Gault bowed in acknowledgment of the point. And he admired El Mujahid’s tactics, largely because the Fighter understood Allied thinking—they always favored rescue over common sense; which made sabotage so effective for men like El Mujahid, and which made profit so deliciously easy for Gault. Since long before the American body count had hit quadruple digits three of Gault’s subsidiary companies had landed contracts for improved plastics and alloys, both for wheeled vehicles and human assets. Now half the soldiers in the field wore antishrapnel polymer undershirts and shorts. Quite a few lives had even been saved, not that this mattered in anything except price negotiations during contract meetings; but it was there. So, the more damage El Mujahid could do with his clever booby traps the more defensive products would be purchased. And even though plastics, petrochemicals, and alloys were only eleven percent of his business, it still brought in six hundred and thirty million per year, so it was all a winwin situation.
“Ah, I understand, my friend,” he said, putting authentic-sounding regret into his voice. “You go in safety and may Allah bless your journey.”
He saw the effect the words had on the big man. El Mujahid actually looked touched. How delicious.
Amirah had long ago coached Gault in what to say when it came to matters of the faith, and Gault was as good a student as he was an actor. After his second meeting with the Fighter—and after Gault had privately noticed the subtle signs indicating how thoroughly his luggage was being searched every time he came here—he’d started packing a worn copy of a French edition of Introduction to Islam: Understand the Pathway to the True Faith, a book written by a European who had gone on to become a significant and very outspoken voice in Islamic politics. Gault and Amirah spent hours with the book, underlining key passages, making sure important pages were dog-eared, and ensuring that the bookmark was never in the same place twice. El Mujahid had never openly spoken of what he believed to be Gault’s process of conversion, but each time they met the big man was warmer to him, treating him like family now, where once he had kept him at arm’s length.
“I’ll be finished in time for the next phase of the program,” the Fighter said. “I hope you have no worries about that.”
“Not at all. If I can’t trust you who can I trust?” They both smiled at that. “All of the transportation steps are locked down,” Gault added. “You’ll be in America by the second of July… the third at the very latest.”
“That cuts it close.”
Gault shook his head. “The timetable leaves less time for random events to interfere. Trust me on this, my friend. This is something I do very well.”
El Mujahid considered for a moment, then nodded. “Well… I have to go. A sword rusts in its sheath.”
“And an unfired arrow becomes brittle with disuse,” Gault said, completing the ancient aphorism.
They stood and embraced, and Gault suffered through the big man’s enthusiastic hugs and backslapping. The man was a foul-smelling oaf and as strong as a bear.
They swapped a few pleasantries and the Fighter strode out of the tent. Gault waited until he heard the growl of El Mujahid’s truck. He got up and stood in the tent’s opening and watched the Fighter and the last of his team disappear in swirls of brown dust and diesel exhaust as they crested a hill and dropped down the other side.
Now he could concentrate on his real work. Not plastics or polymers, not body armor for Yanks about whom he didn’t give a moment’s real thought. No, now he would meet with Amirah and visit her lab to see what his gorgeous little Dr. Frankenstein had on the slab.
His satellite phone vibrated in his pocket and he checked the screen display, smiled, and thumbed the button. “Is everything coded?”
“Of course,” said Toys, which is what he always said. Toys would forget to breathe before he’d forget to engage his phone scrambler.
“Good afternoon, Toys.”
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you are well.”
“I’m visiting our friends. In fact, your favorite person just left.”
“And how is El Musclehead? I’m so sorry to have missed him,” Toys said with enough acid to burn through tank armor. Toys—born Alexander Chismer in Purfleet—never bothered to hide his contempt of El Mujahid. The Fighter was gruff, dirty, and politically expansive; Toys was none of those things. Toys was a slim and elegant young man, naturally fastidious, and, as far as Gault could tell, absolutely unburdened by any weight of morality. Toys had two loyalties—money and Gault. His love for the former bordered on the erotic; his love for the latter was in no way romantic. Toys was sexually omnivorous but his tastes ran to expensive fashion models of both sexes and of the kind once known as heroin chic. Besides, Toys was the ultimate business professional and he had steel walls between his personal affairs and his responsibilities as Gault’s personal assistant.
He was also the only person on earth Gault truly trusted.
“He sends his love,” Gault said; Toys gave a wicked laugh. “How are the travel arrangements coming along?”
“It’s all done, sir. Our sweaty friend will have a wonderful world tour without incident.”
Gault grinned. “You’re a marvel, Toys.”
“Yes,” Toys purred. “I am. And, by the way… have you seen her yet?” His voice dripped with cold venom.
“She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Mm, well, give her a big wet kiss from me.”
“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear that. Any news or are you just calling to chitchat?”
“Actually, the bloody Yank has been calling day and night.”
Gault’s smile flickered. “Oh? What’s the urgency?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, but I gather it has something to do with our friends abroad.”
“I’d better call him.”
“Probably best,” agreed Toys, and then added, “Sir? I’m not entirely confident that the Yank is, how should I put it? A reliable asset.”
