WASHINGTON, D.C.
GENERAL MIDDLETON, CAPTAIN SUMMERS, Lieutenant Commander Freedman, and Kyle Swanson took a final look at the command center, which was slowly coming back to life. “We’re done here,” said the general.
“Okay,” replied Carolyn Walker. “Thanks for your cooperation.” Her tone was neither warm nor cold, but she was glad to get rid of the secret military unit. Now things could get back to normal and law enforcement could do its job without second-guessing by people who were not trained as investigators.
“Anytime. Just keep us in the loop if you catch a break and when you identify the corpse they think is Juba.” Handshakes all around, and the Trident team left by a side door. “Come on. I’ll buy us all a big breakfast. There’s a good pancake house over in Alexandria.”
They were all tired and frustrated, lost in their own thoughts as they drove over the bridge and into the redbrick section of Old Town, then on west to where the neighborhoods were not as ritzy and there were fewer antique stores, and then to an area that was rather seedy. The sun was bright, and the day was warming as they got out of the car. The restaurant parking lot was half full, mainly pickup trucks among two big rigs, because the eatery was popular among the over-the-road gang. A long wooden trestle table, worn smooth by generations of elbows of hungry working men, was empty in a rear corner by the kitchen, and the Tridents slid onto the benches. Napkins and silverware and a rack of syrup were already on the table. Coffee appeared as if by magic from a passing waitress, followed soon by platters of pancakes, sausage and bacon, warm biscuits, and scrambled eggs, served family style. Everybody ate the same limited, delicious menu here.
“So, none of us believes that Juba is dead, right?” The general stated. “We unanimous on that?”
Everyone agreed.
“Pass the blueberry syrup, please,” said the Lizard. “The communications net is absolutely overloaded, there is probably not an investigator to spare in San Francisco, and the disaster is going to be sucking up all of the resources. If the DHS agents don’t get to it in a hurry, the other officers won’t get around to doing our corpse anytime soon. Juba always seems a couple of steps ahead.”
Kyle refilled his coffee cup. “He is no longer in the U.S. I’m confident of that. The air system was not shut down, and the West Coast airports dump dozens of international flights into Asia every hour. More to Europe. He needed a disguise and new papers, and he had to move quickly, but I would bet he made one of those planes.”
“Mexico? South America?” asked Middleton.
“He doesn’t specialize down there. Maybe he has connections, probably does, but right now he is looking for a comfort zone. As a sniper, he is extracting after completion of his mission. South America would be alien to him.” Sybelle ate a mouthful of eggs while she thought, then continued. “Same thing with most of Asia, from Japan to New Zealand. The only Muslim safe zones would be in the Philippines or Indonesia, and they would not risk the wrath of the United States by knowingly giving him shelter and protection. Maybe North Korea or Iran might shelter him, but he’s a pretty hot potato right now, and they could make points with Washington by turning him in.”
Middleton said, “Know what? I think the final destination for this crazy, murderous shitheel is Iraq. That’s the only place where he can disappear.”
“That’s my bet, too, boss. He is going to hide in the war. And that’s where I am going to find him.”
“Okay. So go get him. Sybelle will go along to keep everything under the Trident umbrella, and the Lizard will do his keyboard magic from our office here. Take whoever or whatever you need, but remember that there are no orders for anything, there is no paper trail, nobody ever heard nothin’ about nothin’. Then be clear on this, Dead Guy: I want Juba’s fucking scalp.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Kyle Swanson, already feeling the rush. Sniper against sniper. Me and Juba. Bad shit comin’.
AUSTRIAN AIRLINES
FLIGHT 512
Ten hours. Halfway. Juba was feeling talons of claustrophobia seizing his flesh, as if the airplane were shrinking in on him. The spacious first-class seat had narrowed and the bulkheads seemed closer, but he had work to do, so he popped open his briefcase and removed the laptop computer and a single condom in its sealed plastic container.
The diagrams, the formula, and the instructions for assembling the weapon were spread over several files, and he had spent some time in Paris putting it all together for future use. It was in several folders, to meet different contingencies. From the briefcase he removed a tiny memory stick, attached it to a USB port, and downloaded the final file, which included the updated material from the Iranian laboratory, the final step in the process. The folder containing the date for the poison weapon used in London was in a file by itself, called File 999, and contained no indication that it was incomplete. The product would kill, but not do what was done in San Francisco. When the ultimate formula file was downloaded, he sighed with resignation and erased it from the hard drive.
