I stepped into the room. All of the men were looking me up and down, a couple of them giving me evil stares that would have scared the paint off a tank. Courtland left and pulled the door closed behind her. I heard the heavy lock engage.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Five days ago
GAULT WAS ON the road, moving in a roundabout way from Amirah’s bunker in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan across the border to Iran, where he changed identities three times in fourteen hours and then entered a safe house run by a client of a client, where he ate, made some calls, and then changed identities again—back to Sebastian Gault. Gault was welcome in Iran and most other countries because his company was one of the world’s top suppliers of pharmaceuticals for humanitarian aid. He traveled with three kindhearted but clueless members of the World Health Organization as they visited remote villages in western Iran where a TB outbreak had been reported. Gault did a few stand-ups for a Swiss news service about the need for swift action in stemming the spread of the new strain of TB, and then thanked the Iranian government for allowing free passage for the WHO doctors. When he crossed the border into Iraq he was met by a military escort of British soldiers who got him safely all the way to Baghdad.
Toys met him in the lobby and they shook hands.
“I trust you had a comfortable trip,” said his personal assistant, taking Gault’s bag and leading him to the elevator. As they crossed the lobby they were both aware that everyone was looking at them. Toys was a not tall man but he had tall energy. He was slender, fit, and had impeccable posture; and he always managed to look cool and well groomed no matter where they were. Gault had seen him ankle deep in the mosquito swamps of Kenya looking as collected as if he were at a cocktail party at Cannes. But to anyone watching it was immediately clear which of them was the alpha. Gault was taller, more physically imposing, with swept-back hair and piercing dark eyes. He was ruggedly handsome, where Toys was delicately so. By himself Toys could command almost any room, but his light dimmed considerably in Gault’s presence. Gault knew this; and so did Toys. They were both comfortable with the arrangement.
They chitchatted on the lift, talking of relatively unimportant Gen2000 matters. Once they were in the suite of rooms they shared at the Hotel Ishtar Toys swept the place with the newest generation of Interceptor surveillance sensors and everything came up clean. Even so, they avoided any sensitive topics for an hour, at which point Toys swept it again, knowing that surveillance teams often deactivate active listening in the first few minutes after someone checks in to a hotel knowing that a smart spy would sweep the room. They typically reactivate their bugs in forty minutes, so he gave it a full hour. It still came up clean.
Toys busied himself with unpacking while Gault took a hot bath. Later, with Gault snugged into a bathrobe and ensconced in a cushy armchair, a tall gin and tonic quietly melting on a nearby table, Toys settled down onto a more decorative faux Louis XIV chair, legs crossed, rolling a neat whiskey between his palms.
“You got a text message while you were in the bath,” Toys said primly. “Just one word: ‘Clean.’ That’s from El Musclehead?”
Gault smiled and nodded. “His team field-tested an entirely new generation of the Seif al Din today. That was the code to let me know the operation was successful.” He gave Toys the details.
“That’s disgusting,” Toys said, but if he had any real emotional reaction to the slaughter not one drop of it registered on his face.
“It’s a solid step forward,” Gault reminded him.
With a waspish sniff Toys said, “So, tell me about the happy couple.”
Gault told him everything, including his observations of the telltale clues in Amirah’s voice and facial expression. Toys listened without interruption, but when Gault was done he shook his head. “I think she’s been stuck too long in that bunker with all her toys, making monsters. She’s probably halfway to being a monster herself by now. Are you sure she shares your goals?”
Gault shrugged. There was a time, early in their affair, when he thought that he and Amirah would become some kind of king and queen of the economic world. His plan would clearly work, was working already, and he estimated that at the very least his various companies would net something like twenty to thirty billion. Best-case scenario hovered deliciously around the one hundred billion mark. He could conceivably become the richest man on earth. But so much of that hinged on Amirah staying within the confines of the operation.
When it was clear Gault was not going to answer Toys tossed back the rest of his drink and got up to make a fresh one. The phone rang and Toys answered.
“I’ve been trying to reach your boss all day,” snapped the American. “Is the line clear?”
“What do you think?” Toys asked. “Hold on… he’s right here.” He handed the phone across to Gault.
“What can I do for you?” Gault said. Toys leaned in close to eavesdrop.
“This morning the heads of all of the special operations divisions were given a briefing by the head of this new Geek Squad.”
“Ah! So… who’s running it?”
“That’s the weird part. We received certain documents, ostensibly from the head of this new branch, but on several of them the name of the person in charge was different. Some identified him as Mr. Elder, Mr. St. John, Mr. Deacon, and Mr. Church. Now, whether these refer to the same man or for section heads is unknown, but I got the impression they were code names for one guy—the one who was giving us our briefing. He was introduced to us as Mr. Pope. I have some careful feelers out there and I should be able to lock it down.”
“That fits with what Toys has been able to dig up,” Gault said. “What interests me is whether you’ve been able to get a man inside, as I asked.”
“Yeah,” said the American. “I have.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 2:42 P.M.
