Guardian (5 page)

He sighed, knowing the who and the how were beyond the scope of his duties. No matter how wealthy the information, the bushes still needed to be beaten to flush out the prey now that Kharija had escaped. And that was where he came in.

Mayyat flipped through the pages underneath the photo of Caldwell. Not many names. But enough.

Who will it be? Who will pull you from the shadows into the light?

Mayyat closed the file and set it back on the passenger seat. Then he lifted the cell phone again. He had a flight reservation to make.

 

Chapter Eight

T
he coxswain maneuvered the small motor boat alongside the stern of the eighty-­eight-­foot yacht with the precision of a surgeon. A crewman on the deck of the yacht lowered a ­couple of fenders between the two hulls and tied up the boat to cleats both forward and aft. The coxswain secured the engine. Kharija took all this in while trying not to vomit his breakfast.

He had always hated the water. As a youth, his father often fished on the Euphrates. It was as a boy that Kharija discovered the slightest movement on the water, even the smallest ripple rocking the boat, would unleash a torrent of dizziness in him. Little had changed since then. He assumed Nassir knew this and had chosen the meeting place to play on his weakness.

“Mr. Fahd is waiting in the main cabin,” the crewman said.

Kharija nodded and rose slowly, steadying himself as the small boat pitched and yawed in the gentle waters of the Mediterranean. To him, they felt like stormy seas. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and opened them, then moved to the side of the boat. The crewman extended a hand, and Kharija took it and stepped onto the yacht.

The deck of the yacht was steadier, and right away he found it less demanding to balance himself. Breathing a little easier, Kharija swallowed a mouthful of nervous saliva and avoided any thoughts of his family. He had to be strong for Malika and Rasha, and thinking of them and their safety—­if any safety actually existed—­only added to his growing discomfort.

“Follow me,” the crewman said.

He led Kharija from the stern deck into an opulent space. Dark polished wood spanned the floors and bulkheads. White leather upholstery covered the sofas and chairs. The sconces and lamps were gold. And it was completely empty of any ­people. Such a large boat and no guests other than him, it would appear.

They moved past all of this into another room. A large sleeping cabin with the same wood and upholstery, with the exception of the bed. It was made with purple and crimson linens. The colors of royalty. The colors of power.

“What has happened, Kharija, that requires you to interrupt my holiday?”

When he first walked in, Kharija had not noticed Nassir Fahd. Nassir was sitting in the corner of the cabin at a desk, reviewing papers. His pitch-­black hair was slicked back, his beard trimmed close, and he wore a white button-­down shirt with matching pants and boat shoes. Quite the opposite of the dark gray business suits Kharija was used to seeing him in. In these clothes, Nassir resembled a wealthy Greek shipping magnate.

“Yet I know there is only one thing that would bring you here. Anything else could be handled with a phone call.”

“Do you wish me to say it, then?”

“Yes, yes I do. Because part of me hopes I am wrong.”

No reason to prolong this and give Nassir any more joy in his torment. “I have lost the American.”

Nassir looked up from his papers for the first time. “That is . . . unfortunate.”

The way he dragged out the last syllable in
unfortunate
caused Kharija's stomach to tighten, and his thoughts quickly leapt to Malika and Rasha and their welfare.

“I did not anticipate the Americans being able to field a rescue effort so quickly.”

“You, a career intelligence officer, failed to consider the fact the Americans might have had assets in the region they could call upon? I am not stupid, Kharija. Who betrayed you?”

“One of the order who I turned a year ago.”

“Why did he know where the American was being held?”

“He was originally supposed to capture the American but backed out at the last moment. He feared he could not handle him on his own.”

“You should have killed him as soon as he refused to perform his duty.”

Kharija bit his tongue, unable to argue that point. “I failed to maintain focus on the broader picture. Once I had the American, I—­”

“Became distracted because you were thinking about him and how he could save your family.” Nassir rose from the desk. The sudden movement unsettled Kharija even more. “And now you have lost him. Where does that leave beautiful Malika and little Rasha?”

Kharija swallowed and tried not to appear nervous. “I have already commenced the effort to recapture him. It will not take long.”

“I hope so, for their sake. And yours.”

Nassir fixed his black eyes on him in a brief, unblinking stare. They reminded Kharija of a shark's eyes. Nassir held him with them for a few more moments, and it took all of Kharija's energy not to look away. Nassir blinked, sighed. Then he shifted and moved past him and walked out of the cabin. Kharija followed, not knowing whether he should be relieved or not.

