by Jack Mars
“Agent Baraf.” He answered on the second ring.
“It’s Kent,” Reid told him. “I need to know the most recent update the CIA has provided Interpol.”
“Kent? Where are you and your team? We found nothing in Athens—”
“I know,” Reid replied hastily. “Baraf, time is crucial here.” He highly doubted the virus was still in France. “What have they given you?”
“The CIA hasn’t updated us in the last few hours,” Baraf told him.
Reid slammed the steering wheel in frustration. Maria called in the update to investigate Khalil, yet the agency didn’t update Interpol. He was already keenly aware that something was very wrong on account of an agent trying to kill him, and this news only furthered his suspicions.
“Baraf, have your people look into a company called Khalil Oil. That’s K-H-A-L-I-L. I need whatever you can get, but don’t share it with the CIA. Only me.”
Baraf blew out an exasperated breath. “Agent Steele, just what is going on?”
The less you know the better. And I don’t know enough to explain it to you. “Baraf, please. I need your help.”
“All right,” the Interpol agent agreed, though somewhat hesitantly. “Give me a minute.” Baraf shouted instructions in Italian to someone. “Adesso! Velocemente ,” he added. Now. Quickly.
“Oil?” Barnard asked. “What have you found, Agent?”
“I’m not convinced our Imam is a holy man,” Reid told him.
“Khalil Oil,” Baraf said suddenly, returning to the line, “was a privately held company in Syria with a second refinery in Lebanon, owned by man named Hassan ibn Khalil…”
Imam Khalil , Reid thought.
“…That is, up until 2011, when it was shut down,” Baraf added.
“Why was it shut down? What happened in 2011?” Reid asked as he navigated onto the highway. They didn’t yet have a destination, but he had an inkling of where he should be headed. He turned south.
“It seems that Khalil found some sort of loophole in the export tariff bill that would save him millions,” Baraf read. “The Syrian government, however, saw it as stealing. They seized the company’s assets and sold them off to pay what was construed as his debt, and Khalil spent the next two years in prison for it. Currently he resides in Saudi Arabia, doing bookkeeping for another oil venture.”
Reid frowned, perplexed. “Wait, what?” If that was the case, then who was their Imam? “What about his family?”
“Family…” Baraf paused a moment before he said, “Let’s see. Most of them moved with him after the advent of the Syrian crisis. But his eldest son, Assad, remained. Seems he had no interest in the oil business. Instead, he’s made a name for himself by causing some trouble among local Sunnis—”
“Calling himself Imam Khalil,” Reid finished. Assad ibn Khalil, the prodigal son of the Khalil family, was the Imam. “Recruiting followers to his cause.”
“Correct, Agent Steele.” There was both confusion and trepidation in Baraf’s voice. “This Assad… do you believe he is the one behind all this?”
“I do,” Reid told him. “And I think he has the virus. Or at least he did. If it’s not here anymore, he must have found a way to get it out of France.”
“France?” Baraf repeated suddenly. “Is that where you are?”
“Yes, southern France, in Marseille.”
“Dio! ” Baraf exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say so? Kent, France was Hassan’s loophole!”
Reid frowned deeply. “Sorry?”
“The loophole he used to exploit the export tariffs,” Baraf said quickly. “Any ships that left Syria with his drums must pass by the southern coast of France, so Khalil purchased a storage facility on the Marseille Fos Port. He found that if he claimed to be exporting to France instead of the United States and stored his product there for at least four months, he could then export to the US at a much lower cost and—”
“Baraf,” Reid interrupted. “Who owns the facility now?”
“Uh…” He heard the clacking of keys in the background. “No one, it seems. It is for lease and currently unused.”
Reid’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as he felt a spike of exhilaration and fear. “Send the address of his storage facility to this phone right away. How soon could you get agents there?”
“An hour at most by helicopter,” Baraf replied.
That would take too long. He and Barnard were less than twenty minutes from the coast. “Send them,” he said anyway. He had no idea if the facility would be a dead end or not, but if it wasn’t, whatever might be there could be much more than one agent and a CDC doctor could handle. “And Baraf? Keep quiet on this. No one outside Interpol but me, and especially not the CIA right now. I can’t tell you why. Please just trust me on this.”
Baraf was quiet for a moment. Reid felt bad just putting his friend in a situation like that, but until he knew more about it, he wasn’t about to put anyone else in the line of fire. “All right, Agent Steele. I’ll alert you when my agents are near.”
Reid ended the call. Only then did he notice he was doing close to ninety miles an hour down the highway toward the coast. He eased slightly off the accelerator; they couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves from French authorities now that they had a destination.
Barnard’s phone chimed. “I have the address. GPS says we’re seventeen minutes away. Should I send this to Agent Johansson?”
“Yes,” Reid said. Regardless of Watson’s intentions, he trusted Maria to have his back and keep a watchful eye on him. “Tell her to get there as fast as possible.”
Before Barnard could punch in the text message, his phone rang in his hand. He frowned. “Unknown caller. Should I answer?”
