Code Word: Paternity, A Presidential Thriller Read online

  Hendricks began to speak, and Rick let his mind wander while the DNI repeated what he’d heard from him in January. In a brief meeting just before this one, Hendricks had listened as Hitzleberger reported that initial analysis pointed to North Korea. Martin told them not to reveal it.

  So we are close to having scientific information fingering the country that enabled terrorists to destroy Las Vegas, Rick thought. Thank God it’s not China or Russia!

  It’s going to be awkward knowing what country it is but not knowing who the terrorists are. The existence of this information, right now, is itself a problem. How long before it leaks? If I can control it, do I want to keep it secret or tell the country and the world right away? When do I want the NSC to know? Pretty soon, because I can’t get the full benefit of these good minds if I withhold information.

  As he had aboard Marine One, Martin felt events running away from his control. Then his private smart phone vibrated. He saw it was Ella and, with a gesture to Bart, left the room.

  “Rick, Dottie told me you’d gotten a call from Rog Phelps. My curiosity is killing me!”

  “Yep! I think you can imagine what he had to say, most of it, anyway. I nearly passed him off on Bart, but figured in the circumstances I ought to at least listen to the Democratic party chairman, even if he did try to block our nomination last year.”

  “Let me guess. He was urging prudence, statesmanship, multilateralism—that sort of thing.”

  “That about sums it up. He cautioned me not to get the country into another preconceived war of choice, as he put it, which will infuriate the base and drag our party down for years.”

  “So after we’ve been attacked and tens of thousands of Americans murdered, Roger’s main concern is the politics of it!”

  “Well, Ella, he’d probably say that’s because managing the politics is his job and that’s best done unemotionally. I grant you he’s not very credible to us—he was so wrong about our decision to run—but his message matters. We don’t want to go off half-cocked, seeing everything through some familiar framework of us versus them that may not fit this situation.”

  “Look, Rick, we’re not starting from a clean slate. America had several deadly enemies before Las Vegas was bombed. Not everybody is innocent until proven guilty—you can’t disregard what was done and said before Las Vegas. We weren’t attacked by men from Mars! I’m betting we’ll find it was a group we already know. When that happens—”

  “Ella, when that happens, we will decide what to do about it.”

  “Rick, has it already happened?”

  “I’m sorry but I have to go. I ducked out of an NSC meeting. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Ella put her phone down and exhaled, her cheeks puffing as if blowing out a candle. The murder of Las Vegas gets to me. Evil threatens my family and my people again. I’ve seen a society destroyed by the failure of good men to defeat evil men. It’s not the same for Rick . . . He’s put those scenes of Las Vegas away in a box. I want them on the table, in front of him like they’re in front of me. I’ve got to get him out of his head!

  Rick slid back into his seat knowing Ella realized he had ducked her question, but not ready for the conversation they would have if she knew what the spooks had told him. While he was away Scott Hitzleberger had taken over from Hendricks.

  “At several points in the process of turning fissionable material into a bomb, the uranium or plutonium acquires characteristics, or tags if you will, that are unique to the particular manufacturing process. Uranium ore contains impurities—we call them trace elements—indicating where it was mined. Ore is crushed and mixed with acid, creating uranium oxide. To get the high concentration of U-235 required for a nuclear explosion, uranium oxide gas is spun through centrifuges. Then the U-235 is recovered as a solid that is compacted and machined into two or more pieces of uranium the right shape and size to produce a nuclear explosion if brought together.”

  Hitzleberger’s hands mimicked squeezing an object.

  “This manufacturing process causes the uranium in a bomb to have a distinctive mix of isotopes—U-238, -235, -232 if it’s reprocessed fuel—plus traces of the impurities in the ore. When a nuke detonates, only about one percent of the bomb material is actually consumed. I know that’s amazing, but we have data from sixty-plus bomb tests in the Pacific and in Nevada. We know exactly what happens when a nuclear weapon explodes, as do the other major nuclear powers: Britain, France, Russia and China.”

