Mark of Evil (38 page)

But now, as Rivka studied the Iraqi air base far beneath them, and as the fighter plane began its descent, Rivka’s brain went into hyperdrive. Her buddy Gavi had said he would try to rustle up a contact for her in the Baghdad area so she could catch up to Pack McHenry’s team. But Gavi gave no details and made no promises. Even though her ride in the F-140 had cut her travel time down considerably, she knew Pack and his crew were still well ahead of her. The agreed plan was that Pack and company would begin advancing toward New Babylon the minute that they were in-country. Rivka and Pack had linked their encrypted GPS devices in the event they both were in the same part of Iraq around the same time. Pack said if it worked out, he would locate her geoposition and pick her up himself. If not, Pack said he had an idea about having some friends of his track her position and give her a lift.

As soon as Rivka’s jet finished taxiing to a stop, and the landing gear was secured and the canopy popped, she stripped off her helmet and mask and began to scamper out of the jet. She yanked her Allfone out of her flight suit and hit speed dial for Gavi. It rang . . . and kept ringing. “Come on, Gavi, pick up,” she muttered. But it didn’t happen. She left a hurried message. “Gavi, it’s me, Rivka. I’m at Sather Air Base. Where is your pickup guy for me? Do you have one? Call me, please.”

She clicked off her cell and looked around. Huge concrete bunkers, a lot of large corrugated metal hangars and sheds, and several runways. Pretty much the same as when it had been turned over to
the Iraqis from the U.S. military, and then later to the Global Alliance. Beyond the base she saw the flat, brown desert, with just a few palm trees and an occasional green tuft of shrubbery, and swirls of dust that drifted aimlessly.

Rivka hit another number on her Allfone, trying to get in touch with Pack and his team. But no luck there either, and she was forced to leave a message advising him of her location, asking for his, and wanting any update on the status of Ethan.

She glanced over at her F-140 pilot, who was now coming out of the air base security building accompanied by two Global Alliance security guards who looked to be Iraqi nationals. The three of them halted, and one of the Alliance guards passed some paperwork back to the pilot, who motioned toward Rivka. The Alliance guard shielded his eyes for a moment as he spotted Rivka, who was still in her flight suit. Then he nodded to the pilot, and he and his Alliance partner walked back into the building.

Rivka prayed silently.
Lord, I feel like I am stuck here now on a bad sightseeing tour. I want to be part of the rescue. Please keep Ethan safe. And bring us together, Father.
She paused. Then she muttered, “And forgive my impertinence. You’re God, and I’m not. You’re in control. I do believe that, Lord. Down to the marrow of my bones.”

She trotted toward the pilot, who was walking her way. She had come from the other side of the globe to help in the daring rescue of the man she loved. But she was now getting a bad feeling about things.

Her Allfone rang. It was Victoria McHenry. “Hello, Rivka, dear. We’re on the main artery coming out of Karbala and heading toward New Babylon. But we’re sandbagged right now. About a mile and a half from our position is a massive military roadblock. The Alliance seems to have sealed off the Global Alliance complex. We’re a small team, and we simply can’t take on an entire company of Alliance special forces in a ground battle. Rivka, where are you now?”

“Just landed at Sather Air Base. I’m still trying to get a ride to where you are. I’m stuck here for now. It’s maddening.”

On the other end, Victoria sounded distracted, like someone was trying to get her attention. “Rivka,” she announced, “Pack needs to tell me something. I’ve got to cut out—” The call dropped.

By then, Rivka stood eye to eye with the Israeli pilot. He was checking the time on his wrist Allfone watch and throwing her a look she didn’t miss. He expected her to be ready to climb back into the F-140. And that was something she couldn’t do.

“I told security here we had to make a fueling stop,” the pilot explained. “They’re giving us twenty minutes. Then I’ve got to get airborne. And if you aren’t strapped into that second seat of the F-140 when I lift off, there’s going to be some serious trouble.”

FIFTY-TWO

SECRET SERVICE HOLDING ROOM W16 AT THE WHITE HOUSE

Washington, D.C.

Secret Service Agent Decker had to let Ben Bolling’s telephone call go to voice mail because he was about to address a dozen White House agents and pass out assignments. But hearing Bolling’s voice triggered some memories. Some good. Some bad.

Decker had known Bolling when Bolling was an FBI agent. They had once worked together on the presidential campaign trail guarding Hank Hewbright during the last election. Back then, Decker did the Secret Service perimeter work for Hewbright’s activities. Meanwhile Secret Service Agent Owens was the guy physically closest to Senator Hewbright. Which is why Agent Owens was now buried in a cemetery
in his hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, and why Decker was still alive.

During the assassination attempt against Hewbright, FBI Special Agent Bolling heroically broke into the middle of the attempted assassination scene in the political convention hotel room and put an end to it—unfortunately not until after Agent Owens had been killed. As Decker reviewed his e-clipboard, ready to address his cadre of agents, he wondered why Bolling was reaching out to him now. The two hadn’t spoken for years.

