National Security

by Marc Cameron

  Jericho nodded, impressed at the Director’s flawless Mandarin. “If you only have a hammer, every problem looks like nails. You have a good ear, sir. You must have spent some time in China.”

  Palmer gave a wry smile, as if remembering better days. “As a matter of fact I have. But, since my Senate confirmation seven months ago, I have come to see that we have exactly the opposite problem of that particular proverb. I have at my disposal a myriad of sophisticated tools: vast communications systems, crack military units, spy satellites, billion-dollar warplanes and ships ... the list goes on and on. But there are times when a fancy, more specialized tool just won’t work. What I really need is a bona fide pipe-hitter that’s unencumbered by the cords and fancy systems of red tape.”

  Jericho knew from the look the DNI gave him, the next conversation he would have with Kim was not going to be a good one.

  Palmer nodded slowly, as if passing judgment.

  “I need a hammer.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Al-Hofuf

  Sheikh Husseini al Farooq gazed serenely through the one-way glass. Small, feminine fingers toyed with the ruby ring on his right pinkie. His long white robe just brushed the marble floor.

  “How long?” Zafir, who stood to the sheikh’s immediate right, asked. He kept his head slightly bowed but could still make out the reflection of his master’s waspish face in the tinted glass.

  “Mm?” Farooq looked up, startled from a thought.

  “How long until they die?”

  “Soon,” Farooq said. “If not from the disease, then from dehydration.”

  On the other side of the thick partition, a scene from an American horror movie stared back at them. Even Zafir, who’d spilled his share of blood and misery, was repulsed by the sight. Farooq appeared to marvel at it. Five of his test subjects lay in a row of mean cots. The sheets, once white, were filthy, stained in unclotted blood and human filth. The room was now so contaminated, no one, not even Dr. Suleiman, the veterinary scientist Farooq had paid to conduct the experiments, would enter to feed or tend the dying souls.

  Zafir mused at the dying people, consoling himself as to what they represented. Three were men—two American hostages and a Shiite pig who deserved the flesh-eating death that now ravaged their bodies. The fourth was a woman, a prostitute from Riyadh. Even the sight of her bleeding from the nose and dull, sightless eyes failed to arouse any sense of pity. The woman’s daughter, a child of seven lay in the bed next to her. Younger than the rest, she’d been stronger, her slight body more adept at fighting the virus. But in the end, it had claimed even her.

  There was a microphone inside the lab so Farooq could listen to the moans of the patients. He had it turned off for now, but Zafir could tell by the way the little girl’s shoulders heaved that she was crying. So much the better—a child of corruption deserved no happiness in this world or the world to come.

  “What of Malik?” Farooq said, still gazing into the glass. An ever-present grin perked the corners of his mouth.

  Zafir nodded in thought. It was his habit to pause for a few moments before answering the sheikh. The fat Iraqi had been talking far too much, this was true. With the recent success of the experiments, they would have no more need of his prisoners.... It all seemed simple enough.

  “You rewarded Malik well, but you cannot buy the allegiance of such a man. You may only rent it. He has reached the end of his usefulness,” Zafir said.

  “We think alike, my brother.” Farooq’s voice buzzed slightly against the glass.

  “Shall I bring him here?” Zafir asked. “For the experiments ?”

  Farooq smirked, shaking his head. “No, I think not. The flood that would come from that fat body would be uncontainable. Kill him and be done with it.”

  “I’ll see to it right away,” Zafir said. “Personally.”

  Farooq suddenly turned to face him, cocking his head. “Have I not treated you well?”

  Zafir knew where this was going. “Much better than this humble Bedouin deserves,” he whispered.

  “Then why do you wish to leave us?”

  Zafir had prepared himself for this question. He grit his teeth, paused another moment, then answered slowly. “I do not want to leave. But, Allah willing, I wish to play a larger part.”

  “If you do this,” Farooq whispered, “your death is a certainty. It is a divine thing to be a martyr in our holy struggle, my friend, but you are needed here.” He wagged a slender finger. “I am informed you have news of the woman in Texas.”

  Zafir sighed, deep within himself. There was little Farooq did not know.

