The Hit wr-2

by David Baldacci

  “Which of us takes the shot?” asked Robie.

  Potter pointed at Reel. “She does. You’re the spotter.”

  “She has to finish the mission, Robie,” added Tucker. “That is the official deal. She does that, as far as this country is concerned, the slate is wiped clean.”

  “I’d like that in writing,” said Reel.

  “In writing?” Tucker scoffed. “Where the hell are you coming from asking for that?”

  “From a place called ‘I don’t trust you,’” she answered.

  “You don’t have a damn choice,” thundered Tucker.

  Potter held up a hand. “Look, maybe we can accommodate you.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, I don’t care. All I want is someone really high up’s ass on the line that says you will honor the deal.”

  “We could put you in prison,” said Tucker. “So how about you go kill Ahmadi and our ‘agreement’ is you don’t rot in a jail cell?”

  Reel looked at Potter. “So accommodate me.”

  “How high up do you want the signatory to be?” asked Potter.

  “Way higher than either of you,” she said.

  “That is a short list.”

  “And don’t I know it.”

  Potter looked at Tucker, who sat back, folded his arms across his chest, rocked back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling, looking for all the world like an overgrown child who had just had his crayons taken away.

  “Okay,” said Potter. “Consider it done.”

  Reel scooped up the USB stick. “Nice haggling with you.”

  She and Robie started to leave.

  “Robie, hold up,” said Tucker. “We have matters to discuss with you separate from this.”

  Reel looked at Robie and shrugged. “I’ll be outside.”

  She left.

  Tucker motioned for Robie to retake his seat. “She’s a liability.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” said Robie. “And why are you really sending me along? She doesn’t need a spotter.”

  “Because you are to make sure that she comes back. She is going to be held responsible for her crimes,” said Tucker.

  “You mean for killing traitors?”

  “I mean for murdering two of my people.”

  “And the deal you gave her?”

  Tucker looked triumphant. “There is no deal.”

  Robie glanced at Potter. “You just told her there was a deal.”

  Potter looked uncomfortable. “I’m usually a man of my word, Robie. But this is out of my hands.”

  Tucker pointed a finger at Robie. “And just to be clear, if you tell her the truth your ass will be in a prison cell until the day you die. We’ve got you on all sorts of aiding and abetting the enemy, meaning Jessica Reel.”

  Robie looked over at Blue Man, who was still doodling on his paper. “What do you think about this?” he asked him.

  Blue Man looked up, thought for a moment. “I think you should go. And do your duty.”

  Robie and Blue Man gazed at each other for a long moment. Then Robie rose. “See you on the other side,” he said, before going out the door.

  Blue Man caught up with him before he left the building.

  “Was that bullshit back there from you?” Robie asked.

  “It was actually the best advice I could give you under the circumstances.” He put out his hand. “Good luck.”

  Robie hesitated and then shook it.

  Blue Man walked off and Robie left the building.

  Reel was waiting for him at his car. They got in.

  Reel said, “What did they want with you?”

  “Doesn’t really matter, now that I know.”

  “Know what?”

  Robie held up the piece of paper that Blue Man had slipped him while shaking his hand.

  Reel looked at the two letters Blue Man had written on it.

  They were both lowercase t’s.

  She gazed up at Robie. They both knew exactly what it meant.

  “Double cross,” said Reel.

  “Double cross,” repeated Robie.

  Chapter 83

  The operations room was small and the company selected to sit in on this particular mission few in number.

  Potter, the APNSA.

  Tucker, the DCI.

  The new number two at CIA, who looked slightly gun-shy, since his two predecessors had been killed and permanently incapacitated, respectively.

  The director of homeland security.

  A ramrod-straight, white-haired three-star from the Pentagon.

  And Blue Man.

  On one wall was a mass of giant TV screens on which real-time SAT downloads were streaming across. The men sat in comfortable chairs around a rectangular table. Bottles of water sat in front of each of them. They could be getting ready to watch every NFL game being broadcast.

  Or another type of contest from a half a world away.

  Potter checked one of the digital clocks on the wall. “One hour away,” he said, and Tucker nodded.

  “Everything in place?” asked the three-star.

  “Everything’s in place,” replied Tucker. He had on a headset and was receiving communications from assets on the ground. This was hard to do in a place like Syria, but the United States had enough muscle to do just about anything just about anywhere.

  He hit a button on the control console in front of his chair and one screen flicked to the sniper nest set up in an empty office building in downtown Damascus.

  “It was fortunate that Ahmadi’s people never learned of the assassination attempt,” said Tucker. “In fifty-seven minutes he’s going to find himself in the crosshairs once more.”

  “When does Reel arrive at the nest?” asked Potter.

  “In ten minutes.”

  “And Robie?”

  “His spotter site is set up on the street opposite where Ahmadi will be getting out.”

  “And their exit?” asked the director of homeland security.

  “Planned and polished and we expect it to work,” said Tucker vaguely.

