Red shut his eyes. The man had so little to lose right now. If Lori had been mistreated, he was not going to leave any of her abusers alive.
“Carter, I just want her back. For me, yes. But mostly for the kids. I won’t be able to face them if I don’t. Problem is, I’m not who I was a couple days ago, and I’m not who I was six years ago, either. I’ve still got stuff I can’t remember, like black spots in my head. I half-lied to Genova to get on. I mean, I didn’t make stuff up. I’ve got recall on most of what he asked me. But it’s like there’s more there that I can’t get to. It’s like he didn’t dig deep enough, maybe on purpose. Big deal, I remember how to break down a weapon, but that’s like driving. You don’t forget it.”
Red leaned back and pressed his fingertips to his temple. “I don’t want to screw this up, but I’m the weak link. I’ve never been that before. Crawler still trusts in me, but he’s got the IQ of a doorknob. I want to kill the guys who took her so bad I can taste it. I can’t push it aside anymore. I’m gonna screw something up, maybe even lose her.”
Carter scratched his stubbled face. His fingers slipped over oily skin. “You got no choice.”
“What?”
“You heard me. They brought the fight. You finish it. No easy way out of this one, so quit trying.”
“Sound like my father.”
“Good. Then you know what you gotta do. Suck it up. Kill the ones you got to. Take the ones you don’t. Figure the other shit out later. I believe in you, too, and pardon me if I don’t think myself dumb as a doorknob.”
Red’s lip straightened. Consciousness seemed to creep back into his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll keep my head clear.”
Carter leaned back into the webbing again. The cold didn’t sting so bitter now. The growl of the engines hung like white noise.
The colonel slapped his phone closed but it rang again. “Damn it! You’d think I’d get a break up here.” He flipped it open.
“Hello!” His countenance softened as he listened. “Great to hear from you again, Sheriff, but I gotta go. How’d you get this—” A smile broke across his face. “That is good news. Thanks for running that down. I’ll get him. He’s right here.”
Covering the mic, the colonel leaned into Carter. “Your boss sounds like a backwoods bootlegger, but he may have earned his pay today. Figure it out.”
What the hell?
The colonel pushed the sat phone into his hands. “He’s in D.C., at the Hoover Building.” His lip curled in a cynical smile. “Says he’s got intel on that bullet casing you gave him to keep him busy.”
Chapter 13
Irish
Carter took the sat phone and covered the mic, musing how he’d handle Sheriff Jenson. He’d given him a bullet casing with a print just to stop him looking over his shoulder, calling every half hour and asking when he’d be back to work, trying to discover why he’d disappeared. The empty shell was the colonel’s idea. “Let him help. Give him a hard one,” he’d said. “One that’ll keep him busy a while.”
The phone was warm against his ear. The colonel had been on it for at least an hour. “How’d you end up in D.C., Sheriff?”
His North Carolina accent was even stronger when reflected off a satellite. “Where’re you? Sounds like a locomotive goin’ through a tunnel.”
Carter leaned forward and glanced down the empty fuselage. Red caught his eye and winked. “You could say that.”
“Know that FBI agent from last summer? The guy I ran into at the boat ramp when I—”
Carter spun his hand in a hurry up motion. “Yeah. You tore off his bumper, didn’t you? You guys still friends?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s a South Carolina boy. We patched that up a long time ago. He came up here two months back and I took him fishin’ out to the rock, after striper. He got a—”
“Sheriff, please, I’m pressed for time on this end.”
“You always is in a hurry. Remember that print you gave me? The one on the casing from your buddy’s house?”
“I’m with you.”
“I couldn’t find nothing, but figured, what the hell? So I gave my FBI fishin’ buddy a call. He’d invited me up to D.C. a while back and—”
“Had he been drinking?”
“Come again?”
“Sorry. Keep going.”
“So I hopped in a cruiser this morning. He was surprised as hell, but here we are in his office havin’—”
Carter pushed back the cuff of his fatigue blouse and squinted at his watch. “You’re in FBI headquarters, at seven in the morning?”
