Nomad

by James Swallow

  Distantly, he heard the sound of a thudding, urgent heartbeat. Each pulse of noise was loud like a hammer-blow, coming closer with each second. Marc tried to shield his eyes, but the sand was everywhere, ripping at him like a million tiny razor blades.

  Someone was standing there, up atop the rocks, looking down upon him. Dark hair caught like a pennant snapping in the breeze. Sam.

  He tried to call her name, but his throat filled with dust. She was sad, and her face was streaked with blood. The pulsing sound grew louder, shifting pitch and changing—

  * * *

  Marc was suddenly awake, blinking away cold sweat. He rolled off the mattress and peered around the room. The grubby space resembled some post-apocalyptic bedsit, pieces of dismantled machinery among a threadbare couch, a table and a trio of mismatched chairs. He dressed quickly, his clothes feeling stiff and scratchy against his skin.

  There was no sign of Lucy, only a neat bed-roll atop the couch where she had slept the night before. Marc’s daypack was where he had left it, and he grabbed at the bag, fishing inside for his pistol. The gun was still there, next to the battered laptop.

  It was then he realized that the thudding sound he remembered from the vivid dream had not faded with the phantom image of Sam Green. It wasn’t in his head; it was coming from outside, a low beat changing into a mechanical crackle even as he listened. Rotor blades.

  He went to the door and opened it a crack, looking out on to a metal fire escape. Behind the garage there was a field populated by a couple of shacks and a dozen dead Trabants that had been stripped of parts. Above, a grimy white helicopter was circling as the pilot looked for somewhere to put down. It was an aging Russian Mil Mi-8, a civilian model of the workhorse “Hip” that had been in service since the Sixties. As it turned, Marc could clearly see the crew through the windows of the cockpit. They didn’t look like military types.

  “Hey!” A voice called out and he looked down to see that Lucy had appeared at the foot of the stairs. She held her bag in front of her, one hand inside. From above, he could see she was gripping the MP7, keeping it out of sight. She jerked her chin at him. “C’mon,” she continued. “I think our ride is here.”

  People were gathering to see what was going on, so Marc wasted no time in swinging his daypack over his shoulder and climbing down to her. The Glock went into the back of his waistband. “Are you sure?” he asked, as he got close.

  Lucy gave him a cool-eyed look that reminded him more of Sam than he would have liked to admit. “If it’s not,” she replied, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the helicopter touching down, “then we neutralize the crew and take it ourselves.”

  Not for the first time, he couldn’t be certain if she was joking. But then the point became moot as the Mi-8’s passenger compartment hatch slid back and Henri Delancort stepped lightly down to the ground. He ducked low, holding his hand to his face to shield himself from the dust being kicked up, and somehow still managed to do it with an air of arch poise. In his brown suit and handmade shoes, Delancort looked as if he had been dropped in from a fashion shoot.

  He flashed a tight smile. “You visit the most delightful places,” he told Lucy. “I take it we will not be getting our deposit for the car back?”

  “Send the bill to Uncle Sam,” Lucy shot back.

  He beckoned them to follow. “Mister Solomon has gone on to Cairo for his meeting. He wants us to proceed with the investigation.”

  “You found something?” said Marc.

  “We found something,” agreed the other man.

  Lucy bounded up into the helicopter, while Delancort took his time, frowning at the dust collecting on his trousers. Marc was the last aboard, hesitating for a moment before he scrambled in and pulled the hatch shut.

  Delancort gave him a measuring glance. “Problem?”

  Marc shook his head. “It’s a backseat driver thing. Don’t like riding in choppers when I’m not in the cockpit.” The aircraft trembled, and he felt the lurch in the pit of his stomach as they left the ground. Marc found a seat and strapped in.

  The other man sat opposite him, with Lucy at his side. “Let me tell you what our imaging team at the Palo Alto office made of those pictures.” He leaned forward. “The document fragments appear to be from shipping manifests.”

  “For aircraft?”