“He’s usefully placed.”
“So is a rectum.”
Gault laughed. “Be nice. We need him for now.”
Toys said, “You need better friends.”
“He’s not a friend. He’s a tool.”
“Too right he is.”
“I’ll sort him out. In the meantime get your ass on a plane and meet me in Baghdad.”
“Where do you think I’m calling you from?” Toys asked dryly.
“Are you reading my mind now?” Gault said.
“I believe that’s in my job description.”
“I believe it is.”
Gault smiled as he disconnected the call. He punched in a new number and waited while it rang through.
“Department of Homeland Security,” said the voice at the other end.
Chapter Eight
U.S. Route 50 in Maryland / Saturday, June 27; 4:25 P.M.
THE DRIVE BACK to Baltimore gave me time to think, and the thoughts I had weren’t nice ones. I wanted to kick Church’s ass for busting a big wet hole in my peace of mind. He had made me fight a dead guy.
A. Dead. Guy.
I think I logged forty miles of my trip with that thought playing over and over like a skipping record. It’s kind of a hard thought to get past. Me. Dead guy. In a room. Dead guy wants a piece of me. Find a comfortable chair for that to sit in.
Javad was not alive when he attacked me. I may not be a scientist but one of those bottom-line factoids everyone—Eastern, Western, alternative health, all of them—will agree on is that dead guys don’t try to bite you. In movies, yeah okay. Not in Baltimore. But Javad was dead, so there was that. Another twenty miles blurred by.
What was it Church had said? Prions. I had to look that up when I got home. What little I knew was Discovery Channel stuff. Something related to Mad Cow maybe?
So, okay, Joe… if it’s real then make some sense of it. Mad Cow and dead terrorists. Bioweapons of some kind. With dead guys. DMS. Department of Military Sciences, sister org to Homeland. What kind of math d
oes that make? I put the new White Stripes CD in the deck and tried to not think about it. Worked for nearly four seconds.
I pulled off the road, went into a Starbucks, ordered a Venti and a chocolate chunk cookie—screw Church, what does he know about cookies? I paid the tab, left my stuff on the counter, went into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and then threw my guts up in the toilet.
I could feel the shakes starting to come back, so I washed my face, rinsed my mouth out with handfuls of tap water, pasted on my best I-didn’t-just-kill-a-zombie expression, and left with my coffee.
Chapter Nine
Sebastian Gault / Helmand Province, Afghanistan / Six days ago
INTO HIS PHONE Sebastian Gault said, “Line?”
“Clear,” the voice responded, indicating that both ends of the call were on active scramble.
“I hear you’ve been trying to call me. What’s the crisis this time?”
“I’ve been calling you for days.” The voice at the other end was male, American with a Southern accent. “It’s about the dockside warehouse.”
“I figured. Have they hit it yet?”
“Yes, just like you said they would. Full hit, total loss.” The American told Gault about the task force hit. He quoted directly from the official reports filed with Homeland and the NSA. He referred to Homeland as Big G.
Gault smiled, but he made his voice sound deeply worried. “Are you sure the entire cell is terminated? All of them?”
“The task force report said that some were killed during the raid and the rest died from what they’re calling ‘suicide drugs.’ They’ve got nobody to question. No one’s going to disappear to Guantánamo Bay for any friendly chats.”
“And the subject? What about him?”
“KIA at the site.”
“Killed?” Gault asked, giving the word the kind of dubious inflection it now deserved. It wasn’t lost on the American, who hesitated before continuing with his report.
“One of the Baltimore cops took him down. He was taken to a local hospital as a DOA and I’m told that he’s on ice somewhere.”
Gault considered this. If the subject was in a morgue storage drawer then the plan was going off the rails. He had been infected with Generation Three of the Seif al Din, the Sword of the Faithful. He should not have been lying idly about. However, Gault seriously doubted that this was the case. “Find out for sure.”
“I’ve put a top guy on it and should be able to lock it down soonest.”
“What about the other two shipments?”
“They left by truck the day before the place was hit.”
“Did everything go as planned?”
“Sure. They successfully tailed the one we wanted and lost the other. It all went fine. Right now they’re surveilling the big plant and doing satellite flybys and thermal scans with helos. But no one has gone in because of a general sit-and-wait order.”
“Issued by whom?”
The American cleared his throat. “The Geek Squad.”
“Geek Squad” was their personal code for the DMS.
“Perfect.”
“Glad you think so,” said the American, “but I think you’re playing with goddamn fire here.”
“Have a little faith,” chided Gault.
“Faith, my ass. How are we going to evacuate the plant, that’s my question? The Geeks may only be watching now but a go order can come down any second, and I don’t think I can stop them from—”
Gault cut him off. “I’m not asking you to. Just sit tight and keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll be reachable for the next three or four days. In the meantime, download everything including the official warehouse assault report to my PDA.” He parted the tent flaps and looked out at the rocks and sand, at the sparse bunchgrass and withered scrub date palms. This part of Afghanistan always looked like a wasteland. Then a flash of movement caught his eye and he saw three people coming toward him from the mouth of a small cave halfway up the valley—a woman with two heavily armed guards flanking her. Amirah, coming to take him to the lab. He let out the held breath that had started to burn stale in his chest.
