Without Sanction

by Bentley, Don

  “What?” the armed man said into his phone.

  I ignored him in favor of searching the now-crowded thoroughfare for her familiar face.

  A family of hipsters pushing a designer stroller jostled for space with a young girl in cutoff shorts carrying a guitar case over her shoulder. A businessman, talking into his cell, shuffled to his right, making way for a pair of cowboys in skintight Wrangler jeans and dusty boots.

  This was Austin at her eccentric finest, but I had yet to see the purpose of my visit.

  I had yet to see her.

  “I’ve got him,” the armed man said.

  Any minute now. Unless . . .

  I didn’t follow the thought through to fruition. Couldn’t. Not now. I needed to believe that today, things would be different. Instead of my transferring my unused ticket to a future flight yet again, things would return to normal. Today, I would board the flight to D.C.

  “My name is Special Agent Rawlings,” the armed man said, turning to me as he rested his phone on his leg. “I need you to come with me.”

  “No.”

  A space in the crowd opened. My heart beat faster.

  “This isn’t a request. Get out of the chair. Now.”

  The thing about federal agents was that they worked for bureaucracies, and bureaucracies had their own idiosyncrasies and tribal languages. Over the course of my five years with the DIA, I’d learned that clear, concise communication was critical when working with federal partners. With that in mind, I replied to Special Agent Rawlings in terms I knew that he’d understand.

  “Fuck off.”

  I didn’t know why Agent Rawlings had suddenly entered my life, and I didn’t care. We were still in the great state of Texas, which meant that police officers could not just arrest people. Not without probable cause or an arrest warrant, anyway. Since my new friend hadn’t used any of those magic words, he was relying on intimidation, rather than the force of law, to ensure my compliance. This was unfortunate for him because I didn’t really do intimidation.

  Rawlings said something in return, and though I’m sure it was both witty and relevant, I wasn’t listening. She had just appeared.

  Like the silence that breaks out when the houselights dim and the curtain slowly rises, the crowd’s murmur faded as Laila took center stage. She’d once studied at the School of American Ballet and still moved with a dancer’s measured grace. My role in this Greek tragedy wasn’t yet finished—Agent Rawlings was waving over reinforcements while Jeremiah looked from me to the hulking federal agent, trying to pick a side—but I had eyes only for Laila.

  To be fair, Laila was an exquisitely beautiful woman. Her Pakistani father and Afghan mother had provided her with a melting pot of genes from one of the most ethnically diverse territories on earth. The areas that were now Afghanistan and Pakistan had hosted countless foreign conquerors, from Alexander the Great to the Mongol Horde, and the region’s collective influence was reflected in Laila’s appearance. Her dark complexion, and the waves of midnight hair that tumbled to her shoulders, made her unexpectedly green eyes all the more striking.

  Seeing her across a crowded room still caused my heart to stutter.

  A second federal agent answered Rawlings’s summons from the food court. He was clearly the muscle in the relationship and looked the part with his shaved head, Harley-Davidson T-shirt, jeans, and scuffed work boots. He was built like a fire hydrant, and the practiced ease with which his meaty hands found my left shoulder and arm suggested that this wasn’t his first rodeo.

  Behind them, Laila followed the flow of passengers toward gate nine, another workweek over. She was heading home and dressed for the unseasonably warm late-October weather in a white tank top and a maxi skirt that hinted and hid in equal proportions. The tank top set off the almond hue of her toned arms, while the skirt’s sheer fabric accentuated her hips’ subtle curves.

  But as much as my wife’s body stole my breath, it was her face I so desperately craved. As she passed even with my chair, fifty yards away, but oblivious to my presence, it happened. In the space of a heartbeat, Laila’s familiar features morphed into something else.

  Someone else.

  Though I was too far away to see the morbid detail, I knew what to expect: waxy complexion, vacant eyes, lips pulled into a silent scream, and a 9mm hole bored into the center of her smooth forehead.

  For the last six weeks, every Monday and Friday, I’d sat in this same chair, waiting for a glimpse of Laila. Each day, I’d hoped to see my wife, but each time someone else’s face stared back at me.

  Abir’s dead mother.

  Mr. Muscles jerked me from the chair, handling my one-hundred-eighty-pound frame with ease. To my right, Laila disappeared into the crowd, another chance at reconciliation gone. In that moment, the simmering rage that had been building each time I’d been forced to watch Laila walk out of my life broke through. It wanted a target.

  It found one in Mr. Muscles.

  My fingers curled into a fist, and I fired a jab into Mr. Muscles’s solar plexus, my knuckles sinking deep into his chest. He doubled over, his breath hissing out in a ragged gasp. Grabbing him by the elbow, I pivoted, then locked the hapless agent in an arm bar and slammed him into Rawlings. The two Feds went ass over teakettle, tumbling to the floor as the high-backed chairs tipped.

  After I’d endured months of forced passivity, the violence felt good. Maybe too good. But I didn’t have long to savor the feeling. Before the surprise had even faded from Rawlings’s face, someone tackled me from behind. I went down hard, head bouncing against the scuffed linoleum.

