The Texan took a cautious step back, wary of guile. Of danger. “Go on.”
“Tarik Abdul Muhammad is in-country. In Vegas.”
“Is he planning an attack?”
From across the room, Han spoke for the first time. “That’s the general impression.”
11:26 P.M. Eastern Time
Foxstone Park
Vienna, Virginia
Silence. Kranemeyer exhaled, watching as his breath evaporated into the darkness of the surrounding trees. A brook gurgled beneath the snow-covered footbridge upon which he stood, icy water splashing over the rocks.
He stared off toward the small parking lot, the single light there providing the only illumination to be seen.
Foxstone Park was no stranger to treachery, to deceit.
It had once been a favorite haunt of Soviet FBI mole Robert Hanssen, up until his arrest in 2001. It was also only a scant three miles from Senator Coftey’s Washington-area residence.
The sound of a vehicle from the entry road, lights swinging through the trees. Kranemeyer drew his H&K, holding it out to his side as an SUV pulled into the parking lot. Its lights dimmed, then went out completely as a man emerged, his form swathed in a heavy overcoat.
Kranemeyer heard the sound of the driver’s side door being closed, watched as the figure strode through the sleet toward him.
“Given the history of this place, I’d compliment your sense of irony, but I thought I made myself clear, Barney. Better for both of us if we give each other a wide berth. No calls, no meetings.”
“You did,” Kranemeyer replied, looking the senator full in the face. “Shapiro and Haskel are dead.”
Coftey blanched. “Haskel?”
“As far as it takes, Roy,” came the grim rejoinder. “Or were those just words?”
The older man shook his head, his face hardening. “No…it’s time people were taught a lesson. Have you covered your tracks?”
“I used three phones over the course of the evening. All of them at the bottom of the Potomac now. Director Haskel was the victim of a stroke and—”
“I don’t need details. Why am I here?”
The DCS extracted the thumb drive from the pocket of his trench coat. “This isn’t over.”
“Who?”
“Roger Hancock.”
A string of curses escaped Coftey’s lips. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“He was willing to sacrifice a nation on the altar of ‘peace,’ Roy. He was willing to kill my men to conceal his treason. And he’s skating toward a second term. I want him brought down.” Kranemeyer paused, letting his words hang there between them. “You…or me?”
The implication couldn’t have been more clear, but he could see the hesitation in the senator’s eyes. The President.
They were standing on the edge of a precipice—long way down.
Coftey reached over, taking the USB drive from his hand with a heavy sigh. “Never been one for idle talk, Barney. Let’s burn it down.”
Chapter 23
12:01 A.M. Eastern Time, December 23rd
The White House
Washington, D.C.
The room seemed to swirl around him, dragging him down into the abyss. Pain—fire shooting through his body.
Fear. He looked down to see something dark, red, staining the front of his tailored shirt.
A stain pulsating, spreading ever wider with every beat of his heart.
Hancock came awake with the sound of the clock striking midnight, his eyes opening almost convulsively, his heart thudding against his ribs. Again.
His eyes darted around the darkened bedroom as he struggled to calm himself, a slick sheen of sweat covering his chest, his fingers entwined in the sheets.
Danger. He swung his legs out until his feet touched the floor, casting a brief glance back at the undisturbed, still-sleeping form of the woman who shared his bed.
Drawing his housecoat around him, the president padded barefoot into the adjoining bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Hollow eyes gazed back, rimmed with darkness. People were starting to notice, first among them the woman who did his makeup.
His fingers dug into the rim of the countertop as he forced his breathing to slow. He was the safest man in the world. The Secret Service made sure of that.
But if they knew…what then?
And Valentin Andropov was dead, butchered by that rogue CIA officer. The one variable no one had seen coming.
Variable? They had all been variables, leading him down this road. To this place. Hancock closed his eyes, swearing softly. What had happened to him?
“I know what you’ve done.” The voice of David Lay, drifting through his mind. That morning in the Oval Office, two weeks after Election Day. “I don’t know why—not yet, but I have the evidence of your treason.”
The words that had sealed his fate.
1:09 A.M. Pacific Time
The oilfield
Tehachapi, California
“Kranemeyer still isn’t answering his phone.” Tex looked up from the laptop as Thomas reentered the room, cellphone in hand. “I tried the back-up number as well—no joy.”
“Then stop calling,” the Texan replied sharply. “You don’t want to get flagged by ECHELON.”
There was a moment’s hesitation as the meaning sank in. “Then it’s true.”
A nod as he gestured at the computer screen. “Looks that way.”
It seemed incomprehensible, the big man thought, rubbing a hand across the dark stubble of his beard. That the betrayals could have continued so far. So high.
First Hamid. Now this—the President. Everything he had once trusted, shaken to the very core. Almost everything.
“We can’t just sit by and watch a terrorist attack go down,” Thomas protested, his gaze flickering from Tex to where Harry sat across the room, his hands tied in front of him.
Harry shook his head, glancing down at his wrists. “No one said anything about sitting by. We can still stop it, but we can’t go through regular channels.”
