by T. Ainsworth
A young ram howled from some bushes. The pasture was close. Suspecting the animal lost, Morgan hoisted him over his shoulders and continued on his way. He soon heard loud bays and saw the flock scattered. A kettle of vultures soared above the green space.
A sheep must have died.
He released the ram and continued on the trail, looking for the father and his sons. Ahead, buzzards floated down through the trees toward whatever was dead below. As Morgan approached, one bird seemed to be perched in the air, gobbling a piece of skin. Unruffled, it stared at him.
Morgan glared back.
The huge bird’s talons gripped deeper in the father’s scalp while its beak tore away another piece of flesh. His sons hung from the same limb, the unwrapped chocolate bars in their mouths. The hovering stench grew repulsive.
“Barbarians…” he said shaking his head in disgust.
There was no time to bury them. The men were on the trail behind him. They would see that the bodies were gone and call for more assistance. A search would concentrate in the lowlands where they would leave guards, possibly trapping him.
Morgan continued down the trail. It began to taper into a narrow chute with bedrock steps. He suddenly stopped, instantly tense. The small pile of stones hadn’t been there yesterday.
He stooped to see drops of dew clinging to a trip wire. His eyes followed one end to a sapling at the overhang where it was tied to a branch. He traced the other end into the grasses.
Morgan backed up, pulling several yards of thread off his belt. He tied it to a tree on the opposite side of the path then weaved the line to the sapling. After another surgeon’s knot, the trap was reset and he resumed his descent.
Flushed by movement ahead on the trail, a startled bird squawked and took flight.
Someone was ahead of him.
Morgan dropped from the trail into a ravine and followed it to an overlook. A Russian Uaz truck was parked at the trailhead where he’d started yesterday. He jumped to a lower clearing, rolled into the forest to another ledge, and climbed down to the valley floor, where he raced through the underbrush. At a sharp bend near the truck, he sat off to one side with the Makarov in hand.
Two men shuffled along the path, breaking the boredom by kicking stones. A voice blurted over their radio. “We could not find him. Heading back to the truck.”
One man responded, “We are almost there.”
Morgan took off the safety when he heard their boots crunching stones.
“Hola, amigos!” he said.
Their AKs slung uselessly, the confused men looked at him, then at each other.
“I need your wheels…”
Puff.
Puff.
Morgan added an additional bullet into each of their heads before dragging the bodies deep into the brush.
He sat in the truck with their guns, thirty-round magazines, and two grenades lying on the shredded seat next to him. Morgan drank from some bottled water he found in the back, took his boots off and stuck his feet out the driver’s window to air his socks.
He opened the glove box. There was an open pack of cigarettes.
“Tsk…tsk,” Morgan said. “How disobedient…”
He lit one, hoping the tobacco would blunt the memory of rotting flesh.
It didn’t.
He continued to wait.
When sounds of thunder tumbled down the hillside, Morgan flicked the second butt to the ground and pursed his lips, slowly exhaling a long cloud of smoke.
“Enjoy Hell,” he said.
FIFTY-TWO
Chicago February 20, 2004
Arriving downtown after a cab ride from Midway airport, Jericho left her bags with the Palmer House Hotel concierge and sat in the lobby sipping tea, trying to read the newspaper. Restless, she put on her raincoat and walked along State Street in the drizzle, looking in store windows until it was time to go the restaurant.
She stood inside the corridor away from the revolving door, studying each man who came through. Eventually he’d appear.
“Elaine?”
Jericho turned when she heard her name.
“Hello,” she said.
“Paul Cotsworth,” the white-haired man said, secretly showing her his badge then offering his hand.
“Where did you come from?” Jericho asked, shaking it.
“Through the bar entrance.” He smiled immediately. “Wanted to give the place the once over before we met.”
“And…”
“Everyone’s seen your hair.”
“A lifelong problem,” she replied.
Cotsworth seemed trustworthy, but despite his disarming humor, Jericho’s edginess remained.
They walked to the host station.
“You’re holding a table for Smith,” said Cotsworth. “The one in the far corner.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Follow me please.”
They hung their coats on the wall hooks and sat down.
“Calling you Elaine okay?” Cotsworth asked. “My last rank was master sergeant.”
She laughed cautiously. “Of course. I’m still on vacation…I hope.”
“Reality will return soon enough,” he said. “I’m convinced sometimes it’s best not to leave town.”
“Been my modus operandi for years, and look what happened. It got me diverted from New Mexico to Chicago in February.”
“Sorry about the crummy weather,” he apologized.
As Jericho unfolded her napkin, he glanced at her manicured nails. His first impression was consistent with her résumé: She was a perfectionist. The naval officer had excelled in what had been until recently a male-dominated world, and her rank and position spoke clearly of a tenacious spirit. She was certainly an elastic thinker. That trait gave her a dynamic advantage in the spy world. Why she had parlayed that into research on Morgan baffled him. Cotsworth decided to let small talk rule until they finished eating.
While their waiter cleared the plates, Cotsworth said, “I guess we need to get started.”
Jericho placed the tea bag in the stainless server. While it steeped, he watched as she measured a teaspoon of milk into her cup.