Then he spent time transferring the various bank accounts and codes to the tiny memory stick and erased most of them, too. He pulled the memory stick free and he pocketed it, then stashed the computer.
When he got up to go to the bathroom, his head whacked the overhead storage bin. In the narrow bathroom thirty thousand feet in the sky, Juba washed his face and hands and under his arms and stared into the mirror: The disguise was still good.
Stop this nonsense! He stared hard at the reflection, an edge of his mouth slewing downward, angry with himself. He was a professional, and this was all part of the plan. It had been expected, just as a sniper has to remain immobile and idle for hours at a time in a hole. Sweat it out. Losing personal control is not going to get this big damned airplane to Damascus one second earlier. Turn the glass over and instead of being only ten hours away from North America, you’re halfway to freedom!
Remember that you are no mild little college professor. You are still a sniper, a killer of men. You are still Juba. You can do this. You will do this.
He took a deep breath, allowed his bodily rhythms to settle, and then unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers. Moving swiftly, he tore open the condom packet and removed the lubricated rubber contraception device and slid the computer memory chip in as far as it would go, folded the condom over, and tied the end. Another deep breath and he bent over the sink, spread his legs, and pushed the condom deep into his anus. Uncomfortable, but not impossible. Drug mules did it all the time, so he could do it, too.
He readjusted his clothing, washed his hands and face again, opened the door, and returned to his seat. A movie was playing on a little screen that he could tilt, so he put on the earphones and tuned it in. A tray of food was presented. Lunch. When the movie was over, he pushed up the covering of the window and watched the blue sky that stretched out forever, but he refused to look at his watch.
Halfway. More than halfway there.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Middleton is going to be up to his eyebrows in bitching generals. We can’t run this mission as a usual black op because we are going onto other units’ battle space and crossing boundary lines. They don’t know who we are; they could open fire on us.” Sybelle was at her desk in the Pentagon, and Kyle was across from her.
Operating beyond the shadow of secrecy presented problems, but Swanson figured it was worth the exposure because they were going to need the entire might of the U.S. military establishment to make this work. Iraq was a huge country, and they needed to shrink the number of places where Juba could feel secure, which meant using intelligence assets from satellites to local informants. First chase him across continents, and then across nations, then into a city or town or village, onto a certain street, into a specific house. Make the rabbit run for his burrow.
“We’ll work around it. No big deal. How big a package should we field?”
“Do we want mobility or firepower or both?”
Kyle thought about that. “Mostly mobility. A small team can move faster, and we will have support troops all over the country we can call on. Even get air support in a tight spot. But we will be moving in the cracks, chasing one man, and I just need to get close enough to get a shot.”
“So we have enough to cover your ass and call for help if and when we need it? Ride in on tanks?”
“Use the whole available force, Sybelle. You run the show from a mission command post in real time.”
“Bullshit. I’m going in with you.”
“Bullshit right back at you. You’re a damned good operative, you don’t have to prove that to anybody, but your real value is in coordinating the show.”
She stared at him, hard. “I’m no little damsel in distress, Kyle.”
“That’s not the point. Juba is dangerous and he can bite. If I have to call for help, I want you on the other end of the horn, not someone without the warrior smarts who might not deliver when the shit hits the fan. Shooters I can get elsewhere.”
She pushed her legal pad aside. “Getting in some field work is important for me now, Kyle, because I don’t want to be tied to a desk for the rest of my career. I’ve been selected for major…”
Kyle interrupted. “Selected below the zone? That’s great, Sybelle. Proves my point. Even the Pentagon thinks you’re something special.”
“General Middleton recommends that my next step be a tour as a White House military aide.” Sybelle Summers was clearly displeased that she was obviously being groomed for higher rank, moving up ahead of her peers. “Very nice, but it’s not what I signed up for, or why I went to the Naval Academy, and certainly not why I put up with Force Recon training. When I try to look over the horizon, all I see is desks, desks, and more desks! The men get field commands and I get another glass ceiling.”
Swanson grinned at her. “Golly. That’s really awful. I’m very sorry that your career track is pointing you toward being a general someday. That is not today’s problem, however. We are trying to catch this mass-murdering terrorist son of a bitch Juba, remember?”
That made her laugh. She could only talk about that sort of stuff with Kyle. “Right on, Gunny. I think we should do this with some of the same MARSOC guys that we used in Iran, since they are pretty much up to speed on it. Captain Newman to be the ground commander again.”
