by Jack Mars
The DNI’s gaze fell on Mullen’s screen at the far end of the conference table. “Director Mullen, effective immediately, I will be enlisting the aid of the NSA to monitor all communication by every member of the CIA in a supervisory role. That will include personal email and cell phones.”
“Sir,” Mullen said carefully, “I’m not sure it’s wise to…”
Hillis shot him a dangerous glare, and Mullen fell silent. Cartwright could tell that the CIA director wanted to contest further, but he didn’t dare.
“Yes, sir,” Mullen said tightly.
“And you, Agent Steele,” said Hillis. “You mentioned that you believe this terrorist attack is happening soon. How soon, and on what basis do you believe this?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for either of those questions, sir.” Steele shook his head. “It’s primarily a feeling—as if I discovered something before the memory suppressor that I haven’t yet remembered.”
A feeling. Cartwright almost scoffed out loud.
“Well then, Agent,” said Hillis, “you had better get back out there and find out.”
Cartwright snapped to attention. He was on his feet before he even realized he had stood. “Sir, if I may…”
Hillis glowered. Cartwright felt himself withering under the fierce stare. “Um, sorry, sir. Deputy Director Cartwright, Special Activities Division. Agent Steele was a field agent under my supervision when I was heading the Special Operations Group, at the time of his alleged death. I knew him well—rather, I know him well. I believe that given his memory loss and, uh, personal attachment to this case that he should be considered compromised.”
“Cartwright, was it?” Director Hillis regarded Cartwright evenly for a long moment. “Special Activities Division. Hmm. From everything this man just told me, he made more progress in four days than your entire division has in two years. Why in the world would we pull him?”
Because he might find out about me. About us. What we tried to do to him. “Well, sir… uh, I believe he could pose a danger to the, uh…”
“You’re blabbering, Cartwright. Sit down.”
“Yes, sir.” Cartwright sat meekly.
“Director Mullen, I want Agent Steele reinstated immediately and given access to the full resources of the CIA. Whatever he needs, he gets.”
“Sir, if I may, I’d like to partner with Agent Johansson,” Steele spoke up. He glanced over at her across the table from him. “She’s the only one I believe I can trust at the moment.”
“Done,” said Hillis. “And while you’re doing what needs to be done, you can rest assured that we will be doing everything we can to find whoever might be supplying these extremists with information. Let’s get to work. Dismissed.” As the deputy directors and two agents rose from their seats, the DNI added, “Except you, Mullen. And Cartwright. I want to speak to you two.”
Cartwright felt a tinge of panic as he slowly lowered himself back into the chair. Mullen’s face went ashen as the other four people filed out of the conference room.
Hillis pinched the bridge of his nose irritably. “Memory suppressors? Rogue agents? Moles? And we knew none of this?” He shook his head. “This is your opportunity, right now, to tell me anything you might know about all this that hasn’t been said.”
Neither man spoke. Cartwright stared at the wood-grain tabletop.
“All right then,” said Hillis. “Lucky for you, we have to fix these leaks and put an end to this plot first. But you can bet that as soon as that’s done, we’ll be launching a full investigation into what happened to that man nineteen months ago. If I discover that you two had anything to do with it, it’ll be much more than just your jobs on the line. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” they murmured.
“Good. Go.” Director Hillis clicked his camera off and the screen went black.
Mullen glanced over at Cartwright and shook his head disdainfully. Without another word, he too leaned forward and turned off his camera, leaving Cartwright alone in the conference room.
He had majorly screwed the pooch. Not only was Steele alive, but now he had the CIA over a barrel. He had the Director of National Intelligence looking over his shoulder. Cartwright’s calls and emails and even text messages would be monitored closely.
He had no choice but to work with Agent Zero, give him whatever he asked for, and hope he never discovered that Cartwright and Mullen had ordered the hit on him by two CIA agents.
