State of Honour (19 page)

Almost two hours later, the private plane carrying the secretary touched down at a French base known as Camp de la Paix, or Peace Camp. The base was constructed in 2009 at the request of the United Arab Emeritus. It was home to all three services of the French military and, apart from the airfield, had a naval port and an army camp, the latter of which housed a detachment of The 13th Demi-Brigade of the Foreign Legion. The base overlooked the Strait of Hormuz, although the three services occupied separate geographical sites, albeit within relatively close proximity of one another.

French Air Base 104 Al Dhafra was situated about twenty miles from Abu Dhabi. As the plane taxied on the shortest of the two asphalt runways, a black Renault van emerged from the side of the communications centre and drove up beside it. The plane’s passenger door opened and the man who’d dragged the secretary back to the makeshift cell in Karachi emerged. He blinked slowly like a lizard on a rock, put on a pair of wraparound shades to protect his eyes from the strong, late-afternoon sun. Hands akimbo, his mouth cracked a lazy grin. Not long now, he thought. Not long.

He felt safe. No one at the airbase was aware that the coffin held a live human being, let alone the US Secretary of State.

He marshalled a small group of men with bullpup-designed FAMAS assault rifles slung over their shoulders – standard-issue for Legionnaires. They removed the coffin and placed it into the cargo bay of a French Air Force transport plane, together with numerous wooden crates and boxes of faulty ordnance. He spoke to a couple of French officers and handed over a manila envelope containing fifty-thousand Euros before ascending the flight of steps leading to the plane’s clamshell door. He stopped briefly at the top, seemed to sniff the air like a predator.

Ten minutes later, the transport plane took off.

A caporal-chef, a short, squat man with a bulbous nose, had been watching the curious events unfold, half hidden behind a hangar as he took an unofficial cigarette break. He hadn’t decided yet whether he should report it. He would have to explain his presence, and that could get him in deep shit with the commandant. As he watched the plane bank left before climbing at speed he decided that the best way forward was to spend some time mulling over whether it would be worth the hassle.

In the Oval Office, the president, flanked by the American flag and the flag of office, sat behind the Resolute Desk in front of three panelled windows with the view of the South Lawn beyond. Bright, early sunlight shone in through the panes, making the room feel more voluminous, airier. The Defense Secretary sat on a padded chair a metre or so from an ornate fireplace, advising the commander-in-chief that now was not the time to reduce the defence budget by the agreed $250 billion a year over the next decade, despite the US debt crisis.

Hours before, there’d been a knock at the newly hung reinforced-security door. As it opened the president caught sight of a couple of Secret Service agents: a tall, slimly built black man and a thick-necked white guy with cropped blond hair. Rosenberg, the White House chief counterterrorism advisor, entered, and relayed the bad news with an apologetic tone, although no blame attached to him. He said that Deputy Director Houseman had informed him that the CIA paramilitaries had been too late. But Lyric had been in the watchtower in Karachi, of that there was little doubt. The president thanked him. As Rosenberg left his face was awash with a mixture of embarrassment and depression. The president knew he was thinking what everyone was thinking: that perhaps the last chance to rescue her had eluded them. She’d been removed to another unknown location and the clock was ticking.

Standing up now, the president loosened his neck muscles. He’d picked at a plate of food prepared by his favourite chef, otherwise he hadn’t eaten. Jack, the Defense Secretary, had had no problem with devouring his cooked breakfast. No further intel had come in since the CIA’s asset had told them about the abandoned watchtower in Karachi. Jack had demanded that Houseman tell him the name of the asset, so he could do his own checks on the man via the Defense Clandestine Service, the Pentagon’s equivalent of the CIA’s espionage unit. Houseman had resisted at first, but had finally said he was called Sandri Khan, a Pakistani Christian who lived in Islamabad.

“What are the chances this Khan will come up with more intel?” the president asked, knowing that almost all foreign intelligence came at least initially from local sources or assets controlled by the CIA.

“Slim,” Jack said, still seated.

“The truth.”

Jack sighed. “Non-existent.”

“I want a war cabinet put in place in six hours,” the president said, his taut face showing palpable signs of stress. “Apart from me, it’ll comprise the same thirteen post-holders as used by George W after 9/11. And make that public. I want the Iranians to think long and hard about this.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Jack said, standing upright.