The sheriff’s voice smoothed, almost losing the hillbilly drawl. “There are still some things this ol’ man can teach you. Now, don’t interrupt. I was halfway through my coffee when I slipped him the question. Asked if maybe he could help with somethin’. I passed him the print. He said it was a thumbprint. Made sense, loadin’ a clip and all. His secretary put it on some machine next to her desk. Next thing you know we’re lookin’ at that same print on his ’puter screen.”
“And?” Carter rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“He picked up the phone and some kid, looked twelve, came through the door. He banged on a keyboard and after a minute said it was typed. Say, we gotta hire us one so’s we can—”
“Sheriff, please.”
“Okay, okay. My buddy checked their file drawers downstairs and nothing matched.”
Then why the hell did you call? “Well, nice of you to let me know. Thanks for—”
“I ain’t done yet! I made him a bet that if he could find a match, I’d take him back out to the rock next weekend. He called his buddy back at Langley, CIA. Somehow he got that fingerprint from his ’puter over to his friend while he was talkin’ on the phone.”
Carter pressed his fingertips onto his eyelids. Does anyone know what I deal with?
“His friend ran it through his files and in five minutes found something. Ain’t much, but he said it may be from an Israeli.”
Shit. A connection? This guy was CIA, so he’s trolling the Israeli tidbit as bait. If they had a file on him, there was more than that.
Carter covered the mic and elbowed the colonel. “The print’s Israeli. He got a match, at CIA.”
“Our liaison didn’t turn anything up. He’s lost it.” He grabbed the phone. “Sheriff, Jim again. You calling from a phone on your, uh, friend’s desk?”
“Yep. Don’t got no cell phone. They’ll fry your—”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Well sure! Name’s Joe McRearden. Nice talking. Here you go.”
* * *
McRearden had almost choked when the sheriff pulled a flask from his coat pocket and poured some cheer into his coffee. Sneaky hillbilly used a black plastic container so he didn’t get pinged at the metal detector. McReardon had waved off his offer politely, then kept his eyes on his office door, hoping no one was walking by. As security manager for Cyber Division, he’d kept the clear doors in a spirit of transparency. Now he wished he had a wooden one.
Sheriff Jenson passed the phone over the desk. McReardon took it and punched the speaker button. “How can I help you?”
The voice said, “I’m not on a hardline. Switching to a secured channel using crypt code delta, tango, charlie, one, eight, three.”
McReardon frowned as the speakerphone switched to scrambled, sounding an eclectic mix of static and fax signal. He looked up again to ensure his door was still shut, then shuffled papers. “Who in blue blazes did you call?”
The sheriff leaned back and sipped his mug. “My detective didn’t answer, so I called a friend he’s been helpin’. Gave me his number as a backup. Or maybe it was emergency. Hell, I can’t remember.”
McReardon’s face was warming and he hit the intercom. “Marsha. Get me a printout of the crypt codes, ASAP!”
Marsha pushed open the door with a huff, stomped in, and opened a desk drawer, pulling out coffee-stained papers. She dropped them on the desk. “Here you go.” She turned and started out.
> McRearden forced a smile. “Thanks, dear. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He flipped through the pages, repeating the crypt code so as not to forget it. He found his reference and pounded several buttons on his phone. The static fell off. A red-lettered Secured lit up.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Colonel Jim Mayard, U.S. Air Force. Security ID is delta, bravo, oscar, niner. Verification is St. Andrews. I’ll give you a second to look me up.”
McRearden shook his head, fingers pounding on his keyboard. He hit the mute button on the phone. “I swear, Sheriff, I will kill you if I lose my job over this.” His fishing buddy smirked as if he knew what he’d done. McReardon found the security ID and clicked open the file. His eyes widened.
“Holy shit!” He looked up at his least-favorite friend. “You realize who you’re dealing with? This guy—I can’t tell you about him—but he’s not a guy you want to work with. Or even call, for that matter.”
He pursed his lips and took the phone off mute. “What do you need, Colonel?”
