by Dana Haynes
“Of course.”
He hung up. He turned on his heels, examining the office.
His office.
* * *
The blue-eyed blonde heard Dragan Petrovic hang up and tossed her burner phone onto the bed. She had checked into the Belgrade City Hotel, a little uphill from the train and bus stations, and paid extra for a double room because it had the space for her morning tai chi rituals.
She was not—so far—impressed by Belgrade. She had tried four restaurants since hitting town. The fare tended to begin and end with goulash. She had picked up a lovely college boy last night, a fair-haired art major whose singular ambition in life apparently was to be amiable if uncreative in bed. But that had been last night and now she was bored. It was always like this between operations. The waiting was the worst.
She retrieved the cell phone from the bed and dialed Kostic, the interrogator and her primary link to the penitentiary-bait ruffians she begrudgingly called her team.
When he answered, all she said was, “Daria Gibron.”
She heard Kostic check with his partner, the laconic Lazarevic. “No,” Kostic spoke into the phone. “No sign of the woman.”
“You’re sure?”
Kostic snorted. She could hear him fire up his lighter and suck down another Syrian cigarette. “We are sure. The border patrols in Croatia and Slovenia are ours. Everyone is handsomely paid. The smugglers all know what and who we will allow to cross our borders. Lazarevic sent some boys with lighter fluid and set a trucker on fire, just to be sure everyone knows we are serious. This Gibron cannot cross out of Italy. She cannot cross out of Germany. She is no longer a factor in this. I am not worried.”
The blonde thanked him and disconnected. That’s ’cause you ain’t read her file, sweetie pie, she said to herself. She switched the phone from portrait to landscape mode, and typed: HOW’S TRIX?
Sandpoint, Idaho
Bryan Snow strolled through downtown Sandpoint, a copy of the Bonner County Daily Bee under his arm, wearing an Idaho Vandals baseball cap he’d picked up to blend in. He smiled. He whistled. This gig was terrific.
When it was all over, he might just buy a house on Lake Pend Oreille. Or have one built. With a water slide into the lake. And a seaplane. A seaplane would be cool.
Bryan Snow was a happy man.
He picked Connie’s Cafe and Cocktails, his favorite eatery in town. The sign out front proudly announced PARKING IN THE REAR in pink neon.
He sat at a booth and ordered a Sprite. The waitress had started calling him Bryan, having memorized his name from his ATM card. She was quick and polite but not overly so. She didn’t force conversation, but she knew he worked at American Citadel. Snow appreciated anyone who did his or her job well.
He felt the phone in his hip pocket vibrate just as the waitress brought his chicken potpie and a side salad with a little metal stand that held oil and vinegar bottles and matching salt and pepper shakers. She refilled his Sprite.
Snow used his fork to break the crust and steam rose out of the pastry. The edges were golden and scalloped. He smelled chicken and herbs.
Todd Brevidge had bitched incessantly about moving the R&D complex to the Idaho panhandle. Snow loved it. Sandpoint was clean, laid-back, and friendly. The views were spectacular. The residents ranged from aging hippies to retired LA County police officers. Snow had taken to attending legion baseball games on his days off. Also to hiking along the stunning Lake Pend Oreille or down south at Lake Coeur d’Alene.
The phone vibrated again. He pulled it out of his pocket and set it next to his plate.
He saw a text message. It read, HOW’S TRIX?
He sipped his drink, then typed with a single finger, slowly.
ARMY IN CHARGE. TODD = APOPLEXY.
He ate. The lettuce, cucumber, and tomato were fresh. The phone on the place mat danced a jig. SWELL. GIBRON?
M&H IN AIR 24/7. He didn’t spell out Mercutio and Hotspur. MONITORING CELLS, LANDLINES. AIRLINES, ITALIAN POLICE. NADA.
He dug into the potpie. Succulent.
Vibrate: NADA-NADA?
He typed: NADA. GIBRON OFF GRID.
The waitress circled his way. “Your lunch okay, honey?”
