“Yo.”
“Yo!” Pickens repeated, his baritone reverberating through the small tiled bathroom. “Your pasty-white skin is turning blue. Get the hell out of there before you die for real.”
Jake had been shivering in his sleep.
Aside from a cut under his eye and a few small burns from Masaska’s cigarettes, Jake almost looked normal after he’d dressed in clothes without bullet holes in them. His bruises were hidden by the long sleeves and long pants.
“I’m calling Graves,” Jake said. “Do you want in on this?”
Pickens fled the room.
“Great work,” Graves said over the video link. “You really showed Yaxaas who’s in charge. Now the U.S. has lost its credibility and this guy thinks he can do whatever he wants.”
“He’s got the weapon, Ted.”
“You saw it?”
“No, but his men saw it. They held me in a warehouse and I overheard some of them talking about it. They told some of the others that they ran into a river to wash away the evil spirits.”
“These aren’t educated people, Jake. Did they say what it was?”
“They called it ‘the Devil’s Box.’”
“That could be a television set.”
“It’s the weapon. They also said there was ‘smoke’ coming off it, which would be consistent with dry ice evaporating, which would have caused the condensation I saw in the photos. We’re one bad decision away from a catastrophe.”
“The only bad decision I’m concerned with is you ignoring my order to keep your distance from him.”
“Ted, Yaxaas has no idea what that weapon will do. Maybe he thinks it’ll kill a few people or maybe a few hundred, but a state-manufactured biowarfare agent could decimate the population of Africa. With healthcare, famine, and living conditions what they are down here, it could kill a million people in Mogadishu alone. He needs to be stopped.”
“Listen to me, Jake. We get reports of stray weapons of mass destruction two or three times a week. If you had proof that this bioweapon existed, or even if you’d seen it yourself, I’d have a counter-WMD team there in twenty-four hours, but all you’ve got is a wet box and some Darood militiamen talking about black magic.”
“You’re wrong about this, Ted. Put your ego aside and weigh the risks.”
“Ego? I’m not worried about my reputation, Keller. I just don’t want more bodies piling up while you pursue this fantasy, so stand down while I try to unfuck your mess and keep Black Flag from imploding. Take some personal time and think about your future—think long and hard about whether or not you can be a part of this team.”
SIXTY-FIVE
CLAP WAS IN the next room with his arm in a sling. He had lost teammates before and he would probably lose more. It was the nature of the work, but it never got easier, especially when he saw a friend’s final moments pass by just a few feet in front of him and Clap had given the order that got him killed. He could keep doing hits on bad guys and helping good guys, but his downtime mostly consisted of hard drinking and thrill-seeking to keep the adrenaline pumping and the bad memories from returning. Though he still loved his wife, his marriage was on the rocks because he rarely went back to the States anymore. It felt too foreign to him, too detached from his reality.
When he was still in the army, he’d once spent a week with a charitable organization in Montana that helped active-duty special operators get their heads straight. It had been like hitting a reset button on his entire life, allowing him to return to duty but also reconnect with family and friends and once again feel joy. The experience had been cathartic, and he’d donated to the group every year since he’d left the army, but a lot of years had passed since he’d gone through the program at Big Sky Bravery. It might be time to call the team and see if they could take him in for a tune-up.
“I’m sorry about your men,” Jake said. The guilt was visible on his face.
“I’ve never seen anybody talk to Ted Graves that way,” was all Clap could say.
“Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
“It couldn’t hurt to get a remote starter for your car.”
Jake looked at him curiously.
“I’ve wired a lot of ignition systems for Ted over the years. It’s one of his favorites.”
The two men locked eyes for several seconds until Clap grinned.
“I’m just breaking balls. We’re good.”
Pickens looked at the two men and decided that all was indeed well between them. Whatever had happened was part of the job, and they respected each other.
“I’m sorry the operation went sideways,” Jake said, “and I’m sorry that good men died, but that’s all the more reason why Yaxaas has to be next.”
His look and his tone told the others that he was serious.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Pickens looked distressed. He’d heard Ted explicitly order Jake to stand down. Putting more men and the Agency’s reputation further at risk was going to infuriate Graves.
But not Clap. He sat down on the living room sofa with a confession of his own.
“There was this bomb-maker in Iraq back when I was in the army—all his devices had a real distinct signature—and we figured he’d killed thirty-three of our guys and at least five hundred Iraqi civilians. We put on a full-court press to find him and after a couple of months we finally dialed in his location, but it was in a residential neighborhood in western Mosul, in the middle of an insurgent stronghold. There was no place to land helos and he would have seen a ground force coming from a mile away, so my teammate and I snuck into the area disguised as civilians and set up in an apartment that was four hundred fifty-two meters from his building.
