Nomad

by James Swallow

  Durant scowled, and at a look from Cahill, he produced a phone from his pocket and dialed a number. Marc heard another phone ring, off down the hospital corridor. “Bring her in,” he said.

  A moment later, Lucy stepped through the door. She looked more tired than he had ever seen her, but she managed a wan smile and without waiting for permission, she crossed to a chair and dropped into it. Marc couldn’t miss the rigid-frame cuffs binding her wrists.

  “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands,” she said. Her manner softened briefly. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay,” he replied.

  “Liar.”

  “Yeah.” Marc rubbed at his eyes. “The … carriers. What happened to them?”

  “They’re here,” said Lucy. “After the rally ended, everyone went home … and they were still there, standing in a line. Waiting, just like Amarah told them too.”

  “We detained all of the bombers,” said Cahill. “The … devices … have been successfully removed and made safe by an EOD team. No fatalities, although the young men are still hospitalized.”

  “What’s going to happen to them?” said Marc. “I mean, they’re just teenagers, conditioned to be nothing better than a walking delivery system … They’re not enemy combatants. They’re victims.”

  “You sure of that?” asked Durant.

  “They scooped up the kid from the diner too, Halil,” added Lucy. “I think the State Department are gonna get involved. Some of them are classed as minors under US law.”

  Marc turned a hard glare on Cahill, and the agent raised an eyebrow, pre-empting his next words. “Despite what you may have heard about my agency, we’re not in the business of water-boarding children. They’ll be interviewed and taken care of. The real issue at hand is you two.”

  Marc glanced at Lucy. “You told them the truth?” She didn’t respond.

  “I’d like to know why our agency is getting pressure from members of the Senate about your detention,” said Durant, the question coming from nowhere. “You got friends in high places, Dane. Friends who all seem to share a connection to the same international multi-billion-dollar corporation.” He came closer. “What’s the deal with you and Rubicon? That’s a question I’d really like answered.”

  Cahill shot his colleague a look, silencing him. “I’m going to cut to the chase. This is how things are going to go.” He stood up, and his veneer of civility faded away. “Marc. You’re going to be interrogated for every last piece of information you know about Al Sayf and their attempted bombing of the education rally. When we’re done with you, you’ll be extradited back to the UK where your own people want to have words.” He turned to Lucy. “Miss Keyes. We’ll make certain you go right back to the same cell you vacated at Miramar penal barracks, where you’ll serve out the remainder of your sentence along with several extra years for all the other crimes you committed in the meantime.” Cahill’s expression became impassive. “If you two have any last words you want to share, now’s the time. After today, you won’t see each other again. Hell, you’ll be lucky if you even see daylight.”

  Lucy forced that tired smile once more. “I’m sorry, Dane.”

  But Marc shook his head. “No.”

  “No what?” said Durant.

  “I mean no, that’s not how this is going to be.” Marc leaned forward, ignoring the tightening of his still-raw wounds, meeting Cahill’s gaze. “I don’t like that narrative. I got a much better one.”

  Cahill was turning to leave the room. “You don’t get to dictate terms—”

  “The Combine.” Marc let the name fall where it lay.

  “The what?” Durant feigned ignorance.

  “I told you before, don’t take the piss,” Marc retorted. “Don’t pretend you never heard of them, it just makes you look stupid.” He grunted softly, the ache from the injuries putting his teeth on edge. “If you know about Al Sayf, you know about the Combine, and if you know about them, you know they supplied hardware for a dozen different terror attacks…”

  “That we’re aware of,” Lucy added.

  Cahill hesitated. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll bet the Central Intelligence Agency is as concerned as MI6 are about Combine penetration,” said Marc. “So a file full of meta-data showing locations, dates and origins of communications between Combine assets would be of great interest.”

  “Dane…” Lucy’s tone was a warning. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m changing the game.” He drew himself up. “You’re going to let us walk, Cahill. Free and clear.”

  “We are?” Durant towered over Marc. “Why the hell would we do that?”

