Collateral Damage

by Stuart Woods

  “As I’m sure you know, last year both houses of Congress passed a bill called the National Security Act, which I vetoed, because I felt that some parts of the bill were unconstitutional. Both houses then passed a revised version that I signed into law. One of the provisions of that act is that, by order of the president, information harmful to national security can be suppressed until fifty years after the death of that president. I view the nuclear nature of this event as falling under that provision of the act, and I am issuing an executive order, which you may read in the folders before you, invoking the National Security Act. Also in each folder is a statement that I wish signed by each of you present, saying that you are aware that the Act has been invoked, and that you swear to keep secret everything you have seen and heard here today, even to the extent of discussing them with each other, and also to keep secret your part in the events covered by the Act.

  “I hope that each of you, having seen what the explosion of the device would have wrought, will agree that the country should not know these things for a long time to come. Later today I will address the nation and tell them of the bomb plot at The Arrington and how it was stopped. It is very likely that, after my broadcast, you may be contacted by members of the media for a statement. In that case, I ask you to refer all questions to the White House Press Office and to make no further comment.

  “Now, with the pens provided, please sign your personal statements and give them to Tim Coleman.”

  Stone glanced at the brief statement and signed it. So did everyone else. Tim Coleman collected the statements.

  “I want to thank you all for traveling here today and for your help in dealing with this very troubling situation,” Will Lee said. “Good day to you all.” He got up and left the room, followed by Tim Coleman.

  Kate Lee spoke up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure it has occurred to you that there was one other person present at The Arrington who possesses much of this knowledge. Kelli Keane, a reporter for Vanity Fair, has already agreed to keep her silence. Holly Barker spoke with her before the president decided to invoke the Act, so Holly will travel back to New York with a copy of the statement for her signature. She will be allowed to include a description of the search for the conventional bombs at the hotel but not to ask any of you for comment. Thank you all, and the helicopter is waiting for the New York contingent.”

  —

  Everyone was very quiet during the helicopter ride back to New York.

  —

  Stone sat in the restaurant Patroon, sipping a drink and waiting for Holly to arrive. Ken Aretsky, the owner, joined him for a while but left as soon as Holly walked in. Stone ordered her a drink.

  “How did it go?” Stone asked.

  “How did what go?” Holly asked in return.

  “Let me put it this way: Are you satisfied with the way your day’s work went?”

  “Entirely,” Holly replied. She raised her glass. “Now we need never speak of this day again.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Stone said, and he did.

  Stone watched the president’s address about events at The Arrington. It was brief enough to be delivered in its entirety during a time-out of a big football game being televised. His phone rang twice that evening, while he and Holly were in bed, and he did not answer either call.

  The following morning Holly went to work at the Agency’s East Side office, with the intention of returning to Stone’s house that evening.

  When Stone got downstairs to his office there was a stack of messages on his desk. He typed a short statement, printed it, and buzzed for Joan.

  “Are they calling you about what happened at The Arrington?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Stone replied, handing her the statement. “Please call them back, read them this, then hang up.”

  Joan read the statement aloud: “Mr. Barrington has nothing to add to the president’s address of last evening, nor will he at any later date. Please contact the White House Press Office with any questions you may have.” Joan gathered up the message slips on his desk. “You could make a living as a PR guy for somebody who doesn’t want to talk to the media.” She went back to her desk.

  —

  In her borrowed office on the East Side, Holly called Tom Riley in London.

  “Riley.”

  “It’s Holly, calling from the New York office. I’m on a secure line.”

  “Good morning, Holly.”

  “What’s new on Jasmine Shazaz?”

  “Is this to do with the president’s statement last night?”

  “Yes. We believe she was present when the three bombs were assembled, and she may have had a hand in delivering them to L.A.”

  “Only three bombs?” Riley asked.

  “What exactly do you mean, Tom?”

  Riley was quiet for a moment. “Forget that.”

  “No, I want to know what you’re referring to, so that this won’t come up again.”

  “I haven’t heard anything, if that’s what you mean, but I dispatched the guy who took out Dr. Kharl, so I’ve just connected a few dots.”

  “Dr. Kharl designed and assembled the three bombs.”

  “Plastic explosives are not exactly in Dr. Kharl’s line,” Riley said.

  “If you go back a few years, you’ll find he had a very nice line in plastic explosives.”

  “That’s the story, then?”

  “Those are the facts, Tom. Any other questions?”

  “No.”

  “Then please answer mine.”

  “MI-6 hit the Cheyne Walk house yesterday like a swarm of hornets, but all uniformed as painters, plumbers, and carpet cleaners, with their vehicles liveried as such. They were seen to have taken away two medium-sized safes and numerous file boxes. As a further cover, Hamish McCallister’s solicitor was present to make things seem kosher.”

  “I see. Have you received any information from MI-6 that might be helpful to us?”