“We were there for a week. It hit 115 degrees every day, maybe 125 once or twice. I was stiff, my back hurt, and I had a headache like someone had stuck a drill in my brain, but I wanted that sonofabitch dead so bad that I couldn’t think of anything else, so we stayed put. Sometimes when it gets that hot the locals head up to the roof to sleep, where it’s cooler, and I was on the gun one night when he came onto the roof. They had sheets hung up for concealment, but there was a little breeze and I caught a glimpse of the bomb-maker when the sheets flapped in the wind. He couldn’t have been outside for more than three seconds when I pulled the trigger. The first round went low/right and smacked into a short concrete wall around the roof. He heard the impact, but I’d already sent the second shot by the time he figured out what it was. That .308 Winchester caught him in the side, and he was done.
“Look, Jake,” Clap continued. “Killing that bomb-maker was one of the most satisfying moments in my life. My teammate and I probably saved a couple hundred lives—so don’t feel guilty about wanting Yaxaas dead. Your reasons are just.”
Jake was sitting at the kitchen table and staring at the floor. He wasn’t an assassin, and he’d be violating orders if he dropped the hammer on Yaxaas.
But he’d be doing the world a favor.
He looked up at Clap. “You want to lend me that rifle?”
Clap grinned again and the two men bumped fists.
“You really think a bioweapon could kill a million people?” said Pickens.
Jake nodded. “I don’t know why Ted is being such a hardass. He’s dead wrong about this one.”
“We could go over his head,” said Pickens.
Clap scowled.
“Look, I’m going to Germany tomorrow to check on my guy, but you better have your case air-fucking-tight before you go over Ted’s head. He may be a sonofabitch, but he’s a smart sonofabitch, and he plays for keeps. If those orders are coming from the Seventh Floor, or they haul Ted before the Inspector General and it doesn’t stick, we three are finished.”
“I have someone back at headquarters I can talk to,” Jake said.
“Be careful, brother,” s
aid Clap. “Ted’s got a lot of loyal soldiers in the Directorate of Operations.”
“My guy isn’t in operations.”
Jake did indeed have a very senior contact inside CIA. The relationship was especially useful because no more than a handful of people knew of it. Peter Clements had been chief of station in London and Jake’s boss when he’d made his first foray into the field. Jake was still known as Zac Miller then, and he’d volunteered for a milk run that had turned into a nightmare. When it was over, he’d needed a new face and a new identity, and the cover story had cost Peter Clements his job.
But just as Zac Miller had been resurrected as Jake Keller, Peter Clements had quietly returned as the number two executive in charge of the Directorate of Analysis, an enormously influential job with wide-ranging access and authority.
Peter would be able to give Jake a read on the atmospherics back at Langley.
* * *
—
JAKE RETIRED TO his bedroom and videoconferenced his old boss, candidly explaining his concerns about the bioweapon and his concerns about using Yaxaas as a tool of U.S. policy. Jake didn’t need to explain his concerns about Graves—Ted had been the one who’d forced Clements out of the chief of station job, then taken it for himself.
Clements knew Ted was a sonofabitch.
He called back two hours later.
“The order to establish a covert interdiction capability in the region came from the Seventh Floor,” said Clements.
Peter was an associate deputy director. The Seventh Floor generally meant his level or above—someone very senior.
“Director Feinman?” asked Jake. He’d met the CIA director once the year before, after a pair of rogue government officials had nearly started a war between the U.S. and China.
Clements said nothing. Though he trusted Jake, Peter was still a senior CIA executive. He would bend the rules to help his protégé, but he wouldn’t break them by revealing the exact source of the order.
“It’s a legal order,” said Clements, “and Ted documented it so the ‘how’ and ‘with whom’ has been delegated to the men in the field.”
“Me and Pickens . . .”
“And a special operations team. There’s nothing in the case file about piracy or biological weapons.”
“Our initial orders were to find out who was running the pirate ring.”
“Not to develop an interdiction capability?” asked Clements.
“No.”
“Then I suspect Ted knew who it was all along, and he left you a trail of bread crumbs to find this warlord.”
“So it looks as if I recruited Yaxaas on my own . . .”
“And if a bioweapon is in play—”
“It’s because I recruited a warlord to do the work,” Jake said. “The goal of Black Flag was to covertly neutralize ships acting against U.S. interests.”
“Just like Ted said. He’s a grand master at this game. By careful omission, he’s given you enough rope to hang yourself.”
“And if we go over his head?”
“Then he’ll kick the stool out from under you.”
“Understood. Thanks, Peter.”
Jake was about to sign off, but Clements wasn’t finished.
“I know Ted can be ruthless and self-serving, but a lot of people on the Seventh Floor are afraid that Congress wants to turn back the clock on CIA. They want to refocus the Agency on intel gathering and analysis and give most of our operational authority to the Department of Defense. But no one at the Agency wants that, so the brass are probably willing to give Ted a lot of leeway right now to accomplish his mission. Don’t let your history with him cloud your judgment.”
“Understood,” said Jake.
“Ted was right about one thing,” said Clements. “You should take some time off and think about your future. It’s a tricky time at the Agency.”