“The print was Israeli? I need to know everything. You’ve got ten minutes.”
McRearden leaned back in his chair and rubbed his neck. “I didn’t turn that up. That was my buddy over at Langley.”
“I’ll wait for you to conference him in.”
McRearden pressed mute again. “If Frank doesn’t kill me for dragging him into this, this colonel will.” He hit the conference button and dialed Frank’s number. They’d met at a technology symposium a few years back.
“Agent Workman.”
“Frank? Doug.”
“Why you calling on a secured line?”
“I’ve got someone holding. Already ran his security file. He checks out above both of our grades. A field operative with questions about that print. The Israeli.”
McRearden held the earpiece away at the sound of Frank’s nasal laugh. “He’s calling sooner than I thought.”
“I’ll give you his security ID.”
“Don’t need it. He’s not getting the file.”
“What?”
“Look, you made the request to run the print and I did. A favor. But it’s like all the others. I’ll point him to the right department. He can go through them. No one’s the wiser.”
“Doug, you don’t understand. Look up his ID.”
“I don’t care if he’s the president. I’m not supposed to have this file! We don’t have a central intelligence system. The only reason I got it is because I—because I work where I do. My balls would be in a sling if they knew. He’s gotta go through channels.”
“For the last time, please—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Give me the damn ID.”
“Delta, bravo, oscar, niner. Verification is St. Andrews.”
“That’s only four digits. Need eight.”
“It’s an old one. Just look it up.”
Frank huffed. Then, silence. Well, no one liked being put on the spot. Need to know is established at the proper levels, then information can flow freely. The colonel’s access level simply read, “All.” Beneath that, “Logging prohibited.” So McRearden couldn’t keep any documentation when he talked with him. The colonel was a ghost. Someone else held his reins. Only the director or someone higher could have agreed to it.
A click as Frank came back on the line. “Put him on.”
He pushed the conference button and all three lines flashed active.
“Colonel?”
“Tell me about the Israeli.”
“The print was matched with ninety-six-percent certainty to an unknown Israeli field operative. We know he’s been involved with at least two ops—one in Russia, one in Iran.”
“Iran?”
“Yes, sir. Both were a year ago. We believe he’s with Mossad.”
“Believe? Then ask them.”
“They denied him. We don’t believe it.”
“So we don’t know whose side he’s on?”
“Based upon what little we’ve gathered, and the nature of the ops, it points to Israeli intel. His file’s short. No name, so he’s just I-29. There’s more detail on the two ops than I-29 himself . . . or herself.”
“Give that to me.”
“The one in Russia was the killing of a Chinese oil tycoon. China was loading up on Russian oil to pressure Iran to drop prices. After the killing, China refused to fund Russia’s development of a new field. Resulted in a twelve-month delay to their oil production schedule.”
“And the one in Iran?”
“The assassination of Rahim Hafasi, an Artesh general. The Iranian Army.”
“I know who the hell he is.”
“Sorry. He was in charge of Artesh’s nuclear program. This says I-29 is Mossad. Where’d you get the print?”
“In the U.S.”
“Where?”
No reply.
“Listen, I may be able to help if I have the full story. Your call.”
“Up the road from you in New Kent County. Couple days ago. Attempted kidnapping of one of my operators. They got his wife. We’re using Mossad’s intel for an op.”
“You need to reconsider.”
“No shit. Anything else in the file?”
“Nothing.”
“Thanks, gentlemen. Out.”
One of the lights on McRearden’s phone dimmed as the colonel hung up. He thanked Frank, then placed the handset down in its cradle, as if trying not to wake it. He looked up and realized he hadn’t sent the sheriff outside. Shit. “You know what you just got me into? You’re like an inebriated bull in a china shop.”
The sheriff lifted his coffee and smirked. “They do tell me I’m full of bull.”
Doug took a gulp of his own brew, cold now, and shuddered. Bitter. Should’ve taken the sheriff up on his earlier offer of a spike. He leaned back and rubbed his neck again, then winked. “My wife’ll come after you if I get shot because of this. I’m a computer nerd, not a damn operative.”
