The television flashed to breaking news. Darcy saw the logo and looked up.
Smoke was billowing from the north tower of the World Trade Center. A fire? More like an explosion from the smoke pattern. She grabbed for the remote and turned up the sound, searching for context.
A plane had hit the World Trade Center.
It didn’t make sense. It was a sunny, clear day in New York. How had a plane hit the tower? Diverting a plane even when it was gliding without power was basic flying: a move of the yoke and the plane would have missed the building. Had the pilot not been conscious and at the controls when this happened?
Darcy crossed toward the television as she flipped channels, searching for more information. Tuesday morning in New York. The financial district began work early. That tower would have been fully occupied. She watched and bit her lip, memories of the World Trade Center car bombing in ’93 replaying in her mind. How were they going to get people out of the upper floors of that tower with a fire raging?
A second plane hit the south tower.
The shock of seeing it was like a punch to the gut. Oh, Lord, it’s happening again. Another terrorist attack. Her hand shook on the remote.
Two planes, two towers. A deliberate attack. Her mind began to race with the implications as stunned reporters replayed the tape to confirm what they had just seen.
Pandora’s box just opened and evil was spilling out.
How many more planes were out there? What else had they targeted?
The counterterrorism desks would be desperately trying to answer those questions, even as they struggled to deal with the horrific knowledge they had been caught blind. The CIA’s New York station was at 7 World Trade Center. The case officers could literally look out the window and see the buildings burning.
Two planes in a well-planned and coordinated attack—there would be more. A second wave had to be coming.
Darcy felt such helplessness. She was shaking as the cold reality of what she was watching settled across her.
She’d seen the sniper who killed the German finance minister in 1987 and hadn’t been able to do anything with the knowledge in time to stop it. Arresting the man responsible had been less than adequate to alleviate the fury about what he’d done. The same sensation enveloped her now.
She walked outside to the back deck. The birds on the feeder took flight. The day had not changed—yet everything had changed. The carefree America she had grown up in was gone. The treasured peace she had thrived in had just imploded. She saw Sam and his friends running at a steady pace near the tree line. She shouted for them. They saw her and changed directions, coming back at a sprint.
Tears streaked down her face.
Liberty came with a price. They just hadn’t had to pay it for a few decades. They would have no choice now but to fight. Whoever was behind this was killing civilians. The U.S. would have to look at the monster that was this evil and outthink it. They would need good intelligence and good warriors to act on it.
She headed back inside.
The door flew open behind her moments later. “Darcy?” Sam asked.
She just pointed to the television. As the images registered she saw Sam stiffen. The Brits crowded into the room, a soft murmur of reactions as they saw the image.
“Maybe eight minutes between the two planes,” she said softly.
“This is war.”
“Yes.” She felt so old as she said that word. She watched the towers burn, unable to look away. “Those who did this are already dead. And those who sent them wanted the martyrs.” This terrorist act had just ripped the underbelly out of the U.S. financial district.
“We’ll find them.” The solemn assurance in Sam’s voice told her it had already been decided in his mind. They’d find them and justice would be swift. She reached over and squeezed his arm. The nation would need and ask much from men like him.
So many were already dead. So many more would die before this was over. More tears formed. She didn’t want to face this. Sam tugged her toward him, and she rested her head against his chest, grateful to share his strength. His pager went off. She didn’t have to ask what the codes meant. The Department of Defense would be calling back SEALs as first responders for the retaliatory strike.
She went to find her security IDs. Someone was waging war on her homeland. That anger would provide the endurance she needed for this fight. This battle she was going to win no matter what the cost.
Seven
* * *
Four Months Later
JANUARY 15
Tuesday, 4:35 p.m.
Hamburg, Germany
Darcy tore the page off the secure fax. NATO had provided the plane, and the world map display on the wall showed their location as currently over Hamburg, Germany, heading west to Spain. She was traveling with a military contingent and was one of five intelligence officers on this hunter team. Dozens of teams like this one existed around the world tracking different terrorists. They were able to translate and assess information at the source where it was recovered, allowing immediate military and police actions to be taken.
Whoever had thought America wouldn’t hit back had badly misjudged them. She was still angry, and it drove a nonstop European travel schedule as she focused on the task at hand. She was rebuilding her network of contacts across Europe and turning those assets into a formidable force. Even former enemies were now working with her, offering information and leads and taking her calls at all hours of the day.
Jesus, am I missing anything here that will help us? I don’t want more civilians to die because I overlooked something subtle in these documents that will give us another thread to tug. Please provide the wisdom I need to do this job. Darcy knew just how much depended on her efforts, and it was scary at times to carry that burden.
Gabriel joined her from the teleconference that had been going on at the front of the plane, taking the seat across from her and laying his forearm crutches by his feet. “Are you ready for the brief?”
Darcy held up a photo of Luther Genault. “He knew September 11 would happen in advance, he profited from it, he’s the scum of the earth, and we want him.”
Gabriel smiled. “You’re ready.”
