WASHINGTON, D.C.
GENERAL BRADLEY MIDDLETON WAS in the spacious office of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Dark furniture. Framed handshake pictures on the wall. FBI symbols everywhere. It bespoke power, as did the quiet and competent man across the desk from him, who never took off his dark suit coat, even while he was sitting.
“What do you mean, Mr. Director? You’ve lost one of my people and can’t tell me where he is or even if you have him? How does that work?” Middleton cocked an eyebrow.
Director Samuel Banks spread his arms wide, palms up. “I can only repeat what I just told you, General. As of now, I have no report whatsoever of any unidentified suspects being picked up yesterday.”
“Our alert came straight from your FBI computer system, Mr. Director. Your machine talked to my machine and said one of our hot sets of prints was being examined. The link activates only for that specific reason.”
The director nodded in affirmation. “And our system shows that indeed a query was made, and that we replied that there were no such prints on record in the NCIC. But our people were not the ones who initiated the inquiry! Anyway, you are military. How can your people not have fingerprints on file?”
“Sorry, Mr. Director. Need-to-know basis on that one.”
“I’m the director of the FBI!”
“I apologize and suggest you take up any questions you have about this with the White House. I do not have authorization to discuss it. Back to business. If the FBI system was pinged last night, where else could it have come from? Can just any hacker or country cop do it? Or could the NSA or a foreign government run something without a trace?”
“No, of course not. There are high-level security protocols and firewalls and passwords that I can’t discuss with you. Need-to-know.” The eternal Washington game. My dick is as long as yours.
Middleton smiled, and the director grinned back. “Mr. Director, I don’t care about the inner workings of your computer and databases as long as we continue to have authorized access. I just want my operator back.”
“I understand that, General. Here’s my suggestion. I will put a tag on the query. If anything pops up, I will personally give you a call.” He scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to Middleton. “Here’s my private number in case you need to contact me directly.” The general looked at it. There was no telephone number, just DHS??
Middleton put the card in his jacket pocket and rose, shook hands and left, wondering why Banks had chosen such an odd method of communication. Was he concerned that the office of the director of the FBI might be bugged? No, it was simpler than that. Banks knew the conversation was recorded, because he was the one recording it. Just in case questions were asked later. Weird world we live in, Middleton thought, getting into his waiting car.
“Sar’nt Johnson!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Do you know where to find the Department of Homeland Security offices in this hick town?”
“Yes, sir! The Department of Homeland Security. Uh, down at the far end of the Mall in that really tall, skinny building with the pointy top?”
“That is the Washington Monument, Sergeant, and I have no time for your smart-ass comments this evening.” Middleton noted that it was past six o’clock. He had just wasted hours working his way through the FBI chain of command in order to reach the director for their brief, private conference. He didn’t want to repeat that process over at the DHS, starting with some flunky at the front door who would explain that everyone had already gone home for the day. “Let’s just go back across the river to the Pentagon. If I’m going to be sneaky, I want a whole bunch of Marines around. You do know where the Pentagon is, don’t you, Sar’nt Johnson?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
MARYLAND
They had turned the thermostat down again to be sure that Swanson, in the interrogation chair, was thoroughly chilled before beginning the water procedure. They were not about to unstrap him again, because bad things happened the last time they tried that.
As far as Special Agent Carolyn Walker was concerned, the bastard could lie there and freeze to death. She gave a look of disgust through the one-way glass and swiveled her chair around to face Dave Hunt.
“Okay, I’m not waiting any longer. We can’t dodge our responsibilities while the bureaucrats argue about conducting a Level Four interrogation on American soil with someone who we think may be an American citizen. An assassin working for a terrorist organization is the most likely scenario.”
“Still a dangerous precedent, Carolyn.”
Walker’s eyes were sharp and her mouth a thin line. “No more waiting, Dave. We can’t afford not to do this. We have to find out how he is involved. Anyway, screw my goddam career. I want to know what that bastard knows! We will proceed with the first phase while we wait for authorization. I will take full responsibility.”
“I never said I didn’t want to do this, Carolyn,” Hunt said quietly, trying to keep her calm. “I concur, as long as it remains a limited and supervised situation. He has brought it on himself by refusing to talk and putting a couple of our people in the emergency room.”
The room was cold. Both Walker and Hunt wore dark blue windbreakers as they watched other agents set up the procedure. The suspect, shivering from the icy air-conditioning, had been blindfolded; his chair was laid back and a large galvanized tub clattered into place beneath his head. This was just the first phase and would be done with no talking, no questions.
A thick towel was draped across the face. Walker pulled out her stopwatch, nodded to an agent standing beside the chair, and started the timer as he tipped over the first bucket.
