by Tim Tigner
“Eventually I did figure it out, although it took me years. You see, despite his contrary outward appearance, Odi was an extraordinarily peaceful man.
“I see your skeptical faces. You’re wondering if grief has somehow affected my mind. The key to understanding Odi was this: He was aggressively peaceful. Wanton violence caused him such moral outrage that he felt compelled to fight back. He did not fight for glory or medals or even the adrenaline rush. He fought for peace. Like Mother Teresa who condemned herself to living among the wretched of Calcutta, Odi condemned himself to a violent life so that others could live in peace. And he was very good at what he did.
“I will miss my brother in ways that I can only begin to express. I know that you will too.”
She abandoned the lectern to stand beside the casket. Others closed in around her in a show of support. After a moment of silence, she placed a single red rose on the polished oak. “I love you brother.”
Cassi wanted to walk into the crowd and fall into Wiley’s arms, but such a public display was out of the question. Oddly enough, Odi’s death had pulled them apart more than it had drawn them together. Perhaps since Wiley was the ultimate man in charge of that fateful mission, she held him vaguely responsible for Odi’s death. Likewise he probably felt a little guilty.
Cassi heard a chorus of distant beeps as she backed away from Odi’s grave. She looked up to see a few of her HRT colleagues gathering around Jack to talk in familiar animation. Inappropriate though it might be, she felt a strong urge to throw herself back into work.
Cassi accepted a few “beautiful-eulogy”s and a dozen encouraging arm pats, hugs, and nods as she made her way toward the dispersing hostage-rescue team. “Jack, hold on. What’s up?”
Her boss stopped the beeline he was making toward his car and turned. “We’ve got an incident, Cassi. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“But I want to worry. I think the distraction would be the best thing for me.”
“Not today,” Jack said, compassion in his eyes. “You go home and get some rest. Really, that’s the best thing for you. Trust me.”
Cassi had half a mind to just hop in her Toyota and follow them wherever they went, but she had parked two hundred yards away by the chapel. She would never catch up. She was wearing a long dress and, on this rare occasion, heels.
So what was she going to do then? Cassi wondered. She had not thought past the funeral. Wiley had told her that he had to spend the day in the office. The last thing she wanted to do was watch the minimum-wage ditch diggers plant Odi’s casket in the ground. Nor was she in the mood for more “I’ll-miss-him”s and “I’m-sorry”s and condoling pats on the back. She could call Quantico to find out where the current crisis was, but that would probably be a waste of time. The crime scene was likely a helicopter-ride away. She decided to take Jack’s advice and go home.
Cassi arrived at her block twenty minutes later to find a police barricade and crowded sidewalks. She felt a lump growing in her throat as she pulled out her gold shield and asked the beat cop what was up.
“We got an anonymous tip that a man was trying to break into the art-restoration workshop over the daycare center. Dispatch sent two units, code two, but the perp saw them coming in time to take hostages. He’s got a bomb and a couple of kids.”
Chapter 13
Orumiyeh, Iran
ODI HEARD SCREAMS and moans and strange voices muttering all around him. He could not understand a word and he could not see a thing. Panic tried to seize him but he fought its grip. Was he in hell? He tried to think of the last thing he could remember. His mind was operating excruciatingly slowly, as though his synapses were sopped in molasses. He remembered the ground-shaking explosions ... and being hit in the shoulder ... and then he found Adam. He had a very clear recollection of the look in Adam’s eyes as he died in his arms ... and then ... nothing else. That was all he could remember.
Odi began to scream. He did not know why. There in the dark with those voices all around it was a primordial reflex. He screamed and gasped, gasped and screamed. Finally he felt a demon claw at his arm until the voices faded away.
~ ~ ~
Odi heard, “Wake up,” and felt something moving around his head and face. “Wake up. You have to leave the hospital right away.” Now someone was shaking his arm. Had it all been a dream? He wondered. Oh please, let Adam be alive.
