by Dale Brown
And what did that doubt mean but the ultimate heresy: doubt in God.
The bunker had been ransacked, all of his men killed. Much of his gear had been taken. There had been a battle; the place when he arrived still smelled of a putrid gas and gunpowder. He had no definitive way of knowing who had attacked, but he thought it must have been the Americans, seizing on the raid for cover to hit him.
They had missed him, but gotten everyone else close. Perhaps even the African, as Ghadab hadn’t seen him since he had gone to see the Caliph.
Walking among the men who manned the city’s defenses, Ghadab considered the idea of staying among them and becoming a martyr with the first assault. It would be an easy thing: stand up and fire as the heretics came on. Stand until a bullet found him.
Would she have wanted that?
More important, did God want that?
The commanders whom Ghadab met gazed at him with the same confused expressions of the soldiers on the front line: dazed, they were so shaken as to be incapable of logical thought. But the most unsettling thing was seeing that same gaze in the mirror when he returned to the apartment he had commandeered.
It was only by the strangest coincidence that Ghadab found the African. He was in the middle of his thoughts, sitting cross-legged on the floor, when two men with rifles barged in. Ghadab, his own AK next to him, looked up at them.
A man walked in behind them. It was dark, and his complexion was dark, and at first Ghadab did not realize who it was. Only when the African spoke did he know that God had sent him.
“You! I thought you were dead!” The African’s shout filled the room.
“I am not dead,” said Ghadab, rising.
He absorbed the African’s embrace, enduring it, but not returning it.
“Are you all right?” asked the African. “You have blood on you?”
“I’m all right.”
“Have you been to the bunker? How did you escape?”
“I was waiting for the Caliph when they attacked.”
“They think you are dead. Your name was added to the scroll of the martyrs.”
“It will belong there soon.”
“No. You must go to the Caliph. He will have something for you.”
Ghadab said nothing.
“You must use your talents to strike back,” urged the African. “You must carry on the battle. Take it to their homes.”
“I’m tired,” said Ghadab.
He meant only that he wanted to sleep, but the African interpreted it to mean that he wanted to leave the fight.
“You mustn’t give up. You have to avenge our brothers. You have to bring about the prophecy.”
“Yes.”
“Are there others here? We’d like to get rest.”
“There’s no one here but me,” said Ghadab.
“Do you mind?”
He gestured that they should go right ahead. Each man took a separate room. Ghadab went back to sitting, thinking. It was not logical thought—no plan entered into his mind, no list, no theme. He saw the walls in front of him, lit by the afternoon sun.
Eventually he heard snores coming from the rooms. Only then did he know what he must do.
He slit the first guard’s throat through his beard, plunging the khanjar in an awkward slashing jab just as the man seemed to stir. He was more thoughtful taking the second—he carried a pillow with him to muffle any noise. Propping it near his head, he delicately lifted the man’s beard with his left hand and sliced deep, hard, and fast with his right. Immediately his victim began to choke, blood gurgling; Ghadab pressed down with the pillow over his face until the convulsions stopped.
The African lay on his stomach. Ghadab raised the knife, then realized he wanted the man awake, to see his fate.
He was heavy.
“Turn, you bastard,” Ghadab growled, pushing him over. “Turn over and wake up.”
One eye opened. Then the other. The African started to raise his head, his neck meeting the knife.
“You didn’t protect her. It was your duty.” Ghadab plunged the khanjar so hard it broke through the African’s windpipe, nearly severing his head. Blood spurted and flooded and rushed. “You didn’t protect her. And for that, you die.”
76
Langley, Virginia—two days later
Johansen stopped at the Starbucks on the main floor of the building before going up to see the Director. He’d already drunk the equivalent of a pot and a half that morning, but needed the caffeine—he hadn’t slept more than four hours total since coming off the plane from Turkey.
“Venti latte with eight shots.”
The barista didn’t bat an eye. A latte with the equivalent of eight espressos mixed in was not out of the ordinary here.
The coffee smell filled the elevator as he rode up to the top floor. He went straight to the Director’s office; for once, he didn’t have to wait before being shown in.
Which was a shame, because he’d have preferred to finish the coffee.
“Good to see you back in one piece,” said James Colby. Though there was no doubt he meant it, the Director said this without enthusiasm. He came out from behind his desk and shook Johansen’s hand. Then he pulled over a chair so they could sit opposite each other without the desk in between.
Johansen told him what had happened, repeating a brief he’d given no less than eight times in the past two days. He ended by mentioning his disappointment at the failure.
“I don’t see it as a failure,” said the Director. “The girl—she was a Russian spy?”
“We think so. We think we’ve correlated her with a Chechen woman agent that we saw being trained two years ago. It’s hard to tell—there’s been no intercepts regarding her.”
“Did the Russians plant her on purpose, or was it a coincidence?”
