by James Phelan
After a minute’s silence, Somerville spoke. “So, you really took down four armed guys in the forest?”
“One. Murph got three. One got away.”
“How good were they?”
“Good. The four we got were the muscle. Well trained. Hell, good enough to kill the other SEALs, right?”
“But I just don’t get it. They were all-American, you know? The 502nd? They’re a part of the 101st Airborne, right? They’re a patriotic bunch. Don’t strike me as the ‘killing their own’ types.”
“It’s often those you least expect, right,” Walker said, turning to face Somerville. She was halfway through her burger. “And, yes, as a rule, 101st are good eggs. I’ve learned that firsthand, serving alongside them. But every unit has its bad apples. Remember the Mahmudiyah killings?”
“I’m still thinking of eggs and apples.”
“Mahmudiyah killings . . .”
Somerville sighed. “Iraq, 2006. The FBI handled the investigation into those soldiers and the atrocities they committed.”
“Right,” Walker said. “The thing is, those guys in the forest were a near-perfect hit team for this kind of op. I mean, not just their capabilities, but their pedigree. The 502nd, part of the 101st, seen plenty of combat. They probably used their stories to get close to the other members of Team Six. You know, approaching them in a bar or something, trading war tales. Getting the SEALs onside, getting close, and then—bam. A shot to the back of the head.”
“Hutchinson did say that five of the guys were hit close range with a HK pistol, fitted with a suppressor, a shot to the back of the head.”
“And that’ll be matched to the HK just there,” Walker said, pointing to the weapon wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag among others on the desk in the hotel room.
“We’ll have them to Quantico by nightfall,” Somerville said. “They’ll work it fast.”
Walker was silent as he turned back to the window. Not fast enough. Not if this is happening today.
“Jed,” Somerville said. “Do you have any idea what’s coming?”
Walker shook his head. “Short, scary answer: no. But it’s something public. Shock and awe. A ‘demonstration,’ they said.” He was silent for a while, just looking down at the street below. “Let’s get Murphy in here, debrief him. He knows something about what’s coming, I’m sure of it. It’s why he’s a liability for these guys, as long as he’s alive.”
“He just doesn’t know that he knows?”
“Exactly.”
“Great.” Somerville put down what remained of her burger, wiped her mouth and hands with a napkin and bunched it up on the plate. “That old chestnut.”
There was a rap at the door. Walker opened it to see an agent standing next to a bellboy, the latter holding hangers of clothing, presumably from a nearby store that stocked outfits for people who frequented country clubs. Walker took the offered stack of size XLs, fished a five-dollar tip from his jeans pocket and closed the door.
“I’m going to go shower and change into a douche bag,” he said to Somerville, the clothes in one hand and the remainder of her burger in the other. “Five minutes. Then we talk to Murphy.”
But Walker didn’t get five minutes to take a shower, because there was another knock at the door.
84
The door to the suite was opened by the FBI agent standing sentry in the hallway. As the two NCIS agents entered, Walker could tell from the way they carried themselves that they were here for a fight. Some kind of show was coming, about who was running things in terms of the Murphy family’s safety.
“Heads up. Our boss is on his way here,” Woods said to them. “We just spoke to the office. They think he’ll be here in about two hours.”
Walker nodded.
“Then we’ll see what’s what,” Woods said, looking to Walker and Somerville.
“Levine?” Walker said, looking to her for anything helpful.
She held up her hands. “What can I say? Agent Woods here is his own man. The thing is,” she said, looking from Walker to Somerville, “this is a Navy operation. Beginning to end. And we have to protect our people, all the way.”
“Safety first,” Walker said.
Woods smiled.
“You’ve done a great job of it so far,” Somerville said.
“You’ve got the lead, for now,” Levine said, ignoring Somerville’s remark. “We’ll see where we all stand in two hours.”
“This ends one of two ways,” Walker said to them, without missing a beat.
“Oh, what’s that?” Levine replied.
“You help us out,” Walker said, “and I let you walk away with a pat on the back from your superiors and a note in your file stating that you did a good job. Or, you don’t, and you end up working against us—well, then I’ll have to treat you like all the others who have been in my way over the past twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t think you know who you’re talking to,” Woods said. “You’re a goddamned civilian.”
“Like you two are in uniforms,” countered Walker.
“We’ve got guns and badges,” Woods spat. “You want to see them, up close?”
“My gun’s bigger,” Walker said, motioning to the HK416 on the desk. “You decide.”
Woods looked furious. Levine was cool.
“Make the choice,” Walker said. “Help or move on. And be grateful I’m allowing you that, because frankly I don’t think you’re worth much to us.”
Silence.
“Last chance,” Somerville said. “Tick-tock.”
“Okay, say we help you,” Woods said, and Levine gave him a look that said leave-me-the-fuck-out-of-it-I’m-helping-already. “What’s the help, and what’s in it for us?”
Somerville said, “You will be on the right side of history.”
“Wow.”
“Not ancient history, dickhead,” Walker said. “You will have played a role in helping to stop a major terrorist attack on US soil.”
Woods merely stared at Walker, his disdain clear on his face.