The president knew that the Iranians could save her, due to their influence over the Leopards. They could sign her death warrant, too. And if that happened, the American people would demand an aggressive response, and he had every intention of satisfying that desire. He did his best to convince himself that his campaign trail, which began in three months’ time, had nothing to do with his decision. But in truth, if she died, he would have a moral duty to act, especially given Iran’s imminent invasion of Balochistan and their defiance over their nuclear programme. The West had been putting off the latter for years. It had to be confronted. Now he would obtain the backing of Congress, for sure. Even the Chinese and the Russians would have to suck it up.

Tom drove the Bentley in silence, the doors locked. He’d untied Mahmood and had removed the cuffs and earplugs, eager for the kid to know his ordeal was over. He would drop him off at his apartment block. It was, he felt, the least he could do.

“You okay back there?”

Mahmood didn’t answer.

“Mahmood, you all right?”

He checked the rear-view mirror. The young man looked to be in shock. He was staring blankly into space and his head was shaking a little, as if he had Parkinson’s. Tom stopped the car at the next rest stop, got out and walked to the back passenger door, opened it and leant in. Mahmood spat into his face, his eyes filled with hate.

“If my father doesn’t kill you for this, I will.”

Wiping the spittle from his cheek, Tom thought the kid was a lot tougher than he’d made out.

“Were you acting back there, too?” he asked, easing out.

“Drive me home.”

“My name’s not Zafar.”

“Zafar will be whipped with bamboo for this.”

Mahmood made a dismissive
hiss
through his teeth before slamming the door shut.

As Tom reached the wide road that led to the affluent apartment block in West Cambridge the evergreens lining the sidewalks were dripping rain from a heavy shower, which had stopped a mile or so beforehand, the slate-grey cloud breaking and a hint of sunlight inching out. At the gates, Tom stopped the Bentley, removing the fob key. He got out and opened the rear passenger door.

“Zafar is in the janitor’s storeroom at the end of the garage,” he said, handing Hassan the fob key.

“I hope they cut the bitch’s head off,” Mahmood replied.

“Get going, kid,” Tom said, harshly.

Hawks was next on his list.

He walked beside the redbrick wall back to the rental car. He drove off, stopping about three miles away at a busy grocery-store parking lot. A light drizzle was falling, the sky clouding over again. He took out the cellphone he’d bought at the airport and punched in the speed number for Crane, agitated.

“Crane, it’s Tom. Do you know a guy called Billy Joe Hawks? He’s ex-CIA.”

Tom heard Crane sigh.

“The hell are you up to now? You promised me you were done. Twice already. You carry on like this, you’ll end up dead for sure.”

“I gotta lead of sorts. It’s Hawks.”

“And where did ya get that intel?”

“Hasni.”

“Hasni? How?”

“I won’t tell you that. But if you pull Hawks in he will deny everything. There’s no proof; nothing at least that will stand up in a federal court.”

“Why’s that?”

“You don’t wanna know. But if you help me out, I’ll keep you informed all the way,” Tom said.

“The last time I helped you out you nearly got one of my men killed.”

“Khan—he’s okay?”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” Crane said.

Tom grasped his forehead, feeling relieved. “Thank God. But, Crane, come on. It’s our only chance, unless you got something better.”

Crane didn’t reply for a few seconds, although Tom heard his breathing down the phone.

“Okay. Hawks went overboard on the waterboarding, so to speak. He liked to add a little oil to the water, considering it ironic. Now, in the context of what was going on at that time, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. But a journalist got a hold of the story and … well, he had to go.”

“I’ve never heard that story. What happened to the journalist?”

“She died in a car wreck in Greenwich Village,” Crane said.

“Goddamn him.”

“The last I heard, Hawks was working for ADC, a major US arms manufacturer in Arlington County. Head of security, I think.”

“What does he look like?”

“Five-ten, broad-shouldered. He had thick black curly hair back in the day. His eyes are grey. Blank-looking. His mouth is full, almost feminine. Walked like he owned the earth.”

Being observant went with the territory, Tom thought.

“I’ll ask you one more time, Tom. If you have something, you need to give it to me.”

“I told you, nothing that will stand up. He’s a US citizen. You can’t torture his ass in Morocco or somewhere.”

