by David Wood
That was the only part of it he got wrong.
As soon as the launch was lowered into the water, Bones and Willis went to work. Since Huntley clearly wanted to divide them, finding a way to surreptitiously stay together was imperative, so rather than cool their heels on the Besnard, they decided to leave the ship at anchor and go ashore. As the vessel had only one launch, that meant they would have to swim, but that did not pose a hardship for the two SEALs—they were more at home in the water than on it. The ship had been outfitted with wetsuits and SCUBA equipment, including diver propulsion units capable of whisking them along almost as fast as the launch’s outboard, but rather than attempt to follow the boat—a nearly impossible proposition in the dark of night—they decided to head for the lighthouse. Underwater, with no wind to slow them down, they made good time, stealing ashore just a few hundred yards south of the beacon. After caching their gear in the dunes, they continued south on foot under cover of darkness, scanning the beach in hopes of spotting Huntley and the others. They ran, covering the nearly five miles in less than half an hour. This too posed no difficulty for them; they trained for situations like this, had in fact been doing it for nearly all of their respective adult lives.
When they spotted the beam of a flashlight ahead in the darkness, they slowed to a walk and ultimately, dropped to high crawl the remaining distance. So focused were they on what was going on in front of them, they completely missed the destruction of the Besnard.
Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and they could see a lot of what was going on. Professor and Lia were easily identified with the light shining in their faces. A couple seconds later, Huntley stepped into the light as well, and there was no mistaking the hostility in his demeanor.
“Well, there’s Captain Midnight,” he had whispered to Willis. “You think Maddock is behind one of those flashlights?”
“You really have to ask?” Willis replied, sardonically.
“This is FUBAR.” Bones squinted trying to get an accurate count of the silhouettes surrounding the spot-lit figures. “I count seven.”
“I got eight,” Willis countered. “Either way, long odds. Especially if they’re strapped.”
“You think the odds are gonna get any better if we sit here on our asses?”
“Probably not. How do you want to—”
He broke off as another man stepped forward, a gun clearly visible. Professor managed to shout an accusation, but then was dropped to his knees and viciously pistol-whipped. Another of the men seized Lia and dragged her away from Professor’s slumped form.
“Crap,” Bones muttered. “Let’s go.”
They fast crawled forward, but in the time it took them to cross half the distance, Huntley had dragged Lia away from the others. A few seconds later, small-engine noise filled the air. Headlight beams shone toward the dunes and in the glow of the trailing vehicle, Bones could just make out Huntley and Lia sitting astride the lead quad-bike as it zipped away.
There was nothing Bones and Willis could do to help Lia—not in the near term, at least—but their teammate might still be alive. Helping Professor would have to be their first priority, even if the odds were four-to-one against them.
Then the odds got a lot better.
At first, Bones didn’t recognize the pair of figures that had approached from behind them, less than ten yards to their left, closer to the surf. He tapped Willis on the shoulder, pointed them out. It had been sheer luck that the newcomers hadn’t stepped on them. Bones was worried that they might be sentries, working for Huntley’s unidentified accomplices, returning from a patrol, but when he heard a female voice with a Russian accent speaking English, he knew their luck had changed.
There was no time for a reunion, nor even to compare notes about what was happening further down the beach. Fortunately, Maddock and his teammates had worked together for so long that verbal communication was unnecessary. After a few quick hand signals, they divided their forces and continued toward the beached boat and the group of men who were preparing to shove it out into the surf, consigning its sole, unconscious passenger to the uncertain mercy of the sea.
Bones and Willis, still clad in their wetsuits and armed with dive knives, headed out into the surf, circling wide to come up on the boat from the far side. After giving them a fifteen-second headstart, Maddock and Leopov rushed straight ahead, charging the men. They moved quietly, staying low to present as low a profile as possible, but had to sacrifice stealth for speed. They had to strike while the men were still occupied with their grim task.
