One last pause. “Thank you, good night, and may God bless America.”
Several of the reporters—the Fox News correspondent most visibly—applauded as the president finished speaking. The ranks of advisors stepped forward to congratulate him. Pam Dobson beamed. As Rubin stepped forward to shake his hand, the president said, “How’s the market doing?”
Rubin glanced at his BlackBerry—the Dow had already lost another 800 points. “We might have to close the Street if things keep going south.”
Seelye was next in line. Before he could open his mouth—“Where’s Devlin?” the President asked.
Seelye thought twice before replying. The president of the United States had just blown one of the nation’s top secrets, and just condemned to death the man Seelye had guiltily raised as a foster son. “In the air, I believe, sir, just as you ordered. Bound for Los Angeles.”
Tyler gripped his hand a little longer than protocol demanded. “Well,” he said, “that’s a lucky break. Now just make sure that cocksucker doesn’t make a liar out of me.”
Chapter Thirty-five
IN THE AIR: DEVLIN
In the window seat, Devlin was in the middle of a vigorous game of Spades with two morons and a blithering idiot when the president came on the air with the news of the Los Angeles bombing. The video on the screen remained the Spades game, but the audio came directly from the White House’s internal transmission system, which Devlin had taken the liberty of tapping into via Fort Meade the day Tyler was inaugurated.
His blood ran cold as he absorbed the awful news. Although the extent of the bombing in central Los Angeles was not yet clear, there were obviously going to be many, many casualties. Casualties were part of war, and this was a war, no matter whether half his countrymen felt otherwise. The thing that really raised his hackles was the President’s statement:
This very day I have ordered the leader of one of the most secret, the most elite units in the American intelligence hierarchy to stop at nothing to remove this threat. From this moment on, this individual will hunt down these folks and terminate them with the most extreme prejudice America has ever brought to bear on an enemy, and that includes Tojo’s Japan and Hitler’s Nazi Germany.
As he listened to the president’s words over his earbuds, rerouted through the “zone.com” link, the president’s challenge to him personally, he heard one thing and one thing only: his execution order.
Again the thought came to mind that someone was deliberately trying to get him killed—that there was some kind of mole inside NSA/CSS, maybe even inside Branch 4 itself, someone who had twigged Milverton to him in advance of Edwardsville. Who could it be?
There weren’t many suspects. If he had to bet, he’d bet on Seelye; when the day came that Devlin had outlived his usefulness to either the country or, more likely, the general, he would be left out in the cold. Seelye certainly didn’t need a living recrimination, proof of his sins, walking around in public.
This scenario assumed that someone in Washington bore him ill. But, to turn it around and look at it from their perspective, the “mole” could just as easily turn out to be Devlin himself, working in some strange consort with Milverton in order to…what? The best he could come up with was that he’d be running a sting operation against whoever was behind Milverton. A double flush-out, and the first guy whose head pops up above the underbrush gets it blown off.
Well, he was not that smart, or that daring, or that desperate. And Tyler was certainly stupid and boastful enough to have semi-blown Devlin’s cover out of sheer braggadocio. Which left the possibility that either Milverton or the man behind him already knew about Devlin, knew that this kind of operation was almost certain to bring him into the mix, after which Milverton could either kill Devlin himself or, better yet, have one of the other Branch 4 ops take him out.
He stayed calm; panic was for lesser men, and Devlin had long ago made fear his friend. It was true: nothing did concentrate the mind like the prospect of being hanged in the morning. There had to be some way for him to turn this chain of events into an advantage, but until he could, one thing was clear: Milverton was already inside his OODA loop. Devlin was heading out to LA, and already Milverton was one step ahead of him.
Devlin looked around the aircraft: no sign that anybody knew anything yet. Luckily, the equipment was an older plane on a budget airline, the kind with TV screens over every third or fourth row, and they were all showing the same movie. Still, it was only a matter of time until some wise-ass disobeying the cell phone restrictions would start shouting the news. Only one thing to do.
Viciously, he wiped out a stupid, first-position double-nil with a three of clubs. His partner, a Hungarian, flashed him a sarcastic “good job” and disappeared into cyberspace. “What an asshole,” he thought to himself as he slammed his laptop shut.
“Hey, mister, are you okay?”
The kid next to him, in the middle seat. A boy, about the same age as the one he’d rescued in Edwardsville. A typical innocent American kid, who had every right to believe that the world he knew now was going to be the world he would find himself in when he was a man. A poor, deluded, lied-to kid who at this moment had no clue about the Grove. Another act of war, a war that had been being waged asymmetrically against the United States since Sirhan Sirhan shot Bobby Kennedy.
His heart went out to the kid and his mother—the forty-something blonde in the aisle seat reading People. He looked her over. Not bad. Another time, another place…another lonely woman. He hated himself for the predatory thought.
“Gotta use the head,” he lied.
Gingerly, Devlin stepped over the boy. The blond smiled at him as she discreetly raised her gaze from People to his rear end and then, demurely, back to her magazine. “Excuse me, Missus…” he said.
“It’s ‘Ms.,’” she smiled invitingly. “I’m divorced.” Of course she was. He moved forward, toward business class.
