Against All Enemies

by Tom Clancy

  They heard the whomping first, followed by the distant flashes of the helo’s lights. No, it wasn’t the Guatemalan pilot but the Royal Marines, coming in loud, as though announced by trumpets, and if Samad didn’t see that bird far ahead, then he had his head under the water. Shit.

  Behind Moore, the outboard sputtered, and then he felt it—the bow lowering toward the waves as they slowed, the tube growing softer as more air jetted out.

  Samad’s Zodiac was less than fifty meters away. They’d slowed, too, the boat’s pilot distracted by the oncoming helicopter, which, perhaps, confused him. They were expecting a small chopper but were getting a big one. Moore hadn’t considered that.

  As the outboard chugged even more loudly, sucking on fumes now, Moore cursed again and looked back at Towers, who said, “Up to the Marines now, I guess, huh? They got orders to take them alive, I hope?”

  “Those orders don’t mean shit. If they’re fired upon, they will fire back. I only wanted them as a roadblock.”

  A more high-pitched thumping from the northeast joined the deeper baritone of the Marines’ chopper, and Moore lifted his binoculars to spy the tiny R44 whirlybird whose twin-bladed rotor sat atop a dorsal-fin–like platform. The helo could carry a pilot and three passengers, and that’s exactly what its pilot intended to do.

  But how would the Guatemalan react to soldiers fast-roping into his intended landing zone? He’d haul ass out of there. And Samad would see that, too.

  Moore panned down with the binoculars and focused on Samad’s Zodiac. The man himself was pointing up at the second helicopter, then gesticulating wildly for his man at the tiller to pull over, across the river.

  When his man failed to react, Samad himself seized the tiller, and the Zodiac cut hard to the right toward the shoreline, and that’s when the portside tubing struck something in the water. The boat fishtailed suddenly as the outboard was struck and lifted partially out of the water. The violent impact threw Samad and one of his men across the Zodiac—

  And over the side. Into the water. The guy at the tiller, who’d been white-knuckling that handle even as Samad had taken over, shouted and broke into a wide arc, trying to wheel around. Moore saw it now—a fallen tree all but an inch or so submerged and nearly invisible in the darkness. Samad’s pilot had run right over it.

  Moore stole a look back. Their outboard was down to a gurgle. He took up the sniper rifle, even as Towers released the tiller and lifted his own gun, working the bolt to prepare for his next shot.

  The engine quit. They were gliding now toward the other Zodiac and the men in the water. Twenty meters. From the corner of his eye Moore saw movement along the shoreline. Splashes. Glowing eyes. The man in the Zodiac spotted him, thrust out his pistol—but not before Moore sighted his head and took the first shot.

  While the pilot might have been a valuable prisoner, keeping him alive decreased Moore’s chances of capturing Samad. They needed to isolate the target. The man’s head snapped back, and he slumped near the outboard. Pilotless, the Zodiac now drove straight for the shoreline.

  Samad and the other guy, either Talwar or Niazi, swam back toward the boat, both hollering and well aware they were not alone in the water. While Samad struggled forward, his partner let out a horrific cry before vanishing beneath the waves.

  Towers took the butt of his rifle and used it like an oar, trying to steer them closer to the other boat. Ten meters now.

  The water moved again.

  And Moore spotted the first enormous shadow coming up behind Samad and fired twice. The shadow jerked left and disappeared.

  Samad, a man who’d been raised in the mountains and desert, was hardly a good swimmer, and in his panic, he began to hyperventilate and go under.

  Towers fired at another shadow just to the left of Samad, and Moore realized what he had to do.

  He dropped the rifle, checked to make sure his Glock was still holstered at his side, then dove into the water.

  Meanwhile, Towers took up both pistols and began firing all around Samad, trying to create a screen around him. Then he widened his fire as Moore came up and swam hard toward the man.

  “Just calm down,” Moore told Samad in Arabic. “I’ll get you out.”

  Samad did not answer and continued thrashing and gasping for air. If Moore got too close, he could be knocked out, so he drew up slowly, then, seeing a chance, he darted closer and grabbed one of Samad’s wrists as Towers glided up to them in the Zodiac.

  “Come on, the boat’s right here,” Moore barked.

  He jerked Samad forward, past him, then shoved the guy up toward the Zodiac, where Towers seized one of the handles on the hull and used the other to haul Samad aboard. As the man collapsed onto the deck, his clean-shaven face and head glistening with water, Towers drew his pistol and said, “Allahu Akbar.”

  Samad glared at him.