  “But everything is a risk,” added Potter quickly. “Especially over there.”

  The three-star nodded approvingly. “It takes balls to do what your people do. Sending two in with light weapons and no backup. We send our guys into tough situations, but they have a lot more firepower and resources. And we don’t leave people behind.”

  “They’re the best we have,” said Blue Man, drawing hard stares from Tucker and Potter.

  “I’m sure,” said the three-star. “Well, godspeed to them.”

  “Godspeed,” mouthed Blue Man.

  A voice spoke in Tucker’s ear. He turned to the others and said, “Robie has just communicated in. He’ll be in position in five minutes. Reel will be in the sniper’s nest in seven minutes. Everything looks good. Ahmadi will be leaving the government building right about now. He will be out of target for the next forty-eight minutes. Then they’ll have a two-minute window to—”

  Tucker broke off speaking for a very understandable reason. On the TV screens, screaming people were suddenly running down the streets of Damascus. Guns were being fired into the air. Sirens were starting up.

  “What the hell?” barked Potter.

  Tucker was transfixed by what was happening on the screen.

  Potter grabbed him by the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  Tucker spoke into his headset, demanding an explanation for the sudden chaos on the streets.

  “They’re trying to find out. They don’t know yet.”

  “Dial up Robie,” demanded Potter. “He’s right there.”

  Tucker attempted to do so. “He’s not answering. He’s gone silent.”

  “Reel, then. Get somebody, for God’s sake.”

  “Look,” said the three-star.

  Syrian security forces were hanging out the window of the room where the sniper’s nest was set up.

  “How the hell did they get there so fast? Reel isn’t even there. Sh
e hasn’t fired a shot yet,” added the DHS director.

  “The whole operation has been compromised,” said Tucker. “There’s been a breach somewhere.” He exchanged a glance with Potter. “This was not supposed to happen.”

  “And Ahmadi got away? Again?” snapped the three-star.

  “He was not supposed to get away,” Tucker muttered under his breath.

  “For Christ’s sake,” said Potter. “Can’t we get anything right?”

  “Hold on,” said Tucker. “Something’s coming through now.”

  He listened to the voice in his ear. His expression went from stunned concern to absolute amazement.

  “Copy that,” he said.

  “What is it?” screamed Potter when Tucker didn’t say anything else.

  Tucker turned to the others, his face white. “Ahmadi was just shot outside the government building, while he was getting into his car. He’s dead. It’s been confirmed through reliable sources.”

  “Thank God for that,” said the three-star. “But I don’t understand. Did the mission change? The hit was supposed to be outside the hotel.”

  “The mission didn’t change. Not on our end,” said Blue Man calmly.

  The DHS director was staring at the Syrians swarming over the sniper’s nest. “What I don’t get is how they were onto the sniper’s nest so fast.” He turned to Tucker. “It’s almost like they knew the hit was coming.”

  “A breach, like we said,” Tucker responded, still looking ghostly pale.

  “But Reel and Robie must’ve known about it. That’s why they made the switch to the government building and did the hit there,” explained Potter quickly.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” said the three-star.

  “Why not?” asked Tucker.

  “You said Robie just reported in. He was getting into position as the spotter outside the hotel. And he also reported that Reel was expected to be in place in ten minutes. The hotel and government building are nowhere near each other. Why would he communicate to his own agency one thing and then do something else entirely? It was almost as though he didn’t trust—”

  The three-star stopped talking and turned back to the screen, where the Syrian security forces were still screaming from the balcony of the sniper’s nest.

  Then the three-star glanced back at Tucker with a suspicious look.

  Tucker looked over at the DHS director and found his gaze boring into him as well.

  Tucker started to say something and then stopped. All he could do was stare at the screens.

  The three-star said, “But the kill was still made. Under the, um, unusual circumstances I’d say that was the finest hit I’ve ever, well, not seen.”

  “Same for me,” said the DHS director.

  “And me,” added Potter lamely, which drew a long glare from Tucker.

  “Robie and Reel deserve this country’s thanks,” said the three-star firmly.

  The DHS director added, “And we’ll see that they get it.”

  “If they get out of Syria,” said the three-star darkly.

  If they get out of Syria alive, thought Tucker.

  Chapter 84

  Other than North Korea and Iran, Syria was arguably the most difficult country in the world to escape from for a westerner.

  Foreigners were inherently suspect.

  Americans were hated.

  American operatives who had just killed a potential Syrian leader were good for only one thing: execution and then being dragged through the streets headless.

  The only positive element was that Syria’s borders were not secure. They were flimsy and ever-changing, just as the politics of the moment were, in one of the countries constituting the “cradle of civilization.”

  Robie and Reel understood this fully.

  They had a chance, a slender one.

  Reel had delivered the kill shot from a building across the street from where Ahmadi had been about to get into his limo. It would have been easier to don a full burqa face covering and escape that way. However, Syrian women didn’t wear traditional Islamic garb for the most part. And full facial veils had been banned in universities and other public settings by the increasingly secular government, who felt it was a security risk and promoted extremism. Thus putting one on would have been a red flag, not a disguise.