On the stern deck, Nassir stood and gazed out over the Mediterranean toward the coast of Lebanon. Kharija stayed a few paces behind him. Distance helped his nerves at the moment.

“Beautiful, is it not?” Nassir said.

“Yes.”

“As the personal advisor to the president of Syria, I am afforded certain luxuries. The use of this yacht, for example. But what I am not afforded is a great deal of mercy. If plans fail, I need to maneuver and initiate new ones. Do not let this new plan of yours fail, Kharija. For your sake and for your family's. That American is of vital importance. I will allow you to make amends, but I also have no choice but to initiate other options of capture in case you let me down again.”

“If you have other options, why use me in the first place?”

“Because my other options require me to become personally involved, and I had hoped to remain far removed until we had Caldwell and were ready to use him. Now, I must become personally involved.”

Kharija thought about that for a moment. “Are you sure we can use him to find the other prisons?”

“He encountered the fallen one, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“Then he has been marked. Semyaza spared him. That sign of mercy will have left an imprint on his soul.”

Kharija's eye narrowed. It surprised him that Caldwell had known the demon's name. That Nassir knew it absolutely terrified him. “Semyaza? How did you learn its name?”

“Yes, how did I learn it? Strange. Semyaza. Once a great angel who fell with Satan. Not a jinn at all. Your order had no idea what it was supposed to guard.”

“How can you possibly know so much?”

Nassir turned to him, a smirk growing in the corners of his lips. “You will find there is a great deal I know. Like the tattoos your order forced you to get when you were eleven. None of you understand what they say. The language is dead to you. Yet they still tattoo the words on every young boy from generation to generation. Silly, if you consider it.”

“And you understand the language?”

Nassir's smirk became a grin, and Kharija suddenly wanted off the yacht more than anything in the world.

“Does it matter?” Nassir said. “After all, you have betrayed your order. The tattoos, the prisons, the entities within them, should mean nothing to you. You abandoned that life for your family. Now, capturing the American is the center of your universe. He bears the mark of Semyaza. The mark of a Fallen One will help us locate the other imprisoned Fallen. He is the key to my future and yours.”

Kharija had served Nassir for two years, feeding him information about the order and what it knew about the prison near Ur. Nassir asked him how old it was. How could the order know the prison was near Ur but not know its exact location? How would they react if it was found? In all that time, Nassir had only listened and made small requests, assuring that Kharija's family would be safe as long as the intelligence continued to flow. When Kharija started to resist, questioning if his family were even still alive, Nassir would provide a video or phone call. Just enough for him to hear them, see them, know that, yes, they were still alive, and would only remain so through his cooperation.

When the prison was found and accidentally opened less than a month ago and this Semyaza freed, Nassir's interest grew into an obsession. Why? Kharija had never dared ask out of fear for his loved ones. Now, though, he needed some kind of answer. Nassir had pulled back his veil to a degree, and Kharija wanted to know what lay beyond it.

“You told me you wanted the prisons found but you never told me why,” he said to Nassir now. “Why have you taken my family, Nassir? Why do you use me to find these fallen ones?”

“You dare ask now, even with your family in the position it is in?”

“Have I that much to lose? You have made it clear I only have one more chance at success. And you have also stated you will employ other means to find Caldwell. Am I wrong to assume you will initiate these efforts at the same time I attempt mine?”

“No, but I did not think you required additional motivation.”

“I have enough motivation. You have ensured as much by taking my family. But for two years I have wondered why you want to find the prisons, yet was afraid to ask. When Semyaza was freed, your interest turned into an intense passion and I grew even more afraid. Now, though, I am afraid not to ask. Not to know what you are planning.”

“Knowing is better than not knowing, eh? I am not sure I agree with that.” Nassir turned back to his view of the coast. “History dwells all around us in this ancient land. But so does the future. And it is written that this land is doomed to burn.”

“You speak in vagaries.”

“I always thought it funny your secret order had no idea where the thing it guarded was located. Then I realized how important that was. For if it knew, no doubt someone within would have tried to open it long ago. Possibly would have succeeded. And then things would have happened out of sequence.”

“Sequence?”

