The First Order

by Jeff Abbott

  “Oh, Sam, you would have taken that guy apart.”

  “No. I didn’t have a way out. He would have killed me. Thank God for you.” He stared into her gaze.

  “You’re welcome,” she said quietly. “I was going to call Jack Ming about looking for this woman.”

  “I already put him on it.”

  “Oh.” She seemed flustered. “Oh, that’s good.”

  “He didn’t mention he had spoken to you.”

  “You talked to him first, then.”

  “Jimmy hasn’t called me. He said he’d help…”

  “He’s been very busy. An emergency.”

  “Is that why you said you’ve had a very bad couple of days?”

  She tried to smile. “Nothing to that, just me trying to scare Ahmad. You should sleep now. Is that pill kicking in?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice thick. He couldn’t tell her, not now, that he was giving up the bars, stopping work with her. That they would no longer work together or see each other. This was not the time. The pain in his back faded, although it was too hard to get comfortable. But it was worth it. He was going to find Danny. Save him from whatever he’d been forced to become.

  He slept, country and clouds passing beneath him.

  Mila did not sleep. The plane’s Internet wasn’t secure but the phone Charity had given her would work, she was told, anywhere. She sent a message that was encoded to Charity:

  Do you have any details on ex-FSB/KGB drug trafficker in Afg. known as “Big Man” or “Bol’shoy Chelovek” first name Sergei.

  The message went from the airplane, wrapped in an encoded bubble, to an e-mail that then forwarded it to nine other servers scattered across the planet, in Australia, New Zealand, India, finally landing at a server in Greenwich, in an outpost of British intelligence that no one ever talked about. Maybe they knew about Sergei. And if Sergei could give them Danny’s location, then she could capture him and hand him over to Charity.

  And Sam, who thought of her as his friend who had just saved his life, would see her for what she was.

  Her face felt hot. But it was an impossible choice. Your lying, deceiving husband, or your one friend who has stood by you, said a small voice in the back of her brain.

  She watched Sam sleep. His hand was close to hers and for an insane moment she wanted to take his hand, hold it, even though she loved Jimmy. Sam was her best friend. That was all he could be. She was married. She took her vows seriously. And even if she hadn’t been…Sam was nearly five years younger than her, which she told herself shouldn’t matter, and he was already a father and had been married to a woman who had also lied to him in the most hurtful ways. He wouldn’t want her. He didn’t seem to want anyone.

  She thought, If I didn’t love Jimmy maybe I’d love you.

  She studied his sleeping face. She could not let her friendship with him derail what she had to do. This brother of his sounded like a monster, a cold killer, a version of Sam unleavened by kindness or duty to others, and perhaps it would be best for Sam if she could take Danny Capra away from him.

  Don’t kid yourself. What will you say to him when you’ve taken his brother?

  You won’t say anything. You will take Danny and vanish. You will never see Sam, or his beautiful little boy that you love so, again. That is the price for saving your husband.

  18

  Manhattan

  JACK MING WOKE Sam late that morning with a phone call from Paris. Sam creaked up out of bed, feeling the ongoing pain in his back. He dry-swallowed both an antibiotic and a painkiller as Jack told him what he’d found. “The woman who bought a ticket for herself and your brother is named Avril Claybourne.”

  Same as the artist who’d watched the DVD.

  “She’s a multimedia artist in New York,” Jack continued. “She owns an art gallery.”

  “You genius, you hacked the database.”

  “Uh, no.” Jack almost seemed embarrassed. “I bribed a contact who works there to access an archived file and give me the information. Ten thousand dollars. You can wire it to my account. Claybourne bought a ticket for herself and for another passenger by the name of Philip Judge. Do you know that name?”

  Sam closed his eyes. “No. Can you research that identity, get me credit reports and such on him? A full workup. But that might have been an identity he used once and discarded, Philip Judge.” Saying the name aloud somehow helped.

