She‘d been near death before, she‘d had colleagues or targets die in the field, that was part of wet work. She‘d been prepared for it, as much as any human being could be prepared for the death of someone known to you. But the field was far away, across one ocean or another; the field was at a certain remove from civilization, from her personal life, from home.
Ronnie‘s death was something altogether different. It was caused by a series of events and her reaction to those events. All at once a tide of ifs engulfed her. If she hadn‘t started her own firm, if Jason weren‘t — dead, if she hadn‘t gone to Ronnie, if Bamber weren‘t working for Noah, if, if, if…
But they‘d all happened, and like a daisy chain she could look back and see how all these events interlocked, how one led inexorably to another, and how the end result was always the same: the death of Ronnie Hart. She thought then of the Balinese healer Suparwita, who had looked into her eyes with an expression she hadn‘t been able to decipher until now. It had been the sure knowledge of loss, as if even then, back in Bali, he‘d known what was in store for her.
The insistent buzzing of Simon Herren‘s voice drew her away from the blackness of her own thoughts. Her eyes refocused.
— What? What did you say?
— Mr. Bamber is being released into my custody.
Herren stood between her bed and Bamber‘s, as if daring her to defy him. Bamber was already dressed and ready to go, but he seemed frightened, indecisive, shell-shocked.
— The doctor tells me you need to stay here for more tests.
— The hell I will. She sat up, swung her legs over the side, and stood up.
— I think you‘d best lie down, he said in that vaguely mocking tone of his. -Doctor‘s orders.
— Fuck you. She started putting on her clothes, not caring if he saw flashes of her body or not. -Fuck you and the broom you flew in on.
He could not keep the contempt off his face. -Not a very professional response, is-
In the next instant he doubled over as she buried her fist in his solar plexus. Her knee came up to meet his descending chin, and as he crumpled, she dragged him up, splaying him out on the bed. Then she turned to Bamber and said, — You have only one shot at this. Come with me now or Noah will own you forever.
Still Bamber didn‘t move. He was staring at Simon Herren as if in a daze, but when she extended her hand, he took it. He needed someone to guide him now, someone who might tell him the truth. Stevenson was gone, Veronica Hart had been blown apart in front of him, and now there was only Moira, the person who had dragged him out of the doomed Buick, the woman who had saved his life.
Moira led him out of the emergency room as swiftly and efficiently as possible. Fortunately, the ER was a madhouse, EMTs and cops trotting this way and that alongside their patients, giving reports on the fly to the residents, who in turn barked orders to the nurses. Everyone was overworked and overstressed; no one stopped them or even noticed their departure.
A contingent of Amun‘s men met them on the dock, where he held the young drug trafficker by the scruff of his neck. The poor kid was scared shitless. He wasn‘t one of the tough Egyptian youths who knew very well what they were getting into. He looked like what he was: an indigent tourist who‘d been hoping to score some quick money to continue his world odyssey. It was probably why he‘d been chosen by the drug runners in the first place. He looked innocent.
Chalthoum could have let him go with a warning, but he was in no mood to be magnanimous. He‘d cuffed his hands behind his back, then leapt back when the young boy had heaved up his last meal.
— Amun, have some pity, Soraya said now.
— Drug trafficking cannot be dismissed.
This was the Amun she knew, rock-hard and gimlet-eyed. An involuntary shiver ran through her. -He‘s nothing, you said so yourself. If you put him away, they‘ll just find another fool to take his place.
— Then we‘ll find him, too, Chalthoum said. -Lock him up, and throw away the key.
At this, the young man began to wail. -Please help me. I never signed on for this.
Chalthoum looked at him so darkly that the young man recoiled. -You should have thought of that before you took the criminals‘ money. He slung him roughly into the arms of his men. -You know what to do with him, he said.
— Wait, wait! The young man tried to dig in his heels as Chalthoum‘s men turned to take him away. -What if I have information? Would you help me then?
— What information could you have? Chalthoum said dismissively. -I know how these drug networks are structured. Your only contact was with the people on the rung right above you, and since you‘re on the lowest rung… He shrugged and signed to his men to take the prisoner away.
— I don‘t mean those people. The young man‘s voice had risen in fear.
— There‘s something I overheard. Other divers talking.
— What divers? Talking about what?
— They‘re gone now, the young man said. -They were here ten days ago, maybe a little more.
Chalthoum shook his head. -Too long ago. Whoever they were, whatever they said is of no interest to me.
Soraya stepped toward the young man. -What‘s your name?
— Stephen.
She nodded. -My name is Soraya, Stephen. Tell me, were these divers Iranian?
— Look at him, Chalthoum interrupted. -He wouldn‘t know an Iranian from an Indian.
— The divers weren‘t Arab, Stephen said.
Chalthoum snorted. -You see what I mean? Sonny, Iranians are Persians, descended from the Scythian-Sarmatian nomads of Central Asia. They‘re Shi‘a Muslims, not Arabs.