“I want this guy so bad I can taste it.” He wasn’t a terrorist out to blow up people; he was worse—a former Czech intelligence officer who used the evil he learned others were planning to carry out for his own profit. She handed her partner the fax. “They located another brokerage firm in Sweden that he used to short stocks before September 11. We’re looking at close to half a billion in profits from the trail of accounts we’ve been able to uncover so far.”
“Any leads on where he moved the cash to hide it?”
“Lots of brick walls we’re knocking down, only to find the next account already bare as well. He had time to prepare his plans for spreading out the profits. He’s evil, but I’ll give him credit for his tactics. He’s the Lex Luther of evil.”
Gabe gestured toward the men he’d been on the conference call with. “If we find him, the guys in the front of this plane will drop a bomb on his head.”
“I’m still looking for the first good lead. He’s in Ireland, Switzerland, Canada, or the Caribbean Islands. Those are the current guesses.” Darcy held up the second picture in the briefing book. “His wife, Renee—French, cultured, with a love to shop. I’ll lay odds she’s going to surface at a nice hotel or major fashion or art event this year. I’ve got a standing half-a-million-dollar offer of your money out there for the first paparazzo that takes her picture. Tabloid photographers are wonderful snitches to have when it comes to going after someone like her.”
“It will be worth every dime,” Gabe agreed. “Luther is flush with money, and he’s falling in love with this idea of profiting from the tragedy caused by others. The latest from the Russians is that Luther’s number two has been actively trying to hire retired snipers from their army. The suspicions we’ve had appear to be true—terrorists are turning
to Luther to try and slow down the soldiers and intelligence officers chasing them.”
“More blood money.” The death of two agents and the attempt on her on September 9 had only been the beginning. Twenty of the best investigators in Europe were now dead, as were nine high-ranking military officers from across NATO countries. Someone had killed a French officer assigned to Interpol last night. Luther could easily be the one accepting cash to make hits like those happen.
Darcy turned pages in the briefing book to the photo of Luther’s number two man: Vladimir Kurst. “If you want security, kill those who oppose you,” she murmured, remembering his motto. Luther had hired a ruthless man as his number two. She sincerely wished Sergey were still alive to help her track this Russian down.
Belgian authorities had found Sergey’s family murdered at a chalet weeks after September 11. When she had a moment to grieve for the thousands who died during the initial terrorist attacks, she’d also let herself grieve for Sergey. The man was likely dead now too—his body not yet found, his family part of what had been used to pressure him to act against her. When this was over, she promised herself that she’d track down what happened to Sergey’s family and bring justice for them. It mattered. Sergey had been an enemy but also a friend in a profession where respect for the craft connected them.
And whoever had collected the bounty on her head on the rumor of her death was going to get a knock on the door. The CIA had fostered that rumor to add to her safety. She appreciated it. But it was only a temporary answer until there was time to go back and track down those responsible. Someone out there was a million pounds richer, and it did not sit well.
“What do we have on Luther’s number three?” Gabe asked.
Darcy looked through the briefing book. “Peter Dansky, their operations man. Other than the fact he likes explosives and probably was born in Belgium, we don’t have much. Russian intel may have more; they are forwarding what they have.” She stared at the grainy photo, frustrated. “Luther has an organization of exactly three people and his wife. And apparently they don’t travel together very often. They keep their distance from events they help foster. If we get lucky and spot them, we can take ’em down. If not we’ll just be spending our time investigating crimes they have already done.”
“Relax.” Gabe stretched out in his chair. “It’s not an accident we drew Luther’s name. I asked for the toughest assignment they had on the list. Luther’s good, but we’re better. We’ll get him. All we have to do is find one of them, and we’ll be able to roll up the rest.”
Darcy closed the briefing book and forced herself to relax, taking the moment while she had it. “Were you able to get a call through to Marla?”
Gabe smiled at the mention of his wife. “She’s going to fly to Brussels and meet us when we head back to NATO headquarters in a couple days. We’ll get a weekend away. Were you able to get ahold of your sister?”
Darcy held up a cassette tape. “Even better, a care package Amy sent caught up with me. Tapes of the hometown radio station, only a week old in its news and weather reports.” It was nice to hear a voice with a Western accent. Darcy had returned the favor last week with a new pair of night-vision binoculars, another large thermos, and a collection of gourmet coffees.
Amy didn’t have to deal directly with the open border with Canada, but major highway routes through the state came through her territory. They were still considered the front lines for finding unwanted items brought across the border. Darcy would join Amy as a deputy when she was next invited if only to give her a helping hand. This war had definitely moved to the home front.
“I want to go paint my fence.” She didn’t care if she had to shovel out snow to get to it.
“When this is over, I’ll slap some paint around for you.”
She unwrapped a sucker that had come in the care package. “Promise?”
“You think the Agency is going to want me around after I spend them into bankruptcy?”
Darcy smiled at him, knowing he was already on the short list to be the next deputy director of intelligence for the Agency. He might have pegged her as a rising star early on and helped along her career, but Gabriel had long ago become one of those stars. “We have hired just about every private eye we can find in Yemen and Turkey, not to mention a multitude in Europe,” she agreed.