The honey was cliché, but he liked it. “Sure is!”
She beamed, genuinely pleased. “How’s work?”
“Good. Busy, but good.”
“That basement add-on working out okay?”
“Basement…?”
“The one they had excavated. Put three rooms down there? Retro’d the elevator? My uncle Terry worked on it.”
Snow grinned at her, absolutely thrilled. Oh, god! If only that condescending asswipe Brevidge knew that his supersecret lair was the talk of the town!
Snow said, “It’s great. Thanks.”
The waitress refilled the Sprite and moved on.
Snow chuckled to himself and ate. Man, he loved this burg. He glanced at the silent phone. After a beat, he typed: STILL THERE?
Vibrate: YES.
GOOD NEWS. RIGHT? RE GIBRON.
He waited.
Vibrate: WE’LL SEE.
* * *
Six blocks away, Todd Brevidge hoovered up a generous line of cocaine in his second-story office.
No, wait. Not office. Cubbyhole? Not quite. Ah, yes. Shithole. Better.
That snooty, buttoned-down Colonel Olivia Crace had requisitioned Todd’s spacious office. She and General Howard Cathcart had huddled after that psychotic fiasco in Florence. When they emerged they informed Cyrus Acton and the other American Citadel board members that some “new truths”—that’s how they worded it: new truths—had replaced the old ones.
First, Cathcart and Crace would absolutely be touting the advantages of the American Citadel micro air vehicles to the military intelligence black budget boys. If true, the company would be saved.
Second, the powers that be at American Citadel were in it up to their necks when it came to that flaming cluster-fuck in Italy. A Hotspur MAV had annihilated a hotel. Italian police, and then Italian intelligence, estimated sixteen dead, including seven representatives of the Russian military and a member of the Serbian Parliament. Plus, a respected Italian aerospace designer and two of her senior engineers.
Because the American Citadel brass was implicated, it was agreed that Colonel Olivia Crace would take command of the entire R&D offsite facility in Sandpoint for the duration. And the military defined duration as the elimination of the Israeli expat, Daria Gibron. That, plus the reacquisition of the woman calling herself Major Arcana. She would have to be eliminated, too.
Only thing was: both women had vanished.
General Cathcart had returned to Washington to coordinate the search—quietly, behind the scenes—with the CIA, which seemed most intent on finding this Gibron. America’s allies in Europe were helping. Law enforcement had been called in, and all border crossings were on high alert.
Brevidge felt the coke flow through his nervous system. He waited for the drug to give him the perspective it always provided.
Sure: the Florence incident was one of the great screwups in the history of the world. It was the type of incident that ended not with people being fired but with firing squads. On the other hand, the covert war boys were impressed by Mercutio and Hotspur. The company looked to be solvent. The free world would remain safe from the forces of terrorism and communism.
Todd Brevidge almost couldn’t believe he’d found the sweet spot between prison and profitability. But he had.
He tapped out another line of coke.
They say war is hell? Try sales.
Nineteen
The crew of the Hercules C-130 had spoken no English. The same was true for the trawler that took John across the Adriatic from the east coast of Italy to Slovenia.
The boat was maybe thirty feet long and sixty years old. The crew members were serious fishermen, and the trawler reeked of fish. The lower hull was filled with ice. John stayed inside the moldy wooden cabin on dec
k throughout the journey. It gave him plenty of time to think about Senator Singer Cavanaugh and the job John had thrown away.
* * *
John had arrived at the Cavanaughs’ lush and tucked-away neighborhood at 7:00 A.M.
Adair Simon-Cavanaugh opened the cherry red door herself after John rang the bell. She didn’t seem surprised to find her husband’s aide at the door. “Hello, John. Please come in.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh turned and led him into the house. She was sixty-five and wearing a crisp white blouse, slim black trousers, and red flats. She was the richest person John Broom had ever met, or was ever likely to meet. Singer was the brash New Orleans pol; Adair Simon came from very old Georgia money.
