Day of Reckoning (52 page)

He took a slow sip, watching as the FBI director drained his glass. “You know, Eric—I’ve heard it said that the ritual of touching glasses in a toast came about so that, as liquor splashed from one to another, both parties could be assured that the drink wasn’t poisoned. Or that could just be an old wives’ tale, of course.”

Haskel chuckled. “I suppose it’s nice to know that paranoia isn’t a product of our modern age.” A puzzled frown furrowed his brow as he glanced over, taking in Kranemeyer’s coat, gloves. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable, Barney.”

“They say that even the paranoid have enemies, Eric,” Kranemeyer announced, setting his glass on the endtable with a gloved hand. His eyes locked with Haskel’s. “Why did you do it?”

The blood drained from Haskel’s face as he grasped the import of the question. Of what had preceded it.

His gaze flickered down to the tumbler in his hand, the small pool of amber liquid still remaining in the bottom. There was fear in his eyes, the shadow of an unspeakable question.

Kranemeyer nodded.

“What are you going to do if I call the police?” Haskel demanded. It was a hollow attempt at bravado.

“You would never make it to the door,” the DCS replied calmly, allowing his trench coat to fall open, revealing the holstered H&K.

“You wouldn’t dare.” The FBI director’s words came out in a hoarse rasp.

Kranemeyer inclined his head to one side, regarding his counterpart with a look of contempt. “Shapiro is dead, Eric—took a header off the Key Bridge less than an hour ago. But he gave you up.”

He went on without pausing, his voice level, remorseless. “As the poison works its way into your bloodstream, your muscles will weaken until you can’t even hold yourself upright in your chair. Within two hours, you’ll be dead.”

Reaching into a pocket of his trench coat, Kranemeyer extracted a small, clear vial, placing it beside his tumbler of whisky. “The antidote. Once administered, you should make a full recovery within twenty-four hours. And it’s yours if you’ll give me the information I need. I want to know who you’ve been working with…who ordered the murder of David Lay. All of it.”

Create a world of despair, then become the subject’s beacon of hope. It was Interrogation 101.

“C’mon, Barney,” Haskel retorted, his voice trembling. “The DCIA makes a lot of enemies. We both know that.”

“And I know that you’re involved.” A pause. “One other thing…if the antidote is going to be effective, I have to give it to you within the next forty-five minutes. Beyond that…”

Silence.

6:11 P.M. Pacific Time

Tehachapi, California

Two miles out. Thomas reached down into the messenger bag at his feet for probably the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes, checking for his Beretta. It was loaded, just as it had been when he’d last checked.

The drive up from LAX had taken longer than normal, working their way around the police roadblocks set up in the wake of the previous night’s murders. Every last weapon in the trunk of their rental sedan was illegal in California, and they couldn’t afford being stopped.

“What do you think?” he asked, breaking the silence for the first time in miles.

The Texan never took his eyes off the road. “Of what?”

Thomas digested the question for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. “Of Harry. Do you think he killed that boy?”

“I don’t think at all,” came the stolid reply. “My orders were clear—bring him in. Nothing was said about being his judge.”

“But don’t you—”

“No,” Tex cut him off. “We secure him, we secure Carol. Kranemeyer will get everything else sorted.”

Nothing is personal
, Thomas thought, the unspoken subtext within the big man’s words.

After all the years. It was surreal.

The car crested the rise and they could see what remained of the perimeter fence below them in the pale beams of the sedan’s headlights.

“Get ready.”

Thomas nodded reluctantly, reaching into his bag to retrieve his pistol, the rasping sound of metal on metal as he pulled back the slide.

“Ready.”

Only the good die young
. Perhaps that was true, Harry thought, running his hand over the boy’s bearded face, up to where the open eyes stared hauntingly up into the night sky. Impossible to say—he had seen it in the boy’s eyes in those final moments before he pulled the trigger. The wild look of someone whose mind had broken long before their body.

His fingers reached up, gently closing the eyelids, a final service for the dead.
Last rites
.

There was a small USB drive in his jeans, and Harry tucked it into his shirt pocket—perhaps it would reveal something. There was nothing else, no wallet, no identification. Just a nameless kid, dead and gone.

Harry grasped the boy’s shoulder, wincing with the effort as he rolled him over onto his stomach, his cheek pressed against the cold black tarpaulin. “Ready?” he asked, looking up into the SEAL’s eyes.

It was the last body, yet he could sense the reluctance in Han’s body language. Always the ones you couldn’t save.

He heard the engine of an approaching car at that moment, his hand slipping underneath his jacket to close around the butt of the Colt.

“Follow me.”

The car’s lights were off by the time they approached it, a man emerging from the driver’s side door and another man already standing in front of the car.

His gun was up, the Colt’s hammer back, a round in the chamber. An easy shot. Yet there was something familiar in the profile of the target, in his movements as he closed the car door.

Something he had seen a hundred times before.

“Tex!” he called out, recognizing the form of Thomas near the front of the car as the men turned toward him. A tired smile broke across his face. The cavalry had arrived.

“Harry,” the Texan replied simply, extending his hand. The bonds forged in battle.

Harry reached out to clasp it, drawing the big man into an embrace. “Glad you could make it to the dance, my friend,” he whispered, making a feeble attempt at humor. “I’m afraid we had to start without—”

And there was a gun barrel pressed against his stomach, a Glock in the Texan’s hand.

