The Last Line by Anthony Shaffer

likely it is that all of them will fail.”
    â€œHey, it’s not like you’re being asked to take down El Chapo Guzmán, okay?” Larson said. “You go down there and interact with cartel personnel, do what you have to do to spread your virus. If you happen to be in Belize when you do that, you can swing by and eyeball the docks, see if the Zapoteca is in port. Listen, this is crucial. If someone is bringing stolen suitcase nukes into Belize, we need to bring them down, and we need to bring them down hard. Understand me?”
    â€œOf course,” Teller said. He looked at Procario and shrugged. “Not a problem.”
    â€œNot a problem,” Procario added, “unless the bad guys have security beefed up in Belize because they don’t want outsiders snooping around their nukes. Did you think of that?”
    â€œI’m sure,” Larson said with an unpleasant half-smile, “that the DIA can find a way to cope.”
    â€œOkay,” Chavez said, closing his phone. “We’ve got three seats on a 747 out of Dulles, eighteen thirty tonight. Nonstop all the way to Benito Juárez.”
    â€œGood,” Larson said. “I like going by way of Juárez. We don’t want to tip off the black hats in Belize that we’re interested in the area. These guys can get a private flight from Mexico City to Ladyville, go in quiet without showing our hand.”
    â€œYou boys up to date on your shots?” Wentworth asked.
    â€œI’m not sure—” Teller began.
    Wentworth waved his hand. “Not important. We can bring your shot records online and give you what you need down in the dispensary. And we’ll have your passports and other papers ready for you in a couple of hours.”
    Teller looked at Procario. “Cheer up, Frank. It’s a holiday in the land of sun and fun!”
    â€œMaybe,” Procario said. He was staring at the news broadcast as talking heads in the newsroom speculated on who might have launched the terror strike against Los Angeles. “But whether it’s Hezbollah, al Qaeda, or plain old home-grown narcoterrorists, we’re going to need some heavy backup on this one.”
    â€œLike what?” Larson wanted to know.
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” Teller said. “How about some U.S. Navy SEALs?”
    â€œWe’ll see what we can arrange.”
    â€œYou’d better. I don’t want to get shipped home like Henrico Ferrari. I get claustrophobic in small spaces like cardboard boxes. And my feet smell.”

    CAFETERIA
    ECCLES FEDERAL RESERVE BOARD BUILDING
    TWENTIETH STREET AND CONSTITUTION AVENUE NW
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    1335 HOURS, EDT
    â€œYou’ve seen the news, James?”
    James Walker looked up from his meal. “You mean California? Yes.”
    â€œAnd so it begins.”
    The man placed his tray on the table and took a seat across from Walker. His name was Randolph Edgar Preston, and he was the assistant to the president for national security affairs, more commonly known as the national security adviser, or simply as ANSA. As a man with direct access to the president of the United States, he was undeniably one of the most powerful men in the world.
    â€œIt begins,” Walker echoed. Glum, he turned and looked out the large expanse of glass windows along the cafeteria’s south wall, a view that took in the Constitution Gardens and the Reflecting Pool just beyond, the abrupt, skyward stab of the Washington Monument off to the left, the Lincoln Memorial to the right. “It begins, but I still wonder if the time is right.”
    â€œWhy, James! Having second thoughts?”
    Walker looked back at Preston, met his eyes … then dropped his gaze.
    People thought of James Fitzhugh Walker as a small, gray man, as a banker, as an accountant, as a lawyer, terms that defined his world of numbers, accounts, banking laws, and the soulless transfer of funds. For twenty-five years