  The sheikh pressed the issue. “Is it because of the American you wish to play such a role in the game?”

  Zafir shook his head, slowly. “No.” It was the first time he’d lied to his master. The very thought of what the woman had done boiled in his stomach.

  Of course it was because of her.

  Farooq’s thin lips parted, but he waved the idea away as if it was a bothersome fly and started again. “I have no quarrel with you going to America—and I certainly find no fault in seeking your pound of flesh from the infidel woman. But, when you are finished, return to me, where you are needed.... I see no point in your playing the role of the pawn when you could stand here, beside me.”

  Zafir bowed his head. “I will do as you wish ... as I have for these many years. But you now know my heart. I am weary of watching others punish the Americans for their insolence. Allah willing, I might be of a greater service in my master’s game.”

  The sheikh nodded slowly, pondering. He put an index finger to the glass, pointing to the Riyadh prostitute. She was no more than twenty-five but looked twice that. “See how the woman bears her agony in silence. She is the bravest of them all.”

  “Perhaps she has lost her mind,” Zafir said. “If she could see how her child suffers she would not be so brave.”

  “Perhaps,” Farooq said. “Yes, perhaps that is it.” He looked up. “Let us consider your request after Salat ul Isha. I will think better after prayers.”

  “I leave for Iraq tonight then.” Zafir withdrew a half step, waiting as always for the sheikh to dismiss him.

  “I understand our Iraqi friend is close to a certain university student in Fallujah,” Farooq said, smoothing his thin goatee with boney fingertips. “We are, as they say in chess, at the endgame, Allah willing. The Americans must not learn too much until the time is right. Pay the boy a visit as well. Find out what he knows.”

  “As you wish,” Zafir said. He looked forward to the task. The methods he used to obtain information would be a pleasant diversion from thoughts of the infidel whore—until he could go to Texas and settle things with her as they should have been settled long ago.

  CHAPTER 15

  Harris Methodist Hospital

  Outpatient Psychiatric Clinic

  Fort Worth, Texas

  Carrie Navarro exhaled through pursed lips, sank back against the chilly cushions of a leather couch, and tried to focus on the most horrible moments of her thirty-two-year life. Dr. Soto had agreed to meet her for an evening appointment, after a long day at work, so she was already exhausted. Her eyes were closed, her hands lay flat and loose on top of her thighs. She was pretty, in a world-wise sort of way, with dark features and full red lips. Her eyelids and fingers seemed in constant motion, quaking slightly like leaves in a gentle breeze.

  “Let the memories flow back slowly ... water filling a cup,” Dr. Soto said in her cool-cloth-to-the-forehead voice. She was a professional, dressed in fashionable red slacks and a white silk blouse, the kind of mature woman Carrie found it easy to trust. “You are completely safe, watching events unfold as an objective bystander, not a participant... .”

  Throughout three years of therapy, Carrie had learned to trust the mild-mannered doctor as much as she trusted anyone in the world. Andrea Soto knew more about Carrie than her own mother—the intimate details, private things you didn’t tell your closest friends. Even frien
ds made judgments. Everyone made judgments about certain things—everyone except Dr. Soto.

  Soto’s voice was firm and matter of fact. It had surprised Carrie at first that the doctor hadn’t whispered when she put her under. “Okay,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel fine,” Carrie said, watching the movie of her earlier, unspeakable life unfold before her eyes.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  Carrie’s long eyelashes fluttered but didn’t open. “Yes,” she said, feeling thick and sleepy.

  “Good,” Soto said, and Carrie heard the sound of her pencil zipping across her notepad. “Let’s begin.”

  “What is the date?”

  “Today or then?” Even under hypnosis, Carrie couldn’t help but be argumentative. It was her nature, and in the end, it was what had gotten her into such trouble.

  “Then,” Soto said, ever patient.

  “June 8 ... al-Zarqawi has just been killed by a U.S. air strike.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Baquba,” Carrie said, holding her breath. Her moist lips were set in a hard, grimacing line. “Do I really have to come back here?”

  “No, honey,” Soto said gently. “You don’t have to. But I think it will help you heal if you do.”