“Yeah. Rick is good people. I’d like Travis Hughes along as my spotter, then Darren Rawls and Joe Tipp as shooters. Five of us should be plenty to move fast or hold tight while you bring in backup and blow the hell out of whoever is bothering us.”
“I can do that,” she said with a nod. “But I’d rather be a shooter.”
“We all got problems.”
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Juba was buckled in his seat and eagerly looking out of the window of the passenger jet as if he were a first-time flier. After the announcements were made for landing, the plane descended with a professional smoothness; the wheels came down with a hum and locked in place. The wheels kissed the tarmac and the nose came down and the engines roared and the brakes took hold. Normal, normal, normal. His senses were alive, and the bulge in his anal tract seemed enormous. This was the last point of danger, but he was back on friendly turf. Or, if not friendly, at least not unfriendly.
As was his habit, he unbuckled as soon as the plane came to a halt so he could have freedom of movement, although there was really nowhere to go on the big Boeing. It coasted toward the terminal without delay, meeting the printed arrival time. Juba knew the Damascus airport was a hard place for passengers lining up for departure, but the arrivals seldom had much difficulty, and part of what the purchase price of the first-class ticket bought was being allowed to get off of the plane first and gain an advantage in the customs area. Once he cleared customs, he finally would be able to breathe easier.
The crew unlocked and opened the doors, and the covered exit ramp oozed out from the side of the terminal like some great worm. “Please remain seated until the doors are clear and secure,” came the overhead announcement in three languages. “Passengers in the first-class cabin will be able to depart and…”
Juba never heard the rest of the announcement. Three large men in civilian suits with pistols drawn and two uniformed soldiers with submachine guns came running aboard and into the first-class section as the crew stood aside. They surrounded him. “You will come with us,” said the leader, with a tone of outright menace. Mukhabarat, Juba thought. Secret police.
They placed him in the middle of the guards and picked up four more security operatives on the way out of the airport and into the waiting convoy of husky Land Rovers. Motorcycle police rolled out on their bikes with sirens wailing to lead the way over the eighteen miles into the city, and Juba heard the distant wocka-wocka of a helicopter overhead. They were taking no chances.
He settled back in the seat, a guard on each side, and considered the situation. Were they keeping him from escaping, or preventing the Americans or other covert operators from snatching him? The arrest had been abrupt and disappointing but not rough. Damascus International Airport was a known entry point for young men sent from other countries to be martyrs in Iraq, to strap explosives around their bodies or drive car bombs into targets. The arrival of another terrorist would not cause much concern there. But, Juba reminded himself, he was no longer just a terrorist but the most wanted man in the world. Nothing was certain.
The Land Rovers swooped into the city, and he began to pick up familiar landmarks and got his bearings, for he had been to Damascus many times in transit to other places. The convoy pulled to a stop at an ugly gray office building across from an open area with a few palm trees, a tall monument, and a small domed mosque, the Sahat al-Marje, Martyr’s Square. Uniformed guards popped the doors and fanned out in a protective cordon while the three civilian agents hustled him inside the Ministry of the Interior, took him up two flights of stairs, and placed him in a nondescript office with orders to sit down and wait. He asked for some water and was ignored.
For almost thirty minutes, he sat still in the chair before a desk, gazing out the window and meditating to keep his heart and pulse under control. If they were going to kill him, they would have done it by now. This being Syria, they still might do so. Wait and see.
Behind him, the door finally opened, and a cheery voice called out, “Jeremy! It has been a long time since we have talked!”
A man who stood no taller than five foot five came in, white teeth gleaming in a smile beneath a thick mustache but with nothing showing in the dark, intelligent eyes. General Yousif al-Shoum, head of operations for the Syrian Military Security Directorate, came forward and tossed a blue-covered folder onto the desk, then took a seat. A young man in a white tunic followed, carrying a tray of cold drinks and hot tea. He placed it on the table and left.
“Please, have a drink. You must be thirsty after such a long flight.” The English was flawless, thanks to al-Shoum’s tours of duty as a diplomat and spy in London and New York.
Juba unsnapped the white cap on a bottle of water and drank. “General al-Shoum. I did not expect to be seeing you today.”
The small man laughed. “You were coming to Damascus but would not pay me a courtesy visit? I am shocked.” He flipped open the folder and removed a copy of a message from Interpol. “The facial recognition program got you boarding in Vancouver, despite the disguise. You almost made it, but close doesn’t count.”
