Against All Enemies (18 page)

“I was not,” he protested. Then it came to him. Agent Antonia Moreno was the runner he had seen at McClellan who had almost caused an accident. “Damn,” he muttered. His subconscious had been busily at work and Blasedale was right.

Blasedale patted him on the shoulder. “You can’t help it. Besides, she’s too young for you.”

Sutherland blushed and scanned the file’s computer-generated index. He needed to change the subject. “Number sixty-eight,” he said, pulling a box out. Inside were the tapes of the phone calls the FBI had monitored on Friday, 23 April, the day Jefferson had spoken to Osmana Khalid, the Egyptian cleric who had later escaped. “Look at this. They’ve got half of Warrensburg wired for sound.”

“Your Agent Moreno is going to be one busy young lady,” Blasedale said. She studied the labels on the tapes. “These are copies.”

“Do you think they’ve been edited?”

“We’ll never know,” she replied.

Late that same evening, Sutherland threw down his pen and kicked back from his desk. He glanced at his watch: it was almost ten o’clock. Something was itching at the back of his mind and demanded scratching. Twice, in civilian practice, he had experienced the same vague feelings of unease. Fortunately, he had followed his instincts both times and avoided making a serious mistake.
So what’s wrong this time?
Frustrated, he paced the floor. Finally, he gave up and snapped his briefcase closed. It was time to call it quits for the day. Maybe a good night’s sleep would help.

The light in the witness waiting room was still on and he stopped at the door to look inside. Toni was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by open boxes, computer printouts, and three yellow legal tablets. He sucked in his breath. She was wearing a pair of running shorts and a sleeveless sweatshirt. Her shoes were on the floor beside her. “Your hair,” he blurted out. The mane of hair that had cascaded to her shoulders had been shorn into a short, almost mannish bob.

She looked up at him. “The humidity,” she said. “It’s cooler.” She turned back to the file she was reading. “That asshole at the roadblock pulled me out of the car by my hair. Harry always said I should cut it. Now I know why.”

“What will your husband say?”

“I’m not married. But I’ll take some heat from my family.”

“Why? It looks good.”

She frowned. “They’re very traditional.”

He changed the subject. “I appreciate your doing this. I know it’s scut work. But you don’t have to work this late.”

“I haven’t got anything else to do. Besides, who knows what will turn up?” She smiled at him. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

He smiled back and shook his head, at a total loss for words. An inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Blasedale warned him it wasn’t a good idea to be alone with Toni so late at night. “Good night,” he said, beating a hasty retreat out the door. A far more basic feeling had replaced the itch that had been bothering him.

“She’s very attractive,” Blasedale said. She was waiting in the outside corridor.

Who is she, my den mother?
Sutherland thought.
How long has she been out here?
“Maybe we had better set some dress standards.”

“Why? The twenty-first century is just around the corner and a woman can wear whatever she wants.” Then she relented. “Men. You’re all the same. I’ll take care of it.”

6:10
A.M.
, Tuesday, June 1,
El Obeid, The Sudan

June is not a good time to travel in the Sudan and Capt. al Gimlas timed his departure from the airport for the early morning. It was a good decision for the air was still calm and the temperature in the low nineties. But the heat, and the wind, held the promise of an upward spike that would match the sun’s climb into the sky. His driver drove up to Jamil bin Assam’s C-130 that had arrived minutes before and stopped near the nose of the aircraft. The four men who would accompany al Gimlas on the flight got out first and surrounded the American pilot and Palestinian copilot who were waiting by the crew entrance door. The copilot spoke in Arabic when al Gimlas approached. “General Assam did not mention your staff coming with you on this inspection.”

Al Gimlas stared down at the swarthy man with the big mustache. Al Gimlas was a cautious man and seriously doubted that Assam really wanted him to inspect the security of his research facility in the Western Sudan. It was much more likely that Assam wanted to separate al Gimlas from the American prisoners. But he could not ignore the order of a general, even one like Assam. To avoid an “unfortunate accident” on the inspection, al Gimlas was traveling with four bodyguards posing as his staff. It was a typical Middle Eastern arrangement of move versus countermove. Al Gimlas turned to the American pilot of the C-130. “Surely you have room.” He took care to speak English with a proper British accent.