At length he rose from his chair and left the conference room. Of course, Steele and Johansson were waiting for him in the hall. There were a thousand things that Cartwright wanted to say to them, wished he could say, but ultimately he just forced a smile. “Excellent work, Agents. Simply stellar. I want you to know that no matter what happens, I’ll be recommending you both for Valor Awards—”
“I want a security detail assigned to my girls,” Kent interrupted. “Right away.”
“Watson and Carver,” Johansson added. “They can take the kids to a safe house.”
“We have resources stateside that we can use—” Cartwright began.
“Strange, I’m pretty sure I just heard the Director of National Intelligence say that whatever Kent needs, he gets.” Johansson raised an eyebrow.
Cartwright smiled, his teeth clenched tightly behind it. “Of course. Where are your girls?”
“No,” said Kent. “You get the agents on a plane, and I’ll tell you where to send them after I arrange it on my end.”
“Sure thing.” Cartwright’s jaw was aching from his forced smile. “Watson and Carver will be on the next plane out.” He made a mental note to have Steve Bolton in Langley arrange the agents’ transportation and pickup.
“And we’ll need a jet,” Steele added. “A fast one. We need to get to Morocco tonight.”
Cartwright frowned. Even Johansson looked up sharply. “What’s in Morocco?” she asked.
“Sheikh Mustafar.”
“We already interrogated the sheikh,” she said. “He’s been sitting in a black-site hole for more than a year and a half. You told me you remembered that.”
“I remember what he told us,” said Kent. “I want to know what he didn’t tell us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“Funny,” said Maria, “I recall you telling me you didn’t find any leads in Slovenia.” She sat across from Reid in a plush, cream-colored seat. They were the only two passengers on a Gulfstream G650, a sixty-five-million-dollar aircraft traveling at Mach 0.86 toward Morocco.
I wasn’t sure I could trust you, he thought. He still wasn’t sure—though after what she had done for him, contacting the DNI and allowing his statement to be made, he believed he was getting closer.
“I’m sorry I kept it from you,” he said simply. “Really though, I should thank you. I couldn’t have handled any of that without your help.”
“Your kids will be safe,” she promised. “Watson and Carver are trustworthy. You have my word on that.” She laughed lightly. “You have to admit it’s a little ironic that we’re taking a luxury jet to travel to one of the worst places on Earth.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure that qualifies as irony; a reversal of expectations would have to occur. Like if we got there and find that the black site has been razed and a five-star hotel was built in its place.”
“Oh, my apologies, Professor.” Johansson smiled. Reid glanced over to find her staring at him.
“What is it?”
“You’re different now. You know that?”
“No. I don’t know. How am I different?”
“It’s hard to define.” She thought for a moment. “Kent was always so confident—even arrogant sometimes. He was fiercely intelligent, just like you. He was bold. Fearless. Had a hell of a temper.” Again she laughed slightly. “I shouldn’t be saying it like that. You’re still him. Or, he’s you. I shouldn’t be talking like he was someone else… but in some ways it feels like it.”
“So… different is good, right?”
“Yeah. Different is good. I mean, less arrogant is good.” She laughed softly. “You just seem like you’re on more of an even keel now. Before, on a case, Kent would get… obsessed. He would focus like a laser. The work was the only thing that mattered. That’s a good thing, usually, but there’s a lot more to life than that. It feels like you understand that better now.”
He nodded, but said nothing. She spoke about Kent, the old Kent, with a sort of quiet reverence, but at the same time there was a mild strain in her voice that suggested there was plenty about who he used to be that left something to be desired.
The intercom crackled and the pilot’s voice came through. “Agents, we’ve reached cruising altitude.”
Reid immediately powered on a laptop. He was eager to reach out to his girls.
Less than a half hour ago they had been standing in the Zurich consulate talking with Cartwright. They had been given a change of clothes, though Reid had opted to keep his boots and the bomber jacket; he’d grown fond of them. He’d ditched the bulky REX revolver in favor of the familiarity of a Glock 27, with an LC9 strapped to his ankle. He left the bug-out bag behind as well, in a locker, along with the revolver and his old clothes. The Swiss Army knife he stuck in his jacket pocket. He didn’t keep it for its utility or because he thought he’d need it, but rather because it had become something of a memento to him from the old friend that he could barely remember.
