by Rachel Lee
Steadily the road became more crowded. Not crowded as in D.C. or L.A. crowded, but there was an increasing number of vehicles, including some big semis. The one that unnerved Tom the most was a postal service truck, a tandem rig whose last trailer seemed to want to fishtail a lot as it overtook and passed them. “Damn things ought to be illegal,” he muttered.
The bus was still in sight, however, staying below the speed limit as if determined not to draw attention. The other traffic was continually trying to pass, not the safest operation on this road. It was going to be a long day.
“So,” he said, looking at Renate, “tell me more about this organization of yours. Are you after Al Qaeda?”
She shook her head. “Not me personally. We have a group on them. I’m looking for backers. The people who are pulling their strings, and the strings of other groups like them around the world.”
He stared at her, wondering if it would be wise to go down this rabbit hole after her. Paranoia was sometimes justified, but what he was hearing between the lines made him uneasy. Curiosity caused his jaws to flap, anyway.
“Are you suggesting…?” He paused, uncertain how to phrase such a thing.
“Yes,” she answered. “I am. There’s a lot of money in the hands of a very few families. It’s to their advantage to influence world events in ways that make them more money. And there’s a lot of money to be made off war. In your country alone there are PMCs—private military corporations—that have taken over many of the duties of your military.”
“I’ve heard a little about that.”
“But you haven’t heard the extent of it. In theory they provide logistical and support services. In fact they also have private security forces—mercenaries—who can be sent in with the support teams. And sometimes, if your government doesn’t want to take an official stand, these PMCs send in their mercenaries, so the government can deny all knowledge. Your Pentagon even has a catchy acronym for it. Military Operations Other Than War, or MOOT-W. It’s part of a slow but steady push to entirely privatize your military—and your government.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
She shrugged. “That’s fine by me. Believe what you want. I’m simply telling the truth. Not surprisingly, the push for privatization is coming from the contractors themselves, because they stand to make huge profits. But they don’t get paid just for sitting around. If they’re not performing, they can’t bill the government. And considering that some of these corporations derive the majority of their income from PMC contracts—we’re talking tens or even hundreds of billions of dollars—they gain nothing from peace. Nothing at all.”
She turned her head, giving him a steady look from glacial eyes. “Al Qaeda is the least of the world’s problems. They’re funded by the people who stand to gain through their actions. And while they may believe they’re involved in Jihad, the simple fact is they’re pawns on a chessboard bigger than they can imagine, constructed and funded for the simple purpose of stirring up war. It’s no accident that Osama bin Laden comes from one of the wealthiest families in Saudi Arabia, a family that has forty-year-old ties in the Texas business and political community.”
“The road,” he said, pointing forward.
“I see it,” she replied, already slowing to avoid the remains of an overnight avalanche that had left a three-foot drift halfway into their lane. “This reminds me of home.”
“I knew that Osama bin Laden came from a wealthy family,” Tom said. “I didn’t know about their connections in the U.S., though. It wasn’t my area of expertise.”
“Then you probably didn’t know that, when Al Qaeda bombed a U.S. air base in Riyadh, Osama bin Laden’s brother got the contract to rebuild it. Or that, in the days after 9/11, dozens of bin Ladens and other wealthy Saudis were allowed to leave the U.S. on private jets, at a time when other air travel was still grounded. All of this despite the fact that almost all the 9/11 hijackers were Saudi citizens.”
“So you’re saying the Saudis are behind everything?”
“Hardly,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m saying my organization was formed because, unlike your government, we have no ties to these people. Maybe all these facts are innocent. Maybe Osama really is the black sheep of the bin Laden family, and the others are decent, innocent people who shouldn’t be tarred with their brother’s brush. Maybe all of those Saudis who fled your country after 9/11 were in fear for their lives. Anti-Arab violence did rise over the following months, after all. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But when the financial and institutional entanglements are that knotty, do you really think your government is in the best position to spearhead the global war on terrorism?”
“Jesus.” He didn’t like what he was hearing, wanted to reject it all, telling himself it had the seduction of all conspiracy theories. But deep within he knew he was going to have to check out what she was saying, regardless. The intelligence failures before September 11 stood out starkly against the background she was describing.
“Just one more thing,” she said, as she downshifted for a steep grade. “The deeper I’ve investigated the Frankfurt Brotherhood, the more I’ve come to realize that even they aren’t the top of the pyramid. There’s someone behind them, too.”
“Okay,” he said. “That’s enough for now. I’m going to need some proof.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “I want proof, too. That’s why I’m here. In the meantime, we need to take down Wes Dixon and his private army, nail them for the assassination in Guatemala and the shooting of Grant Lawrence.”
Tom fell silent, pondering all she had just told him, wondering how it could be true, and fearing that it was.
Dulles International Airport, Virginia
Miriam came out of the security area and ran into Terry’s arms.
“Oh, God, I’ve missed you,” she said, sinking into his tight embrace, enjoying his strong arms around her body. It had been way too long since she’d felt this. For an endless moment, neither of them spoke. Finally she stretched up and kissed him. “Now I’m home.”