“You really think something’s going to happen, related to these SEAL hits?” Levine said.
Somerville nodded. “It’s happening this afternoon.”
“And how do you know that?” Woods said. “Because some supposed terrorist hit man you claim to have killed in the forest in the Ozarks just happened to mention it in passing?”
“Because I’ve been doing this for longer than you have,” Walker said.
“What help are you asking for, exactly?” Levine said.
“You can help protect the Murphys,” Somerville said.
Walker said, “And you can expedite us getting the list of the SEALs who’ve been killed.”
“We’re here to protect Murphy and his family, it’s as simple as that,” Levine said. “And you’re getting in the way of that.”
“And I’m not going to let myself take a fall,” Woods said. “Levine, think about it for a sec. The way I see it, this guy here wants to get Murphy out of the picture, away from us. Why? Why would he want to do that? Because he’s part of this?”
“Sorry, this is me you’re talking about?” Walker said.
“I mean,” Woods went on, his attention all pointed toward his senior partner, “where’s our confirmation otherwise? Hell, have we even seen Agent Somerville’s FBI ID? Or those of the guys out in the hall?”
Somerville had had enough. In one swift movement she flipped Woods around, put him into an arm lock, took his service pistol and ejected the mag and field-stripped it with one hand, letting the pieces thud to the carpet, and then, as she held him face-first against the wall of the hotel room, she flashed her ID. All of it inside two seconds.
Levine didn’t move. Didn’t even watch. She just stared at Walker, and he stared right back.
“One more word,” Somerville said into Woods’s ear, her face flushed with frustration and adrenaline and plain anger at incompetence and petulance. “And what Walker said before, in
the lift, is happening—only you can forget the lube, and the clamps and the colonoscopy camera; it’s going to be my foot, all the way up to my knee. You got that?”
Woods nodded.
“Say it,” Somerville said.
“I got it.”
Somerville let him go. Woods shook out the ache in his arm, picked up his dismantled pistol and headed over to a chair to sit in solace.
“Stay out of our way,” Somerville said, to both of them. “I don’t give a rat’s what your boss has to say about anything. From here on in you’re out of the loop. You can go out and stand in the hallway, protect your ex-Navy guy from there.”
Woods stood, holstered his reassembled side-arm and left the room without a word, but before closing the door he looked back to Levine, who was standing there, next to Walker.
“Really?” Woods said to her.
Levine shrugged.
Woods departed, closing the door behind him.
“Sorry,” Levine said to Somerville and Walker. “He’s a by-the-book guy. So, tell me everything you suspect might be happening today, and what I can do to help.”
“We really need that list,” Walker said.
Levine nodded. “My boss will have it. So, worst case, in two hours, when he gets here, you’ll have it.”
85
“You look better,” Walker said to Squeaker.
They were alone in the second bedroom of the Murphys’ suite, the kids with their mother next door. She’d just had a shower. Walker was about to take one. She was wearing a thick white bathrobe, her hair wet and wrapped in a towel. She appeared tired, worn out, but there was a wise strength there that belied her size and age.
“You like this?” she said, touching her head-wrap just so. “I saw it on an old TV show. Thought I’d try it out.”
“Very becoming,” Walker said. “It’s certainly old school.”
The smile left Squeaker’s face. “I heard you guys arguing before.”
“Just a pissing contest between Federal Agents.”
“Right,” Squeaker said, padding over to the minibar in the cabinet below the huge TV that faced the bed. “Drink?”
“I’m good,” Walker said, seeing that she’d emptied two small bottles of Johnnie Black into a glass, neat. She sat on the end of the bed and sipped at it. The swelling in her face had gone down, and her cut lip was now washed of blood and didn’t look so bad, apart from the swelling.
Walker sighed. “Ah, who am I kidding?” He took a Heineken from the minibar and popped the top.
“I’m taking this into the shower,” he said, indicating his beer and picking up his new clothes. “And don’t you even think about doing what you did last time.”
“What’d I do last time?” Squeaker said. She leaned back on her bed. The tie on her robe was loose, the neckline showed her cleavage, and the front opened to reveal her crossed legs and inner thigh all the way up to where the robe hung low. Still, Walker felt his heart race a little.
“Susan,” he said, crouching down to face her at her eye level.
“Squeaker.”
“Right,” he said. “Another place and time, sure. But I’m an old man compared to you.”
“You’re not that much older,” she said. “Besides, I like you. And I think you like me. You’re attracted to me. And I want you.”
“Look . . .”
She leaned forward and kissed him, and Walker couldn’t help but kiss her back, hard enough for her to know that the attraction was mutual, but then he broke away. She looked at him, her eyes telling him exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it.
“Squeaker . . .”
“Yes.”
“Can I tell you something?” he said.
“Sure,” she replied, moving her robe across her chest so that the view left nothing to Walker’s imagination.
“I’m not going to over-analyze it,” Walker said, “but I do think that part of your attraction to me is that I’m different from guys you’ve met. Simple as that.”
“You think?” She sipped her drink, flinching at the pain of the alcohol hitting her cut lip.