  Federal agents were a bit like cockroaches—for every one you saw, ten more lurked in the darkness.

  My attacker fired a couple of well-placed rabbit punches into my kidneys. That was a mistake. The blows hurt like a son of a bitch, but he should have forgone the opportunity for payback in favor of securing my hands.

  I turned on my side and rocketed an elbow toward where I pictured his nose to be. My elbow crunched against something solid, and the satisfying impact ran the length of my arm.

  Goddamn but this was fun. Maybe I should have skipped all those sessions with the Agency shrink in favor of a good old-fashioned bar brawl.

  A fist smashed into my cheekbone, sending tiny pinpricks of light dancing across my vision. A large knee drilled into the center of my back.

  Mr. Muscles had rejoined the party.

  Callused fingers grabbed the webbing between my thumb and index finger, wrenching upward as handcuffs bit into my wrists.

  Mr. Muscles had definitely done this a time or two. Still, he didn’t know about the ceramic handcuff key I had sewn into each of my long-sleeved shirts. My retirement might have cost me my Glock and secure cell phone, but I hadn’t parted with all my tricks.

  “Hold his fucking head still.”

  The command was spoken in Agent Rawlings’s no-nonsense tone. A meaty hand slammed my cheek flat against the unforgiving linoleum. I prepared myself for another blow, but felt a cell phone’s cool plastic pressed against my cheek instead.

  “Matthew, cut the shit. It’s time to come home. Einstein is active.”

  The call ended without further instructions, but I wasn’t expecting any. Despite my best efforts, James Glass had found me and issued a summons. I’d spent the past six weeks wandering through Austin’s wilderness, but my sojourn was now at an end. Like Moses standing in front of the burning bush, I’d been called back from exile and had no choice but to obey.

  The Almighty didn’t take no for an answer.

  THREE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Not for the first time, Peter Redman found himself fantasizing about what it would feel like to slide his fingers around Beverly Castle’s aristocratic neck and just squeeze. Though he knew that the President’s Chief of Staff shouldn’t be entertaining such thoughts, some days Pe
ter couldn’t help but wonder what Beverly’s soft, smooth skin would feel like beneath his fingertips.

  Most of the time Peter just disliked his White House rival.

  Today, he hated her.

  Taking a deep breath, Peter ignored the urge to physically accost the woman sitting across from him. Instead, he let the sense of this special place center him. Here, in the office housing the most powerful human being on the planet, the weight of history was almost palpable.

  If he closed his eyes, Peter could imagine the echo of raised voices as Lincoln’s famous council of rivals debated how best to keep the fraying Union intact. Or perhaps it was the sound of two young brothers, one the President, one his Attorney General, quietly whispering as they attempted to call the Soviet bluff in Cuba without igniting the world’s first nuclear war in the process.

  Though a veteran of almost four years of rough-and-tumble Presidential politics, Peter had yet to lose the feeling of wonder the West Wing engendered. Against all odds, his sense of gratitude for the giants who had walked these halls before him was still coupled with a humility that many of his contemporaries lacked. Peter understood all too well that, although he might be on top of the world today, in the not-too-distant future, his efforts might merit nothing more than a historical footnote. No, Peter’s humility was still intact.

  His patience, however, was another matter.

  “I’m going to make this simple, Beverly,” Peter said, doing his best to keep his homicidal thoughts from coloring his voice. “What the fuck happened?”

  Beverly jerked at Peter’s use of profanity, as if such an uncouth word had never before assaulted her cultured ears. Though well into her fifties, Beverly looked a decade younger—a testament more to the prowess of the legion of plastic surgeons who called San Francisco home than to her genetics.

  Still, Peter had to admit that Beverly, artificial or not, had aged well. With her shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, and angular, almost Nordic features, Beverly still garnered glances from men half her age. She could have easily been a political analyst for a cable news station.

  Instead, she was the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency and a royal pain in the ass.

  If Beverly’s difficult personality had been her worst shortcoming, Peter could have borne their relationship without thinking about murder every time he saw her sculpted cheekbones or heard her carefully cultivated voice. In his mid-forties, Peter had spent his entire adult life in politics. Assholes he could handle. It was incompetence that drove him batshit crazy.

  “I suggest you check yourself,” Beverly said, dime-sized spots of red coloring her porcelain features. “I’m a member of the cabinet—”

  “Who serves at the President’s discretion, a point you still don’t seem to grasp. We have an election in four days, Beverly. Four days, and the polls are still within the margin of error. For the next ninety-six hours, nothing happens without my consent. Nothing. Are we clear?”

  “You arrogant little shit,” Beverly said, her eyes flashing like ice crystals as her lips drew back, exposing perfect teeth. “I don’t work for you.”

  “For the next ninety-six hours, you sure as shit do. How do you think your Presidential aspirations will fare if I fire your ass four days before the election?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Beverly said. “The President wouldn’t be in office without my fund-raising network.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. We kicked your ass in the primary four years ago, and you hitched yourself to our wagon. We might have needed you then. We don’t now. So, I’m going to pour some coffee, and you’re going to tell me what the fuck happened.”