Then he and Johansson were escorted quickly to an airstrip where they boarded the Gulfstream, en route to Morocco.
He logged into his Skype account to see a message waiting from Katherine Joanne’s account. We’re safe, it said. I’m sorry, I couldn’t get to the computer sooner.
Reid breathed a sigh of relief. Maya had missed her last check-in, but the message put his mind at ease. He set his fingers to the keyboard, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to be honest without being specific. Finally he typed:
Listen carefully. You deserve some answers, but I can’t give them all to you. I can say this: I’m not in the country. I’m helping some important people do a very vital job, and I have to see it through. It’s much bigger than me. But knowing that the two of you are safe is my foremost concern. I’m sending two men to protect you. They’re going to take you somewhere and keep you safe. We can trust them.
He paused and glanced over at Maria, who was reading over a transcription of their last interrogation of the sheikh. She had faith in the two agents that Cartwright was sending for his girls—and at the moment, that had to be good enough for him. Reid decided he would too. It was better than the girls being alone somewhere and him having no idea what might be happening.
He typed: I don’t want you to tell me where you are. I want you to give me a landmark, somewhere public, where these two can meet you. It doesn’t have to be nearby. It just has to be somewhere you can get to without any trouble.
Before he had even pressed the enter key on his lengthy message, a green icon appeared to tell him that Maya had logged in. He waited a few moments for her to read over the message, and then received one in turn.
Maya typed: Tell me something so that I know it’s you.
A thin smile curved his lips. She was as cautious as she was smart. Reid was incredibly proud—and at the same time he desperately hoped that she never got any ideas in her head to join the CIA.
I’m sorry you missed your Valentine’s date in the city, he typed.
Two full minutes passed before her next message came. Wonderland Pier, it said. Near the monkeys. Remember it?
Reid almost laughed out loud. Wonderland Pier was a tiny amusement park on the Jersey shore, near Ocean City. He had taken the girls there when they were younger. At the entrance to the park, just off the pier, there was a display of animatronic monkeys playing instruments. Sara, who was only ten at the time, had been so terrified of them that she had promptly burst into tears.
He immediately called Cartwright. “I’ve got a location—Wonderland Pier, Ocean City, New Jersey, at the entrance to the park.”
“Got it,” Cartwright confirmed. “Watson and Carver’s ETA is about eleven hours. It would be, what, almost ten p.m. EST right now? So have the kids be there by nine in the morning. Tell them not to panic if they don’t show right away, but not to wait for more than an hour.”
“All right,” said Reid. Then, although it felt strange to say it to Cartwright, he added, “Thank you.”
“Sure. Specs?”
“Specs, right. Sara is fourteen, about four-foot-nine, blonde hair, shoulder-length. Maya is sixteen, five-three, brunette, long hair. Tell the agents to approach using the name Katherine Joanne, so they know it’s the right guys.”
At the mention of Kate, Maria glanced up, but she said nothing.
“Great. Don’t worry, we’ll get them,” Cartwright said. “I’ll confirm with you personally when it’s done.” The deputy director hung up.
Reid relayed Cartwright’s message to Maya: Be there by 9 am. Don’t wait for more than an hour. Don’t look for them. They’ll look for you. Their names are Watson and Carver. They’ll ask for your Skype ID. If anyone approaches you by any other name, you run and get help.
Okay, Maya confirmed.
I love you both.
We love you too.
Reid logged out and closed the computer. He stared into space for a while, his thoughts drifting to fond memories with his girls and Kate at the shore. Walking the pier. Playing miniature golf and riding the carousel.
He hadn’t even realized that he’d drifted until he felt Maria’s hand on his.
