She was back in five minutes, cradling three large volumes, which she placed on a conference table beneath bright halogen lamps. Sharif put on some reading glasses, pulled out his notepad, went to work, and struck gold on the first try, in The Bomb for 2000.
Instead of looking for individual names, he had fanned through the pages just to get a feel for how the book was organized, and he stopped at a formal portrait of two young men—the top officers of the entire regiment. They were resplendent in full-dress blue-gray uniform coatees and white pants, black-plumed shakos, white belt across the chest, three rows of shining brass buttons, red sashes, swords on right shoulders, and arms laden with gold-lace chevrons. The man on the left, the regimental executive officer, wore five chevrons. The square-jawed regimental CO wore six, plus other markings to signify that he was top dog. He was identified as First Captain Lucas Gibson.
Sharif spent another thirty minutes going through the yearbooks, then handed Clara Cooper a list of six names that included Gibson and asked for their academic records. He had expected her to protest about privacy and confidentiality and that sort of dodge, but Clara had understood that the FBI badge could override all that, so why make a fuss? The cadets from those long-ago classes would by now be rising high in their military or other careers, and that meant higher clearances for secrecy. Why make a bother when the outcome was inevitable? After all, it was a routine background check. The special agent had said so.
“I’ll go over to the superintendent’s office and get approval and dig these up for you,” she said with a wave of the folded paper. “Won’t be long.”
Sharif took a break and walked outside. Cadets were marching crisply, doing PT, or busy at their other assigned chores around the pristine 200-acre campus. Discipline was evident everywhere; this wasn’t the kind of place where a phony would thrive, and Gibson had made it to the top. Sharif talked with a few of them to get a feel for the type of personality that could handle such a strict environment.
Clara came back with the paperwork, and he delved into the files, examining each folder equally, but caring only about Luke Gibson. The rest were cover. Gibson and one of the other cadets had been valedictorians of their high-school classes. The boy had it all—grades, leadership ability, physical fitness, and fluency in two foreign languages—French and Arabic. He majored in international relations and affairs, finishing tenth overall in academics, captained the baseball team, and scored as an expert marksman on the rifle team, taking an individual first in the annual match against West Point. Sharif tapped his pen in thought. Gibson was the gold standard that year, and had made the promotion selection committee’s job easy.
He went back to the files. Five of the six cadets became commissioned officers upon graduation: two Army, two Air Force, one to the Coast Guard. There was no such notation on Gibson’s transcript. Sharif asked the archivist about that, and she explained that, unlike federal schools like Annapolis and West Point, VMI graduates were required to take the training but didn’t have to join the military.
“Ah.” This was where the CIA had scooped him up. After this, Gibson was off the official radar.
“Thanks for all your assistance, ma’am,” Sharif said. “But, like the old detectives, I have one more question. I noticed that the Bomb from 2000 was dedicated to First Captain Gary Smith, who was the regimental commander. That seems to be a discrepancy, because the commander for that year was a fellow named, uh, Gibson. Lucas Gibson. How can that happen?”
Clara frowned. She was puzzled. “I don’t know, Special Agent Sharif. There is only one regimental CO at a time. Let me call someone—my predecessor, Millie Hartnett. She knows everything.” Clara used her cell phone to dial Millie and exchanged pleasantries, then put her on speakerphone to include Sharif.
The woman’s voice sounded strong. “Oh, my. That was just awful. I recall it. The whole school went into mourning.”
“Why?”
“Gary was a wonderful cadet—stood first in his class in academics, and played quarterback for the football team. He had already served two years as an enlisted soldier before coming to VMI and had—let me remember here, he was a paratrooper with the hundred and first.”
Lucky Sharif felt Gibson’s glow dimming. Maybe he wasn’t the gold standard that year after all.
“Well, what happened to him, Millie?”
“It was around Thanksgiving. Gary went rock climbing with some friends over the break and tragically fell to his death. The police said it was a terrible accident.”
“So the corps was without its student commander for a while?”
