by Dana Haynes
Daria hesitated.
Belhadj lifted the door just higher than his own head. He wiped soot off his palms and stepped out of the warehouse.
Daria followed.
They stood in an alley. The building across the way was redbrick and equally aged. The alley beneath her bare feet was well-worn cobblestone. A lazy, light snow drifted down from a gunmetal gray sky.
Belhadj turned and pointed to his left. “So why, knowing all that, does a man like Sahar come here?”
Daria followed the line of the Syrian’s left arm, past his fist and his one pointing finger.
She stood barefoot on the freezing cobblestones, her breath misting around her head, eyes snapping wide.
“Holy hell…”
Belhadj pointed at the Eiffel Tower.
Eleven
Langley, Virginia
“Everyone?”
Stanley Cohen hardly raised his voice but the fifty-plus people in the subterranean operations room at CIA headquarters quieted down and turned in his direction. There was no available seating so John Broom leaned against the far wall, coffee cup in hand. Nanette Sylvestri stood by his side. She wore a braided cloth friendship bracelet her granddaughter had made for her. John knew it was her good-luck totem during operations.
Nanette wasn’t just the person in charge of the Shark Tank; yesterday, she had been promoted to run Pegasus, taking Owen Cain Thorson’s spot. John was pleased. She was the perfect person to call the plays for so large an operation.
“Folks? Thank you.” Cohen coughed into his fist. He looked pasty and drawn, but then again, he always did. “We had a pretty good setback in New York on Wednesday. The good news: we know the target of these players and we know they have aerial photos of Camp David, something that we believed didn’t exist. The bad news: it’s forty-eight hours later and we have no idea where they are. Up to now we have confined our search to the eastern seaboard but we’re expanding the net to cover the rest of the U.S., Canada, and Mexico. Nanette?”
She moved away from John and stepped to the front of the room. “While yesterday’s search turned up nothing, it did give our own John Broom time to dream up a new scenario. I’ve often said there is nothing more frightening than John Broom with time to kill.”
A wave of good-natured heckling rippled through the room.
“We have two competing theories right now, which I’m going to call Pegasus A and Pegasus B. We all know Pegasus A backward and forward but I think it’s helpful to go back to square one from time to time. I’ve asked Agent Thorson to lay it out for us. Owen?”
It was a touch of class, her asking the former operation leader to make the presentation.
Thorson took two steps down the auditorium-style room to stand by Nanette’s side. He nodded to a techie who sat at the controls of the audiovisual table. Images of Daria Gibron and Khalid Belhadj appeared on two of the eight flat-screen TVs in the Shark Tank.
“The president is attempting to broker a deal between Democrats and Republicans on the Hill to sell the next generation of attack drones to Israel, as soon as they come off the assembly line and get beta-tested. We believe this man”—Thorson nodded to the screen—“Major Khalid Belhadj, came to the United States to kill the president. Since he couldn’t easily sneak weapons into the U.S., he planned to meet this woman, Daria Gibron, who would supply him with a sniper rifle with silencer and scope.”
Thorson nodded to the techie and a third TV screen sprang to life, showing a side view of an olive-colored sniper rifle with a bipod stand, which ended with something that looked like mini snow skis.
“According to the documents we recovered from a satchel in New York, the gun she was selling him was a PSG-90. Swedish, similar to the Brits’ L96 series. She also was selling him a case of sabot rounds.”
That caught John’s attention. Sabot bullets can penetrate most armored shielding, including that used by some portions of the presidential motorcade.
“Four-point-eight-one mike-mike, tungsten carbide bullets. There’s a degradation of accuracy for most shooters but the slugs exit the barrel at better than forty-four-hundred feet per second. For a shooter of Belhadj’s skill, the slight reduction in accuracy is more than made up for by the fact that he can put bullets on target twice as fast as he could with most NATO rounds.”
He pointed to Belhadj’s photo again. “We originally thought the assassination was scheduled for Wednesday at Emory University in Atlanta. It’s snowing in Georgia, and the PSG-90 is ideal for arctic conditions. But the discovery of the Camp David aerials has changed all that.”