  “Let him talk,” said Cahill.

  Marc went on. “There’s a remote server containing every last bit of data I pulled from the records of one Dima Novakovich … He was a broker for the Combine until he ended up surplus to requirements.” He met Durant’s gaze. “I put the intel there for safekeeping. I’ll give you the password you need to access it.”

  Durant cocked his head. “I’m pretty sure I could beat that out of you.” He leaned in, radiating menace. “That bad cop enough?”

  “There are two passwords,” Marc said, holding firm. “You won’t know which one I’ve given you until you try it. The wrong one instantly kills the contents of the server memory and you get bugger all.” He looked away from Durant to the other man. “Now, here’s the thing. There are Combine ghost assets inside the CIA, and you know it. If you say no to my offer, I’ll know you’re one of them, because anyone else is going to jump at the chance to help the company clean house.”

  Cahill smiled thinly. “That’s very clever.”

  “It’s what he’s good at,” Lucy said warily. “Even if it does get him into trouble.”

  “There’s a bonus, too,” Marc went on. “I’ll provide enough information on Al Sayf’s attack for you lads to make it look like it was you who thwarted attempted mass murder. The CIA gets the glory and an excuse for all that black budget money you suck up.” He stopped, then snapped his fingers as something else occurred to him. “I’ll even throw in the reason why the Navy lost one of their drones last week, for free.”

  Durant folded his arms and glared at Cahill. “You’re not seriously considering this bullshit?”

  “Hypothetically speaking,” Cahill replied. “If the agency accepted such an offer, there would be stipulations.” He paused, considering Marc. “It’s fair to say you’ve earned the displeasure of this nation. If you came across our radar again, there would be serious consequences.” Cahill glanced at Lucy. “And as for you, Miss Keyes. Consider your citizenship revoked. All the rights and privileges you enjoy as an American will go away. You’ll be stateless.”

  Her expression soured. “It’s not like I was gonna get my GI pension anyhow…” She gave a shrug. “Whatever. I’ll manage.”

  “I’m not done,” said Marc. “There’s one more thing.”

  “Sure there is,” snorted Durant. “You want a sleepover in the Lincoln Bedroom too?”

  “I need something from the NSA’s cryptanalysis division.”

  Cahill gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Can’t help you with that.”

  “Yeah, you can,” Marc insisted. “Get Durant here to apply some pressure.” He went on before the other agent could respond. “I’m not going to be coy about it, everyone knows that the NSA is monitoring email traffic through Europe and the UK.”

  “Fucking WikiLeaks…” said Durant under his breath.

  Marc went on. “That whole PRISM system your government swears is no big deal? The thing you’re using to spy on everyone else, including your allies? I want it to work for me, just one time.”

  “Why?” demanded Cahill.

  “I got my own ghost to hunt,” Marc replied.

  Cahill was silent for a long moment, before he spoke again. “I’ll need to make some calls.”

  “No you don’t,” said Lucy. “The agency didn’t send a man down here without the right kinds of cl
earance. You say it, it’ll happen.” She looked toward Marc. “That’s if you’re sure about this? Solomon—”

  “He can’t give me what I need,” Marc replied, never taking his eyes off the CIA agent. “Do we have a deal?”

  * * *

  Lunch in the Rapier Club’s elegant dining room had done little to ameliorate Donald Royce’s mood, and after retreating to the library for a glass of port and a look over the day’s papers, he still hadn’t been able to shake the unsettled feeling that lay upon him.

  He sat in a high-backed chair of old, well-maintained oxblood leather, his gaze drifting to the dance of flames in the fireplace. Outside, London had turned wet and dismal, and the other members who wandered past him smelled rain-damp and of cigars.

  He tried to lose himself in the cozy, controlled space of the club. Royce wanted to pretend that he could remain here until all his problems melted away, safe in this impenetrable bastion of English tradition. Around him, the rich and the well-connected, the captains of industry, the officer class and the scions of landed gentry, all went about their business as if nothing mattered to them. Inside the oak-paneled walls of the Rapier Club’s lounges, privilege made time stand still.

