Carthwright finally spoke. "I want you to know, Mr. Kertzman, that this operation has been approved at the highest level." He allowed the thought to settle into Kertzman. "It is very serious."
Kertzman released a dismal sigh, felt things spiraling away from him.
Admiral Talbot handed him a file.
"This is one of the primary suspects in this rogue operation," said the Admiral.
Kertzman looked at the thin file and felt something strange, something he couldn't identify. He hesitated as long as he could justify before opening the folder.
An eight-by-ten glossy photograph of a man, a soldier apparently in his late twenties, greeted him. Kertzman's eyes narrowed as he studied the photo.
It was a stern face, apparently taken at some point of intensive military training, possibly in the desert. Sand and blackened grime caked the man's face and neck above the filthy, brown desert fatigues. Curious, Kertzman focused on the face, noted the few thin scars, the deep tan, and he perceived a weathered toughness of the skin that made the man seem older than his years. He looked closer and saw that the man's eyes were coldly focused, sharp, and disciplined.
Strangely, Kertzman was reminded of three army specialists he had seen in 1967 when he was stationed in Saigon. It was some mysterious kind of reconnaissance group that had come out of the bush after three months of in-country fighting. He remembered how they had walked past him and how one had mechanically turned his head, meeting Kertzman's astonished gaze.
Kertzman had never forgotten what he had felt in that moment, never thought he would feel it again; it was the chilling gaze of Death walking. Hungry. Prepared. Still in the jungle on city streets.
"And why is he a primary suspect?" Kertzman rumbled. "What makes you think this guy is in on any of this?"
Admiral Talbot didn't falter. "Upon your hypothesis during the committee hearing, and after Mr. Radford's subsequent report, the NSA initiated a file search of personnel who met a criteria of cross-training in special warfare." He gestured to the file Kertzman held. "This man, Staff Sergeant Jonathan Michael Gage, formerly of the United States Army, is one of our most, ah, highly skilled operatives in that regard. He was a former member of Delta Force, has all of the elite commando training. After being discharged from Delta he became part of a subunit out of Central Intelligence Covert Operations where he acquired even more specialized training in counterinsurgency, particularly in the area of preemptive sanctions against terrorists. Most importantly, he is suspected of treason."
Kertzman raised eyes at that.
"Gage vanished in August of 1990," added the Admiral in a serious tone. "Vanished under peculiar circumstances and without a trace during a regrettable and highly classified CIA covert operation in the Negeb Desert. Israel. The bodies of ten other team members who were with him were ultimately recovered and identified. But Gage's body was never found. It is suspected, but not confirmed, that he betrayed his country and possibly even set up his own team to die. We have received scattered but unconfirmed reports over the last three years that he may still be active in the intelligence community. So, we do have sufficient cause to suspect that he may be alive and may also be working somehow with other members of our military to influence the high ground of this government."
The Admiral seemed impressed by his own speech.
Kertzman was impassive. Figuring it for himself.
"Mr. Carthwright," the Admiral continued, "is special assistant to the NSA's Director of Operations. However, because he is an ex-Justice Department prosecutor he is temporarily on leave from the Agency and has reassumed his authority to oversee an investigation on American soil, in accordance with standard legal procedure and policy." He hesitated, searching. "Now, if this man, Jonathan Gage, and his cohorts are found, the Attorney General will issue federal warrants of arrest. Indictments will be sought, court martials performed with strictest adherence to policy against all enlisted personnel. But since Gage is now a civilian we will prosecute him on a civilian level. Then we will institute full procedures for rectifying any misconduct or misuse of military personnel or equipment as well as compensation to victims as it is allowed by civil law."
Kertzman tried to reason the situation through more completely. "And why is Gage, if it is Gage, doin' all this?" he asked abruptly. "What are these people workin' to get?"
Talbot shook his head. "We do not know. That is one cause for the investigation."
Kertzman pondered that.
"To summarize, Nathaniel," the Admiral continued, "we want you to discover if this man is somehow involved in this plot. And if he is, we want you to apprehend him. Bring him to justice. Bring an ending to this network of traitors."
He ominously accented "traitors," and Kertzman was suddenly aware of what it was like to command true power. He felt strangely uncomfortable, out of place.
"Why me?" he asked, acutely searching the lean face, glancing towards Carthwright. "There are probably a lot of men who are more qualified. And certainly easier to work with." He waited on that, then, "I don't see why you would pick my name out of the hat."
Talbot almost laughed, then leaned forward, clasping his hands, as if he were momentarily impressed with his own thoughts before focusing on Kertzman again. "Because I've watched you and studied you. You are the most hated and feared man in the Pentagon. Your name can darken any room in this building, which is the largest building in the world. Few men can enjoy such a boast. There are others, yes, but not many who are as determined, or as obstinate. You're only fifty-four. That's old enough to know how to do this discreetly, but not so old that it's too tough an assignment physically. You're only four years out of the Bureau, so you can resume your FBI authority without having to go back through Quantico for federal recertification. You're smarter than the rest, and you possess something that very few of the other investigators have."