As he got to within ten feet of the boat, Maddock saw—or rather sensed—that one of the men on the opposite side of the craft had spotted him. The man had been bent over the boat’s gunwale, both hands gripping it, but as recognition dawned, he stood bolt upright, one hand fumbling for the pistol in his belt. Before he could draw it or cry out in alarm, his body went rigid and then pitched forward, falling over the gunwale. Maddock half-glimpsed a hulking form moving behind the man, but couldn’t tell if it was Bones or Willis.
In that same instant, Maddock reached the nearest man, who was standing back a few feet from the boat, evidently overseeing the labors of the others. He had his back to Maddock and Leopov, and went down without ever realizing that he and his men were under attack. The blade of the entrenching tool rang like a bell as it connected with the man’s skull. Maddock did not linger over the fallen man, but pivoted toward the next closest, dispatching him with the backswing. Maddock turned again, looking for his next target and expecting to meet some resistance now that the element of surprise was gone, but there was no one left.
Seven figures—Bones’ count had been accurate—lay unmoving on the damp sand surrounding the boat.
Willis had snatched up a flashlight and was quickly checking the fallen men to ensure that none of them would ever again pose a threat. Bones had hopped into the boat and was checking on the status of the lone unwilling passenger.
“Prof! You still with us, buddy?”
There was no response. Maddock retrieved another flashlight and moved in closer. He wasn’t surprised to see Professor’s face revealed in the light. Bones had his cheek pressed against the other man’s chest, the fingers of his right hand were probing Professor’s throat.
“Still breathing,” Bones announced. “Pulse is strong. He might be concussed.”
“Does he need a hospital?”
What Maddock was really asking was, will he live?
Hospitalization was the option of last resort for many reasons, but if it was truly a matter of saving Professor’s life they would chance it. They were all competent battlefield medics, but severe brain trauma could only be remedied with surgery.
“We can treat him on the boat,” Bones answered, his tone less confident than Maddock was hoping for.
“I don’t think you have a boat, anymore.”
Bones looked up, his expression puzzled at first, and then angry. “That son of a...”
“I’ve got a vehicle parked by the lighthouse,” Maddock said. “We’ll carry him there. Get him somewhere safe.”
Bones nodded, then his face changed again, this time to a look of horror. “Lia!”
“Where is she?”
“He took her. Quad bike. Just a few minutes ago.”
Maddock spun away, tossed the entrenching tool into the boat and scooped up a fallen pistol. It was a Walther P38, similar in many respects to its eventual successor—and Maddock’s preferred personal sidearm—the P99. He took a second to eject the magazine, rack the slide, catch and replace the chambered round. He blew down the barrel, hoping to dislodge any sand particles that might cause the weapon to jam if fired, then reseated the magazine. With the weapon restored—hopefully—to fully functional status, he took off at a run, following the trail of footsteps that led up the beach. Behind him, Bones was shouting for Willis to take over with Professor’s medical assessment. Of the two, Willis was the more capable medic. He’d long ago demonstrated an aptitude
for first aid, and had once confided in Maddock that as a child he’d dreamed of being a physician, but that career path seemd well out of reach for a kid growing up in one of the poorest parts of Detroit. Of course, Maddock knew Bones’ true motivation for the handoff was a desire to rescue Lia.
The beam of his flashlight revealed a row of waiting all-terrain vehicles. Two groups of distinctive depressions in the sand marked where two more had been parked. The sand was crisscrossed with parallel tracks coming in from different vectors, but the lines leading away from where the missing ATVs had been were uncrossed.
Maddock clambered onto the first quad he came to, fired up the engine using the kick-starter, and then took off, following the fresh tracks. He figured Huntley and his accomplice had about a five-minute headstart, but he also had a passenger and no clue that someone was chasing after him.
Before long, he noticed that the ground to either side of him was illuminated. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed another ATV racing to catch up with him, a hulking figure bent over the handlebars. The engine noise made conversation impossible, so Maddock simply acknowledged his friend with a nod, which Bones returned with a fierce grin.
