“I can,” Kranemeyer replied calmly, gazing across the room at Hank Imler, remembering Coftey’s words about the congressman from Nevada. “Based on the intelligence we possessed at the time of the strike—the prosecution of the target was in strict accordance with the Law of War.”
“You’re not going to be Hank’s target, Barney,” Roy Coftey had said, a grim look in his eye,“that’s the President. You’re just going to be the nearest proxy. And if crucifying you is the quickest way to crucify Norton, then that’s what he’ll do, without a blessed thought for the broader consequences. He’s a small man, with a mind to match—too small to see the big picture, out beyond the end of his political nose.”
But they were prepared for that.
“And let us not forget,” Kranemeyer continued, pre-empting Imler’s quick response, “despite the media focus on the admitted failure to eliminate the primary target, Umar ibn Hassan, three prominent Islamic State leaders were confirmed among the dead—the entire senior leadership of Wilayat Sayna, wiped out in a single blow.”
And Umar ibn Hassan had stepped in to take their place, establishing himself—unchallenged—as the caliph’s personal representative in the Sinai, Kranemeyer thought, but didn’t add.
The Agency had been set up, if the truth be told, but truth wasn’t the purpose of these hearings. It never was.
Congressman Imler shook his head, leaning in closer to his microphone as though he feared the press cameras wouldn’t pick up his every word. “And that’s sufficient justification, in your view, for all of this. . .carnage?” he asked, pausing dramatically. “For the decision you took to end innocent life.”
Kranemeyer began to respond, but Bell cleared his throat beside him, cutting in. “If you might excuse my intrusion, Mr. Chairman, the ranking member seems to be laboring under the mistaken belief that the final decision to prosecute the strike against Umar ibn Hassan was Director Kranemeyer’s. It was, in fact, mine.”
The faces of Tamariz and Imler were a study in contrast in that moment. . .the chairman’s face flushed with chagrin as he stammered out a response, the ranking member’s triumphant, leaning back in his seat to enjoy his counterpart’s confusion.
And he saw what Tamariz’s game had been in that moment. Contain the fallout. Shift the blame onto the intelligence community itself, away from their political masters. Isolate it far enough away from the President, that he—and by extension, the party—couldn’t be directly implicated. At least in the eyes of the general public.The voters.
Kranemeyer had been far enough down the food chain for the plan to work. The Director of National Intelligence. . .wasn’t.
And his mind returned to that afternoon in the DNI’s office in Liberty Crossing, the hard look in Bell’s eyes as he’d stared across the desk. The look of a man who had already made up his mind.
“Let me take the fall on this one, Barney. It’s for the best, trust me.”
“But it was my decision, sir,” Kranemeyer had responded. “We both know that. By all rights—”
“Right has nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with anything in this town.” Bell had paused, as if choosing his next words very carefully. “We both know what you did—I imagine we both wish it could be undone, knowing what we know now. Do things over again, make the right call. But that’s not going to happen. Pandora doesn’t go back in the box. The only thing for us to do is figure out how best to manage the fallout. And the best way to do that is for me take responsibility.”
“It’ll be the end of your career.”
A shrug. “It’ll be the end of someone’s. Might as well be mine. The Agency still needs you.”
“But, sir—”
“I’ll be dead in five months, Barney. Maybe less—that’s what the doctor has given me.” There was nothing of bitterness in the DNI’s voice—just a calm acceptance of his fate. “Cancer. They found it far too late to do anything about it. . .it’s everywhere.”
“I’m sorry.” The words had seemed as insufficient, as meaningless, as ever, and Bell had shaken his head.
“Don’t be. Just let me do this one last thing for my country. Let me fall on my sword.”
“Is—is this representation of events accurate, Mr. Kranemeyer?” Antonio Tamariz demanded, his voice bringing him back to the present. A desperate look in the chairman’s eyes. The look of a man who has just found the ground shifting beneath his feet—opening up to swallow him whole.
“It is,” Kranemeyer nodded calmly, not a trace of hesitation in his voice.
The mind I have has sworn no oath. . .
5:36 P.M. Central European Summer Time
The safehouse
Coulommiers, France
“We can put the first van here,” Harry said, circling a point on the satellite map with the mouse cursor, “on the Rue de Brennus. And the second with Aryn and Yassin, here, farther north—along the Rue de l’Olympisme. Once the drones have hit their target, there’s going to be panic in the stadium, a flood of people trying to get out, to get away. And that’s when we’ll abandon the vans and make our way out onto the Avenue Jules Rimet, in front of the stadium itself—two separate teams of shahid, targeting Gates C & E. The terror of the crowd will be to our advantage—hinder the efforts of the French security services to reach us, to stop us.”
It should have seemed strange to talk so calmly of one’s own death, Harry thought, glancing around the small room at the eager faces surrounding him—but it was something he had done so many times over the years.
And every single time, he had walked away in the end—alive, even if only just barely.
No more. This was the end of the road. One final sacrifice.
There was an irony in the thought. . .his chosen end, not that dissimilar from the would-be martyrs who now huddled around him, straining for a glimpse of the laptop’s screen. They still sought redemption in their deaths—he knew better than to harbor any such hope.