  The CIA director paused for a swallow of coffee from a paper cup bearing the presidential seal, then resumed.

  “So, ninety-nine percent of the bomb is among the debris and fallout of the explosion and—again because of many tests—the techniques for collecting and analyzing the debris are well understood. Another amazing but well-documented fact is that the isotopic composition of the uranium debris is virtually identical to its pre-explosion state. In addition, trace elements of the uranium ore’s impurities can be detected.

  “Plutonium is created by nuclear reactors, using various methods. For now I’ll just say this makes the tags on debris of a plutonium weapon more distinct and easier to match than those of a uranium bomb.

  “Bottom line: every nuke has a signature.

  “For both types of weapons the identification technique is conceptually like fingerprinting, or identification from iris patterns. It’s not especially demanding scientifically, once the data have been collected . . . and the Paternity Project has been collecting that data for more than thirty years.

  “Questions when you are ready, Mr. President.” Hitzleberger sat down.

  Griffith ignored his president and spoke, drawing several expressions of disbelief: “So tell us: who are the bastards that provided the bomb?”

  Watching Martin, Hitzleberger followed instructions. “We’re still running tests and collecting additional samples. One thing we learned right away: it was a plutonium weapon.”

  Rick said, “Bruce, once we have the report, naturally we’ll all want to concentrate on what to do next. But right now, I need your help digging into the credibility of Paternity. With all due respect to Aaron and Scott, who weren’t involved, I remember when the Agency said finding Saddam’s WMD would be a slam dunk. We need to consider a huge issue: What reliance are we going to place on the results when we get them? And how will we convince others?”

  Battista cleared her throat, something that Dorn always felt was contrived and annoying, then spoke. “Science is all about challenge. One lab produces a result and other labs rush to see whether they get the same result, independently. Scientists argue ferociously before they accept someone’s hypothesis. Think global warming. If we present this as a purely scientific judgment, no matter how strong the evidence, we’re going to get a lot of pushback! So, we should also be asking what other information would point to the bomb’s origin.”

  She’s right, Dorn thought; despite her affectations she has a top-notch mind. He said, “Well, we should certainly do what any good detective does: see who had motive and opportunity. Also, the old cui bono question—who benefits?”

  Griffith said, “I’m betting this weapon changed hands for money, a lot of money. If we follow the money, it will lead to somebody. If money confirms science, we’re looking better.”

  “So there may be some other indicators, beyond Paternity,” said Martin. “But let’s focus for a moment on the scientific case.” He shifted his gaze to Hitzleberger as he spoke. “Scott, let’s start with reproducibility.”

  “Sir, we’re addressing that right now. We’ve got several teams working independently with the samples and the database.”

  “Yeah, that’s good, but I meant non-government labs. How much sample material do you have? Enough to make some broadly available to the scientific community? If not that, then, say, to three or four other governments?”

  “Sir, there’s plenty of material within the fallout area. And airborne particles will circle the world up in the tr
oposphere in quantities suitable for sampling for at least twenty days.”

  “So that means,” said Battista, “we don’t have to provide samples. Others can collect them independently.”

  “That’s right, Anne,” said Hendricks. “And that’s exactly how it used to work. We’d do a test, or the Russians or the Chinese would, and the others would launch collection aircraft. American engineers became expert at deducing the power and even the designs of others’ nukes. I’m sure the Russians, Brits, French, and probably the Chinese did, too. Since the end of atmospheric testing, in the sixties, most of those other sampling organizations have probably been disbanded, but the knowledge is there to reconstitute them quickly.”

  Griffith leaned forward. “OK, that raises a potential problem. Is this analysis demanding scientifically? I mean, suppose, say, the French scientists don’t have good enough equipment, you know, not as sensitive maybe, so they get different results?”