“No way of knowing at this point.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so. Our friend Louis Massina gave us some leads on his network. That led us to a credit card that’s been dormant, had been dormant until yesterday. We also have a source who claimed to have seen him in Raqqa the day before.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“It would appear so.”
“Our friend Mr. Massina—he’s been very useful,” said Colby.
“He has. He’s interested in doing more.”
“He’s done a lot already.” The Director rose. “I have to go before the Intelligence Committee this afternoon. You know, there have been rumors about the operation.”
“Really? That’s impossible.”
“They come from Massina?”
“No way.”
“You could swear to that?”
Johansen studied his coffee. No, maybe he couldn’t swear, but he thought it highly unlikely.
“I don’t think he’d tell anyone. We used his people for support and they got involved more than we’d planned, but I don’t think either one of them would have said anything to anyone. No one on the team would.”
“Hmm.”
That’s all we need, thought Johansen, a witch hunt for leaks.
“I want to keep looking for Ghadab,” said Johansen. His assignment had been temporary, and as a general rule he would be given a good hunk of time off and rotated to a new assignment when he reported back.
“Turner was going to take over the team.”
“I don’t think he should. For one thing, he doesn’t play well with others, especially outside of the Agency.”
“I think that’s a matter of opinion.”
“I want to stay on. I want to get this guy. I’m pretty close. There’s no learning curve. We can’t afford an interruption now. And with Massina—I don’t see Turner getting his help.”
“You said he’s already helping.”
“More help.”
“What about Demi?” Demi Ascoldi was second-in-command of the team. “She could take over.”
“She’s worse than Turner.”
Colby laughed.
“Yuri Johansen, the indispensable man.”
“No.”
“All right, stay with it. Your show for now. But, Yuri—keep our friend Massina under control.”
“I was told he was very laid-back.”
“That’s not Ascoldi’s view. And yes, he would be a convenient scapegoat if it came to that. But I’d prefer not to throw him under the bus.”
The Director returned to his desk, signaling the meeting had come to an end. But then, as Johansen was leaving, he asked if he had seen the morning reports from the NSA.
“I haven’t had a chance,” confessed Johansen.
“Chatter level is way up. Not a good sign.”
“No,” admitted Johansen. “Not a good sign.”
77
Boston—the following week
“Now we come to RBT PJT 23-A . . . aka Peter.”
Johnny watched Chelsea as she began flipping through some brief video captures from the drone as it had ventured down the center hall of the bunker in Syria. Her tone remained scientific, but there was a frown on her face. The drone had not performed as expected.
Which of course he knew, given that he had been the one shot.
“It saw the terrorist,” continued Chelsea, freezing the frame that showed the shadows in the dark room at the end of the bunker, “but it did not perceive him as a threat. Why not?”
Her laser point circled the shadow at the corner. That was the son of a bitch who’d shot him.
Prick. But he’d paid the ultimate price.
Chelsea flipped to a screen filled with computer code and began discussing what the letters and numbers meant. The engineers in the small auditorium—there were nearly fifty, with every seat taken and a few people standing on the side—seemed to lean forward en masse, and more than a couple had their lips moving as they followed along, parsing the lines.
Johnny was lost in the weeds, but he didn’t care; he was focused on Chelsea, watching how she moved, how intense she seemed.
How pretty she was.
This was the first time he’d seen her since getting back to Boston. He’d spent his downtime sleeping at first, then in New York with some friends to see the Sox sweep the Mets—not as sweet as beating the Yankees, but up there. When he came back, Bozzone asked him to prepare a proposal for increasing the company’s security division, integrating more bots and technology into an “action team” that could accomplish missions similar to what they’d done in Syria. It was a heady assignment, somewhat beyond his comfort level as it had to include budget and revenue projections . . . It was supposed to make a profit.
He had no idea what sort of revenue was possible until talking to some old acquaintances who were now working for international security firms.
Their answer: A lot. Maybe a lot a lot.
How much depended on specifics he couldn’t give. So he mostly punted. Or would: he was still working on it.
“I wonder if it thought the terrorist was on your side,” suggested Jin Chiang. “Because you have other guys in that environment who look similar. And you know its basic AI is working—it rescued you.”
“It did,” agreed Chelsea.
“It does register a threat after the fact,” pointed out another software engineer. “Look at line 302. But I bet Johnny wishes it had recognized the threat sooner.”
It took Johnny a moment to realize everyone was looking at him.
“What?” he asked. “Oh, right.”
Massina interrupted the laughter that followed.
“I think we’ve gone as far with this as we can today,” he said. “Right now, Ms. Goodman and Mr. Givens have appointments at city hall. And the rest of us are invited to witness it.”
This was the first Johnny had heard of that, and judging from the look on Chelsea’s face, it was a surprise to her as well.
“But before we wrap up,” added Massina, “I think we can all show our appreciation for our two people who risked their lives helping give a little payback to the bastards who did so much damage to our city. For Boston!”
