He hit a button on the controls, bringing up commo. A few moments later, Malnikov’s cell started ringing. As Stihl descended out of the sky toward the roof of the building, he listened to the phone ring half a dozen times. Malnikov didn’t answer.

Stihl brought up more controls, visible inside his helmet shield. He ordered the chopper’s nav to locate the cell by GPS. A second later, he saw the words flicker in green digital letters:

: MOSCOW RUS:

: EVOLUTION TOWER:

*   *   *

A faint electric whine, then the shifting of wind and rain, startled Dewey from his thoughts. He stood up, searching the sky, seeing nothing.

Dewey listened, sensed a change in the wind, then spun around, just as the thunder of the Eurocopter’s rotors exploded behind him, ripping the air. As sudden as a lightning flash, the chopper surged down at Dewey, dropping from the cloaking wall of clouds and water, nearly landing directly on top of him before punching back up a few feet and then settling next to him atop the concrete roof.

Dewey opened the back door and climbed inside the chopper, nodding to the pilot, then slid the door shut. The chopper shot up from the roof, cut left, and then tore away from Elektrostal.

Dewey looked quickly around the cabin. It was bare-bones, stripped down, without any sort of creature comforts. Everything inside the cabin was single function, designed for assault. There was no seating, just open space. The doors on the opposite side looked custom—they could be slid open for maximum assault flexibility.

From the ceiling, steel hooks with polymer cables dangled like coat hangers, there to be attached to body harnesses. The doors on both sides of the cabin could be opened wide. The combination of the harness locks and the doors enabled gunmen in the chopper to engage enemy from the air, at all angles, without fear of falling from the sky, especially useful if the pilot was forced to take sudden, hard-angled evasive measures.

The floor was like sandpaper, good for grip, but could also, with the press of a button, drop out like a trapdoor for low-hover jumps. The back wall was chain-link fence in front of a rack of advanced firearms and other weaponry, lined up on vertical shelves. Dewey scanned and saw all manner of firearms, including RPGs and MANPADs.

He pulled out a drawer underneath. Inside was enough ammunition to start a small war.

The chopper bounced violently in the undulating rain and wind.

Dewey stepped to the cockpit. The pilot’s face was invisible behind a black-visored helmet. There were no lights on the controls.

The pilot’s head turned. He handed Dewey a set of wireless earphones.

“I’m Stihl,” he said in a hard Russian accent. “Hold on, it’s going to be choppy.”

“Where are we going?”

“Alexei is in a building downtown,” said Stihl. “We’ll be there in three minutes.”

“Can you raise Alexei on commo?”

“I’ll try,” said Stihl as the chopper abruptly lurched left, buffeted by a crosswind.

Dewey heard the phone ring, then Malnikov’s voice.

“Where are you?” asked Malnikov.

“We’re in the air,” said Dewey. “What’s the situation?”

“He’s wounded. He escaped into Evolution Tower. I’m in the elevator on my way to find him.”

“Should I land on the roof?”

“There is no roof,” said Malnikov. “It’s half built.”

“You need to wait at the base,” said Stihl. “I’ll be able to pick up his thermal from the air once we get there, then you can move in.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Malnikov. “I’m already there.”

92

GOULSTON & STORRS

BOSTON

Erika Highland, a third-year associate at Goulston & Storrs, was biting into an apple as she read the purchase agreement. One of Goulston’s clients, a real estate developer, was buying a building in downtown Los Angeles.

Her eyes were drawn to the harbor. As usual on a summer Friday evening, it was crowded with boats. It was especially true tonight, July 3, the beginning of a long holiday weekend. But something was going on. She counted six separate flashing police lights.

Highland reached for her binoculars. A large Coast Guard cutter was speeding across the harbor and boats were swiftly moving toward the deeper ocean, away from the harbor, as if being asked to leave.

Her binoculars shot to the open ocean, out beyond Revere. She saw a large gray military boat—an Aegis destroyer—moving in.

“Donna,” she yelled.

Highland’s assistant came running into the office, her eyes moving to where Highland was looking. She stared at the scene.

“What the fuck?” she asked.

“Who’s that guy you know over at WBZ?”

“Hagen?”

“Yeah. You should call him.”

*   *   *

Eight minutes later—one minute before CNN, two before NBC, and five before Fox News and ABC—CBS cut into its regularly scheduled programming. The words CBS NEWS SPECIAL REPORT blazed across millions of American TV screens:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a special report from CBS Evening News. I’m Bob Schieffer, coming to you live from CBS News headquarters in New York City with breaking news. The footage you’re seeing is live aerial coverage from Boston, Massachusetts, where Boston harbor is swarming with federal and state law enforcement, including two United States Navy Aegis destroyers. According to CBS sources, a suspected terror plot is, and I quote, being investigated.

“We now go live to Hagen Ward at our local CBS affiliate in Boston…”

93

H & M AGGREGATES

REVERE, MASSACHUSETTS

McLaughlin moved along the last pier at Revere Marina, a handheld portable Geiger counter in his left hand. He was one of forty FBI agents now moving along the Revere waterfront, searching boat by boat for signs of nuclear material.

Standing on a pier, he keyed his mike, which was clipped to the collar of his dark blue windbreaker.

“Marina’s clear,” said McLaughlin, reporting back to the central Boston command post being run from a U.S. Navy Aegis destroyer.

“Move to the industrial docks.”

McLaughlin looked past the marina and down the rocky spit of land between the marina and the industrial docks. The first dock at the facility was at least a hundred yards away.

It would be easier to go back to the marina and drive, but it also would take more time.

He hiked quickly along the rocky coast, just above the water, which slapped calmly at his feet. In a few minutes, he arrived at a rusty chain-link fence. He scaled it, then dropped onto an ancient wood-and-steel pier. Moored alongside the pier was a barge. It was piled high with road salt. He swept the Geiger along the barge. Suddenly, the low static of the Geiger picked up. McLaughlin moved toward the front of the long boat. With each step, the static grew more frenzied.

Then he saw a tarp. He slowed, holding the Geiger counter in front of him. The small device went from frenzied to sharp monotone. He pulled the top of the tarp aside, revealing a long steel cylinder. At its end was a square device with a flashing blue light.

He keyed his mike.

“This is McLaughlin,” he said. “I found the bomb.”

94

CHERRY HILL ROAD

GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS

“Hey, Scooter. How do you like your hot dog?”

Saxby Ruggierio, in a blue-and-white apron, was standing on the back terrace, over the barbecue. The backyard of Ruggierio’s home was crowded with friends, family, and most of his employees from the marina.

“Medium rare,” said Ruggierio’s neighbor.

Ruggierio laughed, took a swig of beer, then walked back inside to the kitchen. His son, Billy, was seated at the table with a girl from down the street, both eating cheeseburgers and watching the Red Sox game.

“Who’s winning?” asked Ruggierio.