Aim and Fire (11 page)

“Of course not! But what I don’t want to see is corporate boards of directors profiting from going in and toppling those governments, either, and then double-dipping by providing security to the personnel of the private companies awarded the ‘no-bid’ contracts to rebuild these places. After all, look at the Middle East, where contracts were just handed out to anyone who knew the right people.”

It was an old argument between them, and Tracy knew her comment hit Paul where it hurt—his company had landed several lucrative reconstruction projects, all fairly bid for—through their connections on Capitol Hill. However, the no-bid scandal had tarred all of the PSCs with the same suspicious brush, and Globeview was feeling the pressure, as well. “Paul, it’s too late to get into this right now, and besides, we both know where the discussion is going to wind up anyway.”

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Paul sighed. “I just wish you’d be a little more flexible in your thinking. We’re doing a lot of good in Iraq—helping where the military can’t, and taking on considerable risk while doing so.”

Crossing her arms, Tracy leaned against the table. “I’m not saying they’re all bad, but it’s an unregulated industry, and there are more than enough examples of PSCs overstepping their bounds and even participating in criminal behavior—I know, I know, not Globeview.”

“Damn right not Globeview.” Paul was fiercely proud of their spotless record—while his company had been investigated for several instances of wrongdoing, no charges had ever been filed, and none of their employees had ever been tried by an international court of law. Several had either been killed or imprisoned in some of the Third World countries they had been working in, however, and Paul had been involved in assisting with their defense in those cases, facing kangaroo courts and bribed judges. “Tracy, the future belongs to—”

“Well, it’s not a future I want to face tonight!” she snapped.

“Tracy? Is that you?” A small voice came from down the hallway leading toward the bedrooms.

Exchanging an accusatory glare with Paul, she peeked around the kitchen door into the night-lighted hallway.

“Jennifer, sweetheart, what are you doing up at this hour?”

The little girl tottered into the room on sleepy legs, her eyes fighting a losing battle to stay awake. She clutched a ragged blanket as she headed to Tracy. “I heard you talking with Daddy, and you sounded mad.”

Tracy bent down and hugged her tightly. “Oh, no sweetie, your daddy and I were just discussing work. Now come on, it’s time for you to get back to bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” She picked up the seven-year-old, 98

managing not to grunt with the effort, and carried her back down the hall to her bedroom. Tucking the girl back into bed, she pulled the horse-emblazoned comforter up to her chin and kissed her on the forehead.

Jennifer’s eyelids were already drooping. “You’re gonna come to the recital, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetie.”

“You know I’m playing the fairy queen, right?”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll be magnificent. I’ll see you onstage with your wings tomorrow.”

“Okay. Night.” Her eyes closed, and her breathing deepened into the regularity of sleep. Tracy gently swept a lock of blond hair off her forehead and watched her for a minute. While she cared deeply for Paul, and knew she loved him, her feelings for his daughter went far beyond a simple stepparent-and-child relationship. Jennifer had been terribly hurt by her parents’ divorce, and Tracy had taken care to let their relationship grow slowly, trying not to pressure the girl or to grow too attached herself. But the strategy had backfired on her, and now she loved the impish child’s every move. Indeed, she had bonded with Jennifer more quickly than she had ever thought possible—which frightened her sometimes. Although Paul and she were engaged to be married the following spring, and she was certainly committed to it and him, enough doubts niggled at the back of her mind so that she wasn’t absolutely sure it was the right decision. But where Jennifer was concerned, there was no hesitation at all.

A shadow in the doorway made her look up to see Paul standing there, a smile on his face. Rising, she left the room and closed the door, leaving just a sliver of light from the hallway to fall across the bed.

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Paul shook his head. “Sometimes I think she loves you more than Marilyn.”

Tracy slipped her arm around his waist. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t—I see the way she looks at you—pure, unadul-terated love. By the way, we
are
on for tomorrow afternoon, right?”

“Yes, I cleared that time three months ago, and have re-checked it every week for the past month. I’ll be there.

