“Negative, negative,” Johnson shouted. “Lead vehicle is hostile. Trail vehicle is friendly.”
“We know,” the voice said. “We’ve got your GPS. Would you like us to take out the lead?”
“Negative,” DeLuca said. “We need it intact. Can you slow ’em down a bit?”
“We can try,” the voice came back.
The pickup was no more than a quarter mile ahead when a Hellfire missile struck the mountainside in front of it. DeLuca saw the brakes of the truck light up, but then the vehicle sped forward. He saw as well an explosion on a distant peak, telling him the A10 “Warthogs” were engaged, now that the Iraqi antiaircraft batteries had turned on their radars.
“Get me closer,” Dan shouted.
“He’s got a fifty-cal,” Blue shouted back. “We don’t want to get too close.”
The road was rough enough that it was pointless for either side to try to fire off rounds on the fly. DeLuca was more afraid of the lead vehicle dropping off a passenger, some guy behind a rock with an RPG leveled and steadily aimed at them. At the same time, he felt the adrenaline rush of battle, the head-to-toe electric charge that made him believe he could drive through anything, the feeling that had always pushed men in armed conflict to do very brave or very stupid things, often in the same day. “It’s a good thing war is so terrible,” Robert E. Lee once said, “elsewise we should grow too fond of it.”
A bump sent the Humvee flying, and then a large pothole rattled his teeth, centrifugal force flinging him against the door. Sergeant Blue hit the gas, gravel flying up behind them in a rooster tail. They caught a glimpse of the pickup truck again, ahead and below, curving around a rock face, and then another Hellfire struck, throwing a ball of flame in the air and scattering rocks, but the truck pressed on, disappearing around the stone face of the mountain.
“That’s it for us,” the voice from Kirkuk said. “We’ve got one more in the chamber but we thought we’d save it in case you need a kill on the other side.”
“Other side of what?” Johnson asked, but then the answer to his question became evident as the Toyota disappeared into the mouth of a large tunnel, its lights dipping out of sight. Sergeant Blue slowed.
“What do we do?” he asked excitedly. “We got ’em, right? Let’s just sit on it. Pin ’em down on both ends and wait for support. They can’t go anywhere, right?”
“Negative,” DeLuca said. “We don’t know the interior topography. If it’s a cave system, there could be other exits. Go go!”
Sergeant Blue sped up again, barreling into the tunnel barely under control. Once inside, the rock walls closed in, and it felt like they were going much faster than they were as the air turned colder. DeLuca flipped down his NVGs and looked at the speedometer. They were going thirty miles an hour, then thirty-five, forty . . . The tunnel bent to the left, then appeared to straighten a ways, the Toyota nowhere in sight ahead of them. Forty-five miles an hour . . .
DeLuca noticed that the bulletproof windshield of the Humvee was cracked, the fissure emanating from a pock mark the size of a half-dollar where a fifty-caliber shell had evidently ricocheted off the glass directly in front of him. A bit too close for comfort, he thought.
Then the Humvee took a hard left and slammed full speed into the back of the white Toyota truck, which had been left there to block the way.
DeLuca, as was his habit, wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, better to be able to make a quick exit, he’d always felt. And so he did, flying headfirst through the windshield.
And then everything went black.
Chapter Sixteen
CIA AGENT ANDREW TIMMONS WAS AT A WHITE House dinner, seated across from the director himself (a sure sign that his career was moving forward), listening to the president address the assembled Arabists and Islamic scholars (Mahmoud Jaburi was among them), when his assistant approached the table and whispered in his ear.
Timmons excused himself, saying he had something he needed to take care of. He grabbed an umbrella, then followed his assistant through the Rose Garden and across the White House lawn in the rain to the west gate. He crossed Pennsylvania Avenue in light traffic and went to a black sedan, where his assistant opened the back door for him, and he got in, handing his umbrella to the assistant, who waited outside the car.
He regarded the man next to him in the backseat.
