Dead Or Alive

by Tom Clancy; Grant Blackwood

  Clark shrugged. “He’s okay. Whether he’s got a taste for fieldwork only time will tell, but he’s dealing with it. He’s a smart kid.”

  “What’s smart got to do with it?” Granger asked.

  “Okay, then, he’s even-keeled. Just like his dad.”

  “You’d take him out again?”

  “In a New York minute, boss. He’s got good instincts, good observation skills, and learns damned fast. Plus, he’s got a little gray in him, too, which doesn’t hurt.”

  “‘Gray’?” Hendley asked.

  “The gray man,” Clark answered. “The best spooks know how to fade into the background: how they walk, how they dress, how they talk. You pass them on the street and you never notice them. Jack’s got that, and it’s natural.”

  “More Ryan genetics?”

  “Maybe. Don’t forget, he grew up under the microscope. Without even knowing it, he probably picked up a lot from his environment. Kids are savvy. Jack figured out early what those guys with dark suits and guns were doing hanging around all the time. Got his antennae working.”

  “You think he’ll tell his dad?”

  “About The Campus? I do. It’s nobody’s fault, really, but Jack’s living under his dad’s shadow—a damned big shadow at that. Once he figures out what he wants to do here, he’ll find a way to bring it up.”

  With the help of a customs worker, Musa loaded the container into the rear of his rented Subaru Outback, then gave the inspector a wave and drove out the gate. Musa, of course, did not begin his long journey back to Calgary as he’d told the customs inspector, but rather drove fifteen miles east to the suburb of Surrey and pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express. He found a parking space directly outside his ground-floor room, then went inside and spent the remainder of the day napping and flipping from one inane television show to another until finally settling on CNN. His room was equipped with wireless Internet access, so he had to resist the urge to log on with his laptop and look for an update. He had a flash drive with the latest onetime pads and steganographic decryption software—neither of which he fully understood—but logging on to one of their satellite sites this late in the operation was unwise. Tomorrow at noon was the next scheduled check-in, and even that would be brief. Failing word to the contrary, he would assume the other pieces of the plan were falling into place.

  Musa stared at the ceiling, let the babble of the television fade into the background, and tabbed through his mental checklist. He knew the distances and routes by heart, and his documentation would stand up to all but the most intense scrutiny. True, the customs inspector at the airport had been a hurdle, but they were nothing compared to security measures within the United States. There police were curious and thorough and hypervigilant. Then again, Musa reminded himself, in a matter of days both state and federal American security forces would find their plates very full indeed, and he would be at his destination.

  He dozed until his watch alarm woke him at seven p.m. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Through the drawn curtains he could see the last remnants of daylight were fading. He clicked on the bedside lamp. On the television, one of the anchors was questioning some Wall Street type, hashing and rehashing the American economy. “Has it hit bottom?” the anchor was asking. “Is the country moving into recovery mode?” Idiots. America had yet to see the bottom. Soon.

  Musa went into the bathroom, splashed water onto his face, then put on his jacket. He stood in the center of the room, thinking, then went back into the bathroom and pulled a washcloth from the towel rod. Moving backward, he wiped down every surface he had touched: counter, toilet seat, toilet handle, light switch. . . . He finished with the bedside table, the remote control, and the lamp. He had already paid for the room, so there was no need to stop at the front desk. The receptionist had told him he could leave the card key in the room, which he did, first wiping it down, then placing it on top of the television. He stuffed the washcloth into his front pants pocket. What else? Had he forgotten anything? No, he decided. He stepped outside, closed the door behind him, then walked to the rear of the Subaru. The container was still in place. He unlocked the doors, got in, and started the engine.

  Once out of the parking lot, he got onto Highway 1 and headed southeast for twenty-two miles to the Fraser Highway turnoff, which he took east for seven miles to 264th Street. Here he turned south and drove for four minutes. Soon he saw the glow of stadium lights ahead. This was the 13/539 crossing, a cloverleaf-shaped compound sitting astride the U.S.-Canadian border. Musa felt his heart rate increase. He kept going.