  Moore breathed the sigh of a lifetime. They’d done it. He clutched the Zodiac with one hand and just hung there for a few seconds, the tears threatening to fall. He wasn’t sure how he felt: overjoyed one second, wanting to commit murder the next, and those conflicting emotions overwhelmed him. For the moment, all was right with the world, and he wished Frank Carmichael were there to see it. The water was their home, be it an ocean, a river, the bottom of a pool.

  Towers had already tossed a pair of handcuffs to Samad and ordered that he bind his wrists behind his back, which he did. “Hey, I can’t help you up,” he told Moore. “I’m covering him.”

  “No problem, buddy. I’ll be right there.”

  The satellite phone began to ring.

  Moore whirled and faced the Zodiac, reaching up to pull himself into the boat. The water moved strangely.

  And in the next pair of seconds, Moore freed his Glock from its holster, shoved the pistol into the water, and jerked the trigger.

  Epilogue

  BLACK COFFEE

  Starbucks

  McLean, Virginia

  Two Weeks Later

  THE STARBUCKS in Old Dominion Center, known as the Chesterbrook store, was a stand-alone building with a fireplace on the second floor. It was one of three Starbucks near the George H. W. Bush Center for Central Intelligence, and the lines were sometimes out the door during the morning rush. Moore was not fond of waiting fifteen minutes for a five-dollar cup of coffee, and so he’d told her to meet him there at four p.m., during the slower time, when the blenders and cappuccino machines weren’t humming quite as often. He sat in a chair near the entrance, creating profiles of the people around him and those ordering at the counter. He summed up their entire lives within seconds, where they’d grown up, where they’d gone to school, whether or not they hated their jobs, and how much money they made. He assigned them sexual orientation, marital status, and political affiliation. Being a keen observer was a prerequisite for his line of work, but the game now had nothing to do with that and everything to do with calming down.

  Every part of his body still hurt, and he’d mentioned that to Towers, who said he’d only been shot up by some drug-smuggling thugs, which was pretty much routine for a BORTAC guy. Their last handshake at the airport in San Diego had carried with it the heart and soul of the entire joint task force. Even Towers had choked up. Moore vowed to stay in touch with the man. A good man.

  With a groan, Moore checked his phone again. This is what you got for being fifteen minutes early—extra time to let the nerves run wild. SEALs were not late. Ever. Well, there was no message to cancel and blow him off. She was still coming. He imagined her floating through the glass doors in a short dress, heels, and wearing a delicate diamond necklace. So European. So incredibly sexy. Her voice like a musical instrument from another century.

  “Mr. Moore?”

  He glanced up, not into the eyes of a beautiful woman but into the frown of an unshaven face, dark features, and curly black hair. The guy was about Moore’s age, handsome but not arrogantly so.

  “Who are you?” Moore asked.

  “Dominic Caru
so.”

  Moore sighed. Slater had called Moore earlier in the week to say this guy Caruso wanted to talk to him, that he was a “good guy,” and that Moore should “trust him.” Slater had been unwilling to say anything else, and Moore couldn’t pull up much on the guy, save for the fact that he’d been a fibbie but had left the Bureau. There was nothing after that. Moore was supposed to call Caruso to set up a meeting as a favor to Slater, but despite Slater’s reassurances, Moore hardly trusted the stranger, and there was no way in hell he’d volunteer information about any of his operations.

  Caruso proffered his hand; Moore ignored it. “Do you think we can go somewhere more private to talk?” Caruso asked.

  Moore tried and failed to hide his disgust. “How’d you find me?”

  “You told Slater you’d be here. He told me what you look like.”

  “I guess he’s one of your fans. Unfortunately, I’m not.”

  “You will be.”

  “Look, this isn’t a good time. I’m, uh, supposed to meet someone right now, and she’s much prettier than you.”

  “I understand. I just need a little information.”

  “And what do you plan to do with it?”

  Caruso smiled guiltily.

  “Who do you work for?” Moore asked.

  Caruso opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, then said quickly, “I’m sorry I bothered you. We’ll be in touch again.” He gave Moore a brusque nod and left.

  What the hell was that? Moore thought.

  He was about to call Slater when his coffee date entered, wearing a wrinkled sweatshirt, jeans, and jogging shoes. His shoulders slumped, if only a little. The dark hair was pulled back to reveal those spectacular cheekbones.

  It’s only coffee, he reminded himself.

  She saw him, gave a tentative wave, then beamed as she approached. “Hey, there. Glad you’re finally letting me pay you back.” Her English was very good, but the accent made it sound even better, older, like she was in her thirties and much closer to his age.

  They shook hands, hers a delicate piece of silk, his a leathery talon. “The timing worked out,” he said. “Which is no small miracle.”

  She nodded, and he crossed over to the counter with her and ordered. He took her for a latte girl. She ordered a venti coffee, black. He was impressed and ordered the same. She held up her debit card and mouthed the words Thank you.