“Not for long. That couldn’t be allowed, so the selection committee bumped up the regimental XO to the higher rank so the institute could get back to normal. Gary was a good boy. It was awful.”
Clara glanced at Sharif. “Anything else?”
“No, ma’am. Many thanks to both of you. I’ll see myself out.” When he left, he could hear Clara and Millie turning the conversation to more personal matters as they set a lunch date.
Sharif got into the car and called Washington to get an FBI researcher to investigate the climbing accident that took the life of a VMI student by the name of Gary Smith, including his military record. Then he drove away from the orderly, regimental campus and back into the untidy real world.
13
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
NICKY MARKS, ONE OF the world’s most wanted terrorists, felt safe enough among the teeming mass of more than four million people who lived in the capital federal district of Pakistan and the adjoining city of Rawalpindi. In fact, Islamabad was one of his favorite cities. He was sure that one of the surveillance cameras that webbed the city was probably watching him, but that was no concern. Marks wasn’t an enemy of Pakistan; for years he had worked with agents of its intelligence service. One of those agents was on the other side of the table at the café right now, enjoying a cappuccino and watching the attractive women walking outside beneath the tall trees that were bursting with purple and fiery-red springtime colors. Serious cyclists in neon racing tights zoomed by in practice runs along the city’s neat grid of streets. The dense green Margalla Hills climbed skyward in the distance.
“I hope you’re not planning on staying long in our fair city,” said Maroof Sherdil of the Pakistani Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence—better known by its feared acronym, ISI.
Marks grinned. “Why, Maroof, do you mean that I’m not welcome here in the diplomatic quarter?”
Sherdil, a native Isloo, put down his cup. He was dressed in a fashionable Western-style suit and tie, and had considerable hair that was meticulously barbered, along with a close-trimmed beard—the aggregate giving him the appearance more of an international gentleman than the ragamuffin Pakistani a bystander might have expected. “You, my friend, are not welcome anywhere right now.”
Marks wasn’t disturbed. He hadn’t been arrested, so he counted himself still to be ahead of the game. “I’m just following orders. How long do I have?”
“A couple of days, three at the most. Nobody knows where you are right now, but you will be pinged on the cameras soon enough, and then the facial-recognition software will identify you and requests for action will start piling up on my desk.”
Sherdil looked out at the street, then back at Marks. “I can’t believe you would show up here in plain view. Particularly after that stunt in Paris. Damn, Nicky, that was harsh, even for you!”
“Come on, Maroof. You know how the game is played. Sometimes a sacrifice must be made to win the day. She was only an American lawyer, and there’s no shortage of those.” He seemed not to have a care in the world.
“I’m not talking about the woman. I mean that wave to the surveillance camera. It’s gone viral on the Internet.”
Marks said he understood, but that in setting a trap you sometimes had to lead the prey to the snare. That was what he was doing now. “I just want you to keep the cops off me for about twenty-four more hours, then I’ll be out of h
ere.”
“That may be hard to do, with the price on your head getting higher and higher.”
“What am I worth now?”
“The Rewards for Justice program is a full million dollars, with France offering just as much. I should arrest you myself and retire rich.”
All the play went out of Marks, replaced by a coldness that made the Pakistani wish he hadn’t said those words. “The Prince wouldn’t like that,” he said.
Maroof Sherdil tapped on the small table with his fingertips. “I misspoke. Unforgivable for a diplomat like myself. I would not do such a thing, nor would I intentionally annoy the Prince. You know that.”
Marks yawned and stretched. Yeah, he knew that. Mention the Prince and they fold right up. “We’re good, man. Give me space for another day and I’ll be out of here. The Tribal Areas are calling my name.”
“Only if you do no mischief in this country. Do not force me to take action.” The ISI man was trying to recover.
“Just passing through, mate. Just passing through.”
