7
TOOMEY LED POWELL UP a dark staircase and knocked on the door. A moment later, it drew back and he entered a large private dining room, opulently furnished with cushions and drapes, dim lights and filigreed, openwork panels filtering the night air. No one was dining, however. The table held an ornate tea service—from the scent he knew it was chai green tea brewed with ginger and walnuts—as well as a bowl of fruit and dishes of sweets. A ruddy-faced, heavyset old man in a pink dress shirt and khakis sat at the head, ignoring the tea and treats and holding a glass of rosewater and lemonade over ice. He wore a wedding band, a Rolex, and an excellent toupee, and the blazer draped over the back of his chair had an American flag lapel pin. He looked familiar. He could have been a senator, except that then Powell would have recognized him.
To his left sat a tougher, harder-looking man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a seamed, tanned face. He wore an expensive white silk shirt and expensive navy silk trousers and a gold Russian cross around his neck. Russian then. There was an unlit Cuban cigar and a gold lighter on the table before him, next to his tea. Across from him, on the American’s right, sat a younger, heavily muscled man, his hair grown out but still neat, in a camouflage T-shirt and jeans, with a USMC tattoo and an open laptop on the table. An ex-Marine, working no doubt for the senatorial American.
The fourth person in the room was a mystery. For one thing she was female. Also younger than the others, probably in her twenties, though she could have passed for a teenager, still with a layer of baby fat, her chubby cheeks dotted with pimples. She had a striking look, reddish auburn hair expensively chopped into a decidedly unmilitary, artful mess, very fair skin that could not have seen much Afghan sun, and striking green eyes. She wore a thin vintage Grateful Dead T-shirt cut high to reveal a few inches of soft belly, torn jeans, and a black biker jacket. Was she the Russian’s mistress? No. Not flashy enough—she wore a black leather choker and an Apple watch but no gold or makeup, expensive high-top designer sneakers but no heels, and why would he have her here anyway? She was young enough to be the American’s daughter, but first of all, Powell didn’t sense she was American, at least not all-American like the older man, and she was languidly sprawled on some cushions smoking a chillum, tobacco mixed with hash, and sipping Sharbat-E-Rayhan, a cold drink made with basil seeds, staring at them all with a look of total impudence and indifference, as if they had mildly disturbed her private party—hardly the type for take-your-daughter-to-work-day. Plus she was armed; from the way she sat, and the way her jacket draped, it was clear to Powell that there was a handgun strapped beneath it. But all that was beside the point: the sharp, cold look in her eyes made it clear she was not here on anyone else’s arm. She was no pet. She was a predator.
The other mystery was who was not here. No Afghanis. No Arabs or Middle Easterners of any sort. No one who could plausibly be Zahir.
“Gentlemen,” Toomey said to the table, pointedly ignoring the woman, who blew steamed smoke into the air. “Let me introduce you to Mike Powell, CIA.”
All three men turned to him. The older American stood. “Mike, I’m Bob Richards, CEO of Wildwater. Thanks for coming out.” He reached across the table and gave Powell a CEO-quality handshake. Of course: Bob Richards was ex-NSA, from before Powell’s time, and now headed up a company of military contractors, operating worldwide, handling everything from logistics, supplies, and construction, to training and security, to, some said, mercenary warfare and covert ops with which official agencies didn’t want to be connected. “This is Jensen, my assistant,” he added.
“It’s an honor, sir,” Powell said, then turned to Jensen who rose, shook, and sat back down, hands on the keyboard.
“And this is Nick,” Richards said, settling back in his chair.
The Russian smiled but did not stir or shake. “I prefer Nikolai. But first names only for now, I’m afraid,” he said in fluent but accented English. “You understand.”
Powell smiled back. “SVR?” he asked, guessing he was with the Russian Intelligence Service, the successor to the KGB.
“I am here unofficially like you. To advise and observe.” He shrugged. “So not even really here at all.”
“Have a seat, Mike,” Toomey said, pulling a chair out and taking one himself. “Let’s talk.” He turned to the others. “Mike has already been pretty helpful, confirming the ID on Brody.”