He recoiled, searching out his friend’s eyes, but there was nothing to be found there—just black, expressionless pools against the crushing darkness of the night. It was like looking into the face of a stranger.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” the stranger’s lips moved, forming words without emotion. “I need you to cuff yourself.”

9:15 P.M. Eastern Time

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Somewhere in the big house, a clock struck the quarter hour, its tones resounding through the silence.

Kranemeyer took a sip of his whisky, watching as drool escaped from Haskel’s mouth, trailing down the side of his face.

The FBI director was slumped to one side in his chair, slowly losing control over his body. It was a pathetic sight, but Kranemeyer could find in himself no pity. Only a growing sense of impatience.

“Do you hear that, Eric? That’s your life…slowly ticking away. What little you have left.
Who
is running your op?”

A desperate anger showed in Haskel’s face, struggling to speak, his lips forming an obscenity. “…yourself.”

“Impossible, Eric. I lack the flexibility of a politician.” He drained the tumbler of whisky and set it back on the end-table. “Tick-tock.”

The phone in his breast pocket buzzed and Kranemeyer glanced at it, the message plain on the screen.
The package is secure.

Simple words, belying tragedy. They had found Nichols. He didn’t realize till that moment how much he had hoped they would not.

“Why…you doing this?” Haskel gasped. “What is it to you?”

The anger boiled over. “You politicians don’t believe in loyalty to anything, do you?” Kranemeyer spat, rising from his chair. “Nothing higher than your own ambition?”

He paused, tasting the bile on his tongue. “I have no faith. I believe in nothing save the men I lead into battle. Men who deserve better
leaders
. These days? They deserve a better country. And I would rather die than fail them.”

A faint laugh escaped Haskel’s lips. “Men like…men like Hamid Zakiri?”

Fury
. He turned without warning, backhanding Haskel across the face with a gloved hand. The FBI director fell to the floor, his hands unable to support his weight, his cheek pressed against the Persian carpet.

“Within twenty minutes, this whole room will stink of your own excrement, Eric,” Kranemeyer hissed, falling to one knee beside the body. “You’ll lose all control of your bowels. And then the pain begins. Oh, yes…did I fail to mention the pain? You’ll want to scream, but you won’t be able to. You’ll want to tell me everything you know, but you won’t be able to do that either.”

Haskel’s eyes went wide, struggling to focus—white with terror. “You’ll die in agony…and the autopsy will reveal a massive stroke. Our people are so very
good
at what they do. But you’ll know that all first-hand. Soon enough.”

“
No
,” came the desperate whisper, the man’s fingers clawing at the carpet. “
God
, no.”

“I don’t think God is listening to you, Eric. But I am…if you have anything worth hearing.”

“The…computer.”

6:21 P.M. Pacific Time

Las Vegas, Nevada

“Take this in.” The voice intruded upon his thoughts and Nasir looked up as Omar pressed eighty dollars into his palm. He looked up at the lights of the Arco gas station and nodded.

As the day drew near, they were operating on cash only now. Untraceable.

With a brief glance into the backseat at his brother, Nasir pushed open the door of the van, walking hurriedly across the crowded plaza to the convenience store.

Alone. He was alone.

His legs felt as if they were made of rubber, threatening to give way from under him as he pulled open the door, moving toward the attendant by the register.

“Eighty on pump six,” he announced, shoving the wad of bills across the counter. He looked across at the dark-skinned attendant. Indian? Or
Pakistani
?

He couldn’t tell, and the moments were ticking away. He licked his dry lips, unable to hide his nervousness. “Can I use your restroom?”

The young man hesitated before shrugging. “It’s not
supposed
to be public, but you look like you’ve had a rough night already, man. Right back through there.”

“Thanks.” His heart pounding, Nasir made his way back along the shelves until he reached the small room, digging the phone out of the pocket of his jeans and reassembling it. The number…what was it again? A wave of panic nearly washed over him, his fingers fumbling with the lock on the flimsy door. He couldn’t have forgotten…

He leaned back against the sink trying to remember.
There.
He closed his eyes, the phone trembling as he pressed each button hesitantly.

And then it was ringing. Once. Twice. “
Ya Allah
,” he breathed.

Three rings.
Just pick up.

7:23 P.M. Mountain Time

FBI Regional Field Office

Denver, Colorado

Meetings. It was what the Bureau did best, Marika thought.

“This isn’t going to take long,” Greg Buhler announced from the head of the room. The S-A-C of FBI Denver, he couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. He smiled. “For the tech-obsessed among us, you’ll be reunited with your phones in under ten minutes. But we need to keep security on this one airtight. Understood?”

There wasn’t much to understand—their phones were under lock and key in a cabinet outside the soundproofed conference room.

“We’ve had several developments, most recently an hour ago—when we got a hit on the photo of Abu Kareem that we’ve been passing around. One of our field agents talked with the manager of a Mickey D’s in Grand Junction and he placed Kareem in his restaurant on the 19
th
. Remembered him because of his inquiry about a kosher meal. Now, this is dated, but we believe…”

Locked away outside, Marika’s cellphone began to pulsate. One, twice, three times. A fourth “ring” and it went to voicemail.

The gas station

Las Vegas, Nevada

No
. Nasir listened numbly as the voicemail rolled, a woman’s voice announcing his own fate. The realization sank in. She wasn’t picking up.

Despair closed over him like a wave, a drowning swimmer going under for the last time.