by Bentley, Don
“Need a little Ranger love?” Ray said, popping the knuckles on his ham-sized fists.
“Not just yet, Sergeant,” I said, glad to once again have a fellow Ranger by my side. “But stay frosty. I’ll be back.”
“Now, Drake,” the CIA officer said.
“What’s your name, son?” I said.
“What difference does it make?”
“Your name.”
“Jason.”
“Jason what?”
“Thome.”
“Well, Jason Thome, before this is over, you and I are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting. Now, let’s mosey on back to the TOC in silence before I change my mind and decide we should have that meeting sooner rather than later.”
Jason’s eyes darted from me to Ray and back again. I wasn’t sure what he saw, but it must not have been good. Rather than make a snappy comeback, Jason shut his mouth, spun on his heel, and stalked back to the TOC.
True to my word, I followed in silence.
TWENTY-FOUR
My phone started to buzz ten steps from the TOC’s door. I glanced at its dusty screen and saw a number I didn’t recognize. I considered returning the phone to my pocket unanswered, but didn’t. I might not have known the number, but I knew the area code: 202—Washington, D.C. This was probably a call I should take.
“Drake,” I said, putting the phone to my ear as I followed young Jason through the TOC’s door.
“Chariot. Chariot. Chariot.”
The call ended before I could reply, but that didn’t matter. The voice on the other end was unmistakable—Frodo. I hesitated in the door’s threshold, trying to understand what had just happened. Frodo had just issued a mission-abort code.
Why?
I thought I might be able to slip away without being noticed, but one look in the TOC convinced me otherwise. The televisions that had previously displayed UAV and satellite imagery now showed something else instead. On the screen to the left, a group of men and women in military uniforms was gathered around a conference table. In contrast, the TV to the right showed just one face, and it was glaring at me.
“Matt Drake?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, entering the TOC as the door squeaked close behind me.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, sir,” I said again.
I’d never met him face-to-face, but his visage scowled at me each time I passed a particular section of hallway in DIA headquarters. The section that featured portraits of past and present agency directors. General Jonathan Hartwright, former commander of the 82nd Airborne Division and current Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, was on a VTC conference, and he wanted to talk.
To me.
Not good.
“Glad we’ve got that settled,” Hartwright said, peering over a pair of reading glasses like I was a repugnant insect. “Now, answer me a question if you’d be so kind.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sir?”
“You pulled a gun on one of our Syrian partners in the middle of the goddamn TOC?”
“Sir, if you’d let me explain—”
“Drake, do you know who I just got off the phone with?”
“No, sir.”
“The White House, Drake. The motherfucking White House. Do you think it was a pleasant conversation?”
“Sir, I—”
“It wasn’t, Drake. Not by a long shot. I don’t want to relive it just yet, so I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version. The CIA has operational control over every swinging dick in Syria, and Mr. Robinson is the CIA’s Syrian Chief of Base. That means his word is law. Since you can’t seem to grasp that concept, I’m pulling you out of country.”
“Sir, my agent can give us Shaw.”
“Einstein? Bullshit. He’s just another sorry sack selling weapons of mass destruction to the highest bidder. Now he’s in over his head, and he wants us to bail him out. Mr. Robinson is running this op. If you really think your asset has the goods, turn Einstein over to the Chief of Base.”
“No.”
“What did you just say?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t do that. Einstein is my asset. I’m the one responsible for his life, no one else.”
“Son, I’m not asking. Give Einstein’s information to Robinson. Now.”
“Can’t do that, sir.”
“Interesting. Then I’ll tell you what you can do. You can get your sorry ass to Turkey and then onto a flight heading west. Once you land back in D.C., you can get yourself to my office so that we can sort out your insubordination face-to-face. But before you do that, you can surrender your cell phone, weapon, and anything else that identifies you as an agent of the United States government. As of this moment, you are persona non grata in Syria. Welcome to civilian life, Mr. Drake.”
* * *
—
I’ll walk him to the gate,” Sergeant Ray Unruh said, tapping my minder on the shoulder, though minder might have been a bit of an understatement. Not content to allow me to show myself out, Charles had opted instead for a final bit of humiliation. He’d ordered one of the CIA paramilitary guys to escort me off the premises. I’d thought about trying to state my case to the other meat eaters in the room, but in the end, I’d rejected the idea. Though we ran in the same circles, no one else knew me, but they did know Charles.
Besides, General Hartwright’s order had been pretty unambiguous. It would be one thing if the trigger pullers could chalk this up to just another turf war between rival agencies, but the Director of the DIA had ordered one of his case officers out of country. That was pretty cut-and-dried. Nobody was willing to step into the breach with me, and I didn’t blame them. Well, maybe nobody but Virginia. She’d caught my eye from where she’d been sitting on the other side of the room, but I’d shaken my head. As far as the powers that be were concerned, she was still clean in the sense that she was not associated with me, and I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. I wasn’t sure where this operation was going, but I had a feeling that I’d be needing the services of a chemist before it was all over. A chemist I could trust.