“Eyes and ears walking around the streets are wonderful things. You want to locate a skunk, ask the neighbors.” Gabe pushed back his seat rest. “I’ll give this guy six months at the outside, then we’ll be drawing a line through his name.”
“It’s kind of nice being the spotters for a very big stick. The British and Australian Special Forces are as good as some of ours.” She glanced around to see who was near, then smiled. “Almost.” There wasn’t much difference in training or execution, but there was in motivation. America had been hit, and it showed in the focused intensity of the U.S. military to win this war.
Where was Sam now? He’d deployed less than ten days after the September 11 attacks, and she had heard only rumors. SEALs were on the front lines of this fight, not only on land, but also at sea. She’d helped sort through numerous documents, notebooks, scraps of paper, and other items recovered from missions deemed too classified to even name. She didn’t have to be told what they were doing; she could see the results. The number of names and faces on the terrorist most-wanted list was dropping fast. As long as her days were now, at least they were relatively safe. Sam’s were not.
Eight
* * *
JANUARY 15
Tuesday, 9:23 p.m.
Lebanon
A bug crawled under the back collar of Sam’s uniform as he lay stretched out on rocky ground in Lebanon. He had no choice but to ignore it. The audio mike had to be kept directly on target at this distance or the conversation streaming to tape would be interrupted. A hand rested on his collar and firmly pushed, squishing the creature. Sam rolled his eyes at his partner Wolf in thanks.
He’d had easier assignments during his years in the SEALs. Lebanon was not a friendly place to attract attention. They had spent the last six hours inserting to this position: moving from the sea to the beach, creeping into a town bombed by decades of war to watch two men meet on a strip of land near a destroyed school. The meeting broke up, and Sam followed the taller of the two men with the directional mike as he walked back to his car. Battihi was a smart man. The Egyptian explosives expert didn’t use phones. He conveyed instructions face-to-face. So they came to listen to him. The cars with the principals and their security details pulled out. Sam watched until they were out of sight. Next time, gentlemen . . .
Sam nodded to Wolf. They began the slow process of inching their way back into the rubble. Next time he came to Lebanon, Sam hoped it would be with orders to put a laser dot on Battihi’s car and guide a five-hundred-pound bomb down onto it. Walking away from a terrorist under indictment for six bombings and a train derailment in Europe was the pits even if it was necessary. They needed to know what was coming, and that meant listening in on Battihi a few more times before they moved in to take him. The Brits had taken down a cell in Algeria based on the last such taped conversation.
“I’m getting to know this guy better than my own brother,” Wolf whispered. “I hate that feeling.”
“You don’t have a brother,” Sam whispered back. “And what I find pretty annoying is how I can’t understand a word he’s saying. I hope we’ve got a decent translator waiting for this tape.”
“The other man sounded European.”
“Battihi actually sounded respectful. First time I’ve heard that,” Sam said. It was time to get out of here. They continued to creep back.
Sam followed Wolf through bombed-out buildings, their path parallel to the road as they made their way back to the sea. They reached the secure site they had set up and Wolf moved concrete debris to retrieve their hidden cache of gear. They had slipped off their wet suits and gone in wearing desert camouflage to allow them to
blend in with the concrete and dirt rubble, risking the time to strip off gear for the safety of being able to merge into the landscape. Sam secured the communication equipment for transport underwater. He pulled on his wet suit and picked up scuba gear and his air tanks. The beach was in sight.
Sam nodded to Wolf and they sprinted across the sand. They lost the cover of darkness for that short distance to the sand, and then they were back in the welcoming arms of the sea. They touched water, waded in, and dropped below the surface. Out there in the blackness was their pickup team of three SEALs and a submersed SDV, a motorized underwater SEAL Delivery Vehicle that would take them another two miles to the very big, black, and bad USS Dallas. The nuclear submarine had become this war’s black ops flagship for assaults that sprung from the sea.
The swim was not a safe one. A few floating mines still hid along this coastline. The silence beneath the water was complete. Sam swam hard, relieved to be near the end of a successful mission. The tape would be worth this. That fact allowed him to push aside the reality that he was cold, hurting, and looking at another three hours before he’d be dry and warm again.
What was Darcy doing right now? He thought about her every time he went underwater, wondering if she’d changed her mind and learned to swim. It wasn’t easy to get in touch with her. He’d managed to call the number she had given him and left a message on her machine twice over the last months, but he hadn’t been in a place where she could call him back. He couldn’t just call the CIA and ask for a supposedly dead person, and he wasn’t sure mail would reach her. He missed her . . . intensely. He felt like he was fighting this war for her, for he knew that opening attack against agents on September 9 had probably been part of this mess, and she’d been one of the first hit.
Wolf touched his arm. He pointed to the beacon of the waiting team members. Sam nodded and they changed directions to intercept.
JANUARY 15
True Honor Page 8
