Текст книги "Gideon's War / Hard Target"

Автор книги: Howard Gordon

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Gideon's War and Hard Target

“Not enough time to get a search warrant,” Nancy said.

“Exigent circumstances,” Gideon agreed.

The room, however, was completely empty except for a toothbrush next to the bathroom sink. “Amazing. I wouldn’t peg the guy for caring about oral hygiene,” said Gideon.

“Where do you think he went?”

“He wouldn’t leave if he was expecting a payday.”

Nancy nodded. “Maybe someone else saw him.”

At the other end of the balcony, where it began its dangerous downward plunge, two black men leaned over the edge, smoking cigarettes. Nancy flashed her badge again and asked if they had noticed the guy in room 25.

One of them looked down and didn’t respond, and the other just shook his head and said no.

“You sure?” Nancy pressed.

But this time the second man didn’t even answer, and the other man looked at his shoes. Nancy gave the men her card, but as he headed downstairs Gideon noticed the cards fluttering down from the balcony.

“Those guys aren’t talking,” observed Nancy. “But they know something.”

“Someone scared the shit out of them.”

“Verhoven?”

“Exactly.”

5

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

It was nearly ten-thirty by the time Gideon arrived back at his new house in Alexandria, carrying a bottle of Oregon pinot and a bag full of English cheeses and Spanish sausages. Except for a single lamp in the living room, the house was dark.

After leaving the hotel Gideon had followed Nancy to the Bureau in the hope of speaking to Deputy Director Dahlgren, and to access the NCIC database for anything they could find on Mixon. But Dahlgren had left for the day, so they arranged to meet tomorrow. They also discovered that aside from two arrests for drug possession (later dismissed), shoplifting (Radio Shack), and one for forging a check, Mixon was clean. The database noted his connection to Verhoven, although it didn’t make much of it. He was, in short, another lowlife tweaker with a penchant for electronics and petty crime.

He’d called Kate from Nancy’s office and explained that something had come up. She didn’t pry, although she wasn’t happy, and he told her harkkkkn. Bue’d explain when he got home. Then he’d stopped by the supermarket on the way home, thinking that a nice dinner might smooth the waters. Unfortunately, the stop at Whole Foods had taken a little longer than expected. Then there’d been an overturned truck on 66 that snarled traffic. When he called home again, no one answered, and he assumed Kate was punishing him for the delay.

But when he got inside, Kate was asleep on the couch, barefoot, one slim leg pulled up beneath her. She wore a simple black dress and a strand of pearls, her auburn hair pulled back, and though the only makeup she wore was some lipstick, her face glowed. A thick report from the Bureau of Ocean Energy Management had slid from her hands, fanned open on her lap.

A special commission had been convened to examine the causes of the Deepwater blowout and to provide recommendations to help prevent, or at least lessen, the impact of future spills. As the only member who had spent any real time on a rig, Kate understood better than the others the nearly impossible task of allowing the government oversight for the complex, highly technical, and deeply risky business of drilling for oil beneath the sea. Trying to balance the competing interests of environmentalists and major energy companies—and the politicians whose campaigns these opposing groups funded—only made the committee’s mandate even more untenable. As much as she aspired to become an honest broker, she expected that whatever recommendations she made would become mired in the political and bureaucratic gridlock that plagued most government committees.

But she had put aside her work that night for him. She’d laid a cloth on the folding table—two place settings, nice china, wineglasses, candles. The candles had burned down so far that wax had run onto the tablecloth.

She murmured something as he entered the room, then slithered down deeper into the couch, her hair tumbling over her face. Rather than waking her, he poured himself a glass of wine, sliced off a big hunk of sausage, and watched her sleep. Kate’s tan had faded over the past few months, since she was no longer out on oil rigs standing in the sun all day, and her naturally fair complexion had reasserted itself. She breathed easily and slowly, her face free of its usual signs of worry and care.

I’m a lucky man, Gideon thought.

And yet.

Something tickled at the back of his brain. He had earned an international reputation successfully mediating crises in various conflict zones around the world. Central to his success was a deep and long-standing conviction that military intervention should be used only as a last resort, after every diplomatic effort was exhausted. But the events of eighteen months ago had prompted him to question his public commitment to nonviolence. He had demonstrated that he was more than simply capable of killing other men when necessary—he was surprisingly good at it. He found himself still haunted by images of the men he’d killed, not because he felt guilty, but because he felt no guilt at all about taking their lives.

Was it possible this wasn’t what he wanted? Could it be the intellectual life was no longer the place for him, that he was no longer a “Man of Peace”? The thought made him uneasy.

Gideon’s parents’ marriage had been a loveless and tragic one—one that ultimately ended when Gideon’s father killed his mother and then turned the gun on himself. Out in the world, Gideon knew he was a man of unusualnce¡€† confidence. It wasn’t faked. He knew what he knew and trusted his intuition, and he had learned from long experience that he generally made sound decisions.

