by Gregg Loomis
Jason sighed. His fight had been from the first very, very personal. He had taken satisfaction from the expressions on the faces of men who knew they would be dead within the next second. Satisfaction and a small degree of revenge, a minute reprisal for his loss. Tonight there would be only impersonal killing, from which he would derive little vindication.
Well, with one exception.
Commandolike, Jason crept forward on his knees and elbows, the plastic device between his teeth and the shotgun held in both hands. When he was close enough to see the sentry against the sky, he stood.
“Welcome to North Caicos,” Jason said softly.
He waited just the split second it took for the man to spin around and begin to raise his weapon, that nanosecond of hope he might survive.
The shotgun’s muzzle flash burned into Jason’s retinas the image of the impact of six ounces of lead shot in the midriff, a blow that sent the man stumbling backward, hands flung outward if in one final, desperate supplication to his maker.
Before he could see clearly, Jason pushed one of the buttons on the remote. Instantly every light fixture or lamp in the building came on. Jason was standing just outside the rim of light that turned the surrounding sand a glossy silver.
Startled by the blast of the shotgun and the sudden brilliant illumination, two of the intruders ran out onto the deck, their weapons pointed in different directions. Even at this distance, Jason thought he could see shock and surprise on their faces. One had his mouth open, a black O in the bright lights.
“Come ‘n’ get it!” Jason shouted. “I’ve got a hell of a welcome waiting for you!”
Two more men joined the first pair in searching the darkness. Jason waited until one pointed at him before he dove headfirst into the sand at the instant he pressed another button.
Even with his face buried under his arms and eyes closed, the brilliance of the explosion lit the back of Jason’s eyelids. He felt rather than heard the blast. By the time he raised his head, small pieces of debris and ash were floating down like a sprinkling of snow. Where the house had stood, timbers burned, sending sparks aloft in a Fourth of July fireworks show. There was no chance any living thing, including a recent infestation of mice, had survived.
Beside him, Pangloss whimpered.
He stood, running a hand up and down the dog’s back. “Pangloss, looks to me like we’re moving.”
Chapter Seven
The next afternoon
Reagan National Airport
Washington, D.C.
Dirty rags of clouds squeezed oily moisture into rivulets that streaked the window of the 717. Jason gave his seat belt another hitch as the plane bucked in turbulence before thumping onto the runway. Winter-dried grass, shiny black pavement, and drab buildings emerged from the cloying fingers of fog.
Had he really begun the day with the glory of a Caribbean sunrise in his face, albeit diminished by the stench of the charred wood of his former home? Was it the same day he had dutifully reported to the island’s sole constable, Stubbs, about checking a leak in the lines from his butane tank, the undoubted cause of the explosion? Had it been only this morning when he had counted out money under the gaze of the head teller at Barclays Bank, stuffed his sizable withdrawal into a money belt, and headed for the airport?
Pangloss, living up to his namesake, had eagerly sniffed the oversize dog carrier and even wagged his tail as he was locked into it. Now that they knew where he was, Jason couldn’t risk leaving the dog until the unknowable time when his return could be made safely. The mutt would have to come along.
Jason felt he had traveled not only across space but also time. How often had he arrived back here? Hundreds? That was the difference, the disorienting factor. He was not returning home this time. The house in Georgetown and Laurin-neither was his anymore, no more than the life they had had.
He eased back in his seat and watched his fellow passengers stand and push into the aisle as the plane came to a stop. Idly, he watched as overhead compartments were opened and emptied. He hadn’t brought much more than the clothes on his back, the rest having burned with the house. No problem. He could stop at one of the city’s men’s stores and outfit himself. With the money in the belt at his waist, he could dress himself however he wished.
The aircraft was almost empty when Jason finally stood. A blast of cold air from the open door made him thankful he had cleared customs in Miami. All he had to do was collect Pangloss and find a cab. There would, of course, be one stop, no matter what the weather, before he reached his hotel or a clothing store.
Reaching into the overhead compartment, he extracted his only luggage, a soft bag that contained toilet articles, extra socks and underwear, and a clean T-shirt, all purchased at West Indies Trading, North Caicos’ only dry-goods store. He had declined to check the bag for two reasons. First, as an experienced traveler, he was all too aware of the chance of baggage taking an excursion of its own once entrusted to the airlines. The second was recent habit. A man waiting for his luggage to arrive on one of the crowded carousels was a man who could not move in a hurry if circumstances dictated. He saw no reason to break habits old or new.
Chapter Eight
Twenty minutes later
“Stop! Pull over for a minute!”
In the rearview mirror, the cabdriver’s face was incredulous. “It’s the Pentagon, mista. No stoppin’ here.”
Jason was already out of the cab, oblivious to angry horns as he dodged his way through traffic. He stood looking at what was arguably the world’s ugliest office building as though experiencing rapture.
Along the west side, a single charred capstone was the only marker. In front of it were flowers, singly or in bunches, but Jason had no trouble recognizing the long green stems of white gladioli, her favorite. He had a dozen placed there every week.
