Текст книги "Gideon's War / Hard Target"

Автор книги: Howard Gordon

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Gideon's War and Hard Target

Parker wrestled with the question before he finally...

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS AN AMBUSH, pure and simple. Kate Murphy had been told that she would be testifying at the Senate Subcommittee on Foreign Policy as a technical expert on offshore drilling. Deepwater fields had been discovered in the South China Sea, a few miles off the coast of Mohan. As manager of the Obelisk—the largest and most sophisticated rig in those waters—she had come prepared to talk about the trends and technology of offshore drilling.

But now that she was here, she saw the truth. She hadn’t been subpoenaed to talk about horizontal drilling or steam injection or how she calculated the production of an underwater field. She had been brought here to get clobbered.

It had started pleasantly enough. The six men and one woman sitting at the horseshoe-shaped table facing her looked so much more human than they did on TV. Smaller, older, more rumpled, shoulders flecked with dandruff, teeth stained with coffee. They looked like a bunch of retirees, sitting around the old folks’ home in their Sunday clothes.

The first questions had been disinterested softballs. What were the estimated reserves of oil and gas in the South China Sea? How many rigs were located there? How many oil tankers moved through the Strait of Malacca?

Then the questioning shifted to Senator McClatchy, the chairman of the subcommittee. He was a doddering-looking old fellow, with a thin comb-over and a slight tremor in his left hand. His watery eyes were magnified by his thick glasses, giving him a slightly idiotic look. He smiled uncertainly, as though not entirely sure where he was.

“Miz Murphy, it’s so kind of you to fly all the way over from Mohan, just to talk to us.”

“It’s my pleasure, Senator,” Kate Murphy said.

“We do appreciate it. I know you’re a busy person, got all kinds of important things to tend to. I bet running an oil rig, a young gal like you, you must be a heck of a . . . a heck of a . . .” He seemed to lose his train of thought.

“Well, thank you, Senator,” she said after the moment of silence had begun to stretch to an embarrassing length.

Then the senator’s vapid smile faded and his eyes seemed to clear. “Now having gotten all the necessary formalities out of the way—could I prevail on you to tell me why you and the last four witnesses from Trojan Energy have all lied to me, to this subcommittee, and to the American people?”

She felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“Let me rephrase the question. Isn’t it true that your company, Trojan Energy, has on numerous occasions paid out ransom money to pirates over the past year?”

She stuttered, “Pirates?”

“Islamists. Jihadis. Insurgents. Call them whatever you want, but please answer my question.”

“Honestly, I’m not all that sure what—”

“And isn’t it true that these pirates are closely allied with Islamic terrorists in the Philippines, in Malaysia, and in the Sultanate of Mohan?”

“Sir, I was under the impression I wasght±ssion I w brought here to testify about oil drilling technology.”

Senator McClatchy spread his hands widely and gave her a broad smile. “You were, were you?” Senator McClatchy’s smile faded just the slightest bit. “See, and I was under the impression that you were here to truthfully and completely answer the questions I directed to you. Whatever questions I directed to you.”

“I just—”

“You just what? You just wanted to avail yourself of your constitutional right to hold your tongue so as not to incriminate yourself?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why don’t you just tell this committee the truth? That Trojan Energy is funding terrorism.”

Kate Murphy could feel the red spots forming on her high cheekbones, the ones that always popped up right before she said something she shouldn’t. So she kept her mouth shut.

Senator McClatchy looked down at his notes. “How much do you know about a man named Abu Nasir?”

“Only that he’s some sort of terrorist in Mohan. I mean, if the guy actually exists. Some people seem to think he’s just a myth.”

“Oh, he’s not myth. I guarantee you that.” McClatchy fixed his eyes on her for a long time. “Are you aware that Trojan Energy has paid over forty-seven million dollars in ransom to Abu Nasir in the past twelve months?”

She swallowed. “If that’s true, I was not aware of it.”

“Really?”

“Those decisions are above my pay grade.” Kate Murphy had of course heard rumors that various ships owned by Trojan affiliates had been seized by pirates, and that substantial ransoms had been paid. But her bosses at Trojan had kept those details private.