He nodded again and a fourth image appeared. It was an eagle-eye view of Washington, D.C., ranging from the White House to the Hill. “The presidential security detail is avoiding Camp David, obviously. And if they have photos of Camp David, they could have Andrews Air Force Base, too. So the president is staying in the White House, completely secure, until we find Belhadj and Gibron. Now, he is scheduled to attend the Group of Eight summit in Avignon but we are negotiating with the president’s chief of staff to cancel the visit. I can tell you now, the White House does not want to cancel.
“All domestic intelligence agencies have been alerted, as have all law enforcement agencies. We cannot assume the bad guys have just given up and gone home. They are, as of now, the most hunted humans on Earth.”
Done, he nodded to Nanette Sylvestri.
“Right.” She crossed her arms. “I’ve asked John Broom to offer up Pegasus-B. John?”
John joined them down front. He slid between the techie and the master controls for the flat-screens. “Can I … do you mind?” He fiddled with the controls for a second, and a map of the eastern United States appeared on one of the monitors.
“Okay. Here’s the competing theory: I can’t tell you where Belhadj and Gibron are, but I can tell you where they aren’t. They aren’t in D.C., and they aren’t in Atlanta, and they aren’t near Camp David. This whole thing has nothing to do with the president, who was never in any danger from either of them.”
Thorson said, “The satchel—”
“The satchel was conveniently dropped right where your field agents could find it. It’s a ruse. The real action was here.”
John played with a computer mouse. The map slid sideways, westward.
“Colorado. And the levee break of the Genevieve River, which resulted in the deaths of at least nineteen people and the destruction of forty-four homes and businesses. Among the dead and missing, as of Thursday evening, were three Secret Service agents on a transport mission. They’re the real story. Everything else is sleight of hand.”
Thorson rolled his eyes. “So now you think Belhadj and Gibron blew up a river in Colorado? When we have them sighted in New York City at the same time?”
“No. Daria Gibron and Major Belhadj had nothing to do with this. I don’t know why they were meeting in New York, but they were a distraction. For us. The real investigation, the real threat, is out there in Colorado.”
Nanette said simply, “Explain, please.”
“High-ranking Israeli sources informed us that the president is the target of a foreign assassin. Protocol says the president’s security detail gets tripled-up.”
He turned to Owen Thorson. “Whatever the Secret Service was transporting through Colorado, the minute we got the heads-up from Tel Aviv, the Secret Service convoy went from six agents to three. And within an hour of that, a levee breaks, a motel is washed away, and all three agents are missing.”
“They’ll be found. I still don’t know what—”
“One of them has been found. It was in the overnights,” John said. Thorson flushed; he hadn’t had the time to study the nightly download of intelligence and journalism reviews. “The agent’s name is Boyd Renfro. His body washed into a ravine about a mile and a quarter from the motel where the convoy had stopped.”
Thorson shrugged. “It was a huge flood. I’m sure the other two who drowned will show up eventually. I don’t—”
&
nbsp; “Agent Renfro didn’t drown. He died of a gunshot wound to the head.”
That caught the attention of everyone in the room. Stanley Cohen, who leaned on the wall in the back, his lower spine killing him this morning, had been studying the whorls in the conference-room carpet. His sad, hound dog eyes rose now, his attention fully on the briefing.
“With one dead agent, we now are looking at two missing, as well as the package. But I’m betting we only find one more dead agent. The third guy killed his fellow agents and stole the package. That Marx Brothers routine in Manhattan? The threat to the president? That was all to run interference for this.”
Not a particularly tall man, John hopped a few inches off the ground and stabbed the TV screen with one finger, hitting Colorado.
Nanette Sylvestri asked the obvious question. “What were they transporting? This package?”
“I don’t know yet. I put in a request. The Secret Service is stonewalling me.”