“You’re not in charge of this op,” Tex shot back, his dark eyes flashing. “My orders are to take you in.”
Orders. They were the big man’s strong suit. Dependable as the sunrise. Always faithful. Ever the Marine.
Semper Fidelis.
Harry’s eyes locked with Richards’. “So do your job—take me in…after all of this is over. After we’ve stopped Tarik.”
“You have a plan?” This from Thomas.
Harry nodded, extending his bound wrists. Neither man moved. “How many years,” he began, looking from one to the other. Struggling to maintain his own composure. “How many years has it been? We’ve been through hell together. If you can’t believe me…then there is no one on this earth you can believe.”
Yet he could see the doubt in their eyes, the detritus of betrayal. And in his own mind he found himself in Jerusalem again, watching as the barrel of Hamid’s suppressed Glock swung toward the security camera.
Even in death, he continued to wreak havoc. “I’m not going to run from what I’ve been forced to do. Never have—I see no reason to start now. All I ask is that you hear me out. I’ve earned that.”
After a long moment, the Texan nodded, moving in close enough to cut Harry’s ties with the combat knife in his hand. “What’s your plan?”
Harry rubbed his wrists, the red marks where the ties had cut into his tanned flesh. His head came up, eyes meeting Thomas’ face. “Do you remember Nicole Powers?”
4:21 A.M. Eastern Time
Kranemeyer’s apartment
Washington, D.C.
It had been years. Years since he had taken a life. And those times…had been nothing like this.
Kranemeyer sat alone in his darkened bedroom, staring out the window at the city. Had it destroyed him too?
Impossible to say. His choice had been made for him, somewhere back in the halls of power by men conspiring for “peace.” The myth of the greater goo
d, their perpetual justification for evil. Seeking peace, they had launched a war.
A war that he’d just brought crashing down around their ears. No regrets.
A phone rang in the night, the sound of his Agency cell from the bedroom, Jon Bon Jovi’s voice breaking the stillness of the apartment. And he knew.
Rising from his chair with reluctance, Kranemeyer walked into the bedroom, grabbing up the phone just before it went to voicemail. “Kranemeyer here.”
It was Lasker. “We’ve got a situation, sir. The DDI left his protective detail behind last night—took his kids to the Church of the Holy Trinity. No one has seen him since, his children were alone when his wife arrived. Metro’s canvassing the city and we’re monitoring the usual suspects for chatter.”
“I’ll be right in.”
“That would be good, sir.”
Kranemeyer pressed the kill button on his phone, staring down at the screen for a long moment.
And so it began…
3:45 A.M. Pacific Time
The convention center
Las Vegas, Nevada
No sleep. He couldn’t possibly sleep. Leaving his bedroll, Nasir found himself passing like a ghost through the massive convention center, making his way toward the small room that once again served as their kitchen.
Perhaps he could make the call yet this night.
He had to find a way of escape from this nightmare. Jamal…perhaps even Jamal was not beyond saving. They were brothers, after all—even if there were times when he felt as if he was faced with a stranger.
He flicked on the light, the fluorescents in the ceiling casting a pale glow over the small room. The refrigerator was only a few feet inside the doorway and he pulled out a carton of milk, pouring part of it into a styrofoam cup.
The silence reminded him of Lebanon. Waiting for the Jewish bombs to fall. His hand trembled as milk splashed into the cup. Maybe this would calm him.
Nasir rubbed his palm against the leg of his jeans, feeling the slight bulge of the disassembled phone in his pocket. Make the call, a voice whispered within him. Do it now.
It was right. He might get no better opportunity. He turned, raising the cup toward his lips.
Abu Kareem stood in front of him, leaning against the doorway. “Having trouble sleeping?”
Nasir nearly choked on the milk in his mouth. “Y-y-yes. Yes I was, my father.”
The imam regarded him with a look of kindness. “Is it anything that I could help you with?”
No. The imam was a threat. And yet, despite himself, he heard his lips form the opposite response.
Abu Kareem patted him on the shoulder and reached past him for the milk. “Have a seat, Nasir, and tell me what’s on your mind. Insh’allah, I may be able to help.”
He could feel perspiration moistening the palms of his hands as he sat down at the small card table, a nervous terror threatening to overcome him. And yet he yearned to trust. To have an answer.
“Are we right? In what we are about to do, I mean.”
The imam paused, and Nasir could hear him filling a cup. “Yes, we are. You know the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Did he not truly say,‘I have been commanded to fight the people until they testify that there is no deity worthy of worship except Allah, and that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah’?”
“Yes,” the young man replied, staring down into his milk as the imam took a seat opposite him. “Yet…I have heard it preached that this hadith refers only to the pagans of Arabia, that it should not be used to justify the spreading of Islam by violence. Is it not written, ‘If the enemy incline towards peace, do thou also incline towards peace, and trust in Allah: for He is the One that heareth and knoweth all things’?” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “What is God’s truth?”
Abu Kareem took a deep breath, seeming to consider his words with care. “I understand what you are saying, my son. And I understand what you have heard. More importantly, I understand why you have heard it. It is a necessity in these days, when the followers of the Prophet are oppressed and afflicted across the world—that we present one truth to the unbelievers and another to the children of God.”
