by Jack Bowie
“Not really. Well within our ferry range. As you can see, not much cargo tonight, eh?” He flashed a smile and Braxton noticed a handful of gold teeth.
“All right then. We’ll be off in a few minutes.”
Braxton watched as he disappeared around a corner at the front of the plane.
A few minutes later, Braxton heard the turbos begin their roar. Braxton’s Army buddies had called the C-130 the world’s most expensive white-noise machine. It was going to be a long night.
At least the pilot hadn’t looked like Mel Gibson.
PART TWO
Geneva
Chapter 15
Office of the Prime Minister, Baghdad, Iraq
Friday, 7:30 a.m.
Kamal Daoud, First Secretary to the Prime Minister of Iraq, sat at his desk awaiting the arrival of his boss. He had carefully cataloged and organized the letters, documents and emails that had arrived over the previous eight hours that required the Prime Minister’s attention. Then he had prepared the schedule summary, the chronicle that laid out the P.M.’s activities for the day. This was always full; cabinet meetings, policy discussions, negotiations with members of the Parliament and an occasional face-to-face with an American dignitary. The days were always packed into the early evening. The only constant was the salat, the times for his daily prayers.
It was an impossible schedule for the Prime Minister, and an even greater one for his First Secretary, who was always the first to arrive in the darkness of the morning and the last to leave in the darkness of evening. He hardly ever saw the light of the sun. But, praise be to Allah, Daoud would not have had it any other way. He had known Aydin al-Jafar almost fifteen years, beginning when the charismatic young man had run for his country’s first Parliament. Daoud had managed that campaign and every one since—fighting both his own countrymen and the barbarian Americans—to reach this holy position. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect his mentor and his own position.
Daoud heard a clammer in the hallway and rose, the stack of morning reports cradled in his arms. It would not be long.
The door opened and al-Jafar strode in. He was dressed, as was his custom, in a bespoke silk suit imported from his favorite Saville Row tailor. Daoud bowed as the man passed, but noticed a look of concern on his face. Daoud followed him through the deeply sculpted inner doors and into the ornate office of the Prime Minister.
Daoud waited until al-Jafar had hung up his coat and taken his seat at the massive polished mahogany desk. He carefully laid the stack of papers on its top. It was then he noticed the dark circles under his friend’s eyes.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” he asked.
Al-Jafar turned to his secretary. “Yes, of course. Just fine.” He added a wave of his hand to emphasize the point. He then reached for a silk handkerchief and coughed. It seemed to rattle his whole being.
“If you’re not feeling well, I can cancel your appointments for this morning,” Daoud suggested.
The Prime Minister shook his head. “No. Nothing I can’t handle. Are all the briefs here?” He motioned to the stack of papers.
“Yes, sir. As you requested. The Interior Minister has an update on the housing project in Basra and the Defense Minister wishes to discuss the situation in the North. There has been new violence in the Kurdish region.”
Daoud turned to leave, then hesitated. “How was the reception last night?” he asked. The evening before, the Prime Minister had hosted a reception at the National Museum for the Interior Ministry officials and their families.
Al-Jafar looked up at his secretary. His eyes were shadowed in darkness. “Honestly, it was horrible. Remind me never to have another reception with children. Of all the obscenities of Western culture, I believe none is more officious than the emerging lack of discipline among our children. They ran freely in the museum, uncontrolled by their parents, touching all the sacred exhibits and constantly pecking at their cell phones. Can you imagine? One even sprayed her asthma inhaler in my face. We must speak to the Imams.”
“How awful,” Daoud replied. “I will make a note for follow-up with the Council.”
Al-Jafar coughed again and Daoud took an unconscious step backward. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“No. I will summon you if I have any questions on the schedule.”
“Yes, sir.”
Daoud left the office and returned to his desk. He hoped he wouldn’t have to modify the day’s schedule. Rescheduling would be an enormous effort.
