They went for medium prices in buying a few lightweight shirts and slacks similar to what the Germans and tourists in town were wearing, because it would be ideal to conceal themselves as Europeans and not be tagged as Americans at first glance. The sundries were available off the shelf, and they quickly filled their backpacks. Back at the base, the two split up and interviewed other special-ops types who had been in the area for a while. Swanson took the marines and the SEALs, while Gibson did the Army. They found nothing of interest, and morosely drifted over to Zur Big Emma for schnitzel and beer and maybe to pick up some gossip.
“Gonna have to run a lot tomorrow to work off this meal,” Gibson said, devouring a forkful of soft spaetzle. “No wonder Germans are so big.”
Swanson drank some beer from a tall mug. “I can tell you don’t like it. Remember, this is the land of the Hindenburg blimp.”
“It blew up.”
“That’s my point,” said Swanson, cutting into his meat. “Our rule is to eat when you can because you don’t know when your next meal will be, right?”
Marguerite del Coda was suddenly at the table, pulling up a chair and brushing her hair back from her eyes. “Islamabad,” she said. “The sonofabitch just pinged the Net in Islamabad. The sighting has been confirmed by the Pakis.”
Swanson wiped his mouth with a white napkin and tossed it on the remains of the food. He looked at Gibson. “Let’s go to work, then. You ready?”
Gibson looked longingly at the half-eaten dinner and grinned. “I was born ready, podna.”
14
VERMONT
COASTIE AWOKE TO A series of quick wet slurps on her ear from Nero. The dog had slept with her all night, a warm, comforting, and hairy presence that she would bump a hip into or rest her arm across to keep from feeling so alone. The morning light was bright, and Nero was telling her that it was time for him to go outside and attend to important dog stuff. “Got it,” she said, sitting up with a big yawn, then pushing off the bed. Nero made the transition to the floor smoothly, despite his missing paw, and when she opened the door he hopped out, propelled by his strong hind legs. The remaining front leg balanced him, and the big foot landed surely. He had adjusted to his new lifestyle, felt no pity for himself. It was what it was.
She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and combed her hair into a hasty ponytail, then laced on her sneakers and did some stretches. She had slept only in shorts and a loose T-shirt, so she added a warmup suit before going outside for a run around the frosty Phoenix Farm. Other people were also up, mostly doing chores. A few waved to the newcomer. What could be more normal than feeding chickens and grooming horses while happy dogs gamboled about? What could be more safe? What could be quieter? She found a path and loped into the forest shadows.
Double-Oh explained it last evening during the evening meal, which was eaten on long wooden tables with attached benches so that a group could share the food that was prepared by a kitchen staff. Three men and another woman shared their table—the mashed potatoes, the salad bowl, the meat, the iced tea, and the conversation. All were special-ops types of one form or another who had found out about Phoenix and come for a stay during their personal journeys back to normality. Years of military service back in the day had placed them in extreme danger, over and over. They had lost friends and seen terrible things, and, often out of necessity, had been forced to do things they would never discuss. And it was hard to just walk away when the enlistment was up. Thanks a lot for playing, sign these papers and go back home and climb the corporate ladder, or go to hell. Ghosts didn’t like to stay behind doors. The blaze in the large stone fireplace helped burn them away.
Coastie found a comfortable jogging pace, and her lungs adjusted to the altitude. Is this place all uphill? she wondered. She ran automatically, as Phoenix Farm residents had been doing on this path for years. The sweat came with the deeper breaths. There was a quiet presence behind her. Nero was striding along at half speed without effort, his tongue hanging out like a wet pink shoe, and they went into a small valley with a swift-flowing brook.
If someone wanted to come to Phoenix Farm, all he or she had to do was ring the bell and walk on in. It was intentionally the direct reverse use of the bell that was clonged when a defeated and demoralized trainee decided to leave the Navy SEALs. This bell marked an arrival at a destination, not a failure. Residents could leave at any time, without shame or remorse, whenever they felt their time was done and they were ready to rejoin the civilian world. No private guns were allowed, just as no booze is allowed in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. The only drugs were in the first-aid kit. Dawkins kept some weapons in an off-limits safe for his personal use. He said they were just a couple of shotguns.
It all made sense, she thought. A noble effort to help troubled vets traverse the dreaded PTSD chasm. Good on Excalibur for sponsoring it. Good on the horsies. Good on Nero. Good on everybody. Good on her for being here.
“I hate it,” Coastie said to herself. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I didn’t ring that damned bell.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THIS WAS GOING TO be a good day, Veronica Keenan thought as she finished her own one-mile run in Rock Creek Park with a flashy sprint, then walked around with her hands on her hips, breathing hard and not even trying to hide the joy that she felt inside. She was going to make her mark with the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. There were many people who thought she didn’t deserve that committee assignment, but today they would change their minds when she took on the CIA.
She had been nervous the previous afternoon when she had the private meeting with her party’s senior member on the committee, but that eased when the wise old congressman lit up like a Christmas-tree bulb as she presented her findings. He could see it all unfold in his head even as she spoke: a congressional hearing about a rogue CIA agent running a big drug operation out of Afghanistan. Keenan was promised a place on the investigating subcommittee that would hold the hearings. Sticking a needle in the CIA would show their determination to hold the secret agency accountable to the public. It wouldn’t hurt the reelection chances of either member of Congress when the news leaked to the press.
