by Bentley, Don
Ten minutes might not seem like a lot, but they could have made the difference. If Frodo and I had left the safe house ten minutes earlier, we might have missed the ambush that ended my friend’s career as a commando. With a little luck, we might have even made it to Fazil’s apartment in time to stop the slaughter.
Then again, in Syria, luck seemed to be in short supply.
“Goddamn you, Drake. This is my operation. Mine. I won’t watch everything go to shit again because of you. My asset heads a network I’ve spent two years building. Two years. Before you fucked things up three months ago, he was on the verge of ending this war. That all went down the shitter when you and Frodo went rogue. Now, just when I convince him to come back on board, you stick a pistol in his face. You have lost your mind.”
Charles’s answer brought me up short. Scarface’s unexpected presence had provoked a fight-or-flight response. Three months ago, the Syrian had tried to kill me, and he’d seemed intent on finishing the job today. But while my reaction in the TOC had undoubtedly saved my life, I’d been acting, not thinking.
Specifically, I hadn’t thought to ask the most obvious of questions—why? Why had Scarface ambushed me, and why was he trying to finish the job now? Perhaps most important, how did Scarface know about me? To answer the first two questions, I needed to start with the third, and the man who could provide the answers was sitting less than three feet away.
Perhaps a change of approach was in order.
“Look, Charles, I know you’re the Chief of Base, and I understand you’re calling the shots. I’ll explain everything. Just talk to me about the Syrian. Who is he, and why is he here?”
“No. That’s not how this is going to work. I don’t answer to you, but you will answer to me. Either tell me why you’re here, or I swear to God I’ll have the Rangers throw your ass in a cell. Last chance.”
Charles came from old money, and he’d graduated from an Ivy League school. Even here, in the middle of nowhere Syria, he somehow still looked the part of a blue-blood aristocrat—tall and trim with wavy black hair, a square jaw, and perfect teeth. His name-brand wardrobe was certainly not government issued, and a TAG Heuer aviator watch, which cost more than I made in a month, graced his left wrist.
Still, old Chuck didn’t look quite so debonair when he was angry. His face flushed in splotches, bringing to mind a toddler in midtantrum. I didn’t know much about parenting, but I did know that you couldn’t reason with a screaming child. Here’s to hoping the semblance went only skin-deep.
“Okay,” I said, “fair enough. I have a potential asset in the splinter cell holding Shaw.”
“What do you mean by potential?”
Charles was still breathing hard, but the red splotches had begun to fade. He was interested. Maybe interested enough to put away the pettiness between us and actually listen.
“I made an approach just before I came to Syria, but the target didn’t bite. Now he’s resurfaced. He’s offered to trade Shaw and info about the splinter cell’s chem weapon in exchange for extraction. But he’ll only work for me.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. Believe me, I didn’t come here just to piss in your Wheaties. He reached out to us and described Shaw to a tee. He’s agreed to provide the chemical composition of the weapon he developed as proof of his bona fides. If he really has access to Shaw, at this point, I’d agree to any demand.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
I shrugged. “There are no absolutes in this business. You know that. Will he double-cross me? Maybe. But if he can give me Shaw, it’s worth the risk.”
Charles leaned back in his chair, eyeing me as he rubbed his freshly shaven chin with long, slender fingers. For a moment, I thought that this might be the beginning of something new. That Charles might actually respond to my transparency by laying his own operational cards on the table. Or if he wasn’t ready for something quite that radical, I hoped that we could at least set aside the past and start again from scratch.
But in Syria, hope, like luck, seemed to be in short supply.
“What’s his name?”
“Who?” I said, thinking that I must have misunderstood his question.
“Your asset. I’m the Chief of Base. Any in-country operation needs my authorization. If you want me to sign off on your plan, then you need to give me your asset’s name.”
I shook my head. “You know I can’t do that. My guy might be a shithead, but he’s my shithead. He’s Shaw’s only hope, and I won’t give his identity to you or anyone else. Period. You’d do the same thing in my shoes.”
“Here’s the thing, though, Drake,” Charles said with a smile. “I’m not in your shoes. I’m in mine. Give me his name, and we work this together, or get the fuck out of my country. Your choice.”
I looked at Charles as I weighed my options. I’d told him the truth when I’d said that Einstein was a shithead. If the weapons scientist for hire really was the mastermind behind the splinter cell’s new chem weapon, then he had blood on his hands and lots of it. In no scenario could he be considered a good guy. I should have ended him when he’d turned down my approach months ago, consequences be damned.
But the issue here wasn’t Einstein. It was Shaw. The paramilitary officer had already been tortured and was now slotted for a gruesome death. In response, the world’s last remaining superpower had committed every intelligence-gathering asset in its trillion-dollar inventory to the task of locating Shaw. So far, we’d come up bone-dry.
Except for Einstein.
So while my potential asset might be a mass murderer, he was also our only link to Shaw. Einstein had to be protected, especially from the arrogant son of a bitch sitting across from me. Charles was either too stupid or too naive to realize that his trusted Syrian commander was an opportunist every bit as mercenary as Einstein.
