The Forgotten Soldier

by Brad Taylor

  He leapt to the stairs just as the motorcycles reached him, dropping their bikes and giving chase on foot. He sprinted up, finding the crest and running to the far side, the men no more than ten seconds behind him.

  He reached a cliff, the grassy earth sloping fifty feet below.

  He cursed and did a slow turn, searching for options. There were none. He looked across the cliff and saw a park below, full of archeological treasures, and recognized the Agora, Athens’s ancient city center. On the far side was a cut for a metro train, a slice in the earth, and beyond was a street full of vendors.

  Escape.

  He heard the men scrambling up the rock face and decided. He’d either die from the drop or get away.

  He lowered himself flat and slid off the side, seeking footing way too fast for safety. He used roots and outcroppings to make it fifteen feet down before his luck ran out. He felt the slide and tried to stop, but it did no good. He saw the police above him, shining lights in his eyes and shouting, and he screamed, falling into the void.

  He hit the ground hard, bouncing once, then rolled down the slope, coming to a stop in a field of grass. He lay for a moment, unsure if he was broken, the lights of the police far above. He rose up, the adrenaline rocking his body, and found he was stable. Beat to hell, but no permanent damage. He took off through the field, the glow of flashlights growing fainter behind him, the police nowhere near insane enough to try to follow.

  He came to the cut for the train tracks and leapt down, scrambling up the other side and reaching the pedestrian walkway, seeing tourists drinking beer in outdoor cafés. He climbed the fence, ignoring the shouts and iPhones pointed at him as he came over. He took the first street he could find, weaving deeper into the heart of the tourist-trap markets and restaurants, looking for a place to stop. To assess what had happened.

  The man, Nikos, belonged to the Greek Mafia, and they were known as the Godfathers of the Night because of their stranglehold on nightclubs in Athens, so any stop in such a place was basically suicide, but he needed to get off the street. To quit running once he had his break in contact. With the advantage of radios, moving now was the killer. He needed to hide until they grew tired of looking.

  He hit a small alley, busting through the tattoo parlors and teenagers, and saw a sign ahead.

  Salvation.

  It read JAMES JOYCE IRISH PUB. A place where he could sit forever, and one definitely outside the neon and black lights of Mafia-controlled nightclubs.

  He slid inside, pushing through the crowd of expats and taking a seat at the very back, his eye to the door. A waitress came over and, with a wonderfully safe Irish accent, said, “Poor thing, you look tuckered.”

  Guy gave her a crooked grin and said, “Yeah, sightseeing’s a bitch. Can I get a Guinness?”

  She left, and he rapidly assessed what he knew. Trained to thrive in chaos, the last few minutes of adrenaline faded like tide from a beach. No longer worthy of reflection.

  He’d made some significant enemies inside Athens, but he still had a mission. He withdrew his recording device and put one earbud in, listening to the conversation before Nikos had arrived. He could make out little, the device nowhere near good enough to penetrate the wind and ambient noise of the other patrons. He strained to understand the mumbling about yachts, keys, and meetings, none of which did any good to focus his efforts.

  But he did hear one thing.

  Heraklion, Crete.

  25

  Secretary of State Jonathan Billings entered his hard car still inside the US Embassy compound in Athens, his six-man detail from the Bureau of Diplomatic Security doing a final check before the two-vehicle convoy rolled back to the hotel.

  He’d had trouble staying focused on the endless briefings but gave the ambassador his praise and well wishes on the progress made on various fronts. Now, preparing to leave, he was running through his head the excuses he’d use to ditch his security detail. He didn’t really think he needed them, but then again, someone had launched a rocket-propelled grenade at the front of the embassy here in 2007. Maybe ditching them wasn’t the best choice, but he had to for his next meeting. Because no matter what those asshole hawks in the Oversight Council thought, he was going to warn Haider al-Attiya that a lunatic was after him.