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’ll send you an advance payment. Thank you, Jack.”

  “Are you OK, Sam? You don’t sound OK.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Avril Claybourne must know where his brother could be found.

  There was a second e-mail, from the private lab where he’d sent the bullets he’d retrieved from the wall. They came from a modified Makarov pistol. A Russian weapon. They matched the bullet Sam had taken from the corpse in the grave. Same gun. Sam staggered toward the shower.

  “Mila?” he called toward the guest room. “Mila?”

  She was gone.

  Bertrand unlocked the entrance to The Last Minute at noon and Seaforth, already waiting, came in, like a man needing his first early drink of the day. Sam had come downstairs to get some lunch, dressed in his loosest-fitting shirt to ease the pain.

  “You made a little trip,” Seaforth said by way of greeting, pulling out a stool and sitting at the bar.

  There was no point in denying it. But it was confirmation that Seaforth was monitoring his credit card usage and probably his location by tracking his mobile phone. Of course, Seaforth had no idea Sam was, in turn, monitoring his phone. He has his own agenda and you can’t let it stop you. “I did.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Why do I tell you?”

  “Because I got you into Afghanistan. And we both want whoever killed Zalmay and took your brother.”

  Sam decided to make it look like he was giving Seaforth everything he knew. “He told me Russian criminals took my brother.”

  Seaforth blinked. “That is not what he told us.”

  “He told the CIA what they most wanted to hear. He gave you guys he could put in the crosshairs of a drone missile. What about the forensics tests?”

  “The bullets in the body came from a Makarov.”

  “That I knew.”

  “I knew you had private testing done on the bullet you removed.” Seaforth looked irritated.

  “Consider it confirmation. Who is he?”

  “The DNA on the body in the grave—it’s not your brother.”

  Sam waited.

  Seaforth said, “We did a range of genetic testing on the samples. His DNA is not in our databases. The Y-DNA test resulted in an R1a haplogroup, which indicates he could be an ethnic Russian.”

  Ahmad had told him the truth. “Was there anything else in his belongings that pointed to an ID on this man?” If Seaforth didn’t have a name, he wasn’t going to help him by giving him Anton as a starting point. He needed to stay ahead of Seaforth and his misfits.

  Seaforth said, “Yes, but before I share it I want to know what you’re going to do with this information.”

  “Ahmad pointed at a Russian crime boss nicknamed the Big Man. Bol’shoy chelovek. Ring a bell?”

  “No. But this Big Man murdered a CIA agent. He is our worry, not yours.”

  “He took my brother.”

  “And we’ll make him pay for that, Sam.”

  Sam pretended that he didn’t hear. “It would be nice to have the hard drive that was sent to Mirjan Shah. The video was on it. Ahmad said they had to rehearse the parts with this Big Man speaking Pashto. Maybe he was on the part of the video that wasn’t released.” Sam looked at Seaforth. “How long after that video came out was it that Mirjan Shah died?”

  “Two weeks. He was shot to death, and his home burned to the ground.”

  “I don’t think that was a coincidence. So what else did you find?”

  “There was a letter in the man’s pocket.
Written in Russian. Not addressed to a name.”

  “Signed?”

  “Only with an initial. It was in the pocket of a rotting corpse for six years. It’s…damaged.” Seaforth handed him a photographed copy, with an accompanying translation into English:

  S is losing control of the [section too damaged to read] he should simply [section too damaged to read] he checks my phone. So burn this. I don’t think he realizes that the brothers will kill him if he does this. He would listen to you. They must never know. A.

  [section too damaged to read]

  “A” likely stood for Anton. He’d written this before he died. And “S” for Sergei. But who was the letter intended for? Was this letter why Sergei didn’t like Anton, ended up wanting him dead? Anton was telling someone what Sergei was doing. “Should simply”…do what? Did this refer to Danny and Zalmay? “They must never know.” What did that mean?