“It’s Detective Ford, isn’t it?” he said, offering the man his hand. “Agent Andrew Timmons, CIA.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Walter Ford said, feeling a bit rumpled and crusty, next to the tuxedo-clad man from Central Intelligence. “Boston PD retired.”
“Yes, retired,” Timmons said, smiling. “My friends here tell me you’ve been following Professor Mahmoud Jaburi. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” Ford said.
“You followed him here tonight, I gather. May I ask why?”
“Just curious, I guess,” Ford said. “I didn’t know where he was going when we left the hotel.”
“And why are you curious, may I ask?” Timmons said. “You teach at Northeastern, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Ford said. “CJC Research and Evaluation and Statistical Analysis. Half-time.”
“I see,” Timmons said. “Karl Levitov over there is a friend of mine. Is he still teaching the section on terrorism?”
“I believe he is,” Ford said. “I don’t know a lot of people in the department.”
“And you’re teaching Research and Evaluation and Statistical Analysis. Was that how you became interested in Professor Jaburi?”
“Actually, it was,” Ford said.
“How so?”
“Well,” Ford said, “I was showing my classes how to do a profile, so we used the parameters we drew up, stuff like birth order and political leanings and stuff like that, and started, you know, cross-referencing—stuff I’m sure you guys do all the time. And this guy’s name just sort of jumped out, so I thought I’d have a look.”
“You just thought you’d have a look,” Timmons said.
“Yup,” Walter said.
“So you flew to Tucson and . . .” He had to consult the notes his assistant had handed him. “Minneapolis. Was this at your own expense? Motels, car rentals, meals . . .”
“My wife and I have a lot of frequent flyer miles stored up,” Ford said. “And I have friends in Tucson who bought a little house out toward Gates Pass. They put me up, so it didn’t cost that much.”
“Can we cut to the chase?” Timmons said. “Professional courtesy and all that? Because if you try to tell me you’ve been doing all this at your own expense as part of an academic project or whatever, we’re going to have a problem. If you’ll be honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Ford said.
“So who are you working for?”
“I don’t think I can tell you that,” Ford said. “What I could do is ask him if he minds if I tell you, and if he says it’s okay, then I’d be happy to tell you.”
“And this person,” Timmons said. “Can you at least tell me what agency or department he works for?”
“No, sir,” Ford said. “Not unless he tells me I can.”
“We can find these things out, you know,” Timmons said. “You not telling me now isn’t going to really do anything except delay the process and annoy me.”
“Oh, I know,” Ford said, “and I gotta apologize for that, but I’m sure you can see that from where I stand, it’s just best if I’m not the one you hear it from.”
“I can’t see that, really,” Timmons said. “It would stand you in considerably good stead, in fact, if I did hear it from you. I’m sure you know all the ways we could fuck you up if we wanted to. I’m not trying to threaten you, Detective Ford, but I wanted to make sure you understand how the game is played.”
“Like I said,” Ford told him, “I’d like to help you, but I can’t. I get the idea you want me to stop what I’m doing, but I don’t know why.
Maybe if I knew that . . .”
“Fair enough,” Timmons said. “You understand the powers I have, under the Patriot Act, I trust? If I learn that this goes anywhere beyond this car, you will have seriously compromised your retirement years. So we’re clear on that?”
Ford nodded.
“All right,” Timmons said. “I’ll be as brief as I can. Professor Jaburi is a CIA asset. He’s been an asset for a long time. And it’s vital that we continue to have access to him as a resource. I think that’s probably all you need to know.”
“It certainly is,” Ford said. “It explains a lot, actually. I had no idea. You guys work at a whole different level than I do. I know that.”
“I’m going to be generous and assume whoever you’re working for didn’t know that either,” Timmons said. “So I want you to tell him. And then have him contact me. My assistant will tell you how you can get hold of me.”
As Timmons reentered the White House gate, his assistant was forced to trot to keep up with him.
“So who do you think?” the assistant asked. “FBI?”
“Who else?” Timmons said. “They’ve been dying to take Jaburi away from me for years.”
