by Mark Greaney
The BMW finally lost all its momentum, finishing its long crash sequence with its wheels spinning in the air and the roof lying in a relatively flat portion of wet grass, 150 yards down the hill from the George Washington Parkway.
All was still for a moment other than the rain on the metal undercarriage of the sedan. Soon Suzanne Brewer’s bloody hand reached out, away from her body, pushing the deflated air bags out of her way so she could orient herself. She hung upside down, her bruised waist and her scraped shoulder and neck held secure by the seat belt.
In another second searing pain crept into her left ankle, and it seemed to amplify more and more with every single beat of her racing heart.
She drooled blood that flowed up into her nose.
Still dazed by the crash, she wiped her face, and then, finally, she opened her eyes.
Jordan Mayes lay in front of her sight line, dead in the dark, facedown in the mud fifteen feet from the BMW. Suzanne took this in without emotion, then her eyes were drawn up the hill. She saw three pinpricks of light above her, back in the direction of the George Washington Parkway. They moved like fireflies, dancing in the blackness, but growing larger, sometimes shooting out in wide arcs, then returning to their original shape.
It did not take her long to realize what she was looking at.
Three flashlights, each one carried by a man, no doubt a Saudi Arabian assassin. They closed steadily on her position 150 yards down the hill.
And she understood. They were coming down here to make sure their work was finished.
She did not reach for her seat belt release button. Her leg seemed to be stuck and her ankle was clearly broken—she’d never felt pain like this in her life. But even though she couldn’t get away if she tried, her original intention had never been to run away; it had been to make a deal.
With a pathetic sob and a boyish grunt of pain she looked in the other direction, back inside the shattered vehicle. She strained against her seat belt to reach out across the roof of the sedan below her. She opened the armrest storage compartment, pulled out the Faraday cage that held her phone.
It had been by her side all along, and not in the back like she had told Jordan Mayes.
She opened the case and dialed a number with a thumb that trembled almost too much for her to accomplish the simple task. Holding the ringing phone to her ear now, she looked back in the direction of the men negotiating the hill and trees, descending the rain-swept hillside to finish her off while she hung upside down like meat in a market.
Her ankle throbbed with sharp, murderous agony, but she forced the pain from her consciousness, because she had to give the performance of her lifetime now, and she could not allow for any distractions.
“Denny Carmichael.”
She coughed; the blood on her face splattered the phone. “Listen to me carefully, Denny.” Another cough. “Don’t make a mistake.”
A pause. “And what mistake would I be making, Ms. Brewer?”
“Don’t remove someone who’s on your side. Someone valuable to you, someone who can help you manage the fallout till the end of this crisis. Mayes is dead. I killed him, not your assets. You need to understand that you need me. Now, more than ever.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m very busy, as a matter of fact.”
The jittering orbs of light came closer. They were only seventy-five yards up the hill now; they bathed the broken trees and brush around them with a yellow glow as the men followed the route of the wreck through the foliage.
Brewer spoke more quickly. “Mayes told me everything. Everything, Denny. You might think that makes me a liability, but that’s not how I operate. I am an asset. Your best asset, at a time when I know you could use a friend at HQ. Let me help you solve your problem.”
Denny chuckled, the epitome of calm. “Solve my problem? It seems I am in the process of doing just that.”
“You couldn’t even kill Jordan Mayes without my help! What makes you think you can kill Violator without me?”
Denny did not reply.
The flashlights closed to within fifty yards. It looked like the men carrying them had picked up speed on the treacherous hill. “What is it they say in this town?” Suzanne asked. “It’s not the crime, it’s the cover-up.” Blood dripped from her lips, ran up her face and into her eyes. She listened for a response on the other end of the line, but nothing came. “You know what I bring to the table here. You need support. You need a witness in-house who saw Gentry kill Mayes. The other cars on the road are going to report multiple attackers. You can’t sell your story this time without help.”
Still nothing. She wondered if he’d hung up.
“You’ve come so close, Denny, but you are getting sloppy. Desperate. I can give you the backing you need to see this all the way through.”
The flashlights were only twenty-five yards away. She could already make out the silhouettes of the men behind the moving beams.
She thought of something else, one more Hail Mary. If this didn’t work, she’d be dead in seconds. Hanging here upside down, a bullet in her brain. “Morvay!”
Denny spoke now. “What’s that?”
“Kevin Morvay. He is a senior tech in SIGINT. He has the Dupont video. He’s seen it. He showed it to Mayes.” She sniffed tears and blood. “You see? I am helping you.”
All three flashlights centered on Jordan Mayes’s body.
Denny said, “And I appreciate your help. Good-bye.”
“I can get it from him! And get it off the system. I know how, do you? I can do so much more. I can . . . hello? Hello?” It sounded like Denny had either hung up the phone or set it down on a table. Suzanne Brewer started to cry openly. She shook hard against her seat belt, but she couldn’t get it off. She thought of screaming, begging, pleading into the phone, but she just bit her lip. No, it wouldn’t work, and she told herself she wouldn’t die like that.