Now come on, let’s go to bed.” Sneaking one last glance at the bedroom, and the sleeping angel within, Tracy led Paul across the hallway to the other bedroom.

Traveling to Washington D.C. always left Kate with mixed feelings. While she loved the city where she had gone to school and gotten her start in intelligence analysis, there were also enough bad memories there that set her teeth on edge whenever she visited. Like the time she had just spent—
wasted
was more like it—with her soon-to-be ex-husband, Conrad Tilghman.

She leaned back in the passenger seat of the Lincoln Navigator SUV and drummed her fingers on the armrest.

“One thing I never missed here was the traffic.”

In the driver’s seat next to her, handling the steering wheel with expert flicks of his hand, her bodyguard, Jacob Marrs, regarded her from behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. “You in that much of a hurry to pop some brass?

Tillie must have been more annoying than usual.” His opinion of her husband was just a shade higher than the respect he had for pond scum.

Kate grimaced and stared out the window at the Washington monuments. “It’s bad enough I had to sit across from Aim and Fire

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him and his phalanx of lawyers for the past two hours. The last thing I want to do is rehash it. Let’s just get to the range—

I’m sure I’ll feel better after emptying a few magazines.”

“You’re the boss, so exercise your administrative powers and move this snarl out of our way.” Assigned to protect Kate ever since she had come to work for Room 59, Jake had taken it upon himself to train her in the fighting arts of all kinds, from unarmed combat to firearms. Since she was already going to Washington on business, he had suggested that they kill two birds with one stone at the range.

Knowing how irritated she would be after the divorce proceedings, Kate had readily agreed. “At least it will be good to see Herbert again.”

“You got that right.”

The rest of the trip passed in silence until they reached the Maryland Small Arms Range, one of the few public firing ranges near the notoriously firearm-averse city. Jake pulled the SUV into the parking lot and waited for Kate to retrieve her gun case from the back. Room 59 operatives weren’t required to carry a weapon 24/7, but many did, with the appropriate concealed-carry paperwork, as well.

While she enjoyed shooting, Kate rarely felt the need to carry in public, especially with Jake always on her heels.

It was an attitude they had disagreed on more than once, and the former army Ranger hadn’t won her over yet, although he kept trying. Today, however, he didn’t say a word, but just followed her inside.

Like many shooting ranges around the country, this one was utilitarian, stressing function over form. Kate walked through the door, her heels clicking on the concrete floor.

Pale cinderblock walls surrounded them, and they could hear the rapid bark of several pistols firing.

Confirming their appointment at the front desk, Kate led 102

Jake to the lounge, where an older man dressed in casual but expensive khakis, a long-sleeved shirt and a shooter’s vest was seated at one of the battered Formica tables. His eyes, slightly magnified by the gold-rimmed bifocals he wore, widened with pleasure when he caught sight of her.

“Kate, so good to see you.” He rose and came over to embrace her. “Jake.” The man exchanged nods with the bodyguard. “Still keeping her in one piece, I see.”

“Hell, just keeping up with her is a full-time job, but I do all right.” Jake’s respect for the man in front of them was as deep as his disdain for Kate’s husband, as evidenced by letting the gentle jibe pass without a riposte.

Herbert Foley had been the director of the Central Intelligence Agency when Kate had first gone to work there, and had taken her under his wing during the turbulent 1990s, when the agency had attempted to redefine its mission in response to the rise of global terrorism. He had been instrumental in helping her move to Room 59, and had also served as a sounding board and mentor for her since his retirement a few years ago. Resembling a kindly grandfather with his thinning gray hair and soft-spoken manner, his appearance disguised one of the sharpest minds in the city, undiminished by age, and still relied on by many in the intelligence community, all of which made him an excellent contact for Kate.

“It’s good to see you, too, Herbert,” Kate said with a bright smile.

“Well, we didn’t come all the way out here to stand around. Let’s get to the range. I’m looking forward to seeing what Jake’s been teaching you,” Foley said.