  But it was a falsehood. On the other side of the antique windows looking out on to Mayfair, the world moved on. There were threats out there that could reach into these hallowed halls as easily as anywhere else. Royce’s job was to deal with them, of course, but recent events had made that task harder than ever to accomplish.

  Soon, Royce would be called up to Sir Oliver’s office at Vauxhall Cross to present his final analysis of events that had begun with the sinking of the Palomino in Dunkirk, and ended with the disappearance of Marc Dane somewhere in the Maryland countryside a week earlier.

  It was not a meeting he was looking forward to, just as it had not been a resolution that he could live with. Heads were going to roll. One thing after another had gone wrong, and now there were rumors coming across the Atlantic that the cousins were up to something.

  Royce flipped over the copy of The Times and saw a column on the front page. A journalist in Washington was reeling off some supposition about the American president and the war on terror. He scowled at the ill-informed piece and tossed the paper aside.

  “Sir?” Royce looked up to see one of the club’s staff holding a small white envelope in his hand. The attendant wore black trousers and a red jacket with gold frogging, designed to mimic the look of a British Army uniform from the Crimean War. “A message for you.”

  Inside the envelope were the details of one of the club’s private meeting rooms, along with a name he had not expected to see.

  Royce forced a brittle smile, and gave the attendant a generous tip. He paused just long enough to throw the note into the fireplace before he made for the stairs.

  * * *

  The Alma Room was used for games of bridge, and while Royce never played, he had often seen other members engaged in lengthy sessions. One wall was a series of glass panels that led out on to an interior balcony, from which one could look down on the lobby to observe the comings and goings through the club’s entrance. The room was broken up by pillars of pink marble between the antique card tables and overstuffed chairs.

  Victor Welles was the only other occupant. As Royce entered, he rose and gave him a disagreeable look. “Donald,” he said, without an iota of warmth. “Here you are.”

  “I thought you detested this place,” Royce replied. “What did you say about it? A den for old men and plotters.”

  “Hidebound,” Welles corrected. “My exact words were, a den for hidebound old men and plotters. That opinion hasn’t changed. Believe me, if it wasn’t that my family had a hereditary membership here, I’d never darken its doors.” He gestured at the walls. “It’s because of places like this and the old boy network they foster that my job exists. Makes it impossible to keep the system honest.”

  Royce went to a decanter on a nearby table and poured a glass of Macallan Ruby single malt. “And yet, here you are.”

  Welles’s irritation took a turn for the worst. “What is the point of all this? If you’re going to try and influence my report on the situation with Dane, you’re wasting your time. You lost him, and that’s all on you.”

  “You lost him first.” It was a cheap shot, but Royce couldn’t help himself. He halted with the glass halfway to his lips. “What do you want, Victor?”

  The other man’s annoyance mingled with confusion. “I want you to stop playing games. Why am I here?”

  Now it was Royce’s turn to be puzzled. “The note…”

  “This note?” Welles pulled an envelope from his pocket, identical to the one that Royce had been given only moments earlier. The other man made a show of opening it, revealing the slip of paper within. In the same careful copperplate script, there was a request addressed to Victor Welles to meet here, at this time. The note signed off with Donald Royce’s name.

  “You asked me to come up,” Royce insisted. “Just now.”

  Welles shook his head. “You asked me. I should have refused—”

  As he spoke, one of the glass panels slid aside. Part of the shadows on the balcony detached, revealing a figure dressed far too casually to meet the Rapier Club’s stringent dress codes.

  “You’re both here,” said Marc Dane, “because of me.”

  * * *

  Marc had to admit that he enjoyed the moment, the abject shock on the faces of the two men. Welles was the first to react, reaching inside his jacket, but Marc shook his head. “Don’t be stupid, Victor. This isn’t a time to be jumping the gun.”

  “How the hell did you get up here?” Royce demanded, with indignation. “You’re not a member!”