— What I mean… Stephen swallowed hard. -What I meant to say was that they were white like me. Caucasians.
— Could you tell what nationality they were? Soraya asked.
— They were Americans, Stephen said.
— So what? Chalthoum was losing patience.
Soraya ventured closer still. -Stephen, what did you overhear? What were these divers talking about?
With a fearful glance at Chalthoum, Stephen said, — There were four of them. They were coming off a vacation, that was clear. Only they called it leave.
Soraya made eye contact with Chalthoum. -Military men.
— So he says, he rumbled. -Continue.
— They‘d just come up from the second dive of the day and they were kind of giddy. I was helping them off with their tanks, but they acted as if I wasn‘t there. Anyway, they were grumbling about having their leave cut short. There was some kind of emergency-an assignment for them that came out of the air-that was what they said. It appeared out of thin air.
— This is nonsense, Chalthoum said. -It‘s clear he‘s making this up to spare himself life imprisonment.
— Oh, God. At the pronouncement of his mortal sentence, Stephen‘s knees gave way and Chalthoum‘s men were obliged to hold him tightly in order to keep him on his feet.
— Stephen. Soraya reached out, turned the young man‘s face toward her. He was as pale as death, and she could see the whites all around his eyes. -Tell us the rest of what you overheard. Did the divers say what their assignment was?
He shook his head. -I got the impression they didn‘t yet know.
— Enough! Chalthoum cried. -Dispose of this rancid piece of meat!
Stephen was openly weeping now. -But they knew their destination.
Soraya held up her hand for Chalthoum‘s men to stop dragging him away.
— Where was it, Stephen? Where were the men headed?
— They were flying to Khartoum, the young man said through his tears, — ‗wherever that godforsaken place is.‘
19
THE PRESIDENT was met by Secretary of Defense Halliday as he was exiting the United Nations. Having sent the General Assembly into a frenzy by presenting the evidence against Iran in the bombing of the American airliner and the loss of 181 lives, the president had stopped for an impromptu press conference with the media, clustered arou
nd him like hens at feeding time. He obligingly gave them half a dozen choice sound bites to air or to carry back to their editors before his press secretary whispered in his ear that Secretary Halliday was waiting with urgent news.
The president was on a high. It had been a long time since an American president could address that august body of the United Nations armed with evidence so damning it had shocked the representatives from Russia and China into silence. The world was changing, tilting against Iran in a way never before seen. The president, whose presence here was in no small part due to Bud Halliday, thought it fitting that the first person he speak with regarding his unqualified success was the defense secretary.
— Break out the champagne! the president called as he signaled to Halliday, and the two men entered the long bullet-and bombproof limousine.
The vehicle took off the moment the pair were seated. Across from them was the press secretary, his cheeks as flushed with victory as the president‘s, a bottle of chilled American sparkling wine in his hand.
— Sir, if you don‘t mind, let‘s hold the celebration, Bud Halliday said.
— Mind? the president said. -Of course I mind! Solly, open the damn champagne!
— Sir, Halliday said, — there‘s been an incident.
The president froze in mid-gesture, then slowly turned to his defense secretary. -What kind of an incident, Bud?
— Veronica Hart, the director of Central Intelligence, is dead.
At once the color drained from the president‘s flushed cheeks. -Good Christ, what happened, Bud?
— A car bomb-we think. There‘s an ongoing investigation, but that‘s the most recent theory.
— But who-?
— Homeland Security, ATF, and the FBI are all coordinating their efforts under the NSA umbrella.
— Good. The president, all business now, nodded curtly. -The sooner we clear up this car bomb mess, the better.
— As usual, we‘re on the same page, sir. Halliday glanced Solly‘s way.
— Speaking of which, we‘re going to need a comprehensive press release, and spin control. After the plane incident, the last thing we need is speculation about terrorists and another bombing.
— Solly, get our talking heads on it right away, the president said,
— then get into overdrive on an official release. Coordinate it with Secretary Halliday‘s office, would you?
— Right away, sir. Solly slipped the sweating bottle back into its bucket of ice and started calling contacts on his cell phone.
Halliday waited until the press secretary was engaged in his first conversation. -Sir, we‘ve got to think about a replacement for DCI Hart. And before the president could jump in, he continued: — It seems fair to say that the experiment with hiring from the private sector has run its course. In any event, we need to move quickly to fill the gap.
— Get me a list of the qualified senior people at CI.
— I will certainly do that. Halliday texted a message to his office as they spoke. He looked up. -The list will be on your desk inside an hour. But his face was still deeply troubled.
— What is it, Bud?
— It‘s nothing, sir.
— Oh, come on, Bud. We‘ve known each other a long time, haven‘t we?
There‘s something on your mind, now‘s not the time to hold back.