  A few hundred yards north of the compound the road split, the left-hand lane heading into the crossing, the right-hand lane curving until it merged with what his map called Zero Avenue and turned west. He pushed the odometer’s trip reset button and glanced in his rearview mirror. No one behind him. He brought the Subaru up to the speed limit, then backed off a tick, then set the cruise control.

  Strange, he thought, that this nondescript two-lane road bracketed on both sides by copses of trees and farmers’ fields was the border between two countries. The only evidence Musa saw of this was a waist-high hurricane fence on the south side of the road. The Americans were fond of their fences, weren’t they?

  He drove for eight miles, watching the sun set and the stars rise. His headlights skimmed over the gray asphalt, the yellow lane dividers disappearing beneath the car, until after what seemed like hours, his headlights picked out a road intersection. As he approached it, he read the sign: 216th Street. Good. He was close now. Next came 212th Street, then 210th. He flipped off the cruise control and let the car coast. Ahead and to his right he saw some house lights behind a screen of trees. He peered out the driver’s window, watching, letting the car continue to slow . . . There.

  Beside a stand of pine trees, a gap in the hurricane fence. A sign read, PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. Musa looked ahead, saw no headlights, then checked the rearview mirror. Clear. He doused his headlights, tapped the brake, then swung left, across the opposite lane, and through the gate.

  He was in America.

  The road almost immediately angled downward, smooth dirt turning to washboard ruts. To his right, an acre of pine stumps jutted from the landscape. Some logging company had bought up this stretch of forest and had decided to clear-cut it.

  The road grew rougher, but the Subaru’s all-wheel drive handled the ruts well enough. The logging road meandered south and east, downward through the wasteland for another half-mile before reaching a tri-intersection of dirt roads. Musa turned left. The road smoothed out and within minutes merged with another intersection. Here he turned left, heading east again for a few hundred yards before turning south once more. Five minutes later a blacktop road appeared. This would be H-Street Road. He let out a breath. If he was going to get caught during the crossing, it would have happened by now. He was clear. For now.

  He clicked on his headlights and turned right onto the road. Five more miles would bring him to Highway 5, just north of Blaine, Washington. From there he would head south. Three days of easy travel on major highways.

  69

  ALMASI’S HOUSE BACKED UP to a low scrub pine- covered hill, the downslope of which led directly to the gravel quarry. Dominic and Brian took their time, keeping to the rock-strewn gullies that wound their way up the hill. After thirty minutes they reached the ridge. They dropped to their bellies and wriggled forward.

  Down the slope, perhaps twenty yards away, was the rear wall of the barn; to the right of that, the cluster of adobe huts. They saw no lights in the windows. To their left and front was the rear porch of the farmhouse. A single light showed in an upstairs window.

  “Almost three,” Brian whispered. “Let’s hunker down. If Almasi’s got patrols out, we’ll see them eventually.”

  Ten minutes passed, then twenty. They saw no movement.

  “Shake the trees?” Dominic suggested. “Barn first?”

  “Why not?”

  Brian scoote
d back from the ridge, gathered a handful of stones, then returned. He tossed the first stone in a high arc. It smacked into the barn’s roof, then clattered down the shingles and thumped to the ground.

  Nothing moved. No sounds.

  Brian tossed another stone, this time in a flat trajectory. The stone thunked against the barn’s wall. Five minutes passed.

  “Been a half-hour.”

  “The barn first, then the huts?” asked Dominic.

  “Yeah. If there are any reinforcements, that’s where they’ll be.”

  They backed away from the hilltop and crawled to their right until they were directly behind the barn, then went back over the top of the hill and picked their way down the slope to the barn’s rear wall. The wood planking was old and brittle and widely gapped. Brian and Dominic looked inside but saw nothing moving. Brian gestured: On to the huts. I’m on point.

  Hunched over, they moved out from behind the barn and crept along the base of the hill, keeping their heads below the top of the scrub brush. After fifty feet they reached a narrow dirt path. Directly across it lay the adobe huts. Twenty yards with no cover. A hundred feet to their left stood the farmhouse. Above the back porch, the window was still lighted.

