Any Minute Now (34 page)

“Whitman's my man. If he needs to be taught a lesson I'll be the one to do it.”

St. Vincent stared at Cutler, thinking, You don't have the balls to punish Whitman; you're dead afraid of him, but he revealed none of this; Cutler was still of use to him on matters such as this, when he could not allow his NSA people to be involved. “Someone else was in the apartment—the person who shot me. Did you find any trace—”

“Have you lost your mind, man? Taking a risk like that just to satisfy some sense of—what?”

“Justice,” St. Vincent said with a menace Cutler could not mistake.

“Your beef with Whitman is personal. I don't know what he did to you, but there is no justice in this world, Luther. You, of all people, ought to know that.”

St. Vincent's eyes glittered with the pain. “Are you trying to teach
me
a lesson, King?”

Cutler shook his head. “No, I just—”

“Don't make me regret hiring USA. These sideline assignments you're given are part of the deal. Your words of wisdom are not.”

Cutler, wanting to slam St. Vincent in the face, watched him resettle himself against the pillows like some potentate. Just wait, he thought. Your time is coming. I have Lindstrom, and you won't get him back until I'm repaid for all the humiliation you've dumped on me.

“You didn't answer my question,” St. Vincent said. “What about the person who shot me?”

“What about him?”

“No sign?”

“Give me a description.”

Someone in a black latex hood? St. Vincent thought not. “I can't. Only a couple of lamps were on. I was concentrating on the whore. It all happened too fast.”

“Vengeance leads to tunnel vision,” Cutler said with obvious contempt. “Some cop you'd make.”

Keep going, St. Vincent thought. I'm taking note of every insult you throw my way. “What about Lindstrom? He's disappeared.”

“Didn't you tell me you had a tail put on him?”

“The tail's missing, too,” St. Vincent said sourly. “Find them both.”

“I'll do my best, as always.”

“What about my boss?”

“General Serling is being run ragged by the clowns on Capitol Hill. About you he's still clueless. And as for the report your surgeon was required to file, he sent it off to Serling's office, but somehow during the journey from here to there it disappeared. No one's the wiser about you being shot.”

“I'm impressed.” St. Vincent nodded. “You've taken care of everything.”

“That's right,” Cutler said with an ill-concealed smirk. “Every fucking thing.”

*   *   *

Preach, on his sat phone, was listening to one of his Iraqi Kurdish contacts—a tribal leader with both schooling and savvy. The separate Islamic caliphate within Iraq and Syria that IS had declared last year was making faster headway than even the Alchemists had anticipated, carving its way through the chaos of both countries with horrific cunning and cruelty. This was a branch of the future Crow had not seen, one that must be dealt with in the most robust and expeditious manner. The delicate balance Preach was aiming for—to keep both sides fighting and killing each other in a bitter war of attrition—was being threatened. He needed the human fighting machines in the field faster than he had expected.

“The timetable will be accelerated,” Preach said, speaking perfect Sorani, the dialect of the Iraqi Kurds. “You have my word. And my word is law.”

Disconnecting, Preach took up his mobile and dialed a number in Washington, D.C. For several moments, he spoke to the man on the other end in low tones.

It was time for him to insert himself more directly in the Affairs of the Alchemists.

*   *   *

The moment Cutler left, St. Vincent picked up his mobile. His forefinger stabbed out, pressing the speed dial numeral.

“Tell me,” Jonah Dickerson, his SIC, said in his ear.

“How do you give a priest a vasectomy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. How do you give a priest a vasectomy?”

“No idea,” Dickerson said in a voice that seemed to have shrunk in on itself.

“Kick a choirboy in the ass.”

St. Vincent laughed, but he was the only one doing so. No wonder; it was a cruel laugh, filled with venom.

“What we know: we've lost comm with the villa, and Whitman and his team are not in Lebanon. They are at the villa and we need to make sure they stay there—permanently.”

“Why don't you ask Cutler to send in another team? Whitman's his guy.”