Where he was stopped by one of the flight attendants. He flashed a badge at her—the genuine badge of a federal air marshal—and she moved aside. He took her by the arm and whispered into her ear: “I need to speak with the pilot immediately,” he said.
As if to emphasize the situation, a couple of cell phones started ringing. Nobody answered them. Good, obedient sheeple. The stew walked him to the front of the plane. He paid no attention to any of the passengers, and hoped like hell none of them paid him any mind.
She pulled him into the front galley while she phoned the pilot. Even the air marshals weren’t allowed inside the cockpit unless they were retaking it by force. Devlin waited as she spoke, then hung up. “He’ll be right out,” she said.
“Kill the video feeds. Do it now.” His tone and mien brooked no argument.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the lady in 4A does it?” she asked.
“What about her?” asked Devlin. He hadn’t noticed anybody in particular on his way up front.
“Well…” the flight attendant lowered her voice, “she’s one of them. I mean, just look at her. And I heard her talking in some foreign language on her cell phone just before we took off.”
“What’s this all about?” barked the captain, emerging from the flight deck.
Devlin flashed his badge again. “Rocky Sullivan,” he said. He waited until the stewardess took the hint and left. “Captain, I assume you’ve heard about Los Angeles.”
The pilot’s stoic look, followed by concern, told him he had. “There’s been some kind of explosion at the Grove, near the Farmer’s Market. There are deaths, but we don’t know how many yet.”
Devlin took a deep breath. “Do you think they’ll close the airports in southern California?”
The man—his name tag read, “WILKINSON”—thought for a moment. “Maybe. Probably. We’re awaiting word now.”
“Then what? Where do we land?”
“Vegas, depending. Maybe John Wayne, but if this is as bad as…as bad as it could be, they’ll probably shut down the wh
ole southland.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Devlin. “Which is why I need you to ignore any redirection order.”
Captain Wilkinson looked at Devlin like he was nuts. “Negative. That would cost me my wings.”
“Not if national security is at stake.” Devlin vamped, trying to come up with a plausible scenario. What was it the flight attendant had said about the woman in 4A. Devlin lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s someone we’re watching on board this flight. She doesn’t know she’s being surveilled, but it’s imperative that I get her to Los Angeles.”
The captain thought for a moment. He seemed to know what Devlin was talking about. “Does she have anything to do with what just happened?”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Devlin, honestly, “but it’s crucial that we land in LA.”
A pause, and then—“Sorry, but I can’t. They’ll shoot us down. If we go Code Red, they’ll scramble at Edwards and you’ll have put 150 people in the Pacific.”
“We won’t go Code Red,” said Devlin. “I’ll guarantee it.”
“Then it’ll be a general aviation order.”
“And you can beat that, can’t you?”
At that moment, the cockpit door opened and the co-pilot stuck his head out. “Captain,” he began, eyeballing Devlin.
“It’s okay,” said Wilkinson. “Have they closed LAX?
The co-pilot was smart enough not to ask who Devlin was. “Affirmative, sir. We’re being diverted to Vegas.”
“Thanks, Ben,” said the captain. “I’ll be right in.” He turned back to Devlin. “Rocky, ol’ buddy, you’d better give me a goddamn good reason to even think about what you’re suggesting.”
Only one play left. Whoever the unlucky lady in 4A was, she was now going to be the goddamn good reason. He could take her into custody in a second, and then figure out how to frame her for something as they headed to LA.
“I’ll make the bust right now. Then you’ll have a high-value federal prisoner who must be delivered to LA without delay. I’ll get you all the CYA authorization you need. Deal?”
Captain Wilkinson thought for a moment. “That is one good-looking federal prisoner,” he said, shaking Devlin’s hand. “I’ll have the flight attendant ask the man in the seat next to her to come up front for a moment, for some bullshit message. Then you swap seats and do your thing. But try to keep the fireworks to a minimum, will ya?”
Devlin nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “One more thing—land in Burbank.”
The stew went to get the man in 4B. As he came forward, Devlin slipped past him and walked calmly but purposefully, head down, toward the empty aisle seat. He hated to burn one of his covers, hated to have spent as much time with the captain as he’d had to, but that’s the way it was.
The face of the woman in 4A was buried in a copy of Paris Vogue as he took the seat. She didn’t bother to look over, or acknowledge his presence, or absence, in any way. Under other circumstances, the perfect seat mate.
Then his world turned upside down.
Maybe it was the perfume, that magical madeleine that triggered involuntary memory. Maybe the shape of the left forearm. Maybe a sixth sense. It didn’t matter. They both knew immediately when she lowered the magazine and looked at him.
“Hello, Frank,” she said evenly. “Long time no see.”
It was a good thing he didn’t have a heart. “Hello, Maryam,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
Chapter Thirty-six
PARIS—SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
He was in the city on a RAND clean-up operation. He was dressed as a Frenchman, loitering around the stage entrance of the Olympia waiting for his mark—a British SAS officer, who’d come over to Santa Monica with an MI-6 vet stamp in his dossier, but who was now suspected of running his own sideline business in sensitive SIGINT cables, hawking them to the Israelis, the Palestinians, the Egyptians, the Georgians, whoever came firstest with the mostest. Even a “22” couldn’t be allowed to get away with that. He was about to become, what they called in the trade, an exemplar. An object lesson. A warning.
