The deputy director was back in the Pentagon briefing room. Agent Maples did not come with her today. She wasn’t needed and was still on the west coast anyway; nor did Ernest Carver, bioterrorism expert, attend either. He already did his job.
The president came in the room. All stood, with military personnel in salute. “As you were. Now, let’s get down to business. As I understand it, the threat has been eliminated by being vaporized by a nuclear missile? Air force?”
The Air Force general spoke. “That’s right sir. The threat has been eliminated. The target aircraft has been engaged with a nuclear warhead over a remote section of the White Sands missile range. No civilian casualties. There was some damage to unoccupied ground structures in the immediate area.”
“What’s the condition of the aircraft?”
“There isn’t really much left of it. Crews are on the scene now looking for fragments.”
“What about nuclear fallout?”
“Minimal. Since it was a high altitude detonation, no dust was scattered. There will be some residual gas transport but it will be diffused enough not to be a health issue by the time it reaches inhabited areas.”
“What does the press know about this thing?” The president asked.
The press secretary fielded the question. “Mr. President, so far nothing. There were local reports on Mexican media about the seized compound in Sonora. They stayed local and the media lost interest. No releases have been made regarding the terrorist efforts themselves.”
The president looked around the room. “I want to keep it that way.”
“Why sir?” The deputy director asked.
“Somebody is out there, wearing a damn turban, trying to make a big name for himself, I assure you. Look at the big picture. We won this battle. We got lucky. But they didn’t fail, not entirely. They were able to produce a weapon of mass destruction on our neighbor’s soil, and take that weapon of mass destruction onto our own soil. The best defense I can think of for future such attempts is to minimalize the importance, if not existence, of this attempt. Nothing would be more frustrating to Abu Nidal, or whomever is behind this, for this attempt at terror to have never gotten off the ground in the first place.”
“I see, Mr. President.”
“Well, as I see it, any way you look at it, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
There was a murmur going through the room. The door opened, and an Air Force major dressed in blues entered, accompanied by a colonel. “Ah yes,” the president continued. “Is that him?”
The Air Force colonel spoke. “Mr. President, I am pleased to present Major Abdul Sharif, pilot of the aircraft that brought down the terrorist aircraft.”
“Gentlemen,” the president directed. “Please stand at attention.”
Both the colonel and Major Sharif stood at attention, unsure of that the president had in store. The president walked over to the colonel, and faced him. The colonel saluted. “Colonel, I’m sure you are proud of this young man, are you not?”
“Yes sir. Extremely so, sir.”
“So am I.” The president pivoted to his left, stepped in front of Sharif, and faced him. Sharif saluted him. “Major,” the president began as he dug an object out of his inside suit pocket. “This is the United States Air Force Distinguished Service Medal,” he hung the ribbon, bearing a medal, over Sharif’s head. “It is the highest honor that can be awarded during a time of peace. Personally, I think you deserve more. But we need to have an understanding. Only you, and you alone, save for your commanders and a handful of civilian and military personnel involved, can know why you received this. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes sir, Mr. President.”
“Good. At ease, you are dismissed. And thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, this episode may be over, but the show is not. Let’s learn from this, please, and make sure we address the vulnerabilities that allowed things to progress that far.”
AP News, Phoenix - Residents of Albuquerque, and as far away as Phoenix, were jolted from a bright flash and shock wave originating from the White Sands Missile Range. The Air Force has confirmed that the aerial nuclear test was successful, and successfully demonstrates, once again, the ability of the nation to engage threats of Soviet hostility. When Air Force spokespersons were asked why the test was not announced, they replied with the following: ‘When nuclear tests are conducted, it is our policy not to announce such activities in advance for reasons of national security, as well as public protection. We don’t want onlookers to gather and expose themselves to danger.’ The spoke persons were further asked if the activity had anything to do with rumored terrorist activities involving biological agents. ‘Certainly, there is an element of conspiracy theorists that tend to be attracted to activity of this nature. Area 51 is a prime example. Whether it’s UFO’s, space aliens, nuclear explosions, or evil terrorists; it’s all the same.’
“Did you read this crap?” Rex asked as he threw the paper down on the conference table at Arrow headquarters in Los Angeles. He was seated with Kirsten Maples for the final debriefing prior to her return to Washington.
Simon smiled. “It doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes the decisions that are made upstairs are illogical. But you can’t really judge them unless you were actually there when they are being made.”