“That’s history. Official. But you obviously ain’t up to speed on the National Defense Authorization Act.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Tom said, watching a young mother push a shopping cart across the lot, her smiling blonde daughter hanging onto it as she swung a wicker basket in her free hand.

“Google it when you get the chance, cuz it means the president can treat a US citizen like a mad mullah. You carry on the way you’re going, you’ll have a bag pulled over your head. You’ll be bundled into a van and locked up underground for ever without trial. You’ll disappear, got it? You ask for due process, you’ll be pissing in the wind.”

It was a sobering thought. But Tom had come this far and he wasn’t about to back down now. “Forget about me. And even if you could do it to Hawks, by the time you find out anything, Lyric will be dead. Besides, I’m not sure he’s in on it yet. As I said, there’s no proof.”

“You’re way out of your depth, Tom. Give it up before it’s too late.”

“You mean you actually want me to stop looking for her?

“All right. But I’ve warned you, don’t say I haven’t. What in the hell is driving you?”

“Loyalty, I guess,” he said.

But that was only part of it. Although he had a strong sense of professional duty and a deep affection and respect for the secretary, he wasn’t going to let his broken promise to her end in the same way as the broken promise he’d made to his mother. Unwittingly, perhaps, he was seeking atonement, too.

“Loyalty is a good thing, Tom. One thing I’ve never questioned is your loyalty to Lyric.”

“So what have you questioned?”

“Whether or not you’re concerned about reaching your next birthday. Hawks is a dangerous sonofabitch. A real piece of work.”

Tom rested his free hand on the steering wheel. “Steve Coombs, my second-in-command, tried to kill me.”

“Jesus!”

“He was the one who told her kidnappers where the GPS sensor was. He either organized the removal of the shooter on the roof back in Islamabad or did it himself.”

“I’ll run some checks on him. Get back to you. How can you be sure it was him?”

“He confessed before he died. He was Catholic. They’re particular about deathbed confessions.”

“You killed him?” Crane asked.

“Self-defence.”

“He say anything else before he croaked?”

“Yeah. Those guys at the roadblock in Pakistan, he sent them my photo from Kabul.”

“What about the bugging of my room at the Ariana?”

“No,” Tom said.

“Does anyone else know what you’re up to?” Crane asked.

Tom thought about Lester. “I’m working alone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shit, I forgot. That CIA operative you’re so concerned about, the one who gave me the cell back at the Ariana, she was working with Coombs for sure.”

“Don’t worry about it. She was found hung in her room,” Crane said. “After what you’ve said, I guess she likely bugged mine, too.”

Tom didn’t know if that was suicide or something more sinister. But she was dead, and, as far as he knew and hoped, the secretary was still alive. And up until now, Hawks was the only person he knew who could answer his questions. The guy might be a real piece of work, as Crane had said, but his blood was up.

Tom had agreed to meet Lester at an all-day eatery just off Cambridge Street. A modern redbrick building called The Lincoln, set back from the sidewalk at the far end of a sprawling parking lot.

He parked the rental car on the opposite side of the road thirty metres down, deciding to leave it there just in case Mahmood had spotted him driving off in it and had called the cops, although he figured Hasni would’ve ordered him not to. But he couldn’t be sure.

As he walked back up the road he noticed dappled sunlight reflecting off the puddles on the gravel lot, and heard small birds chirping from the sweetspire bushes that formed a natural border with the crowded McDonald’s next door. The weather seemed to change with the same regularity as his mood of late. Striding out, he wondered whom Lester had been able to sign up.

The interior of the place had dim lighting and a patterned carpet that had seen better days. Soft background music was playing. The smattering of people seated at the dark wooden tables looked more like professor-types than students. He saw a woman sitting next to Lester at a window booth, both cradling cups of coffee. She looked healthy. Her hair was short and black, cut unevenly but stylish. More like a fashion model’s than a punk’s. He figured she was maybe in her late thirties. She wore faded jeans and red sneakers. There was a passing remembrance to the secretary, too, roughly the same height and weight, and he wondered what kind of state she was in right now, telling himself that she had to be alive.

They both rose as he walked over.

“Karen Booker, Tom Dupree,” Lester said.

She smiled and shook Tom’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Tom.”

“Likewise,” Tom said.