  “I’m not,” Marc admitted, and he nodded down toward an imposing figure crossing the lobby. “But he is.”

  Ekko Solomon paused to look up at the balcony and tapped a finger to his brow in the sketch of a salute, before heading out into the gray downpour to a waiting limousine.

  Welles moved toward the old rotary-dial telephone in the corner of the room. “I’m calling Six. You can consider yourself under arrest, Dane.”

  “Not doing that,” Marc shot back, stepping in to block his path. “I told you right from the bloody start, I’m not responsible for what happened to Nomad. I’m not guilty.”

  “Marc,” began Royce, “we can sort this out. Come with me to the Cross. I won’t allow Welles to make this some personal crusade. We’ll get to the heart of things. You say you’re innocent, I believe you.”

  “I know you do,” Marc replied. He paused, glancing at his watch. He didn’t have long. “I wanted to come in. I tried to, before … But there’s a traitor inside British Intelligence,” he began. “That’s obvious. It’s the only explanation for my OpTeam walking right into an ambush. It’s the reason I’ve been hunted across Europe and back. The Combine knew that Gavin Rix and Samantha Green were looking into their mole inside MI6. That’s why they targeted Nomad, to remove the threat.”

  “And you did a thorough job,” Welles shot back.

  Marc glared at him, his temper flaring. “Think, you mouthy wanker! If I was the insider, why did I come back after Dunkirk?”

  “Obvious,” Welles retorted, ignoring the insult. “Play the ‘troubled survivor’ bit, get yourself some desk duty … You could parlay that into access to any number of important intelligence sources.”

  “Except I wasn’t supposed to survive,” Marc insisted. “That’s why there was an assassin waiting for me in France. How could he have known where I’d be? He was told where to go by someone on the inside.”

  “I’m taking sides here,” Royce said carefully, “but understand we only have your word for that.”

  Marc glanced at him. “So what about my capture order being suddenly reclassified as shoot-to-kill? Who did that?”

  Welles scowled. “That was an error…”

  Marc shook his head. “No. Someone wants me dead. And I know who.”


  Silence fell across the room. It was Royce who finally broke it. “We’re listening, Marc. Tell us what you believe.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” he shot back. “First; Iain Nash didn’t die on the Palomino. He was part of the double-cross.”

  “His body was found in the wreckage,” said Welles. “The DCRI recovered it.”

  “You know that for sure?” Marc eyed him. “You saw data from a French secret service computer. What if that was put there before MI6 got to it?” He pressed on. “The Combine recruited Nash. He set up Nomad and used the explosion to drop off the grid. In return, he got a new lease of life as their attack dog.”

  “There’s no proof—” Welles began, but Marc silenced him by pulling a folder from inside his jacket and tossing it on to the table.

  Royce gingerly opened it and revealed a set of black-and-white photos, stark images of a corpse on an autopsy table. He recognized Nash’s face and paled.

  “The Americans have the body,” said Marc. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, they might let you have it back. Or maybe not. After all, he was part of a plot to blow up the US president…”

  Royce’s hand went to his mouth. “All that chatter we’ve been seeing from the Americans … The mobilizations, the rumors about some internal shake-up … That’s because of the Combine? How does that connect to Al Sayf?”

  “One uses the other,” Marc told him. “The Combine make their money playing off the fear index. Nothing makes cash like a war does, yeah? They use Al Sayf to push up the threat by helping them build bombs, and rake in the rewards.”

  Welles snatched up one of the pictures. “And Nash, if he’s responsible for Dunkirk, how did he end up like this?” The photograph showed the bloodless corpse, the ragged exit wound on the side of his head clearly visible.

  “He reaped what he sowed,” Marc said grimly, his hand tensing with involuntary memory of the trigger-pull.

  “All right…” Royce rubbed his face. “Marc, we can use this. Come back with me. We’ll open a full investigation. If Nash was a Combine mole, we can clear your name and get to the bottom of this.”