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“In a dry lake in Mexico, sir. Specifically, Laguna el Guaje, in Coahuila State.”
“How do you know that?”
“Our analysts worked with the angle of sun, Mr. President,” Powell said. “And with the date and time on the surveillance tapes. At the time shown, the angle of the sun would be like that on the tapes at only Laguna el Guaje.”
“I’m impressed, Frank, I really am. What I’m wondering is where you got the tapes.”
Powell did not respond directly, and instead said, “The man walking toward the Tupolev, sir, is, with a ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certainty, Pavel Koslov, the FSB rezident in Mexico City. We computer-compared the image on the surveillance tapes with images in our database.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Those men, sir, coming down the ramp of the Tupolev are almost certainly Russian Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces. And that man, sir, is General Yakov Vladimirovich Sirinov. We made that identification ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certain by comparing this image with images of him in our database. Sirinov runs the FSB for Vladimir Putin, Mr. President.”
“What are those barrels?” Clendennen asked.
“What we believe, sir, with an eighty to eighty-five degree of certainty, is that those barrels are the ones sent to Colonel Hamilton at Fort Detrick. The scenario is that they were taken across the border near the dry lake; that the first was then moved to Miami, and from there FedExed to Colonel Hamilton, and the second left for the Border Patrol to find near McAllen.”
Natalie Cohen said, “If you can compare pictures of people on a computer, Jack, and say they’re just about a perfect match, why can’t you do the same thing with a couple of what look like blue beer barrels?”
Powell said, “According to Stan Waters—”
“Who?” the President asked.
“J. Stanley Waters, the deputy director for operations, Mr. President. He supervised the analysis of these tapes. He’s an old analysis type.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“There are more details on a human being that can be compared to another image of that person, Mr. President. An object like these blue ‘beer’ barrels is more difficult; they look like every other barrel.”
“Are these the same barrels? Yes or no?”
“With an eighty to eighty-five percent degree of certainty, Mr. President, we believe they are.”
President Clendennen snorted.
“Where did you get these tapes, Jack?” Natalie Cohen asked, and immedi
ately, when she saw the look on his face, regretted having asked. She had guessed the source.
“I think we can safely proceed on the assumption that these are the barrels of Congo-X now at Fort Detrick, Mr. President,” Powell said.
“Answer Natalie’s question, Jack,” the President said.
“They were, in a manner of speaking, slipped under our door, Mr. President, addressed to DDCI Lammelle.”
“Tell me what that means,” Clendennen said.
“Sir, parties unknown delivered them to my outer office yesterday.”
“In other words, you don’t know where these came from?”
“No, sir. I don’t know where they came from.”
“Mr. President, it doesn’t matter, does it?” the secretary of State began. “We have them, and they have been determined to be genuine. We now can send Frank Lammelle back to Sergei Murov—”
“Maybe God slipped them under your door, Jack,” the President cut her off. “Or little green men from Mars. Or maybe, as incredible as it might sound, Lieutenant Colonel Castillo might even be responsible. Isn’t that true?”
“Mr. President, since I don’t know where these tapes came from, anything is possible.”
