The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller

by Whitley Strieber

  As a boy, he’d loved the sky. He’d spent time at the McDonald Observatory in Fort Davis with Abby and his old gang from Menard, looking up in wonder. When would it seem wonderful again? Ever?

  Four A.M. came and went. Ramshackle trucks kept appearing on the road, and there were soon enough of them to slow progress. But there was no police presence, not a single official vehicle, checkpoint, anything like that. Also, not a further word had been said.

  Ghorbani, as a consummate professional, knew that Flynn would be most off his guard if he started the conversation himself. “What’s the plan?” Flynn finally asked.

  “The plan is that we get to the sub, I get taken back to Qatar and reassigned. What happens to you, I don’t know.”

  “No cops on this road.”

  “Once you leave the big cities, resistance to the regime fades. Thus no reason to police the area. This is ayatollah country, not like Tehran. They hate the regime with a passion up there.”

  “You’re a good torturer.”

  “Learned my trade in Belfast, boyo. You’re the toughest bloke I ever did, I’ll tell you that. Damned eerie. Could’ve sold me on the idea you’re a robot, tell the truth.”

  He thought about that, all that it might mean—all kinds of impossible, unbelievable things. He was human, had grown up human. There were no implants in his body. But he was no longer a normal man—that he could not deny. He turned in his seat, faced Ghorbani. “I sure as hell felt it.”

  Ghorbani was unbothered. “They have no rules in this country. No limits. And to think that they want the bomb.”

  “They gonna get it?”

  “Not for me to say. I just follow orders and hope what I do matters.”

  Ghorbani abruptly turned onto a desert track. A moment later there was a burst of sound on the car radio, not quite static, but in that direction. “A signal from above. The good old U.S. of A. has eyes on us.”

  “What’s our threat level?”

  “Hard to say. None to total. Depends on how long it takes the Guard to figure this little escapade out.”

  “What was your position in the Guard?”

  “Me? Sub-assistant flaymaster. Electrocutionist.”

  “You did that for them?”

  “I did it for the West, my boy. For information. Knowledge. Guys in my line are respected in Iran. Trusted. Trusted with secrets. It’ll probably take London a year to completely debrief me. I’ve been on station for four years. I know a lot.”

  Another major slip. A sophisticated Western intelligence operation would be debriefing an operative like him as often as it could.

  “Aeon?” Flynn asked.

  “They talk about it like it was a country. Russia. China. Aeon. What do you know?”

  “That any country who makes an alliance with it is going to get damn well raped.”

  “Oh?”

  “A deal with the devil. You can’t win.”

  “Personal experience? The U.S. made an alliance with this entity? Is it another planet? What are you saying?”

  He was so very good, it was too bad he worked for the other side. This man could think, and think well. He was playing his cards like a true master.

  Flynn replied, “It’s out for itself, Aeon. It’s a taker, not a giver.”

  “Can you expand on that?”

  “Just that it’s very dangerous, whatever it is, and that we do not know.”

  “But a good ally, yes?”

  A very revealing question. It meant that they were having trouble dealing with Aeon just like we’d had. They were looking for pointers; that was why he had been lured here. The alliance was established, though. He knew this because they had a Wire. It was where they had gotten their instructions about how to handle him.

  The track petered out. A short time later, Ghorbani brought the car to a stop. “Far as she goes,” he said. “There’s coastal radars the other side of that ridge. They aren’t gonna track on two guys, but they might see a car.”

  “Shore patrols?”

  “Now and again. Down here, though, there’s not a lot going on. They won’t have detected the sub. FYI, we’re about twelve klicks south of Bushehr. Qatar’s a couple hundred klicks across the gulf.”

  They left the car and climbed the rise to see spreading before them, like a great shadow in the land, the Persian Gulf. It was still enveloped in the night. Here and there on its vast waters a fisherman’s lamp shone, reflecting a fragment of gold on the glassy surface.