The next several minutes would have been an exhilarating adrenaline rush if not for what was at stake. The little four-wheelers were made for dune racing and the SEALs pushed their machines to the limit, catching air off the dune crests and expertly negotiating soft landings like Olympic ski-jumpers—the sand hills were far more forgiving than the paved roads outside Telesh’s dacha. Yet, Maddock and Bones weren’t chasing thrills. If they didn’t catch Huntley before they ran out of dunes, they might never see Lia again.
After white-knuckling up and down the golden dunes, they crested one last rise which sloped down to melt into a dark forest. A paved road, running parallel along the bottom of the hill, crossed their path like a boundary marker separating the distinctive ecosystems. The tracks they had been following led down to the edge of the road where two ATVs sat idle alongside two larger vehicles—a pickup truck with a long flatbed transport trailer attached, and a full-sized black SUV. The quad bikes’ headlights were still on, and in their glow, Maddock could see Huntley and another man attempting to transfer Lia into the SUV. Before they could finish this task, both men turned to look up at the pair of quads charging down the dune toward them.
There was no way Huntley or his accomplice could have discerned their identities, and no reason for either man to suspect that the riders were anyone but their comrades returning, but something must have given them away because Huntley continued hustling Lia toward the far side of the SUV, while the other man drew a pistol and started firing at the approaching riders.
With a few quick hand signals, Maddock communicated a change of plan to Bones, then aimed the front end of the ATV at the shooter and held steady on the throttle. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bones veer off to the left, putting his quad on course to bisect the road fifty yards to the rear of the parked vehicles. Maddock hunkered low over his handlebars to offer the smallest possible target. At the present distance, luck rather than the man’s shooting skill would determine whether or not a round found its target, but that was about to change.
He halved the distance in a matter of seconds, in which time the gunman blazed through the pistol’s magazine. He fumbled the reload, betraying his inexperience, allowing Maddock to get a lot closer—close enough to be within the effective range of the pistol. Fortunately for Maddock, that cut both ways.
Without letting up on the throttle, he reached down, drew his recently appropriated Walther, and began returning fire. He aimed short, knowing that Lia was only a few feet away, concealed from view but not really protected by thin metal door panels and window glass. Of course, the other man didn’t know he was aiming to miss, and so when the first shot was fired, he turned and retreated behind the SUV before taking another shot. Maddock squeezed off another round, forcing the man to duck back, and giving himself enough time to reach the road.
He drew up alongside the pickup, waiting until the very last second to jam on the brakes, and then dismounted, letting the four-wheeler roll ahead of him. Sparks flew as a barrage of bullets tore into the ATV, shattering the headlight.
Maddock crouched and crept forward, staying close to the truck and keeping its engine block between him and the shooter. Without exposing himself to view, he extended a hand and fired high, once again hoping to accomplish nothing more than to keep the other man distracted long enough for Bones to get in position.
Suddenly, the taillights of the SUV blazed to life, and a second later the vehicle lurched into motion. Grimacing in frustration, Maddock eased forward, edging around the front end of the truck. Even as he spotted the motionless form of the gunman on the pavement, he heard Bones shout, “Got him.”
Maddock bolted forward, sprinting after the retreating SUV. It was a futile effort. As the vehicle raced away, he turned and ran back to join Bones who was kneeling beside the dead man, rifling through the latter’s pockets. Maddock didn’t have to ask what he was searching for, and could see from the disgusted look on Bones face that he hadn’t found them. The keys to operate the truck were probably in the pocket of one of the men they’d killed back on the beach.
“Can you hotwire it?”
Bones glanced back at the large pickup. It was a newer model, and therefore harder to boost than the cars Bones had “borrowed” for joyrides in his misspent youth, but after a moment’s consideration, he shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot. While I’m doing that, do us both a favor and unhitch that trailer. We’ll never catch him with that thing hanging off our caboose.”
