by Brad Taylor
“So what? You can smooth that one over. It was a charitable contribution, right?”
“You don’t understand . . .”
“What do I not understand?”
“Nothing. I’ll do it. I’ll use my contacts.”
“Good. You will do four things for me, in the order I’m telling you.”
“Wait, what? Do what?”
“Shut the fuck up and listen. One, I need a visa for Morocco from Madrid. I have an H-1B visa from the United States, so I can leverage that for an expedited visa, but I need your connections into the country. Two, I also need plane tickets and a hotel to use on the application. You will buy those. Three, you will wire me a bundle of money here in Madrid. Four, you will use your contacts to get me a weapon inside Morocco once I’m there. A Sig Sauer P228, along with fifty rounds of ammunition.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Why are you going to Morocco?”
Johan wanted to strangle the phone in his hand. He hissed, “To clean up your fucking mess.”
Dexter backed down at the tone. “How on earth can I get you a gun there? I mean, I’m not an arms dealer.”
“You have the contract at Ouarzazate, correct?”
The shift in conversation caused Dexter to do nothing but breathe into the phone. Johan said, “The one providing armorer support to the movie studio?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I know because I don’t do business with someone unless I check them out, which I’m now regretting. Do you have a contract for that film about Iraq, or not?”
“I do, but that’s just a bunch of props. It’s where everyone in the United States goes to film a movie if they need a desert. It’s not an arms bazaar.”
“They filmed Black Hawk Down there, right?”
“Yes . . . I think so.”
“Well, they had real guns, then. You’re filming a movie about the Iraq War, aren’t you?”
“I’m not filming anything.”
“Okay, someone is filming a movie about the fight in Iraq against ISIS, and you’re providing them armorer support. Is that fucking right or wrong?”
After a pause, Johan heard, “That’s correct, but all of those weapons are not allowed to fire. From what they tell me, they’re basically props.”
“Yeah, they’re props on the set, but they work. All they did was remove the guts for the movie. They aren’t fake guns. Get me one of those weapons.”
Johan waited a beat, then heard, “Okay, okay. I think I can make that happen. But why are you going to Morocco in the first place?”
“I have an address from the guy I killed. I’m going to check it out.”
“Wait, wait, you can’t intervene somewhere else. Let the authorities handle it.”
“I will, if you get them moving, but I’m not waiting. Get me the visa. If it isn’t necessary, it isn’t necessary.”
Dexter relented, saying, “Okay . . . Okay. I can do that. What’s the money for? Why do you need more than I’ve given you?”
Johan looked at the iPhone on the bed, tantalizing him with its information. He said, “I have a cell phone I need to hack, and it’s going to require some specific kit.”
37
Dexter hung up the phone, feeling the air conditioner for the first time, the cold breeze finally sweeping through the sweat on his body, a clammy, uncomfortable sensation.
His secretary knocked on the door, then stuck her head in, saying his next appointment was still waiting. A group that was willing to invest in his expansion into the bloodbath of Yemen.
She took one look at him and said, “Sir, are you all right?”
He said, “Yes, yes. Of course . . . Actually, no, I’m not. I think I’ve caught a fever. Can you tell them I’m indisposed? But make it look like it wasn’t from me?”
She smiled and said, “Of course. Done it many times.”
She closed the door, and Dexter sagged back in his chair, staring at the ridiculous icon he’d created for Icarus Solutions, realizing his life was about to be in ruins.
What on earth am I going to do?
The problem set was getting out of control. There was no way he could take what Johan had found and give it to the authorities. Forget “leaking” it to someone inside. Forget telling anyone outright. He had nothing to do with the attack in Houston, and yet he knew his name would be tied to it. Telling anyone would destroy him.
The fact that his original account was being used for further terrorist attacks was proof. Damning proof.
Now, in his heart, he knew he was responsible for 9/11.
He put his head into his hands, willing the world to be different. He thought about Chip. Thought about the other thousands who had died.
It wasn’t his fault. Even Chip wanted what he was striving for. Even Chip wanted . . .
He stopped, knowing that Chip didn’t want to die in an inferno.
So what now?
The answer was obvious. Give Johan the information on the Saudis. Get him the visa and the gun. Let him do what he would do, like turning a rabid dog loose, but there was no way he was going to tell the United States government what Johan found.
38
After a little bit of a wait, with all of us holding our breath, I said, “Okay, Retro, what’s the deal? Is he coming or what?”
Retro said, “Sorry. He’s in the neighborhood, but he’s not biting. He’s sort of wandering around.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s doing what he does, finding his little Pokémon, but he’s headed your way. Give it some time.”
I said, “Shit. Really? I’m going to sit on a paint can all evening while this guy chases nonexistent creatures?”
Jennifer cut in, saying, “Pike, take a breath. If it works out, you’ll get a prize.”
Knuckles looked at me with a quizzical expression. I smiled and, on the radio, said, “That’s what I was waiting for.”
Off the radio, Knuckles said, “What was that all about?”
