by Joseph Nagle
Danielle reached forward and caressed Sonia’s face, and then she did something that surprised Sonia.
Danielle leaned in and kissed her.
She pressed her lips against Sonia’s. It was a kiss that carried years of missing affection from a daughter to a mother. It was a kiss that connected them.
Sonia suddenly felt very close to the young woman. She wrapped her arms around her and held her tightly—the love between the two was instant and vibrated through them both.
Danielle cried as the long-housed emotions poured out of her; her body shook between her tears. Sonia cried, too.
“So,” whispered Sonia into Danielle’s ear, “what’s your specialty?”
Danielle wiped her tears and replied, “Psychiatry. I work to counsel the men and women of our services. The job can be quite stressful. This flat is my office. It is a safe house, in a manner of speaking. Those that come here do so privately.”
Sonia realized that Danielle was a blend of them both; she worked in both intelligence and in medicine.
Michael reached out with the drink that Danielle had poured. “Do you still want this?”
Sonia never took her eyes from Danielle, and she replied, “No, I don’t need it anymore.”
Danielle smiled.
Michael held out his arm, pushing the extra drink toward York, who hesitated at first, but then thought, what the hell, and took the glass.
Michael didn’t dare look at the young soldier. Tears streamed down both cheeks as he watched the two women he loved the most in an embrace.
“Kid, go check on the senator,” commanded Michael briskly. It wasn’t that he had any real concerns about Faust; it was that he just didn’t want York to see him like this.
York walked away, and Michael quickly wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
After a moment, Michael walked to the two women and interrupted their newfound connection. But before speaking, his eyes found both of theirs. Both women reached up and took one of Michael’s hands.
Sonia gave a slight squeeze. “So, my dear husband, it would seem that there is a lot to talk about.”
Michael shrugged and was thankful that he had the chance to belay that conversation for a bit. “We have some business to handle first. Danielle, if you would please get Mr. Garrido on the com.”
Danielle nodded, smiled at Sonia, and then stood to walk to the safe house’s command center. Immediately, she went to work.
Michael kneeled once more in front of Sonia. Smiling at him, she said, “I thought that…”
“I know,” Michael interrupted.
“I never should have; I’m sorry,” Sonia replied.
“Don’t be. It’s understandable. I’m happy that she finally gets to know you, and you her. I hope you understand why it couldn’t be that way before.”
“I do, Michael. It was for her protection.”
“For yours, too.” Michael’s short statement reminded Sonia that they still were in Paris, and both had nearly been killed, and that the murderer of Danielle’s parents was probably still out there. Sonia saw the tip of the vellum poking out from the inside of Michael’s coat. She was reminded that it wasn’t yet over.
“Michael?” asked Sonia. “You said we were going to Rome. Why?”
The answer began with Danielle as she called out, “Michele, I have him.”
All occupants of the flat stood in front of the dual monitors. The explanation would come another way.
Garrido saw Dr. Sonia Sterling and smiled, but said nothing to her.
Michael took a tone of seriousness. “Mr. Garrido, when I was picked up by my men and detained, one of them told me that Operation Merlin wasn’t the only thing of value that the late Senator Door had come across. You know what they were referring to, don’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Garrido, his response unusually short.
“It wasn’t about nuclear weapons, was it?”
“No, Dr. Sterling, I don’t believe that’s the case.”
“Tell me, Mr. Garrido, to what were they referring?”
“About five months ago, I was part of a team that analyzed images of geological striations and markings taken by satellite of specific areas in the Middle East.”
Garrido cleared his throat and continued, “We were looking for caves, military camps, materials; anything of intelligence value for the troops. I was working seven days a week and was really tired—bored was more like it; there wasn’t much of anything to see that we hadn’t already found. The main focus of the work was to provide an updated series of maps to our special forces working in the Middle East and conflict areas.”
York’s eyes snapped up when he heard this. He stepped closer to the screen and asked, “Your work: was it provided to the 7th Special Forces Group?”
“It was, Staff Sergeant,” replied Garrido.
York reached into his pocket and pulled out the map book he had used to guide his Alpha team up the mountainous terrain outside of Jalalabad in Afghanistan. At the thought of his now-dead team, York’s face went red with anger, and he stepped closer to the screen.
Extending the book outward, York’s grip tightened on it; the muscles that striated his thick forearm rippled as he squeezed the book even harder. The blood drained from his knuckles. There was a pronounced growl in his voice as he clearly stated to Garrido, “The next words out of your mouth would do well to explain that the killings of my team had nothing to do with this!”
Garrido paused and took a deep breath. “Sergeant, I wish that were the case, but your Alpha team was just the beginning; they were bait.”
At the word bait, York shot forward, and if Michael hadn’t instinctively jumped toward him and snatched York mid-stride, he was sure that the kid would have put his fist through the screen.
On the screen, Garrido’s own reflexes caused him to back away as if the blow was actually going to make it.
Sonia and Danielle both felt an icy feeling of fear shiver through them. They looked at one another uneasily.