Her aide caught her on her smartphone before she reached the office. There was going to be an emergency meeting of the committee leadership before lunch, and Keenan was to present her findings once again. The aide also explained that she had been able to dig up the astonishing background of the agent involved—Kyle Swanson, an expert sniper who had been around for years—and that would be juicy new meat for the conference. Instead of a vague description of the operation, she would have a precise target. It didn’t matter to her whether or not this Swanson guy was actually a bad guy, as he was just a tool to be used to pry into the CIA’s dirty little world.
“Is there going to be a CIA rep there?” Keenan needed to know before walking into a buzz saw of criticism. This investigation, if it got off the ground, could make her career. It could also end it in a hurry if she was wrong. She wanted the CIA person to know that she was really on the agency’s side, pointing out a piece of dirty laundry that could perhaps be handled internally.
“One of the big names is coming over,” the aide responded. “Martin Atkins, the director of intelligence.”
“The CIA director himself is going to be there?”
“No, Congresswoman. This man is one level away from the big chair, but he is the one in the know about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
Keenan paused. She was only ten minutes from the office now and could see the white dome of the Capitol looming ahead, crowning the hill at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. “Okay. Put together a backgrounder on him, too. I don’t want to be blindsided.”
“Yes, ma’am. See you in a few.”
* * *
AS FAR AS THE Prince could see, everything was in order.
Nicky Marks would soon be out of Pakistan, while the CIA hunters were yet to arrive. They had left the Ramstein base in a
rush when the Pakistani intelligence service reported that their quarry had been sighted in Islamabad. Instead of a lumbering USAF transport plane, the two could now make shorter hops aboard aircraft owned and flown by the Central Intelligence Agency. They would be too late to nab Marks, but everyone involved would be buoyed by the feeling that they were closing in fast. One step behind is still second place, Marks thought.
That headlong dash to complete their mission was resulting in a lack of caution and a lowering of awareness of what was really happening. And as the agents swam deeper into his net in Pakistan, the Prince was already tightening things behind them.
Back in Washington, the politicians were about to haul in the CIA director of intelligence, who would obviously stonewall any questions about an ongoing operation. That would make the politicians angry, and they would retaliate by expanding the circle of knowledge. He’d always found it fascinating that a single pebble tossed into a pond could cause ripples that would go on and on. In this case, the pebble was the ambitious widow from Nebraska. Within twenty-four hours, the rumors that the CIA was running drugs out of Afghanistan would be in the briefing papers of power-wielders from the White House on down. Nobody wanted to be unprepared for the coming barrage of media questions.
And questions there would be. Some reporters would start receiving leaks from pet sources: There’s something weird going on over at Langley. Congress is asking for answers, but not getting any. The Prince gauged that it would be fresh meat for the TV talking heads by tomorrow evening.
And then the name would be dropped. Kyle Swanson would be outed as a secret agent who had gone bad. Then the average man and woman, boy and girl with an iPhone would start constructing the social-media noose around Swanson’s neck. No proof would be offered, but speculation would be more than enough.
As if with the snip of a ribbon by sharp scissors, that would be the end of the top-priority hunt for Nicky Marks. The agency, having been tarred with scandal, would terminate the mission and all support of Swanson even without admitting or denying anything. Supplies would stop. Intelligence wouldn’t reach him. Friends would become enemies, and co-workers wouldn’t trust him. Marty Atkins would be forced to recall the sniper from the field and place such a distance between Swanson and Langley that it might never again be bridged.
Swanson’s reputation would go up in flames, and he would be fortunate to get out of this without being arrested by his own people. The Prince didn’t really want him arrested. Ruining his reputation was important, but he had a more unpleasant fate in store for the man.
For now, just leave things alone. Every ingredient of the trap was simmering nicely on a low heat. He turned his attention to other matters.
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
EVERYBODY DOES IT. EVEN Maroof Sherdil of the Pakistani ISI had dreams. As an important man in Joint Intelligence X, which coordinated and processed everything from the other three branches, Sherdil carried the rank of an army full colonel. For most men, that would have been enough. Not only did he have a decent salary; the agency provided a free car, a furnished home, medical care, schools, and other attractive benefits. The colonel wanted more.
Climbing the ladder of rank and power simply didn’t pay enough in these days of economic uncertainty, and he had to be on the lookout for a way to increase his savings if he was ever to achieve his dream of moving out of the grim government-sponsored lodgings and into the commodious home whose construction he’d been watching in the capital’s prestigious F-10 Markaz area of Zone 1.
He frequently played the Internet lotteries, but that was a waste. Petty blackmail would land him in prison. Special-mission bonuses and the usual bribes had helped. They simply weren’t enough. The new four-bedroom home close to McDonald’s and Pizza Hut and the golf course and excellent shopping was priced at a bit over fifty million rupees.
