Текст книги "Raven Strike"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Chapter 4

CIA Headquarters

Jonathon Reid stepped into the elevator in the lobby of the CIA headquarters building and pressed the button to go up to his office. He hadn’t had much sleep—after returning from the White House he’d lain in bed, eyes open, for hours.

A parade of past problems marched across the ceiling. Reid had participated in a number of operations and projects during his career that could be questioned on any number of grounds. He could think of two that were frankly illegal. In both cases he was operating under the explicit orders of the director of covert operations. And in both cases he felt that what he did was completely justified by the circumstances, that not only America but the world benefited by what he did.

But not everyone might agree. He imagined that if he were the case officer here, if he were on the ground in Africa, or even further up in the chain of command, he would feel completely justified by the goal. Li Han was a clear danger to America. He was not a “mere” sociopath or killer. He possessed technical skills difficult for terrorists to obtain, and he was willing to share that skill with them for what in real terms was a ridiculously cheap price. He was, in a military sense, a force multiplier, someone who could influence the outcome of a battle and even a war.

The U.S. and the world were in a war, a seemingly endless conflict against evil. Li Han clearly deserved to die.

Given that, was the process leading to that end result important?

Under most circumstances he would have answered no. As far as he was concerned, dotting a few legal i’s and crossing the bureaucratic t’s was just bs, busy work for lawyers and administrators who justified their federal sinecures by pontificating and procrastinating while the real work and risks were going on thousands of miles away.

But Raven required a more nuanced view. Li Han deserved to die, but should the Agency be the one making that judgment?

And should they alone decide what to risk in carrying out that judgment?

Raven wasn’t a simple weapon, like a new sniper rifle or even a spy plane. It was more along the lines of the atomic bomb: once perfected, it was a game changer with implications far, far beyond its use to take down a single target.

It was Lee Harvey Oswald all over again.

Of course, he was assuming the President didn’t know. Perhaps she did know. Perhaps she had played him for a fool.

Or simply felt that he didn’t need to know.

Maybe his problem was simply jealousy. Maybe the real story was this: Jonathon Reid couldn’t stand being out of the loop. Even now, far removed from his days as a cowboy field officer, he went off half cocked and red-assed, laying waste to all before him.

He knew it wasn’t true. And yet some might see it that way.

Inside his office, Reid sat down and looked at Danny Freah’s most recent updates on the Whiplash operation. The involvement of the Russian agent alarmed him. He quickly brought himself up to date on the Russians and their various operations in Africa. It wasn’t clear whether they were trying to make a new push onto the continent, perhaps to be part of future mineral extraction operations, or were simply on the lookout for new clients for their weapons. Either theory made sense, and in any event neither changed the situation.

It was inconceivable that they had caught wind of Raven and knew it would be tested there.

Or was it?

Even though it appeared that Whiplash had things under control at the moment, Edmund had to be informed about the Russian. Reid took a quick run through the overnight briefing, making sure there wasn’t anything major he had to be aware of, then called up to the director’s office.

“Mr. Reid, the director is out of communication at the moment,” said his secretary. “I’ll put you through to Mr. Conklin.”

Out of communication? That was a new one on Reid.

Conklin came on the line. He was Edmund’s chief of staff, an assistant. Reid rarely if ever dealt with him.

So it begins, he thought.

“Jonathon, what can we do for you?” asked Conklin.

“I need to speak to Herman.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult to arrange for a while.”

“This is critical.”

“I’m sure. But—”

“Why would it be difficult to arrange? Is Herman all right?”

“The director is fine.”

“It has to do with Raven,” said Reid, unsure whether Conklin would even know what that was.

Apparently he did. “You should talk to Reg on that.”

Reginald Harker: Special Deputy for Covert Operations, head of the Raven project, probably the idiot behind the whole screwed-up situation in the first place.

Not the person Reid wanted to speak to.

“This is really a matter for Herman,” he said. “It’s critically important.”

“Reg is the person to speak to,” said Conklin.

“I’ll do that. But inform Herman as well.”

“I will pass a note to Mr. Edmund at my earliest opportunity.”

Reid hung up. He started to dial Edmund’s private phone, then stopped.

How paranoid should he be? The system would record the fact that he had made the call; the internal lines could also be monitored.

Should he worry about that?

What if it wasn’t a coincidence that the Russians were there? What if someone inside had tipped them off?

But who?

Reid debated with himself, but in the end decided that paranoia had its uses. He left his office, left the campus, and drove to a mall a few miles away. After making sure he wasn’t being followed, he took a lap through the building, found a drugstore and bought a prepaid phone. Then he walked through a large sporting goods store to the far entrance to a parking lot. He went outside and after once again making sure he wasn’t being followed, used the phone to call Edmund’s private phone.