“So this officially closes this case.” Kirsten noted. “Thanks, Simon for all of your help.”
“My pleasure, any time.”
“At least my work had become a lot simpler. The director wants to bury this. My report is easy. No report. Well, I guess I’ll be going now.” Kirsten said, as she gathered her briefcase.
Rex sat in his seat fidgeting. “You mind if I uh, walk, uh, Agent Maples down to the garage? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure, no problem.” Rex left with Kirsten.
Simon walked out in to the main room and spoke to Carly. “That was an odd exchange. Kirsten Maples thanked me, but said nothing about Rex Muse.”
“I’m going to guess that she’s already thanked him plenty of times.”
It was a tense few minutes standing in the damp, dark parking garage as the sounds of the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard echoed off the concrete walls. “So...” Rex said.
“I need to go.” Kirsten said.
“What next?” Rex asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about my own future; mainly because of you. I’ve gotten too used to lying next to you in bed. Experiencing passion beyond belief. Then, you go, and reality sets in. I don’t know how we can make it work.”
“You have to live in a secret world. I have to live in a secret world.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know it. You are in a vulnerable position, and the closer you are to me, the more exposure you get. You don’t want that. I don’t need that.”
“Simon thought you would be my mentor.”
“I’m not your mentor. I’m not a field agent. I’m not a spy. I’m an office worker. An administrator. You know that. Welcome to reality. This is how the agency operates mostly. A part of me craves to be in your world, but another part of me enjoys the security of my own.”
“There will be some day when I get past all of this.”
“Yeah, I hope so. And I hope I’m not too old before that day comes.”
Rex sat in the conference room. Simon hung up the phone in his office, came in, and shut the door. “I suppose all kinds of big congratulations are in order,” he said, as he sipped a hot cup of tea. “And you did well, believe me, don’t think I don’t appreciate it, as well as the client and millions of people who will probably never know what could have happened, but... don’t let it get to your head.”
“Okay then, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You were sloppy. You got the job done, but you could have done things better. Cleaner.”
“Better? Cleaner? Like how?”
“You young kids are all the same. You can’t be told otherwise. You have to learn the hard way. Keep your personal life outside of your professional life.”
“You’re talking about Agent Maples, aren’t you?”
“See, it’s already become a problem. You are confused. So is she. That kind of confusion leads to carelessness. Carelessness leads to you being called out for who you actually are. And let’s forget about her for a moment. That trip you took to Korea? You’re leaving a trail. There are people that know you’re alive that shouldn’t. You can’t keep that up.”
“Okay.”
“Now let’s get back to Miss Maples. Right now, she’s got you by the balls. She’s probably the one thing keeping the FBI and the military from finding out who you are. That’s not a good position to be in. You can be sweet and lovey-dovey all you want, but once that goes south, she could be your worst enemy.”
“Is that really what pisses you off, Simon? Really?”
“Perhaps I have a jaded view. But I’m utterly disappointed with what happened to my tac ops.”
“What happened to tac ops? They seemed fine when I left them.”
“Fine? Three of my members spend two weeks in Mexico replacing a passport for a girl. Oh, and it gets better. Do you know how William Lattimore was able to secure a visa to bring the girl in to the United States?”
“I have no idea.”
“He married her.”
Rex busted out with laughter. “Oh jeez! Are you serious?”
“It’s not funny! They are going soft!”
“You’re blaming me for that?”
“Maybe I’m being unreasonable.”
“So, what’s next?”
“We’re in a holding pattern for a few weeks. There is a corporate job in the Philippines. Someone’s extorting a company. There are a few jobs in North Africa, more merc work, but I’m not sure I want to chase them yet. The golden gem is the agency. We need to stay in their good graces.”
“Do I get a little bit of time off?”
“Yeah, but stay close to home. Check in with the safe house at least every couple of days.”
“What’s close to home?”
“Any place within the continental United States that isn’t Washington, and I do mean both the state and the greater DC area.”
“You really don’t want my name to be cleared, do you?”
“I can see why you might think that, but that’s not true. The only problem is, just like getting too close to Maples, you will expose yourself and put yourself in a vulnerable position. The fact that we were able to dig up such a perfect alias as Brian Rexall Muse was a small miracle. It’s the exception and not the rule. I’m not sure we can do that a second time, if we had to.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Welcome to Kabul,” the man in the white scarf headdress said as Nassir Al-Hasan walked into the restaurant facing the lake. They hugged with the ceremonial kiss to the cheek.