“You see, everything happens for a reason. And certain things have to occur at certain times. Semyaza's prison was supposed to be opened last month, not two hundred years ago. Basra was supposed to be desolated. Mr. Caldwell was supposed to be marked by Semyaza. And now Mr. Caldwell is supposed to show us where the remaining prisons are.”

“But why, Nassir? Why the obsession with finding these horrible things? Why threaten the lives of my family to find a few forsaken beings?”

“Because I want to open them, Kharija.” Nassir's tone was smooth and even. “I want to free the Fallen.”

Kharija had suspected as much. Why else would Nassir want to find them? Not to protect them. And surely not to study them. But hearing him actually say it made him realize how insane the man truly was.

“You want to free them. And watch millions of ­people die as a result. Then what?”

“Millions of ­people do not concern me. Results do.”

“Results? What happened in Basra is the result you are looking for? Only on a grander scale? Or do you think you can somehow control one?”

“It cannot be controlled by anything in this world. But maybe it can be pointed in the right direction.”

“You mean Israel.”

Nassir said nothing.

“You know how Israel would respond. Especially if it discovered Syria's involvement.”

Nassir nodded. “I am counting on it.”

Kharija's eyes widened. “Why?”

“Revenge.”

Kharija tripped over the word in his mind. “For what? What wrong have you suffered that requires so much blood to redress it?”

Nassir shook his head. “Your primitive brain would not understand, and my patience wears thin. Focus on keeping your family alive. Finding Caldwell should be your only concern. And do not let your family further cloud your judgment. No more mistakes.”

Kharija gritted his teeth. “Very well. And when I find him?”

“Bring him to me.”

 

Chapter Nine

T
wo days of flights and layovers and what seemed like endless security checks passed before Mike arrived in DC just after sunset on Tuesday. The world was still dealing with what happened in Basra, believing terrorists had set off a dirty bomb. Yeah, if it were only that simple.

He didn't stop to breathe the native air or kiss the ground. Instead he made a beeline for the Metro from Reagan to his apartment in Arlington rather than heading to Langley. He'd check in with Glenn tomorrow.

Because I need twelve hours of straight shut-­eye,
he thought.

Two days of travel took its toll on his shoulder. The docs in Germany had cleaned it up and used fresh sutures. No major damage, thankfully. Just had to keep it in the sling for a few weeks and get the dressing changed every ­couple of days. They wanted to keep him there and limit any more travel for a week, but Mike shrugged them off. He had to get home. They tried to give him some heavy painkillers. Besides his shoulder, he was dealing with a still-­healing shrapnel wound to his right oblique. Again he shrugged them off. He didn't want any dope.

The studio apartment smelled hot and unused, like a hotel room that's never been occupied. Mike flipped the A/C on to full and set the thermostat at sixty-­eight. He had to tolerate the heat in Iraq. He didn't have to tolerate it here.

Home looked exactly the way it did when he left for Iraq months ago, with the exception of a thick layer of dust on every horizontal surface in sight. Not inspection ready and not the way he liked things. But Mike didn't care right now. He'd clean later. He'd do a lot of things later. Right now he wanted to eat and shower and sleep the rest of the day away.

He dropped his bag on the beat-­up green sofa and walked into the kitchen. The fridge had a half-­empty bottle of ketchup and a stick of butter. The freezer held a full ice cube tray and a cold pack. Mike opened the pantry and found pasta and granola bars.

He grabbed a granola bar, and walked over to the bed, where he sat down and ate it. When he was done, he opened the drawer to the nightstand and slid his Beretta and holster in. Before he closed it, he reached in past his wrist and ran his hand along the bottom of the nightstand tabletop. His fingers latched onto a leather pouch attached by Velcro strips. He freed it and pulled it out.

Unzipping the pouch, Mike found the two thousand dollars in small bills he always kept stashed. There were also three passports with different aliases. He thumbed through them and the cash, found a laminated index card, removed it and set the pouch on the nightstand.

He flipped the personal switch in his head. This was the only place he allowed it. In the field it was off at all times. But here, in private, he indulged. He reminisced. He missed.

The card was a plain three-­by-­five type, lined on one side and blank on the other. Taped to the blank side, under the lamination, was a small heart. It was crudely drawn in black crayon and colored in with red.

Mike stared at the drawing, hands trembling. Tears blurred his vision, his chest heavy and constricted.

How long has it been?
Too long. Too fucking long.