Reid had a pretty good idea of who was calling. He didn’t want to involve the CIA any further, and they had a destination, but a morbid curiosity got the better of him. “Yes. Answer it.” Barnard put it on speaker, and Reid said, “It’s Zero.”
“Kent.” Deputy Director Cartwright’s voice was quiet, little more than a harsh whisper. “Jesus. Watson just reported in. Something about Carver going rogue and attacking you…?”
“Did you put him on it?” Reid asked point-blank.
“I’m on my personal cell phone, whispering in a goddamn stairwell right now. What do you think?”
“Did you?” Reid asked again, more forcefully this time.
“No! Of course I didn’t,” Cartwright insisted. “But I also know you weren’t the most trusting guy before all this, so I don’t expect you to take my word for it.”
“Well, someone did.” And there’s only one other person leading this op. Reid didn’t say it aloud, but he didn’t have to. Cartwright picked up what he was suggesting.
“Look, when all this is over, there will be an investigation,” Cartwright said firmly. “If something is rotten in the state of Denmark, I’ll find out about it. You understand me?”
Reid furrowed his brow. The way the deputy director said it made it sound like a threat, but the line itself drew his attention. Rotten in Denmark? He knew the line—it was uttered by Marcellus in the play Hamlet —but it seemed very uncharacteristic of Cartwright to quote a play about treachery and betrayal…
A light bulb went off in his mind. Cartwright wasn’t talking about investigating him ; he was talking about someone else, and the only other person involved was Assistant Director Ashleigh Riker. But he wouldn’t say it out loud. Reid wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if every wall in Langley had ears.
“I understand,” Reid said. “Why isn’t the CIA sharing the information about Khalil Oil with Interpol? They haven’t been updated in hours.”
“Our intel suggests that’s a dead end,” Cartwright said. “The company went under years ago.” Dr. Barnard frowned at Reid. His mouth opened as if he wanted to protest, but Reid shook his head as Cartwright added, “But maybe Interpol knows something that we don’t. Look, the virus is what matters here. Get to it. And
Zero? Keep doing what you’re doing.” He hung up without another word, but Reid understood the message.
And apparently so did Dr. Barnard. “Did your superior just suggest that we keep the CIA out of the loop?”
“Yeah. I think he did.” Reid could hardly believe it, but he found himself actually appreciating Cartwright. He still didn’t quite trust him, at least not completely, but the deputy director seemed to be aware that something was amiss. The CIA was trying hard to keep the name Khalil Oil off the record and out of anyone else’s hands. “So we will. If you get a call from Langley, don’t answer it. Text Johansson the location.”
And let’s hope we’re not too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Maya yawned as she came down the stairs, barefoot and in her pajamas. She’d stayed in bed later than she normally would; she kept waking up the night before from terrible dreams about her father. She worried for him, and even had a powerful urge to send him a text to make sure he was all right, wherever he was. But she didn’t. She had told him that she would only contact him if necessary, and a text from her might make him worry needlessly when he had bigger problems to concern himself with.
She had been following the news as best she could about what was going on in Europe. Several outlets had used the term “terrorism,” despite the White House’s official position that they could not confirm that Barcelona was an attack. Maya was dubious about that; after all, her father had been sent at the same time that the outbreak began.
Since then, more cases of the virus had appeared in Spain, parts of France, and even in northern Portugal. Not only had the United States temporarily barred international travel, but now several cities were going on high alert, including DC, only twenty minutes from their home in Alexandria. It was almost surreal to see the news footage; her neighborhood seemed the same as always, quiet and calm, while a short drive away people were panicking and leaving the city in droves.
She wondered if they would even have school on Monday.
Maya padded into the kitchen to find Mr. Thompson, already fully dressed and bright-eyed, seated at the counter and—of course he was —cleaning his revolver.
“Good morning!” he said, a little too cheerfully for her taste.
“Morning.” She went straight for the coffeemaker.
“Sleep well?”
“Not really,” she replied flatly. She poured herself a cup and added an ample amount of sugar. She didn’t care for the naturally bitter taste, and she’d never admit it aloud, but drinking coffee helped her feel more adult. “Have you heard from my dad?”
“Nope,” Thompson replied with a smile. “Should I have?”
Right. Thompson was keeping up with the charade that her father was off on a weekend getaway with his new friend Maria. He had no idea that it was a lie that Maya had made up herself. She resisted the urge to tell the old man that she knew about her dad, or at least knew some things.
Instead she said, “I was just a little worried, with everything going on in the city. I hope he can make it home okay.”
“I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Your dad is a very resourceful guy.” Thompson set about reassembling his revolver. His actions were well rehearsed, appearing almost instinctive. Maya couldn’t help but watch in mild fascination. She had never so much as held a gun before, let alone fired one. “Say, how about some breakfast? I make a mean French toast. And I bet that would get your sister out of bed before noon.”
Maya smirked. She couldn’t imagine the grizzled old former Marine, his fingertips slick with gun-lubricating oil, making breakfast. “You make French toast? Really?”
“Sure.” Thompson snapped the cylinder into the revolver. “Make it for my grandson all the time.”
“You’re a grandfather?”
