“I bounced each of you on my knee when you were babies and still can’t believe you are now in your twenties,” he began, filling his glass to the brim with more wine. “I can’t believe it, not just because you are so much bigger, but because you still act like children. You are all very smart. But you are also incredibly spoiled and disrespectful.”
The room full of relatives gasped and started to interrupt Ghassan until he slammed a beefy palm of the table. “I am not finished! Seriously, if you spent half as much time being grateful for what you have instead of bitching and complaining about the injustices you endure, you would be much happier and more successful. Try it, please. Especially, you,” he said pointing to his niece, who was in her third year at an Ivy League university on a full scholarship. “Either toughen up or be sure to spend the rest of your life on campus, because the real world doesn’t give a shit about your feelings.”
“Ghassan!” gasped Sara. “Please!”
He dismissed her with a wave, guzzled his entire glass of wine, and directed his attention to her husband, seated at the head of the table. “And you, Farooq. This country has been good to you. You have been able to work and make a living. You met your wife here and were able to raise your family in peace. But I have never heard a good word about the United States pass from your Qat-stained lips. If you had stayed in Somalia, you would be either dead or making a living as a low-rent pirate. Keep that in mind the next time you want to complain about having to take your shoes off at the airport or show ID to the police. If it was up to me, I would send your skinny ass back to Mogadishu the way you arrived—with nothing but the clothes on your back.”
Ghassan smiled for the first hour of the drive home. But now, as he pulled the dark green Range Rover into his driveway, all he wanted to do was sleep. Yasir’s car was not in the driveway.
Good, maybe he is at the restaurant actually doing what I asked of him.
He left his bags in the car and was slowly climbing the stairs to the cabin when he noticed that the door had been broken in.
Ghassan entered the house and froze. The air was thick with a foul odor, the furniture was in disarray, and there were pools of blood everywhere. “Yasir!” he yelled. “Yasir, are you okay?”
Hearing no answer, he ran for the fireplace mantle to retrieve his revolver. He gasped at the bloodstained floor along the way and panicked when he saw that the revolver was gone. He began to sweat and the room started to spin. As his panic grew stronger, his instincts screamed for him to run.
“Help! Please help me!” he heard from across the room.
Ghassan shook off his tunnel vision and saw a young man tied to a chair on the other side of the room. He approached slowly, mouth wide in horror at the sight of the boy’s swollen, bloody face and missing ear.
“Please help me!” he repeated.
“Who are you?” asked Ghassan, his voice quivering with fear.
“Don’t let him kill me! Untie me before he gets back! He’s crazy! He’s already killed a bunch of people. I tried to stop him but he tortured me!”
“Who are you talking about? Who has killed people and tortured you?” asked Ghassan.
“Yasir! He’s a terrorist! He helped hurt those people in Massachusetts two days ago. Please, I’ll tell you everything, but untie me before he gets back!”
Ghassan’s heart raced and he started to lose feeling in his arms and legs. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall, bent over, and gasped to catch his breath.
How can this be? My God, what have you done, Yasir!
“Please! I’m begging you! Untie me before he gets back or he’ll kill both of us!”
The big man breathed deeply and tried to calm his nerves. Then he examined the prisoner’s restraints and screamed over his shoulder as he scurried to the kitchen. “I’ll get a knife and cut you loose.”
One hundred thirty
The first thing Mark noticed when he returned to the cabin—besides the missing prisoner—was the missing weapons. From there, things got worse.
Ghassan’s body lay face down in front of the fireplace in the same area where Yasir had taken his last breath. But instead of putting a bullet in his head, Amir had cut Ghassan’s throat from ear to ear. Mark recoiled at the quantity of blood that had flowed from the big man and immediately set out to clear the cabin again and look for any more surprises.
Finding the rest of the cabin the same way he had left it, Mark returned to the main floor to get a closer look at the body. He recognized Ghassan Massoud from his picture and tried several times to call Kenny. No answer. He assumed that Amir had probably used Ghassan’s car to escape, but he probably would not keep it for very long.
Mark slammed the rifle onto the table. “Dammit!” He had known it was risky to leave the prisoner, that there was a remote possibility of him slipping out of the chair or someone else showing up. But he had decided to roll the dice and try to save the wounded cop’s life. And now he had to live with the consequences of that decision.
The fourth shooter was on the run, there was no reasonable way to give chase, and another dead body had been added to the tally. There was only one thing left to do: call the emergency number. After that, he would wait for the helicopters and hope the ensuing manhunt was successful.
Regardless, Mark knew he was potentially in deep trouble and hoped to God that the only card he had left to play would be strong enough to get him out of this.
One hundred thirty-one
A federal agent removed the darkened goggles that had served as Kenny’s blindfold for the first time since his arrest. He squinted at the bright lights and quickly looked around to try to get his bearings. So far he had not uttered a single word and neither had his captors.
“When the cell door closes, stand with your back to the door and I’ll remove your handcuffs,” said the agent before exiting.
