“Thank you,” Banner said.
She wagged a finger at him. “Rigid self-control is not always a good thing. Everyone needs a vice, no matter how minor.”
Banner jerked his head toward the stairs, and they both started up. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Let’s bring Caldridge in. I don’t like what’s happening here.”
Banner held the door for Stromeyer. “What do you think is happening?”
“I think someone’s after us all.”
11
KARL TARRANT WALKED INTO A SMALL PATHWAY BETWEEN TWO ramshackle houses close to Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. It was eleven o’clock at night, and the working crowd, what little existed in this neighborhood, was long gone. The seasonal spring day had faded into a crisp evening. Cars whizzed down the street, each one hitting a metal square in the middle that covered a pothole. The repeated clanging sound frayed Tarrant’s already jangled nerves. His teeth chattered in response to a chill that was not from the night air but from within. He hadn’t had a hit in over thirty-six hours. His hands shook and his head ached as he waited for the one thing that would make all his pains go away.
The African in the overcoat strolled toward him as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Tarrant felt a mixture of relief and disgust. Relief because his physical troubles were at an end, disgust because the man had botched the job Tarrant had hired him to do. The man stopped before him.
“Here.” He handed Tarrant a bottle marked IBUPROFEN. The bottle actually contained black-market OxyContin.
Tarrant was outraged. “One bottle? That’s it? What the hell am I going to do with one bottle, eh? Won’t last a week.”
“Relax. I put ten more in a bag and left them in our usual spot. I just figured you’d be hurting by now and thought I’d bring you some relief.”
Tarrant snorted. He shook out two capsules and swallowed them. They stuck a little on the way down, but he didn’t care. He needed them, not water. “Glad you’re so thoughtful. I only wish you’d done what I asked you to do.”
The African shrugged. “We got her with the pen, didn’t we?”
“What about the bomb? Who the hell did that?”
The man grinned. “I set that up. A little one, really. Took out the area around the track. Was a well-controlled explosion. I am good.” The man’s white teeth glowed against his dark skin, and his eyes gleamed with the touch of madness that afflicted all true arsonists. Tarrant thought killing the guy wouldn’t have been the worst thing that could happen, except for the fact that he’d have to find another dealer.
“I don’t know how a simple stick could turn into such a disaster. We could have stuck her anywhere,” he said.
“But now they think it’s tied to the bombing. Worked out well, don’t you think?”
A man emerged from the shadows thrown by the trees lining the sidewalk. Streetlight beams traversed his body at an angle from shoulder to ankle, illuminating the muted silk tie, soft blue shirt, and dark suit that looked custom. Tarrant noticed that the African quieted in respect as the man approached. The newcomer stopped just short of the pathway’s entrance, his face shrouded in the shadow of an overhanging eave. Tarrant felt his stomach turn. He thought the nickname of Vulture fit the man’s thin, hardened features. The Vulture paid handsomely, but Tarrant detested him. He was evil incarnate.
“It did work well. I have to compliment you.” The European-accented voice held no trace of sarcasm. The African exhaled softly, as if he’d been holding his breath. The Vulture turned to Tarrant. “And we could not stick her anywhere. It had to be at the peak of the race in order to assess the chemical’s effect on the human body during extreme exertion. A little human clinical trial minus the federal oversight. And what about the chemical you love so much? I trust you’ll be feeling better soon?”
Tarrant nodded. His throat was dry.
The Vulture held up two thick white envelopes. “Here’s another five thousand for each of you and detailed information on the next job. I need you to persuade a certain gentleman to halt his operations in the Red Sea. Or, more specifically, in the trade route through the Gulf of Aden.” Tarrant took one of the envelopes and shoved it into his pocket without looking at it. The Vulture had never shorted him.
“Dead persuaded? Or just hammered-into-the-pavement persuaded?” Tarrant said.
The Vulture shrugged. “Beaten first. Homicides draw too much attention. Of course, if the beating doesn’t work, you can escalate the force. I’m aware that you have a reputation for killing people by accident.”