“Mr. Assam is very particular about who flies on his airplane,” the American said. He was a very cautious man and did not want Assam to question his loyalty. The money was too sweet. “I’m not sure we have room.”

The flight engineer responsible for maintaining the big airplane climbed down the crew steps. He was a scrawny expatriate Englishman who, like the pilot, flew Assam’s C-130 because of the money. He gave a little snort. “Bloody ’ell, mate. Of course, we got the room.” He gave the pilot a verbal nudge. “Surely, his ’oliness doesn’t expect the captain to do an inspection all by ’imself? Load the blokes and let’s get on with it before it gets any more bleedin’ ’ot.”

The American pilot hesitated. “These are my experts,” al Gimlas said, motioning at the lieutenant and three NCOs he wanted to accompany him on the trip. The pilot relented and told al Gimlas and his escort to climb on board. Al Gimlas climbed up the steps and stepped onto the cargo deck. He froze. Forty women were sitting on the floor at the rear of the aircraft. They were all handcuffed and chained together in four lines of ten each.

“Workers,” the Palestinian copilot explained. “It must be an emergency for Assam to allow them to fly in his plane.”

Al Gimlas walked back, seriously doubting they were workers of any sort. He spoke to them in Arabic. Nothing.

“They’re Dinka,” the copilot said, spitting the word out.

Al Gimlas spoke to them in Dinka, the Nilotic language of the Sudd that he had picked up during his tour of duty in the south. At first, the women only stared at him. Then they erupted in a chorus of pain, pleading for water. “They’re thirsty,” he told the copilot.

“They’re vermin,” the copilot snarled as he climbed onto the flight deck.

Al Gimlas spoke to his NCOs and they handed their canteens to the suffering women. But it wasn’t enough and when the canteens were dry, al Gimlas handed them to the loadmaster for refilling. He pointed at two big water jugs strapped to a bulkhead. The loadmaster protested, claiming the water was for passengers and crew, not the women. Al Gimlas touched his pistol as his men unlimbered their AK-47s. The loadmaster readily agreed they had water to spare and rushed to refill the canteens before the aircraft took off.

Jamil bin Assam wore a white lab coat as he strutted around the laboratories. He spoke with an easy familiarity about the various functions of the equipment. “I have spent hundreds of millions in Deutsch marks to build this research facility. We have come too far, accomplished too much, to let the Americans destroy it.”

“Very impressive,” al Gimlas allowed.

“Because of the importance of what I am doing here,” Assam continued, “we must all share in its protection.”

“Why is it so important?” al Gimlas asked.

“This is the weapon for our jihad,” Assam replied.

“Chemical weapons,” al Gimlas muttered. “Weapons of mass destruction.”

Assam gave out a little snort, low-pitched and harsh. “It is not chemical. Come, you need to see a demonstration.” He led al Gimlas into a corridor and up to a plate glass window that looked into a sterile room. Inside, a Dinka woman lay naked on a white plastic table in a pool of blood, vomit, and mucus. Assam checked a chart. “She was infected eighteen hours ago with a strain of Ebola virus. As you can see, she is near death.” Two technicians in full protective suits and respirators came through an airlock dragging a naked woman. Al Gimlas recognized her from the airplane.

“Why women?” al Gimlas asked. “If you must use humans, why not condemned criminals?”

Assam snorted. “Dinkas are not human. Besides, Dinka women seem to last a few hours longer, a phenomena we are researching.” He spoke with a clinical dispassion as the technicians took blood and serum samples from the prostrate woman and the other woman cowered in a corner. “Until recently, the virus could live only in a human host and be transmitted through physical contact. It was its own worst enemy for it burned very fast and died when its host died.” He looked at al Gimlas and smiled. “The woman on the table was never exposed to a human host carrying the virus.”

“What was she exposed to?”

“A spray carrying the virus,” Assam answered. “We have captured the virus in a long-lasting aerosol culture that can be spread through the air. Now we must discover if it can be transmitted by breathing air exhaled from a victim.” He tapped on the window and the two technicians dragged the healthy woman out. “We shall see.”

“Why did you show this to me?” al Gimlas asked.

“I am told the American pilots trust you.”

“I merely ensure the Geneva Conventions are followed,” al Gimlas replied.