“Above your pay grade. I see. Except it is a matter of the public record that Trojan Energy continues to receive U.S. government loans and loan guarantees to encourage its participation in the Obelisk project. Which means either you’re ignorant or you’re lying.”

“You’re free to draw whatever conclusions you like.”

“So you refuse to comment on whether or not American taxpayer funds have been funneled into the coffers of Islamic terrorists and pirates.”

Kate had an urge to stand up and shout that she knew nothing about any of this. But instead she kept her voice low and cool. “Refuse? No, Senator, I’m not refusing. I keep telling you, my job is to run a rig and make sure that when my bosses pull the handle, oil comes out. I just don’t have the answers to your questions.”

Senator McClatchy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think that a bunch of ducking and dodging is out of place when our national security is being threatened by a bunch of fanatical terrorists?”

“I’m not dodging—”

The senator cut her off. “Don’t you think it’s time to start taking action? To stand shoulder to shou217±der to shlder with our friends like the Sultan and fight our enemies instead of subsidizing them?”

Kate Murphy sighed. She knew none of this had anything to do with her personally, but it made her angry that she’d been brought here to get made a fool of on national television just so Senator McClatchy could rattle his saber and score some political points.

“Do you really think the United States of America should just sit around helplessly while these criminals and thugs take off with millions of dollars’ worth of oil revenue we pulled from the ground with our technology and expertise?”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know enough about the situation to answer that question.” Then, without thinking, she added, “But if what you’re saying is true, I damn sure hope we won’t.”

For a moment Senator McClatchy glared at her. Then a loud bleat of laughter escaped his lips. “Bless your heart,” he said. “Young lady, you make me want to stand up and salute the flag.”

When she was finally dismissed, Kate was still hot with anger. Her bosses at Trojan Energy had sent her to Washington because she knew enough about the Obelisk to be a credible witness but not enough to cause any real damage. She couldn’t decide if she was angrier at them for making her their sacrificial goat, or at these smug politicians who spent their lives gaining and maintaining power by tearing down other people. So she decided to let it go and checked her BlackBerry. For some reason she couldn’t access her email or her phone messages. Her display window read SYSTEMS ERROR. Being out of touch with her rig, even for a day, left her feeling uneasy and incomplete, the same way she imagined other women her age felt about being away from their husbands and children. Kate thought to herself that if Ben were still alive, she might have been one of those women. His face with the crooked smile appeared to her, then vanished just as quickly—along with the expectation of a life she knew would never be hers.

As she made her way down the corridor, she saw the subcommittee members emerging from the hearing room. They’d apparently adjourned after her testimony for a break. McClatchy was heading in her direction with another senator. She tried to avoid him, pretending to make a call on her broken BlackBerry. But he abruptly excused himself from his colleague and waited for her to disconnect from her imaginary call. “Sorry if I was a bit rough on you in there, Miss Murphy. Nothing personal, you understand.”

“Right. Nothing personal,” Kate said, trying to keep her voice flat.

Kate expected him to move past her, but instead he moved closer. Close enough that Kate could smell his sour breath. He lowered his voice to an intimate tone that made her skin crawl. “Listen, if you’ve got some time tonight, I was hoping you could join me for dinner. I’d like to show you around town, have a little fun.”

Kate blinked, stunned. She felt like saying, Are you out of your fucking mind, old man? But instead she heard herself thanking the senator for the invitation, politely declining, and telling him she had to catch an early morning flight. Which was true. And once she brushed past the sour-smelling senator, the thought of getting back to the Obelisk eased her mind. The anger drained from her body, replaced by the comforting knowledge that tomorrow she’d be back on her rig, the only home she’d knowle ±8217;d knn in nearly two years.

A chopper was idling on the roof waiting to take Gideon and Earl Parker to McGuire Air Force Base. It was a white Sikorsky bearing unobtrusive air force markings. No sooner had they strapped in than the bird was aloft. It was a stunning view, the chopper sailing below the tops of the tallest buildings.

As they scudded over the massive construction site where the Twin Towers had once stood, Gideon had to restrain himself from asking Parker what the hell was going on. Back at the UN, President Diggs had preempted Gideon’s questions, telling him it was a long and complicated story, and since they were working against time, Parker would brief him during their flight to Mohan.

