by Marc Cameron
He’d resolved to get to know this woman someday soon. But before he could do that, there was the matter of Grace Smallwood from Lincoln, Nebraska. He’d been watching her too, getting to know her and the little secrets that made her vulnerable. Smallwood’s death had to be an accident, and though Mujaheed Beg preferred the more intimate work of the garrote, his specialty—the skill the doctor paid him for—was accidents.
The diminutive Nebraska native was a picture of intelligent perkiness. She’d graduated with honors from the University of Maryland and then stayed on as a Terrapin to work on her graduate degree in public policy. One of her professors had introduced her to a particular senator, who had, in turn made introductions to a particularly well-placed family within the government. It didn’t hurt that she was as cute as she was smart and that the senator who’d introduced her had a thing for brunettes with pixie haircuts. She had the pizzazz and brains to write her own ticket in Washington.
It was up to Beg to see that Smallwood never got the job. Another student, one more friendly to the jihad, would be hired after her untimely death.
She was listening to music on her iPod when she rounded the corner, head bobbing to the decadent beat of her song. She wore red shorts and a loose U of M basketball jersey that showed far too much of her skin for Beg’s moral sensibilities. A small black fanny pack hung around her waist.
Beg approached from an intersecting side trail, timing his entry onto the main path so he crashed directly into the startled girl. As they collided, he opened the tiny cardboard box in his right hand and dumped the contents down the loose neck of her jersey.
“I’m so sorry,” he sputtered. “How clumsy of me.”
He offered a hand as they pushed away from their awkward clench.
“I’m okay... .” She crawled to one knee before launching into a series of short screams, swatting feverishly at her chest.
“Bees!” she gasped. “I’m allergic to bees!”
She clawed at her waist for the EpiPen that would stop her attack.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Mujaheed smiled, still playing the innocent. He unzipped the fanny pack and retrieved the yellow plastic tube containing her epinephrine.
Smallwood fell back against the pavement. Clutching at her throat, she gasped for air. She nodded emphatically, groping blindly for the pen. “Hurry... . Can’t ... breathe... .”
Mujaheed looked up and down the path. When he was certain there were no witnesses, he pressed the pen into the trail, activating the automatic injector and emptying the medication onto the path. He dropped the pen on the ground beside the stricken girl. It would be found later by authorities, who would believe she had panicked and wasted the drug that could have saved her life.
The girl looked on in horror. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Horrific red blotches blossomed on her face and neck. Eyes that had shone brightly moments before grew bloodshot and vague. Flecks of spittle frothed from swelling lips. Her head slammed against the pavement with a violent crack. She began to writhe, kicking so hard at the edge of the trail, she lost a shoe.
The black women walking with their children would find her in a few moments. By then Grace Smallwood would be past the point of rescue—and Mujaheed Beg would be gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Mervi hardly made it out of earshot from the gurgles of the dying girl when the cell phone in the pocket of his running shorts began to buzz. He hadn’t even had time to take out his comb and see to his hair. It had to be Dr. Badeeb. No one else had his number. He let it ring, wanting to put more distance between himself and Smallwood before she was discovered.
The very picture of impatience, Badeeb called again in a matter of seconds. Beg slowed to a walk in the shadowed, tunnel-like forest clearing along the heavily wooded Paint Branch trail. A gray squirrel chattered from the high limbs of an elm tree. Wiping sweat from his forehead with the tail of his shirt, he took a deep breath and answered curtly.
“Al-salamu, Doctor.” He waved a mosquito away as he spoke.
“Wa alaikum assalam,” Badeeb whined like the mosquito. “You are healthy, praise be to God... .”
“I am,” Beg sighed, suddenly more fatigued than he should be. Nazeer Badeeb was his employer, but the Mervi found himself too weary for the customarily endless rounds of telephone politeness. “Why do you call?”
“I trust all is well in Maryland?” Badeeb sounded like a Pakistani version of the film actor Peter Lorre. The wheezing brought on by his ever-present cigarette was audible over the phone.