With this in mind, I’d gathered what was left of my pride and walked out of the TOC, a CIA paramilitary officer dogging my footsteps.
“You sure?” the paramilitary officer said, his distrustful glance flickering between me and Sergeant Unruh.
“Yeah,” Ray said. “I got this.”
The second operator seemed about to protest, but shook his head instead. “It’s your ass,” he said before heading back to the TOC.
Ray and I walked in silence toward the compound’s entrance until the paramilitary officer was out of earshot. Then the Ranger spoke.
“You really have an asset?”
“I do.”
“And he can give you Shaw?”
“Shaw and the chem weapon Shaw’s team was searching for.”
“How?”
I thought for a moment before answering, considering both my response and its implications. If I gave up Einstein’s background, it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce his identity. The safer path would be to decline to answer or lie outright. Next to gathering actionable intelligence, a case officer’s most important job was to protect his agent. Telling Ray anything about Einstein would put both my asset and, by extension, Shaw at risk. Still, contrary to what I’d said to Frodo, I did need in-country help. To secure that help, I was going to have to trust someone.
Sergeant Unruh was as good a candidate as anyone.
“My asset helped the terrorists build the chem weapon.”
Ray looked at me with an incredulous expression.
“Your asset’s a weapons scientist?”
I nodded. “And without a doubt a shit bag. But here’s the thing I had to learn in
this business—the good guys aren’t the ones with access to the information we need. Don’t get me wrong. In a perfect world, I’d be planning to smoke my asset instead of rescue him, but this isn’t a perfect world. To be honest, I don’t care if my asset is a good guy or not. I’d do a deal with Hitler if he could help me bring Shaw home. Getting Shaw back alive is all I care about. Everything else is noise.”
“‘I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy.’”
The words rolled off of Ray’s tongue without pause, and I nodded. The phrase came from the fifth stanza of the Ranger Creed, and to men like us, the words meant more than just a pretty sentiment. They were a blood oath that united the fellowship of men who willingly put themselves into harm’s way on their nation’s behalf. This creed, more than anything else, had solidified my decision to return to Syria. The last time I’d been here, a man and his family had depended on me, and I’d failed them. Now it was Shaw’s turn. Though I’d never met the paramilitary officer, Shaw was a special operator and therefore part of the select fraternity the Ranger Creed encompassed.
Three months ago, I’d been unable to honor my promise, and a man and his family had been brutally murdered. Now, after my time in purgatory, maybe rescuing Shaw offered me a chance to set things right.
But whether redemption was possible or not, I could no more abandon Shaw than I could have left Frodo inside our burning Range Rover. General Hartwright might have been my commanding officer, but Shaw was my fallen comrade. He and I would leave this hellhole together or we wouldn’t leave at all. On this point, the Ranger Creed couldn’t have been any clearer.
“What next?” Ray said.
“I’m going to link up with my asset. He’s gonna tell me where Shaw is, and I’m going to bring him home.”
“By yourself?”
“If I have to. But I’ll tell you what I’m not gonna do. I’m not gonna get on a plane just because General Jackass says to. I’m also not gonna sit around and hope that Charles Robinson IV finally gets off his ass before the jihadis livestream Shaw’s execution.”
“You and the CIA Chief have a history?”
“A long one,” I said, meeting Ray’s gaze so that he felt the full weight of my words. “Last time I was here, Charles refused to release the QRF when my asset activated his beacon. His entire family died as a result.”
“Why?”
A gentle breeze stirred the grit beneath our feet as I thought about how to answer. A section of dusty sky was visible just above the compound’s walls. Same dusty sky, same gentle breeze.
Wind is a fickle thing.
“I don’t know,” I said. “At the time, Charles said he couldn’t risk a rescue so soon after a chem attack, but I don’t think that was the real reason. The Syrian your men arrested ambushed Frodo and me on the way to save our asset. I don’t know if the attack was connected to why my asset wanted to meet, or if it was just part of the fog of war. In the end, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I made a vow and didn’t honor it. That won’t happen again.”
“What about your asset and his family?”
“A recovery team found them two days later. They were all dead, even the toddler. The wife had been raped.”
We walked a step or two in silence as Ray digested what I’d said, while I tried to unsee the pictures the forensic team had snapped of Fazil’s apartment. I’d demanded to read the classified version of their report while still lying in my hospital bed. Abir had begun to visit me soon after. I didn’t need a shrink to understand why.
Even now the thought of Fazil’s final moments made my stomach turn. Killing a man was one thing, but killing his wife and baby was a special kind of twisted. The men who’d done it were monsters, and in my experience, there was only one way to deal with monsters—exterminate them.
“What happened next?” Ray said.
“Frodo and I were medevaced to the States. Charles and the rest of the Agency folks were ordered out of theater. The administration thought the whole Syrian endeavor was too dangerous after the chem attack. Here’s the thing—I don’t know what Charles is after, but I’m positive there’s more here than meets the eye. His Syrian asset disappeared just before the QRF birds rescued Frodo and me. I don’t know how Charles is connected, but I don’t trust him. Neither should you.”