Normally on a job like this, Devlin blended into the scenery and, whenever possible, the furniture. But only an idiot who was trying to attract attention would try not to attract attention in Paris. Every Frenchman considered himself the second coming of Yves Montand, and peacockery was de rigueur, and among the beures, the immigrants from north Africa and the Middle East, it was practically religious doctrine. So he was dressed well, in the current mode, and smoking a cigarette as he loitered and cast admiring glances at the young ladies passing by—who, after all, both expected and deserved nothing less.
She blindsided him. His French was excellent; hers was perfect. So when she somehow snuck up on him as he was checking out the derriere on a particularly good-looking Anamese salope and asked him for a light, he fumbled a vowel and she busted him on the spot.
“American, huh?” she said. She must have come out of the club, while his eyes were on Little Miss Saigon’s bum. Why she’d approached him, he had no idea. She spoke softly, so as not to embarrass him. “You can always tell. Match me.”
She produced an unlighted cigarette, leaned forward, and lit hers from his. The tips glowed as they met.
Now he looked at her, really looked at her. Middle Eastern, short, slender, very fashionably dressed. She filled it out nicely too without any hint of the future rotundity that almost invariably accompanied girls of her tribe. But it was the big, liquid brown eyes, the hint of olive in the skin, that really blew her cover.
“Persian, huh?” he retorted. “You can always tell. Especially when you’re trying to pass for French.”
“Touché, monsieur.”
“Frank.”
“Maryam.”
“Assalmu’Alayki Maryam.”
She crinkled her nose and laughed. “Your Arabic is even worse than your French…although they’re both okay.” He caught her eyes and held them until she looked away. “But I’m Iranian, remember?”
“Wanna go for Farsi too?” he said. “With three, you get egg roll.”
Now she laughed heartily, and he knew he had her, if he wanted her. And want her he did. Too bad he was on duty.
“Seriously,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced across the street. So far, nothing. “Waiting for a friend.”
“Dressed like a Marseilles pimp?”
“He’s a whore, so it’s okay.”
“Can I watch?”
“No, but you can have a rain check.”
“What’s a rain check?”
“I thought you said you spoke English.”
She made a moue. “I don’t think I like you any more.”
“Who said you ever did?” Movement in the doorway across the street. “I gotta go now, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby. I hate when men call me baby.”
He was moving now and so was she, tagging along. He either had to ditch her, kill her, or let her come. He didn’t like either of the first two choices, so he might as well make use of the cover. He took her by the hand. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but you seem like a fun girl, so you’re getting your rain check right now.”
She had to hurry to keep up, her feet clattering her impossibly high heels on the Paris sidewalks.
The man he was trailing stopped, his keen ears tuned to the slightest discrepancy in his environment, visual or aural. In a flash, Devlin had pulled Maryam into the shadows of a nearby doorway and kissed her as hard as he could. He caught sight of the man turning and he knew he was, for the moment, safe. He kept kissing Maryam long after the man had started back along his way. She tasted that good.
At last, he let her up for air. “What was that for?”
“For saving my ass.”
“It’s a nice ass,” she said.
He waltzed her out onto the sidewalk. He stepped in some dog shit but he didn’t care. Dog
shit was as much a part of the romance of Paris as the Seine, as the shellfish spilling out from their ice beds on the sidewalks, as the whiffs of perfume and body odor coming off the ugly but sexy women, as the sight of Notre Dame by night, as the Pont des Arts in late afternoon, and the Sacre-Coeuer against the morning sun.
The man ahead had stopped again. Did he sense something?
“Slap me,” he whispered. “Really, do it. Now.”
She learned fast. She slapped him hard. Harder, in fact, than he expected. Good. That meant she liked him.
“Encule de son père!” he shouted.
She came right back at him:
“Sale fils de pute enculée par un gros connard de pede!”
That hurt. So would this: “J’aurais te donner un coup de pied dans la choune, mais ça degueulasserais trop mon go-dasse!” He couldn’t believe the vile things that were coming from his mouth. Neither could she:
“Boro gomsho pedear soukteh, jakesh!” It was the choicest Tehran invective he had heard in years.
As he’d hoped, a crowd gathered around them, hoping for some action and blocking them from the sight of his quarry. Silently, he started counting down to ten, which was exactly how long he was going to let this little piece of street theater last.
“Goh bokhor!” he cried and pulled her close again.
“That was pretty good,” she said. “For an American.”
“Let’s go.”
They pushed their way through the crowd. The man Devlin was following was still in sight, but moving faster now, his wind up a bit, but not so much that he would disappear. To vanish would be to admit guilt to any pursuer. And then it would be war.
“Who is he?” she said.
“Somebody I want to talk to.”
“Just talk?” She grabbed him and whirled him around. “Enough to kill him?” She patted the gun under his left armpit, the one that was so well concealed that not even a drunken flic with a grudge against Americans would have noticed it on a first pat-down. Or even a second…
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