  After a glance at Hendricks, Hitzleberger responded. “The main scientific technique is spectroscopy, which is widely used in industry and science. I don’t think that will be an issue.” I know what will be an issue, Hitzleberger thought, and I’m not goin’ there!

  But Easterly did: “Analyzing a sample is only half the process. They’ve got to have something for comparison, and unless it’s the same as our standard, there won’t be a match. Scott, can we reproduce our standards, or let others use them?”

  To Hitzleberger’s enormous relief, Hendricks stepped in. “No, Eric, we can’t! The samples came into our possession by extremely sensitive collection methods and through irreplaceable sources. They’re items like copies of reactor operating records and tiny amounts of reactor fuel. To be used authoritatively, each must be identified as to time and place obtained. That information will compromise our sources.

  “Let me make a point: Paternity isn’t static. As current nuclear powers develop new weapons and others, like Iran, edge closer—Iran may have untested weapons now—we require new samples. For example, Pakistan’s current warheads use uranium. If they go to plutonium, we need to update our sample library. We can’t keep Paternity ready if we reveal our sources and methods.”

  The room was silent, all aware that Hendricks would not be moved on this, except by the president, who said nothing.

  Understanding the president’s silence, Dorn moved them to a different question. “There’s more to the sources than their identity. There’s the question of reliability. I remember some Iraqi scientist, who was the main source of information tying Saddam to an active biological weapons program, turned out to be bogus. How are we gonna handle the reliability issue?”

  “We point to three instances when Paternity was validated,” replied the DNI. “In 1998 the Paks tested six weapons underground. A plume of debris escaped, and we flew a U-2 collection aircraft through it. Analysis demonstrated, to President Clinton’s satisfaction, that some of the HEU in those warheads was of Chinese origin and identified the specific facility that produced it. He had Madeline Albright call in the Chinese Ambassador and read the riot act, backing it up with specifics. We learned a couple of years later that the Chinese halted all nuclear cooperation with the Paks.

  “When the North Koreans announced in 2006 they had tested a nuclear weapon underground we collected a sample the same way. Their bomb was plutonium and we got an exact match to the reactor fuel reprocessing facility at Yongbyon. Incidentally, we also determined that the weapon didn’t work well; the yield was very low, probably because they didn’t have a good understanding of beryllium tamping. We repeated that analysis when they tested again, in 2009.”

  “Well, that’s just great!” said Easterly. “Two of our validators are presidents who are widely believed to be liars—Clinton about Monica and Bush about WMD.”

  “But,” replied Hendricks, “we also have the Chinese government.”

  “That’s what he meant!” said Anne Battista. “The Chinese foreign minister, when he said we’d know soon who did it.”

  Listening to Battista, Martin realized that her outburst would show Griffith that he was not the only one outside of Paternity until today, but Griffith’s red cheeks and balled fists, resting on the table, told their story.

  “Does anyone here think the Chinese would be willing to back us on Paternity?” asked the vice president, his right hand flicking imperiously to include everyone.

  Battista looked at Griffith coolly and said, “A lot would depend on who Paternity points to.”

  The president stepped in. “You’re right, Anne, and when we know that, the Chinese connection will be an aspect to pursue. But right now let me throw out a hypothetical: let’s say I decide that we must have independent confirmation of Paternity. I then authorize sharing of portions of our database.”

  Martin turned to Hendricks, pausing for a beat, and everyone knew he was reminding him who was president.

  He continued: “So how does that work? Who do we share with? How do we share credibly?”

  “Well, I’d say for sure the IAEA,” replied Battista, referring to the International Atomic Energy Agency. “And the permanent members of the UN Security Council. We’re going to need their support to do anything at the UN, and probably each member still has expertise in analyzing fallout.”

  “Who are the strongest skeptics going to be?” asked Martin.

  In unison, Griffith and Easterly said, “the press!”

  “OK, and how can we handle their skepticism?”