* * *
At ten o’clock, the Prime Minister always had a fifteen-minute break to prepare for his next meetings. Unfortunately, Daoud was beginning to believe his carefully-planned day was about to collapse. After both the Ministers had left their meetings, they had stopped and asked regarding al-Jafar’s health. Daoud had done his best to allay their concerns, but apparently, the Prime Minister’s cough was not improving and it was affecting his ability to function.
Al-Jafar was already in a precarious position, what with the never-ending housing crisis and continued exposure of political corruption by the press. The national budget deficit grew by the day. Any perceived weakness would be jumped on by the opposition endangering al-Jafar’s position as well as that of the First Secretary. Daoud had to do something to stem the inevitable questions.
Perhaps he should call the Prime Minister’s physician. But he dared not do so without al-Jafar’s permission.
Grabbing a folder lying on his desk as an excuse, he approached the double doors and knocked. There was no response. He tried again and still hearing nothing, he braved his boss’s wrath and entered.
Al-Jafar was collapsed back in his chair. Splotches of dark red blood dotted his otherwise spotless white shirt.
Daoud rushed to the desk. He leaned over and heard rasping in his friend’s breath.
“Help me, Kamal,” the Prime Minister whispered. “Help me.”
Chapter 16
Ciampino Airport, Rome, Italy
Friday, 1:00 p.m.
According to Braxton’s watch, the plane landed a few minutes after seven o’clock. If he remembered correctly that would be one o’clock local time.
The ride had been even more uncomfortable than he had expected. He had spent most of the flight sitting like a petrified log waiting for the next jolt of turbulence to throw his stomach into his esophagus. His harness straps had cut into his legs and shoulders and his white-knuckled hands had been welded to the sides of the jump seat. He had grown accustomed to the noise—or was it that he had simply lost his hearing—but gasoline fumes tore at the tissue in his nose and bile burned the back of his throat. Why had he ever bought that sandwich?
He had managed a few hours’ sleep which had alternated with bouts of nausea, anxiety and palpable fear.
What the hell am I doing in Italy?
The plane had taxied to a stop and the cargo door had opened, followed by a refreshing blast of fresh, but humid, air. He had never been so happy to be on solid ground. Another member of the Atlantic Aviation family had marched up the ramp and stopped in front of Braxton. He extended a small package wrapped in a yellow insulated envelope.
“This is for you, Mr. Greystone,” he said in excellent, but accented, English. “Suggest you give it a review before you deplane.”
“Uh, I’ve got a backpack up front,” Braxton added as the man turned to move on.
The man turned his head back. “Yes, sir. I’ll get it for you.”
Braxton tore open the envelope. Inside was a wallet with an Ohio driver’s license and five hundred Euros in worn bills. And an equally-worn, well-traveled, US passport. All in the name of Robert Greystone from Cleveland, Ohio. At least Slattery had picked a location Braxton knew: it was where he had been born.
Braxton’s traveling companions were already exiting down the ramp when the man returned with the backpack. Braxton stuck the wallet and passport in a side pocket and followed the man down the ramp.
The
weather was definitely warmer than in Boston. Braxton guessed in the mid-sixties. The Roman sun hung high in a sparkling blue sky, marred only by brush strokes of light cirrus clouds. Braxton took off his coat and hung it over his arm. For the first time in twenty-four hours, he felt like he could actually relax.
He followed his fellow passengers across a lengthy space of tarmac and entered what appeared to be a passenger terminal. Probably a secondary terminal for general aviation. Signs were written in more languages than he could recognize. Braxton noticed that his co-travelers had split at this juncture, half to the “EU” line and half to the “Non-EU.”
He reached the head of the line quickly and, backpack and coat in hand, slid his passport across to the agent.
“Bongiorno, Mr. Greystone,” said the man. “What is the purpose of your visit to Italy?”
“Tourism,” Braxton responded. He had been rehearsing possible responses since he had left the plane and decided that the simpler the better.