BURLINGTON, VERMONT
ELIZABETH LEDFORD CASTILLO FELT a cold cube of air enfold her as soon as the flight attendant popped open the hatch after the direct United flight from Washington. By the time she arrived at Burlington International Airport, she was longing for the warmth of the Mexican sun. The light sweater she had brought along was no protection at all as she made her way to the luggage carousel. Long bags of skis were carted in. Skis. In April. People in tufted down jackets looked at her with the annoying smiles bestowed on first-timers to Vermont.
“We only have two seasons up here: winter and August,” said a man’s voice over her shoulder. “I brought this for you.” Orville Oliver Dawkins loomed large and easily wrapped a heavy coat around her shoulders. It was his size, which meant that it swallowed her. Her hands didn’t need gloves now, because they didn’t reach the cuffs.
She gave him a tremendous hug, squeezing hard. “So good to see you again, Double-Oh.”
“Same here. My life has been much duller without Coastie in it. I missed you a lot, girl.” Chief Master Sergeant Dawkins, USMC, retired, and Ledford had been close friends when they both worked with the élite and secret Task Force Trident, back in the day. He had been the teacher, and she was his prize pupil. His hair had grown out and was speckled with gray, but the big man was still a rock of muscle and strong as an oak. She noticed that he had on only jeans and a long-sleeved lumberjack shirt, apparently immune to the cold. He held her at arm’s length and examined her face. “Listen, that thing with Mickey was absolutely one of the worst things possible. I won’t ask if you’re okay, because you’ll lie and say you are, when you’re not. So let’s just get your bags and hit the road before we get all weepy.”
Coastie looked down at the scuffed floor, shoved her hands deep into the jacket pockets, and didn’t react when Double-Oh pulled up the parka’s hood. As they walked out together, she looked like a little kid beside him.
* * *
A gray Hummer was parked right outside, and when Double-Oh popped the rear door to toss in the suitcase Coastie found herself face to face with two soulful and alert eyes, two pointed ears cocked forward in curiosity, and the furry snout of a large German shepherd that sucked in all her scents in great swoops of breath. “This is Nero, a retired warrior dog who lost that front paw sniffing for us in Afghanistan. He detected an ambush and his handler died in the following firefight.” Double-Oh scratched the big dog’s head. “Ole Nero has been recovering with us out here in the boonies. He’s one of our therapy dogs. Give him a few seconds and he’ll lick you to death.”
“Hello, Nero,” Coastie said in an almost inaudible voice, hurt recognizing hurt. The dog immediately dropped a wet pink tongue to her hand, licked twice, and then pushed his nose flat into the jacket, inviting her to rub his head. “You’re the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen.”
They headed northwest up Interstate 89 for a while before cutting across U.S. 2 toward Lake Champlain, reaching deep into the strange, quiet world of rural Vermont between the Winooski and Lamoille Rivers. Coastie began to cry, pulling herself deep into the parka. Dawkins said nothing, but passed a box of tissue. Nero stepped onto the console and leaned on her. “I can’t stop all this crying,” Coastie blubbered. “I hate it. When do the images stop coming back?”
“Time,” he said. “It’s really the only cure.”
Nero started nudging around, trying to get his nose into the thick jacket. He sensed the pain of a friend, and pressed with his right front leg. Coastie gave in and helped the seventy-five-pound dog into the spacious seat with her, wrapped both arms around him, and held on tight, her tears wetting his fur. Nero sat strong and loving as the countryside passed, contentedly sniffing her uniqueness and listening to her heartbeat. She was part of the pack now. He would protect her.
When she spotted the lake’s broad expanse of shining water, she finally asked, “Where are we going?”
“I have some property up here, about a hundred acres surrounded by forest, and we’ve built up a private retreat for special operators like ourselves who are having problems. Coming back from a war is never easy, and for folks like us the nightmares can be even tougher. We get some grant and foundation money, but Excalibur Enterprises is the main sponsor.”
“Kyle and Sir Jeff and Lady Pat do this? I hadn’t heard of that.”
“None of us are big on publicity, Coastie. The results are what counts. You can rest here for a while, fully protected, and we’ll help each other. We’ve all lost someone.”
“Kyle promised you’d train me up again.”