  Three days ago, he’d been roundly shut down with his accusations that the Taskforce was operating unilaterally inside the United States, assassinating Qatari citizens based on nothing but a bloodied target package from Afghanistan. One day later, Kurt had called an emergency meeting, something that rarely occurred, which caused all thirteen members to show. He’d stated that they had no proof of Taskforce involvement in Key West, but that he was missing a Taskforce member. A man had basically gone AWOL, and—conveniently, Billings thought—it was the brother of the soldier killed in Afghanistan.

  Billings knew the whole damn thing was nothing but a show designed to cover up extralegal Taskforce operations—if there even was such a thing, given their extralegal existence to begin with—and had demanded that the family be informed.

  Kurt had balked, saying he had no proof and was “taking steps to confirm or deny the situation.”

  Billings had said, “What does that mean? ‘Taking steps’? Either the guy’s on the loose or he’s not.”

  “I’ve detailed Pike Logan to find him. To bring him in. My bet is he’s on a bender somewhere in the United States. He lost Decoy, then his brother, and it took a toll. I saw it but didn’t think he wouldn’t go to the funeral. Pike will find him.”

  “Pike? Are you serious? You think he’ll bring him in? Far from it. If anything, that psycho will give him pointers.”

  President Warren interceded at that point, saying, “Calm down, John. Kurt’s doing what he can, and airing your personal grievances about individual Taskforce members isn’t helping. Kurt informs us of the status, but the tactical decisions are his.”

  The secretary of defense cut in, “And he did save the damn pope last year. Give him a break.”

  Billings said, “Okay. Fine. But what about the Qatari guys? What about Haider al-Attiya?”

  President Warren said, “What about them?”

  “They need to be warned.” He turned to Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, and said, “Don’t you have a protocol for sources or assets when you come across a death threat? Don’t you have to warn them?”

  Kerry shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. “This isn’t the CIA. This is the Taskforce, and we have the means to control the outcome.”

  Billings looked at the president and said, “That’s not what I asked. Sir . . .”

  President Warren said, “Kerry, what’s the protocol?”

  Kerry placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together, then said, “Okay, yes. If we come across a threat to a source, regardless of the source’s orientation or cooperation, we warn them. But that’s not this.”

  Billings said, “That’s exactly this. The only difference is that it’s not threat-stream reporting. It’s one of our own guys.”

  Kurt interjected, “We don’t know that. Give Pike a chance.”

  Billings cut him off. “Bullshit we don’t know. We might not wish to know, but this is an unmitigated disaster. Haider is the one helping me with . . . that thing in Afghanistan. Haider’s the member of the QIA that’s willing to invest in Greece. We lose him—at our own hands—and it will be the worst foreign policy disaster in recent memory. And make no mistake, there have been some disasters.”

  President Warren said, “No warning. We handle this on our own. Let the Taskforce work it.”

  “Sir, I think we need to look at this holistically. The Taskforce has gone rogue. We are on the verge of bringing down this whole administration.”

  He paused and went from man to man, looking every member of the Oversight Council in
the eye.

  “Everyone in this room is looking at a jail cell. That’s a given, but we still have our duty to honor what we know to those threatened. It’s unconscionable not to do so. At least let him prepare. Increase his own security.”

  And for the first time, the words were said aloud, thrown into the daylight from the dark. The true dilemma tossed into the room.

  They had created a unique organization to resolve imminent threats, but in so doing, they had thrown out what made the United States what it was. Thrown out the oversight and the second-guessing. Thrown out transparency and democracy for the greater good. It had sounded responsible after 9/11, given the threat. Something that was needed, even if the US Constitution wouldn’t allow it.

  The Taskforce had worked like a well-oiled machine for years, proving its worth, eliminating one threat after another. A benign beast growing in strength, it had always done what was asked by the Council. But now it was off the rails, the beast looking for blood outside of the masters. A man recruited, trained, and equipped for missions at the national level, someone told repeatedly to ignore the laws of the land for the greater good, was now doing exactly what he’d been taught.