“I have not imagined Kabul to be such.” Al-Hasan said. “The weather here is actually quite pleasant. And this lake, it is lovely.”
“Yes, it is the Quarga Reservoir. Originally constructed in 1933. It is the main water supply for the region, and they even have plans to stock it with European fish in a couple of years. Trout.”
“Western fish?” Al-Hasan asked.
The man in the turban laughed. “Fish are fish. We have other issues with Westernization going on here, but that isn’t one of them. Sit, please.”
The two men sat on a rug placed in the middle of a hardwood floor. A servant brought a steaming carafe of water with unroasted coffee beans and two small ceramic cups. The man in the turban poured two cups. Al-Hasan spoke. “I understand tomorrow we will meet Saleem.”
“Yes, that is right. Tomorrow we will meet Saleem. I trust your journey was pleasant, yes?”
“It was challenging, but I was able to make it, by God’s grace.”
“Good, good. Very good.”
“I would imagine that Saleem will have some questions about the mission.”
The man in the turban laughed again, in a rather condescending tone. “What mission? To our knowledge, it never happened!”
“I saw the plane take off. I watched it myself.”
“Then were did it go? It certainly didn’t deliver any package or do any damage. There is no evidence of its existence even.”
“In the American newspaper, they reported an aerial nuclear test that happened exactly when the aircraft would have been in the position where the test happened.”
“You are saying it strayed in to a nuclear test and that’s what happened to it?”
“No,” Al-Hasan said, sipping his coffee. “They shot it down.”
“You do realize that this is arguably the largest operation against American aggression we have financed in our entire history? We purchased a building, some very costly production equipment, technical expertise, not one but two large aircraft, plus we have invested hundreds of thousands of dollars training those pilots to fly those airplanes. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing to show for it! The United State government even denies that there was ever such an attempt. Even if we could have demonstrated the ability to deliver a weapons package on United States soil, that would have been a victory. But we don’t even have that!”
The three hooded figures on the bank of the reservoir sat cross-legged as they heated a small pot of lamb stew. Families could be seen picnicking among the rocky slopes. The two men did their best to hide the large dish of the directional microphone as the woman in the hijab translated for them. Her eyes lit up, and she pulled the headphones off. “Al-Hasan is going to meet Saleem tomorrow!”
The man with the short bushy beard grabbed a piece of flat bread and scooped out a small portion of lamb stew. “I wonder if he’s actually going to show this time,” the man sneered.
“Who is he talking to?” The man with the thin, black goatee asked.
“I don’t know his name, but it sounds like he is one of Saleem’s key persons. Maybe he handles finance? He is not happy with Al-Hasan, and it does not sound like Saleem will be either.”
“Keep listening. Find out where they are going to meet.”
The woman in the hijab replaced her headphones and continued to listen. The thin goatee man lit a cigarette.
“Those things will kill you,” warned the man with the short bushy beard.
“Somehow, I think these are the least of my worry right now,” the man replied coolly.
“I once shot a Viet Cong colonel from nearly a thousand meters in the middle of the night because he was smoking a goddamn cigarette.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when the sun goes down.”
“Shhhhh,” the woman shushed, holding up one finger.
“What?”
“Saleem is coming here, to that hotel tomorrow. Nine o’clock in the morning.”
“What’s the weather like tomorrow?” The man with the bushy beard asked.
“Light overcast, about seventy five degrees,” the other man replied.
“That is Fahrenheit, I hope.”
“Yes.”
“Pleasant. I wonder what the chances are they will meet outside on that wooden balcony.”
“I might be able to make that happen,” the woman volunteered. “I can have someone instruct the servants to set up a table outside.”
“That would be great,” the bushy bearded man said, looking around the area for a sniping location. “I see a place where I can set up. The roof top on that villa over there.”
“I’m estimating four hundred meters; should be a piece of cake for you.”
“Yeah but remember all I got available is that Dragunov. It ain’t no replacement for an M21. But it’s doable. Really, all I think I need now is an extraction plan.”
“We’ll cut Qandi loose. We don’t want to blow her cover. I’ll arrange for a cab.”