But the end was the same, for all that. Blood and fire.
“Why wouldn’t we just pack the vans with explosives?” Aryn asked quietly, looking up from his seat a few feet away. “Drive them into the crowd as they exit the gates.”
“Impossible to get close enough,” Harry replied, repressing a shudder at the young man’s words. This was the same Aryn who had stayed at his mother’s side in her waning months, caring for her. Loving her. And regretting every last moment that her illness prevented him from joining the jihad.
“You could see the anti-vehicle barricades stacked near the main gate this morning, ready to be moved into position. With President Albéric attending the game, the security presence will be intensified. It will take all the confusion of the attack to even get close enough on foot.”
“Why not separate the attacks even farther,” Gamal Belkaïd asked, speaking up after studying the laptop for a few moments. A frown on his face. “Move the second van up to the Rue du Mondial, hit the G or H gates.”
Because that would be too far away for me to move to intervene, was the thought that went through Harry’s mind, but he didn’t give voice to it, looking up to meet Belkaïd’s gaze. “We only have a few men, Gamal—unless you are prepared to commit more of your own personnel to the attack. We need to be in position to support each other, if possible. To sell ourselves dearly.”
Belkaïd seemed to consider the proposal for a long, painful moment before shaking his head. “Non,” he said finally, “if I reach out further in my organization, I risk finding those who would be less. . .committed. Unwilling to martyr themselves for their faith.”
Like yourself. It was another thought which went unsaid—there had never been the slightest hint that Belkaïd would himself seek martyrdom in this operation. An irony so old as to be worn out from overuse—it was never men like Belkaïd who ended up on the front lines, wearing an s-vest.
War and death, revolution—jihad—the province of young men, as they had ever been. Only the names, the purported causes, changing with the passi
ng of the years. Fresh labels for the oldest of scams.
“Do what you can,” Belkaïd continued, thoughtfully, turning to leave the room, “with what you have.”
11:42 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time
The Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.
“. . .to reach the obvious conclusion. . .the President deliberately misled the American people to bolster his foreign policy credentials. . .”
The low hum of voices from the television greeted Melody Lawlor’s ears as she pushed open the door to Coftey’s inner office—not bothering to knock. The senator wasn’t there, anyway, he was out to lunch with. . .one of the junior senators on the Select Committee, she didn’t remember the man’s name.
Her heels sank in the carpet as she walked over to his desk, the geography of the room so familiar to her that she could have made the journey blindfolded—the navy blue couch off to one side by the door, well-used, of that she had no doubt.
A shadow box, containing his decorations from Vietnam hung above the couch, along with a picture of himself from his first Senate run—decades before.
There was a fireplace across the room, a large Xiang Zhang painting of the 1889 Oklahoma Land Rush framed above its mantel. A reminder of home, she thought ironically. Coftey had spent far more time in D.C. than Oklahoma over the last thirty-plus years.
She circled the desk, depositing the folder neatly in front of Coftey’s chair—the continuing murmur from the television over to one side of the fireplace drawing her attention in that moment.
“. . .and what was the initial basis upon which you based your assessment of Umar ibn Hassan’s presence at the target location, Mr. Kranemeyer?”
“That’s not a question I can answer in open session, ma’am,” she heard a strangely familiar voice respond as the camera panned away from Representative Claire Nitikman, re-focusing on a broad-shouldered man seated behind the microphones. “I can only state that the intelligence community had ‘high confidence’ in the accuracy of our assessment, a confidence shared by multiple involved agencies.”
“A misplaced confidence, clearly. . .” Nitikman responded, but Melody was no longer listening, the world around her seeming to fade away as she focused in on the man’s face. Remembering.
Coftey’s friend in Chandler—that voice, ominous as death, filtering to her through the thin walls of the farmhouse, replying to the senator’s comment about Haskel and Shapiro. “We do not discuss that. Ever.”
And here he was again. . .before Congress.
She was trembling by the time she reached the outer office, almost slamming Coftey’s door behind her—her face ashen as she retreated to her own desk, rummaging in her purse for the burner.
Her first attempt to swipe the phone’s pattern lock failed, and she swore, glancing toward the door as if expecting the senator to return at any moment.
Another try, and it unlocked, her thumbs flying across the screen as she tapped out a brief message. Turn on your TV. The hearing. It’s him.
She paused, her thumb hovering over the SEND button—knowing that this was the final point of no return. The moment when none of this could ever be undone.
Or perhaps she had passed that point, long ago. It was so hard to tell, looking back.
Another low curse escaped her lips, and she jammed her thumb into the screen with a violent gesture. Sent.
6:03 P.M. Central European Summer Time
The offices of the Consortium Stade de France
Paris, France
“Non. C’est impossible.” The man shook his head, a stubborn, immoveable expression on his broad, plain face.
“I am sorry if I conveyed the impression that this was a choice I was offering you, Monsieur Aubert,” Marion Leseur replied, returning his look with a hard stare of her own. “I have the power to implement these measures of my own accord—and I will do what is necessary to protect my principal. Informing you is a courtesy, that is all.”