He went straight to voice mail.

“We need to talk ASAP,” he said.

Reid hung up, then made a call with his encrypted satellite phone. When he got voice mail again, he hung up. After sending a text through the secure system—it took forever to hunt and peck the letters—he set the ringers on both his phone and the cell to maximum and went back inside. He pretended to be interested in the treadmills and T-shirts before leaving.

On the way back to the campus, he called Breanna, this time with an encrypted phone. She answered on the second ring.

“Have you seen the overnight update?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“We can’t let the Russians get ahold of this. If a handoff is made to the Russian, they must take him out,” said Reid. “There should be no question.”

“All right. We’ll need a finding.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Reid.

“Did you speak to the President?” Breanna asked.

“We had a brief session,” he said.

“Anything I should know?”

Reid spent a long moment thinking of what to say before answering.

“There’s nothing that came out that affects us directly,” he said finally.

“Jonathon—is there anything else I can do? Should I come back to D.C.?”

“No, I think I have it under control,” he said finally. “Stay in touch. Keep your phone handy.”

“You sound tired,” she added just before he was about to hang up.

“Well, I guess I am,” he told her before ending the call.

“You’re trying to trump this up into something,” charged Harker when Reid met him in his office. He picked up the coffee cup on his desk, brought it about halfway to his mouth, then in a sudden fit of anger smacked it onto the desktop, splattering some of the liquid. “You want to create a scandal. There’s nothing here, Reid. Nothing.”

“I’m not creating a scandal,” replied Reid. “I’m simply doing my job.”

“Which is what?”

“Getting Raven back. Keeping it from our enemies.”

“I know you’re angling for the DIA slot,” said Harker. “It’s not going to work. Everybody can see through the games you’re playing.”

Reid said nothing. Denying interest in the job—which he had absolutely no intention of taking—would only be interpreted as a lie. In fact, everything he said would be interpreted through Harker’s twisted lens. It was pointless to even talk.

“I only came to you because I’m having trouble speaking to Edmund.” Reid rose. “And I’m concerned about the Russians.”

“Herm doesn’t speak to traitors.”

Reid stared at Harker. The man’s face was beet red.

“This isn’t a question of loyalty to the Agency,” he said.

“Get out of my office,” said Harker.

“Gladly.”

Chapter 5

Duka

Melissa watched Marie Bloom survey the reception room, her hands on her hips. The clinic director turned and looked at her with a worried expression.

“Ordinarily, this room would be full,” she said. “But maybe we should count our blessings.”

“Yes,” said Melissa softly.

They had seen only a small handful of patients since opening at dawn. Now it was past noon.

Bloom sat down on the couch that faced the door. Her face was drawn. “Did you bring these troubles?”

“No,” said Melissa.

“Did the man you’re hunting for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“One of the people from Sudan First fired on the leader of Meurtre Musique.”

“I know that. What’s really going on?”

“That’s all that I know.”

“The problem with you people . . .”

Bloom let her voice trail off, not bothering to finish the sentence.

“I’ll leave if you want,” said Melissa finally. “I’m only here to help. That’s the only reason.”

“How could I ever believe that?”

The door opened. Melissa felt her body jerking back, automatically preparing to be on the defensive.

A pregnant woman came into the room. In her arms she had a two-year-old boy. The child was listless, clearly sick.

Melissa looked over at Bloom. She had a shell-shocked expression.

“I’ll take this one,” said Melissa, going over to the woman.

She held out her arms. The mother glanced at Bloom, but gave the child over willingly. She said something in African, explaining what was wrong. Melissa could tell just by holding the baby that he had a fever.

“Come,” said Melissa in English. “Inside.”

The woman followed her into the far examining room.

It was an infection, some sort of virus or bacteria causing the fever. Beyond that it was impossible to diagnose, at least for her. The fever was 102.4; high, yet not so high that it would be alarming in a child. There were no rashes or other outward signs of the problem; no injuries, no insect bites. The child seemed to be breathing normally. Its pulse was a little slow, but even that was not particularly abnormal, especially given its overall listless state.

Melissa poured some bottled water on a cloth and rubbed the baby down.

“To cool him off a little,” she said, first in English, then in slower and less steady Arabic. She got a dropper and carefully measured out a dose of acetaminophen. Gesturing, she made the woman understand that she was to give it to the baby. The mother hesitated, then finally agreed.

