Black Skies

by Leo J. Maloney

  “So you wash your hands of it, you smug, serene bastard?”

  “I don’t think you called me for recriminations,” said Smith, evenly as ever. “You called because you want to know.”

  “It’s Haider Raza,” he said. “We know that already.”

  “Haider planned and executed the attack, but he was not behind it.”

  Chapman paced back and forth in his cozy kitchen, which was really not built for pacing. “Not behind it? Raza is the one who calls the shots in the Martyr’s Brigade. He’s masterminded plenty of complex, coordinated attacks.”

  “He didn’t mastermind this one.”

  Chapman took out a knife and played with it, twirling it. “Just tell me. What did you find?”

  “Gunther Weinberg.”

  The knife clattered onto the kitchen counter. “S-say that again, I think I must have heard you wrong.”

  “You heard me correctly,” said Smith. “German tycoon Gunther Weinberg.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Chapman.

  “I don’t kid, Mr. Chapman.”

  That really went without saying. “What do you have to back it up?”

  “Circumstantial evidence, so far,” said Smith. “All I intend is to bring him to your attention. It will be your job to prove the link.”

  “My job is to find the Secretary of State.”

  “Weinberg may be the key,” said Smith. “Our goals are the same, Mr. Chapman. Don’t forget that.”

  Smith hung up and Chapman was left standing, without knowing what to do. He yelled out an obscenity and grabbed his coat. Duty called, and as little as he wanted to, he had to obey. He ran up to the bedroom. Rose was in bed, lying as she did when she was about to take a nap.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “All this craziness.” He gestured at the air, as if it was present right there in the room.

  She pulled a blanket over herself. “Should I expect you later?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  She shut her eyes. He walked over to her and kissed her forehead, and she smiled without opening her eyes.

  He arrived at the office after 7 P.M., secretly hoping that Cynthia Gillespie had already left, but it was hard to win a bet against her dedication to her work. He found her at her computer, scrolling through photos of the house in Zhob over a box of yakisoba, the whites of her big, beautiful eyes standing out starkly in the darkness of the room, with a green sweater draper over her shoulders. She turned around, startled, when she heard the door shut behind him. When she saw that it was him, she quickly set down the box of food and stood up, wiping her hands on a napkin.

  “Hi,” she said, obviously trying to suppress her discomfit. “I, uh, thought you had gone for the day.” Her eyes wouldn’t meet his as she spoke.

  He had to say something. They had to address what had happened. “Look, uh . . .” There was a pause during which she looked at him expectantly. Chapman lost his nerve. “I got a tip. I don’t know if it’s really something, but I want whatever we have on file for Gunther Weinberg, the German billionaire.”

  Surprise offset whatever awkwardness had existed. “Weinberg? Where the hell did you hear that?”

  “Let’s call it an anonymous tip,” said Chapman.

  “I get it, your goose that lays the golden eggs is shy. But if you ever get promoted to upper management or quit the business, I get dibs on your assets. So what’s the deal?”

  “Just that he might have ordered the abduction,” he said.

  “Sounds sketchy,” she said. “Should we check out the trilateral conspiracy, too? Maybe the Fed’s in on it, or the Rothschilds.”

  He felt embarrassed for bringing it up, and chuckled hollowly. “It’s not a conspiracy theory. It’s a lead from a solid source.”

  “Still, a German billionaire contracting with a Pakistani terrorist to kidnap the American Secretary of State?”

  “I know how it sounds.” He couldn’t help smiling at the absurdity as he laid it all out. “But stranger things have happened.”

  “You’re the boss,” she said. “Do you want the team on it?”

  “Let’s keep the focus on Raza,” he said. “But keep tabs on Weinberg. Anything that shows up. Financial transactions, travel. I want this on the DL. You and, let’s say, Les set this up and get me what you know when you know it.”

  “I’m going to need you to sign off on some of that intelligence gathering.”