Odi slowly opened his eyes. The light was painful, although once his eyes adjusted he saw that the room was relatively dim. Looking off to the side as he lay on his back, he saw an old rolling partition to the left of his bed, a white sheet strung in a chrome frame. It had grown gray and frayed with service and age. As he studied it a face moved in above his and Odi thought for a minute that he had been rescued by Tom Selleck—Tom Selleck holding a big wad of dirty gauze.
The face towering above him was kind and intelligent and aged about forty years—with curly dark hair, blue eyes, and a thick mustache. The only thing he needed to look like “Magnum P.I.” was a Tigers baseball cap. Although Odi did not have a mustache, he too was often compared to Selleck. They shared a tall athletic frame, lively eyes, and mischievous grin. For a freaky second Odi thought that maybe he was looking in the mirror. Maybe he had been asleep for years and Cassi had asked the nurse not to shave his mustache. She had always encouraged him to grow one. That ridiculous notion vanished as quickly as it appeared. The face above him was not that similar.
It dawned on Odi that the wad of dirty gauze Tom was holding had just come from around his face.
“I know you’ve got a lot of questions,” his new friend whispered in English, “but there’s no time for them now. I dyed the skin of your hands with iodine and have been keeping your white face hidden, but yesterday you began screaming in English. Word leaked quickly about an American’s presence. They will be coming soon. We have to get you out.” Tom withdrew a pair of sandals and a well-worn dishdasha from a cellophane bag. “Put these on. And hurry.”
As Odi exchanged his hospital gown for the traditional Arab robe, he whispered, “Are you American?”
“Californian, born and raised. Now hurry up.”
A lightning bolt shot through Odi’s left shoulder as he pushed his left arm through. He winced without crying out. He had forgotten about his wound. Judging by the acute pain, he would not be forgetting again anytime soon.
“Ah, I almost forgot.” Tom said, withdrawing a syringe from his doctor’s bag.
Odi endured a flash of panic before realizing the obvious. If Tom intended to give him a lethal injection, he would have done so already.
Tom injected a clear serum above the wound.
Odi felt a warm sensation and the throbbing began to fade away. “Thanks.”
Tom ignored the words of appreciation and ushered him toward the door near the right foot of Odi’s bed. Odi glanced over the partition before ducking through the doorway. He had been recuperating at the far end of a long hospital ward. There must have been two dozen other beds lined up in the same room with barely enough space for a thin nurse to squeeze through between them. All were occupied. Odi had obviously been enjoying what amounted to the corner suite.
In the stairwell, Tom handed him a keffiyeh and without question Odi draped it around his head, being careful to cover all his wavy brown hair. He did not know who they were running from, but given the circumstances he was willing to accept Tom’s judgment that he did not want to meet them.
They exited the hospital three stories down at ground level and walked quickly along a busy street that stank of stale urine. They turned left half way down the block into a dusty alley and then zigzagged through a series of short and narrow backstreets for about fifteen minutes. Odi could not tell if his savior had a specific destination in mind or if he was just trying to put a labyrinth of distance between them and the hospital. He decided not to ask.
After about fifteen minutes of dusty twists and turns, Tom became particularly watchful again. Odi observed him checking
over his shoulder frequently and even scanning the rooftops. A minute later they entered an apartment building. It was old but solid. Judging by the condition of the other buildings they had passed. Odi decided that this was probably one of the most desirable addresses around. In the US it would have been condemned.
Tom led him up a dim staircase littered with trash. Odi tried to ignore the olfactory assault from rotting garbage and harsh tobacco smoke. On the fifth floor they entered a hallway. A single bare bulb of not more than fifteen watts cast dim light on four hodgepodge doors. Tom stopped before one that had the number 53 stenciled on it with a ballpoint pen. He withdrew two long, double-sided keys from a deep pocket and turned each in sequence through several revolutions to unlock the door. They had not spoken since leaving the hospital and Tom did not break the silence now. He just gestured for Odi to step inside. Odi said a silent prayer and took a leap of faith.