So marrying Kate had just felt like the right thing to do, something he knew from the first moment they were together.

And yet. After Kate had quit her job and moved to D.C. to work as a lobbyist for Trojan Energy, he had sometimes been assailed by a suspicion that maybe he wasn’t cut out for civilian life. It was the feeling of unease at the end of the day when night descended and the world was quiet. It was peace, itself, that gave rise to an itchy feeling, the sense he should be out there engaged in the struggle. It was something Tillman had said to him after they left the Obelisk: A life in the shadows is not a life lived at all.

He finished the glass of wine just as the candles on the floor burned out. A waxy, sooty smell filled the air.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

He put down his glass, picked Kate up, and carried her up...

Gideon’s mind kept returning to Mixon, like a train jumping off the tracks, spinning possibilities, conjectures, contingencies, questions he wanted to ask but couldn’t. What had happened to him? Where did he go? Was his disappearance proof of his allegations? Or was the supposed conspiracy just a chimera dreamed up by the paranoid imagination of a delusory drug addict?

He tried to tell himself that Nancy was a big girl, that she didn’t need his help to pursue Mixon’s lead. He had agreed to make the contact, and now it was out of his hands. But he couldn’t help thinking of ways he could contribute, things he could say to Dahlgren in the morning to get him to devote some FBI resources. As he brushed his teeth, then climbed into bed, he reviewed the events of the day, searching for moments where he could have learned more from Mixon and perhaps been more useful.

His thinking made him restless, and his restlessness made him toss and turn. Kate’s eyes opened slightly and her arms went around his neck. Her skin felt hot. She smiled sleepily. “Hey, you made it,” she whispered.

“I made it,” he said. “I’m home.”

He kissed her gently. That kiss kindled a deeper and longer kiss, and soon they were making love.

But long after Kate fell back asleep, Gideon lay back, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the missing man who claimed to have knowledge of an attack on American soil.

6

FBI TRAINING ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

So let me get this straight,” FBI Deputy Director of Counterintelligence Ray Dahlgren said after Nancy had finished her explanation about the events of the previous day. “You brought a civilian to a meeting with an informant on a subject regarding national security?”

It was bright and early the next morning. Nancy Clement had brought Gideon to the FBI’he 0em" ;s Quantico training facility so that he could meet her boss and help her advocate to find Ervin Mixon. The deputy director had just given a speech to the current class at the FBI Academy and was now about to join them as guest instructor on the firing range. Nancy and Gideon were riding in a golf cart that Dahlgren was driving toward the shooting range, keeping his eyes pinned on the small track they were navigating. He had not yet looked at Gideon once.

“It was Ambassador Davis who brought the informant to our attention. I’m sure you’re familiar with his work in the Diggs administration.”

The deputy director was a big man who looked like a cop’s cop—the sort of guy who probably grew up on a farm in Minnesota, served in the Marines before joining the FBI, and cleaned his guns to relieve stress. Every syllable he uttered seemed intended to make it clear that he was in charge and you weren’t.

“We’re fighting a war against terror,” he said, “and you come to me with a story about a meth head looking for a payday. He gave you no specifics and disappeared before you could even talk to him.”

“He claims to have information about an attack on a high-value domestic target,” Nancy said. “He links it to a militia group in West Virginia.”

Dahlgren cut her off with a wave of his hand. “So you’ve said. And so far as I’m aware, this worthless tweaker has since contributed precisely zero evidence to corroborate his claims.”

Gideon interrupted. “I think he’s telling the truth. He has a recording—”

Dahlgren slammed on the brakes. “We’re here,” he said to Nancy. “As soon as the class assembles, I’ll be instructing them. So if you have some new data point to add, you need to haul it out right now.” Without waiting for her to respond, he turned and for the first time looked at Gideon. “You claim to be a good judge of character, Mr. Davis? What was your impression of this informant?”

Gideon noted that the deputy director had made a pointed choice to refer to him as mister, rather than as ambassador. Not that Gideon cared a whit for titles. But it was a signal. Gideon could see that if he was going to have any chance at all with Dahlgren, it would not come by beating around the bush.

“What’s my appraisal of Mixon?” Gideon said, climbing out of the golf cart. “I think he’s a slippery piece of shit.”

Dahlgren studied his face impassively for a moment. “And yet here you stand,” he said finally.

“Because I believe the guy knows something.”

“Walk with me,” Dahlgren said. A group of FBI trainees wearing baseball caps and blue jackets were milling around near the firing line. Dahlgren strode quickly toward them.

When they reached the trainees, they assembled quickly in a neat line.