  Every person in the room was under the knife.

  President Warren said, “Kurt, thoughts?”

  “Give Pike a chance. He’ll bring him in. There’s no reason to panic here.”

  Billings said, “I’m not panicking. I’m being prudent. Maybe we should also alert the FBI, get him in the system, use the CIA, or whatever else we can do to get his name out there.”

  Kurt glared and said, “We can’t do that without the very compromise you fear. Anyway, I don’t need someone else to put down a horse that belongs to me.”

  Billings rolled his eyes and said, “Sir, really? Now we’re worried about egos?”

  Warren said, “Kurt’s right. No reason for extreme measures. No warning. Let it run its course.”

  Billings bit his lip but knew what he was going to do. He had a conscience, unlike the men around the table. Now, driving out of the embassy compound in Greece, he was about to step across the line. Put his own conscience in front of his obligations.

  He drew strength from the example of Edward Snowden, another man who had bucked what the traditional establishment had said was right. He owed it to himself to do the same.

  The small motorcade left the main road and rounded the snakelike streets, going through alleys and neighborhoods to the Athenaeum InterContinental. The hotel was not, to put it mildly, in the best part of town, and he would have stayed at his habitual haunt, the Hotel Grande Bretagne—where everyone who was anyone stayed—but Haider was booked at the InterContinental, and doing a meeting inside the hotel was the only way to avoid his security detail following him like a piece of gum picked up by his shoe.

  They rounded the corner, and Billings saw the internal hotel security, aware of his presence and hoping to make a permanent impression. The two cars entered the small drive and he waited, one man exiting and opening his door, the rest fanning out. He shook the hand of the poor bellman, the guy terrified of screwing up.

  They entered the expansive lobby, he in a bubble of security, his executive assistant one step behind, and everyone else staring at who had arrived. The hotel staff blocked off the elevator access, allowing him to ride alone, his detail talking among themselves in their radios.

  Ridiculous.

  He hated the security detail. It was exactly what wasn’t needed as a diplomat. How could he encourage democracy and human rights when armed thugs surrounded him everywhere he went?

  The elevator opened and his security entered first, pushing the button to his floor. Billings sank against the railing, running through what he would say to Haider. The elevator stopped and his assistant said, “Sir, did you want to go over the minutes for tomorrow’s meeting now?”

  “No, Leslie, we can do that later. Jet lag’s hitting me. I’ll call you for dinner.” She smiled and went the opposite way from him down the hall, no security with her. Minutes later, he was at his suite, the room cleared by his detail. He went to his computer, pretending to work, giving them time to exit.

  After the door had been closed for a minute or two, he dialed his phone and received a room number. He packed up his laptop and exited. The lone security man outside his door was startled, saying, “Sir, I thought you were in for the afternoon.”

  He raised his wrist to talk into the radio, and Billings said, “I am, I am. I’m just headed to the executive lounge to get a bottle of water.”

  “Sir, I can get that for you.”

  “I want to get it myself,” Billings snapped. “Stay here. I’ll be fine. I don’t need a guard dog to go to the damn lounge.”

  The man shuffled his feet but did as he was told. Billings turned without another word and went to the elevators. He rode down two floors, then exited.

  He found the room number and softly knocked. A man he didn’t recognize opened the door, dressed smartly in a pinstriped suit with a well-groomed beard shaved close to his face. Billings thought he was nothing but a manservant for Haider—one of the many anyone important from Qatar would use—and came close to barging in as he was accustomed to do in his position, but the man looked him full in the eye. And Billings saw a little crazy leaking out. He waited outside.

  The man said, “Sir, I am Khalid. Haider is waiting in the other room.”

  26

  Billings traveled through the suite to the large bedroom, seeing Haider on the balcony outside, drinking tea. He stood, a large smile on his face, and embraced Billings with a traditional touching of cheeks. After greetings, Billings glanced at Khalid, and Haider said, “Khalid, could you check my computer for emails, please?”

