by Mel Odom
The blue bar graph indicating the amount of video library covered moved slowly, ticking off completed percentile points.
Lizuca considered trying the home number she had for Mrs. Samuel Adams Gander again, thinking perhaps with everything that was going on in America—all the unrest and accidents—that it might not be too late to call.
“Miss Carutasu.”
Startled by the low, menacing voice, Lizuca turned in her seat and saw Radu Stolojan standing behind her.
He was tall and powerful-looking in his habitual black suit. He wore his curly hair in a short crop, like the Greeks. Despite the fact that he worked primarily daylight hours, his pale skin showed no tan, as if he took pains to avoid the sun.
“Yes, Mr. Stolojan.” Lizuca tried desperately not to choke on the bit of pastry she’d been chewing.
“What are you doing?” Stolojan crossed to her desk, staring at the picture inset in the upper left of her computer monitor.
The picture of the evil-faced man looked back at her accusingly. “Research for Miss Vinchenzo,” Lizuca answered.
“She asked you to research him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who this man is?” Stolojan demanded.
“No.” She was going to say more but Stolojan cut her off.
“Does Danielle Vinchenzo know who this man is?”
“No, sir. I mean, I don’t think so. She said she didn’t have his name. She wanted to know if OneWorld had anything on him in the video archives.”
“This,” Stolojan said, reaching out and tapping keys on her keyboard, “is a waste of time.” The search ended with a sputter and the picture blanked. He continued tapping the keys, opening the files and locating the folder where she had stored the digital image. A few keystrokes later, the image was gone completely from the computer’s drives.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know, sir.” Lizuca felt terribly embarrassed. There was no way anyone else in the room could not have heard Stolojan chastising her. That hurt. She prided herself on being professional, a good employee, and a strong asset to the corporation.
“In the future, Miss Carutasu,” Stolojan said as he turned and headed back to his office, “I expect you to clear any projects Miss Vinchenzo might assign you with me before you begin them.”
“Yes, Mr. Stolojan.”
Stolojan spared her one more look at the door to his office, then turned and closed the door.
Even with the door closed, Lizuca knew Stolojan watched the news office. Spy cameras were spread throughout the building: in the main rooms, the bathrooms, the break areas. No one went anywhere inside OneWorld NewsNet that Stolojan didn’t have the ability to see them.
She kept herself from crying in her embarrassment through sheer willpower. Part of her couldn’t help wondering why Stolojan had shown such a strong reaction—at least, the reaction was strong for him—to the picture. It was as if he knew who the man was.
And that he didn’t want anyone else to know.
Lizuca brought up other screens on her monitor and busied herself with the mundane work that constantly lay at her fingertips. Inside her heart, she was torn. Even after just three days, she enjoyed
working with Danielle Vinchenzo very much, and Danielle had told her that, if she could, she would take her back to the United States with her when she went.
The thought burned within Lizuca, as did the realization that Danielle evidently thought the man she’d been researching was good story material. Danielle Vinchenzo had a nose for news. Lizuca looked at Stolojan’s closed door. Maybe Stolojan didn’t think the story had merit, but Lizuca believed in Danielle.
She turned her attention back to her computer and to the time/date stamp in the lower-right corner. What Stolojan didn’t know about her was the habit she had of e-mailing important things to herself that she didn’t want to lose. She still had a copy of the picture of the evil-faced man. And she had access to OneWorld’s vast video archives while offsite. All she had to do was retrieve the picture and continue her search on her own time. Perhaps she wouldn’t get overtime or the new dress immediately, but she trusted Danielle’s instincts.
If the story panned out and she was able to identify the man, Lizuca felt certain that something interesting would come her way.
The time/date stamp rolled over one more minute, putting her that much closer to the end of her shift. She awaited the time anxiously.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0620 Hours
Icarus was sold out by the CIA. Somehow, the thought didn’t surprise Remington as much as it should have. Maybe subconsciously he’d already figured that out. If Icarus was in place and secure, who else could have done the deed? He listened intently as Winters continued his story.
“We knew before the Rosenzweig assassination was supposed to go down that Icarus was a double. But the decision was made to leave him in place until Rosenzweig was safe.”
“Icarus could have burned the agency then,” Remington said.
“Yes, sir. But he didn’t. His information about the hit and the PKK terrorist cells involved was on the money.”
“Don’t you think that was strange? Doesn’t Cody?”
“No, sir. See, hitting Rosenzweig wouldn’t do much.”
“Because the fertilizer had already been invented and changed Israel’s political and economic situation in the Middle East.”
“Exactly. Assassinating Rosenzweig? Well, that would be more of a—” Winters searched for words.
“A consolation prize,” Remington supplied.
Winters nodded. “You could call it a political statement. And maybe a warning, a way of putting other people, other countries, on notice.”
“Why didn’t you wait for Icarus to cut loose from the PKK instead of burning his cover?”
“Icarus had already missed exfiltration ops. No one felt they had a handle on him.”
“Why did he miss exfiltration?”