“All right, people, listen up,” Dahlgren shouted. “I’m sure that your instructors have given you superb training in the basic operation and handling of your weapons. But I’m here to talk about some of the finer psychological aspects that come with using lethal force. A firearm is not simply a machine that goes bang ="0±€†when you press the trigger. If you find yourself using your weapon, it will inevitably be under some high-stress circumstance. Life or death. With that kind of sudden stress, your fine motor control deteriorates, your field of vision narrows, your hands get slick with sweat, and your body trembles. So you better be way past the point of fumbling around trying to remember how to run your gun. It’s got to be dead instinctive.”

He turned and pointed at Gideon. “We have a special guest with us today. I’m sure you’re all familiar with Gideon Davis. Some of you may even know him as the Man of Peace. I hear, however, he’s pretty good with a gun. Isn’t that right, Mr. Davis?”

Gideon nodded. He knew the deputy director was toying with him. “I can shoot,” he said.

Dahlgren drew a pistol from his hip, slid out the magazine, and racked the chambered round into his fist. Then he handed the pistol to Gideon. “Can you identify this pistol, sir?”

“It’s a 1911. A Les Baer. Nice gun, but I was under the impression that it’s not an FBI-approved firearm.”

Which drew a scattering of laughter from the trainees.

“You were, huh?” He smiled coolly. “In fact, ladies and gentlemen, the 1911 is an FBI-approved firearm for agents who have received special clearance.”

Gideon smiled. “I stand corrected.” He handed the 1911 back to Dahlgren.

Dahlgren surveyed the range. “Give me two targets, seven yards,” Dahlgren called to the range officer.

“Yes, sir,” the RO said. He pressed a button on a small control panel located to his right, and two human-shaped targets rose from small bays in the ground.

“Mr. Davis clearly knows his firearms,” Dahlgen said, holding up the weapon. “So let’s stage a brief exercise to see what FBI training is all about.” He motioned to the range officer. “Agent Stimson, you think you might be kind enough to lend your sidearm to Mr. Davis?”

The range officer looked intensely uncomfortable at the request. But he nevertheless dutifully unhooked his belt and handed the weapon to Gideon. Gideon recognized it as a Glock 22, the most commonly used law enforcement weapon in the United States. The gun was unloaded, with no magazine inserted in the weapon.

Gideon fumbled a little as he strapped on the belt with the weapon. His apparent unfamiliarity with the gun, though, was a pretense. He owned one himself and was quite comfortable operating it.

Dahlgren walked to the white stripe painted on the grass.

The RO laid a powerful hand on Gideon’s shoulder and put his head close to Gideon’s ear. “Deputy Director Dahlgren used to be on the Hostage Rescue Team, that’s the FBI’s elite SWAT-type unit,” he said. “And he was the number-one man on the FBI pistol team. Don’t try to beat him, okay? Just be safe, draw slowly and carefully and don’t shoot anybody.”

“Got it,” Gideon said.

“Don’t patronize me,” the RO whispered. “I don’t give a good goddamn who you were or wh/p>±€†at the deputy director says, if you do anything stupid or unsafe, I’m gonna kick your ass so far you’ll need a map to find it. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Gideon said.

Dahlgren motioned impatiently to Gideon. “Come on, son. Toes on the line.”

Gideon felt a thrum of excitement. He had been a competitive shooter in his youth, with several national championships under his belt. But after his father killed his mother and then turned the gun on himself, he had sworn off shooting for several decades. Eighteen months ago, however, he’d been forced to use firearms again. Since then he’d spent two or three afternoons a week at the range, each time rediscovering the power that came from firing a loaded weapon.

After Gideon stepped to the line, the RO handed him a magazine.

“Make it hot,” Dahlgren said.

Gideon slid the magazine into the Glock, racked the slide, and holstered it.

Dahlgren addressed the crowd again. “Now, folks, it’s natural for a man to get a little nervous in a situation like this. Would you like to try out the weapon, just to see how it works?”

“If you don’t mind,” Gideon said.

“Five shots be enough?”

“I guess it’ll have to do,” Gideon said, throwing a weak smile toward the crowd. This drew scattered laughter.

“Draw and fire five,” the RO said, “no time limit.”

Gideon drew with exaggerated care, extended the weapon using an inefficient, old-fashioned cup-and-saucer grip, squeezed his left eye closed with a conspicuous grimace and fired five slow shots. Three shots hit the bull, one hit the nine ring, and a flier hit the seven.

“Not bad!” Dahlgren raised his palm toward Gideon. “How about a hand for our honored guest?”

The crowd of trainees applauded tepidly. Probably no more than a third of them could have shot any better. But it was nothing to write home about.

“How about a little wager,” Dahlgren said softly to Gideon. “If you outshoot me, I’ll give Agent Clement some rope on your informant. If not, then you drop it.”