I STOOD BY the door and looked them over. My nerves were still jangling from seeing that gun against Rudy’s head and I don’t know whether I believed Church would have killed him or not. I felt like there was this gigantic Big Ben–sized clock ticking right over my head.
The room was mostly bare except for a few folding chairs and a card table on which was an open case of bottled water, a tray of sandwich meats and cheeses, and an opened loaf of white bread. Apparently the DMS budget didn’t extend to decent catering.
The guy closest to me, standing to my left, was maybe six feet but he must have been two-forty and all of it was in his chest and shoulders; his face had a vaguely simian cast to it. Next to Apeman was a taller, leaner guy with a beaky nose and a long scar that ran from his hairline through his right eyebrow and halfway down his cheek. Opposite Scarface was a black guy who looked like every army top sergeant you ever saw: buzz cut, a boxer’s broken nose, and a lantern jaw. Behind Sergeant Rock was a red-haired kid in his early twenties who had a jovial face. In fact he was the only guy smiling in the room. To the Joker’s right was a real moose of a guy, easily six six, with ropy muscles and heavily scarred hands. Jolly Green Giant was the first to speak.
“Looks like we got another candidate.”
I walked into the center of the group.
Scarface grunted. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ve been in here for almost three hours trying to sort out which one of us should head this team.”
“Really,” I said and kicked him in the balls.
He let out a thin whistling shriek of pain that I ignored as I grabbed the shoulder of his windbreaker and jerked him hard and fast so that he collided with Apeman and they both went down.
I spun off that and stomped down on the Joker’s foot and then pivoted to bring the same foot up again, heel first into his nuts. He didn’t scream, but he hissed real loud; and I nailed Sergeant Rock with a palm-shot to the chest that sent him sprawling onto the food table, which collapsed under him.
That left Jolly Green Giant standing and he gaped
at me in shock for maybe a half second before he started to swing; but that was a half second too long, and I darted forward and drove the extended secondary index-finger knuckle of my right hand into his left sinus, right next to his nose, giving it a fast counterclockwise twist on impact. He went back like he’d taken a .45 round in the face.
I pivoted again to see Apeman pushing his way out from under Scarface but he was only halfway to his feet and I swept his supporting leg out from under him and he fell hard on his tailbone, almost—but not quite—catching himself by planting his hand flat on the ground. I stamped on his outstretched fingers and then chop-kicked him in the chest before spinning off to face Sergeant Rock—who had come up off the collapsed card table with an impressive display of rubbery agility.
The other four guys were down and it was just him and me.
He held his hands up and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sucker him again, but then he smiled and turned his karate guard into a palms-out. Not a surrender so much as an acknowledgment of set and match.
I gave him a nod and stepped back, and edged away from the other four. Two of them were down for the count. Jolly Green Giant was sitting in the corner holding his face; if he had any kind of sinus issues that punch I gave him would likely become a migraine. Scarface was lying on the floor in a fetal position, hands cupped around his balls, groaning. The Joker was getting to his feet, but he had no fight left in him. Apeman was sitting against a wall trying to suck in a breath.
I heard the door click open and I stepped to one side as I turned, outside of everyone’s reach. Church and Courtland came in. He was smiling, she wasn’t.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I want you to meet Joe Ledger, the DMS’s new team leader. Any questions?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 2:43 P.M.
“HOW LONG DID this take, Grace?” Church asked.
“Four-point-six seconds.” It sounded like the words were pulled out of her with pliers. “Or eight-point-seven if you count from close of door.”
The other candidates stared at Church and at me and one of them—Apeman—looked like he was going to say something, but he caught some look from Church and held his tongue and glared. There was not a whole lot of love in the room.
“Get up,” Church said to them. His voice wasn’t bitter or harsh, merely quiet. Sometimes quiet is worse, and I watched the faces of each man as they climbed to their feet. Jolly Green Giant and Sergeant Rock showed no trace of animosity on their faces, and the latter even looked amused. Joker’s face was cautious, guarded. Scarface looked equal parts deeply embarrassed and angry. Apeman stared hot death at me as he stood up; he rubbed his chest and gave me a sniper’s squint.
My hands were shaking, but adrenaline will do that. Plus the image of Rudy with a gun to his head wouldn’t leave my mind.
“I want to see Rudy,” I said. “Now.”
Church shook his head “No. There are other things you need to do first.”
“He’d better be okay—”
He smiled. “Dr. Sanchez is currently eating his way through an entire catering platter and probably psychoanalyzing Sergeant Dietrich’s rather complicated childhood. He’s fine and he can wait.”
No one said anything. “Okay,” I said, surprised at how calm my voice sounded. “So now what do we do?”
“Major Courtland will bring you up to speed. The entire staff will meet in the main hall in thirty minutes.” He paused and then held out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ledger.”
“I don’t mean to offend you two,” I said, taking his hand, “but you’re both total assholes.” I gave his hand my best squeeze and damn if the son of a bitch didn’t match me pound for pound.
“I’ll cry about that later,” Church said.
We let go of each other and I folded my arms. “If I’m going to be team leader, where’s the actual team?”
“You just kicked the effing hell out of them,” Courtland said.