The man glanced at the passport photo, back up to Braxton, then rifled through the passport looking for an empty page. He completed the transaction with a loud “thunk” on the passport stamp.
“Enjoy your stay in Italy.”
As he passed through customs, he noticed the tags on some of the travelers’ luggage. Ciampino’s airport code was apparently “CIA”—in case he had forgotten why he was there.
Braxton entered a small, mostly deserted combined arrivals and departure lounge. As other travelers rapidly exited to waiting cars and taxis, he was left to search fruitlessly for a contact. Where was the well-dressed chauffeur holding a “Mr. Greystone” placard? He paced around the room for about ten minutes—it felt good to finally stretch his legs—but realized he was drawing a bit too much attention from the representatives in the ticket counters and sales kiosks and found a seat in a corner of the waiting area. It was a good location to watch the comings and goings in the hall.
Scanning the lounge he saw a small sandwich shop and realized how hungry he was. Feeling rich with his wallet-full of Euros, he got up and ordered a Coke, two prosciutto and cheese paninis and a small cup of gelato.
He returned his seat and set his meal on a small Formica-topped table, securely bolted to the floor of the lounge, that was next to his seat. It wasn’t the most elegant way to eat, but it certainly wasn’t the first time he had taken a meal under these conditions.
After devouring the food, he had to decide what to do next while he waited for his contact. Glancing over at the table, he noticed it was covered with a variety of discarded newspapers and magazines. They were all in Italian and, from what Braxton could tell, were filled with nothing but gossip and entertainment news. Feeling even more self-conscious, he spent the next half-hour thumbing through these journals and their parade of beautiful people.
He had just finished his fifth such pantomime when he heard the sharp clicks of high heels on the tile floor. He looked up to see a woman striding across the hall.
She was tall, nearly six feet, aided of course by the three-inch heels clacking on the ceramic floor. Her dress was a shimmering green silk falling nearly to her knees but exposing a shapely thigh poking through a slit on its right side. The dress filled out around her hips, then tapered to a thin waist before expanding again to a deeply cut neckline exposing a plentiful cleavage. Arising from her broad shoulders was a long sculpted neck, reminding Braxton of the Venus de Milo.
Her face was, by any standards, striking. Full red lips, an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and deep green eyes that matched her dress. The package was completed by a majestic mane of jet black hair that curled softly on her shoulders. All in all, an incarnation of the images from his magazines.
To describe her as beautiful somehow didn’t seem sufficient.
Still mesmerized by her appearance, he was astounded when she walked up to him, grabbed him by his shoulders and kissed him on each cheek.
“Caro mio!” the woman announced for all to hear. “How wonderful to see you again. I’m so sorry to be late. Roger can be so inept at times. We simply must find someone more reliable.”
She pulled him out of the chair with surprising strength.
“Come now. We simply must get to our production meeting.”
She wrapped her arm around his and led him toward the exit door. He glanced around the room and saw a mix of reactions to the encounter: the females showing a scowl of disgust and the males simply drop-jawed in awe.
They moved through the sliding doors and emerged into the bright sunshine. The terminal clearly had a high-end clientele—lined at the curb were a silver Porsche 911 GT3, a black Mercedes-Maybach limo and an arrest-me-red Ferrari 488GTB. Standing by the side of the Ferrari was an Italian policeman scribbling in what Braxton assumed was a pad of parking tickets.
His escort suddenly stopped, whispered “stay here”—it sounded like more of an order than a request—and headed directly to the cop. What followed was a completely incomprehensible burst of Italian accompanied by more gestures than an NFL sideline coach in the last two minutes of the Super Bowl. The tirade seemed to have had its desired effect since the cop finally shook his head, tore up the ticket, and tossed the pieces into the air. He then moved down the line of cars to less confrontational opportunities.
The woman, back in full smile mode, returned to Braxton and led him to the Ferrari. She gestured to the passenger door—the left side he realized—and moved into the road to the driver’s side. As he approached the car, Braxton couldn’t imagine contorting his aching body into the exotic vehicle. He pulled the door open, tossed his backpack into the minuscule storage area behind the seat, and dropped, rear end first, into the impossibly low seat.