“You’re a strong, capable woman,” Walker said to her. “I know you know that. You’re smarter than most people I’ve met. Street smart; it’s ingrained in you. You’re resilient and tough. And I know you know that too, but I’m telling you that you’re even tougher than you think you are—I can see that, because I’ve seen toughness, and resilience, and smarts, many times. You’ve got them all licked.”
“Speaking of licking—”
“All else aside,” Walker said, standing and heading for the shower, “we don’t have time.”
“Fine! Live with regrets, old man,” Squeaker called out, sounding not so much disappointed as merely prepared to allow him to win round two of her advances, as though it was just a matter of time before he came around and saw things for how they should be.
Walker smiled to himself as he turned the shower on full, pulled off his mud- and blood-stained clothing and stepped into the steam. He was tired but he embraced it. His mind and body had been in this type of situation plenty of times. He knew how to work through it. To channel it. Use it. Tiredness was like anything else—fear or longing or hunger—and he had long ago learned how to deal with all those. The military had taught him that. War had reinforced it. Hardened it. Honed it to something that had become an advantage.
It was one of those aspects that allowed men like Walker, when at the coal-face, to slow down time. But in this case time was not on his side. And while he was used to deadlines and time being an enemy, it never got any easier.
86
As Walker stepped into the shower, Menzil was hitching a ride in a truck entering St. Louis. The driver picked him up on the Interstate 44 outside Rolla, bitching about how he’d been stuck south of Mountain View for two days waiting for the road to open after a major mudslide, and about how he’d not be making a dime after figuring in the lost time and what he’d spent on food and booze while in town. The cabin stank, like the guy regularly slept in the bunk-like space behind the rear seats and never washed the sheets nor his clothes nor cleaned the interior of the truck. But that was no concern, just an irritant.
Menzil’s trouble was that the 502nd guys were now gone. They were to be his protection, should he need it, this afternoon. That was a problem, although he’d been assured over the phone at the truck stop that a contingency was in place and the mission would go ahead as planned. On the one hand, Menzil thought, at least he didn’t have to pay the four guys the second half of their installment for completing the job, a cool hundred grand apiece. On the downside, he knew that Murphy was still out there, with that Walker guy, and while they lived, there was jeopardy for him. Probably not in preventing the attack today—that was a long, long shot—but after the fact, once the country and the world had witnessed the devastation, after Homeland Security and the FBI and the military had done their tests, then Murphy would make the connection. He alone would know who and what was behind the attack.
But Menzil was confident that Murphy, along with Walker, would not live to see another sunset.
•
Walker let the hot water wash away the sweat and blood and dirt and grit. He soaped up and leaned against the wall with a forearm against the tiles, the shower pouring over his head and down his back. He needed sleep, and might well allow himself a nap, he thought, if he could rattle something loose from Murphy fast. They just needed that start of a thread to tug on and the whole thing would unravel. A twenty-minute power nap would be a fine thing right now. He’d mastered them in training, and honed the skill operating in Afghanistan. He knew that he could close his eyes anytime, anywhere, and twenty minutes later he’d open them and feel that the world was a better place. He also knew that if needed he could then go on for another six hours at full speed without any sustenance other than water and the adrenaline of the fight.
But he had too many doubts right now to afford that luxury. Serious ones.
About what Murphy knew, and whether he could figure it out in time. About this city. How many people in Greater St. Louis? Two million? Three? He didn’t know the city well. A terrorist attack here could be anything. They’ll go for symbolism. There’s nothing more symbolic here than the Mississippi. Maybe they’re planning to blow up a passenger ferry, some kind of tourist cruise ship. Or maybe a water bus, a public-transport thing. The Greater St. Louis area, all the surrounding suburbia, is wrapped around the river, and people have to commute somehow; 17:30 is a busy time—peak hour for people leaving work en masse.
He’d ask Somerville to get her people to check all that. And other mass-transit systems: trains, buses, the interstate, the airport, anywhere there’d be a mass of people to make whatever this was as big as possible.
A demonstration . . .
It’ll be public. They’ll want their smoking-towers moment, something to be played again and again on the news. Maybe it’ll be an incendiary attack, so that the boat—or whatever it is—will be ablaze, maybe for hours, the kind of magnesium or phosphate fire that can’t be extinguished, so that it will literally burn into the eyes and minds of the Americans who view the atrocity on the news channels.
Americans. His people. Those guys in the forest, the ex-Army personnel and Menzil, they were Americans. Not some Saudi-born or Pakistan-trained or Afghanistan-bred terrorists hell bent on revenge. They were Americans, attacking their own.
It was the Stock Exchange all over again.
That’s what Zodiac was. Twelve attacks, each as unpredictable in outcome as in pedigree. Its ultimate outcome was to create as much chaos as possible. How do you fight an enemy whose homeland is the very one that they are destroying?
The hot water ran over his body and the steam filled the bathroom. The more Walker thought about it, the more he feared two things: the unknown, and the impossible.
The unknown, in that Murphy may well prove to be a dead end in terms of a lead, because the more Walker thought about this, the less it seemed that it was something to do with bin Laden.