  “They’ve been very quiet, and their chief of ops has not returned my phone call of this morning.”

  “Do we have any further information on Jasmine not associated with the house?”

  “She went to a girls’ school in Kent, then to a Swiss finishing school. No university education that we know of.”

  “Any photographs?”

  “One, when she was twelve and holding a hockey stick. We’re aging it now.”

  “Please fax it to me in New York. Tom, you’ve no doubt heard details of how her two brothers were dealt with.”

  “I read Lance’s report.”

  “You may take that as a model of how to proceed when we find her.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’ll see if I can unearth anything from MI-6.”

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Holly.”

  Holly hung up, called Felicity Devonshire’s direct line, identified herself, and asked for Architect. This time she was handled more gently and put through after half a minute on hold.

  “Good afternoon, Holly, or is it morning where you are?”

  “I’m calling from New York. Good afternoon. I’ve heard about your redecoration job on a house in Chelsea. Anything you can share with me? This is a secure line.”

  “It’s quite a richly appointed residence,” Felicity said. “Very nice artwork, probably in the value range of five to ten million pounds’ worth. Hamish had very positive brokers’ and bankers’ statements in his safe. It seems he came into quite a lot when he turned twenty-one.”

  “Were there any photographs of his sister?”

  “None, nor of his brother, though there were bedrooms that may have been used by both of them. We found some cosmetics in one bathroom. Everything, however, and I mean everything, had been wiped clean—no prints, no DNA.”

  “So, they had not planned to return there?”

  “They might have returned, if their mission had been, ah, completely successful, and if they’d thought there was no trail to follow to them. In the circumstances,
they might have been right.”

  “The president has issued an executive order under the new National Security Act, sealing everything except what he had to say in his address last evening.”

  “Yes, I saw that. You may take it that I am following his wishes, though I have no legal necessity of doing so. I have not reported to my masters what I have surmised from the bits and pieces of information gleaned during my stay in your country, nor shall I. I believe that’s best for all.”

  “Thank you, Felicity. I will see that your position is known here in the places where it’s important.”

  “I’ve no wish to be a loose cannon in this,” Felicity said.

  “The loose cannon, in this instance, is Jasmine Shazaz,” Holly said. “Did you find anything at all in the house that might help us locate and identify her?”

  “I’m afraid not. She may have a place of her own, but if so, we haven’t found it.”

  “Do you think she’s still in London?”

  “If I were she, I would not wish to be traveling at this moment in time. I’d go to ground, perhaps for quite a while, until things are cool, even cold.”

  “This will not cool off for us, Felicity.”

  “Nor for us. Remember that our losses in this are greater than yours, but I understand your position completely, and I will see that any new knowledge of Jasmine reaches you.”

  “We are all grateful to you,” Holly said. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Holly believed everything Felicity had told her, and she felt better for it.

  —

  Architect hung up her phone and looked at the photograph of the beautiful young woman on her desk. “Circulate this,” she said to the man across from her. “Find her and take her alive, if at all possible.”

  Holly found Stone in his study, and he poured them both a day’s-end drink.

  “God, I need this,” Holly said, sinking some bourbon.

  “Rough day?”

  “A fairly fruitless day. It got rough when I had to issue some instructions.”

  “Dare I ask what instructions?”

  “Don’t ask. Suffice it to say that I gave someone permission—no, that’s weaseling. I very nearly ordered someone to commit murder.” She took another swig of the amber liquid.

  “Don’t you do that practically every day?”

  Holly looked at him sharply, then realized he was just kidding. “Normally, no more than three or four times a week.”

  “You didn’t see this sort of thing coming when you got your promotion?”

  “When I worked for Lance he was a little protective of me, and he would give some orders to operatives himself.”

  “He was probably just eliminating you as a witness at some congressional hearing.”

  Holly laughed. “That’s exactly what he was doing, but I also thought he didn’t want me to get my hands too dirty, maybe because he thought I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Was he right?”

  “Oh, I’m handling it,” Holly replied ruefully. “It didn’t take me long to rationalize the whole thing.”

  “That’s good self-protection.”

  “Maybe, but you know what I keep thinking? Somehow, during my meager childhood religious experience, I formed the view that when my life ended I would have to face God and … well, not confess the bad things I had done, because He would already know. I would just have to face Him knowing that He knows. That’s pretty scary stuff, because at that point I wouldn’t know where I was going to end up for all eternity.”

  “Scary stuff for a little girl,” Stone agreed. “God will also know why you did what you did, and maybe he’ll confirm your judgment, instead of drop-kicking you into hell.”

  “What an image! God coming down from his skybox and booting me between the goalposts, right into the flaming end zone seats!” She tossed off the rest of her drink and poured herself another. “Do you ever feel guilty about anything?” she asked.

  Stone sighed. “When Arrington died, one of my first thoughts was the irrational feeling that I was somehow responsible.”

