Once she was gone, Martoglio shook his head. “Analysts. ‘Go do this dangerous thing and do it yesterday, but don’t tell us how you’re going to do it.’ ” He swung his arms like he was warming up to toss a football. “Get some rack time, Doc,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”
And Nick did, although he didn’t sleep much. Ellie was gone for the week, this time to a conference in Paris. Might as well be Iowa, she’d told Nick. All we see is the inside of hotel conference rooms. At least the coffee is good. He thought about calling her, then decided not to. She would sense the tension in his voice. They had made peace with what Ellie referred to as his shadow life by not discussing it very often. Honestly, most of what he did was talk to people in cafés or at academic conferences, gathering information and then passing it along. Incidents like the one in Cairo were few and far between.
Nick liked to think he was making a difference, still standing astride two worlds like his father had said all those years ago. But he was also the son of an Afghan mother, working for an agency that had meddled in this part of the world for many decades, often with unpleasant consequences. That night, before heading to the Syrian border, Nick wondered, not for the first time, if straddling two worlds meant that eventually he would have to choose one over the other, or if he would never truly be part of either one.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Nick and Martoglio drove to Arsal, a border town in the Bekaa Valley, where they rendezvoused with the security contractors behind a garage whose owner had been generously compensated with two hundred American dollars. The contractors arrived in pickup trucks reinforced with metal plates across the two front doors and around the engine block—armor against small-arms fire. There were four men in each truck, giving them eight armed contractors total. They were led by Duncan, tall and ropy with sun-bronzed skin and a disarming smile. His voice was pure East Texas drawl. “Gonna be headin’ out by twunny-one hunnerd,” he said. “You all set?”
They left Arsal in a short convoy, one pickup in the lead, one at the rear, and Nick and Martoglio’s SUV in the middle. In the bed of each pickup sat a man wearing a helmet and flak jacket and holding an AK-47 across his lap. They left the lights of Arsal behind, the fields outside the town dark and empty under the moonless sky as they passed.
Stands of apricot and cherry trees lined the road for a time, and then the road climbed and the hills rose around them. The higher they went, the worse the road got. Up here, it looked as if the entire world were made of broken stone. Grit and dust floated in the beams of the SUV’s headlights, the brakes on the pickup truck Nick and Martoglio were following flashing red each time they approached a turn in the road. At a rock quarry they took a hard left and switchbacked up a steep incline, the engines whining in low gear as they climbed. The temperature dropped, and Nick was thankful for the two sweat shirts he wore, as well as his gloves.
Finally they came to a stop at an abandoned house, the roof collapsed, the windows and doorway gaping holes. From here they would hike up the rest of the way to the rendezvous point, a steep-sided hollow where Nick’s friend Tariq would light a fire as a signal that he was there, the walls of the hollow hiding the glow until you were almost upon it. Nick made sure his Colt 1911 pistol was secure in its holster, while Martoglio stuck a 9mm Browning in his waistband.
“Got a holster?” one of the contractors asked Martoglio. He had dirty-blond hair and carried his AK across his chest, barrel down.
“I’m okay,” Martoglio said, waving him off. “I’ll just stick close to you.”
The man looked at the handle of the Browning in Martoglio’s pants. “Just don’t trip,” he said. “Don’t want to blow your balls off by accident.”
“Y’all good?” Duncan said, AK in one hand, pointed at the sky. “Let’s do this.”
The hike was cold and dark, marked by the crunch of gravel and dirt beneath their boots. The blond contractor who had joked about Martoglio shooting himself in the balls took point, followed by Duncan and two others, then Nick and Martoglio, the rest bringing up the rear. No one spoke, and the contractors peered into the night, constantly scanning their surroundings. This was strictly a black op, unauthorized by the Lebanese, who would not be happy to find CIA agents operating in the countryside. If a Lebanese army unit on patrol caught them, at the very least they would be deported and cause an international incident. If the Syrians caught them, they would be thrown in prison and subjected to interrogation before most likely being shot. Hezbollah would do the same and get a propaganda video out of it. Nick didn’t even want to think about what al-Qaeda would do to them.