“They’ll be okay,” she said reassuringly. “If they’re anything like you, they can handle more than you think.”
“Yeah,” he said distantly. He snapped out of his fog. “Let’s focus. I want to review that transcript after you. Then we’ll see what our friend the sheikh isn’t telling us.”
*
Maria was right about two things: a Gulfstream jet landing at a black site in the Moroccan desert was indeed ironic. And it really was one of the worst places on Earth.
It was eight in the morning local time when they arrived at the black site. It had been organized to look like a US Army FOB, or forward operating base. The perimeter was surrounded in an uneven, hastily erected chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The grounds were comprised of rows of semi-permanent canvas tents interrupted by squat, domed steel structures. Everything, it seemed, from the trucks to the tents to the steel domes, was in drab colors that matched the sand around it.
They were greeted on the makeshift airstrip just outside the site by a Special Forces member in Oakley sunglasses and an olive drab bandana wrapped around his head. He had a thick black beard and carried an AR-15 on a strap over his shoulder.
“Agents, I’m SFO Sergeant Jack Flagg. Welcome to Hell Six.” He shook both their hands briefly. To Reid he added, “Looks like you’ve been through the wringer, sir.”
Reid ignored the comment—he was well aware that his face had seen better days. “Why do you call it Hell Six?” he asked instead.
“This site is Designation H-6,” Maria replied.
“But I think you’ll see why we call it what we do,” said Flagg. He had a slight Texas drawl to his voice. “They already told me why you’re here. This way.”
A blustery wind blew as Flagg led them through the camp. Reid pulled his jacket tighter around him. He had always associated this sort of desolate place with a hot, arid climate; he couldn’t believe it could get so cold in the desert.
The sergeant pulled open the steel door of one of the many nondescript, depressingly dull steel domes and led them inside. There were no windows and no other point of egress, and it was illuminated by only a single bare forty-watt bulb in the peak of the ten-foot ceiling. The floor was packed clay, the sand having been dug out for the placement of the structure.
There were no other people inside, but there was a square iron grate in the center of the floor, and chain manacles hanging on the fa
r eastern wall, secured firmly into the steel façade by thick iron spikes.
“Just a sec,” said Flagg. With a grunt of effort, he pulled open the hinged iron grate; it was a trapdoor set in the ground. It opened on a small subterranean room of dirt walls about eight feet below with a slanted wooden ladder leading downward. He took off his AR and handed it to Reid by the strap. “Hang onto this a moment, would you?” The sergeant unholstered a sidearm, a desert-brown Sig Sauer XM17, and descended the wooden ladder.
“Come on,” they heard him say. “Up and at ’em. You got visitors.”
It took nearly a full minute until Flagg’s head showed again. He held his pistol aloft with one hand, the other hanging at his side as he dragged something up—or someone.
The sheikh was a far cry from what Reid’s vision had shown him from twenty months earlier. Back then, the sheikh had been terrified, but he at least appeared healthy—color in his cheeks, a slight paunch, muscle tone in his arms and legs.
The dismal figure that Flagg pulled up from the hole was like a completely different creature. His arms and legs were bone thin and knobby at the joints, reminiscent of gnarled tree branches. His cheeks were sunken, the cheekbones jutting prominently and making his eyes look too large for his face. They had shaved his head bald, but his beard was long, gray, and scraggly. He wore a sleeveless brown tunic, belted at the waist with a length of rope, and brown shorts that were almost comically oversized on his thin legs.
At the top of the ladder, the sergeant released his grip on the sheikh and he dropped to the dirt at their feet. His eyes, Reid noticed, were glazed over and stoic, staring at nothing in particular.
“What’s wrong with him?” Maria asked. “He looks catatonic.”
“Oh, don’t let him fool you,” said Flagg. “He’s in there. He’s often like this; doesn’t move much. Barely eats. Most days he just sleeps or sits around with that vacant look in his eye. But we hear him, mumbling to himself, near every day.”