Before I could answer, Retro came on, saying, “Creed wants to know if it’s ice cream or something else.”
Knuckles raised his brows and, I said, “Ice cream for everyone. Except Jennifer.”
The radio went silent, and Knuckles said, “What the hell are you talking about? This relationship stuff is getting out of control. Can we just kick the shit out of someone? For once?”
I smiled and said, “It’s a hell of a lot more fun this way. Jennifer hates it, and I get to poke her in the eye.”
“It’s not what we used to do.”
I said, “Yes, it is. I’ve ribbed you more times than I can count, and you’ve returned the favor . . . Wait a minute. Are you getting jealous?”
Flustered, Knuckles said, “No, of course not. That’s stupid. I just think we should—”
The radio cut him off, Veep saying, “We have two unknowns moving your way.”
I peeked over the wall and saw a twenty-something couple take a left turn away from the hotel and into our alley kill zone.
What the hell. I clicked on and said, “What’s the beacon doing?”
“He’s on the north-south alley two blocks over.”
Which didn’t mean a whole lot as far as timing went. The old Moorish neighborhood was built straight up a steep hillside and was positively claustrophobic, the brick buildings jammed together in a seamless mass. Constructed centuries ago, the few roads capable of automobile traffic ran along the ridgeline, with the majority of the neighborhood reachable only by foot using narrow steps and alleys that looked like they came out of a medieval fantasy novel, winding and twisting around without apparent rhyme or reason. The only indication that you hadn’t traveled back in time was the boutique hotels and coffee shops interspersed throughout the maze.
I watched the couple, hoping
they’d move on. They didn’t. Instead, they both pulled out their phones and began playing with them. On the net, I said, “Veep, what’s going to happen if someone else comes to the gym?”
I waited on a response, and Knuckles said, “You think they’re playing the game?”
“Hell yeah, look at them.”
Veep came back, “If they win, they now own the gym. It’s no big deal, because the gym will still stand. He’ll still come.”
Retro came on, “Uh . . . Pike, Creed says the gym’s not real. He only had a day to work on it, and it doesn’t actually work. It just shows up as a phantom.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’ll register on the app as existing, but nobody can actually play there. It’s a dummy gym.”
Jennifer came on, “Pike, this is Koko, I have eyes on the target. He’s on the way.”
Off the net, I said to Knuckles, “This is going to go bad.”
He chuckled and said, “I would expect nothing less.”
The couple fidgeted around for a little bit, messing with their phones, then turned and retraced their steps. They rounded the corner of the hotel and disappeared from view.
I said, “Whew. That was close. Get your kit ready.”
Knuckles opened a small satchel, using a syringe to mix two powerful sedatives together. He held the tube up and pushed the plunger, expelling the air in the needle.
Jennifer said, “Pike, we have an issue. The couple met the target on the way down. They’re talking.”
Shit.
“What’s your read?”
“They saw him playing, and they’re telling him the gym is a bust.”
“Are you burned? Has he seen you with Veep?”
“No. He hasn’t reached us yet.”
“Okay. Keep eyes on him, if he looks like he’s going to abort—”
“They’re done. Moving in different directions.”
“Is he headed your way?”
“No.”
I looked at Knuckles, and he said, “Get Jennifer on his ass, now.”
I nodded and, into the radio, said, “Veep, go into the hotel and wait. Koko, interdict him. Get him into the kill zone.”
“How?”
Looking at me with a half smile on his face, Knuckles clicked into the net. “Show him some cleavage and ask him about the game. Work it. Tell him you want to see how the game is played.”
I saw Veep stand, then heard Jennifer say, “Are you serious?”
I came on. “Yep. Just go the ‘are you an American’ route, then start talking about the game. He’ll want to show you, and the only thing nearby is the gym.”
She glanced up our way and said, “This is not my skill set.”
Knuckles said, “Do it, and I’ll give you a prize.”
I scowled at the comment, and, he mouthed, What? But he damn well knew what the prize meant. I saw a little grin leak out and knew he was playing me. I said, “Execute the mission.”
I watched her walk away, out of view, and said, “You’d better hope Carly doesn’t come into the team, because payback is a motherfucker.”
He laughed, checking his equipment and saying, “I think you’re jealous.”
And just like that we were clicking again. I grinned at him, saying, “Touché.”
I waited a moment, then poked my head over the wall, seeing Jennifer walking up the alley with our target, her hand on his arm. Knuckles said, “She must like guys with tattoos.”
I said, “That’s what drew her to me in the first place.”
He said, “You don’t have any tattoos.”
They made the turn, going to the fake gym deep into our blind alley, and I said, “None that you know about.”
He poked his head over the wall and said, “None that exist.”
The target looked our way, and Knuckles hunched down behind the wall. I said, “Maybe I got one after I left the Taskforce.”
He chuckled and said, “No way. After the hell you gave me for my tattoos? You’re too particular.”
He had me there. I called Veep and said, “Lock down the exit. Keep us clean.”
He said, “Roger. They’ve passed by me. They’re on the way into the kill zone.”