Even if Gideon had tried to speak during the chopper flight, the noise inside the cabin would have made conversation impossible. So Gideon found himself thinking about his older brother. How they had fought for as long as he could remember—first over childhood treasures like candy and toys, later over sports and girls, and later still, over politics—and how all their years of fighting had come to a head one night seven years earlier. They’d exchanged some ugly words, too ugly for even the most sincere apology to erase. Not that either of them had even tried. But since then, they hadn’t seen or even spoken to each other.

At Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, Gideon and Parker were escorted from the Sikorsky to a waiting Gulfstream G5. They boarded the jet and settled into a pair of leather seats that faced each other over a gleaming teak table. Before the engines had even spooled up, Gideon pressed Earl. “Okay, Uncle Earl. Tell me what this is about.”

“You heard the president. There’s not a simple answer—”

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Gideon insisted.

Earl Parker fixed Gideon with a look, then sighed. “I hate to do this to you, son, but you need some context to understand the trouble that Till-man’s gotten himself into.” From his briefcase, he pulled a thick, bound folder. “This briefing book has up-to-the-minute intel on Mohan. It’ll help explain what’s happened to your brother. Get through as much of it as you can, and I’ll fill in the rest.” Before Gideon could speak, Uncle Earl preempted him with a reassuring smile. “I promise.”

“Forty-eight hours to save his life? That sounds a little melodramatic.”

Parker regarded Gideon compassionately. “I’m not being coy, son, but I do need you to read the briefing. Especially the sections about Abu Nasir.”

Gideon felt his body being pressed back into his seat as the Gulfstream acclerated down the runway. He looked out the window as they lifted into the air, climbing quickly before banking away from the Manhattan skyline. Then Gideon turned his attention to the heavy book Uncle Earl had handed him.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

Abu Nasir? Gideon remembered seeing the name in the State...

CHAPTER THREE

GIDEON HAD LEFT BOGOTÁ on the red-eye, so he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep. But Uncle Earl’s cryptic he rom hwords kept his fatigue at bay as he propped the briefing book on the table in front of him and tried to absorb as much as he could.

Mohan had been an independent state for nearly four hundred years. The State Department described the current Sultan as a decent and tolerant-enough leader who’d grown the economy tenfold by tapping the oil reserves beneath Mohan’s coastal waters. The latest drilling project was a billion-dollar state-of-the-art rig owned by Trojan Energy and christened the Obelisk. If the geology was correct, it would be the most productive rig in history. Three other major energy companies had already closed agreements with the Sultan and were drawing up plans for a dozen more rigs just like the Obelisk.

But the Sultan’s government also suffered from the typical problems found in most modern nations where one royal family runs the show: nepotism, corruption, and the lack of a broad power base. These weaknesses had created conditions that were now being exploited by the jihadis. No longer content to govern themselves under Sharia law within the boundaries the Sultan allowed them, they were agitating for another insurgency. The Sultan had requested military assistance from the United States to help suppress the jihadis, and a core congressional group, led by Senator McClatchy, wanted to comply. But President Diggs had refused, reluctant to get our troops stuck in the middle of another civil quagmire halfway across the world.

Of the several insurgent factions in Mohan, one was headed by the man Parker had mentioned, Abu Nasir. What Gideon found most interesting was that Nasir was not Mohanese. He was an unidentified Westerner wanted by the Sultan for smuggling drugs and dealing arms. He’d also developed a reputation for piracy and kidnapping, holding Western oil executives hostage for impossibly large ransoms, which he used to fund the insurgency.

Gideon spent another hour wading through the briefing book until the words started to blur. He read the same section over and over until he finally gave up, leaning back in his comfortable leather chair, and sinking into a fitful sleep.

When the G5 was descending through a scattering of puffy clouds many hours later, Parker was drinking coffee from a mug with the presidential seal on the side and working on his laptop. He looked up over his reading glasses at Gideon rubbing his eyes and said, “Sleeping Beauty awakes!”

Gideon took a moment to orient himself. According to the bulkhead monitor, their estimated time of arrival was in twenty minutes.