A look of disgust crossed Assam’s face. “The Conventions are Western rules that do not apply to us. We are going to try the pilots in front of the world. We want full confessions but obviously they must not appear tortured or drugged. That is why we want you to extract their confessions.”

“Why must you put them on trial?”

“So the faithful will willingly join in our jihad against the Americans.”

“Using this as a weapon,” al Gimlas added.

Assam smiled. “It will appear to be an act of God.”

“What if I cannot get them to confess?”

Assam gazed into the chamber. “Ah, I see she has died. We need to discover how long humans, and not Dinka vermin, can survive.” Without looking away, he said, “I am told you have a lovely family.”

9:00
A.M.
, Tuesday, June 1,
Langley, Va.

The special assistant for internal affairs to the director of central intelligence met Durant at the underground parking lot entrance of the CIA’s main building. As befitted her title, she was impressively, and expensively, dressed in a clean-cut business suit. Ordinarily, a nondescript, shabbily dressed, totally unknown individual like Durant would have been pawned off on a low-ranking subordinate and quickly shuffled through the standard dog-and-pony show reserved for politicians. But anyone cleared by the President had to be treated with kid gloves.

“We’ll have to take your palm print for verification,” she told Durant.

“That won’t be necessary,” Durant said. What he didn’t tell her was that the CIA, or for that matter, no government agency, had the means to verify his identity.

The assistant hadn’t cracked the CIA’s glass ceiling by being stupid, and she only nodded in response. “Pardon me for a moment.” She stepped into an office and called the DCI’s office to rearrange Durant’s schedule. Four minutes later, she escorted Durant into the DCI’s inner sanctum. The two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. That was all the verification she was going to get.

“What happened with Kamigami?” Durant asked.

The DCI leaned back in his chair and touched his fingertips together making a steeple. “I don’t know the details,” he said, looking at his special assistant.

She cleared her throat. “We have a long-standing request from the Department of Defense to apprehend Victor Kamigami as a deserter and mercenary. Unfortunately, the Far East division chief was never told of Kamigami’s changed circumstances.” She smiled as if that explained it away as a bureaucratic blunder. In reality, the division chiefs buried deep in the bowels of the CIA ran their respective areas of responsibility like feudal chieftains, jealous of their prerogatives and protective of their turf.

“I sent a man to make sure that didn’t happen,” Durant said.

“There must have been a misunderstanding,” the assistant said, her voice soft and soothing.

“There was no misunderstanding,” Durant said. “Your boys got roughed up and got their feelings hurt. They wanted to even the score. Now I’ve got to pick up the pieces.”

“Unfortunately,” the assistant said, “Mr. Kamigami has been identified as a fugitive wanted for desertion to all concerned government agencies and Interpol. It would be very hard, not to mention suspicious, to change that now.”

“I am sorry,” the DCI said, not feeling sorry at all. “But surely, no one man is that important to your plan.”

“In this case,” Durant replied, “he is. My people were able to make contact after he escaped, and I’ve arranged for him to enter the Sudan. Now I need a conduit to pass information to him.”

The DCI and his assistant exchanged glances. This was the first they had heard of Kamigami being in the Sudan. “I, ah, think we can provide that assistance,” the DCI said. He looked at his assistant. “See what resources the North African Desk can make available to Mr. Durant.” The meeting was over.

“Certainly, sir,” she replied. “Mr. Durant, this way please.” She led Durant out a side door and into the inner passages of the CIA.

The DCI thought for a moment before calling the North African division on the secure line. “A Mr. Durant is on his way down to see you. I want to do a lobotomy on that bastard.” He explained how to make it happen. The man on the other end understood perfectly. Regardless of what the President wanted, Durant had no business messing in CIA business and needed to be taught a very clear lesson.

9:25
A.M.
, Tuesday, June 1,
Warrensburg, Mo.

Sutherland was driving the speed limit on DD, the narrow two-lane county road leading from the air base to Warrensburg when a car traveling approximately eighty miles an hour whipped past going in the opposite direction. Another car overtook him and flashed by, never slowing to check for oncoming traffic. “Suicide alley,” Sutherland muttered under his breath, wondering how many people were killed each year driving the narrow road.

