that not only held it upright like a satellite dish, but allowed it to turn in any direction. The apparatus was in turn welded to a steel dolly with four thick tires, which also held the lithium-ion battery pack that powered the weapon. The battery alone weighted thirty kilograms, or roughly sixty-five pounds; all together, including the dolly cart, the ultrasonic weapon weighed in at just under three hundred pounds, which was why such weapons were typically mounted on ships or atop Jeeps.
But mounting their weapon on a vehicle would make it far less mobile and far more conspicuous, which was why the four men in the truck were necessary. Each was a highly trained mercenary, but to her they were little more than glorified movers. Had the weapon been lighter, more maneuverable, Samara and Mischa could have handled this operation themselves, she was sure. But they had to work with what they had, and the weapon was as compact as it could be for how powerful it was.
Samara had been mildly concerned about logistics, but so far they had not run into any hitches. Immediately following the Havana attack they had loaded the weapon by ramp onto a boat, which carried them north to Key West. At the small airfield they quickly transferred to a mid-sized cargo plane that took them to Kansas City. It had all been arranged weeks earlier, bought and paid for. Now all they had to do was carry out the careful plan.
Samara meandered casually to the corner of the block as the marching band’s music swelled. They were in sight now, heading her way. The box truck was parked at the curb outside the grocer’s, two car lengths from the corner where orange cones blocked the road for the parade route.
Samara had done her research. The Springfield Community College put on a Thanksgiving Day parade every year, led by their marching band and following a circuitous two-mile route that started from a local park, wound through the town, and doubled back to the origin. At the forefront of the parade was a young male drum major, wearing a ridiculously tall hat and heartily pumping a baton in one fist. Following them was the tiny college’s winless football team, and then their cheerleading squad. After that would be a convertible containing Springfield’s mayor and his wife, and after them the local fire department. Bringing up the rear were faculty members and the athletic association.
It was all just so sickeningly American.
“Mischa,” Samara said again. The girl nodded curtly and stuck the electronic earplugs into her ears. She rose from the curb and took a position near the cab of the truck, leaning against the driver’s side door to avoid the range of the frequency.
Samara unclipped a radio at her belt. “Two minutes,” she said into it in Russian. “Power it up.” She had taught the team Russian herself, insisted that it was the only language they spoke in public.
An old man in a fleece sweater frowned as he passed by her; hearing someone speak Russian in Springfield, Kansas, was about as strange as hearing a Shar-Pei speak Cantonese. Samara scowled at him and he hurried along on his way, pausing when he reached the corner to watch the parade.
It seemed like the entire town had come out for the event, lawn chairs lined up for several blocks, children eagerly waiting to catch the candy that would be thrown by the handful from buckets.
Samara glanced over her shoulder at the girl. Sometimes she wondered if there was any remnant of childhood left within her; if she observed the other children with longing for what might have been, or if they were alien to her. But Mischa’s gaze remained cold and distant. If there was any doubt behind those eyes, she had become an expert at hiding it.
The marching band rounded the corner, horns blaring and drums thrumming, their backs to Samara and the box truck as they marched onward down the block. Young men in jerseys followed on foot—the college’s football team, tossing candy into the crowds, kids darting forward and crouching in clusters to snatch it up like carrion birds on a carcass.
A tiny object sailed toward Samara and landed near her feet. She picked it up gingerly between two fingers. It was a Tootsie Roll. She couldn’t help but smirk. What an incredibly bizarre tradition this was, the youths of the wealthiest country in the world scrambling over one another to fetch the cheapest of treats tossed idly onto the pavement.
Samara joined Mischa near the cab of the truck, the end facing away from the parade and its patrons. She held out the candy. A flicker of curiosity passed over Mischa’s young, passive face as she took it.
“Spasiba,” the girl murmured. Thank you. But rather than unwrapping and eating it, she stuck it in the pocket of her jeans. Samara had trained her well; she would get a reward when she deserved one.
Samara lifted the radio to her lips again. “Initiate in thirty seconds.” She did not wait for a reply; instead she put in her earplugs, a soft but high-pitched tone whining in her ears. The four men in the cargo space of the truck would take it from there. They did not have to expose the weapon; they did not even have to lift the rolling gate at the rear of the truck. The ultrasonic frequency was capable of traveling through steel, through glass, even through brick with little hindrance to its efficacy.
Samara clasped her hands in front of her and stood beside Mischa, silently counting down. She could no longer hear the marching band, or the applause of the parade-goers; she heard only the electronic whining tone of the earplugs. It was strange, seeing so many sights but hearing nothing, like a television on mute. For a moment she thought of that ridiculous adage: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Their weapon did not make a sound. The frequency was too low to register on a human’s auditory spectrum. But there would still be falling.
Samara did not hear the music or the general din of the crowd, and she did not hear the screams when they began either. But mere moments after her countdown reached zero, she saw the bodies falling to the asphalt. She saw the citizens of Springfield, Kansas, panicking, running, trampling one another like so many children clambering for candy. Some of them writhed; several vomited. Instruments clattered to the street and buckets of treats spilled. Not twenty-five yards from her, a football player fell to his hands and knees and spat a mouthful of blood.
There was such beauty in chaos. Samara’s entire existence had been based on regime, on protocol, on practice—and yet few knew as well as she did how unreliable all of that could be when mayhem reared its unpredictable head. In those situations, only instincts mattered. It was then that one truly became aware of the self, of what one was capable of. In the chaos that unfolded silently before her eyes, families trampled over their own loved ones. Husbands and wives abandoned their partners in the interest of self-preservation. Confusion reigned; bodies toppled. The crowd would end up doing more damage to each other than the weapon would do to them.
But they could not linger. She nodded to Mischa, who rounded the cab and climbed into the passenger seat as Samara got behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. But she didn’t turn the engine over just yet. They would give it one more minute—long enough for the fallout of the attack to be considered truly devastating, and leave those who would be pursuing them utterly perplexed by the significance of Springfield, Kansas.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zero entered the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the headquarters of the CIA, in the unincorporated community of Langley, Virginia. He strode across the expansive marble floor, footsteps echoing as he trod over the large circular emblem, a shield and eagle in gray and white, surrounded by the words “Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America,” and headed straight for the elevators.
There was hardly anyone there, a skeleton crew of security guards and a few administrative assistants toiling on paperwork. He was still pretty sour about being called in, being called away from his girls on a holiday, and hoped that the briefing, as its name suggested, would be brief.
But he wasn’t about to bet on it.
“Hold