Parker glanced down at the briefing book, which was splayed open, spine up, on Gideon’s lap. “I see you didn’t get very far,” he said, smiling with uncharacteristic affection. “You needed that sleep pretty bad.”

“Yeah. But since we’re landing soon, what I really need is for you to tell me what’s going on.”

“How much did you read about Abu Nasir?”

“No more questions, Uncle Earl. Just tell me what’s happening with my brother.”

“All right.” Parker nodded but hesitated a good ten seconds before he spoke again. “We have good intelligence that Abu Nasir is your brother.”

Gideon blinked. Unable to make sense of the words he’d just heard.

Parker dropped his shoulder;

Parker allowed Gideon to absorb this before continuing. “I know it sounds insane. I’m still trying to get my own head around it.”

“How good is this intelligence?”

“Very,” Parker said, then handed Gideon a photo from the pocket of his briefing book. Behind the CLASSIFIED stencil was a grainy surveillance photo of a bearded man who was clearly unaware that he was being photographed, focused instead on someone or something out of the frame. The features behind the beard resembled Tillman’s, yet it was not him at all. The hot anger that had once animated his eyes was now extinguished, replaced by an icy and far more lethal indifference.

“This is Tillman?”

Parker nodded. “It was taken a little over a month ago.”

Studying the face of the stranger reminded Gideon of why he’d decided not to follow Tillman into the army and had gone to college instead. Gideon knew that his brother’s reasons were more pragmatic than patriotic. He’d enlisted in order to avoid serving time for a street brawl during which he’d almost killed a man five inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than he was. The man was left in such rough shape that the D.A. tried to bump the charges from assault and battery to attempted murder. Because of Uncle Earl’s well-connected intervention, Tillman managed to avoid prison, and found himself in the army. He thrived as a soldier and was quickly promoted to the most elite ranks of the Special Forces. He’d finally found a way to channel the anger and the violence that had always run through him like a live wire. As angry as Tillman had once been, though, Gideon couldn’t bring himself to believe Parker’s story.

“The last time you spoke to him, where was Tillman working?” Parker asked.

“Afghanistan.”

“After that, he was sent to South America, then Indonesia. But Mohan was his first long-term assignment. Al Qaeda and its offshoots had been making inroads with the local population, and Tillman was sent to infiltrate their ranks. And he did. Posing as a Chechen arms dealer, he fed crucial information to the Sultan’s intelligence service. With Tillman’s help, the Sultan was able to beat back the insurgency.” Parker sighed heavily. “But that’s when things started going wrong.” Parker tapped the seat beside him. “Come over here so I can show you.”

Gideon switched seats, watching as Parker moved his blinking cursor and clicked one of his desktop icons. A map of the South China Sea appeared on-screen. Parker traced his finger along the southern edge. “See this skinny little strip of ocean here, from the Strait of Malacca just below Singapore, up to the coast off Vietnam? Sixty thousand ships, billions of tons of goods, over a trillion dollars’ worth of commerce, pass through this corridor every year. It’s one of the most heavily trafficked shipping lanes in the world, and the one most vulnerable to piracy.

“Last year, off the Somalia coast, we saw just how vulnerable. The jurisdictional issues are messy, the money is huge, and the shipping companies view piracy as a cost of doing business. A wri heÁness. A wte-off. A ship gets seized, they don’t call the navy, they reach for their checkbooks. Spending a few million bucks now and then is easier than jeopardizing the safety of their crews and cargoes.”

Gideon held up his hand. “Hold on. What’s this got to do with Till-man?”

“It was his cover story. Disaffected American soldier turned independent contractor. To prove himself, he seized an oil tanker bound for Mohan. It was all playacting, of course, with a local crew he’d put together and a cooperative vessel he’d hired to go along with the setup.

“Problem was, it worked too well. The jihadis wanted Tillman to do it again. He tried to stall, but they kept pushing. Next thing we knew, he and his men had seized a second ship. This time, it was a real one. Tillman claimed he had to do it in order to avoid blowing his cover. Said it was worth doing a few bad things to stop some much worse things from happening, and the Agency went along with it. Nobody gets hurt, a couple of big companies lose a negligible amount of money, all for the greater good. But after a couple more seizures, he broke off contact with his handler and started doing this stuff for real.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he started identifying with the people he was sent to destroy. He changed his name, became a Muslim. Or, I should say, a follower of the violent extremists who’ve perverted and co-opted that religion.”