Kertzman couldn't help himself. "And what's that?"
"You're a natural hunter, Nathaniel! You've had combat experience in Asia. Then you spent years as a police officer and twenty years with the FBI before you finally came to the Pentagon. You know how to deal with men like this. You know how to find clues, investigate, track ghosts in a fog." The Admiral waited for the soft sell to sink in. "And your integrity is completely unquestioned. There will always be disputing interests, but for the most part your reports are unchallenged for their honesty, accuracy, and investigative thoroughness. Believe me, my friend, you're the best man for the job."
Carthwright spoke up again: "And we know that you can get the job done, Mr. Kertzman."
Kertzman turned, purposely slow, to gaze into the confident face.
"How do you know that?"
"Because you'll have a trump card up your sleeve."
Kertzman blinked at the allusion of speech. It seemed slightly incongruous coming from someone so stately as Carthwright. Kertzman wondered if Carthwright was attempting to un-refine his language in order to meet what he presumed would register most effectively in Kertzman's un-refined intellect. The thought annoyed Kertzman, but his face revealed nothing as he stared at the NSA man.
Carthwright calmly clasped his hands together.
"You will be working with a man who trained Gage. A man who knew him in Central Intelligence. His name is Robert Milburn, and he's been through every course, every school that Gage ever graduated from. He knows the specifics of every battle Gage ever fought. With any luck, Milburn might even be able to second-guess him. And Radford will also be working with you. He can get you anything you need. With Milburn and Radford working under you, you should have a good chance of success."
Kertzman grunted, noncommitant.
"Gage must be stopped, Mr. Kertzman," Carthwright continued. "That is absolutely essential. But, of course, you must stay within the law. According to domestic policy you yourself are not authorized to initiate any tactical situations. If you see a combat situation developing, you'll be required to notify appropriate special agencies. You know the procedure
. But," he raised his hands vaguely with the words, "whatever occurs, we trust that you will handle the situation discreetly. You have our full support. This entire meeting has been taped and documented. You can call the Office of Security to confirm. We are not trying to pull something over on you, Mr. Kertzman. This is a legitimate investigation, and we would like for you to do the fieldwork. Find this rogue operative, bring him to justice so that he can be prosecuted."
Kertzman studied Carthwright's even gaze, saw the petition to join in the crusade. He searched the face, but there was nothing else to find. "Who's the top man in this?"
"Me," Carthwright answered. "There is no other chain of command, above or below. If necessary, you'll use the Digital Information Relay Center in the basement for communications. Then, neither the CIA, the NSA, or the FBI can monitor your messages. Everything is arranged to maintain strictest secrecy." He seemed to ponder the thought. "Needless to say, it is absolutely essential that we keep all American intelligence networks out of this investigation."
Kertzman waited, vaguely annoyed. Then he turned toward the window, staring into the grayness with a concentrated intensity.
Outside, a gathering wind tore dead leaves from trees, and his thoughts were just as cold, chaotic, and he felt a disturbing sensation. It was as if a faint track, obvious and revealing, were missing; some half-glimpsed trace in the dust that he couldn't quite read. Kertzman concentrated, trying to find, to discern, the faint sign. He knew it was there, felt it was there, but couldn't see it.
Everything was verifiable.
Call the Office of Security. Confirm it.
But there was something else. He could sense it, smell it. Hiding in plain sight. The thought was maddening.
Beyond the glass a silent wind bent the trees, sending leaves into clouds and a darkening sky. Kertzman watched, distantly thoughtful.
A storm was coming.
Kertzman saw the thunderclouds in the grayness, a cold winter long overdue. And it came to him, a bad feeling, a real bad feeling. He hesitated, remembering that he was six months out. And he knew he could walk away from it, let them hunt it down themselves with lawyers and depositions and computers, leaving him to walk into an easy retirement.
Or he could walk into it, hunt a cold trail.
A man's got to live with himself.
Kertzman felt a new awareness when he spoke. The Admiral seemed a much less imposing figure when he looked at him again.
"Alright, Admiral Talbot," he said quietly. "I'll try and find out what's going on. But I want full documentation on everything I do. 'Cause if I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right. I'll follow this thing wherever it leads, no matter where it leads. Right up to the Pentagon, if I have to. Right up to the Joint Chiefs." He nodded curtly. "Right up to you."
Admiral Talbot's lean hand settled on Kertzman's shoulder.
"I knew we could count on you, Nathaniel."
*
TWELVE
Testing the pain that lanced his forearm where he'd been shot, Gage clenched his fist, found strength. After two weeks, the pain was finally fading, the wound almost healed.
Good enough.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cedar, where he rested in the glowing, early morning. He felt the cool breeze, appreciating the solitude. A thought rose up, but he turned his mind from it. Because he knew he couldn't stay.
Not now.
Simon was dead, and he was thrown back, hard, into his old world. And he sensed that it would get a lot worse before it ended. Tired, he released a focused breath and bowed his head, trying to find balance. He had never wanted to return to that life.
Not ever.
He scowled and felt the substance of what he was, now. Felt it, solid and filling. It was strength to him. He wondered if he would be able to keep it.