  Peter reached for the silver carafe in the center of the table and poured portions into two white ceramic mugs emblazoned with the blue Presidential seal. The rich, nutty scent of Texas pecan coffee filled the air.

  Peter added cream to his mug and slid the second to Beverly.

  “You were saying . . .” Peter said.

  Beverly stared at Peter, not bothering to mask the hatred lurking in her eyes.

  That was fine. Peter’s job wasn’t to be liked, admired, or even feared. His only task was to get President Jorge Gonzales, the first Hispanic ever to hold the land’s highest office, successfully elected to a second term. Anything else, including the scorn of a party scion and probable future President, was noise.

  Beverly held his gaze for a second longer before retreating into herself like a cat sheathing its claws. She reached for the mug of black coffee, lifted it to her lips, took a swallow, and set it down. Then Beverly opened the courier bag at her feet, selected a folder, and placed it on the table.

  “Would you like to read the after-action review?” Beverly asked.

  “No, thank you,” Peter said, eyeing the folder’s orange cover and TOP SECRET markings emblazoned across the top and bottom in capital block letters. “Please just give me the summary.”

  This was classic Beverly—all piss and vinegar until she was put in her place. Then she magically transformed into a model civil servant, right up until the moment her finely tuned political instincts sensed weakness.

  God but he was tired of her shit. Sometimes Peter thought he had a better relationship with the Republican minority whip than he did with his own fellow cabinet members. His opponents on the other side of the aisle were supposed to be disagreeable; that was part of the game. Beverly, on the other hand, took disagreeableness to a whole new level.

  “Certainly,” Beverly said.

  Her voice now contained the crisp, precise tones that had no doubt served her well when she’d still been an unknown history professor at UC–Berkeley. That was before a speech she’d delivered to a group of students protesting income inequality had gone viral, propelling her into the national spotlight.

  Beverly Castle was a lovely woman, but people who dismissed her intellectual prowess because of her looks did so at their own risk.

  “At approximately 0200 Syrian time, a CIA paramilitary team raided a suspected chemical weapons laboratory belonging to an ISIS splinter cell. Our intelligence at the time indicated that the laboratory would be lightly defended, if not empty. The intelligence was incorrect, and the paramilitary team was ambushed. In the ensuing firefight, a Black Hawk helicopter was destroyed and four men were killed.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Peter said, almost choking on his coffee. “You decided to kick over the Syrian anthill the weekend before the election? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

  “I’m sorry. Am I late?”

  So great was Peter’s agitation that it took him a full second to place the familiar voice. In fact, he might have sat at the table, dumbfounded, for another moment or two were it not for the radiant look on Beverly’s face and the feeling of dread it engendered in him.

  “Not at all, Mr. President,” Beverly said, getting to her feet. “You’re right on time.”

  Once again, Peter eyed Beverly’s long, smooth neck and promised himself that one day he’d slide his fingers around it and squeeze until his anger just faded away.

  FOUR

  How are you this morning, Peter?” the President said, waving Peter and Beverly back to their seats.

  “The polls are tight, sir,” Peter said, pouring the President a cup of coffee as he took an open seat at the table, “but I think we’re going to pull it off.”

  “Come on,” the President said, his voice chiding. “I wasn’t asking how my campaign was doing. I was asking how you were doing.”

  “As well as can be expected, sir,” Peter said, adding cream and sugar to the President’s mug. In spite of his anger with Beverly, Peter felt his lips tug into a smile.

  That was the effect Jorge Gonzales had on people.

  The son of Mexican immigrants, the President did not have an impressive political pedigree that was tied to generations of family wealth. But what he did have was
charisma, a work ethic second to none, and a generally sunny disposition—a rare quality among professional politicians.

  Jorge was also a lifelong Texas resident, and he shared his fellow Texans’ propensity for putting aside differences and getting to work. Early in his term, with his combination of seemingly endless optimism tempered with a willingness to cross the aisle in order to break through Congress’s perpetual morass, Jorge had frequently been compared to Reagan.

  Now, four years later, with an anemic economy, unsettled conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, and a civil war spiraling out of control in Syria, no one was making those comparisons any longer.

  Still, if the world was falling down around him, Jorge didn’t appear to notice. After taking a long sip of coffee, the President flashed his trademark grin. “It’s not often I get to start my morning with two of my favorite people. Beverly, I believe you called this meeting. What can I do for you?”

  Inwardly, Peter winced at the question’s naivete. While he had no doubt that Jorge, the man he’d labored beside ever since he’d helped guide the President’s mayoral reelection campaign in Houston, meant the question sincerely, Peter also knew that Beverly would take the words at face value.

  Though Jorge had handily beaten her for the party’s nomination, in Beverly’s mind, her time had come and Jorge was nothing but an interloper. The plum post of CIA Director, rarely given to a political rival, had been meant to salve old wounds in an effort to unify the party after a bitter primary.

  Instead, the assignment had played into Beverly’s sense of entitlement. In her mind, the President and the party owed her nothing less than the nomination once Jorge completed his second term. Anything that didn’t help with her perceived rendezvous with destiny was a distraction, including Jorge’s current electoral difficulties.