The room was quiet for a moment. Nanette Sylvestri nodded firmly, coming to a decision. She turned and looked him straight in the eye. “It’s a hell of a theory, John, and it’s solid analysis. But, honestly? We have an assassin and a potential sleeper agent, a spectacular heist of sensitive CIA property and intel, and photos of the presidential compound, the holiest of holies. This thing in Colorado is intriguing, and worth pursuing. But in my opinion, we stick to Pegasus A. Director Cohen?”
Stanley Cohen pushed himself away from the wall, feeling his spine protest. “I concur.”
John turned to him. “Permission to—”
“Yes,” Cohen said. “John, you look into Pegasus B. Everyone else: we stay on Belhadj and Gibron.”
Paris
Belhadj rolled down the garage-style door but did not relock it. He brushed his palms on the front of his canvas trousers. “Why would Sahar come to Paris?”
Daria shrugged, the midnight blue sweater rising. “What did his people steal in America?”
“I don’t know.” He walked to a cheaply made steamer trunk, opened it and pulled out Daria’s clunky, chain-studded boots and latex miniskirt. He dug the handcuff keys out of his pocket and tossed them underhand. Daria caught them and undid both cuffs. “You expect me to put on those stupid clothes?”
Belhadj looked surprised. “These are your clothes.”
“Idiot. I bought them as a disguise. You don’t think I dress like that all the time?”
Belhadj let a little exasperation show in his face. “Wear them or not. I could not care less.”
Daria accepted the little skirt, stepped into it and wiggled it up her legs. It was so short that only two inches remained visible beneath the RAF sweater. There was no sign of her duster coat in the trunk. She closed the lid, sat, and accepted the punk boots from him.
“We need to find another place to stay and we need to find Sahar.”
Daria concentrated on the boots. “If Asher is operating in France, there’s a man who might know how to find him.”
“Who?”
“Why can’t we stay here? I assumed this was a Syrian safe house.” It would explain why Belhadj had keys for the place. The lack of first-floor windows also made the building ideal as a safe house.
“You ask too many questions.”
Daria stood. She thought the massive boots made her look like a Japanese anime character. “Do you have another place for us to go?”
“I’m working on it. Who is this man who might be able to find Sahar?”
Daria batted her black eyelashes at him. “I wouldn’t be of much use to you if I just told you. I’ll take you to him.”
Belhadj pondered that. Daria tucked the handcuffs into her sweater sleeve.
“I also can find us a place to stay.”
“How?”
Daria brushed her spread fingers through her damp hair. “I was stationed in Paris for nearly a year. I know the city well. Plus, while I was here, I was seeing an archeologist. He’s probably at a dig in South Africa, this time of year. Give me my mobile.”
“It’s in the trunk.”
Daria bent at the waist, opened the trunk, and rooted around. She found her smartphone. She also found the small, spade-shaped blade that turned on a single hinge inside a leather sandwich. She picked up the phone and the blade in one hand, the blade tucked behind the phone.
When she stood, Belhadj had moved closer to her. He drew his Springfield and gently placed the barrel against her forehead. He didn’t press it in, just held it there so she could feel the cold metal two inches above her eyes.
“Speakerphone.”
“There’s no need for—”
The warehouse echoed with the clattering of empty tin cans. It was a good distance off; not in the cavernous room where they stood. She recognized the sound for what it was: a warning. Belhadj had been expecting trouble and had set up some noisy trap.
Daria saw it in the Syrian’s eyes—they no longer were safe in his safe house.
As Belhadj’s eyes slid toward the noise, Daria tucked the little folding knife into her skirt waistband. She doubted the tin can warning could be Ray Calabrese coming to rescue her. But if it was, Daria would need a way to even the odds. The folding knife just might do it.
“Come. Now.”
Belhadj grabbed an olive sapper jacket and his oilskin messenger bag off one of the folding chairs. He shrugged into the jacket en route to the garage door. He used both hands to open it, rust pellets again raining down on his head.
The cobblestone alley no longer was empty.
