State of Honour

by Gary Haynes

  The interior of the place had dim lighting and a patterned carpet that had seen better days. Soft background music was playing. The smattering of people seated at the dark wooden tables looked more like professor-types than students. He saw a woman sitting next to Lester at a window booth, both cradling cups of coffee. She looked healthy. Her hair was short and black, cut unevenly but stylish. More like a fashion model’s than a punk’s. He figured she was maybe in her late thirties. She wore faded jeans and red sneakers. There was a passing remembrance to the secretary, too, roughly the same height and weight, and he wondered what kind of state she was in right now, telling himself that she had to be alive.

  They both rose as he walked over.

  “Karen Booker, Tom Dupree,” Lester said.

  She smiled and shook Tom’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Tom.”

  “Likewise,” Tom said.

  He noticed her eyes, the colour of liquid honey. She and Lester resumed their positions on the padded bench and Tom sat opposite them.

  “Karen’s ex-Army. Been a freelance communications expert for the last eight years. Worked for Blackwater for a time in Iraq. Speaks fluent Spanish,” Lester said. He gestured to Tom. “Tom here speaks French. A few other languages, too. Despite the way he looks, he’s smart.”

  Tom nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

  She smiled.

  “Karen’s willing to help out,” Lester said.

  “I’m a trained medic, too,” she said, patting a backpack by her side.

  “That’s good,” Tom said.

  She said she was very serious about her work, and Tom detected a faint lisp in her otherwise perfect diction.

  “Ex-Army, huh?”

  “Yes. The Signal Corps. Spent my first years at Fort Gordon, Georgia. Don’t ask me how I got into it. I wanted to be a doctor, but my grades weren’t up to it. But I’m glad I didn’t. Watchful for the Country, the Corps motto. It still means a lot to me.”

  “Well said,” Lester commented, nodding appreciatively.

  She smiled again, and Tom saw that her slightly hard features softened into a pleasing face.

  “Lester, can I have a quick word?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you excuse us for a minute, Karen?”

  “Of course, Tom,” she said, nodding.

  Both men stood up and Tom walked Lester out of Karen’s earshot over to an imitation-marble counter where the bored-looking wait staff were resting their elbows.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “Hey, you ain’t sexist, are ya?” Lester asked, glancing back at Karen.

  “No, of course not. I mean, just the one.”

  “My people are freelance, as I said. And in the timeframe, I’d say I got us a good one.”

  “What’s she doing up here?”

  Lester frowned and his head jolted back a few centimetres. “Her brother is a lab tech at Harvard. She was visiting.”

  “She Mexican?”

  “She’s from Connecticut.”

  “Her roots?”

  Lester’s face showed his displeasure again. “Mine are from somewhere in Africa, but that was like two hundred years ago. How far do ya wanna go back?”

  Tom leaned in a little closer. “You know what I mean, Lester.”

  “Not sure I do at that.”

  “I’m just trying to get some background info here.”

  Lester shrugged. “You wanna ask her if she prefers nachos to burgers, go right ahead.”

  “Okay, buddy, let’s forget about it,” Tom said, tapping the fingers of his right hand lightly on Lester’s protruding bicep.

  “No problem,” Lester said.

  They walked back to the booth and sat down.

  “I have to level with you, Karen. This could be hairy,” Tom said, his head nodding slightly.

  “Just what’s this all about?” she asked, her face taking on a concerned expression.

  Tom thought if she was going to risk her life, she had the right to know. “The Secretary of State.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m the head of her protective detail. I think with a lot of luck, I might be able to find her. But I’ll be honest, if you get involved, you might not make it.”

  “I thought I might not make it a few times back in Iraq. A few other times, too.”

  “It’s my duty and Lester and me go way back. Why are you willing to take such a risk?” Tom asked, his tone a little more inquisitorial than he’d intended.

  “Well,” she said, turning her palms face up, “some girls like Friday nights out and chocolate. Me, I like danger and intellectual challenges.”