  “But you didn’t do anything… .”

  “I know, I know. I repeatedly worked my way back through the weeks before her death, and the worst I could come up with was that, if she hadn’t married me, she wouldn’t have died.”

  “As you say, irrational. I mean, she would have eventually dumped the guy, even if you weren’t around, wouldn’t she?”

  Stone brightened. “Funny, I didn’t think of that. Yes, she would have, surely.”

  “And then he probably would have done what he did anyway.”

  “That’s an awful thought, but it makes me feel slightly less guilty.”

  “Well, your average shrink would probably tell you that a lot of people irrationally feel guilt when they lose somebody.”

  “Your average shrink? Have you ever talked to one of those?”

  “Oh, I’ve talked to somebody like that once or twice a year since I’ve been with the Agency. The brass is always on the lookout for somebody who is about to bring an assault weapon to work. I mean, it’s a lot more pressure than working at the post office, isn’t it?”

  “I can only guess.”

  “You know who I think never has a moment’s guilt or a second thought about anything?”

  “Who? Kate Lee?”

  “Oh, no, Kate has a very active conscience—she’s a Democrat, after all. No, I was talking about Felicity Devonshire.”

  “Well, Felicity is a pretty cool customer.”

  “When we were all in L.A. I had a chance to talk to her for the first time, and she was very warm and helpful. We were working out scenarios together.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  “Yes, it is, and yet the whole time, I was wondering if she had her own agenda, which did not resemble mine in any way.”

  “Felicity is, in her way, impenetrable,” Stone said.

  “I hope that was unintentional humor,” Holly said, laughing.

  Stone laughed, too. “Well, all right, not entirely impenetrable.”

  “We talked on the phone today, and what she said was exactly what I wanted to hear, and yet, immediately after I hung up, I had the awful feeling that she had just lied to me.”

  Stone nodded. “I think Felicity would prefer to tell you the truth. I also think that if it were in her interests, or those of her service or government, she would not hesitate to lie to you or anyone else.”

  “Maybe that’s part and parcel of what we both do,” Holly said. “I suppose I’ve got to learn to do that.”

  Jasmine Shazaz sat on a bagged life raft in the rear of an old, unmarked American Huey helicopter and gazed out the open door at the terrain, lit by a rising sun. Her ears popped as the machine kept up with the elevation. They had been flying for a little over two hours. She turned to the Pakistani ISI agent on the bench next to her, leaned closer, and shouted, “Why would you have a life raft aboard a helicopter in a region with no water?”

  The man shouted back, “Because if we have to ditch up here somewhere, we inflate the life raft, and it becomes a ready-made tent, complete with emergency food and water—also flares and a radio.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh,’” he shouted back.

  The chopper was suddenly closer to the ground, but it had not slowed. She looked more closely at the life raft and located the lanyard that inflated it, then she felt marginally better. The pitch of the rotors changed and the machine slowed. Moments later, the nose lifted, and the Huey settled to earth.

  “Out!” the agent shouted.

  Jasmine jumped to the ground, and she was immediately struck in the back by something soft. She turned and found a small duffel on the ground, along with her backpack.

  The ISI agent was getting into a robe and turban. He bent, unzipped the duffel, removed a bundle of black cloth, and tossed it to her. “From here on, you wear the burka,” he said.

  “I’m not wearing that fuc
king thing!” she shouted at him.

  The helicopter suddenly lifted off, revealing a couple of other men in native dress and a dozen mules, most of them heavily laden, on the other side of where the chopper had landed.

  Jasmine looked at the mules incredulously. “And if you think I’m going to ride one of those things, you’re completely crazy!”

  The man’s face changed, and he backhanded her, dumping her on her ass. “Now you listen to me, you stupid bitch: you will do whatever I tell you to do. If I tell you to strip, you’ll strip, and if I tell you to fuck us all, you’ll fuck us all. And if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I’ll shoot you in the head and leave you here for the vultures. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him blankly, unbelieving. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded, and regretted it immediately.

  The ISI man unholstered his Beretta, racked the slide, and pointed it at her head.

  “All right, all right,” she muttered, getting to her feet. She held up the garment and tried to figure it out.

  He snatched it away and threw it over her head, like a sack, and she managed to get her arms in the sleeves and settle it on her body. He grabbed the hood and pulled it over her head, until only her eyes could be seen. “There,” he said, “that’s very becoming. And by the way, I don’t give a shit who you are. You are alone with three horny men in the middle of nowhere, and you will do as I say and quickly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He pointed at a mule. “Get on that animal, and don’t speak again unless you’re spoken to.”

  Jasmine grabbed her backpack, slung it over the horn of the saddle, and managed to get aboard. The mule didn’t seem to care one way or another. A moment later there was a jerk as the rope leading from her mule’s bridle to the saddle of the mule ahead became taut.