“I don’t quite see what a moron like this Walter Ford character is going to be able to do,” the assistant said.
“Don’t buy the bumbling Columbo bit for one second,” Timmons said. “I want his phones and his files. Credit cards. Video rentals, library books, whatever. Keystroke his e-mail to me, too. Get me what you can on his wife, kids, whatever we can use. And cancel his frequent flyer miles.”
In his car, Walter Ford looked at the card Agent Timmons’s assistant had handed him. He’d seen Timmons meeting with Jaburi earlier that morning, but he couldn’t tell what part of the government he might be working for. He’d figured the best way to find that out would be to stake out the White House and see who knocked on his window. He hadn’t a doubt in his mind that Jaburi was dirty. Anybody who thought Sandra Bullock was a whore had to be certifiably insane, at the very least. Sandra Bullock was America’s sweetheart.
He was worried about his friend David as well, and wondered why he’d never responded to his last e-mail.
DeLuca heard a voice say, “David. Dave. Dave DeLuca . . .”
He opened his eyes again and saw the face of Preacher Johnson, or rather, half the face. The other half was covered in bandages. Johnson’s right arm was in a sling as well.
“They told me you were coming back to us,” Johnson said.
“Back from where?” DeLuca asked, trying to think. “What happened to you?”
“Same thing happened to you,” Johnson said. “You’re in the CASH. I was your roommate, until an hour ago.”
The Combat and Support Hospital was like any other fully equipped medical facility, with one significant exception: It was inflatable, a portable field hospital made of double-shelled airtight green nylon tubing, walls and ceilings held erect by a pair of large air compressor units, with sterile operating rooms, an emergency room, recovery rooms, hallways, a phenomenal piece of engineering, DeLuca had always thought, though being inside one felt like being inside a maze. It had made him feel slightly claustrophobic before, but now he just felt cold from the air-conditioning. He felt pain in his head and neck, the pain filtering through a medicated haze.
“You leaving me?” DeLuca said.
“Have to,” Johnson said. “They got me a cubicle in Doha while the arm heals. Caught some glass in the face, too. They said I was going to be ugly—I said, ‘What do you mean, going to be?’”
DeLuca had his first memory of the accident, the white truck suddenly appearing to block the tunnel.
“They said you went through the windshield. Them’s bulletproof, you know.”
“It had a crack in it,” DeLuca recalled. “How’s Dan?”
“Well, that’s a funny thing,” Preacher Johnson said. “Lord must have had other plans for him. He popped out of that sling and shot right over the truck. He got throwed quite a ways but he came out without a scratch.”
“Sergeant Blue?” DeLuca asked.
Johnson shook his head.
“Lord had plans for him that couldn’t wait,” Johnson said. “Dwayne Sullivan, from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.”
“He was a good man. How about Al-Tariq?”
“Your son was right,” Johnson said. “That goddamn mountain was laced with caves. Like a sponge. We had the exit covered but they never came out. Probably crawled out some rathole somewheres.”
“Shit,” DeLuca said. “What’d they find at the monastery?”
“CID is still processing,” Johnson said. “They got the son’s fingerprints. That’s all I know.”
“Intel?” DeLuca asked. “Computers?”
“Just a couple power supplies without the laptops attached,” Johnson said. “I’m kicking myself for not disabling the vehicles. I let you down.”
“You didn’t,” DeLuca said. “Can I ask you a question? I’m going to need an honest answer.” Johnson nodded. “Is there some reason why I can’t move my legs or my arms? I keep trying but I’m not getting any response.”
“Well, they got you immobilized so you don’t fuck your back up any more than it already is,” Johnson said. “I guess you got some disk problems, but they’re not going to know how serious it is until you wake up, which you should in a few days. This is just a dream, right now.”
“Really?”
“Naw, I’m just shitting you,” Johnson said with a smile. “You need anything before I go? Want me to turn the TV sound back on?”