“No,” the woman said. “That won’t work. You can’t trust the drivers plus it is not maneuverable enough. I will wait on a motorbike. I will take you to the safe house.”
“You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need me to do?” The man with the thin goatee asked.
“Hang out in the safe house. The less of us out traveling, the better. I think we’re going to have to camp out there for a while until things blow over.”
“Your call, brother.”
“You know what I really wish I had right now, which I can’t get in this whole goddamned country?”
“What’s that?”
“An ice cold Budweiser.”
“You want alcohol?” the woman asked. “Kill Saleem. It will make it easier for all of us to live a little safer, and enjoy a little more fun.”
The motel was within walking distance of Redondo Beach. There was that pier that the seafood stand on it. You could get these big, huge king crab legs and a tub of melted butter to dip them in. And beer. Rex sat at the small table, watching the television in the background, drinking the rest of the six pack of bottled beer. He placed one bottle on the table pointing due north to the state of Washington. Fort Lewis. He placed another bottle pointing to the DC area. Kirsten lived in a little townhouse some place in Alexandria. He knew that much. Then he placed another bottle pointing to Korea. Why? Just to do it. Lost cause.
Five spins, let’s see where the bottle points. He knew where he wanted it to point. And he knew where he didn’t want it to point. He had to drink that one last beer, however, to have a bottle to spin; tough problem to have.
What would it be like to have a little town house? The ancient two story house he grew up in wasn’t that big and the whole family lived in it. The townhouse in Alexandria, from her description, sounded a lot like the layout of his folks’ house, except it was new and it adjoined other townhouses, and even had a wooden fenced back yard, with a dirt alleyway that separated it from the other set of townhomes. That was popular on the east coast. That really wouldn’t happen for him. He was relegated to motels. Renting a room at a house, sharing an apartment, even if the transaction was cash, was out of the question. But, at least he was free. Quit thinking about that. The bottle probably isn’t going to land there anyway.
What would it be like to live in Korea? The place gets cold. Then he’d probably have to learn a new language. Maybe not. Lots of people there speak English, but probably only in the major cities and near the GI bases. Besides, that would be awkward. So-Young sleeping on his right side, and Gyeong sleeping on his left. No, that’s a bad scene no matter how you break it down. The bottle probably isn’t going to land there anyway.
Simon was right. It almost didn’t matter if he cleared his name or not, he was pretty much committed to living out the remainder of his life as Rex Muse. Let’s say he was successful. Could he return to battalion? Not at this point. More importantly, did he even want to return to battalion? Hell no. The beret looks good, plus you get to play with cool toys, but frankly it’s a life of bullshit. And part of that bullshit is what got him in this mess to start with. That only leaves one option. Get some kind of civilian desk job or work at a factory or a warehouse or something like that. Maybe become a cop. Fuck that.
The truth of the matter is that as the more he got in to it, the more he realized that this life was his identity. Then, why on earth would he want to follow the lead of the bottle, should it end up pointing due north to Fort Lewis... if it ended up there?
The answer was simple; to fix an injustice, even if it wasn’t his own. Captain Tyrell Lewis was a good man. And Rex had a hunch about who was responsible. No, a hunch means there is a lot of uncertainty. There is a little bit of uncertainty, but not a lot. Mueller and Starr. They were a couple of rotten apples. And they were tight as a hamster’s ass with First Sergeant Wilson. Rex took that last swig of beer, placed the bottle sideways on the table facing north, took a piss and went to bed.
The banner was a great idea. A hooded figure pointing a sniper rifle from a rooftop stands out like an erection in the shower room. He could hide behind it the small opening between the two poles, and he had a clear shot. The problem was, would Saleem take the bait? He was pretty careful. He’d never actually seen him in person, just some grainy images, and unfortunately all these bearded terrorist leaders tend to look the same. He’d just have to figure out on his own who is who. It’s not like everyone in the party isn’t rotten, but he’s got maybe two shots at the most before they scatter for cover and one of them had better reach Saleem.
There was a little bit of wind, but it was consistent. He’d feel more comfortable with his M21 rather than this locally procured Dragunov, but it’s still capable of achieving one shot kills at this range. He spent some time dialing it in out in the desert. It will do. It will have to.
Damn, there were a lot of cars. SUVs. It was Saleem’s damn security detail. There was nothing to do now but wait and see. A part of him wished that he had formulated a contingency plan. A claymore mounted on the wall would have been a nice touch. A cruise missile to vaporize that hotel would be nice, but the political climate can’t quite justify the action. That might well change at some point, but it isn’t an option now.