He grinned. “I never told you that? Yeah, little guy is seven now. His name is Matthew. Let me wash my hands, I’ll show you some pictures on my phone.” Thompson rose from his stool with a grunt and went to the kitchen sink.
Maya smiled. It was sort of a nice change of pace to talk with their neighbor about something other than the Marine Corps.
She caught movement in her periphery, something flitting past the open blinds of the dining room window. She turned quickly, but there was nothing.
Probably just a bird .
Mr. Thompson dried his hands on a dish towel. “Matt just had a birthday party a couple weeks ago. His mama made him his own separate cake, so he could, you know, dive into it face-first.” The old man chuckled. “I’ve got photos of the mess he made—”
Thompson suddenly snapped to attention, his gaze focused on the far window of the living room.
Maya gulped. She felt a slight knot of anxiety forming in her midsection.
“I saw it too,” she said quietly. Something—or someone—had definitely just dashed past. And she was certain it was not just a bird.
Thompson snatched up his Smith & Wesson and pushed open the cylinder.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said, more for her own benefit than for his. Still, her voice sounded smaller than she thought it would.
“Maya, I know what you probably think of me,” he said quickly. As he spoke, he loaded six rounds into the revolver. It took him only a few seconds, his thumb and fingers working far more deftly than Maya would have thought possible. “I’m the crazy old man next door that carries a gun everywhere. But believe me when I say that I have lived a dangerous life, and the only reason I’m still here is by one simple rule.” He flicked the revolver sideways and the cylinder locked into place. “You can never be too careful. Now I’m going to do a perimeter check. I want you to go upstairs, wake your sister, and get down to the basement. Got it?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.” He pushed open the sliding glass door that led to the deck, the revolver in his hand pointed at waist level.
Maya stood rooted to the spot. It’s nothing , she told herself. It could have been an animal. A package delivery. A utility worker. No one knows we’re here. Her curiosity got the better of her. She crept to the living room window and peered out through the blinds. She saw Mr. Thompson as he rounded the corner from the backyard, his gun in both hands and raised.
Her heart pounded in her chest. He doesn’t see anything. Still. Go wake Sara. Go to the basement. Grab your phone—
An arm snaked around her shoulders. She let out a gasp of shock as she was pulled backward against someone’s body. Then she froze in abject terror as something thin, razor sharp, pressed against her throat.
It was a sensation she had felt once before, but that did not make it easier; if anything, it made it worse, as the panic and dread of having a knife to her neck came rushing back.
“Do not scream,” whispered a male voice. “Do not make a sound other than to answer my questions or I will cut your throat.” The man was impossibly quiet. She hadn’t even heard the sliding door open. “Now walk backwards.” He took a step back and pulled her with him, keeping her tight to his chest. She did as he said, taking tiny steps backwards out of fear that the knife might slip against her skin.
“Are you Maya?” he asked her quietly as they moved from the living room to the kitchen.
Her breath came quickly, in short hissing bursts through her nose. “Yes.”
“Is your father home?” He kept going, taking small steps from the kitchen to the corridor that led to the foyer.
“Yes,” Maya said softly. “He’s in the basement. And there are three other agents here too—”
Her assailant stopped in the foyer, just short of the staircase. “Do not lie to me,” he whispered. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes. There is an old man with a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Classic. There is you. Presumably your sister is upstairs.”
Sara. Maya’s panic doubled at the thought of her sister, asleep and unaware. I have to keep her safe.
“I have killed many people, some of them women and children. I don’t like to do it, but it is sometim
es necessary, especially when proving a point. If you lie again, I will open your throat, and then I will do the same to your younger sister.”
Tears welled in Maya’s eyes. “Don’t touch her.” She had intended her words to come off as defiant, but instead they sounded like a plea.
“Is your father home?”
“…No.”
“Is he in the country?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“You said there were other agents. So you know what he is? What he does?”
Maya heard the sliding glass door open with a whoosh. A wave of relief washed over her as Mr. Thompson called out. “Maya?” A moment later she heard the familiar creak of the basement door. “Maya, are you down there?” Footfalls—then Mr. Thompson rounded the corner.
His revolver was up in an instant. “Drop the knife and step away,” he ordered firmly.
“Those are .357 rounds.” The assailant sounded strangely calm. “Would you risk killing her to take a shot?”
“I’m a very good shot,” Mr. Thompson said, his voice low and gruff.
“Then you would have taken it by now.” Maya felt the pressure of the knife ease off her throat slightly. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of hurting the girl. In fact, I’m going to give her back to you.” The assailant stepped forward, forcing her with him. He took another step. Thompson kept the gun level, his aim just over Maya’s right shoulder.
The man suddenly shoved her roughly. She stumbled, flailing her arms for support, and collided with Mr. Thompson. He caught her and at the same time twisted his body, dropping her safely to the floor and out of the way.
But the assailant surged forward right behind her. He swung the knife in a tight arc at the older man’s throat. Mr. Thompson was deceptively fast; he ducked out of the blade’s way and it missed by an inch. As he tried to bring his gun up again, the assailant slashed upward, cutting into Thompson’s forearm. He cried out and the gun clattered to the floor. The stranger kicked it backward, into the foyer and away from all three of them.