John entered in her wake. “I’m sorry to bother you at home.”
Adair smiled. “It’s fine, John. We were half expecting you.”
John himself hadn’t known he was coming until twenty minutes before he called the taxi.
Adair led him through the splendidly appointed town house and into the spacious kitchen. The senator stood near a many-paned window that looked out at the backyard. He started every day standing behind a plain wooden parson’s lectern he had purchased four decades earlier. Its surface was big enough that Singer could lay out his newspapers with room for a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee. He read eight newspapers every morning.
His reading glasses were perched low on his hawk nose, and he wore a starched white shirt; his bow tie was undone and laying against his clavicle, suspenders tight against his shoulders.
“John,” he boomed.
Adair Simon-Cavanaugh poured John a cup of coffee.
“Thank you.” He turned to the senator. “Sir, it’s the Black Swan event in Florence.”
Adair slid into the bench of the bright red and white breakfast nook with her own cup of coffee. She said, “I know about the hotel. I don’t know the term Black Swan.”
“It’s an event—military, terrorism-related, political—that’s big and brash and completely unexpected but which has strong repercussions afterward,” John said. “It’s a Latin expression.”
Singer pretended to read his paper. “The poet Juvenal.”
“Yes, sir. He said: all swans are white. So a black swan is, by definition, the rarest possible observation. A rara avis. It’s where we get the term rare bird.”
Adair stirred her coffee. “My goodness. The useless information you boys have in your noggins.” But it was said with a smile, and John took it as just a wry jab, nothing more.
John took a deep breath and turned to the senator. “Sir, I think I need to resign.”
Singer and Adair exchanged glances. Adair was a handsome woman, serene and even-tempered in public but known for her steely resolve. She also was known as something of a poker player. John could not read her at all.
When the senator did not respond, John pushed on. “I’m sorry about this. But Daria made contact with me and asked for my help. She also suggested I contact a man to get me there through illegal means. For obvious reasons, I’m going. But I can’t … we can’t afford any of this to come back on you, or your staff, or the joint committee, or the party.”
Singer nodded for him to continue.
“There’s another factor. Whoever was tracking Daria’s calls, they know she called me. So I need to inoculate your office from any blowback from that direction as well. I hope you understand.”
Singer Cavanaugh pursed his lips. Adair busied herself with applying a spoonful of sugar to her coffee.
“Resignation accepted.”
John stood there a moment. He had hoped the senator would put up a fight. “Thank you, sir. This is about the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You’re a lion of Congress. Your reputation there, and as a prosecutor, and as FBI director, make you uniquely qualified to speak for all of Washington. For the nation.”
Adair drawled, “Though apparently it would kill him to empty the dishwasher occasionally.”
Singer pretended to glower at her. She smiled benignly.
John said, “I can’t put that at risk, Senator.”
Adair turned to their guest. “I’m on the board of directors for the International Red Cross. It’s not common knowledge, but the IRC Subcommittee on Refugees is putting together a contact group for Croatia and Serbia.”
John blinked at her. “Croatia and Serbia don’t have a refugee problem.”
She flashed him one of her famous high-octane smiles. “Then my friends at the Red Cross will need a contact group to study the great good fortune of Croatia and Serbia. They’re looking for a freelance analyst to study the region. The sooner the better. We bypassed the request-for-proposal stage. The contract is yours. Congratulations and good luck.”
John felt the world slip a little from beneath his feet. He wasn’t used to being the second-quickest mind in any given room. Let alone third-quickest.
“Wait. I … you knew I’d suggest this?”
Singer waggled his bushy white eyebrows, looking pleased with himself. “We figured you’d get there on your own.”
John felt his eyes tear up. “I don’t know what to say.”
Singer flipped a page of the International Herald Tribune. “Say yes and get the hell out of my kitchen so I can go serve the taxpayers.”
Adair stood and reached for John’s untouched coffee cup. “We won’t be able to funnel too much money into this project. Not without raising some eyebrows. My secretary has a list of names and numbers for you. I’ll have them messengered to your place inside an hour.”