  Delancort shook his head. “Seagoing, not air freight. Sadly, you did not catch anything that gave clues to the registration of the ship involved, or any information on the cargo. But what we did get was a destination.” He glanced at Lucy. “The Port of New Jersey in the United States.”

  Marc considered this new detail. “We have to be looking at something pretty recent. How many ships have sailed out of Turkish ports for the US in the last week or so?”

  “More than you would expect,” Delancort replied. “But confidence is high that the manifests are connected. They correlate with data we have been tracking from some of Rubicon’s other intelligence assets.”

  Lucy nodded grimly. “The chatter about Al Sayf launching an attack on American soil. If the Combine have sourced transport to get them to the East Coast … That’s as good as a confirmation.” She fell silent for a moment. “Can we assume they’re gonna hit New York?”

  Marc thought he heard a catch in her voice as she mentioned her hometown. Delancort was shaking his head. “We cannot presuppose anything at this stage.”

  Marc watched the landscape roll past beneath them as the helicopter turned back toward Kayseri. “Okay. We need to get this in front of someone at US Homeland Security, right? It’s a good bet that whatever ship they’re using, they won’t have docked in New Jersey yet. The Americans can seal the port up tight and catch these sods before they get off the boat.”

  Lucy and Delancort exchanged a loaded look that rang a warning note in Marc’s mind. “Combine penetration has not just reached into European intelligence organs,” said the other man. “They have people everywhere.”

  “That was an American military drone that attacked us, remember?” Lucy added. “If they can co-opt the US Navy, they can get their claws into CIA, FBI, Homeland…”

  “But you don’t know for sure?” Marc insisted.

  “If we take the risk of revealing this information, we could lose any lead on Al Sayf’s operation.” Delancort cocked his head as he spoke. “All it takes is one informant to warn the Combine and they will go dark. They will shift targets. The next attack could be over and done before we are aware of it.”

  “So, we just sit on this?” Marc reeled back in his seat. “For all we know, the people responsible for the Barcelona bombing and killing my team could already be on the streets of New York!” He glared at Lucy. “Your streets.”

  She reacted with an angry snarl. “You think I like the idea any more than you do? But just think for a goddamn second, Dane! We have the drop on these sons-of-bitches, we know where they are gonna be.”

  “Our data-mining group are already working on analyzing sea traffic going in and out of the port,” said Delancort. “We can narrow down the possibilities and isolate the suspect ship before the Combine can proceed.”

  “And if you’re wrong? Or a little late? What then?” Marc aimed a finger at Delancort. “They blew up a police station in Spain and a ship in France. What if next time it’s a school? A hospital? A shopping mall?”

  Lucy reached across the gap between them and placed a hand on his forearm. “Marc. Listen to me. We need to get these people. Not Homeland Security, not some other agency that leaks like a damn sieve. This is our shot, and, yeah, it’s a risk. But that’s how Rubicon works, and if you want to be part of that, you can be. Because we could use your help.”

  “And you are quite uniquely motivated,” said Delancort, with a sniff.

  Marc shot him an acid look, but said nothing.

  * * *

  The Santa Cruz was steaming at a steady rate of knots as it approached the coast of Newfoundland. A low sky of clouds as gray as oily w
ool had descended on them and visibility was no more than a mile, but soon enough America would reveal itself, and for the first time in his life Omar Khadir would look upon the land of this enemy with his own eyes.

  It was necessary to wound these people to make them understand, Khadir decided. Unlike others of his kinsmen, Jadeed or the angry men whom he had recruited to teach the youths in Turkey, Khadir did not see the United States of America as the wellspring of all the world’s degeneracy. They were no “Great Satan”—there was no such thing. The potential for corruption, for dishonor of soul and self was something that no single nation had primacy over. To lay the blame for such things at the feet of just one people was naïve, a choice made by men of narrow mind. Any society, even those who declared themselves the most pious, could be rotting within. Khadir knew that from first-hand experience.