Kenny was sitting on the steel plank that would serve as his bed, wearing a baggy orange jumpsuit. No pillow or sheets. The only other fixtures in the sterile cell were a metal toilet and a metal sink with a metal mirror. The cell door slammed shut and echoed throughout the cellblock.
“Where am I?” Kenny asked.
“Come over here and stand with your back to the door,” replied an older gentleman in a gray pinstriped suit, standing outside the cell with his arms folded across his chest. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep the cuffs.”
Kenny did as he was told. The man in the suit continued speaking as the agent removed his cuffs. “Welcome to FMC Devens, Mr. Harrington. You’re now in custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons. But I wouldn’t get too comfortable because I honestly have no idea how long you’ll be here. Maybe some of that is up to you, but at this point I doubt it.”
Kenny rubbed his wrists, stretched his arms, and retreated to the far wall of the cell in silence.
“We have some questions for you and will give you the opportunity to make a statement. Are you willing to cooperate? I don’t usually give advice to criminals, but I’m aware of the charges against you and would highly encourage you to cooperate if you ever want to see the sun again.”
Kenny splashed rusty, lukewarm water from the metal faucet onto his face and rubbed his eyes. “What charges?” he asked.
“More than enough to put you away for life. Maybe even a couple of lifetimes. But that’s only if you’re lucky. You facilitated the hijacking of a drone belonging to U.S. government intelligence assets. Depending on your motive, that could get you charged with treason—a capital offense. We’ve got you on dozens of illegal hacking offenses that could earn you five to ten each, and we’re still just scratching the surface of your computer system. Those are all the official charges we’re writing up right now, but the day is young and some of your associates are singing like canaries. Do you go by any other names you want to tell me about, Mr. Harrington? Huh? Like Hobbit? Does that sound familiar? Because there’s easily a half-dozen countries interested in extraditing someone who goes by that na
me. Do you want to answer some questions and make this a lot easier on yourself?”
Kenny remained silent and turned away.
“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, just wave to the camera and let someone know. Otherwise you might as well get comfortable.” The man started to walk away but stopped and returned. “By the way, that washed-up drunk of an agent who lived across the street from you is dead. Yeah, the State Police found him soaking in a tub of his own blood. Both wrists slit. I’m not sure how close you two were, but I look forward to finding out.”
Once he left, Kenny gasped and splashed more cold water on his face.
Oh my God! Frank!
“Sorry to interrupt. Just one more thing,” said the man returning for a second time. “Just a little trivia for you. Dzhokhar Tsarnaev spent his time here in the same cell. You remember him, right? The Boston Marathon bomber? Now you guys have two things in common. You’re both terrorists and you slept in the same cell.”
One hundred thirty-two
Mark was removed from his cell and escorted down the hall in silence by three armed men, one on each side and one trailing behind with a shotgun at the ready. He wore an orange jumpsuit, his eyes were blocked by darkened goggles, his hands were cuffed in front of him, and heavy iron shackles connected his ankles, making it impossible to walk at more than a slow shuffle.
Once he was seated behind the table in the small interview room, the goggles were removed. As the three men exited, a tall, athletic man in his early sixties entered and sat on the other side of the table. His gray hair was cropped close to his head in a crew cut, and he wore a navy blue suit with a pressed white shirt and red tie.
Mark had spoken with the gentleman before, during a legal briefing for Family members in northern Virginia. He was a retired Marine Corps JAG officer and lawyer who handled legal crises for covert operators, but Mark could not remember his name.
“Remember me, Mark?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then you remember the last thing I told you in our briefing, right?”
“Yeah, that you were the guy we should hope we never see again.”
“That’s right. But here I am, so let’s get down to business. I don’t know what they’re planning on doing with you, but it doesn’t look good. Doc is doing his thing and I’m here to do as much as I can, but as of right now they are treating your case the same way as they would a domestic terrorism case.”
Mark started to speak, but the distinguished attorney held up his hand to silence him. “I know. I know that’s not accurate, and it offends me too. But in their eyes, you were part of a hacking venture that took control of a CIA drone. Then you withheld valuable national security information and went on a manhunt. The alleged terrorist escaped. People are dead and the only person left standing around happens to be you. It doesn’t help that this is the second time some of these people have seen you this week, Mark. Remember, you killed a man in the middle of that field just a few days ago. But we won’t get anywhere by telling them how stupid they are, right? In fact, we’re not going to tell them anything for now. No questions. No statements. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir. I wasn’t planning on answering any questions. Listen, Doc told me he spent what little capital the Family had to get me out after the attack. But I need to talk to Doc or Dunbar ASAP. I know they’re probably doing all they can for me right now. But I want to make sure they’re considering another way we may be able to get some help on this. Help from someone very important,” Mark emphasized.
“Are you referring to the letter in your file, Mark?” asked the attorney.
“Yes, are you familiar with it?”