Kyle was already shivering, and with his eyes covered, he depended on his other senses to keep track of what was happening. The metallic noise of the tub on the tile floor told him it was probably time for some water, and he sucked in deep, regular breaths. Instead of fighting back when the towel was laid over his nose and mouth, which would have expended both energy and air, he hauled in even deeper breaths. He heard someone pick up one of the heavy buckets, and shoes beside the chair squeaked on the tiles as the agent shifted for better balance. Water sloshed as the bucket came up. Kyle got a final deep breath and heard the click of a stopwatch, and five gallons of water was sloshed onto the towel in a single rushing torrent. He remained perfectly still and let his brain be a clock. At fifteen seconds, he intentionally squirmed, but there was little real discomfort.
Carolyn Walker detested doing what she was doing. Only fifteen seconds had passed and the suspect was already wiggling, showing signs of oxygen deprivation. She pushed her personal reaction aside and pressed on with the procedure, signaling the waiting agent to pour a second bucket over the drenched towel.
Kyle lurched against the straps when the cascade of water washed over him. The towel was thoroughly drenched, and no air would come through, even when the waterfall passed. When his count reached thirty-five seconds, he struggled again, harder, pushing against the straps.
He’s drowning under there. Carolyn held up a finger. Still another bucket was dumped on Swanson, and he struggled while the straps dug into his arms and ankles. When her stopwatch hit one minute, Walker held up her fist. Stop. The agent yanked away the towel, and Carolyn looked down at the suspect, who was coughing and sputtering, gasping for air. A full minute underwater. Let him know what was in store if he refused to cooperate. Now give him some time alone to think about it. The chair was elevated to the sitting position to help him catch his breath, and everyone left the room, leaving the suspect alone to fear what might happen next.
Kyle was wet and shivering. He opened his eyes and blinked and allowed his breathing to return to a regular rhythm. Only a minute under the towel? Piece of cake. Any surfer would think so. Cold and wet? He thought about his big surfboard and the frigid waters at the Wedge in Newport Beach, where he usually had to wear a wet suit and booties even on a warm day.
Wet? This was nothing compared to being scrubbed along the sandpaper bottom of the California shoreline after being blown out by a big wave. It could take a minute or so just to get back to the surface. Or being sealed in a fifty-five-gallon drum half-filled with water and rolled down a hillside during a training exercise. Cold? Try trekking over an ice-sheeted mountain during a blizzard with people trying to kill you. In this room, he knew that the water torture was only a mind game to force his cooperation by making him think he was drowning. He would play it out and let them believe they were getting to him. He was, however, cold and hungry, and time was being wasted. Where’s my damned cavalry?
THE PENTAGON
The Lizard, well aware of how the computer age could be made to work against itself, had been jamming useless data down the information superhighway to the unknown computer where the requests about Kyle Swanson were originating. For the past two hours, he had been reprogramming, cutting down that computer’s ability to reach out to others without first going through him.
With the help of a friend at the National Security Agency, he eventually narrowed it all down to a half-dozen lines of communication, all of it encrypted on the sender’s end but popping back into readable English on his screen.
Sniffing around the U.S. Department of Homeland Security violated a dozen or so laws, but General Middleton had been very clear with his order: “Find Shake.”
The message for Level Four permission came up. Unidentified terrorist suspect related to Saladin inquiries is in custody at location Delta Two One Sigma. No identification, not even fingerprints. DNA tests were incomplete. Probably ex-military. Subject may have information re poison gas attack. Extremely uncooperative, two DHS agents injured and hospitalized. Urgent request for authorization to conduct a Level Four interrogation. Signed by Special Agent Carolyn Walker of the Department of Homeland Security, with her identification code.
The Lizard didn’t know what a Level Four was, but it sounded rather dire. He went to the general’s office and knocked on the door. “I’ve located Gunny Swanson, sir. He is being held by the Department of Homeland Security at a safe house over on the Maryland coast, used to be a Coast Guard station.”
Middleton was on his feet, walking across his office, and called out, “Captain Summers!”
Sybelle came in. “Sir.”
“Round up some Marines and go get our boy,” he said. “The Lizard will fill you in and arrange a helicopter from here to there.” Middleton was at his private safe, spinning a dial. He opened the door and found an envelope containing a special letter. “You know our charter, and this is your authorization. Show it to the person in charge, but nobody stands in your way, got it? Bring him home.”
At the safe house, Hunt and Walker let an hour pass, waiting for permission that never came, before they went in to question Swanson again.
“You can end this right now. Just talk to us,” said Special Agent Dave Hunt. “What’s your name?”