Tarrant snorted. “Once my temper gets away from me, I have a hard time pulling back.”
“If you end up killing him, be certain that his vice president gets the message, too.”
“Is it true that you want us to stick the runner again?” the African asked.
“I understand that she got up and finished the race.”
The African nodded. “She ran away, fast. Real fast. Is that what she was supposed to do?”
“Yes. But we also expected much more erratic behavior as well. No one seems able to confirm that aspect. If she was behaving within the bounds of normal, then the dose may not be enough.”
The African frowned. “I hit her hard. Gave her every last drop. I thought the drug works better on fit people. Enters their system faster. If that’s true, she should have turned into a lunatic.”
The Vulture shook his head. “She did not. Not at all. Dose her again.” He looked at Tarrant.
“Whatever. We’ll get it done,” Tarrant said.
“Good. I’ll be in touch.” The Vulture sketched a wave with his hand, walked to the curb, and reached a hand into the air, as if he was hailing a cab. Tarrant was just about to inform him that there were no cabs willing to risk this particular neighborhood at that hour of the evening when a large black sedan pulled up and halted. The Vulture swung open the door and disappeared inside. The car drove off.
“That man is a psychopath in a suit,” the African said. “I won’t be crossing him.”
The drug was in full flower now, giving Tarrant a feeling of bravado. “He’s just a rich guy in good clothes who’s afraid to do his own dirty work,” he said.
The African scoffed. “I’d like to hear you tell him that to his face.”
Tarrant shrugged. “He’s gone now.”
“But he’ll be back. Let’s just be sure we get this Gulf of Aden guy good. I don’t want to fail the Vulture. He’d start his testing on me. I wouldn’t make it a week.”
“We’ll get him, don’t you worry.” Tarrant grinned like a fool all the way back to his car.
12
SUMNER TOOK THE FIRST WATCH, TEAMED WITH JANKLOW. THEY walked the deck, moving in opposite directions. Every twenty minutes or so, they’d pass each other. Sumner’s watch showed three o’clock in the morning. He met Janklow in the middle.
“You know, taking this shift means that we’re most likely to see some action, right?” Janklow said.
“If we don’t fall asleep first,” Sumner said. A thought occurred to him. “If these guys come back and actually board us, what can they get? Besides the hostages and the money in the casino, I mean.”
Janklow leaned against the railing for a moment. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Sumner.
“I don’t smoke,” Sumner said. He watched Janklow light up, take a deep drag, and blow out the smoke before answering.
“We’re carrying some cargo as well. It’s unusual, we don’t often do it, but it’s for a charity. Our hold contains vaccines and pharmaceutical products that we were to deliver to Mombasa when we docked there.”
“Is it worth anything?” Sumner said.
Janklow shook his head. “Invaluable to the kids who need it, but not worth a thing to the pirates. The whole idea is a bit of a boondoggle anyway, because some African countries are highly suspicious of vaccines to begin with. They think the medicine is really a way for the U.S. to poison their children. Sometimes we
deliver the products and they end up rotting on the dock.”
“So we won’t be able to use the cargo as barter to get us out of the situation.”
Janklow took another puff. “Not at all. Our best bet is the money in the casino. But I doubt they’ll settle for it. They’ll want to ransom the passengers as well. Last month the Danes paid over a million dollars for five of their own. That’s big business for these guys.”
Sumner thought about the four men in the cigarette boats. They had looked like Somali fishermen: skinny and underfed. He’d be amazed if they had fifty bucks between them.
“Who’s getting the money? It sure as hell isn’t those four losers in the boats.”
“The warlords. They finance the boats, guns, you name it. The guys actually doing the attacking barely make a living wage.”
“I wish I could speak to them. I could tell them that the U.S. won’t pay. I know this from personal experience.”
Janklow looked at Sumner with a measured gaze. “I heard that you were held hostage in Colombia. The U.S. didn’t ransom you?”