Ray held my gaze for a long moment. He had just started to speak when a familiar voice interrupted.
“Need a ride to the airport?”
Jason Thome and the paramilitary officer stood just behind us.
“Don’t you have badges to issue?” I said.
“The Chief told me to make sure you were off the compound. You can walk out or my associate can toss you. Your choice.”
I thought about taking him up on the offer, but didn’t. As much as I wanted to knock his ego down a peg or two, he wasn’t important. Shaw was running out of time. That was the only thing that mattered. Instead, I offered Ray my hand. “Wish we could have met under better circumstances, Sergeant, but if you could still do me a solid, I’d appreciate it. There’s a chemist who arrived with me. Her name is Virginia. Please look out for her and let her know I’ll be in touch.”
“Can do,” Ray said, taking my hand. And then to my surprise he pulled me into a hug. “Rangers lead the way,” he said.
“All the way,” I answered.
Without another word, Ray headed back toward the TOC, pushing his way between Jason and his muscle-bound companion. I used the ensuing confusion to slip through the compound gate and slide into Zain’s waiting car before the situation with Jason escalated. The Syrian put the car in gear and rolled away from the compound. Only after we’d made the first turn and wound our way onto the main thoroughfare did he look at me.
“Where to, friend?”
“Not sure,” I said, unfolding the tiny scrap of paper Ray had palmed me during our hug. “But I think we should start here.” I read off the handwritten address, and Zain entered the information into his phone’s GPS.
“We will be there in an hour,” Zain said. “What will we find?”
“ISIS? Assad loyalists? Bandits? This is Syria, my friend—one never knows.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Trouble, my friend?”
I looked up from the cell phone I’d been configuring to see that Zain had turned his attention from the road to me. A cigar rested between his brown teeth. Judging by the fact that the stogie was half-consumed, a good thirty minutes had passed since we’d pulled off the road so that he could pop the trunk on his beat-up car and outfit me with new kit.
I’d needed quite a bit.
I’d rendered my phone useless by entering the duress password before surrendering the device to Charles, but the joke was still on me. With no weapon, and no way to contact Frodo, my little rebellion against General Hartwright was going to be short-lived.
But that was before I’d taken a look in Zain’s trunk.
Where the outside of his sedan was indistinguishable from that of any of the other thousands of battered vehicles roaming Syria, the trunk had been transported from a Michael Bay movie. Body armor, cell phones, and an assortment of pistols and long guns were nestled in custom-made foam cutouts. In short order, I’d outfitted myself with low-visibility body armor, an AK-47 with extra magazines, and a Glock and holster. A combination cell-sat phone completed the load out. While my new kit didn’t match the Ranger Regiment’s basic issue, it would have made Batman proud.
I then updated the phone’s operating system in accordance with Frodo’s instructions, keyed in the password he’d provided, and waited for the phone to reimage. In less than fifteen minutes, I had a fully functioning clone of the phone I’d surrendered to Charles, complete with the app Frodo had used to communicate with Einstein, plus their chat history. Included was a private message from Frodo that read, Try looking for our friend here, along with
a grid coordinate. Frodo’s NSA analyst had managed to get a fix on Einstein’s phone. Things were looking up.
And that’s when I’d hit my first snag.
Keying in Frodo’s number from the contact list, I’d dialed and then listened as the call went to voice mail. Next, I dialed the number he’d used to give me the Chariot abort code and I got the same result. This was not normal. I’d worked with Frodo for the better part of five years. When we were operational, he was available.
Period.
I’d vented my frustration with a sigh, and this was what had prompted Zain’s question.
“I’m in trouble,” I said, looking at Zain. “This isn’t how I thought the operation was going to play out. If you want to reconsider your offer to help, I won’t hold it against you.”
Zain slammed on the brakes, bringing the sedan to a skidding halt. “Is this joke?” he said, anger swamping his English. “Things become difficult, and I leave? Is this the person you think I am?”
“Of course not,” I said, “but right now, I’m a liability. Without my government’s help, I’m alone.”
“You are not alone. You have me. Tell me what you need. Immediately.”
“Okay. We need to get to the address that Sergeant Unruh gave me, but I don’t want to go there blind. Can you find out more about it?”
“Of course. I will make calls. We will have answers.”
And with that, Zain put the car into gear and began driving with one hand and dialing his phone with the other. I listened as he worked his contacts, directing streams of rapid-fire Arabic at each man who answered. While Zain pulsed his network, I did a little research of my own, starting with Einstein’s supposed location.
During a normal operation, my encrypted smartphone would be able to access a password-protected FTP site. The DIA team of analysts assigned to the operation would post up-to-the-minute ISR—or intelligence, security, and reconnaissance data—to the site, much like with a Dropbox account. The prepared data came in the form of a graphic overlay onto which was fused all the intelligence the DIA possessed concerning a particular set of geographical coordinates. The information was derived from a number of diverse sources, including loitering drones, satellite imagery, and the occasional U-2 reconnaissance flight, as well as applicable human intelligence, or HUMINT, reporting.