  Seaforth said, “We already analyzed the fiber content of the paper. It’s French stationery, produced by Cartier. Did you know they make writing paper, not just watches or jewelry? Top-drawer, expensive stuff.”

  It wasn’t monogrammed, though, which would have been helpful. A man goes into the lawless mountains of Afghanistan…with fine French stationery.

  “Can you shed any additional light on this?” Seaforth asked.

  “No,” Sam lied.

  “Ahmad Douad isn’t answering our phone calls. He’s vanished. I think you must have scared him.” Seaforth looked frustrated.

  “I’m going to keep looking for my brother,” Sam said.

  Seaforth studied him. “Are you hurt? You’re moving like you’re in pain.”

  “I slept crooked on the flight; it’s nothing.”

  “I suppose if I asked you to let us handle the search for your brother…”

  “You’ve all had years to handle it, Bob,” Sam said. “I’m sorry. But you didn’t.”

  “That’s not fair. We didn’t have the information that you found.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” Sam said. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful; I’m not. But I can’t just stop now. Could you?”

  “I would know enough to let the professionals handle this. You’re a bartender now, Sam. Let us take care of it.”

  But he couldn’t. This was his brother. “I’ll think about it.”

  They shook hands and Seaforth left.

  I’ll find him first, Sam thought. The woman who brought Danny back to America. Avril Claybourne…He could kidnap her. Question her. Force her to talk. But that was a serious undertaking; if he made a misstep he could alert his brother. He had no idea who this woman was or who her allies were or her connection to Sergei Belinsky…and a more subtle approach might work better.

  If he only had a way. Then he realized…he did.

  19

  Manhattan

  MILA WALKED DOWN seven blocks from The Last Minute to a coffee chain store, as the text instructed her to do. She stood in a long line. The people ahead of her and the people behind her were all on their phones, texting, tweeting, reading their screens, having phone conversations via earbud, connected to everywhere except where they were.

  “Do you need assistance?” the man behind her said, close to her ear. British accent, young pup, model-handsome in an excellent suit. “Perhaps…some charity.”

  “No, none,” she said. The line moved forward.

  He was too stupid to know to stop. “Charity expects a report now,” he said, pretending to look at his phone. “Have you made any progress?”

  “I am getting closer to Jimmy’s…client.”

  She stepped up to the counter and ordered a flat white. She joined the corral of people waiting for their coffees. The young suit ordered his latte and then stood next to her. They both collected their coffees. She walked out onto the street, turned, and stepped into an alley between the coffee shop and a high-end hotel, the young embassy man following her.

  Handsome put a sneer on his face. “An alleyway, to conduct business. How pulp fiction. Give me this client’s name.”

  “Put my husband on the phone.”

  He offered his smartphone to her, with a call already placed on hold. She tapped the button.

  “Mila?” Jimmy.

  “Why were you meeting with him?” she said.

  “I’m saying nothing.”

  “Did he ask you to misdirect someone? Keep someone away from him?”

  He was silent.

  “Give me something to find your Copenhagen friend,” she said.

  “He…he’s not a client. Charity, you’re wasting your time on this one.”

  Charity’s voice came onto the line and Mila thought she might crush the phone. “Then explain the money transfer after you met with this man.”

  “Payment for a favor that in no way affects British national security. It was a private matter. He wanted me to keep someone…away from him.”

  Mila’s skin prickled.

  “James, I am wearying of your lack of cooperation,” Charity said.

  Jimmy said: “When you let me talk to the prime minister, I will talk.”

  “That’s not happening,” Charity answered. “You see? He won’t listen to you, he won’t listen to me. Jimmy seems to think this will all go away if he just waits it out. Mila, you seem to have left all the equipment I gave you in London.”

  “I didn’t want you tracking me and interfering with me finding the client,” Mila said. “You might pass that on to your New York lackey here.”

  “You will cooperate with the nice young man from the consulate.”