“I am familiar with the existence of a letter in your file. And although I do not know definitively whom it is from, I believe I could make an accurate guess if pressed. Unfortunately, Doc already thought of that option and as of an hour ago it didn’t look good. Dunbar said he thought the letter wasn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Listen, let’s not give up hope, Mark. But, as your counsel, I’m advising you to at least consider the worst-case scenario of federal charges.”
Mark sat expressionless as the dark reality of the situation started to sink in. “Twenty years. For twenty years I’ve done everything that was ever asked of me. I’m supposed to retire. Luci and I are supposed to get married and start a family. I have a mother I haven’t met yet. My friend Kenny is counting on me. Sir, I may have done some wrong things, but I did them all for the right reasons. My record should count for something. This can’t possibly be the way it ends for me.”
“Don’t lose hope yet,” the attorney repeated, removing a cell phone from his breast pocket. “Doc said he wanted to speak with you. I’ll get him for you and step outside. He asked me to arrange for you to call your fiancé. I’ll take care of that when I can. I understand she’s doing much better.”
Mark took several deep breaths, then held the phone to his ear with both handcuffed hands. “Doc?” There was a long pause before he heard Doc’s voice.
“I hear you’ve had a busy week, Mark.”
“I did the right thing.”
“Maybe you did, Mark. But that’s doesn’t seem to matter as much as it used to. The political and cultural climate in this country has changed drastically. And some of the people in power these days don’t see the gray areas that we have to operate in. It’s all black and white to them, and guys like us are paying the price.”
“So I’ve noticed. I also heard the letter in my file isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. How can that possibly be true when I essentially saved his ass?” asked Mark, raising his voice to Doc for the first time. Doc paused before answering.
“That remains to be seen, actually. Dunbar is working on it right now. But you’re right, so far he can’t even get an audience with or a message to the President.”
Mark stood up to stretch his legs and looked down at the iron shackles fastened around his ankles. “That’s crazy. I’ve read the letter. I remember what it says. Do I need to recite it? ‘Mark, I owe you a personal debt of gratitude I can never repay. If you ever need my help I will be there for you. Any time, any place, anything.’ Sound familiar, Doc?”
“You’re upset. And I share your frustration, but let’s have a little faith in Dunbar. He cares about you a lot, Mark. People can say what they want about Dunbar, but he goes to hell and back for his people. And that’s what he’s doing for you as we speak. So just sit tight, okay? I have to go, but I’ll get a message to Luci telling her that you’re okay so she doesn’t worry too much. With a little luck you’ll be back at her side soon.”
“Doc, wait. There’s one more thing, and at this point it might sound crazy, but just hear me out. My neighbor, a guy named Kenny Harrington—was he brought in too?”
“Yes, and I know where you’re going with this. But trust me, it’s going to be hard enough to do anything for you. The chances we can do anything for him are pretty much none. I’m sorry, Mark.”
“Just hear me out for a second, okay? Kenny may be more valuable to you than me.”
Doc replied that he had only one more minute, so Mark explained about Kenny as quickly as he could. After the conversation, the darkened goggles were again placed over Mark’s eyes and he was led back down the hall toward his cell. After the handcuffs and shackles were removed and the guards had left, he sat on the cold metal bench. Mark thought of his impending retirement, of Luci lying in her hospital bed alone, of Kenny, and of the mother he had yet to meet. Then he bowed his head and cried.
One hundred thirty-three
Dunbar stood silently in the entryway of one of the Watergate South’s most exclusive condominiums for several minutes before being ushered into the study and asked to wait. He checked the time on his watch and prepared for the impending battle.
The White House chief of staff did not like to be bothered at home during the evening hours. But he especially disliked visits from people who had strict instructions never to contact
him directly. When he entered the study, Dunbar was standing off to the side of his desk, gazing at some of the books stacked on the hand-carved mahogany shelves that adorned the walls.
“What the hell are you doing, Dunbar?”
“Checking out your books, Mr. Edwards,” he answered, pointing to the shelves.
“I meant what the hell are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer my calls. I got worried and figured I’d swing by to see if you were okay,” Dunbar remarked.
The chief of staff walked around his antique desk, opened the large bottom drawer, and retrieved a bottle of scotch and one glass.
“Are you going to drink alone?” asked Dunbar.
Edwards reached into the drawer, grabbed a second glass, and handed it to Dunbar. “Only because my wife could walk in and she hates it when I drink alone. Now what the hell do you want?”
“As you have already been made aware, one of my operators is in a jam and I need to get him out. Unfortunately, he’s in pretty deep so I need the President to step in. That’s pretty much it,” said Dunbar, taking a sip of his scotch. “This is excellent. What is this?”
Edwards raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “No, that’s not pretty much it. Your guy helped jack a drone from the agency and went after a terrorist who might have been responsible for a major attack in Massachusetts when he should have passed it off to agencies with domestic jurisdiction. Then he let him get away, and there are multiple deaths involved. Don’t expect the president to get his hands dirty by helping someone with that kind of record.”
Dunbar brought the glass slowly to his lips. He poured the scotch over his tongue and down his throat. Then he slammed the glass down onto the antique desk.
Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Page 33