Soft sounds.
Gage half-turned his head, listened without opening his eyes. Caught the faint scent in the breeze.
Sarah.
He knew she was there, followed her quiet footsteps but waited to open his eyes. When he finally looked up she was beside him. Graceful and easy and natural in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and brown boots with her hair dark and thick, framing her oval face. But it was the smile, always the smile that reached him first; comfortable and understanding.
"You want to be alone?" she asked quietly.
He knew that if he said yes, the smile wouldn't fade. She didn't play games, understood so much that he could not tell her.
"No."
"Good," she said and settled onto the grass beside him. And didn't say anything more.
It was one of the things he enjoyed most about Sarah. She didn't have to say anything, be anything. She could always find the right place, an almost ethereal balance between words and silence. He had come to regard her calm composure with profound respect.
A wintry sun rose slowly, casting a brighter glare over the once-golden glade. Gage felt the wind increase in strength and by reflex his mind switched to an analysis of sniper fire, to angles and elevation, power and bullet weight and maximum impact and a thousand thoughts that shattered peace of mind. Before he could stop himself he had shook his head, muttering something indiscernible, trying to remain in the moment.
Sarah turned her head at the sound, her narrow and careful green eyes regarding him with a measured look. But she said nothing, and after a moment resumed watching the wind gently tugging leaves.
"It's a nice place to stay, don't you think?" she said.
"Yeah," Gage answered. "A nice place."
"It reminds me of a place I grew up in, way out in the Northwest," she added carefully. "We had a little glade, or clearing, like this. I liked it."
Gage listened, smiling faintly, watching her eyes as she talked. They were the only eyes he had never tried to read anything behind.
"Father was back teaching again in Seattle," she continued. "I was in my third year of critical care nursing, but I'd decided to drop out. It wasn't how I wanted to spend my life. So I had a lot of free time. I'd go into this field every day, take some books, study. I enjoyed reading outside. It always seemed more ... alive to me. Sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I miss a lot of things that were simple." She paused. "Is this where you came after you healed up in New York? After we smuggled you into the country from Israel?"
Gage caught the slight hesitation in her voice at the final question, and he had already nodded, more than willing to answer, grateful she had asked.
"Yes. I set this place up a long time ago as a safe house, just in case I ever needed it. Turns out I did. In the end it was the only place that was truly safe for me or anyone else. That's why I came back."
She nodded slightly and turned away, gazing at the two heavily wooded slopes that flanked the cabin. The enclosing hillsides were high, steep and overgrown with thick brush and an almost impenetrable stand of trees that made the forest seem dark even in the day. Only the cabin was clearly visible, standing alone in the small clearing that was utterly barren of thorns and brush, resting solidly between the slopes. It was a strangely level arena of shattered stone, crushed into the mountain long ago with glacial strength and which now claimed its own measure of peaceful sovereignty from a brutal and surrounding world.
"This place really is beautiful, in a way," she said. "It's hard, and it's cold, sometimes." She looked at him. "But it's peaceful. And honest."
"Yes," he nodded, holding her gaze. "It is."
A brighter smile, and she said, "And what do you do now? With your time, I mean. Do you just hang around here?"
He shrugged. "Yeah. Pretty much. I stay here. I built the cabin myself. Took me about a year. Lived in a tent while I worked. But there's still some finishing work that needs to be done. I've kind of gotten out of it lately, though. Haven't driven a nail in a while. Nowadays I read a lot, I go into town for supplies." He laughed. "I know it sounds boring but it's a good life. Sometimes I've gone into the city to visit Simon. Not often, but a couple of times."
"He really loved you."
"I know."
Sarah tossed a lock of hair back from her forehead. "I think he thought of you as the son he never had, as the saying goes. After he found you in the desert, he felt that it was all ordained."
Silence joined them for a time, and she spoke again. "Is your arm alright?"
Stretching his right arm, Gage made a fist, testing. "Yeah. I think it's alright. I'm ready to go back into the city. Maybe find some answers. I'll try and get Simon's letter from the church, then we can find the next step in all of this."
"I think my father has some answers," she said. "So do I, I guess. At least a few. And Barto."
Gage nodded. "We're gonna talk tonight. We'll cover some more ground. I already know a few things. I know this manuscript is valuable to these people. Valuable enough for them to kill for. But I don't know what's in it."
"Father knows what's in it."
"I know. But I think we'll all know a lot more when I get Simon's letter from the church."
Her voice was low. "Will it be dangerous? To get the letter, I mean? Do you think they'll be expecting you?"
"Probably." He felt instant regret for saying it, but he knew he couldn't keep any secrets from her. Not really. Not about anything that mattered. She was too sharp, her intuition too keen, too discerning. He knew that there was nothing he could say that she could not sound out almost instantly by her uncanny ability to somehow always feel the truth in him.
Silent, he waited, looking away.
“Tm sorry for what you had to do," she said finally. "I know it was hard for you. I know you don't want to return to that life. We never talked about it, really, you and I. You never said you didn't want to go back to being a soldier. But I could tell."
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