Sumner watched the ocean for a moment before answering. “Not a penny. But I ended up costing the kidnappers a lot more than they cost the U.S.”
Janklow looked intrigued. “If I may ask, how did you get out of there?”
Sumner thought about Emma Caldridge. He caught himself smiling, which was something he didn’t do too much of, before and especially after Colombia. He hoisted the gun higher on his shoulder. “I was saved by a beautiful mad scientist.”
Janklow grunted in surprise. “Can you bring her here? We could use her help.”
Sumner shook his head. “I want her to stay as far away from here as possible.”
Janklow finished his smoke, ground out the butt, and tossed it into a nearby cigarette bin. “I don’t blame you for that.”
Sumner started walking again.
Janklow moved out in the opposite direction. “See you on the next turn.”
Halfway around the deck, Sumner bumped into Block. “Out for a stroll?”
“I wish,” Block replied. “Wainwright wants me to take over for Janklow. Something’s going on with the damage, and he’s needed there.” He turned and fell into step with Sumner. “Anything happen so far?”
“No, but this is the ‘hot’ shift. You know that, right?”
Block sighed. “I told you, I used to hunt. Lots of animals come out at night. Don’t see how these are any different.”
Sumner couldn’t argue with that. They met up with Janklow at the midpoint. He eyed Block with a sour expression that was even worse than his usual one. Sumner watched him manage a cordial nod.
“Mr. Block, what brings you on deck this late?” Janklow asked.
“Wainwright needs you in Stateroom A to inspect the damage. He wants me to spell you.” Block waved toward the pistol holstered at Janklow’s waist. “That little gun all you got?”
Janklow sighed and pulled the gun, holster and all, off his waist. He handed it to Block. “This is it.”
Block scrutinized the pistol. “What the hell is this?”
“A stun gun.”
The gun was bright yellow and had a square muzzle instead of a round one. Slightly thicker than an actual pistol, it came with its own holster in fluorescent neon.
“Why the hell is it so bright? This thing glows. I might as well be carrying a sign that says ‘I’m over here, shoot me.’” Block waved the holster around. The reflective material left streaks of green light as it moved through the dark.
“It’s considered rescue equipment. All rescue equipment is designed so that it can be located in the dark.”
“How does it work?” Block asked.
“It takes a few seconds to charge. You flick this on”—Janklow showed Block a switch—“and when it’s ready, you aim and shoot.”
“Do I need to touch the guy? ’Cause let me tell you right now, I don’t want to get that close.”
Janklow shook his head. “It has two darts that shoot out on fishing lines with a range of twenty-one feet.”
Block smiled. “That’ll do for distance.”
“But there’s a hitch with the fishing lines. They both have to hit the target to work. Guy manages to avoid one and you won’t complete a circuit. Nothing will happen except you’ll be standing there trying to reload while he’s madder than he was before. The extra charges are attached to the holster’s belt.”
“Great.” Block sounded disgusted. “Anything else I should know?”
“Certain materials will stop the electrical charge.”
“Like what?”
“Like a wet suit,” Sumner said.
Janklow hid a smile, while Block gave them both a long look.
“Sumner, give me your rifle,” Block demanded.
Sumner shook his head. “The Dragunov stays with me.”
Block pointed a finger at him. “Probably every one of those pirates will be wearing a wet suit as he climbs over the railing. You can’t keep that state-of-the-art weapon while you give your passengers these pieces of crap.”
Janklow knocked out another smoke. Before he lit it, he aimed it at Block. “Have you ever even shot a sniper rifle?”
Block looked outraged. “I can shoot anything you want to hand me, and that’s a fact.”
Janklow gave an incredulous laugh. “Texans. You guys are the biggest exaggerators in the world.”
Sumner started pacing again. Behind him he heard Janklow instructing Block on his patrol duties. Sumner turned a corner, and the only sound was the swell of the waves on the side of the boat.
