Michael Walsh Bundle (14 page)

He made the Malibu and stashed the pieces of the rifle under its backseat. He started the car and floored it.

There was a dirt road through the cornfields, prepped for a new blacktop that would bisect the farmer's field. It was rough and potholed, but he didn't care. The Malibu's axles had survived worse than this. So had his teeth. He hammered down on the accelerator and roared through the stalks.

He hit the school from the northeast. Cops and ambulances were descending on the scene from all sides. Their attention was on the chopper, now in flames, sputtering one last time and then plunging to earth somewhere near the Mississippi.

Then it hit him. The chopper! What a chump he was.

Devlin didn't have to see the wreckage. He knew that only one body would be found, that of the hapless pilot.

Milverton wasn't on that chopper. All he needed was that one brief instant inside Devlin's OODA loop, one second to regroup, and he'd moved ahead in their chess match.

He'd never intended to get on that chopper.

Which told Devlin everything he needed to know. A brilliant improvisation—a double misdirection.

Redundant systems, just in case.

Devlin, out of the car and sprinting toward the school, just another local Good Samaritan trying to help. He could see Hope, free of the bomb, but Eddie was long gone.

He couldn't see the boy. But he could see the man, rushing into the school, the civilian who had showed up in the taxi. Rushing straight toward—

Oh, Jesus.

Complete chaos had broken out in the building, with police and FBI collapsing on it from all directions. Devlin blended in immediately, ducked inside the school.

Smoke and dust everywhere. Alarms blaring. The freed children, rushing about, nearly blind, nearly mad.

There, the kid. The one shouting, “Emma, Emma!”

Devlin scooped him up under one arm and ran as fast as he could for the back of the building.

“Emma!” the kid shouted.

“Rory!” came a voice in the distance. The man from the taxi.

“Daddy!” cried the kid.

No time. No time. Tough luck about the dad.

The Dumpster would have to do.

The explosion ripped through the gym.

“Are you a cannibal or a missionary?” the kid asked him as they huddled together in the garbage can, flaming debris raining down around them.

“Neither, kid,” he replied. “I'm an angel.”

The rain of fiery shit finally stopped. The metal interior was hot to the touch. The boy still lay within the protective embrace of Devlin's arms. “What about my sister?” said the boy, very softly. It was almost as if he knew what must have happened to his father.

“I don't know,” whispered Devlin. “I'm not that good of an angel.”

“Can't you find out?” said the boy.

“I'll try,” said Devlin. He left the boy safely in the Dumpster and slipped away, with a hole in his soul. In Jeb Tyler's America, one dead kid was one too many.

Somebody had set him up—maybe more than one somebody. But who?

He didn't know that, either. But he did know one thing: he knew he was made.

And when a Branch 4 op was made, he was as good as dead. Any time Seelye chose, every intel and special ops agent could be after him. Not to mention Milverton and the forces behind him, whoever they were.

Poison pawn or sacrificial lamb? In the end, it didn't really matter. Friend and foe were the same person.

What was that saying of Bartlett's? The old 160th motto?

“NSDQ.” Night Stalkers Don't Quit.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

There was utter silence for a moment in the Oval Office as the three men watched the school explode. Then Washington exploded.

“GodDAMNit!” exclaimed the president, lunging for the phone. He knew his first thought should be for the people who had just lost their lives, however many of them there were. With any luck, the place was mostly cleared out, but right now he couldn't take that chance. The political fallout, whatever it was going to be, had to be minimized and it had to be minimized fast. “Millie, get the speaker and the majority leader in here, on the double. I don't care if you have to roust them out of bars or beds, but get them in here. Senator Hartley too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ms. Dhouri from the outer office.

Rubin, meanwhile, was on the cell phone with the commanding officer at Scott Air Force Base. If there were going to be any other nasty surprises, the country needed a military presence in Edwardsville pronto. “Make sure you get that wreckage of the helicopter before the cops stomp all over it,” he shouted.

Seelye, for his part, did not use the phone. Instead, he was working through a series of cutouts using the NSA's in-house communications system, trying to reach Devlin, and getting no response. He was still trying when the president said, “All right, gentlemen. Now, how do we play this?” His face was red and Seelye knew that Tyler's ultra-political mind was already factoring how this was going to play at the next election.

“The speaker and the leader are on their way, Mr. President,” squawked Millie over the intercom. “I can't reach the senator.”

“Send them in the minute they get here,” said the president, who then turned to Seelye. “Well, Army, looks like your man Devlin just screwed the pooch.”

Seelye put down his PDA and looked across the room at Tyler. “With all due respect, sir, he did not. From all the available evidence,” he glanced at his PDA in case there was a message, but no light was blinking, “most of the children have been rescued. Under normal circumstances, we would call his mission a brilliant success.”

Tyler snorted, and gestured at the television screen. Smoke was still billowing from the wreckage. “You call that a success? Do you have any idea what's going to happen to the markets tomorrow morning unless we get out front on this pretty damn quick? I can see the headlines now—‘AMERICAN BESLAN.' This is just fucking great. I thought you told me this Devlin was the best we've got.”

Time to defend the honor of the agency and to protect his turf. “He is sir,” said Seelye. “Take a look at that screen—what do you see?”

“I think the pictures pretty well speak for themselves.”

“Precisely. Yes, part of the building was destroyed, but all of the terrorists were killed. Sure, it was a nasty surprise, but if you don't think ordinary people all over America weren't cheering when Drusovic caught one in the brain…then you're not the politician I thought you were. Sir.”