  The color of a man’s skin, the flag he revered, and the god he prayed to … None of that mattered. They were all convenient hooks upon which one could hang an ideology that would fit the needs of the war.

  He did not blame the Americans for all the decay he had witnessed. They were victims of it as much as he, but that did not mean he would spare them. So bold and so arrogant, they had painted a target upon themselves and dared those who hated them to take a shot. A strike against the United States was simply the most expedient option for Al Sayf, for their media liked nothing more than to show the shedding of blood for all the world to see.

  When it was done, the work would be broadcast around the globe, burned into history alongside every other act of terror that had changed the face of human civilization. And it would just be the start. The British would be next. Al Sayf would make good on their promises to that nation.

  “Commander.” Khadir turned as he heard Jadeed approaching, and he took a deep breath of briny air. Further down the hull, the helicopter was being made ready for departure, the ship’s crewmen removing the weather tarps over the cockpit and checking the fuel tank.

  “Report,” he told Jadeed, looking away from the aircraft.

  The other man bobbed his head, removing the wool cap he had been wearing. “We are ready, sir. The recruits are prepared.” Ever-present in a tight coil around his wrist, his misbaha beads clattered against one another as he gestured toward the ship’s island across the weather deck.

  “Where are they now?”

  “They have been returned to the quarters to recover. I have stationed men to watch them.”

  “Good…” Khadir saw a man in a green smock loitering in a shadowed corner beneath the island, sucking greedily on a cigarette. He was one of the doctors the Combine had found for them, a Brazilian thoracic surgeon who had lost his license after developing a taste for his own medications. Patches of dark arterial fluid patterned the front of the smock, making him look more like a butcher than a healer. “How many did we lose?”

  Jadeed swallowed hard. “A few,” he admitted. “No more than expected. We always knew there would be wastage.”

  Khadir gave a nod. “Just so.” As he said the words, some of the Serbs emerged from the hatch near where the doctor stood. They carried a stack of black body bags between them. With a waddling gait, the men shuffled the bags toward the rail of the weather deck.

  “I gave the order to dispose of the remains,” Jadeed explained. “I thought it best to do so immediately … If we wait—”

  Khadir raised a hand to silence him. “You did the right thing. We close the distance to America with every hour. Disposing of them now ensures these brave soldiers will not wash up on the shores of our enemies.” He frowned. He wanted to say something. He felt as if there should be words spoken to mark the passing of the young men, but now the moment was here, he had nothing to offer up.

  Jadeed’s attention kept straying to the helicopter. The Britisher was there, talking animatedly with the other mercenaries. The tone of Tommy’s harsh, jarring voice reminded Khadir of the sound of a barking dog, and the fitting nature of the image provided him a moment of cold amusement.

  “I know you resent the Britisher,” Khadir told his second. “And you are right to. But you must go with them. It is required, for the success of the work.”

  Jadeed’s eyes narrowed and he ran a finger over the line of beads. “I will say this to you, sir. He is the son of a whore and I would very much like to beat the pride out of him.” There was genuine longing in the other man’s eyes, the need for violence strong beneath the surface of Jadeed’s self-control.

  “Rise above him,” Khadir replied, the words both order and warning. “But be watchful.” He did not need to say more. Both of them knew that the Combine’s alliance with Al Sayf was temporary, and that once the act was done, the relationship between them might change very sharply.

  There was a crash and a string of curses behind them. Khadir’s head snapped around to see the Serbs beginning an argument over which one of them had slipped up and allowed the body bags to fall across the deck. One of the bags had split open and a pasty length of arm, a sliver of torso and a face emerged from within.

  Khadir grimaced. The dead youth’s eyes looked up at him, the corpse’s chubby face now sallow, flesh sagging on the skull beneath. He searched his memory for the name of the teenager and did not find it—but he did remember him, the boy who had been assaulted by the degenerate guard at the orphanage. A pity to lose that one, he thought.