They put on their ear and eye protection and entered the range, where several other men and women were already shooting, filling the air with thunder and clouds of burned Aim and Fire

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powder. Kate stepped up to a booth and opened her case, revealing a 9 mm HK USP, along with a Bianchi 3S pocket holster. She attached a paper target to the track and moved it out to twenty-five yards. After checking to make sure she was cleared to fire, she slid a loaded thirteen-round magazine into the pistol’s butt, chambered a round and holstered the gun at her side, adjusting the rig for the easiest draw.

Taking a deep breath, she drew the pistol in one smooth move, cupping her right hand around her left to brace the weapon securely, lined up the three-dot tritium sights on the target’s center mass and squeezed the trigger repeatedly, riding the recoil up and back down to empty the magazine as quickly as possible. When the slide locked back on the empty chamber, she set the pistol down and hit the button to bring the target forward, examining her handiwork.

Beside her, Herbert nodded approvingly. “Nice grouping.”

And it was, with most of the bullet holes in the bull’s-eye and 9-ring. “You did well enough at the academy, but nothing like this.”

Kate smiled, remembering her disdain for the pistol range all those years ago, although she had tackled learning to shoot with the same intensity she did everything else.

“I find it a lot more enjoyable shooting now than with a CIA instructor barking at me. Jake also taught me a few techniques to sharpen my shooting posture and aim.”

Herbert had brought his own weapon, as well, a SIG

Sauer P-229 9 mm, and they spent the next hour doing a variety of target shooting.

After they were finished, many of the other shooters had left, and Kate was able to bring up the real reason for her visit. “Have you heard anything about warnings of loose nuclear devices in the United States?”

With a wariness born of decades in spycraft, the older 104

man put his weapon away while checking all around them for anyone who might have been eavesdropping. “That’s a rather sensitive subject for a public place, don’t you think?”

Kate grinned as she stowed her pistol. “On the contrary, I can’t think of a better place than this. Besides, we’re just talking hypothetically.”

“Hmm. What type, specifically, are you referring to?”

“Not dirty or waste. Suitcase.”

Herbert regarded her over the rims of his glasses. “Kate, you know as well as I do that the Russians have never officially acknowledged that any of their small-yield devices are missing.”

“Yes, but we also know that in the nineties the army officers were selling anything that wasn’t bolted down just to survive. Some of them, like General Kryukov, apparently liked it so much that they decided to go into business for themselves.”

Her mentor’s eyebrows rose. “He’s still around, eh?”

“Yes, and doing what he does best. Recently he’s been busy in Pakistan and India. However, on one of his recent deals, someone managed to outfox him and switched a ten-kiloton device with waste. So it’s loose, and I think it’s either headed here or already inside our borders.”

“My dear, surely with your resources, you’d have far more access to this sort of information than I.” Tucking his case under his left arm, he offered his right to Kate, who linked hers through it as they walked to the lounge, Jake trailing them like a very solid shadow.

“Herbert, what’s the first thing you taught me?”

“Analysis and secondary data never equals information gained firsthand.”

“There you are. Don’t worry, I’ve got folks sifting Aim and Fire

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through everything they can get their hands on, but there are those sources that simply cannot be accessed with computers. Now, since I’ll be getting this from you, it’s not the firsthand info that you always preferred—” Kate smiled again “—but I’m willing to take that chance.”

“You are, are you?” Herbert sat down at a table and set down his gun case. “When I headed the CIA, we estimated there were anywhere from fifty to one hundred portable tactical nuclear devices that had been moved out of Russia, both before and after the Curtain came down.

The majority of those are either nonfunctional due to deg-radation of the various power or detonation systems, or have been lost around the world.”

“But?”

“
But,
in a no-limit, table-stakes Omaha poker game I was in with an ex-KGB general last month, he may have alluded to the fact that there are still a dozen viable devices floating around out there, and if any of the fundamental-ist Muslim groups get their hands on one, they’d either try nuclear blackmail, or take it a step further and carry the jihad to our very shores.”