  Brian gestured: You go; I’ll cover.

  Dominic nodded, took one more look around, then sprinted on flat feet across the road to the westernmost hut’s outer wall. He checked both corners, then signaled Brian to cross over. He was there ten seconds later. Dominic tapped his ear, then tapped the wall. A few feet above their heads was a horizontal slit window. Through it they heard sounds of snoring.

  I’ll take the two on the north, Dominic gestured.

  They met back up two minutes later. Brian cupped his hand around Dominic’s ear and whispered, “Two men, one to a hut. AK-47 each.”

  Dominic nodded his agreement, held up two fingers, then four. Four total. He drew his thumb across his throat, shrugged his shoulders: Take ’em down?

  Brian shook his head and pointed to the farmhouse. Dominic nodded. With Brian in the lead, they followed the contour of the hut walls to the eastern side, the closest point of approach to the farmhouse’s back porch. More open ground, but only twenty feet this time.

  Browning up and tracking right, left, up, down, Brian crossed the distance, then dropped into a crouch beside the steps. After two minutes, he gestured Dominic across. Brian pointed at the wooden steps and drew his thumb across his throat. Too old, too noisy. Dominic nodded. He crab-walked to the edge of the porch and tested the railing. He turned and gave a thumbs-up to Brian. Three minutes later they were over the railing and on the porch. They moved to the door, each taking a jamb. Brian tested the knob. It was unlocked. He swung it open two inches, then stopped. Waited. He pushed it open the rest of the way, peeked around the corner, and pulled back. He shook his head.

  They stepped across the threshold, Brownings up and tracking for movement. They were in a tiled foyer. Ahead and to the right, a set of stairs led up to a balcony hall lined with doors. To their left and right, sitting rooms. The walls were painted stark white stucco, seemingly glowing in the darkness. Dominic pointed to himself. On me. Brian nodded and sidestepped over, and together they moved into the sitting room and into a dining room beyond, off which they found a kitchen. Out the opposite kitchen door they found themselves back in the sitting room to the left of the foyer.

  Brian pointed at the stairs and got a nod in return. Dominic backed into the corner of the foyer to act as overwatch as Brian mounted the stairs; once at the top, he took overwatch, and Dominic climbed up to join him.

  There were four doors along the hall and one on the far wall. They started with the first door. A bedroom. Empty, bed made. The air was musty, as though the room hadn’t been occupied for some time. They moved to the second and third doors and found two more empty bedrooms. Behind the fourth door was what looked like a home office, complete with an oak desk, a multiline phone, a fax/scanner/copier, and a flat-screen computer monitor. Brian stepped inside and looked around. Built into a credenza opposite the desk was a wall safe.

  They moved to the last door. Dominic pressed his ear to the wood, then pulled back and mouthed, Snoring. He gestured: I’ll go for Almasi; you clear the room.

  Brian nodded.

  Dominic turned the knob, eased the door open an inch, and put his eye to the gap. He turned back, gave Brian a nod, then swung open the door. He was at Almasi’s four-poster bed in three strides. Almasi was lying on his back, his arms by his sides. Brian was moving through the room, checking the corners and the master bedroom. He nodded at Dominic, who grabbed Almasi’s opposite arm, jerked him onto his stomach, pressed his face into the pillow. Almasi was instantly awake, arms flailing. Dominic jammed the Browning’s suppressor into the base of his neck.

  “One sound and you’re dead. Nod once if you understand.”

  Almasi nodded.

  “We’re leaving, and you’re coming with us. Make life hard for us and I’ll make sure you die badly. You’ve got a computer and a safe in your office. You’re going to give us the password and combination, yes?”

  Almasi nodded again.

  Brian handed Dominic a roll of duct tape; he bound Almasi’s hands, then tossed back the roll. He backed away from the bed and gestured for Almasi to stand. He did so. With Brian in the lead, they moved back into the hall, then into the office.

  Dominic powered up Almasi’s computer, a high-end Dell tower. The Windows Vista logo came up, followed by a log-in screen. He found a pad and pen in the desk drawer and shoved it across the desk to Almasi. “User name and password.”