The lights were on her now.
A man knelt down, peered into the vehicle, and the high-lumen light shined right in her face, unbearable, worse than her broken leg.
She shut her eyes and sobbed again. Her bloody nose almost gagged her.
Then, with a shocking suddenness, the light turned away.
She heard the wet slapping of feet on rain-soaked brush, the clap clap of boots trudging through mud. Suzanne opened her eyes and looked around. Through the stars in her eyes she saw them now, the dark silhouettes. They stood around the body of Jordan Mayes a brief time, then they began retrograding up the hill, back in the direction of the motorcycles parked along the road.
Denny Carmichael’s voice came back on the line. “Are you badly hurt?”
Suzanne wept openly into the phone. “Thank you, Denny. Thank you. You won’t regret this.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Suzanne,” he said. “You aren’t making sense. I think you must have hit your head. I’ll send help to the geo coordinates on your cell phone so we can get you to a hospital.”
And then he hung up.
Suzanne Brewer vomited upside down, covering the roof of the car below her with blood and bile.
68
After swimming ashore and changing into warm, dry clothes, Court lay in the forest for several minutes, allowing his ears to tune in to his surroundings. He’d seen only one patrol boat on the water, and he’d remained well clear of it, but he had no way of knowing how extensively the Harvey Point guard force patrolled the woods.
Court knew from his time here that this was the absolute best place to come ashore. Most of the activity at the Point was well to the east of this part of the grounds. Over there was an airstrip, along with dozens of buildings: administration and planning offices, barracks, logistics stores, and weapons caches.
This portion of the Point, by contrast, had no great value. The large forest Court moved through now was used prima
rily by CIA, DIA, and JSOC for escape and evasion training, small-unit tactics training, and jungle and riverine warfare exercises. To the north of the forest were a bombing range, an explosive ordnance testing ground, and two mock cities for close-quarters battle work, along with an Air Branch helicopter center, an automobile and motorcycle training facility, an underground SAD weapons cache, and an array of buildings used as a testing ground—for who and for what exactly, Court had no idea. During his time in SAD Court had had the highest-security clearance, but he wasn’t read into any code word ops that did not directly relate to him, so even though no one in America had had access to higher-level secrets than he did when he was in the CIA, there were all sorts of things going on around him that he didn’t know about.
Especially at a facility like Harvey Point.
Court’s hopes that he would get information at the AAP facility were buoyed as he picked his way through the grounds nearby. Two Humvee patrols passed, giving him the impression there was something this far west of the Point that needed protecting. Both times he hid himself completely behind trees as the patrols neared, fearing the men inside the vehicles would be using infrared scopes to check the woods for trouble.
But when he came upon the AAP compound itself, his heart began to sink. The main compound building was there, even several of the old trailers in the parking lot next to it, but everything was dark and deserted. Weeds grew a foot high from cracks in the lot. To Court it didn’t look like anyone had been here in years.
After watching through Zack’s night sight from the trees for a few minutes to make certain no one was around, Court rose, then walked through the wide-open gate at the front of the compound. He passed a sign that read Secure Facility, then he crossed the parking lot in front of the entrance to the building everyone in the program referred to as “The Center,” and he pushed on the front door.
It was unlocked.
Inside it looked like a typical public high school, but a high school during summer vacation. No light, no movement.
The floors were covered with dust and leaves that had blown in through a broken window somewhere, and there was water damage on the baseboards, as if the area had once flooded. The smell of mold filled the dank air.
Court wandered around for several minutes, checking the different floors and wings, and he found the entire building abandoned, and not a scrap of paper or a sign on the wall to give any hint as to what was once here.
He stood in the medical ward, he walked through the dormitory, he checked every locker in the locker room off the empty swimming pool.
Nothing.
Back outside in the parking lot he walked among the trailers on the north side of the building. These were individual classrooms for AADP recruits; Court had spent part of virtually every day for two years studying with his principal trainer in trailer 14b.
Many of the trailers were gone now, but 14b was still there, the last one on the second row, almost all the way to the perimeter fence around the parking lot. Court walked over to it. Where before the grounds around the lot had been manicured lawn, now it looked like the forest on the other side of the chain-link fence had pushed through. Young pine and oak dotted the ground almost up to the back of the trailer, and the asphalt lot the trailer rested on was buckled and broken, with weeds growing through the cracks.
The windows of 14b were all broken out, as well, and there was evidence of water and storm damage here, just like at The Center. The aluminum door was bent and it hung wide open.
Court looked in, shone his flashlight around. It was all but empty. He went inside and stood there in the middle of the dark space, flipped off his light, and thought about his time here, more than fifteen years earlier.
A small swivel chair was the only piece of furniture that remained—Maurice’s chair. Maurice had been his trainer, the one man he worked with 365 days a year for two years. Maurice nearly killed him multiple times, and Court wanted to kill him back more than once, but Court loved the man like a father.
Maurice was dead now, and Court found himself wishing, more than anything in the world, that the old bastard was sitting in that chair so Court could ask him what the hell he should do now.