Massina sounded more like a football coach than an intense but pragmatic scientist.
The engineers cheered. A few behind Johnny tapped him on the back, nudging him to stand.
He felt his face warm with embarrassment.
“Just doing what I can,” he mumbled.
He made his way up to Massina in time to hear Chelsea ask what was going on. He was glad of that: it saved him the trouble.
It also gave him an excuse to look at her.
“It’s just a little thank-you the city has arranged,” said Massina. “No big deal.”
“Is this for Syria?” she asked.
“No. That’s strictly confidential. This is for the attack. Bravery under extreme circumstances.”
“The city arranged this?” asked Chelsea. “Or you?”
“The city,” insisted Massina, but he had the slight impish look he got when he was foisting a surprise on someone.
A good surprise.
“Are you in on this?” Chelsea asked Johnny as he walked up to the front.
“No. Not a clue.”
“Downstairs, both of you,” said Massina. “We’re running late.”
Chelsea grabbed her laptop and briefcase.
“You’ll want to leave that upstairs,” added Massina. “You’ll be gone all night.”
Johnny and Massina were waiting when Chelsea came down. There were three black Yukon SUVs parked in front of the entrance.
“We’re in the middle,” said Massina.
“The hotel is three blocks away,” said Chelsea. “Can’t we just walk?”
“Easier this way,” said Massina.
“I doubt it,” said Chelsea.
“You’re in a grouchy mood,” said Massina mildly. “Not enough coffee today?”
“You should have told us.”
“I did.”
Ten minutes later—traffic was relatively light—they arrived at the hotel and pulled into the downstairs garage. Johnny unfolded himself from the back, following along behind the others. Standing next to Chelsea as they went up, he made it a point to look away from her.
They stopped on the third floor. Johnny was surprised to see a throng of people in the atrium lobby as they turned the corner from the elevators. They were all very well dressed, the men in suits and ties.
“This is a fancy thing,” said Chelsea.
“Black-tie,” said Massina.
“Crap—all I have on are jeans.”
“I’m a little out of place, too,” said Johnny. Though he had a sport coat, he was wearing jeans and sneakers.
“There’s a solution for that,” said Massina. “For both of you, actually. Come on.”
He led them down the hall to a suite. Two racks of clothes stood in front of the couches in the living room. One contained dresses; the other had a tuxedo and white shirt. Two women were standing nearby.
“Take your pick,” Massina told Chelsea. “These ladies will help with any alterations you need.” He turned to Johnny. “I’m afraid you’re on your own, but we did use your measurements that you had for the gear in Syria.”
It was an exceptional night, one that pleased even Massina, who was ordinarily deeply bored by these sorts of things. Not only did he sit patiently through the speeches, but he gave one of his own.
“Boston is too strong to be hurt by terror,” he said. “We kicked out the Red Coats, and we haven’t stopped since. Do your worst; we’ll kick you in the teeth.”
He wished he could tell the audience about the recent actions in Syria, but he knew that would only hurt the country. The best he could do was say he “hoped” the perpetrators of violence would be brought to justice.
But all in all, he thought it was an exceptional night.
The speeches were bad enough; the reporters’ interviews were even worse.
Chelsea didn’t realize that saying she would talk to one journalist meant that every other one in the building would queue up be
hind him, subjecting her to a marathon of squinting into a camera while repeating the words “overwhelmed,” “humbled,” “very happy” over and over again. At least a dozen other people who had been held hostage at the hotel were honored as well, but the reporters seemed to zero in on her. She kept glancing over at Johnny, who somehow managed to avoid the reporters while milling around with Bozzone and some of the other Smart Metal people.
“He’s the real hero, you know,” she said finally, pointing to him as he went to the bar nearby. “He broke in and rescued me.”
Johnny rolled his eyes and shook his head, continuing in a beeline to the bar.
Finally, the reporters were done. Chelsea got up, only to find that the bar had been shut down.
“Hey,” said Johnny.
She punched him in the shoulder. “You suck.”
“What?”
“I had to talk to all of them. You should have been the one. You saved me.”
“Eh. You saved yourself. I got there after the fact.”
He’s right, isn’t he? Maybe I did save myself.
“Thirsty?” Johnny asked.
“Dying.”
“Let’s try downstairs.”
They went down to the bar on the first floor, but it was so crowded they couldn’t see the actual bar.
“I think we should go somewhere else,” suggested Johnny.
“How about that cute place you took us to when we got back?”
“Sure.”
Johnny started to lead her out of the lobby.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t you think we’re a little overdressed?”
Johnny looked down at his tux, then over at her. “You’re not,” he said.
Chelsea laughed. “I think we better change.”
78
Agadir, Morocco—about the same time
“How long will you be staying with us?” asked the hotel clerk.
“Three days,” said Ghadab.
The man reached for the passport Ghadab had placed on the marble counter. “I need to make a copy.”