  She smiled again. That smile could melt a block of ice, Tom thought. He sighed.

  “Listen, if you don’t want me on board, I can live with that. But the way I see it, the secretary has been kidnapped by men I’ve been fighting in one way or another for most of my adult life. I’d say it’s up to me whether or not I do my patriotic duty here. Besides, I haven’t got anything else to do right now. And I’ve got a 32 gigabyte laptop and some other equipment in my pack that might just come in useful.”

  “What about your brother?” Tom asked.

  She shot a glance at Lester. “He’s busy. He’s always busy. He only agrees to see me so our mom won’t call and shout him out.”

  Lester looked at Tom and grinned.

  “Okay, then. But if this all goes to rat shit, I take the rap for y’all,” Tom said, his voice serious and uncompromising.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll pay you twice your daily rate. A bonus if we pull it off.”

  “I’ll gotta hand it to ya, Tom, you’re one helluva negotiator,” Lester said.

  Tom couldn’t stop himself from snickering.

  “See. I told you he was one of the nice guys,” Lester said. “What now?”

  “Arlington County,” Tom said.

  “Shit. I just came all the way from New York. Jesus, Tom, you’re a real pain in the ass.”

  58.

  Having found nothing in her mind to calm her, Linda prayed to God for her safety, and asked Him to forgive the sins she had committed in her life. But when she finished, she did not feel His grace; there was still nothing but the terrible reality of what she now knew was a coffin.

  Wait, she thought. The respirator. If they want me dead why go to all this trouble? They could have just shot me. She couldn’t conceive of anyone being as cruel as to plan a gradual death in a coffin, unless the Leopards were going to use it as terrorist propaganda. But they’ve already said they would behead me, she told herself. Something that now seemed perversely preferable.

  She heard the lid being wedged open. The bright, artificial light hit her eyes and she squinted. The face of the man who’d punched her appeared.

  “You’re still alive. That’s good. It won’t be long now. I’ll just check around here,” he said in his British accent as he thrust his hand in and tugged on the ropes that bound her.

  Then he fiddled around with the breathing apparatus. Presumably satisfied, he lifted another hypodermic syringe, the needle glinting before a tear of liquid ran over it. He brushed the burqa up her forearm, revealing bare skin. She felt her lower forearm being slapped harshly before he injected a vein with an unknown drug and lowered the lid. She strained to soak up the last of the light, her sense of confusion only matched by the terror of her further confinement in the coffin, the dread of claustrophobia and the sense of being buried alive.

  Faintly, she heard what sounded like metal claps being snapped down. Then was nothing but her dreams and nightmares as she passed into an induced unconsciousness once more.

  59.

  After retrieving the backpack from the rental car, which he’d left in situ, Tom sat between Lester and Karen on the VW’s front-bench seat. He’d asked her to check out ADC online via the powerful laptop balancing on her thighs, find out what she could and see whether or not there was any reference to a head of security called Billy Joe Hawks. He’d said t
he HQ was in Arlington County, or had been.

  After she’d logged on, he’d watched her fingers move over the keypad using all ten digits, her flow interrupted only by a meticulous scanning of the many web pages she’d brought up. He could tell that she was speed-reading as she navigated the sites. She seemed keen and intelligent, and he found himself thinking that under different circumstances he might have asked her if she liked Thai food.

  Five minutes later, she said, “The CEO is called Peter Swiss. DoB May 2nd ‘62. He’s a naturalized US citizen, a former French national. Ex-French Foreign Legion officer. The 2nd Rep.”

  “Paratroopers. Damn good, too. I was seconded to the Legion for six months back in the day,” Lester said, his eyes darting around for road signs, despite the oral instructions coming from Davina.

  “You didn’t tell me,” said Tom.

  “I don’t tell you everything, man.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “ADC has major contracts with the US military,” Karen said. “It builds assault helicopters and land-to-air rocket systems. A lot else besides. The corporate HQ is still in Arlington County, near the Pentagon. But there’s no mention of Hawks. Here’s Swiss.”