“Do I have a choice?” she asked with a sideways tip of her head.
“Probably not…but I hope that’s neither here nor there.” Cotsworth sipped some coffee. “I said our words would be private. I’m not secretly recording us or planning to take notes.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Tell me,” Cotsworth learned forward and said quietly, “what you do at the NGA.”
Her pupils grew huge at his bluntness.
“That’s some opener,” Jericho replied. “What I do is classified.”
Cotsworth leaned forward more. “Let’s do this right, okay? I’ll help.” His voice lowered. “You’re a United States Navy Captain, who, before becoming an assistant director of the National Geospatial Agency, was in charge of its Middle Eastern nuclear division.”
He smiled, but not gently. “Maybe with your spiritual awakening in New Mexico you’ve forgotten the NGA does global satellite intelligence procurement?”
“I just can’t say anything.”
His beating fingers quickened in ire.
“Let’s start over.” He had more coffee. “Pretend this is a first date, let’s try that.” He added a more cordial smile. “So tell me, Elaine, what do you do for a living?”
“Let me answer you this way.” She could not tell at what point his bravado met frankness but at least it was now clear that he knew enough about her to ease any lingering concern about security breeches. “Jimmy Laymonjaylo is an alias for someone the agency was interested in.”
He heard her use the past tense.
“An alias,” he said. “Do you know his real name?”
She nodded. “Barif Ali.”
Cotsworth responded quietly, “Barif Ali…”
She nodded and stirred her tea.
“Let’s just refer to him as Jimmy for right now,” he suggeste
d.
“Agreed.”
“Why is your employer interested in Jimmy?”
“Several companies are…Were might be more accurate.”
“Were…” The past tense troubled him. “Okay. Keep going.”
“Jimmy boarded a tramp freighter in Houston, carrying a fraudulent Pakistani passport with the name Ali…later he started using a Lebanese one.”
Cotsworth scratched his head. She was handing him puzzle pieces, but none were fitting together, so he simply said, “And…”
“His entrée to the freighter and confidant while aboard was a known”—Jericho whispered, her voice barely audible—“nuclear terrorist.” Her napkin shielded her lips so no one could read them. “Close to…bin Laden. Inner circle.” She sat back and looked around the restaurant.
“That’s interesting,” Cotsworth said.
It sure as hell was! The information confirmed his belief that Morgan left Houston by boat, but with a terrorist?
“When I was in my earlier position,” Jericho began to whisper again, “we knew while Jimmy was aboard that ship, it was transporting a high-grade type of steel used in centrifuges—from Africa to, we believe, Iran. The other player on board, who I’ll leave nameless, coordinated the materials passage start to finish.”
“Do you think Jimmy’s presence could be incidental?” None of this was making sense. “Maybe he wasn’t dirty?”
“Not likely.”
“Why?” Cotsworth asked. His curiosity increased more.
“Jimmy appeared out of nowhere and contacted one ship from dozens of possibilities. None of this is coincidence.”
Looking out the windows, she drank some tea and grew silent as if she was finished talking.
“Please, it’s too early for intermission,” Cotsworth said.
She smiled. “Inbound to the Port of Karachi,” Jericho continued, “we found the freighter by satellite. An IR image showed a body hanging off the stern.”
“M…” Cotsworth almost said Morgan’s name but caught himself. “Jimmy?”
The current story was still too incredible to associate it with the name he knew.
“Yes,” she said. “There’s more.”
“I’m hoping so.”
“That was after he probably killed two men, including the captain.”
“Whoa.” Cotsworth held up his hand. “Thinking about that one…”
Recalling the pictures from the Midway that Brosinski had given him, Cotsworth knew Morgan was capable of killing. If true, there had to be a damn good reason.
“Why would he do that?”
“Not certain,” answered Jericho. “A friend of mine thinks there may have been an assault on him or maybe an attempted rape—”
“I’d kill them too,” he commented. “So…what happened to Jimmy after that? Crew throw him overboard?”
“Nobody knows,” Jericho said. “But I think a satellite picture taken right after that suggests he intentionally jumped ship.”
“Jumped ship…You’re making this up ‘cause it’s crappy weather outside, and you’re bored.”
“I wish,” she replied.
“Anybody know if he survived?” Cotsworth asked.
“Weeks later there was a robbery aboard a Pakistani train. Some bullet fragments came from a .357.”
“Now I know you’re making this up,” laughed Cotsworth. “But please continue. I don’t have anything else to do.”
“Jimmy stole one in Houston,” she said. “I think those are his bullets, but the rest of my coworkers don’t.”
“I’d have to agree with them without ballistics.” The agent shook his head. “Even so, why would he rob a train?”
She shrugged.
“Where he is now?” he asked.
“No inkling.” Her voice trailed off. “Alive or dead, I just don’t know.”
“This is fun.” Cotsworth looked at his watch. “More tea, or perhaps a drink?”
“Just tea please.”
Amused, he watched her again measure the milk as the tea bag hung in a fresh pot of hot water.
“So how do you come to know Demetri Kubiak?” he asked.