When the agents were all seated in the holding room of the basement of the White House, Decker started giving them the POTUS briefer for the day. POTUS—the president of the United States—would be in meetings all morning, starting with his national security briefing and ending with a discussion with his economic advisors regarding the Alliance trade-sanctions issue. Then he would be leaving, via the south lawn, under constant Secret Service protection and would be boarding
Marine One
, the presidential helicopter, which would ferry him to Andrews Air Force Base. There, with the same team of agents in tow, he would be flown on
Air Force One
to New London, Connecticut, to deliver the commencement address to the graduates of the Coast Guard. Following that, POTUS would return under night skies to Washington and the White House, where he would retire for the night.

After the briefing, Agent Decker returned Ben Bolling’s call. Bolling picked up after a few rings. At first, Bolling made small talk and painted an overly rosy picture of his life as a retiree. Finally, he got down to brass tacks. “I’ve got this friend . . . Well, a fellow FBI agent, actually. John Galligher. He used to do counterterrorism before he retired. A jokester and sort of a pain in the butt. But he definitely knows terrorism and threat assessment. So he contacted me recently and said he thought there was a threat against the president. A contact
of his who used to work in clandestine services with the Company has traced this possible threat to an incident in Russia, and to a former KGB and FSB agent named Vlad Malatov.”

Decker was silent, thinking through what he was hearing. “Okay. We’ll run it through our system.”

“No, that won’t do you any good. This Malatov guy supposedly had a KGB-style extreme makeover. Face reconstruction. New fingerprints. Voice alteration. The works. He’s even on an AllTube fight video, but he’s wearing a mask. Anyway, he won’t be in your system.”

“Thanks,” Decker said with hesitation. “I guess.” He chewed on it for a second. “How about the staleness of this report? How current is it?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I know this doesn’t help you much, and I know you get a lot of vague threat data all the time—most of it pure malarkey—but I promised Galligher I’d pass it on to you.”

“So that’s it?”

“Yep.”

“Well, Ben, considering that you’re a grade-A hero in my book, I’ll take your warning into consideration.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“No,” Bolling said, “that’s it.”

“Any other names, places, leads?”

“No. I wish I had more.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” Decker said. “That doesn’t give me much to go on.” He paused and looked around to make sure he didn’t have company. Then he added, “Things are weird around here, Ben. I don’t know who I’m working for half the time. Hard to explain. Strange politics going on. Maybe we can arrange a time for you to stop by. Give me your take on things. Maybe I’m just getting tired of this line of work. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Ben said he understood and that he would be glad to visit the White House anytime.

Decker clicked off. He looked around the room and then went out in the hall where he found new transfer Agent Booth still hanging around, waiting for another round of follow-the-senior-agent-around-on-daily-assignments.

“Agent Booth,” Decker said to him. “I just received a tip. Alerting me to a general risk, but nothing specific. Possibly directed at the president. I would like you to do something for me.”

“Certainly,” Booth replied with a grin, his teeth bright white against his Miami tan.

“Stay vigilant. Anything that looks out of the ordinary, please report it to me. I know you’re new on the White House detail, but give me your eyes and ears. Okay?”

Booth nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, and something else,” Decker said. “Your wish is about to come true.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I heard about your being a fan of the president and wanting his autograph. Tomorrow you’ll get your chance to meet him. You can get his autograph then.”

The smile of Agent Booth broadened.

DESERT OUTSIDE NEW BABYLON, IRAQ

Ethan was constantly moving from one space to another within the labyrinth of crumbling stone walls that made up the interior of the ancient ruins. At first he’d been alone there and felt safe. But then the Global Alliance security forces started arriving. They were slowly beginning to flood the area less than a half mile from the ruins. As he
peeked around the edge of the ancient walls, he could see the Alliance police with tracking dogs, sniffing the ground. He was glad that he had donned the clothes of the Alliance lab tech. Maybe that would throw them off. But he could also hear Global Alliance armed dronebots flying in the distance, though they hadn’t conducted a flyover on his position in the ruins. Not yet.

Most of the spaces between the high walls where Ethan was hiding were wide open to the sky, but a few had stone floors from the upper level that provided some cover. Ethan didn’t want to stay in any one spot for too long. So he kept going along the walls, memorizing the exact pathways from his ever-moving positions back through the labyrinth to the safety of those few areas that had the big stone slabs overhead. The Alliance drone-bots and helicopters had heat-seeking sensors on board that could identify humans on the ground, but Ethan was betting that they wouldn’t be able to detect him through twelve inches of stonework over his head.

His brain was still reeling, though, and the vertigo was still there. At times it seemed almost impossibly difficult to remember his way back to the areas with coverage from above. He wondered whether that experiment in the lab had permanently fried his brain.

SATHER AIR BASE, IRAQ

The pilot of the F-140 climbed back up into the cockpit, but he hesitated and looked down at Rivka. She stood in her flight suit, her feet glued to the tarmac. “Are you coming, Rivka?” he shouted down. “This bird is about to take off.”

She hesitated. As long as Ethan might be somewhere in Iraq, there was no way she could leave. She felt as if she had jumped out of a plane without a parachute and she was free-falling. Unless something
happened soon, she was going to hit the ground. But she still had no intel on where Pack’s team was and certainly no idea where Ethan might be now.

“It’s zero hour,” the pilot called down. “Let’s go.”

Rivka’s Allfone buzzed. She clicked it open. A message read:
Eyes only. Classified
.

She clicked the Options icon on the little screen of her Allfone.