“Sure,” DeLuca said. “I’m sorry about Sullivan.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson said. “I am, too. I’ll see you around. You’ll like the night nurse—the day guy’s nothing to write a book about but the night nurse has a set of cannons coulda turned the tide at Gettysburg.”
DeLuca listened to CNN for a while with his eyes closed, catching up on the sports scores and the Hollywood gossip. He opened his eyes when the anchor cycled back to the day’s top story: 128 passengers on United Flight 1230 from Manila to San Francisco had been hospitalized with a mysterious illness, with twelve deaths already reported in Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Denver, and Tucson. Stricken passengers and those they’d come in contact with had been quarantined. Homeland Security had declared a red alert and canceled all flights in or out of the United States, pending further investigation. Al Qaeda was taking credit for the outbreak. The U.S. economy had taken a hundred-billion-dollar hit in the last twenty-four hours, the report said, as people avoided shopping malls, baseball stadiums, or any public buildings where large numbers of people could gather . . .
Had Al-Tariq launched the attack, knowing he was being pursued and fearing he’d be caught before he could give the go signal?
“I’d have knocked, but there’s nothing to knock on,” a voice said. He turned to see his old friend Sami parting the Velcroed slit that served as a doorway.
“Hey, Sami,” DeLuca said. “You see the news?”
“I saw it,” Sami said. “You think this is it?”
“I don’t know,” DeLuca said. “Why is Al Qaeda taking credit? If you’re martyring yourself in the name of Allah, you’d think you’d at least want to make sure they get your name right. I don’t think Alf Wajeh and Al Qaeda are the same thing.”
“Jesus—don’t you ever stop? You’re off the clock, David. How you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” DeLuca said. “I gotta call Phillip. Is my phone here somewhere?”
“Just take it easy,” Jambazian said. “You can tell him when you see him. He’s been checking in. Right now, your job is to get better.”
“How long have I been here?” DeLuca asked.
“Three days,” Sami said.
“Can you do me a favor and find a doctor named Kaplan? Dan said he works here.” If the attack was under way, there was no time to lose, and if it wasn’t, there was still no time to lose.
“By the way, we go
t the guy who was ratting you out. Arab-American named Richard Yaakub,” Sami said. “Kid from Chicago who grew up in Baghdad. Did you know you’re up to twenty-five thousand dollars? Anyway, this guy Yaakub seemed to know about the bounty, so I said you were doing this dangerous mission, near Zurbatiyeh, and it’s called Operation Thighmaster, for no reason except that I needed a word that’s not going to come up in conversation, so I tell Yaakub, and only Yaakub, and then I call SIGINT and said call me if the word ‘thighmaster’ comes up in any of their intercepts. Sure enough, half-hour later, from a pay phone right on the base, Yaakub is calling his buddies, talking about Operation Thighmaster, and then they see all these groups near Zurbatiyeh going underground and whatever. So we pop him and search his stuff and what do you think we find? A fucking baby monitor. Hooked up to a voice-activated cassette recorder, in case he missed anything while he was out. So we toss Reicken’s office and find the sending unit behind a panel in the drop ceiling. Low tech as it gets.”
“In that case, I got some good news and some bad news,” DeLuca said.
“Which is?”
“I’m going to send you home,” DeLuca told him.
“No way,” Sami said. “I’m staying until this thing is finished.”
“You did your part,” DeLuca said. “You can help Walter. I can get you on an Air Force flight if they don’t let you fly commercial.”
“What’s the bad news?” Sami asked.
“Your unit is scheduled for deployment in January,” DeLuca said. “You’ll rotate home early with time served taken off the back end. Sorry about that. That information isn’t for public consumption just now, but it will be soon enough. Go home and catch some fish. Go get that giant bluefin you’ve been talking about.”
“Did I tell you I saw him?” Sami said. “Gigantic sonofabitch, thirty-thousand-dollar fish easy. We were two miles into restricted waters, but he can’t hide there forever.”
“You get him, Ahab,” DeLuca said. “You could tell somebody on your way out that I think whatever they’re giving me for the pain is wearing off.”
Team Red Page 26