Swanson remained silent. He was cold, but he would be warm again, someday. This was only temporary. No matter what they did, it was only temporary. He said nothing.
“Damn you,” Hunt muttered. “We need answers-now! Do you understand? It is no small matter, and you’re not in that chair because of back taxes or some fucking parking ticket. Our national security is at risk.”
Carolyn Walker stepped before him and held up the photograph of a man. “This is Saladin. You killed him in Paris. Even if you were not the sniper who first brought him down, we have you on video putting a bullet in his head at point-blank range. We were right across the street at the time, and Saladin was under close surveillance.”
She shuffled that picture to the bottom of a small stack and held up another head-and-shoulders photograph. “Here’s your second victim, a bodyguard.” Then she showed him still another. “Your third was the driver. You massacred three men and then ran inside that house, and that was followed by gunshots and the big explosion.”
She held up a final photograph. “This was the only other person inside, another bodyguard, and I assume you killed him, too, because you came out and he didn’t.” Carolyn Walker stopped talking and stared at Kyle. He had blinked when shown the final photograph. “What is it? You recognize this man?”
Kyle said nothing. Oh, yeah. I know him all right. He had been using the entire time since the last procedure to pump in deep breaths to store up oxygen, because he knew more water was on the way. As a sniper, he had been trained to slow down his life in critical moments, to breathe regularly under stress, and, most of all, to never panic. The picture had thrown off his rhythmic breathing pattern.
“You’ll talk,” Walker said. “Sooner or later, everyone talks.” At her signal, the wet towel was thrown back over his face.
He heard water slosh as a bucket was hoisted and he gobbled air, ordering himself to relax rather than fight it this time. Temporary. Temporary. His brain ticked off the seconds as the buckets emptied, pouring over him and into the big tub below. The soaked towel was to simulate the feeling of being smothered but actually helped keep the water moving instead of flooding into his nostrils and lungs. He could hear and sense everything but after the first minute decided to turn off the sound for a while and just lived in his head.
The gnarly pipeline wipeout in Hawaii was one favorite memory. One moment, standing in control on the board with the bright sun overhead and the big wave roaring its protest at being ridden, then the curl catching and dumping him. Down he went into the swirling, powerful wash, and a strong underwater current pushed him beneath a rock. Thought he would never be able to climb out of that hole where the green water was trying to kill him. Two minutes. Chest getting tight, and he let some of the old air bubble in his lungs escape to ease the pressure. Two and a half.
When the towel was removed, he switched on his own lights again. Nothing had changed except his freedom to breathe. Kyle looked up at the agents and brayed a loud and challenging laugh as streams of water streamed down his face. One of his defense mechanisms when he was in a tight spot was to turn it into a game, something that was not so serious. “Come on, you pussies! Can’t you do better than that? Feeling sorry for the prisoner? Damned amateurs.”
Hunt and Walker stormed from the room. “Did you notice that he didn’t even move this time? That first session, he shook like a leaf.” Hunt said.
Walker peeled off her windbreaker and hung it over the back of her chair. “He was playing with us,” she said. “I’m bringing the doctor and the crash cart down here to stand by for resuscitation. This time, I’ll drown the son of a bitch, if I have to.”
“I just had a thought, Carolyn. We’ve had him for almost a full day and he has not once asked for a lawyer. Any normal American would be screaming for an attorney by now.”
“Any normal person would have broken by now. He is too well trained to resist pressure and pain. I’m worried that he would rather die than talk.”
“So I will take away that option. If the water fails this time, we resuscitate, then use chemicals to knock him out and push through those defenses.”
“Might be fatal.”
“Might be.”
“Wish that authorization would come through.”
Thirty more minutes passed before they went back into the room, this time with some white coats tagging along with them.
Medical staff, Kyle realized. He no longer gave any pretense of being subtle and started to loudly huff and puff to fill his lungs. One medic filled a syringe with propofol, a white liquid that would erase the last few minutes of Kyle’s memory. As soon as he blacked out, the “milk of amnesia” would be administered, and he would not be able to recall what had happened to him during the drowning moments.
A dry and thinner towel was spread over his face this time. He closed his eyes and relaxed as the water began to pour, this time an almost unbroken stream, bucket after bucket. He raged silently in his mind: Bring it, you shitbirds! Bring it on!
A minute. Two minutes. Three. He was paddling off the Baja coast near kilo marker 57, going out several miles and just lingering in the hot sunshine. He was diving without scuba gear along the Australian watery wonderland of the Great Barrier Reef. He was in full rig, practicing planting explosives on the hull of a ship at night. He needed air now, just as he had needed air then. Running low on fuel here, gang. Bubbles. Gagging building in his throat. Water winning, seeping into his lungs. Four minutes. Hold on. Then an acceptance of death as the body’s defenses caved in, the physical machine demanding air. Temporary. Five minutes and counting. Nothing left. He gasped and opened his mouth to suck in oxygen and the water poured in. He was drowning.