  Khalid nodded and left them alone. Haider poured Billings tea, and they made small talk for a few minutes. Eventually, they transitioned to Greece, discussing Qatari investment in a natural gas–fired power plant and other infusions of much-needed capital. Billings searched for an entrance, and finally received it when Haider said, “With the turmoil in the world, Qatar feels it irresponsible to not invest in Greece. It’s sound policy.” He smiled and said, “We don’t need one more state falling into chaos.”

  Billings nodded. “That’s wise. And another reason I believe Qatar can help with other conflicts. Remember the peace initiative I spoke of? Between the Taliban and the Afghanistan government?”

  Acting disinterested, Haider said, “Yes, I do. I must say that it is out of my portfolio, but when I brought it up—” He raised a hand and said, “Discreetly, I assure you; my government was astounded that such a thing could be happening behind its back.”

  Billings said, “There is no great mystery. It’s just the way of diplomacy. You remember the talks held in Norway between the High Peace Council and several Taliban officials from the office in Doha?”

  “Yes, of course. They kept us informed of all of that, but it was unofficial. Just some women from Afghanistan demanding rights. Nothing came of it.”

  “Well, partially correct. What came of it was an overture from the HPC. They want to conduct serious talks, using the ‘nothing’ meetings as cover for the real ones. Too much pressure is put on the talks when they are officially announced. Too much is expected, forcing both sides to utter stupid things, preventing the very talks they want. This way, both can come secretly. Nobody is even looking at Norway.”

  Haider nodded, thinking. He said, “So a talk within a talk, without any official announcement. That might actually do some good.”

  Billings smiled and said, “I’m glad you feel that way, because the United States recognizes the power Qatar holds, and we’d like you to be the emissary. Unofficially. We can’t have anyone known in the Qatari government show up in Oslo. It would defeat the entire purpose. Do you think you could do such a thing? Act as the go-between?”

  Haider said, “I would be hon
ored, and I thank you for the trust. When will this occur, so I may ensure my availability?”

  “I don’t know yet. The details are still being worked out, but the initial meeting will be soon. Days, not weeks. Understand, the Taliban office in Doha knows nothing, and it must remain that way. For security purposes.”

  Haider said, “Don’t worry. If anyone understands security and secrecy, it’s the Qatar Investment Authority. Whenever we try to invest overseas, if it becomes public knowledge, you Westerners—how do you say—‘come out of the woods’ to stop it.”

  Billings laughed and said, “I think you mean ‘come out of the woodwork,’ but I believe you.”

  He paused, on the threshold. The moment of truth.

  Haider said, “What is it?”

  “Speaking of security, there is something else I must tell you. I’ve learned through our intelligence agencies that there may be a threat against you.”

  His cup halfway to his lips, Haider paused, then said, “A threat? From your intelligence agency?”

  Billings had decided that conveying the danger was good enough. In no way did he want to implicate himself or cause damage to all that he was doing by exposing the reality. He said, “No, no. Not from us. We just heard about it. We don’t know who it is, but it came out of Afghanistan, and your name was mentioned. Something ridiculous about an operation you supposedly conducted. It could be nothing but coincidence. A mistaken name or something else, but you should take precautions. Please, I am breaking protocol for even telling you, but I felt it was necessary.”

  Haider said, “I appreciate the trust.”

  —

  Haider watched the door close, Billings heading back to his room. Khalid said, “Well?”

  “We’re in, but there is a significant issue.”

  “What?”

  Haider paused, not wanting another experience like he’d had last night. He’d finally gathered the courage to tell Khalid about the death of Ahmed, and as expected, Khalid was distraught, wanting to fly to the United States and kill someone just to relieve the pain. He’d eventually calmed down but now walked about with a permanent scowl, looking for a slight in anything the hotel staff did.