“But to lie is a sin before Allah.”
“No,” the imam said patiently, leaning forward until his elbows rested upon the table. “To lie is a sin if you lie for your own benefit. To lie for the benefit of Allah’s cause…is another matter entirely. Indeed, it is obligatory to lie to the oppressors of His people. And thus we have done. As the treaty of Hudaybiyyah, which the Prophet made in a time of necessity and dissolved thereafter, so must our peace with the West be.”
Nasir felt a shiver run through his body as he gazed into Abu Kareem’s eyes. The older man leaned back in his chair,
“Do you understand the point I am making, Nasir?”
“Yes.”
4:02 A.M.
The oilfield
Tehachapi, California
The bed was empty. And she was nowhere to be seen.
Harry came awake, staring around the small back room of the trailer. She was gone. It couldn’t be possible. No. He rose from the chair where he had been sleeping, wincing as pain shot through his stiff ribs.
Ignore it. He staggered toward the door, sliding his Colt from the polished leather of its holster.
He thought of calling out, rejected it just as quickly. If there was an enemy, he would accomplish nothing more than giving away his own position.
And there she sat, in front of the computer, its luminescent glow reflected in her weary eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked, the question coming out more brusquely than he had intended.
“Powers,” Carol responded, not even looking up. As he moved closer, he could see she had been crying. “I have their address—it’s in Summerlin, outside Vegas. I looked at her Facebook.”
“And?”
“They’re expecting their first child.” He could see the pain, the exhaustion in her eyes.
“You need to get some rest,” he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“I can’t.” She paused, her body shuddering. “I close my eyes, and I see his face.”
Harry found himself whispering a prayer, dreading her next question. “Does it…ever go away?” she asked, looking up into his eyes in the semi-darkness.
He didn’t ask what. Didn’t need to. He knew. The stain of blood. The scars left upon the soul by the taking of a life.
It seemed as if it was forever before he responded, a silent figure standing there behind her chair.
“No,” came the soft reply, cutting to the very fibers of her being. She could feel his fingers brush at her hair, his hands kneading the taut muscles of her shoulders through the soft fabric of her blouse. “It never leaves you—not really. But you can overcome it. And you will.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. But I believe.”
Carol closed her eyes, the image of Pyotr’s shattered body once again flickering across her mind. A tear escaped, running down her cheek as she leaned back into his hands. “Why?”
She could feel his hesitation, the tension in his fingertips. “Because I need you,” he whispered finally, his lips almost touching her ear. “Like nothing else, I need you.”
By the time she turned around, he was gone.
6:34 A.M. Mountain Time
Denver, Colorado
Head down, the chill morning wind whipped around her ears, stabbing at her lungs as she breathed. Marika ignored the sensations, never breaking her stride as she ran down the side of the road.
Her morning run, a defiant routine against the increasing demands of “getting older.”
A routine that was becoming less so. Her phone vibrated against her ribs and she swore in frustration, unbuttoning the light windbreaker she wore. “Altmann,” she gasped out, realizing just how out of breath the run had left her.
“Where are you?” Russ.
“Running,” she shot back, glancing at
the watch on her wrist. “I’ll be there by seven.”
“You need to get in now.” There was tension in the negotiator’s voice, something rattling his unflappable calm.
Marika sucked in another breath of icy air. “What’s going on?”
“Just got a flash from D.C and things have exploded around here. Haskel was found dead in his Georgetown home this morning.”
“Murdered?” She cast a glance down the road as a car flashed past. A mile back to her car.
“No idea. No one knows yet. Just get in here. And, Marika…”
“Yes?”
“Your tech buddy got the results of the cell trace back. The phone is off-grid now, but the last time it communicated with a tower was moments after placing the call to you. Near Vegas.”
She swore angrily. It was him. Had to be.
“I’ll be there.”
8:32 A.M. Eastern Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“No,” President Hancock whispered, glaring across the room at Cahill. “It can’t be true. I just talked with Eric yesterday.”
“And the ME’s preliminary reports indicate that he suffered a massive stroke shortly before midnight,” his chief of staff replied calmly, as if speaking to a child. “I know the two of you were close, Roger. I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”
Hancock turned away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t show fear—not in front of Cahill. As ruthless a political player as the Irishman was, he would never sanction the lengths to which the President had gone. Haskel’s death was no accident.
“Has Metro uncovered any new developments with Shapiro?”
“Not yet,” came the chilling reply. “One of the Jesuits remembers him entering the church with his kids before the rehearsal. Doesn’t seem like anyone saw him leave.”
First Andropov. Then Haskel. Shapiro?
He was dead, Hancock realized suddenly. Dead or on the run. Dead might, in fact, be preferable—in light of all that had happened.
His fingers shook as he poured himself a drink, a finger of brandy in a crystal snifter. Blood. His dream came washing back over him in unsettling clarity. A vision of death.
He hadn’t dreamed the danger. He tossed back the brandy, swallowing hard. “Has the media caught wind of any of this?”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 46