Singer peered over his glasses. “Or we could trust the CIA to do its job. You’re sure we can’t go that route, son?”
“Unfortunately, yes sir, I am. Daria did what she had to do last winter, but it resulted in the assistant director for antiterrorism taking early retirement. There was a field agent who was fired over the whole thing. Owen Cain Thorson. Daria made big enemies.”
“Understood. You go do what you need to do. This Red Cross thing will provide you with resources so you don’t have to worry about my office. But you have my personal cell phone if you need me.”
John cleared his throat. He tamped down the outpouring of emotion.
“Go take care of your friend, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
Adair led John back through the spacious but understated living room and entry room to the front door. He was still reeling.
“Thank you.”
“Singer thinks the world of you. And he trusts you. You go and get yourself killed over there, he’ll never forgive himself. So don’t do that.”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Good luck, John.”
She bussed him on the cheek. John hunched his shoulders and hustled to the cab he’d left waiting.
* * *
Now here it was two days later and John was in … well, he wasn’t sure. Slovenia, probably. The trawler had dropped anchor outside Opatija, overlooking a beautiful bay. The crew used an inflatable raft with a tiny outboard motor to get him ashore.
He found a man waiting for him by an ancient Austin Cooper. The man was dark, with shoulder-length black hair and the flat-planed face John associated with Central America. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, a cowboy hat, and dusty boots. He was tightly built and compact. He leaned on the Cooper. “Broom?”
“Yeah.”
The guy climbed behind the wheel. John threw his messenger bag into what passed for a backseat. He sat. The dashboard was half missing and there were no seat belts.
Away from the icy trawler, John began unwinding himself from his winter clothes.
The guy said, “Diego.”
“Hi.”
“Friend of Daria.”
John said, “Me, too.”
The man put the Cooper into gear. “Better be.”
* * *
It now was four days since anyone had heard from Daria.
John discovered he’d been put ashore in Croatia, not Slovenia. The quiet man drove south on a wildly winding
road that dipped down to sea level near the towns and zoomed straight up the sides of mountains in between. The view was spectacular, the Adriatic glistening. Any other time and John would have enjoyed the road trip.
They drove for over an hour without speaking. John slipped into a quick nap, but the hairpin curves made that impossible to sustain.
At one point he rubbed at a severe kink in his neck and said, “Why are you doing this?”
Diego watched the road. He drove fast but carefully.
John said, “You’re … what? Hired gun for the Viking?”
Diego downshifted through a precarious turn. “Who’s the Viking?”
“Right. Sorry.”
They drew closer to Split. The traffic wasn’t too bad, although trucks got in the way a lot. John realized there was an elevated inland highway and wondered why the trucks weren’t up there.
Twenty minutes later the driver said, “Let me guess. Daria saved your life.”
“Me?”
Diego nodded.
“No. I’m not the kind of guy people have to save. I’m a lawyer. Biggest threat to my life is overaggressive air conditioning.”
Diego seemed to absorb this, eyes on the road.
John said, “I guess, technically, I saved hers.”
That took them another three kilometers.
“You saved Daria Gibron.” Diego sounded incredulous.
“Yeah.”
Four more kilometers. And Diego almost smiled. “Okay. I got to ask…”
“CIA hit squad. This was last November in Milan.”
“She told me. She was sick.”
“Damn near dead. And the CIA field team wanted her all the way dead. I intervened.”
Diego upshifted, smoked a souped-up Z Car.
“How?”
“I found a legal loophole in CIA protocol. Once I did, killing Daria would have led to the mother of all paperwork storms. Bureaucratic nightmare. Not killing her became the easy way out.”
They drove. The signs pointed them south to Dubrovnik and east to Bosnia-Herzegovina.
Diego shook his head. “You shitting me. You saved Daria with … paperwork?”
John leaned back. “I’m a D.C. lawyer. I could kill a water buffalo with paperwork.”