“But it’s too late to evacuate the staff…” the American said.
“Are you that concerned for their well-being?”
The American laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m thinking of what the Geek Squad could do with what they find in there.”
“They’ll do exactly what we want them to do.” He meant to say “what I want them to do,” but decided to throw the American a bone. “Keep me posted. If you can’t reach me then make sure my assistant has regular updates.”
The American made a rude noise. There was no love lost between him and Toys.
“You sure this bullshit is going to work?”
“Work?” Gault echoed softly as he watched Amirah walk toward him and saw that her step was lively, filled with excitement. He knew what kinds of things excited this woman. “It already has worked.”
He closed the phone and put it in his pocket.
Chapter Ten
Baltimore, Maryland / Saturday, June 27; 6:19 P.M.
“DR. SANCHEZ’S OFFICE.”
“Kittie? It’s Joe. Rudy free?”
“Oh, he’s gone for the day. I think he went to the gym—”
“Thanks.” I cleared the call and then thumb-dialed the number for Gold’s on Pratt Street. They got Rudy to the phone.
“Joe,” he said. Rudy sounds like Raul Julia from The Addams Family years. “I thought you were in Ocean City. Something about a tan, an endless stream of bikinis, and a sixer of Corona. Wasn’t that the great master plan?”
“Plans change. Look, you free?”
“When?”
“Now.”
A slight pause as he shifted gears. “Are you okay?”
“Not entirely.”
Another shift, this time from concern to caution. “Is this about what happened at the warehouse?”
“In a way.”
“Are you feeling depressed or—”
“Cut the shit, Rudy, this is off the clock.” He got that. Since long before Helen’s first suicide attempt Rudy had been my shrink some of the time and my friend all of the time. Now I needed my friend, but I wanted his brain, too. “Get dressed and come outside. I’ll be there in five.”
I MET RUDY Sanchez ten years ago during his residency at Sinai. He’d worked with Helen since the first time she’d been checked in after the spiders started coming out of the walls. Now we were both dealing with Helen’s suicide in different ways. I needed him for my part of it, and he needed me for his. None of Rudy’s patients had ever killed themselves before, and he took it pretty hard. There’s professional detachment and then there’s basic humanity. Rudy’s a great shrink. He was born for the profession, I think. He listens with every molecule of his body and he has insight.
He came out of Gold’s wearing electric-blue bike shorts and a black tank top, carrying an Under-Armour gym bag.
“You have a bike?” I asked, looking around.
“No, I drove.”
“What’s with the shorts?”
“There’s a new fitness trainer. Jamaican gal… tall, gorgeous.”
“And…?”
“Bike shorts show off my package.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Jealousy is an ugly thing, Joe.”
“Get in the fucking car.”
We drove to Bellevue State Park, bought some bottled water, and walked off into the forest. I hadn’t said much of anything in the car and Rudy let it be, waiting for me to open up, but after we’d been walking for five minutes he cleared his throat. “This is getting pretty remote for a therapy session, cowboy.”
“Not what it is.”
“Then what? Does the FBI want you to get your forestry merit badge?”
“Need privacy.”
“Your car won’t do it?”
“Not sure about that.”
He smiled. “You ought to consider seeing a therapist about t
hat paranoia.”
I ignored him. The park trail brought us into a small clearing by a brook. I led the way down to the scattering of rocks. For a small brook it had a nice steady burble. Useful. Not that I really expected long-range mics, but safe is better than careless.
“Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, Rudy, but I’m going to take off all my clothes. You can turn around. I wouldn’t want you to lose confidence in your package.”
He sat down on a rock and picked up some small stones to toss. I stripped down to the skin and first examined every inch of my boxers, checking the seams and label. Nothing, so I put them back on.
“Thank God,” Rudy said.
I shot him the finger and went through the process with the borrowed clothes.
“What are you looking for?”
“Bugs.”
“Bugs as in creepy crawlies or bugs as in I’m being ape-shit paranoid and my psychiatrist friend had better keep the Thorazine handy?”
“That one,” I said as I put the sweats on and sat on a rock five feet away.
“What’s going on, Joe?”
“That’s the thing, Rude… I don’t know.”
His dark eyes searched my face. “Okay,” he said, “tell me.”
And I did. When I was finished Rudy sat on his rock and stared for a long time at a praying mantis that was sunning herself on a leaf. The sun was a ruby-red ball behind the distant trees and the late afternoon heat was giving way to a breezy coolness as twilight began to gather.
“Joe? Look me in the eye and tell me that everything you’ve said is true.”
I told him.
He watched my pupils, the muscles around my eyes, looking for any shifts in focus. Looking for a tell. “There’s no chance this Mr. Church was playing some kind of game on you? There’s no chance this Javad was in on it?”
“A few days ago I shot him twice in the back. Today I smashed the guy’s face to jelly and then snapped his neck.”
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