  But she could still wear a hijab. This would reveal part of her face, but she had stained it darker and simulated wrinkles and sun damage. And in the long black robe she had incorporated a harness and padding that added about sixty pounds to her frame. She stooped as she walked and looked as though she were about seventy.

  She picked up a market basket and left the room, waiting patiently at the elevator with another man who was standing there. The elevator doors opened and she got into the car. It headed down. When it reached the ground floor she stepped off.

  She was swept to the side as police flooded the building. They grabbed the man who had been in the elevator car with her and pulled him, as well as several other Syrian men, along with them. They stormed into the elevator and up the stairwell.

  Reel waited for a few moments and then continued on. When she got outside, police cars were everywhere. Swarms of people were screaming. People were crying. Others were marching in the streets, chanting.

  A car caught on fire. Guns were racked back and fired into the air. Shop windows were smashed. There was a small explosion down the street.

  Reel followed another group of women down the street and into an alley.

  Under normal circumstances, it would have been unthinkable for men to search a woman on a Syrian public street.

  These were not normal circumstances.

  Police swept into the alley and started grabbing everyone, pulling at their clothing, looking for weapons or other signs of culpability.

  One man had a knife. The police shot him in the head.

  A woman ran screaming. She was repeatedly shot in the back and dropped to the pavement with blood pouring from multiple wounds.

  The police were now closing in on Reel. She didn’t look like an assassin. She looked like a fat old woman. But the police apparently didn’t care. They were only a few feet from her as she backed away.

  Her hand reached inside her basket.

  They were just about to surround her, their guns drawn and pointed at her.

  Her back was against a brick wall. One of the police reached out to grab her arm. Once they saw the padding, it would all be over. They would shoot her right on the spot.

  The loud voice reached to the alley.

  The police stopped, turned.

  The voice yelled out again and again. In Arabic it said, “We have the shooter! We have the shooter!”

  The police turned and ran back down the alley toward the voice.

  The crowd closed in on Reel. Sobbing people bent down to the dead bodies.

  Reel pushed backward, away from the crowd, and managed to ease into a sliver of a side alley.

  She walked quickly down it and reached another street, a busy thoroughfare. A taxi pulled up to the curb and she climbed in.

  “Where to?” the bearded driver asked in Arabic.

  “I think you know,” she said in English.

  Robie hit the gas and the cab sped off.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Close?”

  “Close enough,” she said.

  She pulled the remote from her basket and held it up. “This came in handy. Once they find the source of the ‘We have the shooter’ voice they won’t be happy.”

  “A little boom box in the street never hurts,” said Robie.

  As they rounded a turn she tossed the remote out the window.

  He looked in the rearview mirror again and saw the crowds spilling into the streets behind them. “They’ll know the shooter got away. So we’re not free and clear yet.”

  “Face it, Robie, we’ll never be free and clear again.”

  “They found the sniper’s nest. Even though you didn’t fire from
it.”

  “Big surprise. But at least it validates what your guy told us about the double cross.”

  “I wonder how they felt back in the ops room watching?”

  “One of my greatest regrets in life will be missing the looks on their faces. Especially Tucker’s.”

  He turned right and then left and sped up again. Traffic was lighter now. But Robie could envision roadblocks being set up right this minute.

  Damascus to Israel was a short trip, but that would be the exit the Syrians would be expecting. And also the one designed by the CIA. So that option was out.

  The trip to Amman, Jordan, was a little over a hundred miles. But the border between the two countries had been strengthened, with limited crossing points. So that was also out.

  Iraq was to the east. It was a long border with many ways across. But neither Robie nor Reel saw much advantage in sneaking across the northern border of Iraq. They would most likely die there.

  That left one option. Turkey, to the north. It was also a long border, hundreds of miles. The closest major Turkish city was Mersin, about 250 miles distant. There was a shorter route they could take through a narrow section of Turkey that poked like a misshapen finger into Syria a little north of Al Haffah. But Mersin, though farther away, would have more options for their onward travel, and a large city was easier to hide in. Besides, Robie wanted to put greater distance between them and the Syrians than the finger of Turkish land provided.

  But they had to get there first.

  And though the border had many holes in it, Syria and Turkey were also informally skirmishing with each other. Bombs dropped from planes and guns fired by roving packs of soldiers were becoming the standard of the day around the border. Plus there was a lot of illegal activity involving the trafficking of drugs, immigrants, guns, and other contraband through the region. And the criminals typically had one response to pesky witnesses.

  They killed them.

  “On to Turkey,” said Robie.

  “On to Turkey,” she parroted back.

  She didn’t take off her disguise. Not yet. She had papers, in case they were stopped. She had to hope they would be good enough.

  As Robie looked up ahead, he knew they were about to be tested.