by James Phelan
“What happened to my father?”
“He got away.”
“Where?”
Muertos shrugged. “Do you know of him doing any business in Syria?”
“He was meant to be arrested, in Malta, four days ago.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Walker’s eyes searched Muertos’s and found nothing. “I find it hard to believe that you know about me, and yet you don’t know about my father and that side of things.”
Rachel shook her head. Walker looked from her to the scene outside his window. Could she really not know? Maybe her security clearance with State was compartmentalized—after all, David Walker’s case was outside their scope. His father, who’d been a rogue element to the US government for years, was wanted all over the place, with suspected ties to the Zodiac terror group. Surely she’d know that much . . .
“Years ago,” Walker said, watching cars they passed as they sped along the road, “my father had a hand in creating a program of worst-case terror attacks. It was at a Washington think tank, a post-nine-eleven thing, our brightest Intelligence minds gathered together to try to make sure we weren’t taken by surprise again. He developed something that, a long time later, has started playing out for real—it’s like he stuffed a genie in a bottle, and then it got out.”
“With or without his help?” Muertos asked. There was genuine interest and concern written on her face.
“I’m trying to figure that out,” Walker said. “Short version, what he cooked up was code-named Zodiac. Twelve cutout cells, where each attack would trigger the next, and that was the extent of their connection. A far scarier terror outfit than anything we’d seen, because there was no overriding motive of the attackers, no shared ideology driving them—therefore you couldn’t find a pattern to predict and counter future events. Three have already played out. Many believe that my father is an active part of it, and because of that he’s a fugitive from the US government.”
“For arranging the terror attacks?”
Walker nodded.
Muertos paused, bit at her lip. “Do you believe he could be doing that?”
“I’m not sure. I doubted it, but now I’m not sure. He may have a hand in driving it.”
“You want to find out.”
“Of course. And to do that, I need to find him.”
“He told me to find you. Find Jed Walker. After things went south, that’s what he said to me, verbatim. Find Jed Walker.”
“I still don’t get why he’d say that. When was this?”
“Three days ago.”
“The day after he fled Malta.”
“It’s a short boat ride to Syria.”
“What was he doing there, at the meet?”
“Buying.”
“Buying?”
Rachel nodded.
Walker said, “Buying what?”
“People.”
6
Three thousand miles away on the east coast of the United States, a man called Harvey used a cell phone to call a man named Lewis. Not that they would ever use their names over the airwaves. The phones were new cheap throw-away things, mission specific, untraceable ownership.
“We’ve got a problem,” Harvey said.
“I knew that when this phone rang,” Lewis said. “Emergency protocols only, you said.” There wasn’t concern or malice in his voice, just a slight tinge of disappointment, and it made Harvey cringe. They were equal partners, but Harvey was handling the logistics and hands-on element of their little enterprise, and it was that which was suffering the problems.
Harvey said, “It’s Rachel Muertos.”
“You found her?”
“She’s here, in the US.”
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it? Two birds, one stone.”
“I’m not sure yet. We know she entered the country, but we can’t find her. But it’s her being here that has me worried.”
“Why?”
“How’d she get into the country? It wasn’t through a civilian airport, we had her flagged on a watchlist.”
“She’s resourceful, you said that when she went missing from Germany,” Lewis said. “It’s a big military base over there, right? And she’s a pretty little thing from the State Department. Maybe she traded a favor to get stateside on a military transport rotating back? Bypass customs altogether.”
“You think she stowed away?” Harvey asked.
“You said she was canny.”
“She’s surprised me, I suppose. Her husband never said much about her. There was never any talk of her being an investigator or field agent.”
“Well, now you know not to underestimate her. Where is she?”
“San Francisco.”
“Why? What’s there?”
“The guy she mentioned in hospital . . .”
There was silence, then Lewis said, “Jed Walker.”
“Yes.”
“You said he was being taken care of.”
“He got away. With Muertos. They’re now together.”
“Well, that’s just perfect.”
Harvey was silent.
Lewis said, “How much does she know?”
“I’m not sure. Can’t be much.”
“You need to fix it.”
“I know that.”
“This is your problem.”
“I know that too.”
“Then stop wasting time.”
“They’re on a watchlist,” Harvey said. “If they try to fly anywhere or use their credit cards or ID, I’ll have them. That’s the best I can do at the moment. Wait for them to turn up.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Walker. He’s got me worried. He’s the last person we want coming after us.”
“You’re saying that like it’s news to me. Look at his father. He’s been on a watchlist for two years and he’s evaded you. The younger Walker was pedigree to start with, and it seems he’s done all he can in life to hone his skills. You have to fix this, fast.”
“How far do you want me to take this?” Harvey asked.
“What are you saying?”
“If I make him public enemy number one, put his name out to all the local police across the country, we find him quickly. But it might show our hand. Prove whatever he thinks is going on. Make him less predictable.”