As she handed over the medicine, Melissa realized that the woman was running a fever herself. She took her thermometer—an electronic one that got its readings from the inner ear—and held it in place while the woman struggled to get her baby to swallow the medicine.

Her fever was 102.8. More serious in an adult.

And what about her baby? The woman looked to be at least eight months pregnant, if not nine.

Melissa took the stethoscope.

“I need to hear your heart,” she said.

She gestured for the woman to take off her long, flowing top. Unsure whether she truly didn’t understand or just didn’t want to be examined, Melissa told her that she was concerned about the baby.

“You have a fever,” she said.

The woman said something and gestured toward the young child on the examining table, who was looking at them with big eyes.

Realizing she was getting nowhere, Melissa went out to the waiting area to get Bloom to help.

Bloom had nodded off. Melissa bent down to wake her. As she did, the pregnant woman came out from the back, carrying her child.

“Wait,” said Melissa, trying to stop her. “Wait!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Bloom, jumping up from the couch.

“She’s sick. Her baby may have a fever, too.”

Bloom spoke in rapid Arabic. The woman answered in her own tongue. Whatever it was she said, Bloom frowned. She answered, speaking less surely. The woman waved her hand and went to the door.

“You have to tell her,” said Melissa.

“I can’t stop her,” said Bloom as the woman left.

“We could at least give her acetaminophen, something for the fever.”

“She won’t take it,” said Bloom. “It’d be a waste.”

“But—”

“If we push too hard, they won’t come back. They have to deal with us at their own pace.”

“If she’s sick, the baby may die.”

“We can’t force her to get better.”

Melissa wanted to argue more—they could have at least made a better argument, at least explained what the dangers were. But her satellite phone rang.

“I—I have to take this,” she said, starting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Thinking it was Danny calling to tell her what was going on, she hit the Talk button as she went through the door.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Melissa, what’s the situation?” asked Reginald Harker.

“Hold on, Reg. Let me get somewhere I can talk.”

She walked outside, continuing a little way down the road. The harsh sun hurt her eyes. There was no one outside, and the nearby houses, which yesterday had been teeming with people, seemed deserted. Otherwise, the day seemed perfect, no sign of conflict anywhere.

“I’m here,” she told Harker.

“What’s going on with Mao Man?” he asked.

“We have him tracked to a house on the northeastern side of town.”

“What about the UAV?”

“We think it’s nearby.”

“Think?”

“We’re not entirely sure.” His abrupt tone pissed her off. Try doing this yourself, she thought.

“When will you be sure?”

“I don’t know. There’s a Russian who’s trying to buy it—”

“Do not let the Russian get it.”

“No shit.”

“Mao Man has to be terminated. Take down the Russian, too. Take down the whole damn village—what the hell are you waiting for?”

“Reg—”

“I’m serious, Melissa. Why do you think I sent you there? What the hell did we invest in your training for?”

“I have no idea,” she told him stonily.

“Don’t let these Whiplash people run the show. They have their own agenda. Tell them to stop pussyfooting around and get the damn thing done.”

“Fuck yourself,” she said. But he’d already hung up.

Melissa pushed the phone back into the pocket of her baggy pants. She was so angry she didn’t want to go back into the clinic; she needed to walk off some of her emotion. She clenched her hands into fists and began to walk.

She’d gone only fifty yards or so when she heard trucks in the distance. The sound was faint, the vehicles far off, but instinctively she knew it was trouble.

Chapter 6

Washington, D.C.

Zen sat in the hospital waiting area, tapping his fingers against the arms of his wheelchair. Not since he ran for the Senate had he felt such a combination of anticipation and anxiety. Not that he’d cared about the outcome—he would have been just as content retiring from politics as a two-term congressman and getting a job in the private sector. In some ways he’d have been happier, since few jobs had such a demand on anyone’s time.

The door opened. Dr. Esrang walked in, alone.

“Doc, how are we doin’?” asked Zen.

“Hard to say,” said Esrang. “Brain activity is normal. For him. Physically, no problems. Mood—well, that’s always the question, isn’t it?”

“Once around the block and back inside,” said Zen.

“You’re not actually—”

“Figure of speech, Doc,” said Zen.

“Yes, of course. All right. We’re ready.”

“I think it’s going to work,” said Zen.

Esrang started for the door, then stopped. “Jeff, let me say something, if you don’t mind.”

“Shoot.”

“There may be setbacks.”

“I understand.”

“If you’re serious, we have to keep at it. If this doesn’t go well, then we try something else. All right?”

“Absolutely,” said Zen.

“We keep at it.” Esrang went in then. Pep talks were out of character for the doctor; maybe it was a good omen.