  Almasi didn’t move.

  Brian pulled a nearby chair across the room and shoved Almasi down in it. He pressed the Browning against Almasi’s right knee. “That’s where I’ll start. Knees, then ankles, then elbows.” He picked up the pad and pen from the desk and dropped them in Almasi’s lap. “User name and password.”

  This time Almasi didn’t hesitate. When he finished, Brian handed the pad to Dominic, who logged in and began scanning the computer’s directories. “Get him started on the safe,” Dominic said. “I’ll start downloading, then toss his bedroom.” He inserted a flash drive into the tower’s USB port and began transferring files.

  Brian got Almasi to his feet and prodded him toward the safe. “Open.”

  “My hands.”

  “You’ll manage.”

  Almasi dropped to his knees and began turning the dial.

  “Be right back,” Dominic said, and left the room.

  Almasi looked up at Brian. “Done.”

  “Open it, then move back.”

  Almasi did so, sidling backward on his knees. Brian knelt before the safe. Inside, it was empty, save a single CD-ROM in a paper sleeve. He reached inside. In the corner of his eye, he saw Almasi’s bound hands moving toward the shelf beside him. He turned, saw the pistol in his hands, spun, brought the Browning up while sidestepping. There was a crack. The room flashed orange. From the hip, Brian snapped off a shot, hitting Almasi in the center of the sternum. Almasi toppled sideways.

  “Brian!” Dominic came through the door, took two strides, and kicked the gun from Almasi’s hand. He knelt down, checked his pulse. “He’s gone.”

  “He came up with a gun,” Brian panted. “Took my eyes off him for a second. Goddamn it.”

  “Whoa, sit down, Brian, sit down.”

  “What?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Huh?”

  Dominic pushed him into the chair, grabbed his right hand, and pressed it against his upper belly. Brian felt the wetness and took his hand away and looked at his fingers. “Aw, shit.”

  “Keep the pressure on it.”

  “We’re gonna have company. Better check.”

  Dominic moved to the window and parted the curtains. Below, lights were coming on in the adobe huts. “They’re coming.” He turned back to Brian, who had his shirt open. There was a pinkie-tip-sized hole about four inches below his right
nipple. He pressed his fingertips around the wound and winced. Blood gushed from the wound.

  “Rib broken?” Dominic asked from the window.

  “Yeah, I think so. Slowed the bullet down. Ah, Jesus, that hurts. Shit, shit, shit! Get that CD I dropped, will you? It was in the safe.”

  Dominic grabbed his backpack from the floor, fished inside, came up with a half a dozen maxi-pads. He handed them to Brian, then returned to the window. “We should have brought the real deal.”

  “These are better, man, really absorb the blood.” He tore open a pad and pressed it to his chest. “See anything?”

  “Lights are on. They’ll be coming. Can you move?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gonna see if I can slow them up.”

  Dominic grabbed Almasi’s pistol—a Beretta .32 Tomcat semiauto—from the floor.

  “What kind of rounds?” Brian asked.

  Dominic ejected the magazine and checked. “Hollow-point.”

  “Huh. Okay. Get moving.”

  Dominic dashed out the door, down the stairs, then out the door. He dropped to a crouch beside the steps, took aim on the westernmost hut, and fired three rounds through the window. Shouts came from inside. The lights went off. Dominic sprinted back into the house, locked the door, then turned right and ran to the corner window. He opened it and fired four shots at the east-side hut, then put five rounds through the front door. The pistol’s slide locked open. He dropped it, ran back upstairs. Brian was on his feet and steadying himself against the desk.

  “I’m good. Bleeding’s slowing down. You got a plan?”

  “Yep.” Dominic scooped up the CD-ROM from the floor, shoved it into his backpack, then leaned across the desk and jerked the flash drive from the tower’s USB port. “The porch is right below us. Once they make their move, you’re going out the window. Lay flat on the roof. When you hear things start in here, get to the ground and go for the barn. If you feel up to it, go for the car. I’ll meet you along the way. Gimme your gun.”