As he began to black out, he heard sounds, shouting in the room, and the towel was jerked away. Air! The chair popped to an upright position, and one of the white coats was there to help him regurgitate the water he had swallowed. His senses returned, blinking on one at a time like a series of switches, as he shivered violently against the straps, vomited water, and sucked in life-giving oxygen.
More people were in the room, heavy boots, yelling, moving like shadows. His eyes focused on a slim figure, a woman with short hair, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater: Sybelle!
She had an envelope in one hand, a pistol in the other, and a wicked gleam in her eyes. The questioners, along with the two agents that he assumed had been the bucket brigade and one of the white coats, were lined up along the far wall with their hands up, covered by four Marines in full combat gear. Sybelle had brought along overwhelming power for backup.
“Hey there, Dead Guy,” she said. “I have your Get Out of Jail Free card here, and I’m supposed to give it to some chick named Carolyn Walker. What say we just pop these motherfuckers, get you dressed, and go find her?”
“I’m Agent Walker,” Carolyn said, raising her voice to try to regain control. “What’s going on? Military troops cannot be used in America.”
Sybelle sailed the envelope toward her and told her to pick it up but stay by the wall. She kept her pistol trained on them. “You medics un-buckle this man and get him warm, right now. Blankets, towels, your own fucking clothes, whatever. Move!” Her voice was steely with anger, and the menace was not lost on the medical team.
Walker’s look of surprise was total. “Dave, it’s a direct order from the president and countersigned by the attorney general to give her the full and unconditional interagency support of the U.S. government.”
“Jesus,” said Hunt, reading the letter. He handed it back to Walker. “Okay, so you are some kind of undercover agent. We still should have been told you were coming onto our turf. And if you have this kind of pull, why didn’t you just say so?”
Kyle had a jacket over his naked lap, and a medic was vigorously massaging his shoulders with a towel to get blood circulating again. As his voice returned, he issued orders. “Give us all documentation-written, video, and audio-of your surveillance operation in Paris and my interrogation. You keep nothing, no copies or backups.” He nodded toward Sybelle. “We’re special forces operators, so I still can’t give you my name or reveal any details. It would be best for everyone if you just go back to your other business and pretend you never saw me.”
Sybelle holstered her pistol and had the Marines stand down and leave. The agents relaxed, but when Dave Hunt started to talk, she snapped, “No questions. Just gather up that material so we can all get out of here.”
Kyle stood unsteadily as Walker and Hunt left the room. He whispered to Sybelle, “I know who Juba is.”
DENVER
The taxi spun along mile after mile on the long route between Denver International Airport and the city. The afternoon was clear, and the range of jagged and purple Rocky Mountains, some still topped with snow, commanded his attention. They could be a problem.
After checking into a hotel, he strolled into Lower Downtown, LoDo, which had been a run-down part of the city until the Colorado Rockies were given a major league franchise. Coors Field was dark tonight because the Rockies were playing out of town, but Juba studied how the big stadium had been built right in the heart of the area, near Mile High Stadium, the home of the Denver Broncos football team, and the Elitch Gardens amusement park. Redevelopment flooded in and gentrified the entire former warehouse district. Nightlife now throbbed in fashionable LoDo.
Juba slept late and about noon showed up at Coors Field and joined a group of tourists being given an escorted visit through the ballpark by a charming young woman in a cowgirl hat who was a fountain of information. He watched the flags beyond the outfield, which were stuttering in the steady wind from the mountains, gusts that his sniper’s eye judged to be about thirty miles per hour. The guide said high winds were not unusual around the city.
He considered the situation. Looked west beyond left field to the ridges of mountains. That kind of wind would blow the bubble of poison gas…where? Kansas? New Mexico? Empty states. It wouldn’t work. He had misjudged this one, too.
Denver was the metropolitan area, but the real population of Colorado lived far out in the suburbs, and commuters thronged the big highways after work, driving seventy-five miles an hour to reach their homes many miles away in bedroom communities.
The West was too spread out for his purpose, big enough to swallow some small nations whole. He could cause severe damage, but even the new and stable gas would dissipate too quickly on those mountain winds. Coors Field was not the answer.
He was looking for more than just a baseball stadium-something that was more of a net, a trap, somewhere with no way out. He checked out of his hotel and headed back to DIA and bought a ticket to California.