And this was the best-case scenario.
At worst, the Syrian might be actively working to undermine our very reason for being here. But I didn’t have the time or credibility to convince Charles of this possibility. This meant there was no way I would trust Einstein’s identity, and thereby Shaw’s fate, to an operation I viewed as already compromised.
As I looked at Charles, it occurred to me that this was the key difference between us. I knew who Einstein was and planned accordingly. Charles wanted Scarface to be something that he wasn’t and was prepared to look the other way in support of misplaced trust. I knew I couldn’t change Charles any more than I could magically transform Einstein from the shit bag he was to the hero I wished he could be. But I could protect Shaw’s one chance at rescue, and that’s what I intended to do.
“Charles,” I said, getting to my feet, “someday, you and I are going to have a reckoning, but today’s not that day. So please know I mean this with all of my heart—go fuck yourself.”
Charles started to speak, but I slammed the door on his reply. The fully evolved part of my brain was telling the rest of me that this wasn’t the moment to settle the score with Charles. But my reptilian core wasn’t so sure.
I was certain of one thing as I crossed the bull pen with short, angry strides. If I had to endure one more second of Charles’s sanctimonious grin, I might just side with my inner alligator.
TWENTY-ONE
Matt! Good to hear your voice, brother.”
In spite of everything, I smiled. That was the effect Frodo had on me. Less than five minutes before, I’d been giving serious consideration to wiping the arrogant smirk from Charles’s face by knocking out a few teeth. But somehow, just hearing Frodo’s baritone crackle over the digitally encrypted line made the situation less bleak. His voice was a lifeline to the sane world that existed beyond the vortex of madness centered on this safe house. I wasn’t in this alone, not as long as Frodo was still breathing.
“Likewise, my friend,” I said, rubbing the grit from my eyes. “You
have no idea how much I wish you were here.”
I realized the awkwardness of that statement about a millisecond after the words left my mouth, but Frodo was Frodo. He didn’t bother to mention the reason why he wasn’t here. Instead, he simply said, “In trouble already?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I said, eyeing the TOC from my vantage point on the other side of the packed-dirt courtyard.
This had been where Frodo and I had set up shop. We’d spent many an evening discussing how the world might have been different if Jimi Hendrix hadn’t died so young. Or at least that was my viewpoint. Frodo was more partial to the Beatles. Either way, I was like a wild animal seeking refuge in a familiar den, and the bit of shade offered by the tin-roof overhang seemed like a natural place to plot my next move.
“Talk to me, Goose.”
Frodo was an aficionado of eighties and nineties movies, but Top Gun was far and away his favorite, even if the subject had been naval aviators instead of Army commandos. As far as Frodo was concerned, good filmmaking was good filmmaking.
“Couple things, brother,” I said. “First off, Charles is the Chief of Base.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“I wish I were, but that’s not the half of it. Remember the Syrian who led the ambush?” I didn’t have to specify which ambush. As far as Frodo was concerned, there was only one.
“You got a line on him?”
“You might say that. When I walked into the TOC, he and Charles were coming out of the conference room together.”
“Say that again.”
“You heard me. According to Charles, the Syrian is a local tribal leader. Charles said he’s been running him for almost two years.”
“Any chance you’ve got the wrong guy?”
“I think not. He’s got a scar stretching from his lip to his ear courtesy of our previous face-to-face. He’s our guy.”
“Did you take him down?”
I paused, reliving the scene in my mind. Something about seeing the Syrian had pinged my subconscious, but I hadn’t known why until Frodo’s question had knocked a thought loose.
“I didn’t get the chance. As soon as he saw me, he went for his gun. I’d swear he recognized me. What do you think about that?”
“I think you better start from the beginning and tell Uncle Frodo exactly what happened.”
So I did. True to form, Frodo didn’t offer an opinion, at least not during my telling. When he did interrupt, it was to clarify a statement or ask for additional details. Not for the first time, I thought that if Frodo hadn’t become a commando, he would have made a fine therapist.
“Where does this leave you and Charles?” Frodo said after I finished my update.
“Not in a good place. The Rangers have Scarface and his men on lockdown, but I don’t know how much longer that’ll last. Right now, it’s my word against the Syrian’s. Charles seems more inclined to believe his asset than me.”
“Sure he does. Can you imagine the shit storm if it turns out that Charles’s trusted commander ambushed two DIA case officers? He’d spend the rest of his career alphabetizing the CIA’s archives. What are you gonna do?”
That was the question that had been bouncing around my head since my meeting with Charles had gone south. Shaw was running out of time. Now that I knew that Charles was relying on Scarface to locate the captured paramilitary officer, Einstein was more important than ever.
But even if Einstein was on the level, I wasn’t going to rescue Shaw on my own. That bullshit happened only in the movies. Shaw needed me and, like it or not, I needed Charles. Which meant I needed to find evidence that would bring Charles over to my side—proof of Scarface’s involvement that he couldn’t conveniently dismiss.
“If I send you biometric data, can you lean on some folks to run it through the authoritative database? Like, today?”
“Son, I’m a freaking commando. I may only have one arm, but I can still convey a sense of urgency to the desk jockeys. What’d you have in mind?”