Michael’s voice was controlling and firm when he said, “Kid, let him finish; give him a chance to explain.”
“It’d better be a fucking good explanation,” spat back York over Michael’s shoulder at the screen. “Sorry, ladies.”
Both women nodded.
Michael released York and straightened his rumpled sleeves before turning back toward the screen. “Like the kid said, Mr. Garrido: this had better be good.”
Garrido, shaken somewhat, cleared his throat and replied, “Sir, Staff Sergeant; my choice of words was poor.”
“Damn right it was,” York spat quietly.
Michael shot a small glare over his shoulder.
York shut up.
Michael nodded at Garrido, who, on cue, continued, “In that book is a series of maps on the Mediterranean Quadrant. They are hyperspectral satellite imagery; they show lithography, markings; physical characteristics of the terrain and rock formations. It’s a guide for special operations soldiers.”
York jumped in. “Doc, I used the imagery in this book to lead my team to our objective in Afghanistan. It’s how I found the cave that contained the intel that had our names on it.”
Michael listened intently and then asked, “Mr. Garrido, my assumption is that you are going to tell us that those maps tell another story.”
“They do,” replied Garrido.
York moved closer; Michael said, “Go on.”
Sonia and Danielle both grew curious and moved closer, too.
In the room, the four of them simultaneously stopped breathing as they waited for Garrido’s reply.
“Minerals.”
There was an air of confusion in the room.
No one spoke.
Michael furrowed his brow; a slight crease appeared between his eyes as he tried to understand. He looked at the map book in York’s hands; he thought about Operation Merlin and the flight manifest York had found in the Afghani cave, which outlined the purchase, payment, and de
livery of the TBA-480 firing block blueprints—blueprints for a nuclear weapon—along with uranium-enriching centrifuges from Russia to Afghanistan. There were instructions on the flash drive, too, on how to build the weapon. Michael thought of the Crown of Thorns and of the Shroud of Turin; he thought of the small, encoded medallion in his pocket.
So many things.
So few connections.
And now this: minerals.
It was one more seemingly random piece to a growing puzzle.
In the closet at the back of the flat, the bound senator moved with difficulty on the floor as he tried to find some modicum of comfort. Michael heard the quiet shuffling and turned toward the closet.
Faust, thought Michael, Senator Matthew Faust, the man who the Order wanted to be president.
Michael thought about his last conversation with Faust; the egotistical man had said, “You are asking the wrong question.”
What?
That was the right question, the senator had said: “What is Operation Merlin?’” The senator had found this funny; he had told Michael, “You are between a rock and a hard place.”
Michael could still hear the senator’s devilish laugh when he had uttered his quip.
You are between a rock and a hard place.
“Kid, let me see that map book.”
York handed it to Michael.
Michael flipped through it; the images were familiar. He had seen them before. He thought for a moment and then remembered. When he had escaped from the team that had snatched him from his home, he had made his way to a local asset, where he had met with Lou. The asset was an office at the USGS, the United States Geological Survey.
On the wall of the USGS, Michael remembered seeing three-dimensional topographic maps. On the maps, there had been large shaded blocks that showed locations of the United States’s numerous mineral and ore deposits.
Minerals.
You are between a rock and a hard place.
“Sir,” Garrido broke the silence as all eyes turned his way, “those maps show numerous veins of iron, cobalt, gold, and lithium. These are previously unknown deposits to the Afghanis.”
“How much, Garrido? How much are they worth?” asked Michael.
“Conservative estimates have their collective value just shy of one trillion.”
“Dollars?” interjected York.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant, dollars.”
York whistled.
“Sir, the Afghanis have nowhere near the infrastructure needed to mine these minerals. It would take hundreds of millions and years to develop the capabilities. They would need a large amount of outside investment and imported workers; roads would need to be built, workers trained, political connections created, warlords placated, and serious infrastructure development: hospitals, schools, stores…”
Michael interjected, “And security—security forces as protection from the numerous al-Qaeda cells in the country that would certainly try to get their hands on these minerals once they find out.” Michael thought for a moment and then asked, “Where did the estimates come from, Mr. Garrido?”
“I did some digging, sir, and found an internal Pentagon memo that stated—quote—Afghanistan could become the Saudi Arabia of lithium— end quote. Most of the deposits are in the southern and eastern regions of the country, near the Pakistani border, where the most intense fighting is. So far the information is Eyes Only and has had a limited audience compartmentalized to certain members of the Intelligence Oversight Committee, including the late Senator Door.”
Southern and eastern regions, thought York, who joined the conversation. “Doc, that’s where my team was when we were attacked. But how does all this fit in with my team’s mission and with Operation Merlin?” And then York froze. He understood.
Turning to Michael, York said, “Doc, it makes sense! We were bait, like Garrido said. We were intended to be the first casualties.”
“I’m not following you, kid.”
“Doc, if al-Qaeda gets its hands on the blueprints and equipment for a nuclear weapon, it gives us every right to keep our troops in Afghanistan—perpetually. The country borders Pakistan, and it’s a short shot to India; both are nuclear powers and would overwhelmingly approve of our presence as a security force. No one would argue with that! Merlin is a goddamn cover; don’t you see? Think about the Gulf War, why we went into Iraq!”