SIXTY-SIX
JAKE HESITATED WHEN the CIA pilots contacted him and told him that the aircraft was fueled up and ready to go. Graves might have told him to take some time off to think about his future, but he didn’t expect Ted to authorize further use of the jet. The more Jake thought about it, the more concerned he became. The big Gulfstream’s crew mostly handled renditions. They were experienced at taking unwilling passengers to places they would never know, and never leave.
Jake couldn’t help but wonder if he was next.
A strong breeze blew in from the sea as he walked across the tarmac. Far out over the ocean, a bolt of lightning flashed among the dark clouds that now blanketed the sky.
The copilot was leaning against the main entrance door with his arms folded across his chest and he motioned for Jake to board. Jake searched for any telltale signs that a Graves-organized ambush was afoot, but the flight officer exuded the same professional calm he always had.
In ten minutes, they were airborne and headed north, but Jake was glued to the moving map display for every second of the trip. There was an Agency black site in Romania, and one word from Graves and a few degrees’ deviation from the flight plan could mean the difference between Jake spending a couple of days with Athena or the rest of his life in a cell, pumped full of drugs and, for all practical purposes, vanished from the face of the earth.
The relief was palpable when the pilots started their descent over the Aegean Sea and landed uneventfully in Athens.
The staff at the general aviation terminal brought over the unremarkable Fiat sedan Jake had reserved, and he took the rental car southwest along the Attiki Odos toll road toward Vouliagmeni. He’d been driving for twenty minutes when he noticed a white Škoda hatchback shadowing him a hundred yards back.
For an intelligence officer, losing a tail was easy. The hard part was doing it covertly. Emergency-brake turns and driving the wrong way through traffic could be effective, but such drastic maneuvers also confirmed that you were a person of interest. Jake wanted his pursuers to believe that they’d lost contact not because of his skill, but through their own carelessness.
He exited the highway onto a long, divided boulevard and pulled into a busy gas station. He spent a few minutes in the convenience store making a cover stop—a plausible detour his tail wouldn’t alert to—while he discreetly watched for the Škoda, another surveillance vehicle that might have taken its place, or any other sign that he’d been made.
But he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He appeared to be clean.
Jake returned to the Fiat and drove onto the boulevard, glancing down side streets as he passed. A full block down, parked on the side of the road and facing the boulevard, was the Škoda. He kept driving normally until the little Czech sedan was out of sight.
Then he floored the accelerator.
The entrance ramp to the highway was maybe two hundred yards away, and Jake aimed the Fiat right toward it as he climbed through the gears. He was nearly at the ramp when he checked his rearview mirror. There was still no sign of the Škoda. At the last second, he veered away and made a quick right into a dense commercial area bordering the highway. He glanced at the car’s GPS as he made turn after turn, ensuring that he never wound up on a long straightaway, bottled up in a dead-end, or visible from the highway. The GPS dutifully recalculated his route with each turn until Jake was confident that he’d lost the tail. He took side roads the rest of the way to Vouliagmeni.
The gates to the Romanos estate were open, and Jake followed the winding driveway through the olive orchard and parked the car directly in front of the house.
Giánnis was in the dining room overlooking the sea, eating dinner with another man about his age. Jake headed out to the terrace. Athena was lying on a lounge chair, reading a novel under the outdoor lights. It was a warm night and she was dressed in a bright blue sundress and casual shoes. She looked as relaxed as he’d ever seen her. He sat on the chair next to her and their knees touched.
/> “I’m glad you’re back,” she said, “but maybe you should tell me why you came.”
“Do you remember when you told me that I should be thinking about my future?”
Of course she remembered. It had been during their last visit, standing side-by-side on the beach on another warm night, and she’d been disappointed and hurt after Jake had walled himself off emotionally and returned to Africa, but she’d buried her feelings down deep, in the pit of her heart where she kept all the other tragedies of her life. It was a coping mechanism that got her through the long days and the lonely nights.
“Vaguely,” she said.
She could play defense too, if that was what it took to avoid getting hurt again.
“Well, I wasn’t ready to get into it then, but I am now.”
He couldn’t ignore it when Clements, Graves, and Athena all told Jake that he should be thinking about his future. His unusual career had forced a number of issues to the surface, and he needed to deal with them. He hadn’t joined CIA to empower warlords. The plan had been to stop men like Yaxaas from acquiring weapons of mass destruction, not enable them.
Jake set down his duffel bag and took her hand. It was cool and soft, but it felt like a bolt of lightning.
“On one condition,” she said as she closed her book. “Regardless of what you decide, promise that you’ll still be here for Christmas.”
“I’ll be here by the twenty-fourth,” he promised.
“Good.” She stood. “Now let’s eat something. I’m starving.”
The two of them stood in the kitchen for half an hour, picking through leftovers and sharing a bottle of wine.
“So what inspired your change of heart?” said Athena.
“Disillusionment, I suppose. There are some parts of my career that I’ve come to despise.”
Athena finished the bite of cold moussaka she’d been chewing.
Black Flag Page 22