  Tom leant over and she showed him a photo of the CEO. It looked like a studio shot. His face was taut and tanned. There was a distinct lack of lines around the clear blue eyes for a man of his age, and his hair was blond, without a hint of grey. He was sort of elegant-looking, Tom thought.

  “I need to be sure Hawks still works for ADC,” he said.

  “You want me to call them?” Karen asked.

  Tom nodded.

  Karen took out her cell. She thumbed in the number as she read it online, put the phone on speaker. Five seconds later, a young woman with a New York accent answered. After Karen asked to speak with Hawks, saying she was a major at the Pentagon, the woman put her on hold. About ten seconds later, she said that he was unavailable presently, but that she could speak with his PA. Karen declined, saying she would call back later.

  Disconnecting, Karen said, “So what now?”

  Tom pursed his lips.

  “Listen, Tom. I know you don’t wanna tell us much so we can just act dumb if this all goes to hell, but we can’t help unless we know what we’re looking for,” Lester said, accelerating past a pale-brown Winnebago.

  Tom sighed. His friend was right. He told them what he knew about Hawks, which wasn’t a great deal, and that he might be involved in the secretary’s abduction. He said that he didn’t think all the men involved were Muslims.

  “If I’m right, then I figure the way forward is to trick Hawks into contacting whoever has her. That’s it. That’s all I have.”

  “Surveillance and hacking equipment installed covertly might be the key to finding the whereabouts of the secretary,” Karen said. “And it’s a plus that Hawks is head of security.”

  “How come?” Tom asked.

  “Because he’ll think that the building, phones and computers are bug and virus-free,” she said. “They’ll be swept on a regular basis, which means he feels safe.”

  Tom nodded. “Lester?”

  “Normally you’d bribe a low-paid worker like a cleaner to place a bugged calculator or electric plug inside a room. Or blackmail an insider, depending on their tastes or shortcomings. Or use one of your own to make out they’re an electrician. And although I agree with Karen, it takes time and that’s somethin’ we ain’t got, right?”

  Resting his head against the metal bar behind him, Tom clasped his jaw. “Right. We don’t have time. Besides, I don’t even know who else is involved. It might be just Hawks and nothing to do with ADC. If so, he’s unlikely to use any company equipment. Come to think of it, even if ADC is involved, they won’t risk it, either.”

  Lester braked at a red stop. “He’ll use a disposable cell, too,” he said.

  “What about if we spook him, get him into the open and trace the call he’s dialling?” Tom asked.

  “A hidden monitoring device can capture the telephone number dialled by a touch phone, but not a cellphone,” Karen said. “It processes the dial tone. But I don’t know of any equipment we can utilize quickly that could do the job on a cell, at least without getting our hands on it first. If we knew the make, there are ways to activate the mic, and we could listen in on his real-time conversations, assuming he had the cell on him. But we don’t.”

  “Can you see if ADC own any other buildings in the area?” Tom asked.

  “Sure, Tom,” she said, her fingers flying over the keyboard again.

  “Whatcha thinking, Tom?” Lester asked.

  “That I’m sick of sitting on my ass.”

  “’Bout time,” Lester said, nodding.

  60.

  After an almost seven-hour flight, the man who’d checked on the secretary stepped out of the military transport plane they’d travelled in from Abu Dhabi. It was a grey day, the rain coming down in sheets, a westerly wind cutting in from the coast. On the French Air Force base tarmac runway, he oversaw the coffin being taken from the cargo bay and lifted by four men into the back of a dark-blue Citroën van. The secretary would be driven to a remote location in Normandy, northern France. One of the last places on earth that the US intelligence community would be likely to look for her.