  “Will do,” he said. “I’m going to make some phone calls and look over whatever we have in the database on Weinberg already. Talk to you in, oh, forty and we’ll compare notes?”

  “You got it.”

  Chapter 23

  June 3

  Washington, DC

  The man known as Smith pretended to read a newspaper while parked at an out-of-the-way DC street in his latest car, a Hyundai Azera. The sedan was a tad too big and clumsy to maneuver, but it was powerful and reliable. For a man who lived constantly on the move, the choice of vehicle was an important one. He had to switch every other week, of course, and he tried not to show a preference for any particular make or model—any regularity was a potential weakness that could be exploited by his enemies. Randomness was what kept him secret and safe.

  Smith saw the man he was waiting for approaching by a sidelong glance at the rearview mirror. Ken Figueroa. He could clearly make out the bald head, thin face with a moustache and a permanently incipient beard. He was in his gray suit, as usual, with a red-striped tie. Smith watched as the man circled around the car. He unlocked the passenger door in time for Figueroa to open it and come inside.

  “You’re late,” said Smith, pulling out.

  “You are a pain in the ass,” said Figueroa. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. It was not hot outside—there was a cool, perhaps even chilly breeze. But he had walked over.

  “You said you had something for me,” said Smith.

  “I do,” he said. “It’s big. I’ve got a possible location on Haider Raza.”

  “We’ve had a few of those, of late,” said Smith. “They have, as a rule, not panned out.”

  “This one might be different,” said Figueroa.

  “I’m listening.”

  “A little birdie at the Agency thought he was on to something with a lead on Raza. A relative of his owns a house in the tribal areas . . . Anyway, apparently his section leader has it in for him and shut him down, sent him on another assignment. He got disgruntled and he came to sing to us. I think there might be something to it.”

  “Think?” Smith tested.

  “We’ve got satellite surveillance on the place,” he said. “There’s been some activity there recently.”

  “Is it reliable, in your opinion?”

  “I think it’s worth checking out.”

  Smith said, “I have a man on the ground in Pakistan. Perhaps he could check it out, as you say. But that approach has not been successful of late. Raza is a man that moves around frequently, and seems to be always aware of our next move.”

  “He’s a slippery bastard,” Figueroa agreed.

  “Tell me, is your tactical team ready?”

  “The men are gung ho for an assignment,” Figueroa said. “They’ll jump at the chance of action.”

  “Good,” said Smith. “Then let them know they’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Figueroa seemed surprised.

  “Do you anticipate a problem?”

  “No,” Figueroa said. “They’ll do it.”

  Chapter 24

  June 4

  Islamabad

  Peter Conley picked up the steaming teacup and inhaled deeply, noting the complex aroma of green tea, saffron, cardamom, and honey characteristic of kahwah, which he always made a point of drinking when he was in Pakistan. He sipped as he browsed intelligence reports on his phone—the latest one on the surge of reported sightings of Haider Raza, none of them particularly credible. As he set down the teacup, he noticed a striking pair of long-lashed blue eyes peerin
g at him from the couch opposite his in the guest lounge of the Marriott hotel.

  He shot back a smirk and sipped his tea again. When he raised his eyes again, she stole another glance and smiled. She was wearing a tan and green shalwar khameez that showed just a hint of her form underneath, wisps of dark red hair peeking out from under her headscarf. He checked the time on his phone—4:34 P.M. All right, I have a couple of hours to spare.

  “You know,” he said, “I have half a bottle of single malt up in my room that’s just begging to be shared.”

  She set down the book she was reading, a biography of Imran Khan, a half-shocked, half-intrigued expression on her face.

  “I don’t even know you,” she said in a tone that could have gone either way between offense and delight.

  “I’m very friendly,” he said.

  “And sure of yourself.” Conley could tell she was trying to suppress her smile. “It’s not very safe, going to the room of a man you don’t know.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman working as a foreign correspondent in Pakistan,” he said. “You’re not afraid of anything.”