He noticed her eyes, the colour of liquid honey. She and Lester resumed their positions on the padded bench and Tom sat opposite them.

“Karen’s ex-Army. Been a freelance communications expert for the last eight years. Worked for Blackwater for a time in Iraq. Speaks fluent Spanish,” Lester said. He gestured to Tom. “Tom here speaks French. A few other languages, too. Despite the way he looks, he’s smart.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

She smiled.

“Karen’s willing to help out,” Lester said.

“I’m a trained medic, too,” she said, patting a backpack by her side.

“That’s good,” Tom said.

She said she was very serious about her work, and Tom detected a faint lisp in her otherwise perfect diction.

“Ex-Army, huh?”

“Yes. The Signal Corps. Spent my first years at Fort Gordon, Georgia. Don’t ask me how I got into it. I wanted to be a doctor, but my grades weren’t up to it. But I’m glad I didn’t. Watchful for the Country, the Corps motto. It still means a lot to me.”

“Well said,” Lester commented, nodding appreciatively.

She smiled again, and Tom saw that her slightly hard features softened into a pleasing face.

“Lester, can I have a quick word?”

“Sure.”

“Would you excuse us for a minute, Karen?”

“Of course, Tom,” she said, nodding.

Both men stood up and Tom walked Lester out of Karen’s earshot over to an imitation-marble counter where the bored-looking wait staff were resting their elbows.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Hey, you ain’t sexist, are ya?” Lester asked, glancing back at Karen.

“No, of course not. I mean, just the one.”

“My people are freelance, as I said. And in the timeframe, I’d say I got us a good one.”

“What’s she doing up here?”

Lester frowned and his head jolted back a few centimetres. “Her brother is a lab tech at Harvard. She was visiting.”

“She Mexican?”

“She’s from Connecticut.”

“Her roots?”

Lester’s face showed his displeasure again. “Mine are from somewhere in Africa, but that was like two hundred years ago. How far do ya wanna go back?”

Tom leaned in a little closer. “You know what I mean, Lester.”

“Not sure I do at that.”

“I’m just trying to get some background info here.”

Lester shrugged. “You wanna ask her if she prefers nachos to burgers, go right ahead.”

“Okay, buddy, let’s forget about it,” Tom said, tapping the fingers of his right hand lightly on Lester’s protruding bicep.

“No problem,” Lester said.

They walked back to the booth and sat down.

“I have to level with you, Karen. This could be hairy,” Tom said, his head nodding slightly.

“Just what’s this all about?” she asked, her face taking on a concerned expression.

Tom thought if she was going to risk her life, she had the right to know. “The Secretary of State.”

“Wow.”

“I’m the head of her protective detail. I think with a lot of luck, I might be able to find her. But I’ll be honest, if you get involved, you might not make it.”

“I thought I might not make it a few times back in Iraq. A few other times, too.”

“It’s my duty and Lester and me go way back. Why are you willing to take such a risk?” Tom asked, his tone a little more inquisitorial than he’d intended.

“Well,” she said, turning her palms face up, “some girls like Friday nights out and chocolate. Me, I like danger and intellectual challenges.”

She smiled again. That smile could melt a block of ice, Tom thought. He sighed.

“Listen, if you don’t want me on board, I can live with that. But the way I see it, the secretary has been kidnapped by men I’ve been fighting in one way or another for most of my adult life. I’d say it’s up to me whether or not I do my patriotic duty here. Besides, I haven’t got anything else to do right now. And I’ve got a 32 gigabyte laptop and some other equipment in my pack that might just come in useful.”

“What about your brother?” Tom asked.

She shot a glance at Lester. “He’s busy. He’s always busy. He only agrees to see me so our mom won’t call and shout him out.”

Lester looked at Tom and grinned.

“Okay, then. But if this all goes to rat shit, I take the rap for y’all,” Tom said, his voice serious and uncompromising.

She nodded.

“I’ll pay you twice your daily rate. A bonus if we pull it off.”

“I’ll gotta hand it to ya, Tom, you’re one helluva negotiator,” Lester said.

Tom couldn’t stop himself from snickering.

“See. I told you he was one of the nice guys,” Lester said. “What now?”

“Arlington County,” Tom said.

“Shit. I just came all the way from New York. Jesus, Tom, you’re a real pain in the ass.”