Infidels (15 page)

“With
what’s been going on in the news, absolutely. This is bad, BD, real bad. Our
guys have the goddamned Black Stone. They’re damned if they do, damned if they
don’t. If they’re caught with it, they’ll be hacked to pieces after they’re
paraded in front of the cameras, accusing us of stealing the damned thing, and
if they try to hand it over, the same damned thing will happen.”

Dawson
closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly as he tried to think. “They’ve
got no comms, so how do we get a message to them?”

Niner
raised a finger, leaning forward. “Not true!”

Dawson’s
eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve
got perfectly functioning comms. They’ve just been locked out.”

Dawson
had a feeling he knew where Niner was running with this but decided to let the
man finish the race. “So?”

“So, we
need someone to break that lock.”

A smile
broke out on Dawson’s face. “Have anyone in mind?”

Niner
grinned. “A little Kraft Dinner, anyone?”

Laucala Island Private Resort, Fiji

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane felt like shit, though at least it was
no longer ninth level of hell shit. He had been suffering from wicked food poisoning
for almost a week—bad raw oysters, he figured—the diarrhea and vomiting having
finally passed several days ago.

But he
was still weak.

Fortunately
he had two of the hottest nurses on the island tending to his every need. He
wasn’t sure of their qualifications beyond being gorgeous and attentive, but he
wasn’t that picky. He was being kept hydrated, fed, and the sponge baths were
frequent and enjoyable.

If he
was going to be sick, this private resort with local talent was better than any
hospital he could imagine stateside.

His
phone vibrated on the nightstand and it was immediately handed to him with a heart-stopping
smile and caress of his hand by Levani, a particularly friendly woman he had
come to know over the past several years. When his need for help had become
clear, she was more than happy to volunteer.

Man,
life can be good sometimes.

As a CIA
operator he went deep into most of the world’s shitholes, sometimes for weeks
or months on end. He had no family to take care of, few friends, and parents
with a secure income and good retirement savings—in other words, no one to worry
about.

And with
his own retirement plan being death, he didn’t bother with saving his money.
When he came out of some cesspool, he immediately decompressed in one of the
pleasure centers of the world, this time Fiji, where he’d drink himself stupid,
have sex with the loveliest of ladies, and generally embarrass his mother if
she ever knew.

But
since his parents thought he was an insurance investigator for Shaw’s of London,
the chances of his sins being discovered by anyone he cared about were slim.

He
glanced at the message and his eyes popped a little wider.

Interesting.

Over the
years he had set up his own untraceable communications network where a few
trusted souls could reach out to him, should it become necessary, without his
CIA handlers knowing about it. Most operators worth their salt had similar
setups, one never knowing when they were about to get screwed by their own
government because of politics.

He had more
than enough fingers and toes to count how many people knew how to reach out,
and someone had.

“Can you
bring me my laptop, darling?”

Levani
nodded, rising from her perch on the edge of his bed to retrieve the laptop
sitting on a nearby table as Miliana adjusted his pillows to help him sit up.
Levani placed the computer on his lap as he sipped some chicken noodle soup
from a large coffee mug, prepared special by the kitchen for their VIP guest.

He
smiled a thank you to his attendants then logged into his secure laptop with a
password and biometric scan. Within moments he was looking at the secure email
from his former Delta buddy Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson. Kane
had joined the army after 9/11 and set a career trajectory to get into the thick
of things, first making the Army Rangers from which most Delta recruits were
chosen.

Then he
had made Delta.

It had
been a proud day he had no one to share with except his new buddies in The
Unit.

It had
been enough for a time.

Then he
wanted more.

And when
the CIA had approached him, he had jumped at the opportunity.

And
never looked back.

But from
time to time his old buddies needed a hand that their government couldn’t
officially provide, but he could. And it looked like from the brief SOS email,
they might need it today.

Unfortunately
he was still too ill to dive in with both feet.