  He walked over to two French Air Force officers, spoke with them and handed over a package, same as he’d done at Air Base 104 Al Dhafra. Half then, half on successful delivery. The officers weren’t habitually corrupt, but they’d taken the bribe just the same. They’d been told that the corpse in the coffin was that of a French national, the son of a wealthy Paris businessman, who’d died in a prison cell in UAE after being found with drugs in his suitcase. The businessman hadn’t wanted any bad publicity, and had asked that his son be brought home this way in order to avoid it. It wasn’t a great story, and the officers were putting their careers on the line, but it had worked.

  The payment made, he got into the front passenger seat of the van, glancing at the two SUVs parked waiting behind. The team were all ex-French Foreign Legion or former European Special Forces’ soldiers: six French nationals, three French-speaking Belgians and a couple of Brits. The little cortège pulled away, heading west.

  One of the Belgians asked him a question, using his name. He threatened to break his neck for being so unprofessional. The Belgian had called him Proctor. As far as the British and Americans were concerned, he’d died in the Hindu Kush, and he wanted it kept that way.

  He’d been a model soldier. His old mates would’ve never believed he was capable of murdering his spotter, Mike Rowe, whom he had shot in the back of the head with a sniper rifle. Although they’d been promised half of the million-dollar reward put up by the US government if they killed Mullah Kakar, he’d already been offered ten times that in pounds sterling for his role in the treachery. After over a decade of war, he’d realized that adrenalin rushes wouldn’t compensate for an early death or blown-off limbs. Proctor now planned to spend a long retirement on a beach so remote that it barely showed up on a map.

  61.

  Lester had driven at an illegal speed for most of the way from Massachusetts to DC, getting there in just over six hours, which made it late afternoon. Checking his watch, Tom had calculated that he had twenty-three hours left. He’d rented a car, a metallic-black Honda Accord. Lester had said he had to pick up surveillance equipment and specialized weapons from a subterranean armoury beneath his basement garage, taking Karen with him. They would meet at the agreed place and time.

  Tom waited for an hour at a lot off Interstate 395, and then drove the short distance to Arlington County, Virginia, over the Potomac River via a four-lane road-bridge from the capital.

  The ADC HQ was an office complex, a three-storey glass-and-chrome monstrosity. It sprawled over a ten-acre site, the interlinked corridors branching off from the main hub, as if the architect had been fascinated by the complexity of a spider’s web. There were no signs that it was the HQ of
a major arms manufacturer, except that the security on the gate was backed up by an array of CCTV cameras, perched on poles above parallel chain-linked fences, glittering like a mirage in the sunlight.

  Now that he had a physical description of Hawks, at least one that was eight years old and from someone with as keen an eye as Crane, he waited in the Honda fifty metres from the entrance, a line of yellow buckeye trees opposite. So far there was no evidence that Hawks was working with anyone else in the US. But he had to be, Tom thought. He couldn’t be doing this alone.

  The one key factor that was missing as far as Tom was concerned at this juncture was motive. If the Leopards had taken her, which he now had reason to doubt, motive would not have been a problem. But why would a Westerner or Westerners be involved? It made no sense to him, unless they’d just been used as mercenaries. He thought about taking Hawks to a remote lock-up as he’d done with Mahmood. But the guy was ex-CIA and he guessed that, unless he produced a blowtorch, he wouldn’t talk, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. Even if he did, Hawks would likely make up a story that couldn’t be verified one way or the other in the timeframe. It just wasn’t a viable option.

  He took his cell from inside his jacket pocket and rang ADC. He asked to speak with Hawks and said it was very important. When the receptionist asked who it was, he said Tom Dupree from the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. After a twenty-second delay, and Tom getting tired of the bland music being played in his ear, Hawks took the call.

  “Mr Dupree, how can I help you?”

  The voice was low and guttural. From the north-east. Boston, perhaps, Tom thought.

  “I’m in a car outside your office. Maybe we could talk.”

  “What about?” Hawks asked.

  “You know what about.”

  “I’m sorry, but you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Your Pakistani friend and the secretary.”

  There was a five-second pause. “You still have me at a disadvantage, Mr Dupree.”