab was still furnished, with computer terminals, test equipment, and lab benches filling the bay. While the lieutenant admired the test drone hanging from the ceiling, Ana focused on a more ordinary vehicle. Just inside the main door sat a weathered flatbed truck. She noted the black and white Bulgarian license plate affixed to the rear bumper.
“Lieutenant,” she called. “They were here. This is the truck that was transported from Bulgaria.”
The Bermudan stepped over and gazed at the empty truck.
“The weapon is gone now, if it was indeed here,” Ana said. “Probably flown out with Hendriks and his crew.”
“Maybe we can still confirm its presence.” He waved over an officer carrying a wand that was wired to an electronic box. “Geiger counter,” the lieutenant said. “If they swapped out any parts, there may be radioactive debris.”
Ana nodded. “Check every square centimeter. Then I want passenger lists and details on every aircraft flown out of here in the past week.”
“We’ll get right on it.”
As the lieutenant issued orders to his subordinates, Ana paced the lab, a thousand questions running through her mind. Could the Russian bomb still be functional? How big is it—and how powerful? And, most important, where did they take it?
She stepped past a lab table filled with old radio tubes and examined a large whiteboard. A series of mathematical formulas were visible where the dry marker hadn’t been cleanly erased. But she ignored the writing and focused on a small map fastened to the corner. It showed a section of a large waterway that ran north and south, with several tributaries on either side. The labels were in English, but she didn’t recognize the names. None, that is, except for a city on one of the western tributaries with a star next to it.
Washington, D.C.
73
Pitt was feeling a touch of jet lag when he stepped into his office at the NUMA headquarters, a towering glass structure on the banks of the Potomac. He’d been at his desk less than a minute when Rudi Gunn entered with two cups of coffee.
“Welcome back to the fray.” He passed a cup to Pitt.
“Thanks, I could use a jump start.”
“You’ve got about five minutes to enjoy it, then we need to head downtown.”
Pitt glanced at his calendar. “I didn’t think I had any meetings today.”
“The Vice President tends to be in a hurry when he wants something,” Gunn said. “His secretary just called. He wants to see us in his office in thirty minutes.”
“Why the urgent social call?”
“He wants to know about the Russian bomber.”
“Hallelujah,” Pitt said. “I figured we’d have to kick and scream to get anyone’s attention about it.”
“Apparently, someone else has succeeded on that front.”
They downed their coffee, and a waiting car drove them across the Arlington Memorial Bridge to 17th Street, then north to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. The Vice President’s expansive office was on the second level. While prior occupants had used it as a ceremonial office, Sandecker preferred its relative isolation, shunning his official office in the West Wing.
After clearing multiple layers of security, Pitt and Gunn entered the mahogany-floored office to find its owner pacing the floor like an angry bull.