Kane
dialed the number Dawson had left in his encrypted email, the private account
set up to automatically ping him if there was a message containing the correct
code or ‘from’ address.

“Speak.”

Kane
recognized Dawson’s voice immediately, and he didn’t sound happy.

“Hey,
buddy, how they hangin’?”

“Like
they’ve been chopped off at the root. You got my message?”

“Yup.
What’s going on?”

“Haven’t
you been watching the news?”

“I never
do, not when I’m decompressing.”

“Turn
your TV on.”

“Just a
second.” He motioned to Levani for the remote then turned the television at the
foot of his bed on, switching to CNN International. “Jesus, what’s all this?”
The usual Muslim mayhem seemed to be playing out on the screen, though this
time the normally docile CNN seemed to be in a real panic, their news scrolls
reporting killing after killing, their headline reading
‘World Leaders’ Plea
for Calm Ignored’
. Kane shook his head, realizing too much was going on. “Give
me the executive summary.” The screen suddenly began to show footage of a group
of American Special Forces types standing around a crate, the video looking
like it had been taped through a phone’s night vision setting. “Wait a minute,
is that Atlas?”

“I guess
you’re seeing the footage?”

“Yeah.
Christ, BD, what the hell is going on?”

“Eight
man team led by Red was sent into Yemen last night to rescue a Saudi Prince.
Instead they found his head and an Islamic holy relic called the Black Stone.”

“What’s
that?”

“According
to Professor Acton it’s some ancient relic that the Muslims worship in Mecca.
Part of that big black cube they walk around during the Hajj.”

“Oh
yeah, that silver and black thing that they try to touch.”

“Exactly.”

“How the
hell was that stolen?”

“It
looks like the Prince was in on it and stole it during a ceremony where it was
being taken to be repaired. Now this footage has been released and the entire
effin’ Muslim world is calling for blood because they’re claiming we stole it.”

“So why
not return it?”

“Political
idiocy. The White House is saying our men were never there so they never stole
it and they don’t have it, so they can’t return it because then they’d be
admitting we had it.”

“Backchannels?”

“Oh, I’m
sure something’s going on, but in the meantime they’ve disavowed the team and
cut off all comms. There’s no way to reach them and no cellphone service in the
area.”

“What do
you need?”

“We need
to somehow mount a rescue and let them know where the hell the rendezvous point
is.”

“That’s
not going to be easy. It’s going to take money. And a lot of it.”

“I might
have a source that I can tap.”

Kane had
an idea who that source might just be. His former archeology professor, James
Acton, was now married to an extremely wealthy woman who had freed up her
wallet on more than one occasion to help. Acton and his wife were two of the
few people in this world who knew what he did for a living, Acton the man he
had turned to when deciding whether or not to leave university and join the
military.

He had
counselled him wisely.

“Palmer?”

“Exactly.
They’re here at the embassy now.”

“Where
are you?”

“Paris.”

“Ahh,
did Maggie join you?”

There
was a pause, then Dawson’s voice was like he had never heard it before in all
his years of knowing the man. “They took her.”

Kane
bolted up in his bed. “What? Who?”

“The
prevailing theory is they thought we were the professors. They took her but I
managed to take out my guy. There’s been no word yet, no demands, nothing.”

“Any
leads?”

“None
yet, but Langley’s trying to get their hands on the traffic camera footage and
trace the van.”

“Jesus,
BD, I’m sorry to hear that. I know how much Maggie means to you.”

A grunt
was the only response he got, and it was all he expected, Dawson never one to
show much emotion.

Kane
pursed his lips. “Okay, first things first. If you were Red, what would you be
doing right now?”

“Getting
the hell out of the area. By now they know they’ve been disavowed by the simple
fact their comms are down. Red would lead them out of the area in case a
superior force is sent in to eliminate them.”

“Saudi?”

