Rain continued to drum on the roof. There was the flicker of lightning over the river, a faint roll of thunder.
“We don’t really know what BAI does in this Italian plant, but we have some indirect evidence that they may be working on a project for the Chinese. Last year we monitored a string of ballistic missile tests over the Lop Nur desert testing grounds. It seems the missile in question is a new type, specifically designed to penetrate America’s planned antimissile shield.”
Pendergast nodded.
“What makes the missile special is a new aerodynamic form, combined with some special surface or coating, which together make it invisible to radar. It doesn’t even leave a heat trace or turbulence wake on Doppler. But here’s the rub: whatever it is the Chinese have done, it isn’t working. Up to now, all their missiles have broken up on re-entry.
“That’s where BAI comes in. This is right up their alley. We think the Chinese hired BAI to solve the problem. And we think they’re solving it at the Florentine plant.”
“How?”
“We don’t know. The breakups seem to have had something to do with a resonance spike that occurs at re-entry. The shape of the missile is so constrained by having to remain invisible that it’s almost unflyable. A similar problem occurred with the stealth bomber, but it was solved with some heavy computing power and wind-tunnel research. But here the missile is moving a hell of a lot faster, it’s ballistic, and it’s up against a much more sophisticated radar. The answer lies somewhere in the field of eigenvalue mathematics, Fourier transforms, that sort of thing. You know what I’m talking about?”
“At a basic level.”
“The mathematics of vibrations, resonance, and dampening. It has to be perfectly aerodynamic while having a surface that’s black to radar. This missile can’t have any curves, hardness, or smoothness—those would cause reflection or turbulence you could see on the Doppler—and yet it has to be aerodynamic. If anyone can rise to the technical challenge, BAI can.”
“Is this file for me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The agent looked at Pendergast for the first time, and his mask of expressionlessness fell away. What Pendergast saw was the face of a very, very tired man. “It’s the same old story. The CIA is subject to partisan political pressure. Bullard has friends in Washington. I was told to deep-six the Bullard investigation. After all, he’s raised millions for the reelection campaigns of a half dozen key senators and congressmen, as well as the president. Why, we’re asked, is the CIA harassing a fine, upstanding citizen when there are so many foreign terrorists out there? You know the refrain.”
Pendergast simply nodded.
“But screw it, this bastard is selling America down the river. He’s a traitor, just like those good old American companies that sell dual-use technology to Iran and Syria. If Bullard gets away with this, the U.S. will have laid out a hundred billion dollars developing an antimissile system that will be obsolete on deployment. And if that happens, it’s the CIA that’s going to get hammered. The administration will experience sudden and complete amnesia as to how they deliberately shut down our investigation. The Congress is going to demand an official inquiry on the so-called intelligence failure. We’ll be everyone’s whipping boy.”
“Something we at the FBI know a little about.”
“I spent eighteen months investigating Bullard, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let it go. I’m a patriotic American. I want you to nail Bullard. I don’t want a nuclear missile to take out New York because some American businessman paid off a few congressmen.”
Pendergast put the folder to one side. “Why me?”
“I’ve heard you’re pretty good, even if you are FBI.” The man allowed himself a cynical smile. “And I liked the way you dragged Bullard down to headquarters like a common criminal. That took guts. You really pissed some people off. Big time.”
“Regrettable. But I fear it is not the first time.”
“You better watch your ass.”
“I shall.”
“You won’t find any smoking guns in the file; Bullard’s covered his tracks well. You’ve got your work cut out.”
He started the engine, flicked on the headlights, pulled through the turnaround, and headed back up to the traffic droning southward into lower Manhattan. He said nothing else until turning off the highway at 145th Street, the skyscrapers of Midtown like glowing crystals in the distance.
“You never heard of me, I never heard of you, and this conversation never took place. That file has been cleaned of intelligence markers, so even if it gets back to the CIA, no one will know where it came from.”
“Won’t they suspect you, anyway? It was your case.”
“You worry about your ass, I’ll worry about mine.”
He left Pendergast a few blocks north of his house. As Pendergast was exiting the car, the man leaned toward him and spoke once again. “Agent Pendergast?”
Pendergast turned back.
“If you can’t nail the bastard, kill him.”
{ 32 }