  She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “How did you—” “Come on,” he said. “You’ve got journalist written all over you. Plus, you look too tough to be a diplomat, too sure of yourself to be a tourist, and too laid back to be private sector.”

  “I could be intelligence,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “For that,” he said, “you look much too sensible.”

  She puckered her lips as she seemed to be considering something. “All right, big boy, I’ll bite,” she said, standing up off her couch without taking her eyes off him. “I’m Carolyn.”

  “Peter,” he said, rising to meet her gaze.

  “So about that single malt?” she said, turning to exit the lounge and looking back at him over her shoulder.

  Conley woke up to the muffled vibrating of his phone. The bedroom was tinged in the orange light of dusk, and not bright enough to see anything. He stumbled out of bed and fumbled in the pocket of his pants until he found the buzzing cell. He looked at Carolyn, who stirred, wrapped in the bed’s white sheets, then he crept to the bathroom and closed the door.

  “Conley.”

  “We have a lead on Raza,” said Smith, and then, “Were you asleep? It’s barely seven p.m.”

  “Jet lag,” he mumbled, blinking in the mirror. “What’s that about Raza?”

  “Air surveillance on a village in Northwest Pakistan. The data came from the CIA, but our analysts put it together. We want an operations-ready team on the ground to follow this lead, and you’re going to be at its helm.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” said Conley, pacing the tiny bathroom, keeping his voice low. “A tactical team is a bull in a china shop. Our chances are much better if we sneak up on them.”

  “Like what happened in Zhob?” asked Smith.

  “Worse. That’s just my point.”

  “I don’t see it,” said Smith.

  Conley sat on the edge of the tub, then climbed in and lay in it. “I don’t care whether you see it.”

  “The decision’s been made, Agent Cougar,” said Smith.

  “So Bishop and the guys are coming to Afghanistan?”

  “No. I’ll be sending another team. Lambda Division.”

  “I never knew there was—”

  “But you suspected, I’m sure,” said Smith. “This is your confirmation. Project Aegis comprises more than one division. Lambda Division will be taking over our involvement in the investigation in Pakistan while the rest of Zeta turns their focus to Gunther Weinberg. We think he’s behind the abduction. You’ll remain involved since you’re already on the ground. I’ll put you in contact with their Division Head, Ken Figueroa. Set up the logistics, and help them with whatever they require.”

  “You got it,” he muttered.

  “And Cougar? Focus on the mission, please.”

  Conley hung up and stood in the tub, stretching and yawning. He splashed water on his face and opened the door to the room, where Carolyn stood fully dressed.

  She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thanks for the tumble. You’ve been a doll.”

  “Do you want my number or anything?” he asked. She opened the room door and he hastily covered himself with a towel.

  “I know where you’re staying,” she said with a wink.

  Chapter 25

  June 5

  Boston

  Morgan walked downstairs into the Zeta War Room in the late evening. The table was crowded, with Shepard lounging next to O’Neal by the head of the table, Kirby and Dietz conferring in a quiet huddle, and Bishop’s hulking body reclining in a chair, his feet in gigantic black army boots resting on the table—boots that Morgan couldn’t help picturing coming down to break a man’s nose or solar plexus.

  A tall, muscular black man who wore his hair close-cropped, military style, Bishop was a guy Morgan was glad to have on their side. It gave Morgan some comfort that Bishop was used to military obedience and following orders without question. CIA Black Ops wasn’t the Army or the Navy, and he could barely stand all that yes-sir-no-sir, let alone deferring to some asshole with an insignia and a different title that came before his name.

  Still, Morgan had to respect Bishop. He was never a pansy about making bold decisions, which made him a hell of a leader for the Zeta tactical team—certainly better than Morgan would have been, since he liked to give orders only marginally better than he liked receiving them. Apart from Conley, there was no one Morgan would rather have backing him up on a mission.