  “You tell your nice young man if he ever comes up to me for another impromptu meeting and risks burning my operation I’ll pour hot coffee onto his groin.” Mila hung up and handed Handsome back his phone. “Don’t follow me.” She walked away and hailed a cab, suspecting that Charity had another security officer from the consulate following her. She told the cab driver to take her to Times Square. She’d lose any shadow in the crowds, in the subway, and then she’d make her way back to the bar. She couldn’t lead them back to Sam. She spotted a woman who’d been behind her in line at the coffee shop getting into a car behind her. No coffee in hand. Tracking her.

  She’d have to lose them.

  And she did. Two exhausting hours later she arrived back at the bar. Sam sat at his desk, rustling through old yellowed pages.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “You vanished.”

  “Chasing down a lead. It didn’t pan out. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. What lead?”

  “This Magpie woman…it would be good to know if she meets with your old CIA friends or if she goes anywhere. But I couldn’t get in.”

  He looked at her and the lie felt like a knife she’d picked up by the blade. He did not comment, and went back to reading the yellowed papers on his desk.

  Danny paid my husband to keep you off his trail, once you knew Danny had been in the prison. My husband betrayed you. I’m sorry.

  “Sam. You have never told me much about Danny. What would be good to know in looking for him?”

  Sam glanced back up at her. “My mother gave me this. It’s from Danny.” Then he handed her the yellowing pages, a neat, precise handwriting on the lines.

  20

  The Past—Burundi

  Mom is making me write this. She wants to show it to a psychiatrist and I could write a bunch of lies but then they’ll just drag Sam into it and he’d have to tattle on me and I’m not making him choose like that. I don’t mind my parents knowing what I did for Sam. They can act like it’s wrong but I did it and I was right. I followed the rules I keep in my own head. I’m not dumb. No one had to give me the rules, they’re what let you live around other people and not get into trouble. That is what rules are.

  My name is Daniel Webster Capra and this is about me and my brother Samuel Clemens Capra (thanks, Dad, for the dumb literary names, you could just tell people you really like reading old books, you didn�
��t have to saddle us with those middle names. I bet Dad is a little scared now when he reads that. I’m kidding, Dad. I love you.) Mom keeps patting me on the shoulder and saying, write it like it’s a story in a book. OK then, here. I want to be understood.

  Sam is ten and I am thirteen. I want any psychiatrist who reads this to know we have seen a lot of bad stuff in the complete hellholes our parents drag us to and we’re old for our ages. At least I am. Sam is a baby in a way.

  So this man stole Sam. The jerk lectured his friends while he did it, like this was a lesson to be learned. Like he was IMPARTING (my dad loves that word) knowledge.

  “This is how you take one of them,” the man said as he pulled Sam off his bicycle. He said it in Kirundi, drunk, but Sam and I knew enough to understand. Sam’s bicycle fell over in the mud, and the man—tall—tucked Sam under his arm and headed for his piece of crap car.

  Like he was just going to take Sam.

  We weren’t supposed to leave the compound but it’s boring there, Burundi sucks if you ask me. So we were playing along the road about a kilometer from the camp, Sam on his bike, me walking, because we (Doctor, you should know this), we always, always have to leave our toys and games and books behind when we move to a new disaster zone and so I didn’t have a bike, I gave the one I bought with my own money to Sam. Our parents are super busy when we’re in a disaster zone and I take care of Sam.

  These drunken men pulled up in a car and just decided to take my brother. For money. They think every Westerner is rich and I guess we are compared to some.

  I remember every word this monster said to me, because he thought I was a nobody, a scared kid, and he was going to tell me how the world worked.

  “Don’t squirm, little one,” he said to Sam, but in French. “No one will hurt you. You will sit at my house and your parents will give me some francs and then you will go home.” He turned to his two friends and explained what he was doing. “See, you take the littler one, and you leave the older one”—he jerked his head back at me—“to go explain to the parents. Simple, yes?”