“On it.” Maddock was already moving. As he rounded the bed of the truck, he heard a loud crack—Bones smashing out the window glass with the butt of his pistol. The anti-theft alarm immediately began braying.
Maddock grimaced and did his best to ignore the clamor as he bent over the hitch and went to work detaching the trailer. He didn’t bother raising the tongue with the built-in jack, but simply lifted it off the hitch and shoved it away, letting it crash onto the pavement.
The alarm abruptly fell silent, and in the relative quiet, Maddock could hear the rumble of the engine.
Bones leaned out the driver’s window and shouted, “What are you waiting for? Get in!”
“I’ll ride in back!” Maddock replied, and then vaulted up onto the tailgate, rolling over into the pickup’s bed. “Go! Go!”
Bones shifted into ‘drive’ and stomped the gas pedal. The acceleration was sluggish at first, but the truck quickly got up to speed. Maddock crawled to the front of the bed and leaned out to look around the cab. The wind blasted him full in the face, sucking his breath away, stinging his eyes, but he could still make out the taillights of the SUV, maybe a quarter mile away. He craned forward, getting his face as close to the driver’s window as he could.
“Get next to him!” he shouted. “I’ll go over.”
He hadn’t worked out exactly how he would make that transfer, but figured it would be a lot easier to accomplish from the bed of the truck.
Instead of acknowledging, Bones shouted, “Crap!”
The truck slowed.
“What’s wrong?” Maddock said, though he no longer needed to shout. Without the rush of wind in his ears, he could now hear a violent rattling sound issuing from the vehicle’s front end.
“We’re screwed is what’s wrong,” Bones growled as the truck came to a stop. He shut off the engine but it continued to tick wildly. A plume of steam billowed up from the front end of the truck. Although none of the ill-fated gunman’s rounds had found a flesh-and-blood target, one or more of them had punctured the radiator, decisively ending the attempted rescue.
Bones swore again and beat his fists against the steering wheel. Maddock just hung his head. After more than a week of guiding and protecting Lia on a journey across the globe, they had failed her.
TWENTY-ONE
McLean, Virginia
Th
e house was modest by local standards. The Cape Cod-style house, built in 1952, sat on a wooded acre, and like most of its neighbors was barely visible from Savile Lane, the narrow road which wound through the quasi-rural residential area. According to public records, the property was owned by a trust company and, like many others in the small community situated just off the Capital Beltway and only eight miles from downtown Washington DC, was rented out to diplomats and politicians. The itinerant nature of the community’s inhabitants meant that few were aware—and still fewer cared—about the identities, and comings and goings of their neighbors.
If anyone had paid attention, they might have noticed that the level of activity in the house did not seem to correspond to changes in the tenant of record. In fact, very little ever seemed to change. To be sure, the house was lived in. Landscapers regularly mowed the lawn, tended the shrubs, and, in autumn, raked and removed the blanket of maple leaves. Deliveries of meals, groceries, and other goods were accepted by someone purporting to be the tenant’s housekeeper, and visitors arriving by car were not uncommon, particularly after the close of the business day. But the temporary residents of the other dwellings on Savile Lane would not have been able to pick the tenant of the blue and white Cape Cod out of a line-up, much less realize that it was the same man from one year to the next, no matter the name listed in public records.
A deeper examination of those records would have hinted at an explanation for this discrepancy. The people alleged to have resided in the house over the course of nearly six decades did not exist. The trust company that held the deed was a dummy corporation, owned by another dummy corporation, owned by yet another, to form a veritable and seemingly infinite Matryoshka doll of shell companies. The complexity of the deception was, in itself, another hint at the answer to the riddle, but an even more obvious clue was the fact that the small parcel of land on which the house sat abutted the 258-acre campus officially designated the George Bush Center for Intelligence—better known simply as CIA Headquarters.