“Because I do the fucking thinking around here!” St. Vincent passed a hand across his eyes. He was still smarting from his conversation with that shit, Cutler. “Our immediate concern is Dante. It's too late to notify him to abort. He's too close to Seiran's compound. He's maintaining our strict radio silence protocol.”

“If Whitman gets his hands on Dante—”

“I know. Dante is bringing us the shipment of
Papaver laciniatum
. We can't allow that shipment to be intercepted. The team needs to burn the villa and everyone in or around it.”

“It will be taken care of,” Dickerson said.

“It had better be.”

“Trust me, boss. You'll have it within thirty-six hours, guaranteed.”

“That means Whitman needs to be neutralized.”

“Believe me,” Dickerson said, “he's the first thing I'll take care of.”

 

36

“What about the dog tags?” Whitman said.

“They're phonies,” Charlie answered, her eyes alight.

Flix sat up straighter. “How d'you know that?”

“This one here.” Charlie laid one out in her palm. “It belongs to Sergeant Jeffrey Grant.”

Flix's forehead creased. “So?”

“So I knew Jeff Grant.” Her eyes flicked over Whitman's face for a moment. “I went out with him for a couple of weeks last year before he shipped out on his last assignment.”

“Last?” Whitman said.

Charlie nodded. “He was killed in Afghanistan nine months ago.” She let the other dog tags drop into her palm. “I'm willing to bet that all of these tags are from deceased soldiers. The men you killed, Flix, they aren't Marines. In fact, they may not even be Americans.”

“Hey, wait,” Flix said, “that's gotta be a stretch.”

Charlie shook her head. “Not at all. I checked the mouths of two of the corpses. You can be sure their cavities weren't filled in America.” A small smile played across her lips. “I know shit Russian dental work when I see it.”

“Damn, this changes everything, right,
compadre
?”

“Mercs,” Whitman said. Meaning mercenaries. “Probably recruited from all over.”

“Where does that leave us?” Flix asked. His relief was enormous; it was written all over his face.

“With Seiran,” Whitman said, “and the information he's given us.”

“There's at least one more piece to the puzzle.” Charlie gestured. “Let's get inside. It'll be dark soon.”

They found Seiran el-Habib where they had left him. He'd soiled himself, several times.

“At least, let me take a shower,” he said. “I feel like an old man.”

Ignoring him, Whitman turned to Charlie. “You were saying? What piece of the puzzle?”

“Blue eyes,” Charlie said. “The recruiter Alice and Beth knew as Dante. Supposedly, he'll be here tomorrow morning.” She turned to face their prisoner. “Isn't that right, Saudi?”

“I have a name,” el-Habib said, clearly offended.

“Not to me, you don't,” she said. “So how about it? Were you and Alice telling the truth? Will Dante be here tomorrow?”

“Did I say that?”

“You did.”

He looked up at them. “Then it must be true.”

“That's not an answer.” Charlie grabbed the back of his chair, tilted it, and started to drag him down the hall toward the kitchen, where Alice's body still lay.

Flix bared his teeth. “And you want a shower.” He spat onto el-Habib's chest. “How about that?”

He followed Charlie and el-Habib into the kitchen, the rear chair legs making a screeching sound like that of an animal in pain. Charlie set the chair down in front of Alice's bloody corpse. The smell made el-Habib recoil.

“Too much for your sensitive nose, Saudi?” Charlie said. “Look how you've ruined two girls' lives. You shot Beth and you left Alice with only despair.”

“I didn't do this,” el-Habib said. “Is it my fault the girl was weak of will? I tell you now that Dante is coming with replacements. He was to take them back—”

“To what?” Charlie bent over him. “Where was Alice going to go? Who would take care of her?”

El-Habib looked straight ahead, his gaze firmly fixed on the far wall until Charlie grabbed a handful of his hair, pushed his head down so that he had no choice but to stare at the body.

When Whitman stepped into the room, el-Habib said, “Won't you do something to stop her?”

“I told you, she's a force of nature.” Whitman crossed to stand behind el-Habib. “On the other hand, someone here has to regain their senses. Let him go, Charlie.”

She glared at him, but he nodded, and she reluctantly let go. He began to slice through the cords binding the Saudi to the chair.