“It is,” Beg said, walking faster to outpace the mosquitoes that flung themselves from the surrounding foliage to swarm his face. “Our trouble in Rockville has been taken care of and that obstacle at the university has been cleared away. Your friend should have no trouble getting the job she wants.”
“Excellent,” Badeeb said, a broad smile evident in his voice. “Praise be to God that you are able to clear the path for so many.”
“Yes,” Beg said absentmindedly. “Praise be to God. What do you hear of Drake? Might we know anyone on this list of his?” The Mervi did not ask outright over the phone, but Badeeb would understand his meaning. Were they themselves, or any of their people, on the list?
Badeeb kept uncharacteristically silent for some time.
“I have not put eyes on it,” he said at length. “But Drake does us a great service by producing such a list. The Americans will devour themselves out of fear and mistrust of each other.”
“Maybe,” Beg mused. “Still, I do not like this politician. He seems much too powerful to have such radical thoughts.”
“He does, indeed,” the doctor said. Badeeb was always brooding over one idea or another. It was what made him so dangerous. “We will take care of Drake when the time is right.” The metallic sound of his cigarette lighter clinked in the background. “Right now we have larger fish to cook.”
“Fry,” Beg corrected, shaking his head. “You mean bigger fish to fry.”
“Yes.” Badeeb gave a forced laugh. “Of course. Much bigger fish... . You have done well, my friend. Praise be to God. Get some rest for now. I will call you.”
Beg ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. It was rare that he had more than a few days without some sort of assignment. In Dr. Badeeb’s world, there were always paths that needed clearing, loose ends to tie up. The doctor kept the details of his plans to himself, sharing them only when someone needed to be moved out of the way.
Suddenly hungry, the gaunt Mervi picked up his pace. He would eat some pancakes with lots of butter pecan syrup at the Denny’s around the corner and then return to his apartment in Virginia for some much-needed rest.
When he woke up, he would learn more of the dark woman who’d surprised him at Arbakova’s house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Standing outside Nadia Arbakova’s front door, one hip cocked to the side, Ronnie Garcia’s throat tightened as she watched Quinn and Thibodaux gear up. Dressed in black leather, with stiff riding boots and full-gauntlet riding gloves, the men reminded her of gladiators straddling futuristic machines out of an Alien movie. They mounted their bikes without speaking and roared down the driveway back toward Highway 270.
Arbakova’s murder had solidified everyone’s workday. Garcia would pay a visit to Agent James Doyle’s older sister, Tara, and see what the Air Force F-22 pilot had to say about her kid brother. The big boy biker with the Louisiana drawl and his darkly handsome friend would check out a couple of addresses on the guy who’d apparently tried to kidnap them that morning. They would all link up around 1500 hours at the Naval Observatory—the official vice-presidential residence—for an appointment with Nadia’s former boyfriend, Special Agent Doyle.
Ronnie put the tip of her index finger against full lips, eyes narrowed in thought. It would take some time to understand this one named Jericho. The Cajun dude had muscles on top of his muscles. Some women would be into that, but there was a br
ooding violence in the dark one that felt familiar to Garcia, as if she’d known him for a very long time.
Palmer and the others were still inside, letting the crime scene technicians go about their business while Bodington, no doubt, pitched high-level plans that didn’t involve Garcia doing anything more than carrying his briefcase.
Beyond the trees, the bikes threw up a spray of gravel, disappearing around the line of oaks along the deserted street. Ronnie sighed, jingling her keys in her fist. She looked at Arnie Vasquez, Palmer’s Secret Service driver. “You know that one?” she asked.
“You talking about Quinn?”
“Hmm.” She bit her bottom lip. “He married?”
“Not anymore.”
“Hmmm.”
“He’s a dangerous man, chica ... muy dangerous.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Something else you want to know?”
“I’m wondering how he likes his coffee... .”
Arnie smirked. “And just how do you want him to like his coffee?”