Two men in dark clothes and long coats awaited them. They stood with their combat boots shoulder-width apart, their hands clasped before them. Daria noted the telltale ridges of shoulder holsters under their coats.
The men appeared to be Middle Eastern.
One man wore a navy watch cap pulled low over his ears. “Major. Back inside, please.” He made no effort to keep the threatening tone out of his voice.
The second man wore black plastic-framed glasses. His eyes raked Daria from head to toe. “Who is this?”
Belhadj said, “She is our best hope for finding Asher Sahar. You know this. Get out of my way.” His voice took on the flinty edge of every military officer Daria had ever served with.
“Damascus says this is no longer your concern, Major.”
Daria’s brain began running the numbers for the calculus of crisis: Belhadj wanted to find Asher. These men did not want to find Asher. Daria didn’t know if Asher was behind any of this or if she was being lied to. But if he was, then she wanted to—needed to—find Asher.
She glanced down the long, snow-flecked alley. No car or van awaited them. This wasn’t a transport operation. Major, back inside, please.
She heard the squeak of a floorboard over her head. One of the two men in the alley smiled and shook his head. The other reached for his gun.
Daria rotated her arm behind her hip and let the handcuffs slide out of her right sleeve. She caught one cuff, the other undone and hanging free. The effect was to extend her reach by eight inches and to give her, for want of a better term, a jagged-toothed, prosthetic hook.
“Please!” She stepped toward the men and wailed in Arabic. “This man is mad! Help me! He—” She turned as if to point at Belhadj. The handcuff arced through the cold air and sliced into the cheekbone of the man in the eyeglasses. His glasses flew. Blood arced. He snapped to his right and stumbled into his partner.
Belhadj stepped forward, right arm a blur, and the heel of his hand smashed up and into the nose of the man in the watch cap. Blood shot upward from his shattered nose as he fell straight back. His spine snapped like fresh asparagus when he hit the alley cobbles.
Daria was on the first man, driving a knee into his balls and a forearm into his ear. He fell like a stone. Daria went down with him, adding her weight to his own. She aimed to incapacitate, not kill.
Daria flipped open the coat of the man she’d decked and reached in to thumb off the safety strap of his holster.
>
Belhadj grabbed her by the sweater collar and lifted her easily to her feet before she could reach the downed man’s handgun.
“Go!”
He hustled her down the alley toward the street.
Langley
The assistant director for antiterrorism called a meeting of the team leaders for the Pegasus Group at 12:30 P.M. Friday. That included, naturally, Nanette Sylvestri and Owen Cain Thorson. John Broom had not been invited.
* * *
John sat a couple miles away, at an Internet café that featured Turkish coffee and baklava. He had bypassed protocol to go directly to a longtime friend at the Secret Service, Constance de Castro. This sort of back-channel communication wasn’t usually conducted on one’s office phone.
“John, I’d love to help you,” de Castro said, flashing that high-octane smile of hers over the Skype connection, “but D.C. police are about to tow our command vehicle!”
John was fairly sure this would be the source of yucks in the intelligence community for weeks to come. He waited for her to stop laughing and wipe tears from her cheeks. “I wish this was a lighthearted call. It isn’t. It’s about the Colorado thing.”
De Castro’s grin froze then faded. “John? Are you telling me the CIA had—”
“Not to the best of my knowledge.” John tried never to overpromise. “It’s just, you losing three agents in Colorado to a levee break coincides too nicely with that cluster we had in Manhattan. I think they’re connected.”
“How?”
John outlined the theory that now, inside the halls of Langley, was being called Pegasus-B.
Constance de Castro didn’t sneer at it. “The news that POTUS was the target did chop the transport mission in half. You’re not wrong there. And the timing sucks.”
“What do you know about the transport?”
He waited. De Castro paused. He could tell she was calculating. John Broom worked hard to maintain his reputation as a guy who offered intelligence, pro bono, and who wasn’t quick to collect on favors owed. He was counting on all of that working in his favor.