“What happens now?”
“Did you notice on the drive in that you passed the Tomb of Saladin? The real Saladin, not your former partner. I really do not want to also have a Tomb of Juba here.”
Juba did not squirm although he knew that al-Shoum would carry out the threat without batting an eye. He was being told to deal or die. “I had few choices. My plan is to go back into Iraq and kill Americans.”
“Now you see, Juba, that, unfortunately, is not my plan at all.” Al-Shoum backed against the desk and leaned there with his arms crossed. “Every country in the world will soon know that you have landed in Damascus, dragging along the stink of what you did in San Francisco. The death toll there, by the way, is now at four thousand five hundred people. Amazing. The Americans want you back badly.”
“So you can make points with Washington by giving me up?” Juba cocked an eyebrow. Al-Shoum was a complex man, adept at playing several games at once.
“That is one option.”
“General, let’s get on with this. What is your preferred option?”
“You are in such a hurry, Jeremy. Well, first of all, we want our ten million dollars back.”
“Done,” said Juba. “Plus another million for you personally, because of the inconvenience I have caused.”
“I don’t know. There is already immense pressure.”
“Two million, then. Bank account of your choice.” Bribery, baksheesh, was the most stable currency in the Middle East.
Al-Shoum went around the desk and took a chair, looking even smaller until he tucked a pillow beneath him. “Can you do that from here?”
“If your people will bring in my laptop, sure.”
“Then there is another point, the matter of the auction itself. I have decided that we won the bidding, so you turn over the formula to me. That is indeed a mighty weapon that was deployed in California. I want it.”
“Wait a moment, General. I give you all of your money back, plus two million more, and the formula for free?”
“That sums it up very well, Jeremy. Either that or you will be killed trying to escape…after we force the information out of you.” The dark eyes were stones now. “We will get that formula. Voluntarily, chemicals, or skinning knives, it is of no matter to me. The best choice is to remain friendly so you can leave this building alive.”
Juba looked down at his hands for a moment, quiet in his soul, even while negotiating for his life. The secret hidden in his body seemed to be pulsing signals to him. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”
“No, not really.” The little general smiled.
Juba feigned reluctance. “I hope that your government will use the information to strike the infidels?”
“What we do is not your concern, my friend.”
“But I get to keep the other money that was put up for the action?”
“And your life, Jeremy. I think that’s fair,” said al-Shoum. “Turn it over and you leave this meeting rich and healthy.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I don’t care. Give it up. Now.”
Juba stared at the general and let his shoulders slump. “You win, General. I think it may be best anyway because the project has become too unworkable for one man. You will see what I mean.”
“How will you get it to us?”
“Right here, right now. It’s all encrypted on my laptop. I will transfer the money and download the formula so your chemists can check it out.”
Now it was al-Shoum’s turn to think hard. This was too simple. Juba was willing to give back the ten million, hand over the formula, and transfer a sizable sum into the general’s personal account. It was not in the man’s character to give up anything without a fight.
“You have something else, don’t you, my friend? Something that prevents me from taking all of the things you offer and then still hanging you from a meat hook in Martyr’s Square? What is it?”
Juba showed a hint of a smile, almost flashing fangs with the anger boiling within him. “Back before the war started in Iraq, Saddam moved many of his special weapons and special ammunition into your country under the supervision of Unit 999. The Americans never found those records, but I know where they are, General al-Shoum, because my boss, the man known as Saladin, helped move them and had me hide the records somewhere in Tikrit-Saddam’s home territory. Even if you tortured me to get the information, you still could not retrieve them because of built-in safeguards. That is my insurance policy. Should I not return safely, those documents will automatically find their way to the Americans. Imagine how happy Washington would be to finally know exactly what happened to those WMDs. You let me leave Syria alive and I will destroy them and send you proof.”
Al-Shoum laughed aloud and slapped the desk. “Excellent! I knew you would not disappoint me. So we have an agreement. The only condition is that you remain here in Damascus as my guest at the Four Seasons Hotel until our chemical experts examine the formula. One day. Then we will help you get back to Iraq to eliminate that WMD data.”
“And kill more Americans.”
“Yes. That, too.”
The computer was brought in for Juba, and he shifted the funds, put the bank material onto a disk, and downloaded File 999, the London poison gas recipe. He slid the computer over to al-Shoum, and the deal was done.