  Flynn stopped.

  “Hello?”

  “We’re under observation. Glint of light on a binocular a klick up the ridge.” The gun appeared in his hand and Ghorbani blinked, then stared at it.

  “How did you do that?”

  “The binocular is still on us, moving slowly. Somebody on foot.”

  “I can’t see a thing.”

  “You’re lying,” Flynn thought. “They’re your people. They’re here to pull me back.” He said aloud, “It’s two guys. One of them has a rifle ported.”

  “How can you think about a pistol shot at all? That thing won’t be accurate past fifty feet, if that.”

  “Two hundred feet.”

  “Where in hell did you train, because I want on that program.”

  Flynn didn’t even try to answer.

  “Classified, eh? Not surprised.”

  “I’m human, that’s for damn sure. You really beat me up and I really feel it. A lot.” Flynn looked out across the water, which was gaining definition as dawn spread. The tide was out, leaving about a quarter-mile expanse of flats exposed.

  “Do you clam?” Ghorbani asked.

  “Clam?”

  “Tide’s out. We’re going clamming. Throw the spotters a bit of a curve. If that’s what they are.”

  They rolled up their pants, left their shoes on the shore, and went out onto the flats. “Got any idea how to do this?” Flynn asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No clamming in West Texas.”

  Just then, another figure appeared on the flats, about a quarter mile to the north. It was a woman shrouded in black and carrying a basket. She began to clam.

  It went on like that, with more women coming onto the flats.

  The two shore patrols came along the ridge, still watching them with the binoculars.

  “How long does the sub wait?” Flynn asked.

  “Remember, the U.S. has eyes on us. The sub will wait until and if Langley is certain that we can’t make it. So we hang out here until nightfall.”

  “Do we have that long? Shouldn’t we swim for it?”

  “Swim? It’s a good two miles.”

  Flynn could handle that. “Do it slow. If you give out, I’ll take you on my back.”

  “We’d never make it. Anyway, there are sharks. Lots of sharks.”

  Clearly, Ghorbani did not want him to enter that water. This meant only one thing: Escape in that direction—the real thing—was possible.

  “I think we should swim.”

  “The shore patrol’s gone. Let’s find someplace to lie low.”

  “It’s not gone. They’re behind the ridge, popping up from time to time to have a looksee.”

  “Bollocks!”

  “You’re a native speaker—maybe you should approach them.”

  “And say we’re down from the north clamming with the women? I doubt that’ll work.”

  “They take bribes, I presume.”

  “Possibly, though down here they might be too loyal.”

  “Soon as they realize you’re Revolutionary Guard and you’ve got an open wallet, they’ll carry out your orders.”

  “You stay well hidden.”

  “You got that right.”

  “How could you ever come in here without even any Farsi?”

  “Swiss arms dealers don’t speak the local lingo.”

  The tide was coming in, so they headed back from the clamming flats to the beach. Flynn took the bag, sat down in the shadow of a dune, and began taki
ng clams out, examining them, and returning them to the bag, pretending he knew what he was doing. Meanwhile, Ghorbani went across the dunes, then up along the ridge.

  Flynn waited, listening to every sound he could detect over the hiss of the low surf. Each moment that passed, he was feeling less secure. There was something he wasn’t seeing, he was certain of it. But what?

  The crack of a shot echoed among the dunes, and Flynn instantly knew what the plan was. They would recapture him, and he’d end up in a cell with his so-called fellow Western agent Ghorbani. As they took their turns in the torture chamber, the real interrogation would be going on in the cell, as Flynn opened up to his fellow sufferer.

  Even as these thoughts were passing through his mind, Flynn was running for the surf, keeping low, dodging from side to side. Shots followed him, smacking into the water like slaps. He strained for deeper water, but it took a while. The tidal flat continued out for a long distance.