The CEO’s curse was low, but clearly audible, a frown furrowing his brow as he stared across the desk at her. “Pardon, madame. But you must understand the implications of what you are proposing. To use mobile jammers to shut down communications in a two-kilometer radius surrounding the stadium—for the duration of the event—as I said: impossible.”
“Pour quoi?”
Aubert sighed heavily, running a hand through his thinning hair as he rose, pacing back and forth behind his desk. “We will have over sixty thousand people in that stadium Saturday—most of them below the age of thirty-five. Do you have children, Madame Leseur?”
She shook her head. In fact, she did have one son—a recent université graduate now pursuing an engineering career in Toulouse—but she saw no reason to discuss her personal life here, with this corporate executive.
He snorted. “I do—two daughters, both in université. I couldn’t separate them from their phones if my life depended on it. And at an event like this, people will be taking photos throughout the game, sharing them on social media—messaging their friends. And if they cannot do so at an event they have paid for. . .”
A shrug, as he spread his hands toward her. “There will be massive outrage—outrage directed, not at your own agency, of course, but at my company. We will take the blame, for your decision.”
He paused, seeming to contemplate his decision for a long moment. “I am afraid that we here at the Consortium will have to request that President Albéric absent himself from the game. It would be our honor to host him, but if this is the price. . .it is too high. Je suis désolé. Please, convey this message to him.”
2:03 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time
Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
Once, Kranemeyer thought, camera flashes going off in his face as he hustled through the halls of the Capitol Building back toward the HPSCI hearing room, any photos taken of him would have been carefully redacted to remove the faces of he and his fellow Delta operators. Their unit’s existence, one of the government’s multitude of open secrets. Their identities, one of its most jealously guarded.
Blacker than black.
Those had been the days. Now, with reporters attempting to jam microphones into his face as he walked—cameras everywhere—his face was going to be appearing everywhere, on every 24/7 cable news program, at least for the few days until they settled upon the next distraction.
And the Internet. . .it was forever.
No going back.
The committee members were themselves returning from lunch as Kranemeyer took his seat once more beside Bell, exchanging a simple, professional nod with the older man. The hours of media attention had been grueling for both of them.
Returning. . .but the chairman was himself nowhere to be seen, Kranemeyer realized, his eyes briefly scanning the room for Tamariz.
A moment later, as if in answer to his thought, the Republican congressman from Arizona put in an appearance from a side entrance, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm—an aide at his side as he walked, the two of them carrying on a low, animated conversation in the few moments before Tamariz dismissed the young woman.
The chairman took his seat, re-opening the hearings with a few brief, perfunctory words.
“It has come to my attention,” he continued, cutting off the ranking member as Imler attempted to seize the moment and the microphone, “since the revelations of this morning’s session, that this committee is already in possession of sworn written testimony from Stewart Arntz, an attorney with the CIA’s Office of General Counsel, who was called upon to provide legal guidance on the QUICKSAND strike, and has given us a detailed account of how events unfolded.”
Kranemeyer didn’t look at Bell, his pulse involuntarily quickening. They had discussed this possibility, but even so. . .
“Allow me to quote from Mr. Arntz’s testimony. . .‘the final decision to execute the strike was taken by Director Kranemeyer while the DNI had absented himself from the room. When Director Bell returned,
he appeared surprised. . .’”
There was barely restrained triumph glittering in Tamariz’s dark eyes.
“He goes on,” he continued, gesturing with his hand to the sheaf of paper before him, “but I think that much is sufficient to point to the apparent contradiction we find ourselves faced with, between the written testimony of Mr. Arntz, and the claims which have been made before this committee this morning.”
The room seemed to go quiet in that moment, all eyes—every camera—focusing on the two directors. “Can you explain this?”
There was a dangerous moment’s hesitation on Bell’s part before he responded, but when he did, his voice was clear and unwavering.
“There is no contradiction, Mr. Tamariz, however it might appear,” the DNI replied calmly. “My instructions to Director Kranemeyer, over the days leading up to the execution of QUICKSAND, were clear and unequivocal. If the moment came, and our preconditions were met, the strike was to be launched. The moment came, and those preconditions had been met. . .”
7:37 P.M.
The safehouse
Coulommiers, France
They had done a good job, Harry thought, circling the drone on the table—eyeing its payload of plastic explosives with a critical glance.
It was a job he had hoped to be tasked with, given his “background” in Syria. A simple adjustment here or there to the wiring, even to the weight distribution of the plastique itself, might have been enough to spike Belkaïd’s cannons. But the crime boss had, instead, entrusted it to a pair of his men. . .and the work they had done was impressive.
“Mash’allah,” he breathed, glancing over with a smile to where Faouzi stood by the door, a Chinese-made Type 56 AK clone in his hands. Standing guard.
The man didn’t return the smile, his eyes unwavering—as if he somehow expected to divine Harry’s thoughts.
Good luck. Harry cast another glance back at the drones, his eyes sweeping over at the sturdy black fuselage. There might be just a chance—tomorrow, when they took them out to test them for the first time. A simple collision, like the ones he had arranged before. . .could take both of them out of action. Delay. It would be risky, but even so. . .
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