He blinked and wiped the tears away and slid the heart back into the leather pouch. Then he fastened the pouch back to the underside of the nightstand and closed the drawer. Taking a deep breath, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes and thought about her.

Why do you do it to yourself? You can never see her again. You don't even know where she is.

Like I couldn't find her.

Let it go. You'd only put her in danger.

He flipped the switch off.

For a moment the image of a bottle of whiskey flashed in his mind. Mike opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling fan rotating slowly above. He'd replaced one haunted memory with another.

Shit.
He sat up. No way would he sleep right now. Mike stood and walked into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet, hoping he'd left a bottle of Gatorade or soda behind. Instead, he found a half-­empty fifth of Johnnie Walker and two full ones.

My situation has not improved.

The bottles also had a fine layer of dust on them. Sad, lonely, unwanted bottles. All they wanted was to be polished off, in more ways than one . . .

Licking his lips, he closed the cabinet door and backed away. He knew he had to distract himself ASAP, before he started having conversation with whiskey bottles.

Mike headed to his dresser and opened the top drawer, looking for workout clothes. Time to burn some nervous energy on the treadmill.

P
lease hurry up,
Mayyat thought.
There is much to do and you are late.

He sat in his rental car, gazing into the driver's side mirror. Reflected in it was a sidewalk outside the entrance of a brick town house. A few pedestrians strolled by but none were the man he was waiting for.

He glanced away from the mirror long enough to turn the air-­conditioning up to high. Even at ten o'clock at night, the humidity of northern Virginia kept the atmosphere moist like a sodden sponge. Mayyat was used to the extreme temperatures of the Iraqi desert. But that was dry heat, and it seemed this August humidity would kill him if he spent more than a few days here.

Capture Caldwell and you get to return home.

Yes, Caldwell. The man Kharija so desperately wanted. The man he had lost.

Mayyat thought about the thick file Kharija had provided. So much detailed information covering deep covert operations the last few months. All off book, above Top Secret level stuff, on Mr. Caldwell and his recent activities in Iraq and the Indian Ocean. Everything Mayyat needed, with the exception of a last known local address or residence. It appeared that all information on Michael Caldwell prior to the events in Iraq had been erased from history. Curious. If he were to guess, he would say Caldwell was not just a special operator but also a “dead” one. So, he would have to start with the information from Iraq and what occurred on the navy ship and put it to use as best he could. Maybe then he could flush Caldwell out of whatever hole he was probably hiding in.

Capture Caldwell and you get to return home,
he told himself
But you have to find him first.
And the first phase of locating him was about to commence. If his target ever showed up.

In the mirror, Mayyat saw his target and exhaled in relief. Red hair, cut short. Athletic slouching toward medium build. Walking with a short gait. The woman man turned and ascended the stairs to the town house.

Once the woman was in the residence, Mayyat turned the engine off, opened the door and stepped out into the stifling August night. He walked across the street, hands in his pockets, head down. When he reached the stairs to the town house, he paused and looked around. No one else nearby was paying attention. He surveyed windows. No one looking out.

Mayyat walked up the stairs and stood in front of the door. He removed a silenced Glock semiautomatic pistol from a shoulder holster and held it at his side. Kharija had ensured that the weapon was waiting for him upon arrival. Mayyat did not know who it came from nor did he care. It had been in a locker at a train station as Kharija said it would be. That was enough for him.

He rang the doorbell.

Several moments passed before he heard footfalls on the other side of the door. He stood with his left side facing the peephole, head turned away. The knob twisted and the door cracked enough for the target to peek out.

“Yes?”

“Commander Sandra Temms?”

“Who's asking?”

Mayyat turned toward the door and jammed the Glock through the crack at Temms's eye. “I must insist on being invited into your lovely home.”

Temms slammed the door on the gun. Her feet pounded away on the other side. Mayyat kicked the door in, snapping the security chain, stepped in and leveled the Glock on Temms at the other end of the long hallway.

Phut
.

The round hit the back of Temms's left leg. She screamed and crumpled to the hardwood floor, clenching her thigh. Blood oozed around her palms.

Mayyat lowered the Glock to his side and approached Temms. Now the real work began.

M
ike showered after a five mile run on the treadmill. Well,
run
was exaggerating. Slow jog and brisk walk was more like it. And not the easiest thing to do in a sling, but worth the struggle. Feeling better, he passed the kitchen without wasting a glance at the cabinets, stripped off his clothes and collapsed on the bed.