“For a little while,” Terry said, angling his chin over his shoulder toward Kevin Willis. “Why do I think you won’t be staying long?”
She averted her eyes. “Honey…”
He nodded. “I know. You have to.”
They broke the embrace, and she shook Kevin’s extended hand. “Kevin.”
“Miriam.”
She’d called Kevin from Guatemala, then Terry. Terry had filled her in on a lot of the details that Kevin had left out in their brief conversation. Terry had also shared many of his suspicions. Now she regarded her boss with colder eyes than she would have liked, despite their long friendship.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I screwed up. I shouldn’t have put Tom back on suspension. I knew he’d…”
She nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”
They piled her suitcase alongside Terry’s in the trunk of Kevin’s car. She considered joining Terry in the back seat, if for no other reason than to enjoy the comfort of holding his hand. But she wanted to be able to see Kevin’s face as he talked.
“I think an old friend of mine is involved in this,” he said, as they made their way onto I-66 and east toward the city. “Wes Dixon and I went to West Point together. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“I didn’t,” she said. “It wasn’t in the file. And it should have been.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “We served in the first Gulf War together, though in different units. I saw him maybe twice the entire time I was there. And only once or twice since, years ago. But he introduced me to Ed Morgan, and Morgan’s been a good source on some money laundering cases. He seemed like an upstanding guy. Old money, but he didn’t act like it. So when you came to me with the file about Dixon’s militia group, I was shocked. Wes didn’t seem like the type to go rogue. I thought it was absurd. I called Ed Morgan and asked him about it. He said that yeah, Wes had some group of guys out there who liked to
run around in the woods and play soldier. Ed called it a paintball game with ranks, a bunch of paunchy, middle-aged guys who wanted a military experience without any risk. And that pretty much lined up with what we had in Dixon’s file.”
“And that’s when you pulled Tom and me off the case,” she said.
He nodded. “I was wrong.”
“What if I told you that the man who killed Ambassador Kilhenny was trained at Wes Dixon’s ranch?” Miriam asked.
Kevin’s face froze. “You have a source for this?”
“The horse’s mouth,” she said. “The shooter’s name was Miguel Ortiz. I met him.”
She described what had happened after the raid in Dos Ojos. She kept Steve Lorenzo’s name out of it, not wanting to disclose what seemed like paranoid conspiracy theories. When she got to the firefight in the jungle, she tried to keep her voice even, but Terry’s steadying hand on her shoulder let her know that she hadn’t.
“Damn,” Kevin said. “What a mess.”
“It’s a lousy way to live,” Miriam said. “And a worse reason to die. And apparently your friends are in this up to their old-moneyed necks.”
“So it would seem,” Kevin said. “But suspecting it and proving it are very different things. It’s going to be tough to follow the money trail on a man who’s spent his life in international banking. Hell, I needed his help to do it against people with less expertise than he had.”
“Fringes,” Terry said from the back seat.
“Excuse me?” Kevin asked.
“Pick at the fringes. Sooner or later, the shroud always unravels.”
“Idaho,” Miriam said. “That’s where the trail is.”
Kevin shook his head. “Dixon’s flown the coop. He’s supposedly on vacation in the Mediterranean. The ranch is shut down.”
“They must have left evidence behind,” she said. “With what Miguel Ortiz told me, we can get a warrant and turn the place inside out. We’ll find something. Nobody is that good.”
“Maybe so,” Kevin said. “But what then? Dixon will fight extradition, if we even find him. Morgan has ties all over the world. Dixon can disappear into that network, and it’ll be years before we track him down. If ever.”
“You sound like you’ve given up,” Terry said, disgust thick in his voice.
“Not at all,” Kevin said. “I just want us to know what we’re looking at. This won’t be easy.”
Miriam’s face hardened. “They killed Tom Lawton. I don’t give a damn how hard it is.”
“Neither do I,” Terry added.
“Whoa,” Kevin said. “This is an FBI case, Terry.”
“Bullshit,” Terry replied. “Grant Lawrence, my partner’s lover and a man who tried to stand up to these people, is lying in a hospital bed with a machine helping him breathe. Miriam’s friend, a man who was staying in our home, is dead. If you think I’m not in on this, you’re dumber than I think you are.”
“Terry—” Miriam began.
“Don’t even start with that tone of voice,” he said. “I’m in. Period.”
“From what Miriam tells me, you’re good,” Kevin said. “You’d better be.”
“Yeah,” Terry said, pulling out his cell phone. “Likewise. So where do we start? Idaho? The warrant?”
“We start at home,” Miriam said. “I need a shower and a meal. Then Idaho.”
“That works,” Terry said, dialing the phone. “Hi, Grace. How are ya? Great. Listen, the reason I’m calling, I need you to hook me up for three tickets from Dulles to Boise. First available. Tonight, if possible. Call me with the confirmation? Thanks, Grace.”
“Does he always work this fast?” Kevin asked, a faint smile on his face.
Miriam turned and winked at Terry. “Almost always.”