Now Jensen spoke, looking up from his screen. “You say he was ex-Special Forces, but I can’t find a record. Not even high security.”
Powell nodded, realizing now that of course they’d been listening to him and Toomey downstairs. “There is none. His records have been erased. Make of that what you will.”
“Black ops,” Jensen said.
“Pitch black. That’s all I know.”
“And now he’s gone rogue, you say? Doing hits and pulling jobs for a Mafia family?”
Powell shrugged. What did rogue even mean, in his present company? “He grew up with Gio Caprisi. But maybe, before I say more, you should tell me why I’m here.”
“You’re here because there’s a war going on, Mike. Same as us,” Toomey said, but Richards waved him down.
“What Rick means is, some of our likeminded colleagues in the company thought you were our kind of people, and that you’d fit in.”
“War is expensive, Mike. You know that. Everyone does. But what the public doesn’t realize is that it doesn’t just cost money and lives, it takes time. And it takes will. Iron will. Politicians haven’t got the stomach for that; they’re too worried about reelection. They’re cowards by nature. And the public doesn’t have the patience. They want, as they said back in Vietnam, to declare victory and go home. Have a parade and be done with it. Go back to sleep.” He shrugged. “So a group of us, people in the military and intelligence communities, professionals like yourself, along with some members of the present administration, decided to step in and sort of . . . guide things along. Make sure the will didn’t weaken, as we see this thing through to victory.”
“Whatever that takes,” Toomey added.
“You mean Al-Qaeda? ISIS? The war on terror?”
“We mean the war for the future of the world,” Toomey told him.
Richards spoke again, leaning back in his chair. “Like Rick said, we are, as you know, embroiled in a conflict. The war on terror, of course, but that’s just part of it. It’s a clash of civilizations, of value systems, east versus west, freedom versus slavery.”
“Christian versus Islam,” the Russian, Nikolai, said. “For us too. We even fought right here, in this same place.”
“It’s been going on since 9/11,” Richards said. “Longer really.”
Toomey laughed. “Try a thousand years.”
“And it won’t be settled in my lifetime either,” Richards said, with a wave of his hand.
“And Zahir?” Powell asked, taking this all in.
“A useful fiction,” Richards said. “A way to stir the pot. Or stoke the fire, you could say. When will falters, and interest flags, we use Zahir to keep the voters—or should I say viewers—focused back home, which keeps the politicians on point, which keeps the right parties on the ground here off balance or in need of our help.”
Powell nodded. “And all of which keeps the arms and money flowing.”
Richards smiled. “Like I said, war is expensive. And victory takes men who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, and to apply pressure when necessary. Men like us. And you.”
Toomey leaned over and squeezed Powell’s arm. “Men with a will of iron.”
All eyes were on Powell, gauging his reaction, but Jensen broke in, addressing Richards.
“Sorry sir, but we’ve had a break-in at the Kandahar office.” He turned to Powell. “It looks like your pal Brody and the Russian girl are sticking their noses in. Almost got them blown off too.”
Toomey stood to see the screen and, for the first time, Nikolai seemed concerned. Richards explained to Powell while Jensen spoke into his earpiece. “We have the office booby-trapped. They won’t find anything.” He turned to Toomey: “But what about the latest shipment?”
“It’s already en route,” he said. “I handled it personally. Nothing can stop it now.”
“Good,” Richards nodded. “Then all they’ve done is destroy our evidence for us.”
Jensen reported: “Our security team is on the way to intercept them now. And I scrambled the chopper.”
“Let’s go,” Toomey said. Nikolai stood too and prepared to move.
“Care to observe from the air?” Richards said. “Might be your last look at Joe Brody.”
“I’ll pass sir,” Powell said. He’d been given a lot to think about, and although he knew he was already involved, even by listening, he was hesitant to commit to action. And, happy as he would be to see Joe’s head on a stick, he also knew that operations involving Joe Brody tended to get out of hand. “It’s been a long day, and I’m just getting my bearings.”
“We’ll talk later then,” Richards said and left in a hurry, flanked by the other men. Suddenly Powell found himself alone with the young woman who was now staring right him with an odd smile and blowing fragrant smoke like a Cheshire cat.