Garcia opened the door to her shiny black Impala and gave Vasquez a wink as she climbed in behind the wheel. “Strong, hot, and Cuban.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Province of Nuristan
Eastern Afghanistan
0700 hours Afghanistan Time
She was no diplomat—but Karen Hunt was a spy, and good spies knew how to be diplomatic when they had to be. Peering out the flat, elongated window of the concrete command bunker, she rocked back and forth on her feet, arms folded against the chill of the thin mountain air. She nodded toward the tiny window where she could just catch a glimpse of the gray crags that towered over the little copse of concrete buildings, sandbag bunkers, and double ring of concertina wire that that made up Camp Bullwhip.
“I mean, seriously,” she said. “It’s just like they told me it would be. This really is like living at the bottom of a Dixie cup.”
First Lieutenant Bryce Nelson, the camp’s ranking officer, glanced up from a table where he stood poring over a weathered topographic map. He was gaunt faced and world worn for a man in his late twenties. “Like I said ...” He shook his head, then returned his attention to the map.
None of the soldiers wanted her here. They didn’t trust spooks—with good reason. Spooks sent them off into the mountains based on analysis and guesswork. Soldiers liked their truths more black and white. Camp Bullwhip was definitely on the shady gray edges of what could be considered a sane place to stick an American forward operating base.
Three of her first four days saw mortar attacks from across the silt-choked river that formed the northern boundary of the camp. An enemy sniper had set up shop on the fourth afternoon, zipping in potshots from the rocky crags above. The shooter hadn’t killed anyone, but kept soldiers pinned down for forty-five minutes until a couple of F15s dropped enough ordnance on the mountain to kill two dozen snipers.
The attacks had been halfhearted at best. They were testing, Hunt thought, like remote probes, methodically checking out the remote base’s defenses and troop response.
She’d left Kabul the week before in a Chinook helicopter with supplies and a reinforcement platoon of forty-two soldiers from the Tenth Mountain Division. Once the athletic and youthful war fighters had climbed aboard and strapped themselves into his bird, the pilot had drawn a round of cheers when he’d announced he was honored to be flying an entire “can of American whoop-ass.”
From the moment she saw the isolated combat outpost she’d understood why soldiers who lived there felt their position was too exposed. It was twenty miles from the nearest support base and surrounded by high foothills in the shadow of the jagged Hindu Kush. It was only by dumb luck—and the Afghani insurgents’ general inability to shoot straight—that no one had been killed.
Lieutenant Nelson took a grease pencil from the sleeve pocket of his BDU shirt and made some notes on the laminated map. He was ready for patrol, dressed in full battle rattle except for his Kevlar helmet, which rested on the plastic folding table alongside the map.
“Our meeting with Mullah Muzari is when?” Hunt said, still gazing out the window. She was debating whether or not she should go ahead and put on her heavy flak vest to help ward off the bone-numbing chill. It had been cold in Kabul, but she found it almost impossible to get warm in the thin air of the mountains. Lieutenant Nelson, from Sweetgrass, Montana, seemed impervious to the cold. He kept the space heater at a low simmer when Karen felt a roaring boil should be the order of the day.
“Meeting is at oh-nine hundred,” Lt. Nelson said.
Karen yawned, rubbing her eyes with a hand grimy from a week at the remote outpost. “That’s what?” She looked at the Seiko dive watch on her wrist. “Two hours from now? The village is only two clicks away.”
“It is,” the LT said, his boyish dimples withdrawing into the worry lines of his face. “But we’ll need to do a sweep of the village before we sit down for our tea party. I’ll have to post guards and send a patrol into the mountains above us to keep an eye out for snipers. That takes a little more time than just a stroll into town.”
Nelson was twenty-six, but the stress of a month in command of an indefensible base surrounded by mountains and crawling with Hezb-e-Islami Gulbuddin had chased the youthful sparkle from his brown eyes.
The HiG was an insurgent group that had formed decades earlier to repel the Soviets. They were violently opposed the U.S. occupation and though fierce competitors with the Taliban, they could at least agree on their visceral hatred of the Americans.