Michael knew right away to what York referred and uttered, “WMD—weapons of mass destruction.”
“But that was a lie, a cover. It gave us carte blanche permission from the world community to go to war!”
York’s hypothesis was clear and, even more so, he was making sense. Michael was impressed. “That brain of yours finally kicking in, kid?”
Michael put his attention back to the screen; behind him, York couldn’t help but crack a small but proud smile.
“I found something else, too,” said Garrido. “I came across plans that outlined a buildup of additional troops in Afghanistan, after the presidential election is complete. I think the staff sergeant’s speculation is more than just a hypothesis.”
“Let me guess, Mr. Garrido, the primary spot of the buildup will be in the southern and eastern regions, near the Pakistani border, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir, you are.”
“Bait,” Michael replied, understanding, but there was no smiling at this. He asked, “One question remains, Mr. Garrido: we know the Order is bankrolling this, but to whom does this lead?”
Garrido shrugged his answer.
“Mr. Garrido, I need you to find the flight path of that Antonov. Its cargo cannot make it into Afghanistan. I don’t care what it takes, but do it! Am I clear? Those materials cannot get into their hands!”
“Yes, sir,” responded Garrido.
“I presume you know how to find me.”
“I do, sir.”
“Good, Danielle will confirm shortly. The next time I hear your voice, it had better be with some good news.”
With no warning, Michael ended the transmission. He turned to Danielle as Sonia looked on; Michael was clearly in command mode.
“Danielle, I need a phone; make sure that Mr. Garrido receives the SIM data. Get the three of us clean passports with diplomatic privileges, some cash, and three tickets to Rome.”
“Oui, Michele,” replied Danielle obediently, and then asked, “What of our guest? What am I to do with him?”
“Just make sure he stays quiet until we’re gone, then unload him as you see fit,” said Michael. “Kid, follow Danielle. She’ll give you what we need.”
York quickly obeyed.
Eyeing his wife, he moved closer to her.
Sonia asked, “What’s in Rome, Michael?”
“An old friend.”
“And you think this friend has the answer, that he’ll know who is behind all of this?”
“I don’t know, but he’s all I’ve got. Ever since the beginning of this convoluted nightmare, all signs are pointing in one direction.”
“And that’s Rome?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Michael, you’ll have to be a bit clearer than that.”
“When this all began, Notre Dame was destroyed by a large explosion.”
“How could I forget? That senator and the president of France were killed in it.”
“Yes, but there’s more. The explosion did kill them; it killed a large number of people, but it was also used as a cover to steal the Crown of Thorns. Shortly afterward, the Shroud of Turin was stolen, too.”
“Michael, why does that same group of boneheads from three years ago always bring you into their apocalyptic fantasies?”
Sonia remembered all too well the events of nearly three years past. Masked special operations soldiers, tethered by rope to a helicopter, had crashed through their upstairs bedroom window while she and Michael slept.
Their intention had been to kill them both.
But Michael had shot them both first. One hadn�
�t died, and in a flurry, she had picked up a gun from the floor and shot him dead before he could fire his weapon. It was that night when she first learned that Michael was in the CIA; it was that night when she first learned of the Order.
Michael didn’t reply to his wife’s question but instead said, “Sonia, you can stay here; you’ll be safe, okay? Danielle will see to it.”
Sonia cocked her head to the side and looked a bit annoyed. “Michael, you’ve got to be kidding. You think I am the kind of woman that is going to just sit in a room, wringing her hands and waiting for her husband to come safely home?”
“I don’t,” Michael replied.
Sonia had an edge to her voice and a snap in her wrist as she pointed at Michael and continued, “I didn’t get shot in the leg with a tiny bomb, kidnapped by some asshole, drugged into a stupor, locked in a mildew-filled cell, brought to France God only knows how, and nearly electrocuted to let the Order—which is a really stupid name by the way—control where I am, what I do, and how I do it! You didn’t marry a passive woman, Michael! Besides, you asked Danielle to get three tickets, so I’m pretty sure that you already knew what my answer would be.”
“I did.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
KEEP YOUR FRIENDS
CLOSE…
LANGLEY, VA
The communication between him and Michael had ceased; Jorge Garrido rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of each hand and sighed; there would be a lot of work to do.
He wasn’t so sure that he could find the cargo plane that was delivering the uranium-enriching centrifuges and nuclear firing-block plans to Afghanistan. The An-225 Antonov was huge. The plane was equipped with six, very large ZMKB D-18 Turbofan engines—each as big as a bus—and was 275.6 feet in length, 59.3 feet tall, and had a wingspan nearly as wide as a football field is long. Not an easy plane to hide, but it was still a needle in a haystack: the world is much larger.
“Don’t look so dejected.”
The man sitting in the room with Garrido was leaning back comfortably with his feet propped on the corner of the desk. His arms were folded behind his head.