Once Tom had shut and locked the heavy door from within, he put his hands on his knees and let out a long breath. “I’ve lived here for five years now, but this is the first time I have ever had to do anything like that. I hope it was the last.” He held out a sweaty hand. “Ayden Archer.”
Odi gave him as firm a pump as he could muster. He was winded from the walk, and really wanted to sit down. “Odi Carr. I suspect that I’m very glad to meet you. And I certainly don’t want to put you to any more trouble. If you have a phone, I’ll call—” Odi hesitated. He was not sure how much he should reveal.
“A friendly embassy? Your unit?”
Odi nodded without clarifying. Actually, he planned to call his sister first. He knew that Cassi would be worried sick.
“I have something to show you before you do that,” Ayden said. “But first, we should get some food and drink into you. Your brain needs food. Please, come into the kitchen.”
Odi realized that he was in fact ravenous. “Thank you. That would be great. You are very kind and I certainly appreciate your trouble.”
They moved down a short hall past what Odi assumed was the bath to a modest kitchen with a balcony. “It’s probably a good idea for you to stay inside,” Ayden said, canting his head toward the balcony door. “Although you must know more about hiding out than I. The only thing I know about cloak-and-dagger stuff comes from movies and books.” He let out a little nervous laugh.
Odi sat on a stool watching Ayden fill a teapot from a Brita filtering jug and then use a wooden match to ignite the stove’s gas burner with a shaking hand. Once Ayden was satisfied with the level of flame, he pulled a second stool for himself from beneath the breakfast table and took a seat across from Odi. His hands were still fidgeting with the yellow box of matches.
“Are we in danger here?” Odi asked.
Ayden brought his hands together and looked at Odi with twitchy eyes. “Yes.”
Chapter 14
PoliTalk Studio, Washington, D.C.
WILEY STUDIED THE image in the studio mirror as he perfected the knot of his silver tie. Appearances were not particularly important to him on a personal level, but professionally he knew never to underestimate the impact of the right look. He liked what he saw. The Hickey-Freeman suit fit him like a cashmere glove, accenting the breadth of his shoulders, while power radiated from his ice-blue eyes. He knew that those beamers would serve him well in the coming months as he sought to captivate, romance, and cajole. Today his favorite blue shirt augmented their flair while his tie amplified their twinkle.
“Two minutes, Director Proffitt.”
Wiley looked over his left shoulder and practiced his most charming gaze as “Thank you, Maxine” rolled off his tongue like warm butterscotch over a sundae. He immediately turned his head back to the mirror but watched her reaction from the corner of his eye. Bingo. It did not matter how old they were, Wiley J. Proffitt could always make the ladies blush.
~ ~ ~
“We’re back with our special Terror-Strikes edition of PoliTalk,” Jim Fitzpatrick’s Irish face greeted the television crowd. “Joining us now is PoliTalk regular Wiley Proffitt, Director of the FBI. Good morning Wiley.”
“Good morning, Jim.”
“Two weeks ago you were on our show discussing terrorism and you predicted that our number was almost up. As everyone in America now knows, one week later it was. Last Saturday, for the first time since 9/11, Americans were victims of multiple simultaneous terrorist attacks. The offices of the US Chamber of Commerce were bombed in Belgium. An American school—empty thank God—was bombed in France. And a hospital was bombed in Iran while an American delegation was present. Of the twelve Americans killed, eight were members of your Bureau, all victims of the hospital attack. Your prediction appears startlingly accurate, especially when viewed against the background of America’s intelligence failures. Do you care to comment?”
“To be honest, Jim, I’ve been doing everything in my power to prove myself wrong. I have one of the few jobs around that rewards you for doing exactly that.” Wiley looked down for a moment as if to compose himself. “The loss of those eight agents was, well, personal. The FBI is one big family, and now eight of our sons have been slaughtered. I knew several of them personally. Those fine young men were serving our country on a fact-finding mission, covertly inspecting areas we had identified as potential al-Qaeda bases. Obviously our assumption was correct. As you and your viewers know, that particular site was ostensibly a hospital. In truth it was an al-Qaeda training camp. Unfortunately, the terrorists somehow learned that my men were coming and they lay in wait.