I turned and looked at the five men. Oh crap.
I’ve worked with street thugs, murderers, and the worst kind of lowlifes for years and have knocked in their heads, shot them, Tasered them, and sent them to prison for life, but none of them ever gave me the kinds of looks I was getting from my “team.” If they’d had a tree limb and a rope I’d be swinging in the wind.
I thought I heard Church give a quiet chuckle as he turned and left.
Maybe this was the moment where I was supposed to make some kind of speech, but before I could say anything Courtland beat me to it.
“Get cleaned up,” she snapped. “Ledger… come with me.” She started for the door.
I started to follow her but sensed movement and turned to see Apeman coming toward me. His face was purple with rage, hands balled into white-knuckled fists.
“You suckered me, asshole, and first chance I get I’m going to wipe the floor up with you.”
“No,” I said, “you’re not.” And I punched him in the throat.
I stepped out of the way as he fell.
The room was dead silent and I deliberately turned my back on the other four as I said to Courtland, “I hope to hell you have a medic here, ’cause he’s going to need one.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sebastian Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Five days ago
“LINE?”
“Clear,” said the Fighter.
“What have you to report, my friend?” Gault was chin deep in a tub of soapy water, the Goldberg Variations playing quietly on the CD player. The young woman in the other room was asleep—knowing this call was coming in, Toys had slipped something into her drink before escorting her to Gault’s room. She’d sleep for four more hours and wake up without feeling any adverse effects. It was useful being a chemist and having an assistant without a conscience.
El Mujahid said, “Everything in place.”
“Jolly good. Once you complete the first stage my lads in the Red Cross will make sure the correct transfers take place. With any luck you should be on a hospital ship heading out of the Gulf by midnight.”
“Sebastian…?” said El Mujahid.
“Yes?”
“I’m putting a lot of trust in you. I expect you to hold up your end of things.”
“My hand to Allah,” Gault said as he used his toes to turn on the hot water tap, “you can certainly trust me. Everything will go smoothly.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line, and then the Fighter said, “Tell my wife I love her.”
Gault smiled up at the ceiling. “Of course I will, my old friend. Go with God.”
He clicked off and tossed the phone onto the closed lid of the toilet. He was laughing when he did it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Baltimore, Maryland / Tuesday, June 30; 2:46 P.M.
AFTER MAJOR COURTLAND called in the medical team she joined me in the hallway and I could tell she was reevaluating me. Her eyes roved over my face like a scanner and I could almost hear the relays click in her head. Across the hall was a men’s room and I started toward it but she stopped me with a touch on my arm.
“Ledger… what made you think Mr. Church wanted you to do that?”
I shrugged. “He said time was short.”
“That’s not the same thing as telling you to go in there and start kicking everyone’s ass.”
“You have a problem with it?”
She smiled again, a nice smile. It transformed her from a cobra to something a hell of a lot more appealing: an actual human being. “Not at all. As much as I hate to say it I’m rather impressed.”
“‘Hate to say it’?” I echoed.
“You are a very hard person to like, Mr. Ledger.”
“Call me Joe. And no, I’m not. Lots of people like me.”
She didn’t comment on that. “Let me put it another way… you’re a very hard man to trust. Especially in an operation of this kind.”
“Grace—may I call you Grace?
”
“You may call me Major Courtland.”
“Okay, Major Courtland,” I said, “it isn’t my goal in life to get you to trust me. You jokers pulled me into this. I didn’t submit a résumé. I’m not military. So if you have issues about trust or anything else up to and including liking me, then, seriously, please go and screw yourself. Major.”
She blinked once.
“I did not and do not want my life tied up in cloak-and-dagger bullshit, dead guys, or pissing contests with either the testosterone crowd in there or some prissy-assed Earl Grey–drinking, scone-munching major who isn’t even my freaking boss. I don’t know you and I don’t give a rat’s ass if you trust me.”
“Mr. Ledger—”
“I have to take a piss.” I headed down the hall to the bathroom.
I USED THE toilet and then washed my face first with hot water and then cold, dabbed it dry with a fistful of paper towels, and then leaned on the edge of the sink, staring at my face in the mirror. My skin was flushed and my eyes had the jumpy look you usually see in junkies. My hair stuck out in all directions.
“Well,” I said to my reflection, “aren’t you a picture?”
I didn’t have a comb so I used wet fingers to plaster down my hair, and as I stood there the full weight and enormity of what was going on hit me like a freight train. I bowed over the sink, tasting bile, ready to throw up… but my trembling stomach held. I raised my head again and looked into my eyes and saw fear in there, the naked realization of what all this meant.
There were more of them out there. More walkers. And I was being asked to step up and be… what? Some kind of Captain Heroism who would lead the boys in the Red, White, and Blue to victory? What was I getting myself into? This wasn’t task force duty, this wasn’t even SWAT-team level. I’d never even smelled anything this big before and now I was expected to train and lead a black ops team? How frigging insane was this? Why were they asking me? I’m just a cop. Where are the guys who actually do this for a living? How come none of them were here? Where’s James Bond and Jack Bauer? Why me, of all people?
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