  Carrie sat for a moment, saying nothing. Long purple nails with snow-white tips dug at her jeans. The trembling grew more pronounced.

  “All right,” she sighed. “I’m here, in Baquba.”

  “What do you smell?”

  “Earth ... orange groves ... trash,” Carrie said. “And gunpowder.”

  “Good. Now, when you’re ready, tell me what you see.”

  Carrie Navarro suddenly grinned. “Damn, Doc!” she said. “I’m lookin’ hot in my sexy reporter outfit!”

  Baquba, Iraq

  Carrie Navarro got up early, stepped into her purple Crocs and shrugged on a heavy flak jacket. They didn’t call the place Baquboom for nothing. It was not uncommon for a half dozen mortar rounds to pound the camp each day. It was a short slog from her bunkered CHU—containerized housing unit—through mud and pelting rain to the concrete shower stalls so she decided to carry her towel and toiletries inside her folded poncho. Wind whipped shoulder-length black hair against her sleepy face. Soaked to the skin in her T-shirt, perky little gym shorts, and incongruous flak jacket, Navarro got more than a few raised eyebrows from passing soldiers. She was on her way to the shower. Why shy away from a little water beforehand? Besides, if the solders at Camp Warhorse weren’t used to her behavior by now, they would never be.

  For some female reporters, being embedded with a crew like the Alaska-based 172nd Stryker Brigade would be seen as tough duty. Navarro considered it a plum. She ran with them, drank with them, and matched their dirty jokes punch line for punch line. If she fluttered her long, curly eyelashes and pouted her lips at just the right moment, she could even shoot with them once in a while. They were good boys, treating her more like a baby sister than a would-be girlfriend. She supposed the suicide bombings and daily mortar attacks had a lot to do with their desire to lord over and protect her. Most times their efforts were appreciated, but today she had a meeting and it just wouldn’t do to have an armed convoy of overprotective Stryker vehicles dogging her every move.

  Almost giddy at the prospect of her interview, she toweled off quickly after the tepid shower, stepping into a relatively clean pair of khaki cargo pants and her favorite sky-blue button-down. Stuffing the pockets of her desert camo photographer’s vest with pens, paper, and a small digital camera, she threw on a rain jacket, then looked at her watch. 0730. She’d still have time to run by the Green Bean and grab a cup of coffee before her ride made it to the front gate.

  The stubby black Mercedes box truck slowed to a creaky stop in front of the water station tent. The driver, a nervous-looking Jordanian man named Hamal reached across the seat to fling open the passenger door. He smiled a forced, half smile.

  “Please to embark to my truck,” he said in halting, book-taught British English. “No delay ...”

  Carrie tossed her small day pack full of PowerBars and water bottles into the front seat and climbed in.

  The overwhelming smell of cardamom and human sweat hit her like a punch in the face. Hamal was evidently chilled by the rains and had the heat turned to full blast. He smiled at her again, patting the chest strap of his seat belt.

  “Please to fasten safety belt,” he said, fluttering dark eyelashes. “American soldiers wish all be ... safety.”

  Carrie snapped the belt at her waist and cracked the window a hair to keep from suffocating.

  “So,” she said. “This Dawud has finally agreed to meet me?” Dawud was a tribal leader in the village of Chibernat, on the outskirts of Baquba proper. According to Hamal, the man was willing to give an interview about how the American presence in this Sunni stronghold was affecting local lives. If it panned out, it would be a tremendous coup and very likely get her promoted to editor.

  Getting out of Camp Warhorse proved a lot easier than getting in. Hamal was a regular as was his Mercedes delivery truck. Though the sentries at the front gate gave her some funny looks at leaving the compound alone with an Arab, no one stopped them. One, a freckle-faced, blond specialist named Brennan, tossed her an infatuated wave from his post at the fifty-caliber machine gun.

  “Please to cover head, young miss,” Hamal said as the Mercedes sloshed away from the bunkered gates of Camp Warhorse and into the mean and muddy streets of Baquba.