He slowed as he pulled into the outskirts of Warrensburg and stopped at an intersection to let children on a school outing cross. The kids saw him and scurried across the street. A little girl he gauged to be about ten years old smiled and waved at him.
What a nice place to raise kids
, he thought.
Now where the hell is it?
He fumbled with the directions to the mechanic who said he could fix the Volvo’s air conditioner. He tried to figure out where he was but gave up. He was a directionally impaired idiot who got lost the moment he turned a corner. Even a town the size of Warrensburg with about 16,000 people was a challenge beyond him.

But the Volvo’s air conditioner had been out for two weeks and the humidity was killing him. He was determined to get it fixed even if he had to have the car towed to the mechanic. He made a right turn and headed toward what he thought was the main part of town. No luck. He made another turn, this time to the left. He drove slowly, checking the addresses. Someone had told him that addresses increased as you moved away from the center part of town. A line of cars brought him to a complete halt.
If that don’t beat all, a traffic jam in Warrensburg
. The cars moved and he drove past the obstruction. They were all turning into the parking lot of the Warrensburg Medical Center. It was a large, modern, prosperous looking medical complex and, judging by the full parking lot, a very successful one.

Sutherland was not a proud man when it came to navigation and pulled over to ask directions. He picked his target when he saw a woman wearing an Air Force uniform pushing a small child in a wheelchair. It was Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw. “Colonel,” he called, “gotta moment?” He explained his predicament and she quickly sorted him out. “I didn’t know you had a son,” he said.

“Mikey,” she said, making the introductions, “I’d like you to meet Captain Sutherland.” The little boy gave Sutherland a lopsided smile and extended his right hand. “Mikey has spina bifida,” McGraw explained, “and can’t walk.”

“Glad to meet you, Mikey,” Sutherland said, gently shaking the boy’s hand.

“Are you a pilot?” Mikey said. “I’d like to be a pilot.”

“Naw, I can’t pass the physical so I’m a lawyer.”

“What do lawyers do?”

“Mostly talk and read,” Sutherland replied.

“Well, Mikey talks up a storm,” McGraw said.

“And I read pretty good,” Mikey added.

“You sure do,” McGraw said. Her eyes started to tear up.

Sutherland knew little about spina bifida; something about a birth defect that leaves the spinal cord exposed and paralyzes the child from that point down. Now he was looking at the reality of it and the small human tragedy in front of him tore at his heart. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” McGraw answered, “we’re fine. In fact, we’re used to making it on our own, aren’t we, Mikey?”

“You bet,” the boy chirped.

10:50
A.M.
, Tuesday, June 1,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

The guard at Mitchell Gate would not allow the taxi returning Sutherland from Warrensburg to drive on base. The driver muttered something about insurance when Sutherland paid him off. “That’s it,” Sutherland muttered to himself as he made the half-mile trudge to the headquarters building. He was going to start running and get back in shape. Not only would his uniforms fit better, but it might help him cope with the heat and humidity. The decision made, he strode purposefully into the building and made a dash for the nearest drinking fountain.

Linda, the legal office’s civilian secretary, handed him a stack of memos when he came through the door. “Colonel Blasedale needs to see you,” she told him.

Sutherland nodded absentmindedly. “Linda, what do you know about spina bifida?”

“I’ve baby-sat for Colonel McGraw,” Linda answered. “You should talk to her. Her son has it.”

“I know. I met him today at the medical center in Warrensburg.”

“I don’t know how she does it,” Linda said. “Her husband couldn’t cope and left years ago. She’s raised Mikey alone.”

“Doesn’t the Air Force pick up the medical expenses?”

“Thankfully, yes, but that’s only part of it.”

“How old is Mikey?”

“He’s fourteen and only weighs seventy pounds. The doctors say children with spina bifida seldom live that long.” Linda beamed at him. “She’s done a wonderful job.”

“She certainly has,” Sutherland said, thinking of Beth and her self-centered existence.
How would I cope? Would I cut and run like her husband?
Sutherland was brutally honest with himself and admitted he didn’t know.

He wandered down the hall into the military justice section and past Blasedale’s office. “Hank,” she called. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The Sudanese announced they are putting the two B-Two pilots on trial.”

“Lovely,” Sutherland said. “Absolutely fuckin’ lovely.”

