Against All Enemies

by John Gilstrap

  Jonathan scowled. “You’ve always had a cynical bent, Wolfie, but I think this is new territory for you.”

  “This is a terrible way to speak of the man who just reappointed me, but Darmond is an empty suit with a pretty smile. That’s why I accepted his nomination. At least I can run some interference from my little corner of the federal apparatus.”

  A scary thought dawned in Jonathan’s mind. “Are you suggesting that the president is somehow behind Blaine’s assassination and the attempt on Moncrief?”

  Irene took her time. “Let me tell you what I don’t think. I don’t think that the attack on Senator Moncrief was a random act, and neither does Ramsey Miller, my Secret Service counterpart, yet I’m disturbed by the vigor with which the administration is painting it that way.”

  “We’ve been around this block in my shop as well, Irene, and I’m not comfortable with the notion of the president as assassin.”

  Irene raised a hand for silence. “Please don’t put words in my mouth,” she said. “I do not think that the president is trying to kill people. Congressman Blaine was of his party, remember? And quite the supporter.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that assassination is a very dangerous business. We don’t yet have proof enough to even suggest that Blaine’s murder and Moncrief’s attempted murder are related, but I’ll bet you a hundred bucks right now that they are. Call it a gut feeling, but my gut has done well for me over the years.”

  Jonathan thought it through for a few seconds. “If you’re right, they’ll be coming for Senator Moncrief again.”

  “Probably.”

  “Have you spoken with him about that?”

  Irene scowled deeply. “Let’s think that headline through, shall we? Senate minority leader seeks help from FBI director in murder case. Um, no. Given the nature of the charges against him, we can’t go near him.”

  Jonathan got it. “That’s for me to do.”

  A pressed-lip smile. “I’m sorry that I don’t have anything more concrete for you.”

  “Hey, it is what it is.” Jonathan started to stand.

  Irene put her hand on his shoulder. “One more minute, please,” she said.

  Jonathan waited.

  “I confess that I was expecting a call from your side of the world, but this was not what I expected the content to be.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. “What did I forget?”

  “I thought this was going to be about an old friend of yours,” she said. “Remember a fellow named Dylan Nasbe?”

  Jonathan prevented his face from showing the message that his gut was sending. “Sure, I remember him. We were in the Army together. But just for a while. He came in shortly before I left.”

  Irene gave him her cat-eyed look. “Don’t be coy with me, Scorpion. You served in the Unit together.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “If you say so. You know I can neither confirm nor deny. In fact, I am officially unaware that there is even such an organization as the Unit.”

  “Okay, fine,” Irene said. “We’ll pretend that we’re on the other side of the broad denials. Did you know that he’s gone rogue?”

  Jonathan held fast to his poker face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he’s working against us. He’s leaking classified materials to the enemy.”

  He noted that she made no mention of killing Agency assets. Was she unaware, or merely playing a careful hand? Maybe he’d never know. “I find that hard to believe,” he said. “Why haven’t I heard about it on the news?”

  “Because we’ve successfully kept a lid on it thus far.”

  “And why are you telling me?”

  She gave him a long, hard look, clearly trying to see through his mask. “It’s been my experience that when Unit members get into a jam, they somehow find their way to you.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t heard anything about this.”

  Irene shifted in her seat and recrossed her legs. “Digger, we’ve plowed far too many rows together for you to start lying to me now.”

  She had something on him. He knew it just from the smug set of her mouth. He had to be very careful not to burn a very important bridge. “The only way I could imagine lying to you is if you tried to put me into a corner where I felt trapped.”

  Irene uncrossed her legs and leaned in closer to him. “Why did you visit Christyne Nasbe the other day?”

  Jonathan kept his face impassive. He said nothing.

  “Shall I show you the surveillance photos?”

  Jonathan remained silent. He had no doubt that she possessed the photos, just as he had no doubt that he had broken no laws.

  “Curiously, it seems that after some initial banter, the family decided to watch a war movie with you. At very high volume. Digger, I’m telling you, this is not some charity case that you want to get involved in.”

  Jonathan reached out and placed one hand on Irene’s knee. It was a gesture of friendship, not romance, and she would understand the difference. “As you say, we’ve plowed a lot of rows together. All told, I think I’ve earned the right not to have surveillance on me. And I’ve earned significant benefit of doubt.”

  “So you are involved with Nasbe.”

  “I didn’t say that. But let’s stipulate to two things. One, that there is no greater patriot than I.”

  “Are you going to tell me again that you’re on the side of the angels?” Irene said with a roll of her eyes. “That one is getting old.”

  “And it is no less true than when you first heard me say it. I encourage the Bureau and the Agency to do whatever you feel is necessary as far as Nasbe is concerned, but leave me out of it.”

  “That’s easiest to do if you’re not in it in the first place.”

  The discussion was about to become circular, and Jonathan had neither the time nor the patience. He stood and offered his hand. “You owe me this much, Irene.”