“You really think this is a good idea?” she said.

“I think it's a great idea.”

El-Habib turned his head sideways, shot Charlie a wicked grin of triumph.

When the Saudi was free, Whitman ordered him to stand up. As soon as el-Habib complied, he said, “Now pick Alice up.”

The grin vanished from el-Habib's face. “What?”

Whitman showed him the shovel he had found. “You're going to dig graves, el-Habib, and then you're going to place Alice and Beth in their final resting places. We will say prayers for the dead in which you will take part. You will ask Allah for mercy.” He shoved el-Habib forward. “And all the while you're going to wonder which one of the graves is for you.”

 

37

The NSA is involved. This dreadful sentence kept repeating in Julie's head as she stood by the kitchen sink after Orrin had left for work. She knew she had to call Hemingway to tell him she was ill and wouldn't be coming in today, but she sure as hell wasn't going to do it from her mobile. Like many people these days, Orrin had no landline, not that she would have used it either. The NSA could very well be listening in on Hemingway's lines; after the events of last night, she couldn't take the chance that they weren't. Even if she purchased a burner phone, they'd be able to connect with it the moment she called in. Luther St. Vincent, the head of Directorate N, the shadowy department within the already shadowy NSA, knew Sydny, wanted her dead, and had carried out the termination himself. This terrified Julie. If Sydny was under NSA surveillance, then it stood to reason that anyone who came in contact with her had also been drawn into their electronic net. She shivered. Why would St. Vincent have put Sydny, a pole dancer, under surveillance? She shook her head. It didn't make sense. And then her mind calmed, cleared and she remembered Greg Whitman, to whom Sydny had handed her over after their first meeting. St. Vincent was after Whitman. But, still, why murder Sydny? Because they were friends—lovers? That might explain why St. Vincent did the wet work himself. It was personal between him and Whitman. Another, deeper shiver ran through her.

She showered, dressed in her soiled clothes, and went out to buy herself a new outfit. Before she did, though, she went into a drugstore, picked her way to the rear, and found the pharmacist.

Stitching her most seductive smile onto her face, she said, “Can I please make a local call? I've left my mobile at home. It's something of an emergency and it'll only take a minute, I promise.”

She called Hemingway's private line, told him she was ill and would be out for a couple of days. When he asked if she needed anything, she said
Yes
silently, but told him “No.” She thanked the pharmacist and returned to the street. If NSA was listening in on Hemingway's calls the trail to her would lead to this dead end.

*   *   *

It was all Orrin could do not to dance around the attorney general's office. He had, in fact, danced for a moment as the subway slid into the station, as he waited for the doors to open. Everyone around him was too busy thinking their own morning thoughts to notice or care.

He'd fucked his sister-in-law—okay, his
ex
-sister-in-law—but who cared? She was hotter than hot. He'd always had a crush on Julie, but until this morning he'd kept it locked tightly away, even after his divorce. Now, though, she had come on to him—she had … Christ, his thighs grew tight just thinking about what she had done to him, what they had done together.

He sat down in his office chair, staring at nothing, remembering everything about her, which is how he came to remember her request. Not that it was so out of the ordinary. The AG's office was opening investigations left, right, and center every day of the workweek. For on weekends, we play golf, he thought wryly, recalling the words of his former boss, his tone deeply biblical. However, it wasn't every day he was asked to open an investigation on someone from the NSA—and especially not on Luther St. Vincent, head of Directorate N, whatever the hell that was. Not that the idea wasn't floated around the office once every couple of months, but it was always shot down by one of the attorney general's cadre of Very Important Mandarins. Though a slowly rising star, Orrin was, sadly, not yet one of them.

Still, he knew how to open an investigation using back-channel methodology. This was to be an informal investigation, not to mention a clandestine one. There was some danger in it for him, but on the other side of the ledger he now had Julie living with him. Though she had said it was only for a day or two, he had some ideas as to how to get her to agree to stay longer. And then from that step to permanence he was fairly certain would be a snap. Wouldn't that be a kick to the head, as far as his ex was concerned.