  Carrie pulled a navy-blue scarf from her daypack and wrapped it around her head and face. They passed a patrol of “her boys” from the 172nd Strykers. She waved, but didn’t realize until they’d passed that there was no way they could have recognized her behind the scarf.

  Ten minutes out of the camp, Hamal began to tap a weathered hand on the steering wheel. Carrie tried to make small talk but got little more than grunts and single-word answers. The Jordanian had always been the quiet type, but this was way outside the norm. A tiny nagging began to push its way to the surface of Carrie’s gut as Hamal turned west toward the winding Diyala River.

  She decided to bring up the only thing the quiet Jordanian had ever been happy to talk about.

  “I spoke to my editor about your reward,” she said, watching the man for a reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing. He didn’t even look in her direction. Her belly tightened.

  “If this interview with Dawud turns out like I think it will,” she baited, “I’ve been authorized to pay you two times our agreed sum.”

  Hamal nodded slightly. “Very well,” he all but grunted. This from a man who literally had to lick the drool from his lips when money was mentioned. Something was wrong.

  He slowed the truck to make a sharp right onto a deserted stretch of muddy road that reminded Carrie of the scrubby patch of land her grandfather had owned in West Texas. Through the road grime and pelting rain, she could just make out a rough tumble of earth-toned buildings in the distance, half hidden by a lone copse of orange trees. It looked like some sort of dilapidated power plant.

  “I thought we were meeting Dawud at a coffee shop in Chibernat,” she said, trying to keep her voice from sounding as shrill as she felt.

  “We indeed meet Dawud, young miss,” Hamal said, eyes still glued to the road. “Please to refrain from speak now.”

  “Hamal,” Carrie nearly screamed. “I am paying you well. You need to follow our plans or tell me before we leave.”

  Now the Jordanian turned to face her. His lips drew back into a cruel sneer. “Plans?” He shrugged bony shoulders under his white dishdasha. “Plans change, young miss. Now, no more speak to me.” His right hand let go of the wheel long enough to punch her squarely in the jaw. A cascade of lights popped in her brain, first blinding, then falling like spent fireworks into nothing but blackness.

  Navarro’s manicured nails dug into her jeans again. “That son of a bitch hit me in the face,” she said, eyelids closed but
fluttering. “Why can’t I see anything, Doc?”

  “You were unconscious. It’s a time for which you have no memory.” Dr. Soto cleared her throat, as if she’d been crying. “Let’s move forward now. Walk me through what happened when you woke up. Remember, none of what happened was your fault, Carrie. It’s important to know you won.”

  “Won?” Navarro scoffed. “Is that what you’d call being tortured by a sadistic bastard for month after never-ending month?” Her shoulders shook uncontrollably. “I ... I don’t think I can face this today, Doc. I’ve got to stop.”

  “Very well,” Soto said, in her ever-soothing voice. “We’ll continue in a few days ... if you’re ready. I’m going to count backwards from five, then snap my fingers. You’ll remember everything we talked about, but all your anxiety will disappear... .”

  Five seconds later Carrie opened tearful eyes. Her entire body shuddered with pent-up sobs. “I know you’re doing your best, Dr. Soto.” She took a tissue from the coffee table and blew her nose. “But after what that son of a bitch did to me ... no amount of backwards counting or finger snapping is gonna take away the anxiety I got.”

  CHAPTER 16

  2353 hours

  Miami International Airport, Florida

  Mahoney looked skyward, shielding her eyes from the drizzling rain as she watched the flashing strobe lights on the white FedEx 747. It lumbered in from the east and overflew the airport to make a slow, rolling turn over the Everglades and land from the west. Since reporting her conversation with the French Ministry of Health to Admiral Scott, she’d half expected the FedEx plane would be blown out of the sky before it ever made it to land.

  Fourteen heavily armed deputy U.S. marshals, each dressed in orange full-body biosafety suits, stood along the dark ramp. Blue lights glowed in the steamy mist along the hot tarmac. Self-contained breathing units hummed in the drizzle. Mahoney was similarly dressed, albeit without the submachine gun, as was her lab assistant Justin, a twenty-four-year-old doctoral student who made no secret of the fact that he was clearly infatuated with her.