  She hesitated, then took his hand. “Just promise me you’ll stay out of the way.”

  “No watching?” Jonathan said. “No following?”

  She nodded. “No watching, no following.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Another hour passed and as the shadows lengthened and the roads continued to narrow, Ian picked up the sounds of distant gunfire. It was too far away to pose a threat—and in this part of the world, gunfire wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary—but the cadence of the shooting, the sheer volume of it, told him that it wasn’t just a bunch of country boys having a good time. It didn’t sound like warfare, either. The sounds were too ordinary for that, too regular.

  “We’re approaching a shooting range, aren’t we?”

  Nothing.

  He took that as a yes, if only for the lack of emotion shown by either Little or Biggs. Ian assumed from that that the gunfire was a typical part of a typical day, and that meant they were approaching the end of their trip into the mountains.

  The final turn—a left—required Little to bring the Sorento to a complete stop before negotiating the otherwise invisible space through the trees that put them on a road so narrow that it might have been a deer trail. To make the turn even more treacherous, its angle from the main road—if that’s what you could call it—was considerably sharper than ninety degrees. Nearly a U-turn. Given the size of the vehicle, Ian was impressed that Little could negotiate it without tearing the mirrors off.

  The deer trail lasted for what had to be more than a mile, through impenetrable walls of trees and bushes along either side.

  “You ever get errant hunters up this way?” Ian asked. He was tired of riding in silence.

  He was equally shocked when Biggs actually spoke. “Not for long,” he said. “Visitors are made to feel very unwelcome.”

  Roughly a hundred yards later, Little pulled to a stop and Biggs opened his door. “Stay put,” he said to Ian. He left his door open as he disappeared behind a tree ahead and on the right. While Ian couldn’t see the s
oldier’s hands, body language told him that he was speaking on some sort of telephone. The entire transaction lasted less than ten seconds, and then Biggs returned to the front seat and pulled the door closed. “All set,” he said.

  “What just happened?” Ian asked.

  “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” Biggs said.

  “And I’m used to getting a lot more answers,” Ian replied. “No offense, but you guys suck as hosts.”

  Little pulled the transmission back into gear and they started moving again. Around the next turn, a pair of heavily armed men in camouflaged battle gear stood abreast of a gate that blocked the road. The gate itself appeared to be part of a fence that extended into the thick foliage. Again, the vehicle stopped. Little and Biggs both rolled down their windows and instructed Ian to do the same.

  As he complied, Ian took note of the guards’ kit. The pattern of their cammies was at least one iteration older that the current military standard, maybe two. Each wore body armor that had to be punishing this time of year and each carried an M4 rifle. The pouches on their vests bulged with additional ammo. Whoever they were, they were prepared for some serious fighting.

  “Good evening,” said the guard who approached the driver’s window.

  “I’m back,” Little said.

  “I still need to see your card, sir.”

  Ian noted that the guard on the right side of the truck—Ian’s side—hung back a few feet, and stood with his feet planted in a deliberately wide stance. If things went ugly, he would be in a better position to bring his rifle to bear and eliminate the threat.

  Little undid his seat belt and leaned over onto one butt cheek to gain access to his wallet. From it, he removed a red, black, and white laminated card that was roughly the size of a credit card. The guard took it and examined it closely, and then studied Little’s face.

  “How long have you been off the compound?” the guard asked.

  “Fifty-seven days.”

  The guard on the driver’s side stood tall again, and the one on the passenger side relaxed. Ian surmised that the answer to the question was in fact a password.

  The driver-guard leaned closer to the window and squinted to see into the backseat. “This him?”

  “This is our guy,” Little said.

  “You’ve checked him?”

  “He’s good. No weapons.”

  Ian waved at the sentry and got a disdainful grimace in response. “Okay, open the back gate. Let me take a look and we’ll get you on your way.”

  As driver-guard moved to the back, passenger-guard repositioned himself for an angle on whatever the lifting gate might reveal. Given the air of tension, Ian opted to sit still and keep his mouth shut. He listened as they rummaged through stuff—he’d been in this car for how many hours, and he’d never even thought to see what was behind him. Clearly, it had been too long since he’d been in the field.

  The tail gate closed, and then the sentries returned to their original spots. “Okay, folks,” driver-guard said. “Have a good evening.”

  Little tossed off a casual, very unmilitary salute, and they were moving again.

  Through more woods. Lots and lots of woods. Easily another mile. Finally, they reached another gate, and the drama repeated itself. Only this time, the casual answer to the casual question was that they’d been out to see a movie. After the vehicle search, a second gate opened, and within a hundred yards, the woods thinned to reveal acres of open spaces populated with dozens of temporary structures that resembled single-and double-wide house trailers arranged in what could have been a neighborhood pattern of streets.

  While his head buzzed with questions, he’d reached the point of not wanting to give Little and Biggs the pleasure of ignoring him.