He toyed with a scratch pad. One strong American dollar was worth about a hundred and four rupees on the exchange today, so fifty million rupees was equal to roughly half a million U.S. dollars. The colonel had saved only half that amount, even when he factored in the special breaks that the seller would grant to a rising ISI official who could make him disappear.
He fed the paper into the shredder beside his desk in the ISI central headquarters. Enough worrying for one day. He put on his uniform jacket, checked his appearance in a bathroom mirror, then went upstairs to the Office of the Director General.
The suave Lieutenant General Zahid Ali Khan was polite enough to stand and shake hands when Maroof Sherdil entered the office. Khan had the cut of an Egyptian film star and was unfailingly mannered in his dealings with others. He invited Sherdil to have a chair. “I regret not having much time for you today, Colonel. How are Sarah and the children?”
“God has blessed me, sir. My family is well, and I wish similar good fortune for yours.”
“My thanks,” said Kahn. “Now, is this unfortunate business done?” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“Yes, sir. The Americans should be on the way even now. They sounded pleased to find the exact location of Nicky Marks.”
“The man is a danger to all around him, including us, and it is time for his exit. The Prince was agreeable?”
“It was his suggestion, sir. Marks has apparently become a liability for him, too. There will be no blowback from that direction.”
The lieutenant general slid his right index finger across his bristly mustache. “The U.S. Rewards for Justice Program?”
Nicky Marks had a million dollars on his head. Sherdil and his boss would split it evenly. Tomorrow, he would have the needed cash for the house, his superior officer would be even richer, the drug money would continue to flow, and the American government would have its terrorist scalp. Everybody wins. Almost everybody.
Maroof saluted and left the building through the lobby, adjusting his black beret once he was outside. As he walked across the manicured grounds to his silver Volvo, he thought about Sarah, their two boys and one daughter, and how they would be opening a new chapter in their lives. Insh’Allah. God willing.
He tapped his blinker and moved smoothly into the traffic, heading up to see the house once again. The cement foundation had been braced with steel girders and deep pilings as protection against earthquakes, and the wooden frame was far enough along that the workmen were able to work beneath the roof they had put on. Greenery would be plentiful.
At the turn on the Ibn-e-Sina Road, traffic began to flow better. Five cars back was a black Audi, with Nicky Marks at the wheel, listening to music and cool in the air-conditioning. He knew exactly where the ISI officer was heading, for hadn’t the colonel been jabbering non-stop about finding this special house? Lost in his fantasy, Sherdil had hardly checked his mirrors during the trip from the ISI headquarters to the little lane that angled up to the new home, and then into what would become his private driveway.
“Bye now, Maroof,” Marks said with a quiet laugh as he hit the Send key on a pre-dialed cell phone number, triggering the bomb beneath the Volvo. It went off in splash of flame and clouds of smoke, scattering chunks of metal and flaming debris. The house caught fire as Marks wheeled about and drove away.
15
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
LUCKY SHARIF DROVE TO Savannah because flying down from Washington meant changing planes in Atlanta, an experience that most sane people tried to avoid. Of course, following the interstates also meant going through Atlanta. It was believed down South that when you die there will be a stopover in Atlanta on the way to heaven or hell. Instead, he meandered down the older coast routes, through miles of pine trees and azaleas that ran wild and the choking tendrils of green kudzu vines; he smelled the stench of the Union Bag–Camp Paper Corporation plant and slapped his first mosquito before he’d crossed the Talmadge Bridge and dropped downtown.
So this was the hometown of Luke Gibson, he thought, nosing slowly down Broughton Street, once the busy heart of commerce before the white residents started to
migrate to the suburbs and out to the islands to build mansions on salt marshland. It had a feeling of decay and wasn’t in the same antebellum league as Charleston, just up the coast. He turned toward the water and bumped over the cobblestoned street down to the tourist area along River Street, and up again through the squares, where the old city was flashing its April glory of bright flowers and mighty oaks. The tourists enjoyed the historic area during the daylight hours. At night, strolling among the magnolias was not a good idea. Too many places for danger to lurk, his cop instinct told him.
Following his nav system out of the tourist zone and down the long, palm-lined Victory Drive, he found a little restaurant called Carey Hilliard’s, on Skidaway Road, and worked on his laptop while tackling a barbecue sandwich and a cup of Brunswick stew and sweet iced tea. He sent his wife a selfie to make her jealous. Back in D.C., she would be having a tasteless salad at her desk.
Back in the car, with a refill of tea nestled in the console, he cruised the final mile to 2134 East Fortieth Street, circled through the working-class neighborhood that was laid out in a grid, and finally pulled up in front of the corner lot. It was an innocuous place, much like the other homes: three bedrooms, kitchen, bath, living room, and a garage in the back—a baby-boomer suburb built after World War II as ordinary Americans began riding the economic engine into the middle class. The clapboard had been repaired over the years, but the paint was fresh. The roses were trimmed and the lawn was cut. On a cracking sidewalk, a boy of about six and his little sister leaned on their bikes and stared at him when he got out. “Hi,” he said.
“Mommy!” the little brown-haired girl screamed.
“Are you LeBron James?” the boy asked, never having seen a black man this tall.
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