He put away his spotter scope and positioned the Dragunov as the figures walked out on the deck. They liked their smokes. There was that one man, the center of attention, wearing the red head dress, talking with people, hugging them, kissing them on the cheek surrounded by turban clad men armed to the hilt underneath their robes.
And that wasn’t him. No. That was a patsy. He saw the side conversation. The side conversation with Al-Hasan, and the man Al-Hasan was speaking with. They were speaking with a little man. A small man. People had reported that Saleem was short. He was nondescript, he appeared to be the least important person in the whole crowd. Yet, he was having a heated conversation with Al-Hasan. Al-Hasan was sweating profusely, even though the morning was cool and pleasant.
That was Saleem.
The one was obvious. The second was not. If you had to pick two, which two? It would be Saleem and somebody. The flamboyant man was there to draw attention, and potentially fire. He was probably unimportant. Al-Hasan probably wouldn’t see the light of the next day, regardless of what happened. The man he was talking to yesterday was the most logical choice, and he was right there.
Four shots rang out almost simultaneously, as Saleem’s head exploded out the backside, spattering blood, brain and bone fragments on the wall behind him. The second shot entered his torso. The third and the forth went in to the other man, the man that was talking to Al-Hasan, hitting him in the chest cavity. He fired the remainder of the magazine into Saleem’s security party.
He threw down the Dragunov, hopped off the backside of the building’s roof as fire was already being returned, and leapt on to the back of the motorbike driven by Qandi. There was no chase. There shouldn’t be. If there were, then planning would have been piss poor. By the time they circled the reservoir on side streets to the west, they hit Kabul-Paghman road which led directly back into central Kabul, and then they were home free.
The bearded man followed Qandi up a series of stairs through various locked doors. The apartment complex was like a maze; hard to navigate into, but easy to get out of, with numerous exit options. Finally, they reached the small flat, and the man bolted and barred the door from the inside.
“I’d ask you how it went,” said the man with the thin goatee “but it’s already hit the news. Saleem is dead. The place is crawling with Afghani police and military.”
“Piece of cake.”
“There have already been opposition factions claiming responsibility. That’s sweet. We might be able to hit the airport by tomorrow and get the hell out of here.”
The thick bearded man looked over at Qandi. She was preparing an evening meal for the men, before returning to her own home. “You know. I might just hang out here.”
“For god’s sakes why?”
“Guess I’m getting a little too used to lamb stew.”
“Now how’s that going to work? You can exist here for a short period of time, but not a long period.”
“Bah, maybe you’re right.”
“I need to go now. I will see you in the morning. Do you need me to bring anything, besides food?” Qandi asked.
“No, I think we’re good,” The thick bearded man said. “Hey can I talk to you outside, alone for a minute?”
“Of course.” Qandi led the man through a locked door leading to an exit.
“Listen. My partner plans on leaving tomorrow for the States. Let me just throw this out at you. Let’s say I wanted to stay. How would that work?”
“You’re a walking target. You don’t read or speak Dari, at least not well enough to get by. You can’t even walk in public without hiding your face. Why would you even want to stay?”
“Never mind. Forget it.”
“You were sent here on a mission. You completed it. Go back to your family.”
“I have no family. And I know you don’t either. I know what happened to them, and why you are doing what you are doing. But maybe your mission is over too.”
“If you have any great ideas on where I can go, I am open to them.”
“This is craziness, this is a really bad idea,” the man with the thin goatee said. “She isn’t even passable as an Indian.”
“Not Indian. Pakistani.” The thick bearded man said. “Damn close to Afghani. Don’t worry, it’s going to work.”
“We might make it as far as Frankfurt, but there’s no way in hell they’ll let her in the States with those creds.”
“Relax. We aren’t flying commercial from Frankfurt. We’re hopping a MAC flight. Remember?”
The three sat together in one row of the Bakhtar Airlines’ single 727 passenger jet. The man with the thick beard whispered in Qandi’s ear. “Once we land in Frankfurt, you’re going to have to ditch that hijab, okay?”
“Am I going to have to pretend to be your wife once we get to the United States as well?”
Think about that question. Carefully. “No,” the man said with a smile. She clenched his hand and rested her head on his shoulder.