After nearly thirty minutes, the blond contractor raised a fist and the others dropped to a crouch, weapons up. Nick and Martoglio crouched as well, Martoglio drawing his pistol. He glanced at Nick and shrugged. Nick couldn’t see beyond the blond, who was maybe fifteen yards ahead of him and huddled with Duncan. Then Duncan broke off and came loping down to crouch right next to them. “The hollow is just around that spur ahead,” Duncan murmured. “Somebody lit a fire. Y’all are up.”
Nick and Martoglio hurried to the front with the blond point man, and the others stood and advanced cautiously. Another fifty yards and the path forked, one trail continuing uphill and another turning sharply to the left past a stone spur that extended like a short wall from the greater mass of the mountain. As they reached the spur, Nick saw the ruddy glow of firelight playing off the rocks.
The hollow was a small cul-de-sac against a narrow cliff face that rose high into the night, with lower stone ridges on either side. A small fire guttered at the base of the cliff. A tall, bearded man with a ridge of black hair fringing a bald crown walked back and forth in front of the fire, rubbing his hands to keep them warm. He looked up and came to a stop when he saw Nick and Martoglio approaching. The contractors spread out, hands on their weapons, their eyes on the ridgelines.
Nick raised a hand in greeting to Tariq. “As-salaam alaykum,” he said. Peace be upon you.
“Wa alaykum as-salaam,” Tariq murmured, barely above a whisper. And also with you.
Nick lowered his hand. Tariq had not moved toward him. The fire flickered, casting shadows over Tariq’s face, but then Nick saw something gleam on his friend’s cheeks. Tariq was crying.
“Something’s wrong,” Nick said to Martoglio.
“Samehni, sadiqi,” Tariq whispered. Forgive me, my friend.
There was an explosive whoosh as if a large can of spray paint had been punctured, followed immediately by a screeching hiss. Nick dropped to the ground just as the rocket-propelled grenade shot down into the cul-de-sac from the stone ridges above. It struck the ground at Tariq’s feet and exploded. Immediately Nick’s hearing cut out, as if someone had turned the volume all the way down. All he could hear was a muffled, high-pitched ringing. From his prone position on the ground, he lifted his head. A canteen lay on the ground right in front of him, water gurgling out into the dirt. He stared at it, uncomprehending. A hand, severed at the wrist, lay in the dirt next to the canteen. He blinked, his ears and brain stuffed with cotton. Where Tariq had been standing there was now a blackened spot on the ground. The firelight showed a dark stain thrown on the cliff wall. From the ridges above, lights winked in the dark. Muzzle flashes.
A hand grabbed the back of his shirt between his shoulder blades, and he was yanked up and then half dragged out of the cul-de-sac. It was Martoglio, his Browning in his fist and pointed up at the ridgeline. He was shouting something to Nick—Go. Nick now heard sounds as if he were underwater. Go, Martoglio shouted, and with his free hand he shoved Nick back the way they had entered.
Nick began to run. Now he could hear the roar of the AKs, see two of the contractors ahead of him, crouched and firing up at the ridgeline behind Nick. The muzzle flash from each was like a tongue of flame. Then Nick was past them, running for the stone spur just a few yards ahead. Something ricocheted off a rock to his right. The air was dry and dusty in his throat as he lunged for the spur, scrambling around it.
He drew his .45, but there was no shot, uphill at night against an unseen enemy. Still, he peered around the spur, the .45 in a two-handed grip. Two men were trying to drag a third out of the cul-de-sac, all of them backlit by the fire that still burned. Whoever was on the ridgeline was firing down at the men. Nick braced his .45 on top of the spur and fired three shots at the ridgeline, then ducked a second before bullets whined overhead, one striking stone two feet from Nick’s head and skimming off into the dark.
Someone grabbed Nick and hauled him back, away from the spur. He spun around, trying to break the grip and bring his pistol to bear, but then he saw it was the blond contractor. “Get the fuck out of here,” the man snarled. He put his AK to his shoulder and fired a long burst into the cul-de-sac.