  A shot passed his head so close the slipstream of the bullet caused an involuntary jerk away. Finally he was wading. He threw himself into the water, swimming through the light surf as bullets whined past. Fire seared his left leg, causing him to cry out, his voice gargling as he swallowed water. As he choked up the salt water, still swimming, he tested the leg. Still working, meaning that it was a flesh wound.

  Lethal in this water, though, as soon as the sharks got the scent. He swam on, seeing the lighter green below him give way to deep, infinite blue. He’d passed off the edge of the shelf. He dove. As far as the shooter was concerned, he had disappeared. If he was lucky, they’d see the blood and decide that they had accomplished their mission.

  He swam fast, due south, getting out of the line of fire. When he had to surface, he turned on his back, bent his neck, and lifted only his face into the air. He inhaled a series of deep, oxygenating breaths, then let himself sink again, being sure not to create the least ripple on the surface.

  When he was back under the water, he heard the deep thrumming of a big diesel, then another, and farther away a third.

  Three patrol boats were on their way. From the sound of the engines, about two miles out.

  He dove again and swam harder. He had no means of navigation and no idea of the coordinates he was looking for, as if he could even estimate coordinates.

  The intensity of the sunlight could blind him if he wasn’t careful. This close to the water’s surface, the effect was the same as the glare of arctic snow. He swam on for half an hour, stroking now more easily and smoothly, conserving energy, always making sure that the coast was behind him.

  So far, no sharks. The bleeding slowed and he was hopeful that the wound was only torn muscle that would soon swell closed in the salt water. Blood in the water didn’t inevitably trigger a shark to attack: It depended on how hungry it was. But if there were several in the area, more than one or two, any attack would undoubtedly become a feeding frenzy, and he would be done.

  As he swam, he continued listening to the engine notes, which faded, then grew more distinct, then faded again. They were operating a grid search a few kilometers north of his position, working their way in this direction. He was a small target in big water.

  The shark appeared without warning, racing up at him in full attack mode. Instantly, he ceased all movement. The shark’s mouth was closed, so it was still scouting him. Opening his eyes in the warm salt water stung, but when he did, he could see more of the sleek, speeding shapes below him.

  It came in again, sweeping past him quickly. As it turned and came back, he delivered a quick jab with his closed fingers to its eye. The soft, cool tissue gave a bit. He pulled at it and the shark reacted by swimming away fast.

  This interested others, which began rising. But he’d stopped bleeding, so he had a chance, although a slim one. He’d been lucky to get an eye, the shark’s most sensitive point. If the others came in, one of them was going to take a piece out of him. Then the feeding frenzy.

  He hung in the water in absolute stillness. The sound of the patrol’s engines was loud now. The southernmost limit of their grid was probably no more than five hundred meters away. If they saw shark fins, they would locate him at once. So which would he prefer, getting flayed alive by torturers or eaten by sharks?

  Duty answered the question clearly. Torture would lead to him revealing vital secrets. He would have to choose the sharks.

  Above all this, though, was an overriding and overwhelmingly urgent need to get back, or at least get his message to Diana: Aeon had changed sides and was in the process of forming an alliance with Iran.

  One of the patrol boats came roaring straight toward him. Still, he remained motionless. It bore down on him, its engines thundering like some kind of wild enormous heart. The wake shoved him like a remorseless great hand, tumbling him over and over. He bounced hard against the screw cage and counted himself fortunate that the hull had one. Otherwise, he would have been cut, probably dismembered, and the sharks would have eaten the scraps.

  The force of the screw’s thrust propelled him a long distance, taking him far from where he’d been leaving blood in the water. So at least he was free of the sharks for a few minutes.

  The searching patrol boats moved south, and did not return. He remained absolutely still. No sharks appeared.

  Warm though the water was, it was still well below body temperature, and he assumed the “Help” posture, crossing his arms over his chest to retain as much heat as he could. As the sun crossed the sky and began to drop in the west, he considered the idea of returning to shore for the night. The surface water would cool down in the dark, and he could already feel the thick weight of the fatigue that came from exposure.