How do full-sized people ever feel comfortable in this car?
He had barely clicked his seat belt when the Ferrari jumped away from the curb.
“Please excuse that little delay, Mr. Greystone,” she said after they had cleared the airport. “I don’t deal with authority well. The Polizia can be such assholes. You can call me Gina, by the way.”
Braxton glanced to his right and saw that the slit in her skirt had opened to reveal the full length of her bare leg. Dragging his eyes away from the distraction, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Do you really work for Roger?”
She laughed. It was relaxed and natural. “In a way. I think you would call me a freelancer. I specialize in transportation. Moving things from here to there. It’s quite fun actually. I love to travel.”
“You seem to be doing very well.” He patted the dash.
“I get by. And I meet the most interesting people.” She reached over and squeezed his thigh.
“Are we going to Rome?” he said quickly, wiggling in his seat.
“Oh, no. Roger didn’t tell you? We’re heading north. To Switzerland.” She looked over and must have seen the surprise on his face. “That’s Roger,” she replied shaking her head.
“You’ve had a long flight. Why don’t you sit back and enjoy the scenery? It’s a lovely trip through the middle of my country. We’ll be there in no time.”
“Uh, thank you.”
Braxton took a deep breath and tried to relax. The Ferrari had that unmistakable new car smell that seemed to calm all concerns. He ran his hands over the butter-soft leather of the seat. Apparently, there was a lot of money in “transportation.”
Maybe he could get comfortable.
Gina carried on a lively monologue describing their route. After leaving the airport, they headed north on SS7 to Rome’s circumferential highway. Then she headed east, turning back to the north, eventually exiting on E35 to Florence and the north of Italy.
As they passed Rome’s sprawl into the countryside, he glanced over at the speedometer. It read over one hundred twenty kilometers per hour. He tried to do the conversion, but his mind wasn’t up to it, so he just sat back and took in the lush Italian hills.
Braxton was thoroughly enjoying his tour guide. Her English was short
and precise but had a seductive, Italian lilt. The air in the car was thick with her lavender perfume. It relaxed him even more.
He soaked in the Tuscan Hills with their quaint farmhouses and terraced fields. It was like going back to an earlier, simpler time. The growl of the Ferrari’s engine provided a calming, hypnotic, effect as they flashed past ancient vineyards and decaying stone castles. Feeling the fatigue deep in his bones, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Chapter 17
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Friday, 8:30 a.m.
“What’s al-Jafar’s prognosis?” Slattery asked. He was back in Markovsky’s office, reviewing the latest update from Baghdad.
“There’s not much doubt,” Markovsky replied. “The doctors give him a few more hours. They think it’s a viral hemorrhagic fever. Likely some Marburg derivative. There’s been a lot of postings on the dark web about sources.”
The DDI’s hands were folded reverently on his desk. Slattery couldn’t tell if he was simply trying to stay calm or was praying for divine guidance.
“The Iraqi Parliament is in an uproar,” he continued. “Even worse than when al-Maliki was replaced. Blame is being placed on the Sunnis, Kurds, and even the Shiites. Of course, the treaty is a major factor. Al-Jafar pushed it through, calling in all his favors. No telling where it will go now.”
“What do our teams say?” Slattery knew a number of the agents on the CIA Special Ops teams on assignment in Iraq.
“They’ve pretty much confirmed what al-Jafar’s secretary reported. The security cameras show al-Jafar describing one of the exhibits to a crowd of kids, then one of them sprays the damn inhaler in his face. No one has been able to identify the child.”
“Weren’t all the attendees supposed to be families from the Ministry?”
“Supposedly. But how hard would it be to sneak one kid in? That’s the genius of using children. Not even veteran guards pay a lot of attention. As long as they don’t have a bomb strapped to their chest, they’re invisible.”