There was another whoosh and a screeching hiss, and this time Nick covered his ears before dropping to the ground. When the grenade exploded against the stone spur, the blast was loud and concussive, but Nick didn’t lose his hearing. He looked up and saw the blond contractor writhing on the ground, a bloody hand clapped to one ear. Nick crawled to the man, who was grunting in pain but still trying to get to his feet. The man had managed to get an emergency bandage out of a pocket, and Nick took the bandage out of his hand, opened it, and began wrapping it around the man’s head and ear, careful not to cover his eyes with the gauze.
More gunfire roared from the cul-de-sac, and then Duncan and another contractor hurried around the spur, panting as they carried a slumped figure between them. It was Martoglio. They laid him on the ground behind the spur, then began firing back into the cul-de-sac. “We are leaving right quick!” Duncan shouted at Nick. He yanked out a magazine and shoved another one in, then continued firing. More of the contractors backed out of the cul-de-sac, dragging or carrying wounded while Duncan provided cover fire.
Nick reached for Martoglio. He appeared to be napping, his chin on his chest, but when Nick touched the man’s shoulder, he could feel the wet blood even through his gloves. Martoglio’s eyes were half-open, staring at nothing.
Nick still couldn’t fully recall how they made it down the mountainside in the pitch dark. He and Duncan carried Martoglio’s body. Three other contractors each carried a dead comrade. That left one contractor, the blond with the injured ear, to protect their rear. It was a nightmare of corpse-carrying and sliding down the stony incline, short bursts of gunfire occasionally chasing them. The contractor with the ear wound vanished for a time, then reappeared, limping slightly. After that, no more gunfire followed them.
They found their vehicles safely parked where they had left them, loaded the dead into the pickups’ beds and covered them with tarps, then drove down the mountain, grim and too exhausted for anger.
THAT ANGER SURFACED later. The station chief in Beirut exploded at Nick, even as he sat bruised and stained with Martoglio’s blood. Syria had released a statement about an incursion at the border and threatened retaliation. The Lebanese government had countered by accusing Syria of violating their border, and then for good measure summoned the US ambassador for a dressing-down. The security contractors had vanished. Langley demanded to know who had fucked this up and sent Chitrita Bhandari to clean up the mess. She arrived in a midnight-blue sari trimmed in silver that managed to be both somber and fabulous.
“They’re going to hang it on Martoglio,” Bhandari told Nick in the same bunker-like room where they had first discussed Bottlecap.
“Convenient, seeing as he’s dead,” Nick said.
“They thought about blaming you,” Bhandari retorted. “But Martoglio was in charge. And he’s the one who hired the fucking mercenaries who walked you into a firefight.”
“If it hadn’t been for the fucking mercenaries, we’d both be dead.”
“That would be even more convenient.”
“Fuck you, Rita.”
Bhandari raised her eyebrows. “Don’t play shocked with me. We live in the real world. You know how easily this could escalate. Do you want us to start another war in the Middle East?”
“We seem to be pretty good at starting those.”
Bhandari shook her head. “Are you getting jaded now?”
Nick wished he smoked just so he could do something with his hands, maybe childishly blow smoke in Bhandari’s face. Instead, he grimaced and threw his hands up in disgust. “Tariq lured us there,” he said. “The Syrians must have turned him. But they didn’t send regular army.”
“How do you know that?”
“They fired RPGs at us. Who fires an antitank weapon at ground troops, at night? Not well-trained soldiers. It was probably a militia. Pro-Assad thugs with guns. This way Assad can disavow the whole thing.”
Bhandari gave him a thin smile. “Dr. Anthony gets a gold star.”
“So I’m not fired.” Nick posed it as a statement, not a question, but they both knew what he meant.
“You are a valuable officer who has been of great service,” Bhandari said.
“But?”
“But nothing. Get back to work.”
Nick frowned—he’d been certain there would be retaliation for Bottlecap going to hell. Then he understood. “They’re going to ask me to retire when this blows over, aren’t they?”
Bhandari gathered her files and then stood. “Do you see yourself jockeying to become station chief somewhere? Or riding a desk at Langley?”