The simple gold band he wore on a chain around his neck was the only trace of her found. There was no grave for him to visit, no other physical place to vent his grief. It was here, across a busy street around unattractive architecture, where she had spent the last seconds of her life, that he came to be as close to her as the living might get to the dead.
If you weren’t looking for it, the repairs would go unnoticed. On that bright late-summer morning that had become America’s darkest day, an airplane had slammed into the building.
It was like recalling an incident from childhood, so far away did 9/11 seem. First Lieutenant Peters, J., of the little-known and less discussed Delta Force, had been on temporary assignment here. His wife, Laurin, junior partner in one of the multitude of D.C. law firms specializing in lobbying activity, was in the building for an early morning meeting with the firm’s largest client, the army.
The experience of going to work together was unique. Jason frequently was in places with classified names for indefinite periods of time. Laurin missed him, and the assignments were rarely to locales that could be described as garden spots. His paintings were acquiring a regular market, and her real estate investments, inherited from her mother, had become too large and profitable for her to manage and continue to work fulltime.
They had decided to quit their present jobs in the next twelve months, spending the cold, wet Washington winters in the British West Indies and enduring the hot, equally wet summers in their Georgetown home. They built the house on North Caicos and spent an idyllic month there. They both loved it.
They were already counting the days.
Shortly before eight A.M. on September 11, 2001, he had shown her his temporary office in the Pentagon’s second ring. She had a few minutes before her meeting.
“Can I bring you something from the canteen?” she’d asked.
It was much later he realized that most last words were probably equally banal.
“Sure. A large cup of coffee.”
Nodding, she had set off, never to be seen again. Had she remained with him for the next five minutes, she would still be alive. The thought tortured him on nights he cou
ld only toss and turn with survivor’s guilt.
It had taken a minute or two after the crash for Jason to learn what had happened and where. A number of firemen suffered varying degrees of injury from a wild man trained to kill before MPs had succeeded in pulling Jason away from the inferno that had consumed his wife.
Once the adrenaline flow stopped, he had sobbed like a brokenhearted teenager. His rage was one of loss and impotent fury. Delta Force kept a more or less current brief on the world’s nasties. Even before the presidential announcement, he had no doubt one or more of the terrorist groups had done this. He would, by God, get even.
But how?
His reverie in front of the Pentagon was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. He spun around to look into the sympathetic face of a cop.
“Look, mister, I know you probably lost someone there, ‘cause I see ‘em all the time. But your cab’s blockin’ th’ road. If you want, I’ll hold up traffic an’ let the taxi get to the parkin’ lot. You can at least argue with them military assholes to let you stop there for a few minutes. Besides, you look like you’re freezin’.”
Jason, clad in only a T-shirt and a pair of light cotton trousers, had been oblivious to the mid-thirty-degree temperature. Even his moth-eaten overcoat would have provided some warmth had it not been consumed in the fire.
Jason managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Officer, but I’ll be going.”
He could feel tears that were not caused by the cold on his cheeks as he climbed back into the cab.
Chapter Nine
Chevy Chase, Maryland
The next morning
Jason had found a hotel in Crystal City with a kennel for Pangloss. Both had spent a morose evening: the dog in unhappy confinement, Jason considering calling to get a table at Kincade’s, one of the capital’s better seafood places, before deciding the restaurant was too infested with memories. Instead, he elected to avoid his room’s ever-remindful view of the Pentagon and eat in a dining room that justified every joke that had ever been made at the expense of hotel food.
A morning sky unmarred by clouds and a sun that turned a city of glass into gold improved Jason’s spirits. Better weather did nothing for Pangloss, who barked most pitifully when Jason left the kennel after checking on him. Renting a car, he was at a nearby men’s store when it opened. After purchasing two sweaters, slacks, and a Burberry raincoat with removable lining, Jason got on the Beltway and headed north.
When he exited the multilane road, he picked his way carefully, relying on memories two or three years old.
Where quaint towns had dotted the landscape, strip centers and outlet malls competed for space. Rolling farms had become subdivisions of McMansions on tiny lots. By equal parts navigational skill and blind luck, he finally saw the snaking brick wall that formed the boundary of the office park he sought.
Jason scanned the uniform plaques outside each building until he found the one he wanted: Narcom, Inc., one more acronymically named entity whose title did nothing to inform the observer of the company’s function or distinguish it from its neighbors. Its one unique feature was a subterranean parking lot, a seemingly superfluous amenity in an office park where space was readily available. At the entrance to the down ramp, a wooden arm blocked passage until a ticket was taken.
Any semblance of normality ended with appearances.
Jason knew that while the car was waiting for the machine to spit out a ticket, scales set into the floor were weighing the vehicle. In less than a second, a computer compared the poundage to the manufacturer’s specified weight, adjustments were made for a possible full tank of gas, and a formula applied for the number of occupants. Should the car exceed what the system deemed normal, a steel curtain would drop from the ceiling, preventing further access while probes extended from the walls to take air samples in much the same way bomb-sniffing dogs operated at airports.