  “You’re very welcome. There’s a fireplace upstairs.”

  “It’s still summer.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a gas fireplace, and they keep it lit all year. It’s really nice.”

  On the second floor they dropped onto a leather sofa, set their coffee cups on the table, then stared for a long moment at the fire and the pairs of college kids from Marymount seated around them, their heads buried in their computers as they barely looked over to grab their drinks.

  “Were you ever that serious?” Her voice came softly, so that no one else could overhear.

  “I wasn’t serious till I got in the Navy.”

  “And now you’re really intense.”

  He grinned and reached for his coffee. “So how much do you know?”

  “More than you think.”

  “I’m talking about Samad.”

  “I was talking about you.”

  “No, really, you should’ve seen the look on his face when he saw the plane in Belize.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We got some help from the Israelis to fly him out. El Al plane. Big Star of David on the tail. He went nuts, like we were pouring holy water on him.”

  “We don’t have a black site in Israel, do we?”

  He grinned. “Black sites? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She smirked. “So where’d we take him? I haven’t found anything, and no one’s talking. I mean, they haven’t even gone public yet. It’s crazy.”

  “To be honest, I have no idea where he is now. Kogalniceanu in Romania, Stare Kiejkuty in Poland, and Diego Garcia are all a no-go. Too many outsider eyes and ears. Hell, they could have him on a boat. We’ve done that before.”

  “Rumor is the President’s Special Task Force wasn’t even notified, meaning there are only about a dozen people in the world who know what happened.”

  Moore agreed and, of course, wouldn’t be entirely honest with her, either. “With all the bullshit we’ve had to go through since nine-eleven, they want to make sure we do this thing right—lest the media starts wailing about how Samad was taken to a secret CIA prison and tortured.”

  “So as it stands, Samad is being interrogated at an undisclosed location, and some people on the Hill want us to believe this undermines the public’s trust in our justice system.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you should have killed the motherfucker when you had the chance.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

  “I thought about it—but he’s got intel we need.”

  “So …did you read my file?”

  He cocked a brow at her. “If I say no, you’ll accuse me of lying. If I say yes, you’ll call me a stalker.”

  She sipped her coffee. “I don’t care if you did. My parents won’t talk to me anymore because of the choice I made. My father still believes Rojas was a great man. You know we spent two years putting that together.”

  “I don’t pretend to know how you feel about it.”

  She nodded and tugged out her cell phone, as if to change the subject. “Hmmm, let’s see what I have here on you. I was surprised you got lured away from the DIA and resigned your commission. You were supposed to get the Navy Cross and they downgraded it to a Silver Star.”

  “I don’t talk about that, except to say that by then the Navy and I were ready to part company. I’ll always be a SEAL, but the politics were getting a little too hot for me. I had some other things going on, too.”

  “They sent you to The Point, though, huh? I’ve requested to train there three times. Denied three times. Which, of course, is bullshit.”

  The Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity facility in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, was a little-known CIA school dedicated to hard-core paramilitary ops training. Those boys at The Point thought they were some badasses, but Moore breezed through that training and showed them a thing or two about shooting, moving, and communicating, SEAL-style.

  “You don’t want to go to The Point.”

  “Why not? Because I’m a girl?”

  “Because what you do with the political action group is much more clever and dangerous. I couldn’t do it. Those meatheads over there couldn’t do it.”

  Her gaze seemed to focus on infinity. “I’m finding it very hard to …I just don’t know if this is …”

  “What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life?”

  “Are you nuts? This . . .”

  “Sitting here with me?”

  She reached over and punched him. “I mean all the lies. I mean letting down my guard and really living the entire lie. I started dreaming that his father wasn’t a criminal and actually thinking about a life with Miguel.”

  “We all have our moments of weakness.”

  She bit her lip. “I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to him. He was a beautiful man.” She blushed and glanced away, trying to hide tears.

  “That’s okay. It hurts now, but eventually the sting will go away.”

  “You really think so?”

  He raised his brows. “Yes.”

  “What about you? The hardest thing you’ve ever done?”

  Moore hesitated, and then he told her in an even voice that eventually cracked. And when the tears came, he was not embarrassed because for the first time ever, they felt good.

  She slid over to him and tucked her head into his shoulder. “These people here? Everyone out there? They have no idea what it takes to keep them safe.”

  “Don’t resent them for that.”

  “I
can’t help it.”

  “You just need a vacation.”

  “I just finished a vacation. And I still feel terrible.”

  “Maybe you need a new boyfriend.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, you know, to get your mind off things.” He adopted his best innocent-schoolboy look.

  “I see. Then I have a question—have you ever been to Spain?”