But in the distance came the roar of a cigarette boat’s engine.
13
THE ASSISTANT TO THE UNDERSECRETARY FOR INTERNATIONAL security policy and procedure called Banner at one o’clock in the morning. Banner noted the caller ID before he snatched the phone off his nightstand.
“Mr. Banner, we need you at Department of Defense headquarters immediately. There’s been a problem in—”
Banner interrupted her. “Don’t say it. My phones are tapped.”
The woman began coughing. While she did, Banner pulled an image of her up from memory. She was a mousy woman, about thirty years old. Nondescript brown hair, ill-fitting dark suits with button-down shirts and flat shoes. She was new, one of the few who had lasted longer than a quarter of a year, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. She got hold of herself, and he heard her take a deep breath.
“Who’s tapping you?”
“Probably the FBI, but I can’t be positive.”
“Oh.” The woman sounded relieved. “The FBI is on our side.”
“You would think, but I’m not so sure. Best you wait to fill me in until I get there.”
“I’m using a secure phone and calling your secure line. A tap is unlikely. Are you always this cautious?”
Banner was up and rummaging through his dresser drawers, using his ear to hold the phone to his shoulder. “Yes. And really, aren’t you just a little bit impressed that I am?”
His joke was rewarded with a small laugh. “I guess I am. We’ll see you soon, then. And could you bring Major Stromeyer?”
Banner glanced again at the clock. He hated to bother Stromeyer unless it was urgent. No need for both of their nights to be ruined.
“Is it necessary? I could handle the meeting and let her sleep a little longer.”
The woman coughed again. Banner thought it was a nervous reaction. He rushed to reassure her.
“Is there a particular reason you want her there?” he asked.
“No, no, it’s just…” The woman trailed off.
“Go on.”
“It’s just that Major Stromeyer is so good at requisitions.”
Banner slid on a pair of pants and sat on the bed to put on his socks. “Major Stromeyer is great at requisitions,” he said. “I’ve often thought that Major Stromeyer could requisition a trip to the moon and do it in a way so that no one in the government
would complain.”
The nervous assistant heaved a sigh. “I always get my paperwork wrong.”
Banner felt sorry for the young woman. Especially since she probably wouldn’t survive another month in the job.
“I’ll bring Major Stromeyer.” He rang off and called Stromeyer. When she answered in a voice filled with sleep, he almost regretted his promise. “Meeting at the DOD as soon as you can.”
She gave a small groan. “Is my presence required?”
“The assistant asked for you specifically. I forget her name. The mousy one.”
“Susan Plower.”
By now Banner had his shoes on, and one sleeve of his shirt. He headed to the door with the rest of the shirt hanging off him. He snagged his car keys from a leather tray that sat on a credenza near the front door of his town house.
“She says she’s bad at paperwork.”
“She’s terrible at paperwork. We’ll finish the meeting, and she’ll get it wrong, and then Darkview won’t get paid for an additional six months while I straighten it all out. I’ll see you in twenty-five minutes.”
Banner walked into a DOD conference room populated with various personnel. They all looked relieved to see him, which should have made him feel good about himself but somehow only made him wary. Since Darkview specialized in missions to “hot” spots around the world, he wished someone would tell him which area had blown up. He didn’t have long to wait. He watched Stromeyer enter the room and, directly behind her, the new undersecretary for international security policy and procedure, Jonathan Rickell.
Banner didn’t know much about Rickell except that he’d been hired when the new administration took office and that he had a degree in international studies from the same Ivy League school the president had attended. About fifty years old, fit and balding, with shrewd eyes and a reputation for having an explosive temper, Rickell had been polite but distant the few times Banner had met him. Banner couldn’t get a handle on him.
Rickell waved them all into their seats. The Plower woman sat at his right. She glanced at Stromeyer before giving Banner a look filled with gratitude.
Rickell cleared his throat. “We’ve learned that the situation in Somalia has taken a sudden turn for the worse.”
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