Sting of the Wasp
Page 26
“You’re like a dog with a bone.” Grace scowled. “Let’s go, Lance Corporal,” she said, asserting rank as she started them down the hall to their cabins.
Breen remained with Williams. “‘Party planners,’” the major said when they were alone.
It took a moment. “Crap,” Williams said. He should have known better than to talk to outsiders when he was tired. Especially one who missed nothing.
“You were intelligence,” Breen said, “involved with the fracas off Alaska, I suspect, given our target … and his present disposition. Maybe you were making sure that this time Salehi did not get away.” The major held up a hand. “I don’t expect an answer—I only want to say that you’ve also given me a few things to ruminate over.”
The major saluted and then the men shook hands. As he turned to go, Breen said, “There’s a line in Luke, I think it is, that may apply. ‘He was lost but now he is found.’” He smiled. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Major,” Williams said.
It was a fitting way to end their stay in the Holy Land.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Sana’a, Yemen
July 25, 1:30 p.m.
Being a Shia in Yemen, and being a man of business, Sadi was not unfamiliar with losses, with setbacks. As always, in defeat, he turned to the words of the Prophet and of Allah.
“You may fight in the cause of God against those who attack you, but do not aggress. God does not love the aggressors.”
The wisdom of the words of the Quran compelled him to examine his own actions. Had he transgressed, had he crossed a line that had made him an aggressor?
As fast as he was to render discipline to the guilty, he insisted on no less for himself. Failure was its own bitter punishment, but it did not bring with it enlightenment.
Sadi knelt on the rug, facing his wooden chair. His hands gripped the armrest and the top of his robe hung from his waist, his back exposed and facing the room. There were many old wounds along his backbone and shoulder, healed red marks where the lash of a switch had ripped the flesh and drawn deep-flowing blood.
His brown eyes peering from a swarthy face, the young man stepped to the side of his employer. The youth was one of Sadi’s few trusted messengers, and the only one who had clerical training to serve as a messenger of another kind—a tool of repentance to connect Sadi with Allah.
Sadi nodded once. The young man rose on his toes, his arm raised high, and the hickory switch came down with a whistling bolt of lightning.
The older man moaned from deep in his throat, his entire body rippling with pain.
“God, did I do your will?” he wept.
The switch struck again. Sadi’s head rose up as his muscles contracted. His body lost its self-possession; only his arms on the chair prevented him from falling forward.
“Did I take too much upon myself?” he cried.
A third blow dropped him onto the cushion between the armrests, though his hands stayed where they were, his fingers digging into the wood.
“I … did … you … shame,” he uttered. “I … will … atone.”
The young man did not strike a fourth time. He was a medical student, studying in Iran, his education paid for by this man. He knew when a body could take no more.
The young man had been instructed not to immediately apply a balm but to leave the man where he was, in prayer and contemplation. He would be summoned when needed.
Sadi inhaled and exhaled rapidly, tremulously, each breath causing pain to shoot through his torn flesh and wounded muscle. As he slumped there, feeling the soft comfort of the cushion on his naked chest, he saw a vision of light on the closed lids of his eyes. The light was the sun and the sun was the eye of God and God was unhappy.
“But not with you,” he said weakly. “It is not a flood He shows you, for such would be as it was with the prophet Nûḥ ibn Lamech ibn Methuselah and his ark, the work of Allah. Fire is the tool of men.” The faintest smile broke through his physical agony, a glimmer of relief. “You did not stray from the faith. Allah is not displeased.”
Sadi did not yet have the voice to summon his aide, but felt the warm trickles of blood on his skin and knew, without certainty, that they were the comforting fingers of God.
“There will be flame,” he promised, remembering the holy face of Ahmed Salehi. “The man is now martyr but the fire he lit will grow.”
Rising with strength that could only have come from Allah, Sadi turned and motioned to the young man who knelt with bowed head in a far corner of the room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Off the Record, Hay-Adams Hotel, Washington, D.C.
July 27, 9:00 p.m.
Chase Williams felt as if he were on a first date.
It was a stupid anxiety, unexpected, comprised of equal parts jet lag, embarrassment, and something he had never expected to have to do: watch what he said to a pair of former Op-Center coworkers.
But he was grateful to the president for personally okaying the meeting with Kathleen Hays and with former deputy director Anne Sullivan. Kathleen, of course, knew nearly as much as Williams about what had gone down the last few days, though Berry would not have told her about Black Wasp; Anne would know nothing whatsoever. That was how it would remain.
Kathleen arrived first at the crowded hotel bar and spotted her former boss in a corner booth. Berry had arranged for it at the trendy, crowded venue, no doubt by slinging his influence. The two hugged and sat, smiling at one another in the dim light.
“Thank you,” Williams said.
“You’re welcome,” the woman replied, her voice breaking a little as she said it. She sat back, collected herself, and took a sip of the water a busboy brought.
“You saved this thing, and me,” he said. “You should be proud.”
“Can I get a raise?” she joked.