  As they cleared the patch of trailers, the terrain opened up to reveal a parade ground—that’s all Ian could think of. A wide open space that would be ideal for marching at parade, but where there should have been grass, there were instead long stretches of exposed rock. Beyond the flat space, a terraced hill rose forty or fifty feet, where there appeared to be more buildings atop another cleared area.

  “This is a strip mine,” Ian said.

  “Used to be,” Biggs replied. “Part of it, anyway. Now it’s our training facility.”

  Ian caught the casual use of the plural possessive but opted not to press. Gates, guards, volleys of gunfire, and barracks were pretty much all he needed to know. This was getting very real very quickly. And he suspected that the guards at the gate were as intent on keeping people in as they were keeping people out. Any chance of backing out had probably evaporated by now. The thought actually soothed him. Once choice was taken away, doubt evaporated with it. It made no sense to fret those things over which he had no control.

  They drove for a good long way across the compound and up the hill to the elevated clearing he’d seen.

  Here again, the buildings gave the feel of something temporary. Eight office trailers—the kind you’d see at a construction site—were arranged in a single precise row. Each flew the American flag from identical holders attached to the structure of the trailers. Painted a gleaming white, everything about these structures sparkled, from the ultra-clean windows—not an easy task in so dusty an environment—to the stone pathways that led from the parking area to the front doors. Only one appeared to be different than the others, and the difference had everything to do with the uniformed men standing on either side of the short flight of stairs that led to the front door. Each carried an M4 rifle battle-slung across his chest, muzzle pointed at the ground. Their faces gleamed with sweat, but neither made any attempt to wipe it away.

  Little swung the Kia into a spot between an old Ford Explorer and a Toyota pickup truck. “This is it,” Biggs said. “You can get out now.”

  The automatic door locks popped and Ian let himself out.

  “Follow me,” Biggs said, and he started walking toward the toy soldiers. After a few steps, Little joined him, and they more marched than walked toward the men with the guns.

  Ian found every bit of this to be surreal. Soldierly, yet not in a meaningful way. Everyone wore cammies, but the patterns were all over the place. The sentry to the right of the door might have been wearing a hunting shirt.

  The sentries closed ranks as Ian approached with his attendants. “Halt,” said the soldier on the left. “State your business.”

  Ian chewed a lip to stifle a laugh. Who talks like that? He suspected that perhaps they’d been watching too many movies.

  “We’re here at the old man’s request,” Biggs said.

  The guards exchanged glances and separated. “You can go,” the left one said. Up this close, he looked to be maybe twenty years old.

  Ian followed the others through the front door into exactly what he expected he would see. Cheap paneling covered the walls and cheap carpeting covered the floor, all of it lit with stark fluorescent light. A very young man in digital camouflage sat at a desk just inside the door. The surface was a mass of papers, and as he stood, an eight-by-ten sheet floated to the floor.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Tell the old man we’ve got Victor Carrington with us.”

  The kid picked up the phone and dialed. Ian could hear the phone ring on the other side of the flimsy interior wall behind him that stretched the width of the building. He could also hear the “old man” as he told the kid to send them in.

  “You know, it would be a lot easier if you just opened the door,” Ian said. He didn’t know what was going down, but he did know that it was time for him to start taking some measure of control.

  “You should shut your mouth,” Biggs said.

  Ian pointed to the door. “I’m assuming you want to lead,” he said.

  Biggs took a step forward, and Little stayed put, placing Ian in the middle as the door opened to reveal more of the same, just with slightly better furniture. The man at the desk sat between two American flags, behind a desk that was too cheaply made t
o pull off the “carved” scrolls and filigree. Ian sensed that the desk’s occupant was going for a tribute to the Oval Office’s Resolute desk, but the tribute fell in a heap in an Ikea parking lot.

  The man behind the desk might have been forty-five years old or he might have been thirty-five. He had that deliberately youthful look that made Ian think plastic surgery. Thick dark hair almost merged with his thick dark eyebrows, all of which framed a face that saw a lot of sun and a neck that saw a lot of exercise. The digital-pattern uniform he wore was closer to current Army standards, and the rank patch at his breastbone showed four stars.

  Biggs and Little snapped to attention and saluted. “Sir, reporting as ordered with Victor Carrington, sir.”

  Ian intentionally kept his posture neutral, though instinct was hard to fight.

  The man at the desk returned the salutes with a two-fingered flick from his eyebrow. It was the indelible mark of an asshole. “Mr. Carrington, I understand that you’re used to calling yourself the Commander,” he said. His Uprising avatar.

  Ian stood still and stayed quiet. It was a question to which no answer could do anything but hurt him.

  “Answer the general,” Biggs said.

  Ian remained silent. He had but one chance to make a first impression, and he was not going to cower.

  Color rose in the general’s face as he awaited an answer. He shot his eyes toward Biggs and gave subtle nod.

  Biggs drew his M9 pistol from his holster and pressed it to Ian’s right temple. “I told you—”