  He was trying to estimate how far out he might be by now, and whether or not he could manage the swim back, when he felt himself being lifted by deep pressure. He thrust his face under and saw perhaps thirty meters below him a vast, gray shape moving at a slow, searching pace.

  No question: It was a submarine. But how to attract its attention? He couldn’t catch up with it and he couldn’t swim down ninety feet to rap on the hull.

  Then it was gone. He fought down the disappointment that came from knowing that he had lost his main chance.

  As the sun set, he found himself alone in a vast circle of water. Maybe he was three miles out by now. He could not survive for long, but he also couldn’t swim back into the hands of Ghorbani and his kind. His choices were to die here or to die in Tehran.

  But he’d already made the decision. He stopped swimming, stopped treading water. He floated, his eyes lifted toward the evening sky, the gulls shining white in the last light, above them the first stars.

  Here, now—this would be his grave.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  UNSEEN CREATURES broached and sighed in the dark—whales, he assumed, maybe dolphins. The stars danced in the water. For hours, he’d been floating, raising his head to breathe, then floating again, staying in the “Help” posture, conserving all the energy he could.

  It was well after midnight when a searchlight swept the water about three hundred yards out. Was it the sub? An Iranian patrol vessel? He waited, then saw the light point downward into the water.

  It was a fishing boat. They were trying to attract a catch.

  He swam toward it. As he drew near, he could hear voices and smell raw fish and cigarette smoke. Diesel fuel. It wasn’t much of a vessel, an ancient dhow fitted with an outboard motor to move it when there wasn’t any wind.

  When he reached the side, he found himself looking up into a great, painted eye, an ancient symbol in these waters. Egyptian sailors would paint them on their ships to guide them through night and storm. The water around him was now a hazy green, the light a white column that played out in the dark below. The bright shaft of it was rapidly filling with speeding, darting squid.

  Feeling his way along, he came to some netting and lifted himself just far enough to see four men. They sat around a gasoline lantern, its hissing a counterpoint to the
ir low voices. What were they speaking, Farsi or Arabic? He was unsure.

  Then he saw, lying against the mast, the dark but unmistakable form of an AK-47. Were they pirates, then? No, not in these waters. Pirates needed a wider and more anonymous expanse, like the Indian Ocean. The weapon revealed nothing. Anybody out here at night, no matter their purpose, would be carrying some kind of a gun, and you could buy an AK in any bazaar in the Middle East.

  One of them, his face invisible in the deep shadows that surrounded the dhow, stood up and came peering over the side. He leaned far out, looking down at the squid.

  Flynn moved around to the far side of the boat and waited. After another few minutes, they ran their net out and dropped it. As it sank into the mass of squid, one of them did what Flynn had been waiting for and began pulling the starter cord on the old engine to bring the net back up.

  They were all on the opposite side now, and the clatter of the engine nicely masked whatever small sounds Flynn made as he lifted himself into the boat. At once he went to the mast and secured the AK. He thumbed the safety back. He could kill these men in an instant, take their boat, and sail it southwest until he reached Qatar. He could, but he wouldn’t. His killer instinct did not extend to the innocent.

  The ancient engine clattered and spit oil as they drew their net in. It was a fine catch, the net packed with frantic, squirming squid. The fishermen’s voices rose with excitement as they guided the net across the deck and dumped the squid into the hold.

  It was then, while they were opening the net, that the first of them saw him. He was standing by the mast waiting quietly, prepared for anything, especially for any hand movements on the part of the one carrying the pistol under his soiled old dishdasha.

  One by one, they turned toward him. The squid continued sloshing down into the hold, where they kept up a frenetic splashing. Flynn took a step forward, reached down, and cut off the little engine. The net swung free, but the fishermen ducked rather than move to stop it. Slowly, then more quickly, it came back and then hung still.