Gideon shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Earl blew out his breath. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

“How long have you known about this?”

“Almost a year.”

“A year? And you’re only telling me now?”

Parker’s eyes flashed. “Do not play the guilt card with me, son. The last time I asked you to reach out to Tillman, you told me to mind my own damn business.” Parker was right. Gideon had traveled the world brokering peace between warring parties, but he’d been unwilling to reach out to his own brother. A dozen times he’d picked up the phone to call him. Each time, he’d hung up before the connection even went through.

Parker lowered his voice to a wistful register. “Besides, I knew there wasn’t anything you could do about it. I tried contacting Tillman myself through an intermediary, begged him to come in. But he never even responded. For him to lose himself like that . . . I can’t even begin to imagine the twisted logic that must have gotten into his head.”

“Bullshit.” It was the only word that fit. “Tillman may have changed, but he’s not someone who changes sides. Not like this.”

“You need to understand, he’s not the same person anymore. Last year, in this shipping lane, over a hundred ships were seized. We’ve got multiple intelligence sources saying your brother was behind at least thirty of those.”

Gideon kept shaking his head as Parker continued. “Problem was he got so good at it, he became a target himself. He pissed off the insurance and shipping companies. He pissed off some of the more radical jihadists in Moh21;Áists in Man, who saw him as an outsider. Even worse, he pissed off the Sultan, the man he’d been sent over to help out in the first place. And now that the insurgency is gaining momentum—”

Gideon finished his sentence. “The Sultan wants him dead.”

Parker nodded. “He ordered his top operatives to hunt down Tillman. They’ve been spreading around lots of money, squeezing some captured insurgents pretty hard. Two days ago, they located him.”

“How did you find out about this?”

“From Tillman.”

“You spoke to my brother?”

“Not directly, no. He contacted me through a man named Prang. He’s a general in the Sultan’s army who Tillman worked with. Apparently, your brother kept a back channel open with Prang, even after he went dark. Prang warned Tillman about the hit, and he’s the one who’s brokering this whole deal.”

“What deal?”

“Tillman’s agreed to surrender himself and provide intelligence about the insurgency if the Sultan calls off his hit. He’s holding some big cards—safe houses, weapons caches, organizational structure, leadership, money flow, the whole nine yards.”

“Then the Sultan agreed to call off the hit.”

“Only temporarily. He’s giving us until tomorrow to bring him in. After that, it’s open season.”

“And President Diggs signed off on this?”

“Absolutely. He’s already getting pressure to send troops to Mohan. If this insurgency gets any bigger, he may not have a choice. He’d much rather let Tillman disappear into witness protection than be forced to put our troops in harm’s way.”

Gideon’s head was spinning.

“All right. So bring him in. I don’t understand why you need me.”

“Because Tillman only agreed to come in under one condition. If he could choose who President Diggs sends.”

“And Tillman chose me?”

“You’re the only one he trusts.”

Below the descending plane, the lush green canopy of the jungle was receding, giving way to the tar paper rooftops and steel containers of the sprawling shantytown adjacent to the airport. “How exactly is this supposed to happen?” Gideon asked.

“General Prang is still working out the operational details. He’s meeting us at the airport.”

Gideon sat motionless, turning over in his head what he’d just heard. As impossible as it sounded, he knew he had no choice but to see it through. At least until he’d heard more.

“Tillman’s a grown man,” Parker said. “He made his own bed, I realize that . . . but I still feel responsible for him. I feel that way about both of you.” Parker’s eyes welled, and his voice had more gravel in it than usual. He cleared his throat, as if trying toghtÁf trying break through the delta of emotions that had collected there.

The plane hit the tarmac with a jolt and a screech of tires. As the aircraft decelerated, Gideon stared down at the photograph and realized that his brother, his only blood relative, had become a complete stranger to him.