Nick couldn’t help himself. “No, that’s more your speed.”
She looked disappointed. “I’m a woman who is busting balls and crossing names off lists,” she said. “I’m an ambitious bitch and I make no apologies for it. And you, you are a very good intelligence officer who doesn’t give a shit about advancing up some ladder.” She put her hand on the doorknob, then paused. “Too many people like you end up dead. Joe Martoglio died in service to his country. He’ll get a star on the wall at Langley, and Bottlecap will be buried with him. And you’ll get to grow old with your wife.”
NOW, IN THE Highlands jail, Nick stretched out on his bunk, staring up at the bunk above him. The mattress lay on top of a solid sheet of metal—no springs or wire mesh that prisoners could use to fashion a weapon, or kill themselves.
He had to get out of this cell. Rita Bhandari had to come through. She owed him that much, at least. He only hoped she would see it that way as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Zhang drove to the diner in Dillard that Cole had mentioned, and they went inside to eat while they waited for Jonas. They said next to nothing, Cole feeling his anger and frustration tightening in a coil while Zhang, sensing Cole’s building outrage, kept his attention fixed on his food. They had already finished eating and paid, sipping their waters as the waitress hovered, when a gray Chevy Tahoe pulled up and parked in front of the diner and Waco got out. Cole slid out of the booth and walked out the door into the parking lot, Zhang following. Waco saw them and smiled. “Hey, boss,” he said. “You—”
“Where the fuck have you been?” Cole said. “Been sitting here for a half hour.”
Waco glanced at Zhang, who gave him a brief shake of the head. “Sorry, boss,” Waco said. “We were checking in at the motel, and Jonas—”
“Where is he? Where’s Hicks?”
Waco blinked. “They’re back at the motel. They said you—”
“Forget it,” Cole said. He stepped around Waco and headed for the Suburban. “We’ll follow you there.”
Waco looked at Zhang, who just shook his head again.
They followed Waco in their Suburban further down Highway 23 to a single-story motel that had last been redecorated when Reagan was president, with a cracked parking lot and a faux-stone facing. Cole parked the Suburban and got out as Waco pulled up next to them. As soon as Waco opened his door, Cole asked, “Which room?”
“Twenty-four,” Waco said. “He got three—”
Cole walked across the lot toward the door to number 24. Before he reached the door, it opened and Hicks poked his head out. “Boss,” he said by way of greeting, then glanced ove
r at the Suburban. “Where’s Poncho and Dawes?”
Cole could already smell Hicks’s goddamn dip. “Move,” he said, still walking toward the doorway. Hicks hesitated, then stepped back quickly as Cole bore down on him. Cole passed through the doorway. Across the room, Jonas stood in front of the sink, brushing his teeth. He watched Cole in the mirror, then leaned forward and spat into the sink. “You okay?” his reflection asked Cole.
“No,” Cole said. “I’m not goddamn okay.”
Jonas rinsed off his toothbrush and laid it on the counter, then turned to face Cole. “Hicks, go give Zhang a hand with the gear,” he said. Hicks took the cue and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Jonas leaned back against the counter, hands resting against the counter top edge. “What happened?”
“Why’d you send Waco to pick us up?” Cole said. “I told all of you to come.”
Jonas looked at him for a moment before replying. “This place has got about as much diversity as a Klan rally. I stick out. Figured we wanted to keep a low profile, so I sent Waco. We barely fit the three of us and all our gear in the Tahoe.”
“Well, while you were calculating cargo space,” Cole said, anger sizzling like grease jumping from a frying pan, “Poncho and Dawes got taken out by a civilian and a cop.”
“Taken out?”
“Poncho’s in the hospital and Dawes is dead,” Cole said. He refrained from snatching up a lamp and throwing it at the wall, although it would have felt good for a moment to break something.
Jonas’s eyes widened with shock, but in an even tone, as if he were asking the time, he said, “So what are we going to do?”
Cole grinned mirthlessly at Jonas, lips curling back from his teeth. “We are going back up there, and we are going to find the girl, and get that flash drive, and kill the motherfucker who took two of our men off the board.”
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