18

THE WHITE HOUSE

“Agent Ryker, thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

The president shook Marcus’s hand, as did Vice President Hernandez. Then Clarke asked Marcus and McDermott to take a seat on the couch across from his armchair.

“I apologize for all the secrecy,” he continued. “You probably haven’t come through that tunnel from Treasury since your days in the Secret Service.”

“It has been a while.”

“And I don’t believe you’ve been upstairs here to the Residence since you brought me word the Saudis were interested in a peace summit in Jerusalem. But like last time, Bill suggested it might not be a good idea for you to be seen by the staff and certainly not by the press.”

“How can I be of service, Mr. President—have you received the BDA yet?” Marcus asked, referring to the bomb damage assessment from Libya.

The VP took that one. “Not yet. The sandstorm is weakening, fortunately, but it’s not over. Until it is, NSA can’t get us any good images of the compound. Nor can we send anyone in on the ground.”

Marcus was disappointed but certainly understood the impossibility of sending helicopters filled with U.S. special forces into such a mess.

“That said, Kairos is the reason I asked you to come over,” the president said, motioning to McDermott, who quickly opened his laptop and pulled up three black-and-white photographs displayed side by side. “Recognize these men?”

“Of course, the Troika,” Marcus replied.

“The what?”

“Sorry, sir—that’s what my team and I have dubbed them. The Troika. They’re all deputy commanders of Kairos, and with Abu Nakba eliminated, we believe these three clowns are now running the circus.”

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Well, the psycho on the left is Tariq Youssef—he’s their head of internal security. The thug in the center, with the glasses, that’s Zaid Farooq—we believe he’s their intelligence czar.”

“And the one on the right with the cigarette dangling from his lips?”

“That’s Badr Hassan al-Ruzami.”

“What do we know about him?”

“Head of operations. Almost certainly chief among equals. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Born in Libya but grew up in the mountains of Kandahar. Joined ISIS but had a falling-out with the leadership after the fall of the Caliphate. Recruited by Abu Nakba about three years ago. Three wives, though the Saudis think at least one was killed in an air strike. A mess of daughters. Three grown sons, all of whom now work for Kairos.”

“Why do you call him ‘chief among equals’?”

“’Cause he’s wicked smart—way smarter than Youssef and Farooq. He’s also a cold-blooded killer. And impossible to find.”

“You don’t think they were all killed Saturday near Ghat?”

“I hope they were, Mr. President. But it’s unlikely that they were all there in the same place with Abu Nakba.”

At this point, the VP weighed in again.

“But, Agent Ryker, you told us most of the senior Kairos leadership was there.”

“Senior commandos, communications specialists, finance experts, logisticians—sure, Mr. Vice President,” Marcus replied. “But the Troika? I’d be surprised if they ever set foot in that compound, much less together.”

When Marcus saw Hernandez glance at the president, then at the national security advisor, he suddenly became suspicious. There was no way that these three didn’t already know everything he’d just told them. So why was he here? Was it a test? Was he in trouble?

Wincing, Clarke reached over to a side table, opened a small pillbox, took out several tablets, and popped them in his mouth, washing them down with a sip of water. Then he turned to Marcus and spoke again.

“Look, Ryker, last night, while you and Bill and Miss Stewart and your buddies were all having a victory party at the Chart House, whooping it up into the wee hours of the morning, the VP and I had a late-night meeting with Crown Prince Abdulaziz bin Faisal Al Saud and his chief of intelligence,” the president explained. “I believe you know the man.”

“Prince Abdullah bin Rashid, head of the General Intelligence Directorate,” Marcus said. “Yes, sir, I know him well.”

“Yes, well, the two brought me some very disturbing photos,” Clarke said, again motioning to McDermott, who began scrolling through more black-and-white images of the three Kairos deputy commanders separately getting in and out of various vehicles and going in and out of various buildings. “It appears that all three members of the Troika, as you call them, arrived in Yemen last week. Some of these photos were taken in Sana’a. Some were taken in Aden. Others were taken in Al Mukalla.”

“All port cities,” Marcus observed.

“Exactly,” Clarke said. “What’s more, the Saudis say better than two dozen Kairos fighters were spotted entering the country as well.”

“So the Saudis know where they all are,” Marcus said, leaning forward. “That’s great. And you asked them to capture or kill them?”

“I wish, but it’s too late,” Clarke replied.

“Why?”

“All of them disappeared in the early hours of Sunday morning.”

“After we bombed the compound.”

“Exactly—and now the Saudis have no idea where they are,” the president said. “But they came to me with this information because they’ve also picked up an increasing amount of chatter that these guys are cooking up a series of major revenge attacks against American citizens and interests, and they’re going to strike soon.”

“Where?”

“They have no idea, but they suspect in various Gulf States and then in Israel.”

The room was silent, but for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner, as Marcus contemplated the seriousness of what Clarke was telling him.

“That’s why I’ve asked you here, Agent Ryker,” the president finally continued. “The crown prince personally asked me to appoint you as head of a new joint operations task force to hunt down and destroy what’s left of Kairos, and do it fast, before they can strike us.”

“That’s very kind, sir,” Marcus replied. “But why—?”

Clarke cut him off.

“There’s nothing kind about it, Ryker. The crown prince knows you’re the guy who tracked down Abu Nakba when so many others have tried and failed over the years. He knows you’re badly wounded and that this has got to be the last thing you’d want to do after all you’ve been through. Carlos here agreed, saying he was pretty sure you were inclined to step down and move on. I had to concur. I told him you would almost certainly be moving on once the BDA was in. But they were insistent, especially His Royal Highness. He said this isn’t over, that America and her allies are still in grave danger, and you can’t stop until Kairos is 100 percent dead and buried.”

Marcus exhaled and leaned back into the couch.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. President.”

“Say yes.”

“But I can’t, sir.”

“Because you’re going to run off with Annie Stewart, get married, have babies, and live happily ever after,” Clarke said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

Marcus had to smile. “Well, that may be a bit premature, sir. As I told you at Camp David when you started ribbing me, Annie and I have only been on one date.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s not what, sir; it’s who.”

“Meaning Annie.”

“No, sir, I’m not worried about Annie,” Marcus replied, not entirely sure that was true—in fact, suddenly quite certain that wasn’t true—but Annie wasn’t the person he had in mind just then.

“Then who is the problem?”

“With respect, sir, it’s Director Stephens.”

“Because he despises every bone in your body, especially now that I’ve overruled him in favor of your recommendation to take action in Libya.”

“For which I’m very grateful, sir, but yes, Stephens is livid.”

“Let me worry about Stephens.”

“But, sir, there’s no way he’s going to let me head up some CIA task force to take down the Troika. That’s just never going to happen.”

“Then forget Langley. This will be an NSC operation,” Clarke replied. “Choose your own team. Your budget will be classified and unlimited. Bill here will set you up in the EEOB. And you’ll report directly to me.”

Marcus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Still, things were moving too fast.

“I’m wondering if I could have twenty-four hours to think about it, sir,” he said.

“Absolutely not, Ryker. I told the crown prince I’d give him an answer before his plane took off back to Riyadh,” Clarke said, glancing at his watch. “So I’d say you’ve got about two minutes.”

Marcus knew that wasn’t true. The crown prince was still scheduled to have dinner at the Capitol with members of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees, including Senator Dayton. Only then would he be flying out. But he accepted the essential point that the commander in chief was anxious to get moving.

“Very well, Mr. President,” Marcus replied. “I’m in.”