Stoner emerged a few minutes later, flanked by a female nurse who was nearly as big and broad-shouldered as the two male attendants/bodyguards waiting for him. Esrang trailed them, a concerned expression on his face.

Just a damn walk in the sunshine, Zen thought. But it was the first time Stoner would be allowed into the unfenced public area outside.

A baby step, but an important one.

“Hey, Mark,” said Zen. “I was thinking we’d get outside a bit today and walk around. I’m feeling a bit frisky. What do you say?”

Stoner turned toward him but said nothing. His face was blank.

“Good,” said Zen, as enthusiastic as if Stoner had agreed. “Let’s go.”

He began wheeling toward the exit. Stoner and the nurse followed. Dr. Esrang stayed back.

“Did you catch the game last night?” Zen asked. “Nationals took the Mets with a homer in the bottom of the ninth.”

“Good.”

It wasn’t much of a response, but Zen felt vindicated. He rolled slowly down the corridor, pacing himself just ahead of his companion. Jason Black, his aide, was standing there waiting. Jason pushed open the door and held it as the small entourage exited the building. Zen took the lead, rolling along the cement path toward a small picnic area.

“Good view, huh?” Zen wheeled to a stop.

“Of garbage cans,” said Stoner.

It seemed like a non sequitur, just a random comment. Then Zen realized Stoner was looking at the back of a building some hundred yards away.

“Can you see them?” he asked. “How many?”

“Eighteen.”

“What about the flowers?” asked Zen, pointing to the nearby flower bed.

Stoner looked, then turned to him. “Yeah?”

“Bree likes flowers,” said Zen, searching for something to say. “Teri, too. My daughter. Teri. You have to meet her.”

Stoner didn’t reply.

“Good day for baseball,” said Zen.

Stoner remained silent. Zen tried to get a conversation going, talking about baseball and football, and even the cute nurse who passed on an adjacent path. Stoner had apparently decided he wasn’t going to talk anymore, and said nothing else. After they’d been out for about fifteen minutes, Dr. Esrang came over, looking at his watch.

“I’m afraid it’s time for Mr. Stoner’s physical therapy,” he said loudly. “If that’s OK, Senator.”

“It’s OK with me,” said Zen. “Assuming Mark feels like sweating a bit.”

Stoner turned toward the building and began walking. Zen wheeled himself forward to catch up with him.

“Maybe we’ll take in some baseball, huh?” he asked. “If you’re up to it.”

Stoner stopped. “Baseball would be good.”

“Even if it’s the Nats?” joked Zen.

Stoner stared at him.

“Their record is—well, they are in last place,” admitted Zen. “So, it may be a tough game to sit through.”

“Baseball is good,” said Stoner.

“That went very well,” Esrang told Zen after Stoner had returned inside. “Very well.”

“You think so?”

“He talked to you. He said a lot more to you than he’s said to anyone.”

“He said three or four sentences. Then he just shut down.”

“It’s what he didn’t do that’s important,” said Esrang. “No rage, no attempt to run away. I think he’s slowly coming back to his old self.”

“Maybe.”

“I would say he might be able to go to a ball game, as long you’re under escort,” said Esrang.

Zen was surprised, but he wasn’t about to disagree. “I’ll set something up. You coming?”

“Absolutely . . . The Nationals will win, right?”

Zen laughed. He’d started to wheel into the building when he heard Jason Black clearing his throat behind him.

“Excuse me, Doc. We’ll find our own way out.” Zen turned back to his aide. “What’s up?”

“Steph needs to talk to you,” said Jason. “Like as soon as you can.”

Zen pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket. There were half a dozen text messages, including two from Stephanie Delanie—Steph—his chief legislative aide. The Senate Intelligence Committee had scheduled an emergency session for eleven o’clock—they’d just make it if they left right now.

“Grab the van, Jay,” said Zen. “I’ll meet you out front.”

“What’s up?”

“Just the usual Senate bs,” said Zen.

Chapter 7

Southern Sudan

Twice Amara came to checkpoints manned by government soldiers, and twice he drove through them, slowing then gunning the engine, keeping his head down. He’d learned long ago that most times the soldiers wouldn’t risk trying to actually stop a pickup, knowing they faced the worst consequences if they succeeded in killing the driver: whatever band he belonged to would seek vengeance immediately. The Brothers were especially vicious, killing not only the soldiers but any relatives they could find. It was an effective policy.