Gideon had seen this coming, seen it a mile away. He suppressed a smile. Dahlgren had no intention of giving Nancy any leeway and was using the moment only to humiliate Gideon. Well, he would play it out and go where it took him.

“Seems like a cavalier way of addressing an issue of this importance,” Gideon returned, quietly enough that the trainees wouldn’t hear him. “But that’s just one man’s opinion.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t ask for it,” Dahlgren whispered back. Then he raised his voice and addressed the trainees again. “What we’re going to do is simulate an attack by an advancing adversary. Imagine, for a moment, that in the course of interviewing a suspect, you’re surprised by an attacker at your back. You turn to find an assailant rushing toward you with a loaded weapon. What do you do?”

“Simple drill,” the range officer said, taking his cue from Dahlgren. “Gentlemen, turn and face me. On my command, turn and engage the target with three shots—two to the body, one to the head. We’ve got synchronized shot timers built into every station, so if both shooters put all three shots on target, the fastest time wins.”

“Okay,” Gideon said.

They stood silently for a moment, backs to the targets, the wind whipping across the broad expanse of grass. Gideon waited for a beep or buzzer signaling the start of the string.

Suddenly the range officer shouted, “Gun! Gun! Gun!”

It caught Gideon off guard. For the briefest of moments he hesitated. But then his body kicked in. He whirled, drawing the Glock in one smooth motion, assuming a modern thumb-over-thumb grip. This time he didn’t squint one eye but simply acquired the target with both eyes open and squeezed the trigger of the Glock. In his mind he registered that Dahlgren’s gun had already sounded by the time he broke the first shot. His own two shots to the body, however, sounded so close that they almost appeared to be one shot. Then he slid the front sight up toward the target’s head and fired another shot. Almost immediately the target flipped sideways and then slid down into a slot in the ground.

The range was completely silent.

“Holy shit,” someone said finally.

“Unload and show clear,” the RO instructed.

Gideon unloaded the Glock and holstered it.

“Time?” the range officer shouted.

A second RO stood at a small computer station on the edge of the range. “Deputy Director Dahlgren, one point zero three seconds,” he called.

There were whistles and cheers from the trainees.

“Mr. Davis, uh . . .” The second RO hesitated. “I’m not sure if this is right . . .”

“Just read us the time,” Dahlgren said.

“Mr. Davis—zero point nine nine one.”

There were several gasps from the trainees.

“Score the targets,” Dahlgren growled.

The RO hit a button, and Dahlgren’s target rose from the ground, then flipped around so it was visible.

There were three holes in the target, two in the circle at the center, one right between the eyes.

“Ten, ten, and ten,” called the RO. “For a total perfect score of thirty.”

The RO hit another button and Gideon’s target rose from the ground. A long, slow groan rose from the crowd. “Ten. Ten. Zero. Two hits and a clean miss.” The RO scribbled something on his sheet, then called out, “Well, if Mr. Davis had hit all three, he would have shot the fastest perfect Mozambique in FBI history. Sadly, his second shot was a clean miss and Deputy Director Dahlgren wins the contest thirty points to twenty.”

There was a thunder m">±€†of applause. Dahlgren finally calmed the crowd. “Well, Mr. Davis gave us a little surprise there. He was a better shooter than he let on. Wouldn’t want to play poker with him. But point made. Your FBI training will teach you to survive . . . and to prevail.” He winked at Gideon. “Sorry, Mr. Davis. Nice try, though.”

He then gave the trainees some choice tips from his days with the HRT.

While the deputy director spoke, Gideon crooked his finger at the range officer. “Let me see that target,” he said.

The RO shrugged and pressed a button, bringing the target back to the firing line. Gideon examined it, then pointed out the tiny circle in the middle of the target. The RO squinted at it carefully. “I’ll be damned!” he said.

He waited for the deputy director to finish his pep talk and dismiss his trainees, then motioned him over.

Dahlgren looked irritated at being summoned. “What?”

“Um, sir?” the RO said softly, putting his finger next to the hole in the center of the target. “There are two grease rings here.”

Dahlgren came closer and glared at the hole. “Bullshit.”

“I’m just telling you how I see it, sir. Two shots in one hole. Mr. Davis hit him three times. It’s a thirty. Perfect score. Mr. Davis won.”

“You sure of that?” Dahlgren said. “Absolutely sure?” His question was etched with an unspoken threat.

The RO looked carefully at the target. It was a close call, no doubt. He swallowed, met Dahlgren’s eye for a moment, then said, “No, sir. I guess I’m wrong.”

“Excellent,” Dahlgren said. “Glad you see it my way. One hit, one clean miss. Right?”

The RO looked at Gideon apologetically, then shrugged in agreement.

Gideon shook his head in disgust.