  Bishop was a code name, as Morgan’s was and had been Cobra ever since he’d been training with Conley on the Farm. Since he sure as hell wouldn’t work with a group of strangers, Morgan ran him and everyone else through his Agency contacts. His real name—Morgan always remembered with a smirk—was Oliver Duffy.

  “Is this everyone?” Morgan asked.

  “Waiting on your ass,” said Bishop. “Princess had to powder her nose?”

  “I don’t see you griping about Bloch not being here,” said Morgan with a grin on his face.

  “Hey,” he said, holding up his hands chest high, “she’s the one who pays me, she can come in whenever she likes.”

  “Cobra, good, you’re here,” came Bloch’s voice, all business. Morgan looked up to see her at the door of her glass-walled office, to his right, dominating the entire room. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous room as she made her way to the War Room floor. “Now settle down, everyone, and let’s get this show on the road.” She reached the head of the table, in front of the big screen on the wall, which was blank. Morgan settled in opposite Bishop. “The recent fiasco was a significant setback, but it wasn’t the end of this investigation. We have some new information about the person who is ultimately behind the attack, and that will be our focus from here on.”

  “Sorry,” said Bishop, half raising his hand, “but shouldn’t we be hauling ass to Pakistan to go after the Secretary? Isn’t it time we, you know, get in there?”

  “It’s being taken care of,” said Bloch.

  “By who?” asked Bishop. “It should be us out there.”

  Bloch looked down, and then spoke in a tone of formal authority. “As some of you know, and I suspect the rest might have guessed, we are not the only agency of our kind. One of our sister operations, Lambda Division, has been deployed to deal with the situation in Pakistan.”

  “Hey, as long as we’re both stuck with a goofy Greek letter, they must be okay,” piped in Shepard.

  “They were sent, in fact, almost as soon as news of the failure of the most recent raid hit the wires,” continued Bloch, ignoring Shepard. “They are coordinating with Cougar in Pakistan as we speak, and they will be helping Cougar with operations on the ground. In the meantime, I want your attention up here.” She gestured at the screen. “Shepard, if you please.”

  A paparazzi photograph appeared on the screen. It showed a man lounging on a
deck chair on a yacht, glistening white against the blue waters of what Morgan guessed had to be the Mediterranean. He was wearing a Panama hat, hiding a bright pink face from the sun, flanked by a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a trim brunette half his age.

  “Gunther Weinberg,” said Bloch. “Fifty-six. German billionaire playboy. He and his sister, Lena, own a controlling interest in Himmel AG, the machine and auto parts manufacturer founded by their father, Tobias, as a military airplane builder for the Third Reich.” Bloch cycled through a picture of old Tobias Weinberg shaking hands with a man Morgan recognized as Thomas Watson, president of IBM. “It is rumored that he further enriched himself by setting up a scheme to steal money and valuables from victims of the Holocaust.”

  “Peach of a family,” said Morgan.

  “Today, they are also responsible for a significant chunk of commercial shipping in Eastern Europe, South Asia, and the Middle East.” She clicked to a new picture, this one of shipping containers piled high with HIMMEL stenciled on their sides.

  “Yes, I read The Economist too,” said Kirby. “I know who Gunther Weinberg is. What’s his significance to our case?”

  “Shepard and O’Neal have discovered that Weinberg is the man pulling the strings of Iftikhar Ali,” said Bloch. “As such, he is likely the one behind the abduction as well.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kirby. “What’s supposed to be his involvement?”

  “Bribery,” said O’Neal. “He’s been paying off Ali, probably in order to smuggle drugs out of Pakistan in supposed textile containers.”

  “Indeed,” said Bloch. “It’s more than a little suggestive of his deep involvement in this case.”

  “Even if that’s true, I still don’t get why we’re focusing on this Weinberg right now, even if there are other people on it,” said Bishop. “I mean, even if he is behind everything, we can deal with him later. Shouldn’t we all be working on getting the goddamn Secretary of State back?”