Besides, the soldiers were more interested in bribes than checking for contraband. Their army salary, low to begin with, was routinely siphoned off by higher-ups, leaving the privates and corporals in the field to supplement it or starve. Amara knew this from his older cousin, who had been conscripted at twelve and gone on to a varied career in the service until dying in a shoot-out with the Brothers at sixteen. By then his cousin was a sergeant, battle-tested and the most cynical man Amara knew, a hollow-eyed killer who hated the army and admired the Brothers, though eventually they would be the death of him. He had urged Amara to avoid the army, and warned him twice when bands were coming to “recruit” boys from his village—“recruit” being the government word for kidnap.

His cousin’s influence had led him to the Brothers. Amara lacked the deep religious conviction many of the Brothers and especially their leaders held. He joined for survival, and during his first action against a rival group, found he liked the adventure. His intelligence had been recognized and he was sent to a number of schools, not just for fighting, but for math and languages as well.

He liked math, geometry especially. His teachers told how it had been invented by followers of the one true God as a method of appreciating God’s handiwork in the world. To Amara, the beauty was in the interlocking theorems and proofs, the way one formula fed to another and then another, lines and angles connecting in a grid work that explained the entire world. He sensed that computer language held some of the same attractions, and his one regret in killing Li Han was that the Asian had not taught him more about how it worked before he died.

Amara’s promise was so great that he had won the ultimate prize: an education in America. Handed documents, he was sent to a U.S. college in the Midwest to study engineering. He was in well over his head, simply unprepared for the culture shock of the Western country. He was not a failure—with effort and struggle he had managed C’s in most of his classes, after dropping those he knew he would fail. But within two years the Brothers recalled him, saying they had other jobs. Someday, he told himself, he would return, only this time better prepared.

The black finger of an oil-drilling rig poked over the horizon, telling Amara he was nearing his destination. He slowed, scanning both sides of the road. Here the checkpoints had to be taken more seriously; they would be manned by the Brothers rather than soldiers, and anyone who didn’t stop would be targeted by an RPG.

He found the turnoff to the hills, then lowered his speed to a crawl as he went up the twisted road. Moving too fast was an invitation to be shot: the guards had standing orders to fire on anything suspicious, and they were far more likely to be praised for caution than scolded for killing a Brother who had imprudently alarmed them.

Amara spotted a man moving by the side of the trail. He slowed to a stop, and shouted, “As-Salamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuhu.”

The shadow moved toward him. Two others appeared on the other side of the trail. Then two more behind him. Amara was surrounded by sentries, all of them four or five years younger than himself. They were jumpy and nervous; he put both his hands on the open window of the car, trying with his body language to put them at ease.

“I am Amara of Yujst,” he said in Arabic, naming the town he had taken as his battle name. “I have completed my mission.”

“What mission was that?” snapped the tall man he’d first seen. He was not necessarily the oldest of the group—he had only the outlines of a beard—but he was clearly in charge.

“The mission that I have been appointed. It is of no concern to you.”

“You will tell me or you will not pass.”

“Are you ready for Paradise, Brother?” said Amara.

The question caught the tall one by surprise, and he was silent for a moment.

“One of you will ride with me,” Amara continued. “You will come into camp. The rest will stay here and guard the pass.”

“What gives you the right to make orders?” said the tall one, finding his voice.

“I told you who I am, and why I am here. I need nothing else.”

“Two of us will come,” said the tall one, trying to save face with the others.

Amara might have challenged this, but decided he didn’t want to waste time. “Move, then.”

The tall one got into the cab; another man climbed into the truck bed, squatting on the tarp. They drove through two more switchbacks, watched by guards crouching near the rocks. As Amara turned the corner of the last curve, he spotted a small fire flickering in a barrel ahead. Men were gathered around it, warming themselves. The stripped shell of a bus stood behind them, crossway across the path. Amara slowed even further, easing toward the roadblock in an almost dead crawl.

The man in the back of the truck yelled at the sentries near the fire, telling them to move quickly because an important Brother had arrived on a mission. Even so, they moved in slow motion over to the bus. The vehicle had been stripped of its engine and much of its interior, its only function now to slow a determined enemy. The men put their shoulders and backs to the front and pushed, working the bus backward into a slot in the rocks. They held it there as Amara went past, then slowly eased it back in place.

Amara pulled the truck to the side of a small parking area just inside the perimeter. Vehicles were not allowed any farther; the way was blocked by large boulders, protection against vehicle bombs. He took the laptop from beneath the seat and got out of the truck.

“You will guard the contents below the canvas with your life,” he told the two men who’d accompanied him. “If they are even touched, you will be hanged, then fed to the jackals.”

Even the tall sentry had no answer for that.

Amara turned and held his hands out.

“You will search me, then take me to Brother Assad,” he told the approaching guards. “And be quick.”