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.