25
Missoula, Montana
The descent into the valley had been hair-raising. The weather had turned ugly, a late-spring snow coupled with ever-building winds over the mountains to create a driving nightmare. Renate had handled it as skillfully as Tom had ever seen it done, but he still felt a welcome sense of relief as they pulled into the parking lot of a small, rustic motel.
“That was…hairy,” he said.
“Excuse me? Hairy?”
“Aah,” he said, smiling at her querulous look. “Your English is so flawless, I forget that you aren’t a native speaker. It’s a colloquialism. Frightening.”
“Well, yes,” she said. “It was hairy.”
They checked in and carried their bags through deepening snow to their room.
“This is like Lincoln’s house,” Renate said, looking at the log construction. “We learn about Abraham Lincoln even in German schools.”
“Color me impressed,” Tom said, dusting the snow from his jacket and hanging it in the closet. “You probably know a lot more American history than I do German history.”
“Probably so,” she said. “Americans tend to look in the mirror a lot.”
“We’re not all bad,” Tom said, beginning to resent her repeated comments about his homeland. “We did, after all, rebuild your country after you destroyed Europe.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking away. “You have to understand that, outside your borders, you are often seen as, well, an arrogant bully. And I know you aren’t like that, and your country has done many wonderful things in the world. I sometimes—”
He held up a hand. “No worries. Just don’t keep beating me up over it. I’m not always proud of America, but it’s still my home. It always will be. Like Germany will always be your home.”
She sat on the bed, shrugging out of her coat and the sweater she’d worn beneath it. “I guess. I haven’t been there in two years.”
“That must be hard.”
“I deal with it,” she replied. “Driving through the mountains today, with the snow and the trees, well, I felt homesick.”
“Your parents don’t even know you’re alive?” he asked.
Her face was impassive. “Office 119 policy forbids contact with family or past acquaintances. For our safety and theirs.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he said.
“I know it isn’t.” She paused and took a breath, then rose and began searching through her backpack for a change of clothes. Finally she stopped and looked at him. “Yes, Law. They know I’m alive. I fought. I argued. I should have listened to my boss, because, believe it or not, it’s worse that they know I’m alive. When I knew they thought I was dead, at least it was final. There was no hope of ever seeing them again, for me or for them. Now…”
“Now you sometimes wish you could pick up the phone and call home,” Tom said.
“Yes. And I know they wish I would. And that hurts even worse. I know they worry. And if I die, they will never know where or when or what happened.”
“Ouch,” Tom said.
“Please, let’s change the subject?” she asked.
“Good idea.” He unpacked his shaving gear and headed for the bathroom. As the frigid water from the faucet warmed, he called out to her. “I think Dixon and his band are holed up for the night in that campground we passed a few miles back. I can’t see them driving any farther in this mess.”
“I agree,” she said. “Dixon’s too careful a planner to head out in this weather. If anything goes wrong, he can’t call for help.”
The water was now steaming, and Tom soaked a washcloth and held it to his face. Then he smeared shaving cream over the moistened skin and began working the razor in slow, even motions. The repetitive, mindless task relaxed him, as it always had. With that relaxation came the accumulated fatigue of two days on the run with too little rest and too much stress. By the time he finished, his body felt leaden.
He emerged to find her already working on her computer. “How do you do it?”
“What?” she asked.
“I’m ready to fall into bed and sleep through the night. And you’re hard at work.”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t in a car accident a few
days ago. Besides, needs must, as the English say.”
“American translation, you do what you have to do?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to check in with my superiors and find out what, if anything, they have learned about Wes Dixon’s contacts in Canada. He must have some. If we can find out where he’s going, we can look for a good intercept point.”
Tom nodded, stretching out on the bed and watching the back of her head. She’d let down her hair, and it seemed to flow in a golden river. Whatever he’d thought of her at first, she wasn’t the human iceberg he had believed. He found himself trying to imagine her life and how she must feel about it. What came to mind was emptiness. She had surrendered everything to devote herself to a mission.
He’d done much the same thing in working undercover. He’d given up the few friends he’d had, living in a shadow world where every thought, every feeling, was a lie. In the end, he’d fallen so deeply into the shadows that returning to the real world had left him wondering who he really was. For the first week he’d stayed at Miriam’s, he’d reached for his gun every time the doorbell rang.
That was the life Renate was asking him to return to, and this time it would be permanent. It wasn’t hard to see how she had come to be so detached. Detachment was the only way to get through each day. Needs must. It was a mantra she lived by. The mantra she was asking him to live by.
“Scheiße,” she said, snapping him out of his reverie.
“What?”
She turned in her chair and looked at him. “Have you contacted anyone at the FBI?”
“No, why?”
“Kevin Willis, Miriam Anson and Terry Tyson boarded a flight for Boise an hour ago.”
“They don’t think my death was an accident,” Tom said. “If my brake line was cut, they’ll have found out.”
“Why not turn it over to the Boise field office?”
“Miriam was my friend. This is personal.”
“But Kevin Willis is Wes Dixon’s friend,” Renate said. “That’s why I’ve had him under surveillance.”