I said, “Roger all,” and stuck my head above the wall, seeing Jennifer leading him in with a hand on his upper arm. They stopped, and she leaned into his phone, clicking into the net and saying, “How does this work? What do you do?”
I heard him start talking, explaining the game, and said, “Veep, it’s on. Retro, stage the vehicle. We’re coming back with a body.”
Knuckles slipped over the wall and I followed. We slunk down the alley, closing in on them, watching the target valiantly attempt to vanquish the virtual character in the gym so he could get into Jennifer’s pants.
I heard, “This damn thing isn’t working. It’s like what those other people said. It’s a glitch.”
He caught movement behind him and turned around. He saw Knuckles and said, “You!” Jennifer grabbed his arm and he slammed his leg into her crotch in a spasm of rage. I saw her eyes explode in pain, and she sagged forward. I started running toward him, and he went into a crouch, snarling. Then Jennifer got back in the fight.
Her face contorted in anger, she snapped low, whipping in a circle with one leg out, hitting him just above the ankles, flinging his legs up and sending him flat on his back. I heard him yelp, and we reached him just as his head bounced on the pavement. I grabbed his legs, letting Knuckles use the syringe.
He did not. Instead he leaned into the target’s face, held up the syringe, and said, “This would have been an easy ride, but you chose to hurt someone I hold dear.”
The target began thrashing about, me holding his legs still. He blurted out, “What the fuck is going on? What did I do to you? What does that mean?”
Knuckles leaned in and said, “It means you meet my callsign,” and then hammered him in the temple.
Jennifer released his arm, letting it hit the ground. She sagged into the wall, taking deep breaths. She said, “Knuckles . . . that wasn’t necessary.”
He stood up and said, “Yeah, it was. There’s a reason these guys exist and it’s because they don’t feel any consequences.”
I flipped the inert body onto his stomach, peeled his pants down, then motioned to Knuckles. He used the syringe in the buttocks. I locked eyes with him while he administered the dose, and he said, “What?”
I said, “Nothing. Just wondering if you’d have done the same if it had been me on the receiving end.”
He grinned and said, “No fucking way.”
I laughed and started coordinating exfil.
39
Inside the Old Executive Office Building next to the White House, Kurt Hale and George Wolffe were forced, like everyone else in the room, to wait on the arrival of President Hannister.
Kurt glanced around the table, taking in who was missing from the members of the Oversight Council, trying to ascertain a clue as to why Hannister was late. Most were glued to the latest reports out of Houston—which was the reason they’d all been called together—but some were clustered in small groups, talking. Kurt couldn’t find Nancy Rankin, the newly minted secretary of state, Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, or Mark Oglethorpe, the secretary of defense.
He mentioned their absence to George, who said, “Palmer’s missing as well.” Alexander Palmer was the president’s national security advisor, and the four being absent meant there was a separate meeting going on somewhere.
Kurt started to respond when the door opened and President Hannister entered the room, followed by the four missing administration officials. The assembled Council members found their seats, and Kurt stood up. President Hannister said, “Colonel Hale, before you brief, I’d like Director Bostwick to give an update. We just came
out of a VTC with his counterpart in the United Kingdom, and we’ve made some headway.”
Kurt sat back down, interested in the British connection, and Kerry Bostwick moved to the head of the table. He said, “We know that the ship was a Kuwaiti-flagged vessel, owned by a Saudi Arabian company. We’ve tracked its course since loading up with crude in Kuwait. It came through the Strait of Hormuz, around the Cape of Good Hope, and headed up to its first port of call, which was in the United Kingdom. This is where it gets interesting.”
He clicked on a PowerPoint showing a picture of a dry-dock shipyard. “The vessel claimed some internal problems—we’re still working with the shipping company to determine just what the issue was—and detoured into the Med, going to the British port at Gibraltar. They were delayed for five days. During that time, a company called Mint Tea Maintenance was one of six that worked on the vessel but was the only one that did anything near where the vessel was breached.”
He clicked the screen, bringing up a picture of a badge from the shipyard with the face of a thirty-something Arabic man. He said, “This is Karim al-Khattabi. He’s the sole proprietor of Mint Tea. He worked on the vessel for a total of five days.”
He flipped the screen again, showing the same man lying on a steel floor, his eyes half-open and his mouth agape, the tongue rolled back. “This is Karim now. He was found dead on a cable car descending from the top of Gibraltar. Next to him were two bricks of Semtex and some blasting caps.”
He turned back to the room and said, “MI6 feels—as do I—that this man is responsible for the attack. What we don’t know is why he was killed, but we believe it was a cleanup.”
Richard Melbourne, one of the few civilians on the Oversight Council, said, “Where’s he from? He’s clearly not British.”
“He’s from the Rif Mountains of Morocco, which is one of the reasons we believe he’s the terrorist.” Bostwick grinned sardonically and said, “I mean, outside of the fact that he was found dead with a bunch of explosives after being the last man to service the ship.”
Richard said, “Why is that an indicator? The Rif Mountains?”