“Or
Yemeni, terrorist, prayer group, who the hell knows. Right now there’s almost
two billion Muslims calling for their heads.”

“Do you
know exactly where they are?”

“That
footage was taken about ten miles inside the Yemeni-Saudi border, a couple of
hundred miles from the Red Sea.”

“That’s
where I’d be heading.”

“Agreed.
I’m thinking they’ll try to cross into Saudi territory since it’s a little more
sane than Yemen, then try for international waters by boat.”

Kane
watched the footage of Red’s team looping again and pointed at the screen.
“That looks like the back end of a pickup truck.”

“Yeah, I
noticed that too. Sit rep before they went offline was two vehicles. No idea if
they’re functional.”

Kane was
quickly bringing up a Google map of the area. “If we assume they are, there’s
several roads nearby they can use to shoot straight to the coast.”

“They’ll
have to be careful, everyone is looking for them. Red’s probably going to try
and keep off the roads when the terrain permits.”

“That
would be the wise move, though it’s going to slow them down a lot.”

“And we
have no idea how much gas they’ve got access to so they might not be getting
far regardless.”

Kane
shook his head. “This just keeps getting better and better. Okay, if we assume
they’re heading for the coast, we’ll have to try to arrange a pickup. We can’t
do anything without comms. Let me get to work on that.”

“Good.
And if you can, send them a message from me.”

“What?”

“Tell
them they’re not forgotten.”

Embassy of the United States, Paris, France

“Oh for Christ’s sake, what the hell is that?”

Dawson
had barely entered the infirmary where Laura Palmer was being tended to, her
husband sitting in a chair by her bed, both watching the latest horrors on
television, when Niner’s outburst caused him to look at the screen rather than
respond to the professors’ greetings.

He shook
his head at the sight, several bloody bodies lying on the street, British
bobbies keeping onlookers back.

“Apparently
they hacked them to pieces with machetes,” explained Acton, his voice subdued.
“And that’s just the latest. There’s been dozens of attacks like that,
especially here in Paris and in London.”

“They’re
slaughtering Christians in Pakistan and Nigeria, burning their churches and
schools.” Laura turned away from the television, her eyes glistening. “It’s
horrible.”

“All
over a freaking piece of rock,” muttered Niner.

Acton
hit the mute button on the television’s remote control, his face grim. “Unfortunately
we don’t have a parallel in our society to compare it to. Imagine we had the
bones of Jesus, preserved let’s say at the Vatican for the past two thousand
years, worshipped by billions worldwide. Then imagine Muslims stole it from us.
How would we react?”

“With a
lot less barbarism, I should think,” replied Laura, folding her arms across her
chest.

“Agreed.
Like I said, there’s just no parallel because Western society has evolved past
this level of blind, violent devotion. Imagine if it had happened five hundred
years ago? Or a thousand. Remember the Crusades. Muslims slaughtered three
thousand Christian pilgrims, so the leaders of Europe send thousands of knights
to exact revenge and protect the pilgrims. Today Muslims kill thousands of
Christians in Africa and we do nothing. If we had the same mentality as we did
five hundred or a thousand years ago, we’d have carpet bombed the assholes out
of existence. Today we’re too civilized to respond that way. Unfortunately, too
much of Islam isn’t, so they’re reacting the way we would have centuries ago.”

“Still
no excuse.”

Acton
smiled at his wife. “Oh, I’m not defending them, I’m just trying to give some
context to the reaction. We can’t think in Western terms, and that’s always
been the problem. We’re fighting a war, not against a country, but against an
ideology. We’ve never really done that before, and unfortunately our political
correctness is fuelling that ideology. Think about it, Wahabbism is one of the
strictest interpretations of Islam, and it is spread from Saudi Arabia using
their oil money. Their hatred against all things not Islamic is well
documented, yet we continue to buy their oil and subsidize their military. Why?
If we said to the Saudis ‘no more money until you stop spreading your message of
hate’, what would happen?”