11:20
A.M.
, Tuesday, June 1,
Kansas City, Mo.

Toni jammed the Kansas City Chiefs’ baseball hat over her hair before she turned onto the Jeffersons’ street. It was a well-kept, upscale neighborhood on the southern side of Kansas City with houses in the two-hundred-thousand-dollar range. She drove slowly past the Jeffersons’ home and turned onto a side street to park. Then she picked up a clipboard with survey forms about lawn and tree-care products and started to canvas the neighborhood.

She was careful to work the intersection far enough down the street to be unobserved, but able to watch any movement out of the Jeffersons’ house. She put on her bounciest persona and soon had four forms completed, three by bored housewives who welcomed any break in their Tuesday morning routine that might result in free tree care, and one by a young writer who worked at home and had lecherous inclinations about young ladies in tight jeans. Her cover now firmly in place, she added the forms to the stack of fakes she had filled out and went back to the car to supposedly “tabulate” the results. She didn’t have to wait long.

Sandi Jefferson flashed by in her bright yellow Miata convertible, her auburn hair blowing in the wind. Toni dropped the clipboard and pulled out after her, careful to stay well back. “Okay, where are you going?” she murmured to herself. She followed Sandi through the turn onto 95th Street. “Oak Park Mall,” she muttered. The traffic piled up and she lost sight of the Miata a block short of the mall. “Damn!”

Going purely by instinct, she pulled into the parking lot and did a quick change of clothes, shedding her tight jeans for baggy safari walking shorts. She pulled a matching shirt over her tee-shirt, changed her shoes, and gave her hair a quick brush, fluffing it out. A touch of lipstick and she was ready. “Now where did you go?” She walked into the mall and smiled. A Nordstrom department store loomed large, beckoning anyone with healthy credit cards to enter. Toni took the escalator to the third floor and stepped off in time to see Sandi join the short line into the restaurant.

Toni wandered around until Sandi had disappeared inside. She waited for two more minutes and joined the line. “Please excuse me,” she said, “I’m meeting some friends and I think they’re already inside.” She repeated it as she worked her way to the front of the line. A shy smile at the hostess and she was in. She strolled through the restaurant and headed for the ladies’ room. Sandi was sitting at a table with another woman engaged in a very serious conversation.

The contrast between the two women was striking. Sandi was reformed stripper and the other cool elegance.
East coast establishment
, Toni thought, carefully noting the other woman. Her smooth complexion matched her perfect features and exquisite figure. Her dark blond hair was cut in the latest style and carefully arranged. Her clothes shouted Paris or London, and Toni estimated the flashing diamond engagement ring on her left hand at four carats. But her shoes were the real giveaway: handmade Italian.
We are moving up in the world
. Toni went into the rest room and lingered for a few minutes. When she came out, the table was vacant.

“Miss Moreno,” a man’s voice called. All of Toni’s alarms were in overdrive as she turned. The writer with lecherous inclinations who lived down the street from the Jeffersons smiled at her. “Please join me,” he said. Toni sat down. Without a word he handed her his identification: FBI special agent Brent Mather. “We have the Jefferson woman under twenty-four-hour surveillance”—then he added the clincher—“Agent Moreno.”

Toni tried to be cool. “So you made me.”

“Your license plate. It did take longer than usual. Actually, you’re quite good.”

“Why the come-on when I was doing the survey?”

“Solicitors, salesmen, you name it, panic a suspect. I wanted to scare you away. Normally, it works wonders.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you had her under surveillance?”

“All the Air Force had to do was ask. We’ve got orders to cooperate fully.”

“Really?” Toni said, her voice laced with disbelief. The FBI was the most territorial of government agencies and notorious for their high-handed, egoistical ways.

“To say we’re getting high-level direction in this case would be an understatement.”

“Did you make the woman she met here?”

Brent Mather shook his head. “Missed her. I was still concentrating on you. I really got suspicious when you did the quick change in your car.” It was a typical crosswired snafu between competing agencies. “Give me her description.” Toni did as he made notes. “She’s new. We’ll check her out.” Toni gave him her best smile. “Maybe, ah, I was thinking,” Mather stammered, “maybe we could go to dinner.” Mather was blushing. “Sometime?”