Jericho stirred her tea, deciding how to answer. “Shipboard evidence discovered in Karachi by a field team.”
“What evidence?” he asked.
“Found it in his clothing,” she answered. “A pig DNA fragment.”
The fucking pig! Cotsworth wanted to yell.
“The Purdue swine database provided the possible cross matches. Took a while because the sample was corrupted. I applied some software and eventually found Scurry Farms.”
“You found Scurry Farms?” he asked.
She nodded.
His head was propped on his curled palm to hide astonishment. “The picture you showed the Kubiaks?”
“Composite made by the detained freighter crew in Karachi.”
“Solid detective work,” he complimented. “How the hell did this research get appropriated to you…in your position?”
She was chewing on her lip. “The particle was dismissed by others as contaminate.”
The woman was smart—and stupid!
“Everyone ignored Jimmy because he was a ‘clean skin’ here and left the country without consequence. I thought they were too quick.”
“So when the august minds discounted it, you took it on yourself…” The woman was foolhardy as well as obsessive-compulsive. “Does anybody know you’re doing this?”
“No comment,” said Jericho.
“Elaine, you’re way outside your jurisdiction…wandering in a place you shouldn’t be.”
She nodded meekly.
“You did this because…” He couldn’t imagine why the woman would be so fool-hearty.
“Paul, you’re never going to believe this,” Jericho said.
“Oh, I might.”
“Satellites alone can’t protect the country. I thought we skirted the issue without integrating the facts.”
“Jesus…” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “From what I learned about you, your career is well launched. You’re screwing it up with possibly…jail.”
“I know.”
His head rocked back and forth.
“If you promise me,” he began, “that you’ll go home and not visit this again, we’ll talk some more.”
“I’m game,” she replied, with gloom in her voice.
Cotsworth wanted to brighten her mood. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” No, she wasn’t. “Okay. Maybe some white wine?”
Cotsworth flagged their waiter. A glass of wine and a beer arrived soon after.
“To sharing information and interlinked databases,” he toasted.
“Don’t use that at a wedding,” Jericho laughed.
She was feeling better.
“Anyway, I’m investigating Jimmy too,” Cotsworth said.
“Why?” she asked.
“First off, do you know what Jimmy Laymonjaylo means?” he asked.
Jericho shook her head.
“‘I’m hungry for lemon Jell-O, give me some.’”
“Oh damn!” Jericho blushed.
It was an old joke about how a less-literate mother named her baby from the daily menu at the hospital. The name fooled a pig farmer and, worse, an intelligence officer.
“It’s okay, Elaine. Remember, we all get hoodwinked.”
Her face remained red.
“We found a bigger piece of the same DNA that came from an apartment in Chicago.”
“What?”
Jericho put her glass down and squinted at him.
“Forensics traced it months ago to Scurry Farms, so I talked to Kubiak—by phone. Saved me from going there. Maybe your Wisconsin upbringing made you immune to those sorts of smells.”
“It didn’t.”
“He called me right after you left to tell me,” Cotsworth said, “that another person wanted to know about Lemon Jell-O.” He smiled. “Said he h
oped he was doing the right thing.”
“A decent man,” Jericho commented.
“So here’s my quid pro quo. You should know that Barif Ali is also an alias,” the agent said. “Lemon Jell-O and Ali are really someone named Wesley Morgan…Dr. Wesley Morgan, a heart surgeon here in Chicago.”
“What?” Jericho exclaimed.
“Operates on babies…at least used to…and was good at it…and a decent guy… I gather that’s unusual for surgeons. I assumed they’re mostly assholes.”
Jericho was too shocked to laugh with him.
“Then, almost two years ago, his life…poof…gone.”
Jericho didn’t believe they were discussing the same individual.
“Morgan’s been the focus of a Missing Person investigation,” Cotsworth said, “my personal project for months now.”
“A missing person?” she said with surprise.
Cotsworth pulled a thick file from his briefcase, slipped his finger behind a tab, and folded it open. He turned it around to show her a picture.
“That’s Ali,” Jericho replied. “The pictures I have are different, but it’s him, no doubt.”
“Right.” Cotsworth was looking at the image upside down. “Good-looking guy, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she showed no more than passing curiosity.
The agent handed her the picture of Caroline from the brochure.
“What a pretty girl!” Jericho exclaimed.
“They were in a serious relationship,” he replied.
The agent’s finger lifted another tab.
“Her old man owned a Beltway company designing spy equipment. Made buckets of dough, cashed out, and retired in central Virginia as a gentleman farmer. Name’s Jon Pruitt.”
Jericho studied the white-haired man, glancing only briefly at a phone number and address written beside it.
“Don’t recognize him or the name,” she said, shaking her head.
He closed the folder.
“Airport security in Houston found Morgan’s car abandoned and searched it,” said Cotsworth. “A box in the trunk was addressed to Pruitt…so, naturally, they called him. Then, the next day, I get pulled from every active case and I’m assigned to work just on Morgan. All I can imagine is that Pruitt must have known somebody way up the tree and asked for help. I won the hand…lucky, I guess.”
“Or that good.” The man deserved a compliment. “So…what was in the box?”