The mood chilled as they both realized she hadn’t been asking him for one and he was no longer in a position to accommodate her.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No, there are going to be landmines and eggshells everywhere, as my predecessor Paul Hood warned me. We just keep moving forward.”
“Eggshells?” Kathleen asked, happy to change the topic.
“He once had a team in North Korea, I think it was, half a century back. The enemy had run out of antipersonnel explosives so they surrounded their bunker with eggshells to let them know when an enemy was coming.”
“Pretty clever,” Kathleen said.
Anne arrived then, moving through the patrons like she held a winning lottery ticket. Her big smile caused Williams to choke up now, and he rose to catch her as she threw herself against him.
“I am so happy to see you!” she wept.
“Likewise.”
“Even if you smell like oil,” she said.
“Been working on the car,” he told her.
“Liar,” she replied and stepped back without letting go of him and looking her former boss up and down. “People get fat when they stay home and goof off. You’re about seven, eight pounds lighter, I’d say.”
“It’s very hot in the Watergate parking area,” he said.
“Next time take it to garage,” she said, easing into the seat, Williams between them. She blew a kiss across the table at Kathleen.
“I can do that now since we don’t work together and it’s not sexual harassment,” she said. The comment dropped a pall on her that rolled out to embrace the others. “Sorry,” she said. “Damn.”
“It’s okay,” Williams said. “It’s true.”
Anne was still looking at Kathleen. “I heard, from Roger McCord, that you’re at the NRO.”
“Doing what I did before,” she said. “And you?”
“Going to State,” she said. “Offer came this morning—will be working under our old friend January Dow at INR, director of analytic outreach.”
“I think you’ll get along,” Williams said.
“Yeah, I met with her today. The Salehi operation seems t
o have adjusted her temperament somewhat. It’s like she’s grown up.”
“Big events help people to know themselves,” Williams said as the busboy brought another glass of water.
Anne proceeded to tell them what she knew of the others in “diaspora,” as they had jokingly labeled it. All had ended up in other intelligence agencies, though McCord accepted a position in the private sector, feeling that the military-industrial complex offered greater job security than the United States government.
“Plus stock options,” Anne said.
They did not speak about Salehi, who was probably the topic of conversation at every other table and stool and outside smoking section in the place; and that was all they said about Op-Center, except for Anne asking Williams what he wanted to do.
“Other than fix your car.” She winked.
He thought about that with a look that took him away from the table, to a group that was not the women sitting beside him.
“I haven’t decided,” he answered truthfully. “I met with some people—some really good people—but I don’t know how that will play out.”
“Mysterious,” Anne said. “In or out of government?”
Williams grinned. “Both,” he answered to unsatisfied looks as the waiter arrived with wine and dinner menus and informed them that a gentleman at the bar was picking up the tab.
The three looked to where Matt Berry raised a scotch. Williams had not seen him since his return that morning.
“My favorite West Wing agent provocateur,” Anne said. “Should we invite him to join us? Make it a reunion?”
“Sure,” Williams said.
“Who knows?” Anne teased. “He might even have some career advice for an old war horse.”
“Who knows?” Williams agreed, intrigued by the “coincidence.” The best way for a news-making party planner to hold a clandestine meeting and not arouse suspicion from the rivals he stonewalled, or pestering by the insatiable press, was to have it in the open, an apparent double-date. Even in this apparent beau geste—an all-expenses-paid dinner reunion with Kathleen and Anne—the man was a player, Williams thought.
The men nodded at one another, Berry with a rare smile that was not for the ladies—even as he waved across the table at Kathleen and gave Anne a kiss on both cheeks. Berry reached across Anne and shook Williams’s hand with both of his as he sat.
“How are you, Chase?” Berry asked.
“I think he’s bored with unemployment,” Anne said, pushing the new arrival.
“We’ll have to see if we can do something about that,” Berry replied—still looking at Williams before draining his scotch and ordering another.
Apparently, the advice had just been given.
The warhorse would not be hanging up his saddle.
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER NOVELS
Op-Center
Mirror Image
Games of State
Acts of War
Balance of Power
State of Siege
Divide and Conquer
Line of Control
Mission of Honor
Sea of Fire
Call to Treason
War of Eagles
Out of the Ashes
Into the Fire
Scorched Earth
Dark Zone
For Honor
ALSO BY JEFF ROVIN
Vespers
Stealth War
Fatalis
Dead Rising
Tempest Down
Rogue Angel
Conversations with the Devil
The EarthEnd Saga (with Gillian Anderson)
Zero-G (with William Shatner)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFF ROVIN is the author of more than 150 books, fiction and nonfiction, both under his own name, under various pseudonyms, or as a ghostwriter, including numerous New York Times bestsellers and over a dozen of the original Tom Clancy’s Op-Center novels. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twleve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Tom Clancy’s Op-Center Novels
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STING OF THE WASP. Copyright © 2019 Jack Ryan Limited Partnership and S&R Literary, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Cover design by Ervin Serrano
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-18302-6 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-15692-1 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250156921
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First Edition: May 2019
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