Hunt had been assigned to the outpost with one mission: to find out if there was a viable chance for peace with Mullah Muzari, an HiG commander who’d been on the U.S. government’s capture or kill list since late 2006. He’d recently been making noises about wanting to negotiate. The folks at Army Intel and the CIA had put their big giant brains together and decided Hunt should fly in and see if he was for real.
Clean water was always at a premium and, like everyone on the base, Lieutenant Nelson looked as if he’d slept in his clothes for the past month. Hunt didn’t want to think about how she looked. She wore desert camo and a matching ball cap to cover her short, easy-to-care-for brown hair. She wasn’t actually in the military, but the uniform kept her from presenting a more appetizing target to any snipers in the mountain hidey-holes that overlooked the camp. As one of the Agency’s few female paramilitary intelligence officers, Hunt kept herself fit to the extreme. One might see a man in her position with the beginnings of a middle-age spare tire, but Karen reasoned women in her line of work didn’t need that kind of scrutiny. She had the look of a healthy farm girl accustomed to hard work in the outdoors and the oval pink cheeks of a Rubens painting. At nearly five-ten and a hundred thirty-five pounds, she was blessed with long legs that helped her run the mile in just over five minutes. She took pride in the fact that she’d been able to do more pull-ups than all but two of the men in her basic agent class at Camp Perry.
When she’d signed up for the CIA she’d done so with what she believed to be full knowledge of what she was getting herself into. Her father had been a well-respected case officer in the Clandestine Service. He’d dragged Karen and her mother all over Central Asia when the countries were still fresh and beautifully raw with their recent independence from the Soviet Union.
Life had been austere when they weren’t at the family’s stateside base in Boston. Foreign travel hadn’t just meant adventure. It had been bare lightbulbs, toilet tissue that resembled flimsy wax paper, and rude housing. But, compared to the way the locals had it, the Hunt family had always lived like comparative royalty. As far as Karen knew, no one had ever shot at them and she’d only had to eat one goat’s eye to keep from offending someone. As a Boston girl and world traveler, the one thing she’d never really gotten used to was the cold.
She’d joined the Marine Corps for a short stint, training at Parris Island and moving into the Lioness Program before being redrafted by the Agency because of her f
ather’s connections. The fact that she spoke, at least to some degree, all of the major languages of Afghanistan convinced someone in the government that they should send her back to college and stick her in the CIA.
Nelson stooped over the map, resting both hands on the table. His voice brought her back from thoughts of her past. “It takes time to get this shit set up, you know.”
Hunt held up both hands. “Understood, LT. Relax. The enemy’s outside the wire. Not in here. I’m just asking questions, that’s all.”
“I know... .” His voice was a tight whisper. “My colonel says he’s in contact with Mullah Muzari and that Mullah Muzari says things will soon be under control. And then some goatherd feeds me intel that it’s Mullah Muzari’s guys that are lobbing lead at us every day... .”
She suddenly felt sorry for the harried lieutenant. “I hear you,” Hunt said, walking toward the window to get a clearer look outside. Something didn’t look right. “When I send in my report I’ll stress that it’s not working with Muzari. You do what you need to... .”
Hunt’s voice trailed off as she watched a young boy of nine or ten approach the front gate at the near end of the American-built wooden vehicle bridge across the Bandagesh River. It was the only way in through the maze of sandbags, ten-foot fencing, and razor wire that surrounded the five-acre base. Lt. Nelson moved to stand beside her.
Both watched in shocked surprise as the two soldiers standing post left their fortified checkpoint and walked to the gate for a chat with the child.
“No, no, no ... what in the hell are they doing?” Nelson moaned under his breath. He reached for a radio on the table behind him.
Hunt stared in disbelief that two highly trained men, both veterans of countless violent contacts with the enemy, opened the only fortification between the base and the hostile surroundings.
“Are they really going to let him in?” Instinctive dread pressed at her gut.