* * *
Jim flipped his sat phone shut, gaze distant. When he brought it back, the entire team was staring at him. Eight men. His charge. Eight lives. With kids, some of them. Was this a game changer? Could he press forward, or should he reconsider as Frank had suggested?
Red asked, “What was that all about?”
“One of Lori’s kidnappers has a link to Mossad, we think. His file’s thin. Called him I-29.”
“We’re still going, then?”
The colonel walked toward the cockpit, several steps away from the rest. Red stood to follow, but Carter pulled him back down. Jim studied the scuffed aluminum floor, zigzagged with grip tape. He shouldn’t have answered the phone. No way to know I-29’s role in the kidnap, or even verify he was Israeli. Even then, he might be a double, or a mole, or who knows what. That’s what reeked about working with spooks. You never knew who was on your damn team. It’s why he’d always stayed on the operations side, where he had control.
He took a deep breath and held it. Any other information to change his decision about the op? No. There were always doubts, risks. You had to make the best decision with what was in hand. Then again, if intel was compromised, his team would be as good as dead.
Someone brushed against him. He glanced sideways. Ironic, a black man wearing blackout. “There’re always loose ends,” Marksman said. “You don’t get to ignore whatever they said. May be a rogue player out there, but always are. This is a well-planned mission. Sometimes too much intel is just that, too much.”
The colonel tried to read the man’s dark brown eyes. He only called him for an op about once a year, but kept close connections the rest of the time.
“Out with it,” the colonel said.
Marksman glanced toward the cockpit. “Sorry. I got nothing. You trust your liaison with Mossad?”
“No. But she’s never been wrong.”
“So why not trust her?”
“Easy for you.” The colonel jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “You’re not r
esponsible for them.”
“Shit, colonel. We all know the risks. Even if the team gets taken, you might get out alive. Maybe minus teeth, a few broken bones, but still. I get taken, inside Iran, they’ll FedEx me back to Russia in ten different boxes. Yet, here I am. This is a good op, a good plan. I’m behind you, and so are they.”
Everyone thought Jim knew Marksman’s day job, but he didn’t. The man had just showed up once after he’d sent a request up the chain for an operator who spoke Russian. Higher had said use him, but don’t ask questions. But could he trust Marksman? His gut was confident, but caution flags were waving in his head.
He turned back to his team. “We’re still a go.” He met the gaze of each member in turn. Each gave a thumbs-up, even Carter. “Our intel sources have been confirmed. But keep your eyes open.”
They all glanced up over his shoulder. He turned to see the pilot standing behind him.
“Okay, ladies. We’re ten minutes out. It’s been a pleasure. Transport for your next leg is warming up. Judging from the wings taking you, I’m glad I’m not going. Don’t eat too much before loading. Godspeed.” He looked back at the colonel and muttered, “We’re even, shithead.”
The colonel glowered and shot back, “Who’s counting?”
A dismissive grunt. The pilot stepped back into his seat and the light glowed red again. The intercom squawked, “Pleasure being your pilot this morning. We know you have a choice in airline travel, so we want you to know we appreciate you choosing us. For the safety of those around you, please secure and recheck all weapons before landing. Your opinion is as important to us as crotch rot, so please fill out a customer survey and drop it in the shitter on your way out.”
* * *
Jim peered through an oval glass pane at streets and white-topped buildings flashing by as the aircraft descended. Weather report had said six inches of fresh powder would welcome them at Ramstein Air Base, Germany. Piles of white and gray drifts lined the runway as they made a fast approach, apparently the only way this craft knew how to do it. The Tupolev touched, slowed, and turned off. The team stood and lined behind him at the forward door even before the plane stopped.
Jim ducked through the small opening and stopped on the threshold. An enormous gray hangar stood across the plowed tarmac, with the B-2 waiting out front. An airman leaned out the window of a stair truck, nudging the topmost tread in place below the colonel’s feet.
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