The machine determined the rental car posed no risk, and Jason drove into a nearly empty basement. An elevator returned him to ground level, and he entered the three stories of smoked glass. Last night’s rain was still a thousand diamonds on the carefully manicured lawn along the flagstone pathway to the entrance.
Almost all the buildings in the vicinity displayed signs announcing the services of one or more security companies. So did this one. Visibility was, after all, part of security. An intruder would, presumably, be less inclined to invade the premises of an establishment guarded by the usual electronic devices.
There were certain differences from nearby similar structures, had one looked in the right places, differences of which no ordinary burglar would have ever heard. But then, it was not the ordinary burglar Narcom wished to deter.
Jason knew his image was being transmitted inside by a series of well-concealed cameras. One step off the path would trigger sensors buried an inch or so deep under lush grass, green despite the season. The glass of the exterior was reinforced sufficiently to withstand any projectile smaller than an artillery shell. Well out of sight from below, the roof sprouted a forest of antennae. Window shades were rubber lined. When pulled, as they were anytime an important conversation was in progress, they made it impossible for listening devices outside to pick up vibrations in the glass caused by words spoken inside.
An electric eye opened the door as Jason reached it. The lobby, the twin of hundreds of others in the area, contained the usual potted plants and a reception desk manned by a woman who, by any measure, should have made an appearance on one of those reality shows where looks compensated for lack of plot. She had the pale, clear skin that went with naturally blond hair, and blue eyes without warmth.
As Jason approached, she watched with cold disinterest. From a few feet away he could read the tag pinned to the black camisole-type top, which, though not transparent, gave the impression of frilly lingerie underneath. He was not surprised to learn her name was Kim, nor would Lisa, Lori, or Ashley have been a shock.
He knew from previous observation that her fingers were never more than a few inches from a panel of screens that, when touched, could do everything from locking every door in the building to lowering a steel curtain between the entrance and the receptionist. Behind her, a mir rored wall was actually two-way glass, giving a complete view of the lobby to armed men who waited in perpetual readiness for whatever situation might arise. The place’s security was second only to the White House’s.
Kim imitated a smile, flashing teeth that would have inspired any orthodontist. “Help you, sir?”
“Good morning, Kim. I’m Jason Peters, and I’m expected.”
She gave Jason a slow inspection, making no effort to conceal the fact that she was appraising him in the same way she might decide whether an insect was likely to sting or bite. Under other circumstances he might have taken a lingering look like that as interest, but her manner was of one who had no intent of inviting personal overtures. An expensive fur coat draped over the far corner of the counter explained a lot. He doubted Kim could have purchased it on her salary. She already had a “friend” with a bankroll.
Girls like Kim got minks the same way minks got minks.
“If you’ll just step over here, sir.”
Jason was familiar with the drill. Extending both arms, he placed the thumb of each hand on a screen that was part of the top of the desk.
She watched a monitor behind the desk. “Mr. Peters, I see you have a meeting in a few minutes. Know your way?”
“Indeed I do.” He walked to the left of the desk, bowing slightly. “A delight to have made your acquaintance.”
Kim had already returned to staring at the monitors in front of her.
A previously invisible door wheezed open, and Jason entered a small room, where he was patted down by one man while another, an M16A2 assault rifle in the crook of his arm, observed. A large dog of indeterminate breed sniffed for explosives.
The dog made Jason think of Pangloss, and he wished they both were back in the low-tech world of the Turks and Caicos. By n
ow the day would be well under way there, the sun up hours ago. Reality intruded and he sighed, aware that it was unlikely he would ever claim North Caicos as a residence again, not if he wanted to stay alive. The place would be under observation.
“You’ll have to empty your pockets.”
Jason produced the rental car keys, a handful of change, and a small pocketknife.
The man not holding the rifle looked skeptically at the latter. “This some sort of weapon?”
“Not if you’re attacking anything larger than a mouse. The blade is less than two inches long.”
A moment of indecision. Jason could almost hear the line of thought: if box cutters could be used to take over airliners…
Jason handed it over. “Tell you what: you hold it till I come back through. If I have to kill someone, I’ll do it with my bare hands.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man was clearly happy to be relieved of having to make a decision. “It’ll be waiting for you.”
As Jason stepped forward, there was a buzz, the snick of heavy bolts sliding, and the door on the other side of the room whirred open. A bank of two elevators faced him. Jason knew there were no buttons for selection of floors inside either. The cars moved at the direction of people elsewhere in the building.
Two floors up, another man greeted him with an expressionless face and voice to match. “This way, Mr. Peters.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned to precede Jason down a corridor flanked with steel doors.
The hall was deserted, filled with only the faint hum of electronic equipment and the sound of four shoes squeaking on linoleum. At the end a door swung open, throwing a beam of light into the otherwise dim hall. Framed in silhouette was a woman whose features appeared clearer as he drew close. Not old but not young, either. She wore listless brown hair in a bun behind her long, thin face.