“He said the PKK was suspicious of everybody after the assassination cells were taken off the map. Left messages in drops telling Cody that he couldn’t get away, that he was scared if he tried the PKK would kill him.”
“And Cody believed him?”
“No, sir. Icarus’s choice to stay deep only reinforced the idea that we were on the right track. Finally. Until the information popped about Icarus, rumors about the growing terrorist conglomerate and the Syrian link were just rumors. A ghost that couldn’t be laid to rest.”
“Only it wasn’t a ghost.”
“No, sir.”
“After you burned Icarus’s cover, why go after him?” Remington knew there was more to the story.
“Icarus knew too much.”
Remington’s look asked the next question.
Winters hesitated. “Part of Icarus’s assignment was to compromise the terrorist communications,” Winters said. “As he worked his way through the PKK organization, he planted back doors and viruses in their computer networks. They used their own hardware and they used cybercafés. If the agency couldn’t access the information the terrorists were using, the agency wanted the ability to shut their systems down.”
“Terrorist cells aren’t known for communicating a lot,”
Remington said. “That’s one of the basic precepts for breaking them into autonomous groups. If one cell operates independently, doesn’t know anything about any other cells, they can’t give them up if they’re compromised. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
“But there’s been a changing terrorist front, remember? Sir.” Winters cleared his throat. “They were communicating. Still are. More now than ever. The agency wanted the back doors and viruses left intact. The thinking was that if Icarus got loose and contacted his true masters, they might make those back doors and viruses go away.”
“They still could.”
“Maybe. But it would be hard. It is hard.”
“The Syrians could tell the terrorist groups what’s going on.”
Winters gave him a cold, jackal’s grin. “Think about it. The Syrian military attaché or the State Department or the War Department—whatever they have over there—they’re telling their new terrorist buddies, ‘Oh, we know we let a spy into your group, but it was to help us spy on the Americans. Surely you can see you would have benefited from that, too. And, yes, we know we let a lot of your people get killed or captured by the Americans and Israelis when they tried to assassinate Chaim Rosenzweig. But don’t worry; we’ll fix everything.’ ” The CIA agent shook his head. “Let them try selling that one. Me, I wouldn’t want to do it. End up getting a front-row seat as a target at a firing-squad detail.”
“If Icarus got back to the Syrians, he could shut those subroutines down?”
Winters nodded. “That’s what we’ve been told.”
“So why isn’t Icarus streaking for the border?” Remington asked.
“Why is he staying in Sanliurfa?”
“Maybe he hasn’t been able to connect with his exfiltration contact.” Winters remained quiet for a moment.
Remington waited, letting the silence stretch out between them till it seemed to fill the room.
“And maybe there was something else,” Winters said. “Maybe Icarus has already been in touch with his exfiltration guy.”
A cold feeling threaded through Remington’s stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about First Sergeant Gander’s connection with a rogue agent, sir,” Winters replied in a neutral tone that offered no hint of accusation or reproach. “This is the second time Icarus went looking for Gander.”
Remington hadn’t been aware that the CIA knew about Goose’s confrontation with Icarus in the bar the night they’d arrived in Sanliurfa.
“What are you thinking, Agent Winters?” the Ranger captain asked.
The sharp tone in Remington’s voice was all the warning Winters needed. He lowered his voice more. “Sir, it wasn’t me thinking. It was Agent Cody.”
“Cody thinks Goose is a spy?”
Winters considered his answer, then gave it with obvious reluctance. “That is one possibility that explains the repeated contact with Icarus, sir.”
Remington cursed. “Look,” he said when he slowed down, “First Sergeant Gander is a lot of things—pigheaded and too content to remain enlisted to suit my tastes—but he is every inch an American fighting man.” The image of Goose carrying the wounded marine OneWorld NewsNet currently used to cover the Turkish-Syrian confrontation slipped into the Ranger captain’s mind. “He is not now and will never be in any way disloyal to his country. I’ll stake my life on that any day of the week.”
“I believe you, sir,” Winters said, but even though Remington knew the CIA agent was doing his best to sound sincere, it was plain he held some serious reservations.
“Goose—First Sergeant Gander—isn’t seeking Icarus out,” Remington said. “In both instances, Icarus has approached him.”
“Yes, sir.”
But both times Icarus had been able to find Goose while Perrin and his team and the CIA hadn’t been able to locate Icarus.
That fact rankled.
Remington paced, breaking away from Winters because the sight of the man angered him so much he was afraid he was going to lose control. Losing control in front of people wasn’t something he did.
He scanned the security-camera monitors, watching the vehicles arrive with more wounded and dead, then leave quickly. Concentrating on his breathing, he calmed himself and looked at the screens but not really seeing the figures.
Despite all the pluses Goose brought to the combat field, Remington knew he had to figure in all the minuses Goose brought as well. Goose wasn’t at his best. He’d lost his son to whatever force had caused the mysterious disappearances. He had, for whatever reason, become a fixation point for a rogue CIA agent who was a walking target and yet another reason for the Syrians to invade this city that the 75th and other military units had fought and died and killed to keep. He was an enlisted man currently filling an officer’s post, which didn’t sit well with the other officers no matter how much combat experience and know-how Goose brought to the table. And Goose was Cal Remington’s friend. In some ways, when it came to their military life, they couldn’t have been any closer, even if they’d been brothers.