  The youth had shown promise, ever since he taken up a weapon and led the beating of the man who had hurt him. The kind of raw hate that lurked inside the boy was exactly what Khadir was best at moulding. It was the same fury that he had tempered in himself many years earlier.

  Jadeed shouted at the Serbs with such force that the two men stopped their argument and meekly gathered up the dead once more. Khadir sensed someone approaching but did not turn as the Britisher came closer.

  “What’s all this shit, then?” he demanded. “You topping your own now?”

  “Are you shocked?” Khadir replied coldly.

  “I don’t fucking care,” Tommy snarled, with such thuggish disdain that it made Jadeed’s hands draw into fists. “Clean up your mess if you have to, but we’re on the clock.” He jerked his thumb at the helicopter. “On the hurry-up, Saladin.” Without looking back, the Britisher stalked back down the deck, and the aircraft’s rotors began to turn lazily in the damp air.

  Jadeed met Khadir’s eyes and his annoyance softened under his commander’s hard gaze. “Go,” he ordered. “Make sure the mercenaries complete their tasks ahead of our arrival. Without you, we will never be able to reach our objective.”

  The other man bowed slightly. “I won’t fail.”

  Khadir gave him a smile and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

  Jadeed sprinted across the deck to the helicopter, scrambling into the back with one of the other loyal men. The Britisher took the co-pilot’s seat next to the thickset, sour-faced one called Ellis; the other mercenary worked the controls and Khadir watched the aircraft lift off and slide into the breeze. Low and fast, it powered away across the waves and vanished into the rain.

  Beneath radar coverage on a course that would thread through the gaps in Coast Guard patrols, the “advance team” would smooth the way for the final execution of the work.

  “Soon, brothers,” Khadir said aloud, closing his eyes and listening to the ocean. “Soon.”

  * * *

  Within a couple of hours the Rubicon jet was back in the air and heading directly toward Newark Liberty International. Marc showered off the trail dirt and the lingering smells of cordite and fire-smoke, too wired to appreciate the rare novelty of enjoying such luxuries at twenty thousand feet. His hair still wet against his scalp, he wandered shoeless down the length of the aircraft until he found the bar, and there he helped himself to a cup of bitter brown coffee. The light in the open common area was good, so he took a bar towel and set out the laptop and his micro-tools on it. The computer looked as if it had been thrown down a flight of stairs, and Marc crac
ked open the damaged case, checking and cleaning the interior, sifting little piles of sand from the cooling fans and around the central processor unit.

  The task gave him focus, let his mind sieve through recent events while his hands moved with the rote motions of muscle memory.

  He was almost done when Lucy arrived. Unlike him, the woman seemed fiercely awake. Marc peered into the dregs of his coffee and thought about the not inconsiderable fluid weight of caffeine currently coursing through his system. She watched him carefully rebuild the laptop’s battered case.

  “I’ve seen guys with that same face,” she said, pointing at him. “Same look, working on something like their life depends on it. Difference is, they were Delta boys prepping their guns.”

  Marc laid his hand on the flat of the keyboard. “I could kill a man with this,” he said, and the words were out of his mouth before he knew where they had come from.

  Lucy gave him an odd look. “Like … with hacking?”

  “Yeah.” Marc nodded once, then showed her the thick rod of the power pack that slotted into the laptop’s battery compartment. “Or maybe with this. Cracked a man’s skull one time.”

  She took the battery and weighed it in her hand like a club. “Improvise and adapt.” Lucy returned the unit and folded her arms across her chest.

  “Something like that.” The power pack slid home with a hard click and the laptop came to life. Patched and dented, with an ugly glitch in one corner where the screen had been damaged, it still worked—and that gave Marc a kind of satisfaction that brought a brief smile to his lips. It struck him that at this moment, the machine might well be the closest thing he had to a lifeline. He thought about the Glock, lying forgotten in his cabin. The gun would keep him alive … but the data he had might actually save him.

  If I can just live long enough to figure it out.