There was a pause, then Lewis said, “What do you imagine I think about that course of action?”
Harvey was silent.
Lewis went on, “Do this quietly. We’ve come so far in just a couple of years. Too far to risk discovery now. And if Jed Walker manages to work things out with his father, and Muertos points them to us, well, everything we’ve worked at will come apart at the seams.”
•
Back on the west coast, the two black SUVs drove on, undetected, no one in pursuit.
“People?” Walker said. “Refugees?”
Rachel nodded.
“Why would my father want to buy refugees?”
“I don’t know.”
“At what point did he speak to you?”
“I’ll get to that. I was there as a broker. The smugglers—the people traffickers—were going to be brought in later. We needed that next-level guy, up the chain. We were giving him marked notes, a new type of nano-tracking tech that the Treasury Department has developed to counter organized crime—they mark the bills with a nano-tech trace designed to rub off on hands and clothing and hair and stay there a hell of a long time—you practically have to burn it out, so I’m told. So, the plan was that we’d track him, watch him, follow him up the chain all the way to his contact back here in the US.”
“And my father?”
“He was a late addition—I had no idea who he was or where he came from. There was another buyer due—a big one, supposed to take out over two thousand people via Russian-flagged cargo ships leaving Syria. Before he and his crew showed, your father appeared. And he had a friend.”
“Who?”
“Big guy.
About the same age.”
“Describe him.”
“Your height, maybe six-four, big in the shoulders, looked like an ex-footballer—big all over, maybe four hundred pounds. Mop of red-brown hair. Friendly face. Other side of sixty. Kind of like Orson Welles in the later years. He stuck close to your father the whole time, like he was his best friend and bodyguard rolled into one.”
“Marty Bloom,” Walker said. He pictured the guy who’d been like a second father to him. Former CIA, long ago retired to Croatia. “That name familiar?”
“I didn’t get a name.”
“But you got my father’s name.”
“Right. But only after I looked into you, and then in your bio notes I saw a picture of your father. Until then I didn’t know the connection.”
“Okay. So, this deal somehow went south and then they told you to find me.”
Muertos shook her head. “Not they. Just your father. He came back. After it all went to hell. I guess to check on his friend.”
Walker knew the news before she said it.
“They killed your father’s friend.”
7
“There was a lot of shooting,” Muertos said. She spoke quickly, seeing Walker’s reaction. “He was killed in the crossfire. Instantly.”
Walker had last seen Bloom in Dubrovnik. The old guy had saved Walker’s bacon. He’d helped him track his father, organized papers and transit when there were forces hunting him. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a hand in saving his life. But Bloom was a giant. A titan of the Agency. Indestructible. He’d survived wars and incursions and insurrections, outsmarted Ba’ath Party death squads, hunted down and executed Pinochet’s evil-doers, survived the worst parts of the Serbian war. And he was killed in crossfire?
“What was my father after?” Walker asked. He let his hands relax in his lap, his knuckles still white with tension.
“A family.”
“Specifically?”
“One with young children. Biggest family available. Five million cash—which he brought with him. He wanted them to be provided with full US papers, legit social security and birth certificates, the works. Apparently the sellers and your father had all this prearranged, because the transaction went by without fuss and was over quickly.”
“But something went wrong.”
Muertos nodded.
“Wrong enough for you to end up in hospital.”
“Pro-government forces arrived,” Muertos said. “It was a bloodbath.”
“Pro Syrian government?”
Muertos nodded.
“I would assume they’d be in on the take at some level,” Walker said. “That’s been my experience with this kind of thing. If those human traffickers were so good, and making the kind of money you say, they’d need to have guys paid off up the food chain to ensure they were left alone, or at least so they could be tipped off in the event of a raid. Surely the Syrian government and its staffers are desperate for cash.”
“This was the President’s personal guard,” Rachel said. “His secret police. Like Saddam’s inner Republican Guard and the Gestapo wrapped into one ugly and tooled-up outfit. They’re tight. Well looked after and loyal—as incorruptible as you can get. Their methods make ISIS look tame. They showed up and it went to hell straightaway, with everyone . . . it was horrific. The firefight lasted maybe two or three minutes but felt like an hour. A few of the smugglers got out, including the top guy. My State Department team—everyone was killed but me. Somehow in the mayhem your father got out.”
“And that was it?” Walker said. “They turned up simply to kill everyone? No arrests? Or it could have been a heist—maybe they wanted the cash?”
“They left the money behind. And no, there were no arrests. Hard to tell at first if your father was wounded or not. There was blood everywhere. When the shooting started, I took cover next to him. His friend, Bloom, was already down, and your father was trying to get to him. I still had a State security contractor next to me, laying down suppressing fire. I didn’t know who your father was, but he was American, right? I called out to him, told him to come with us—then my guy was dropped. I thought that was it. I told your father that I was with the State Department—that if we got out, I’d work out a deal for him, amnesty, if he told me his involvement. Your father took a pistol, provided cover for me, and told me to go. I ran. I didn’t make it out of the building. It was an old warehouse and factory, a real rabbit warren. The room I ran into was carnage. The smugglers’ guys were down to their last, holding off the government troops.”