“I’m thinking I’m gonna make friends with the Rangers guarding Scarface. Then I’m going to ask them to help me enroll the Syrian in the biometric database.”
“Hoping for a hit?”
“Yep. Scarface is a bad guy, no two ways about it. Maybe he’s splashed his DNA in places he shouldn’t have. If our analysts can tie him to a target, or an IED—hell, even a weapons deal gone bad—Charles won’t be able to ignore it.”
“I’m on it. But what if his biometrics don’t produce a hit?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. How’s Einstein?”
As part of the OPLAN we’d put together during our call on the Gulfstream, Frodo and I had agreed that he would communicate with my asset until I was established in-country. Our reasoning was simple: Because Einstein had turned down my initial pitch, I’d never provided him with covert communications, or cov-com, gear. Cov-com took a number of forms depending on an asset’s operational environment, but its purpose was always the same—to facilitate secure communications between a handler and his agent. Since Einstein wasn’t a formal asset, he didn’t have access to classified gear. But I hadn’t let him walk away from our first meeting empty-handed. Instead, I’d pointed him toward a generic instant messaging app. The DIA had developed for the app a software patch that funneled messages through a government server that added NSA Suite B–level encryption.
In the end, I figured this approach offered the best of both worlds. Einstein could contact me securely, but the encryption happened while the data was in transit. This meant that Einstein had nothing in the way of classified-coms gear to turn over to a foreign intelligence service if he were so inclined.
That said, both of us were still at risk. Einstein’s chat history made him vulnerable, and if someone rolled me up and compromised my phone, I’d be hung out to dry. To help mitigate this risk, I hadn’t installed the chat app on my cell yet. Instead, Frodo handled communication with Einstein via a phone he maintained on his person. Now that I was operational, this needed to change.
“The chem weapon formulation Einstein provided checks out,” Frodo said. “Our scientists say it’s consistent with what killed the CIA paramilitary operator.”
“That shithead has a lot to answer for.”
“Focus, Matty, focus. Once we get Shaw back, Einstein can pay for his sins. Until then, he gets a pass. I don’t like it either, but it is what it is.”
“You’re right, you’re right. Did he answer your last text?”
“Affirmative,” Frodo said, making a rustling sound as he picked up his cell phone. “I’m imaging the app and chat history now. Once you update your phone’s software, it’ll mirror mine. Einstein came up on the net about ten minutes ago and agreed to a meet. He’s texting via Wi-Fi instead of using the cell network, but I’ve got my favorite NSA analyst trying to localize the phone.”
“Is he having any luck?”
“She’s still working it, you chauvinistic son of a bitch. Her best guess is that Einstein’s in Manbij—a city of about a hundred thousand people around one hundred kilometers northeast of Aleppo. She should have a firmer location in an hour or two.”
“Wow. Awfully defensive. You wouldn’t happen to have a personal relationship with this DIA analyst, would you?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Matty, but you can’t handle the truth.”
I smiled. Hearing Frodo quote from his favorite movies brought a sense of normalcy to the operation. This, coupled with the fact that we might actually have Einstein’s location, made me think that maybe, just maybe, our collective luck was changing.
“Okay,” I said, “anything else?”
“Yep. Einstein has some demands.”
“Of course he does. Lay ’em on me.”
“U.S. citizenship, a new name, and seed money to start his ow
n laboratory. Oh, and he wants to live in Silicon Valley. Operationally, he said he can provide Shaw’s location, but getting proof of life will be too difficult. Also, he’s refusing to give anything more until the two of you meet face-to-face.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “He helped develop a weapon that’s killed who knows how many Syrians in addition to one of our operators. I’m sure he knows he’s not exactly on our good list. He’s probably worried that if he gives up Shaw’s location now, we’ll either throw him to the wolves or drop a Hellfire on him.”
“Is he wrong?”
I shrugged. “Probably not. Okay, tell him that the Silicon Valley bullshit is fine. I’ll even agree to the face-to-face, if he gives me Shaw’s location the second we meet. But without proof of life, there’s no deal.”
“Making sure he’s got some skin in the game?”
“Exactly. Getting close to Shaw won’t be easy. He’ll probably burn a bridge or two in the process, and that’s good. Hopefully, it keeps him from selling me out to his former employers when the going gets tough.”
“Damn it, Matty. I should be there watching your back.”
“I know, brother. But I don’t need another rifle right now. What I need is to know who this Syrian really is and where Einstein is hiding. Until I have that, Einstein has all the leverage. Give me something to make Charles see the light, and then find my wayward scientist.”
“I’m on it,” Frodo said, and ended the call.
As I placed the phone back in my pocket, I realized that, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t worried about phantom toddlers or unexplainable shakes. Instead, I felt the satisfaction that came only when Frodo and I were operational. Though I’d never told Frodo, I’d always thought he was wrong about the Beatles. In my opinion, John Lennon had been a selfish prick who hadn’t appreciated the magic of what he’d had. Then again, maybe I was wrong. Maybe people really did change. Maybe Charles would see the light.