“You should really cover yourself.”

He rocked upright and pulled a sheet over his legs at the speed of light. His right hand reached for the nightstand drawer and the Beretta.

“Easy, Mike.”

Greg?
He flicked on the lamp. Greg McDaniel sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a khaki windbreaker and navy blue slacks. His fingers interlocked and his forearms on his thighs.

“I guess I'm dreaming,” Mike said, sitting up and easing his back against the headboard.

Before his encounter with Semyaza, he'd seen Greg—­his long-­dead former mentor—­several times in dreams. In all of them, Greg had provided the same warning about the fallen angel: it couldn't be killed. And he'd been right. Semyaza had chosen to give up his body-­leaping because Mike had been willing to sacrifice his life to save the crew of the USS
Rushmore
. The demon had realized that Mike was the end of the line and there would be no more vessels for it to possess after him. Not the most romantic realization. Mike would have preferred something along the lines that he'd changed the monster's heart, or some shit like that. Maybe he had. It was tough to remember everything Semyaza had said to him, what with all the fear of impending doom and such. In the end, though, Mike was perfectly fine with Semyaza just giving up and going to hell, or wherever he went.

“That's right.” Greg flashed his best shit-­eating grin. “Thought you'd seen the last of me, huh?”

“When the whole fallen angel thing ended happily, well yeah, I thought I had.”

“Sorry to disappoint. And I wouldn't say it ended happily. A whole hell of a lot of ­people died.”

“Point taken. Come here to give me more bad news?”

“Something like that.”

“Don't tell me there's another fallen angel loose and wreaking havoc somewhere. I'm having a hard enough time resisting a drink as it is.”

“No loose angels.” Greg sighed. “At least not yet.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I don't know the whole picture. Besides, it's not important right now.”

“Shit, if that's not important then I'm scared to hear what is.”

Greg's face sagged and his eyes softened. “You might have to kill again, Mike.”

“That's where you're wrong. Only in self-­defense from now on. No more assassinations. No more contracts for foreign governments to satisfy Uncle Sam's IOUs.”

“I understand, but I told you before there would be more.”

“So, I have to kill to prove you right? I'm not signing up for this bullshit.”

Greg held up a calming hand. “You're looking at this all the wrong way.”

“Expand my view of things, then.”

“I'm not here to tell you that you have to kill for the government, Mike, or any other government or even the fucking mob. If it comes to the point where you have to take a life, it will be to protect others. It's not political or criminal or personal.”

“Horseshit. I just shook the ghosts of those I've already killed. Ghosts that clung to me no matter how much I told myself it was all to protect others. I was only able to chase them away when I learned there is a soul and it moves on. That I wasn't the end for them. Bit easier to deal with when you can think of it that way. And don't tell me it's not personal. It's always personal, unless you're a fucking psychopath. You know that better than anyone.”

“So this earthly life isn't precious because there's life after death?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course this life is precious. I just said it was personal.”

“You said killing was personal. I concur. You said you were able to chase the ghosts away because the soul continues to exist beyond this realm. I understand how that knowledge would make it easy to deal with. But wouldn't it also make it easier to kill? I mean, the soul moves on, so who gives a shit about taking a life in the here and now? Maybe it makes you easier to become a psychopath. Unless you think this life is precious. But how can this life of transient meat be precious if the soul moves on?”

“But . . .”

“But what?”

“I . . .” Mike couldn't think of a single thing to say. He'd felt better after talking to Semyaza. He thought it didn't matter how many he'd killed because there was something more. Something beyond this reality. But now he couldn't say that was true. He started to feel the weight of the dead on his shoulders once more.

“Wondering why you feel like shit?” Greg asked.

“Sort of.”

“It's because this life is precious. Every moment of it. Sure, the soul moves on, but has it been afforded the opportunity to move on to the right place?”

“Place?”

“You know, heaven or hell, etcetera.”

“This is getting way too philosophical, and thus confusing for me.”

“Look, we humans are free. Free to do good or bad. That's pretty much the arc of life. A series of events in which we do either a lot of good or a lot of bad. And if we do a lot of bad, hopefully, there's a chance at redemption before the dirt nap. That's why living a good life is so important. Yes, the soul moves on, but the life you live sure as hell dictates where it goes. And no one knows when their end is coming. Better to be ready, know what I mean?”