— Okay. Halliday exhaled deeply. -This is the perfect time to merge all the intelligence organizations into one organic whole that shares raw intel, makes coordinated decisions, and cuts through the bloated red tape that frustrates all of us.
— I‘ve heard all this before, Bud.
With some effort Halliday stitched a grin on his face. -No one knows that better than I do, sir, and I understand. In the past you agreed with the DCI, whoever it was.
The president worried his lower lip. -There‘s history to be observed, Bud. CI is the oldest, most venerable institution in the constellation of the intelligence communities. In many ways it‘s the crown jewel. I can understand why you‘d want to get your hands on it.
Rather than waste time in denial of the truth, Halliday decided to take another tack altogether. -The current crisis is another case in point. We‘re having difficulty coordinating with CI-especially Typhon, which might very well have the intel we need to ensure that our retaliation against Iran doesn‘t hit a snag.
The president stared out the smoked window at the monumental public buildings at the district‘s heart. -You‘ve received the money for-you know-
for the-what have you named the operation?
The secretary of defense gave up trying to follow the train of the president‘s thoughts. -Pinprick, sir.
— Who thinks of these names?
Halliday sensed his boss didn‘t want an answer.
The president turned back to him. -Who d‘you have in mind?
With his choice in the forefront of his mind, Halliday was ready for that one. -Danziger, sir.
— Really? I thought you were going to propose your intelligence czar.
— Jaime Hernandez is a career office man. We need someone with a more-
robust-background.
— Quite right, the president agreed. -Who the hell is this Danziger?
— M. Errol Danziger. The NSA‘s current deputy director of signals intelligence for analysis and production.
The president returned to his contemplation of the passing streetscape.
— Have I met him?
— Yes, sir. Twice, the last time when you were at the Pentagon just last-
— Remind me, please.
— He brought in the printouts Hernandez distributed.
— I don‘t recall the man.
— Hardly surprising, sir. There‘s nothing remarkable about him. Halliday chuckled. -That‘s what made him so valuable during his stint in the field. He worked Southeast Asia before moving into the Operations Directorate.
— Wet work?
Halliday was startled by the question. Nevertheless, he saw no point in lying. -Indeed, sir.
— And returned home to tell the tale.
— Yes, sir.
The president made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat. -Bring him to the Oval Office at- He snapped his fingers for the press secretary‘s attention. -Solly? Opening, today.
Solly put his call on hold, scrolled through a second PDA. -Five twentyfive, sir. But you only have ten minutes before the formal press conference. We need to make the six o‘clock news.
— Of course we do. The president lifted a hand, smiling. -Five twentyfive, Bud. Ten minutes is more than enough time for a yea or nay.
Then, abruptly, he turned to other matters, a crisis agenda packed with daunting security issues, at the end of which was not a hot bath and a good meal, but a phone conference with his director of protocol, deciding on who to invite to the state funeral for DCI Hart.
Seconds after Bourne took the phone, Hererra‘s young man had stolen into the room. Now he pressed the muzzle of a Beretta Px4 9mm pistol to Tracy‘s left temple. She was wide-eyed, sitting painfully erect at the edge of the sofa.
— My dear fellow, Don Fernando Hererra said as he took the cell from Bourne, — I may not know who you are, but I know this much: My threatening you will avail me nothing. His smile was sweet, almost soft. -Whereas if I tell you that I will have Fausto blow her brains out-pardon the crudeness of my words, Seńorita Atherton-unless you tell me who you are, I feel certain that you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.
— I admit that I‘ve underestimated you, Don Hererra, Bourne said.
— Adam, please tell him the truth. Tracy was clearly terrified for her life.
— I know that you‘re a confidence man, just as I know you‘ve come to swindle me out of my Goya, which, by the way, Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuiga-
the real Don Alonzo-has confirmed to me is authentic. He pointed. -He has also confirmed that Seńorita Atherton is genuine. How you seduced her into going along with your scheme is between the t
wo of you. But his expression conveyed his dismay and disappointment at Tracy‘s fall from grace. -My concern is who you are and which of my enemies hired you to con me.
Tracy shivered. -Adam, for God‘s sake-
Hererra cocked his head. -Come, come, Seńor Con Man, you have forfeited your right to scare the young lady.
It was time for him to act, Bourne knew that. He also knew that the situation was on a razor‘s edge. Hererra was the wild card. On the surface it seemed unlikely that such a polished gentleman of Seville would actually direct the young man to pull the trigger. However, Hererra‘s black-hands work in the oil fields of Colombia belied his current gentlemanly identity. At heart, he might still be that rough-and-tumble man who fought, finessed, and bullied his way to a fortune in the oil industry. A man didn‘t successfully do business with the Tropical Oil Company without a heart as hard as mahogany, and without spilling some blood. In any event, it was not for Bourne to gamble with Tracy‘s life.
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