  “Well, we really should turn Sam Yu loose on that angle,” Griffith replied, “but here’s a top-of-the-head thought: How about if we bring Bob Woodward inside Paternity? He has a record of reporting from behind the scenes without either pulling punches or revealing the most sensitive information.”

  Well I’ll be damned! thought Martin. Bruce wants to be sure he comes out of this on the side of the angels. That’s no surprise, but I expected he’d be more subtle. Well, if Woodward starts revealing inside information, I’ll know where to look first.

  Easterly responded to the VP: “Hell, others are so jealous of him that they’ll go out of their way to debunk whatever he writes! And he’s a Washington Post guy. The Times would hate us if we did that. I bet Sam won’t go for it.”

  “Just a thought,” said Griffith. “Like I said, Sam’s the expert.”

  “You know,” said Battista, “somehow we’ve got to get away from Colin Powell briefing nonexistent WMD to the UN. We’re going to see that footage played over and over.”

  “Mr. President,” said Griffith, “the turn this discussion has taken shows the danger of trying too hard to be understood, to get everybody to agree with us. As it has here, the issue shifts from the terrorists to the credibility of the United States. I’m all for lining up support, but after we’ve considered the evidence here in this administration, we’re going to have to do what we in Pennsylvania call takin’ care of business. That’s our responsibility to Americans!”

  “Mr. Vice President,” said Battista, “we have a responsibility to the world as well as to Americans. That goes with being the only superpower!”

  Martin thought, Yes, Bruce is going to be a problem! For many reasons I don’t want to cut him out of this, but I need to find some way to insulate the process from his aggressiveness.

  The president closed his briefing book and slid his pen into his shirt pocket, those actions as dismissive as closing a door. “Bruce, when the time comes to take care of business, we will. And we’ve taken care of a lot of it here. We’ve had a discussion that points to some things we need to think through to make the most effective use of Paternity. John, I need your good staff work, soon.”

  Martin rose and left the room. As he walked, he made a decision: he and Ella would go to Las Vegas, soon.

  Chapter 12

  Rick and Ella made love that night, not passionately, but deeply, two people tenderly seeking to give and receive solace, knowing their lives had been changed forever, in a yet unfathomable way.r />
  Rick had dropped quickly off to sleep, but now he was awake. It felt really good to be above ground again, at Camp David. He rolled and saw Ella, motionless in her bed a few feet away, heard her breathing slowly and deeply. Good—she wasn’t awake. His mind was racing and he knew that sleep would not return.

  The buck stops on my desk. Okay. Presidents get the issues that are basically insoluble. If they weren’t, somebody else would have solved them. Most presidents muddle through, sustained by strong belief in something, be it a political philosophy or a religion or both, and avoid the shame of a failed presidency because chance or fortune or a higher power—whatever you choose to call it—breaks about even over the course of a term. Bad decisions tend to be balanced by good. It’s a fifty-fifty world.

  I’ve made tough calls, risky calls before, like running against Glenna Rogers. When you take on your party’s sitting president, failure isn’t an option if you want to stay in politics! I made that call and other tough ones during the campaign, and now I’m president. This is different, but . . . I can do it.

  At five a.m. he quietly put on robe and slippers, stepping softly to the cabin’s porch, feeling in a pocket for cigarettes and matches. As he moved, the Secret Service moved, too, murmuring into their microphones.

  The president lit up and inhaled deeply. The cigarette’s glow was the only light source on the shadowed porch, although the compound was lit. Birds were starting their morning chorus in the nearby trees, and the air felt pleasant.

  Rick’s mind returned to the cabinet meeting. His gut said they couldn’t continue to govern from a bomb shelter. Yes, it would be chaos if a nuke in Washington got him, Bruce, the cabinet, and Congress. But the country couldn’t shelter in a bunker and continue to exist as the United States of America. Americans had to get back to their workplaces and resume buying and selling and borrowing and lending.