“The FBI’s takeaway lesson is to anticipate similar future leaks.
“The lesson for the American people is harsher still.
“Considering the calculated nature of that attack, it should now be clear to every red-blooded American that our enemies are willing to murder dozens of their own compatriots and even destroy their own infrastructure if in so doing they can also terminate a few American lives. The conventional rules of engagement no longer apply. These terrorists are not trying to win, per se. They just want us to lose.”
Fitzpatrick began to comment but Wiley held up his hand. “I should add that I hope the members of the Congressional Budgeting Committee are paying attention to that particular fact. We are living in a new paradigm now. If we aim to continue the American way of life, Congress is going to have to release the purse strings. I know that the cost of protection may seem daunting at first, but I can assure you that defense is a bargain compared to the alternative. Prevention only costs an ounce.”
“Reading between the lines, I take it that you’re expecting more attacks?” Jim asked.
Wiley nodded somberly. “You take it right.”
“Anytime soon?”
“Every-time soon, Jim. We need to remain constantly vigilant and keep striving to become ever better prepared. Tragic though they were, last week’s attacks were a far cry from 9/11. By my reckoning, that trifecta was just a practice swing.”
Fitzpatrick seemed taken aback. “Let me make sure that I’m getting this right,” he said. “In your professional opinion al-Qaeda is just warming up?”
“I am afraid so.”
Fitzpatrick let the air go silent for a moment to emphasize the gravity of that revelation. “I suspect that if you get it right again the Press will start spelling your last name P-r-o-p-h-e-t.”
Wiley struggled to keep his face as stern as a battleship prow while Fitzpatrick’s comment sent a surge of elation flooding through his veins. Tomorrow, Proffitt or Prophet? would garner many a headline. He said, “Let’s hope I’ve got it wrong.”
Fitzpatrick nodded and looked down at his notes. “Now that you’ve warmed up, let me hit you with one from left field. There is a rumor circulating around the Beltway that Dish may not be on the reelection ticket. Another correlative rumor says that President Carver is considering you for the Vice Presidential slot. Care to comment?”
“Jim, you’re the Washington expert, so let me ask you this. Would you be a wealthier man if you h
ad a nickel for every cup of coffee drunk within the Beltway, or a penny for each of Washington’s whispered rumors?”
Fitzpatrick smiled, treating the home audience to a thick helping of his Irish charm. “You’ve got me there, but tell me this: would the job of Vice President appeal to you?”
Wiley turned toward the active camera. “I’ve already got my dream job. I’m honored, thrilled, and blissfully happy to be defending America from the helm of the FBI.” He stopped there, even though he had more to say. He had hinted during the booking interview that Fitzpatrick should probe deeply on this issue.
Fitzpatrick’s eyes twinkled. “I’m happy for you Director, but please, tell me this: Would you accept the Vice Presidency if President Carver were to offer it?”
“It’s not Carver’s to offer. Only the citizens of America can do that.”
“With Carver’s sixty-six percent approval rating, most experts would assert that there’s no difference.”
“No one likes dealing with hypotheticals, Jim.”
Fitzpatrick grunted knowingly.
“—But then no one likes slippery answers either,” Wiley continued. “So let me say this. I will answer any call to service that the people of this great nation care to place.”
~ ~ ~
Wiley found Stuart waiting for him back in the PoliTalk dressing room. Usually the sight of his campaign manager bristled the hairs on the back of Wiley’s neck. But not today. Today Stuart actually seemed pleased.
“He called you a prophet. That’s gold in itself, Wiley, political gold. But then he went on to link you with the Vice-Presidency. Congratulations. I feel like I should write him a check.”
Riding the adrenaline high and hearing Stuart’s words, Wiley felt a tide of courage swell within his breast. He made the split-second decision to ride it. “Thank you. Actually, I’ve got a little announcement of my own.”