Exhausted suddenly, and overcome with failure, Court sat down against the wall, leaned his head back, and asked himself what the hell he was going to do now.
Just then he felt the vibration of his phone in his pack, letting him know he was getting a call via RedPhone. For a moment he just let it buzz. He had no desire to talk to Catherine King at the moment. As far as he was concerned right now, she was just one more dead end.
Finally, though, he fished out his phone and opened the app that put the call through.
“Yeah?”
“This is Catherine.”
“No one else has this number.”
“I’ve been calling. I was worried something happened to you.”
I’ll just bet, Court thought to himself. He wondered what her excuse would be for not going to Israel. “I’m fine,” he said. Three shafts of dull light entered the dark space through the door and two windows, as the moon broke through the cloudy night.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
Court looked around at the old empty trailer. “I’m at a Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Really?”
Court didn’t answer. Instead he said, “How ’bout you?”
“I’m at Heathrow. My flight home boards soon. I’m so glad I caught you between flights. I tried you before I left Tel Aviv, but you didn’t answer.”
Court sat up straighter. “You actually went?”
“I did.”
“Did you find . . .”
“The man you shot? Yes. His name is Yanis Alvey. He has fully recovered.”
“That’s good.”
There was a slight pause, then Catherine said, “I need to talk to you about something. Are you somewhere you can listen for a minute?”
Court considered his immediate surroundings. He could probably sit here for days and no one would know. “Yes, I’m secure. What did you find out?”
“I’ll tell you. But before I do, I want you to understand something. This was not your fault.”
“My fault? You’re goddamned right this isn’t my fault.”
She hesitated. Then said, “The man you killed in Trieste was not an al Qaeda assassin.”
Court’s jaw flexed in anger, but he said nothing. He’d been there; she hadn’t. He’d seen the man kill two Serbian guards, then raise his gun towards the Israeli spy.
“Then who was he?”
“I’ll tell you, but you have to understand, you aren’t going to like what you hear.”
Court closed his eyes. “Who . . . was . . . he?”
Catherine hesitated again. Just before Court asked her a third time, she said, “I got this from Alvey, who got it from the head of the Mossad. The Israelis did a multi-year investigation into the affair, piecing it together from primary evidence and interviews with survivors. They are absolutely certain of their findings.”
Despair grew in the pit of Court’s stomach. Softly, he said, “Tell me who I killed, Catherine.”
And she did.
Six Years Earlier
Hawthorn sat quietly in his room in the Italian villa just outside of Trieste, but inside he was raging against Mossad and Manny, furious with himself for believing he would be kept safe.
Manny Aurbach had promised his agent Hawthorn he would protect him, but like other things the old Jew had told him, that had been a lie.
He wondered if he was really mad, or if he was just terrified, diverting his fear into action, as he had been trained to do long ago.
Hawthorn was a spy, and he spied for the Mossad, which was an immediate death sentence to any Arab. Compounding this fact was that he had penetrated al Qaeda in Iraq and now served as
a logistics operative for the organization, and he knew it would just take one small piece of evidence to convict him. If anyone in his organization thought he was working for the Jews, he would be killed, likely in a most horrible fashion.
He’d not wanted to come to Italy to meet with the al Qaeda operatives from Pakistan, but he’d seen no way out of it. The danger for him was that he had cultivated his legend among the AQ leadership, and they trusted him, but exposing himself to an entire new group of individuals, individuals with contacts and intelligence networks who could check his backstory with their own resources, or poke holes in his legend, meant this trip could put him in front of the wrong person at the wrong time.
And just as he had feared, so had it come to pass. When he and his colleague stepped off the launch this afternoon at the dock they’d been met by a small contingent of AQ men from the Tribal Areas, and a larger group of Serbs. Soon after Hawthorn greeted the men from Pakistan, he knew he was in serious trouble.
In the driveway of the villa everyone climbed out of the vans to begin carrying luggage inside. As Hawthorn started to leave the vehicle, he felt a hand clutch his arm. One of the al Qaeda men from Pakistan sat next to him. He whispered, “I know who you are. If you try to run, I will alert them. They will tear you to pieces and enjoy it.”
Hawthorn sat dumbfounded. The other man said, “One of us will not be leaving this city with his life.”
“What . . . do you want?”
The man from Pakistan just smiled. “I am not afraid to die. Are you?”
The man pushed past Hawthorn on his way out of the van, leaving the Israeli agent to sit alone in the driveway.
For the rest of the evening Hawthorn had known he would have to act: either run or kill. Doing nothing would be a death sentence. Running seemed impossible, considering the man from Pakistan specifically threatened to alert the others if he tried.
Hawthorn had no idea what the other man’s game was, but he knew he needed to act first.
Both Hawthorn and the other spy were carrying weapons. Pistols with silencers. It was standard outfitting for AQ operatives working in the West. The guns were both a means at their disposal to fight their way out of trouble, as well as tools given to them so they could end their own lives before they were taken into custody.