Rachel fell silent. Walker stretched out in the seat and watched her, waiting. He could see the trauma, in her eyes. Eyes that never stayed still, always searching. Or wary. The only make-up she wore was lip gloss. With her skin and hair color she could pass for Syrian or from any of the Mid East countries, a likely candidate for the State Department to send over there to blend in and make contacts. She had the air of someone who’d seen too much and was having trouble processing it. Walker had seen that on too many soldiers. He’d been through it too. There was little you could do for it but allow for the passage of time and maturity. For some it took years to sleep through the night again. For a few it was simply too much to bear. But Muertos had resolve. Drive. Something pushing her on.
“The thing is, when the government guys swept through I survived only because I was hiding under dead bodies. They presumed I was dead. They dumped more on me, then brought in fuel cans. I thought that was it—I was going to be burned alive. I was about to scream—better to take a bullet, right? But then gunshots rang out from the main warehouse and they ran to that. I was left there for hours. At first too afraid to move, then unable to, for the mass of bodies. And that’s when your father came back, and he helped me out, and he told me to find you.”
“That’s all he said?”
“That’s all. Three words. Find Jed Walker. Like if I did, you’d know what it meant. I ran from the scene and I passed out in a street two miles later—just collapsed and blacked out. Apparently I was taken to hospital in Damascus, where some MSF doctors realized I was American and transferred me to a US military hospital in Germany. That first twenty-four hours are a blur, but I’d been muttering your name. Then I met the Homeland guy, Krycek. He’s scary. There was something seriously not right about him, so I busted out. It was there that I used a computer to reach out to a friend back here. Then I got on the next flight I could, a military transport rotating back. I got back and made some calls to friends, and found out where you were. And that’s it.”
Walker looked from Muertos to his hands, now relaxed, then out the window at the streets of San Francisco. “Weird.”
“What?”
“That my father would say that. Only that.” He looked at her and searched her eyes. “Not even a clue. He wants you to find me. But why?”
Muertos looked away. “You’ll figure it out.”
“All I’ve got to go by are three words.”
Muertos looked up at him. “I studied your service record from the Air Force.”
“And?”
“It’s impressive. Valuable skills.”
“For warfare.”
“They translate.”
“For what?”
“You found more Taliban and al Qaeda high-value targets in Afghanistan than anyone else.”
“I was part of a team hunting them down. I had the resources of the Defense Department behind me. And all kinds of Intelligence agencies. And NATO. And all you’ve got is a contact here you want to talk with. I think in forty-eight hours you’re going to be right where you started, none the wiser.”
“I’m already doing better than when I started.”
“How?”
“I’ve found you.”
Walker nodded, said, “So, what’s your next step?”
“I want to find the American contact, find out what happened in Syria and why. I think I can get to the next up the chain, because there’s an undercover agent here,
a fixer we’d used back in Syria. He’ll have Intel to move us forward.”
“Us?”
Muertos nodded.
Walker let it slide. “How are you so sure?”
“Yeah, about that . . .”
8
Muertos’s undercover agent was of Syrian descent with a family in Annapolis, Maryland. He’d been in the US Navy thirteen years and a special adviser to the State Department since then. Special Adviser to State, which Walker read as CIA.
“His name’s Hassan. He wasn’t at our meet, but he was meant to be,” Muertos said. “He was the intermediary. Our local fixer’s boss. He’d set it all up for us. And he’d messaged through that he was running late.”
“How late?”
“Twenty minutes, by which time the regime’s guys showed and started shooting. And he’d never been late.”
“You couldn’t contact him?”
Muertos shook her head. “Cell network isn’t great in Damascus.”
“Speaking of, I need to pick up a new phone. They might track this one.” Walker tapped the phone in his hand; he’d call Eve with it just before he ditched it. He needed something cheap and prepaid, so he could use it with anonymity and trash it soon after.
“You can get one at the airport.”
“Right. We can’t take San Francisco; Homeland will be all over it.”
“I know. I’ve got something quicker. Quieter.”
•
The driver of their SUV pulled up to short-term drop-off at Gnoss Field airport in Marin County. The driver of the lead vehicle was already out and moving, and opened Walker’s door. As Walker stepped out he saw Muertos pass a fat envelope to their driver.
“What was that?” Walker asked as they stood outside the small private departures terminal and watched the big black SUVs drive off.
“They’re contractors,” Muertos replied.
“That you have to pay with cash?”
Muertos looked around. “I’m trying to be careful here. I think someone on my team at State might be compromised. That could be the reason the meet was blown. With or without Hassan’s input.”