“He lied, girl. He’s trying to keep your existence on the down-low, so we’ll do some exercises and stuff, and maybe some shooting. Hell, there’s nothing I can teach you about shooting, Coastie. Not a damn thing. We’ll just plink some targets. No heavy stuff.”
“So what’s the plan?” She felt Nero shift beside her, detecting the sudden uneasiness.
“I’m supposed to determine if you have your head screwed on straight. If you have a couple of loose bolts, we’ll tighten them up. After what happened with Mickey, there’s bound to be some trauma.” He drove along a narrow road, through a desolate stretch that had its own dark beauty. They reached a fence line, and a wooden sign nailed to a tree announced PHOENIX FARM. A polished brass ship’s bell hung beside the opening in the fence, because there was no gate.
Coastie began to glimpse outbuildings through the trees—stables, a main house and some smaller bungalows, horses, other dogs, and a few people. “I’m okay,” she insisted, not believing it herself.
“Nero and I disagree. That mutt and I both think you’re pretty fucked up right now. The good news is that we can fix it.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SPECIAL AGENT LUCKY SHARIF drove straight back to his office in the Hoover Building when he got back to D.C. to plow through the file that the FBI had hastily compiled on the late VMI First Captain Gary Smith.
The young man’s biography was truly impressive, but irrelevant, and Sharif skimmed through it to learn about the fatal accident. A few brief newspaper articles sketched the overall story. Smith had been free-solo climbing, which Sharif knew meant not using any ropes, helmet, or safety harness. In fact, the authorities reported that Smith was clad in only a pair of green Jockey boxers, a rock-band T-shirt, shorts, and climbing shoes, with a small flask of water and a bag of chalk around his waist. No tubular rope, no snap carabiners, no bashies, no cams to help him get out of a tough situation. The coroner found no indication of intoxicants or drugs in the system. The abrasions and broken bones and violated organs were consistent with a hard fall onto stone. He ruled that it was a tragic accident.
Sharif let that percolate for a few minutes as he went to get a soda and some crackers. Free-soloing was an inherently risky business, but Smith, a former paratrooper, would have had no fear of heights and would have been in splendid physical shape. Smith against the mountain; the irresistible forc
e against the immovable object. Sharif felt that was reasonable for such an overachiever. A normal picnic wouldn’t be enough.
Virginia boasted plenty of rock-climbing routes for more traditional adventurers. The death site in the New River Gorge wasn’t one of them. A ranger said the climb apparently started at a virgin spot reached only by off-roading and a bit of luck. It hadn’t been certified for public use because of the obvious danger of the hard climb over loose scree to a range of boulders and then up an apparently sheer cliff face that crested at a small space known as the Buzzard’s Beak.
An addendum contained a brief report from the sole witness, Lucas Gibson, a classmate of the victim at the Virginia Military Institute. The cop wrote that the witness was emotional but showed self-control. It was the witness who had summoned rescuers by using a radio in the climbers’ truck.
In the terse language of police reports, the account said: “The witness stated the victim was climbing well and showing no sign of distress. The witness began his own ascent about three minutes after the victim and was positioned below the victim. The witness said the victim put his weight on his right foot while edging to a new position, and slipped. The drop was an estimated seventy feet onto rocks.”
The mourning would take place elsewhere. To the authorities, the incident went into a “shit happens” file. There was no further investigation.
Lucky Sharif packed up, turned out the light, and finally went home. Janna was still awake, waiting, and they went over the file again together, working until dawn as they threw questions back and forth, just as they had done when they were FBI partners. The picture was complete, but the pieces didn’t fit.
KAISERSLAUTERN, GERMANY
THE TWO SNIPERS HAD dashed away from Washington so fast that, a day later, they needed everything from toothpaste to shoes. A big base like Ramstein and its nearby German towns had it all, and more. After letting their body clocks adjust to the time change, Swanson and Gibson went shopping off-post for certain civilian gear, because they didn’t know what would be their next step in pursuing the elusive killer Nicky Marks. That he might be going to Afghanistan was only a hunch.
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