But Goose’s weakness made Remington weak. Goose’s borderline insubordination about the CIA agent made Remington’s command weak.
And weakness gets you killed, Remington reminded himself. No matter how good you are. Friendship or no friendship, Cal, you didn’t come all this way to die. And you’re going to wear general’s stars before you cash in your chips. Your command is going to stay strong. You are going to stay strong. No matter how many bodies you have to climb over, no matter if these rivers run red with blood. You’re a survivor. So … survive.
Something had to be done about Goose, and it had to be done soon. Before things had a chance to get worse. Because that was one thing Remington was sure of: things were definitely going to get worse.
17
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 2338 Hours
Megan spotted Jenny’s reflection in the dark glass as she entered the hospital waiting room. For a moment, Megan watched the young woman, not knowing what made her hesitate. There was something just … different about Jenny McGrath. Something different in the way she held herself and the way she acted. Something different, even, from the way she had sounded on the phone.
You’re imagining things, Megan told herself reproachfully. That’s just paranoia kicking in. But she didn’t fault herself. With the way things had turned out tonight and the long hours she’d been putting in every day since the disappearances, her own emotions over losing Chris, and dealing with Joey and Goose away from the home in dangerous circumstances, it was no wonder that she was paranoid. The miracle was that she didn’t need full sedation. And soft restraints. And a straitjacket.
Jenny peered around the nearly filled-to-capacity waiting room, holding the thermos and a brown paper bag.
Several of the young soldiers looked at Jenny, and Megan didn’t blame them. She knew why her son had been infatuated with the young woman; she was nothing short of beautiful.
Standing, Megan turned to face Jenny and called her name.
A relieved look flashed across Jenny’s face, but she didn’t let it find a home there. She was too composed to let something as vulnerable as relief show. Since Megan had known the young woman, she’d recognized that about her. Jenny always put on a strong front, showed a little attitude. Whatever her weaknesses were—and Megan was certain they were there—Jenny kept them quietly under wraps.
Jenny joined Megan, and they sat in the chairs between the two MPs assigned to keep Megan in the waiting room.
“Crowded,” Jenny observed in a whisper.
“Tonight … hasn’t been a good night. For a lot of people.”
The young woman glanced at the two MPs. “Fan club?”
“Not exactly.”
Understanding dawned in Jenny’s eyes. “Somebody figures it’s your fault Leslie Hollister is in here?”
Megan started to hedge, but she realized immediately that Jenny would see right through her best efforts, and she was hardly at her best. “If it’s not my fault, then maybe it’s partly my responsibility. I was in the room when Leslie shot herself.”
“You went in there because she was in trouble. Blaming yourself is wrong. And it’s stupid.” Jenny glared at the two MPs, who decided to find different parts of the room to look at.
It’s the military, Megan wanted to tell her. It has to be someone’s fault. But all she said was, “We’ll just take this one step at a time for now.”
Jenny nodded, then concentrated on opening the thermos.
Seeing the container immediately reminded Megan of Goose. When he was stationed
at the post, he never went anywhere without it. He carried coffee in it fifty weeks out of the year, but during the last two weeks before Christmas, Megan always filled the thermos with homemade cocoa. It had been one of her private ways of making sure Goose remembered that Christmas was a special and blessed event.
Jenny looked awkward. “It was okay to use this, wasn’t it? I mean, I didn’t think to ask.”
“It’s fine,” Megan said. “Just caught me a little off guard.”
“It’s Goose’s, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t thinking. Brain-dead or something. Sorry.”
Megan touched Jenny’s shoulder. “Don’t be. If it hadn’t been the thermos that reminded me Goose isn’t here, the TV would. The news channel televises a recap on the attack in Sanliurfa every fifteen minutes.”
Carefully, Jenny poured the hot chicken noodle soup into two plastic cups she took from the paper bag. “Thought I would join you. If you don’t mind.”
“I appreciate the company. Miss dinner?”
Jenny smiled, but the effort was off, weaker than Megan had ever seen. “I’m thinking I missed lunch, too,” Jenny said, “but that might have been yesterday.”
“Lunch was yesterday. We’re already into a new day.”
Jenny shook her head. “Not until I’ve gone to sleep. Clock-watching just gets me confused. It’ll be tomorrow when I wake up. And not one moment before.”
Megan accepted the cup of hot soup and inhaled. Her stomach growled eagerly. “This smells wonderful.”
“Thank you. I found the recipe in a cookbook in the library when I was a kid. I always liked it.”
“It smells homey and substantive, like something your mother would have taught you to make.”
Jenny broke the eye contact and rummaged in the paper sack again. Megan watched the young woman’s feelings slide back behind protective shields that came up like a conditioned reflex. “My mother—”