Tyler considered that for a moment. The expression on his face said you might be right. Seelye pressed forward. The earlier you established the “legend,” the more likely it was that everyone would believe it. “You see where I'm going with this”

Tyler plainly didn't.

“The point is,” explained Seelye, “the bomb detonated
after the operation was over.
Devlin accomplished his mission—”

“But we took some casualties.”

“We may have, yes. And, politically, that's bad. Your predecessors have pretty much established a zero-tolerance level for casualties, and I can certainly understand why you'd want to continue their policies. But look at it this way: You have a bunch of dead terrorists, a bunch of rescued kids, and a bunch of happy families. The grief counselors for the few will only add to the poignancy, not detract from it. Surely we still have some friends in the media.”

Seelye noticed the president was scribbling notes as he listened. He punched the intercom button again. “Millie, I have some notes here and I want them delivered to Pam Dobson right away.” He switched off and addressed Seelye. “What's your point about the bomb going off after the rescue?”

Seelye couldn't believe Tyler couldn't see it. On second thought, yes, he could. “Simple, Mr. President,” he said. “We're dealing with
two separate operations.
” He paused to let that sink in. “The first one, the hostages—that was for the cameras. A feint, if you will. The second was a punctuation mark, a way of their letting us know that they got the joke.”

Tyler was completely confused by now. He looked at Rubin for guidance.

“I think what Army is saying, sir, is that the hostage situation was a distraction. Whoever set this up couldn't have cared less what happened either to the kids or to the terrorists. But, with the bomb blast, he left his signature.”

“Which means…” said Tyler, hoping that someone would fill in the blanks. Their job was to figure this out. His job was to play it politically.

“Which means that this is only the beginning,” supplied Seelye. “Even worse, it means that someone—a very well-financed and ruthless someone—is testing us, probing us, trying to see how we'd react in a moment of national crisis. After all, there hasn't been a major terrorist incident directed against Americans since September eleventh. Memories fade, emotions jump. What have you done for us lately, you incompetent son of a bitch.” He looked right at Tyler. “You take my point.”

The PDA buzzed in his left hand. The red light flashed. “Excuse me, sir,” Seelye said and called up the message. It was from Devlin:

YOU KNEW, YOU FUCKER, DIDN'T YOU?

The president was nothing if not observant. “What the hell is it, Army?”

YOU SET ME UP, YOU SON OF A BITCH.

The head of the National Security Agency looked at the president of the United States, sitting behind the
Resolute
desk. “We have a problem.”

“Can you translate that” asked Tyler.

The intercom buzzed. Millie said, “The speaker and the leader are here, sir.”

Tyler caught the warning look in Seelye's eyes. “Ask them to wait a moment.” He turned back to Seelye. “Okay, genius, you have the floor for the next fifteen seconds.”

“Mr. President,” said Seelye, rising. “What just went down in Edwardsville was no ordinary terrorist incident.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Tyler. “What are you—we—going to do about it?”

“Be prepared for more trouble. This was not a one-off. Whoever planned and executed this was playing a double game with his own people. His stooges, if you will. I have no doubt that he and whoever is either working with him or standing behind him has a lot in store for us.”

The intercom buzzed again. Tyler ignored it. “So what do we do?”

“Give me twenty-four hours. Not even. Let me debrief Devlin—he understands what's going on. And he's the perfect man for the job.”

The president looked dubious. “After what just happened…”

Seelye gestured to the door of the Oval Office, beyond which the congressional leaders were cooling their heels. “Remember your public, sir. This was a triumph. The next one, though, will be a tragedy if we don't stop it.”

The president rose, signaling the end of the meeting. “From your lips to God's ears,” he said, ushering them out. “Just don't fuck up.”

P
ARIS
, F
RANCE

Pilier switched off the television and turned to Skorzeny, who had already turned his back on the screen and was looking out one of the panoramic display windows. The boss loved to watch the river traffic on the Seine, especially the
bateaux mouches
as they sailed by, lights blazing.

Not that he had much time for movies, since he didn't even watch the ones his movie studio made, even though he was the company's majority silent investor. As far as Skorzeny was concerned, movies were propaganda tools, fairy tales for the masses, and nothing more.

“Horrible,” said the factotum.

“Yes,” agreed Skorzeny, who had been in a bad mood since they had reached the apartment, and all because of her. “How dare she tell me she had to get back to London? Doesn't she enjoy my company?”

“Of course she does, sir,” replied Pilier. “We all do. But I believe she has some preparation to attend to. You can perhaps forgive her…anticipation.”

Skorzeny kept his gaze focused up the river, toward Notre Dame, defiantly illuminated against the dark European night. From the triplex apartment on the rue Boutarel, you could practically reach out and touch the great cathedral.

“No, it's wonderful,” said Skorzeny, answering Pilier's first observation, which meant that the subject of Amanda Harrington was closed for now.

“What dreams they had—dreams that lasted almost a thousand years,” mused Skorzeny, looking at the cathedral. “Dreams, and faith, and a belief in themselves. I envy them their certainty. We've lost that today, don't you think, Monsieur Pilier?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Pilier replied and instantly regretted it.

“Which?” inquired Skorzeny. “The certainty? The dreams? The faith?”

He'd walked right into that one. “All of them, sir,” replied Pilier quietly. He dreaded it when the boss got into one of his interrogatory moods.

“And why?” Skorzeny turned away from the window and looked his major-domo square in the face. “Without the wherewithal to realize them, dreams are for fools. Certainty rightfully belongs only to the man who can afford it. And as for faith…”

“No one worships at Notre Dame anymore,” ventured Pilier.

Skorzeny displayed a small smile of half pleasure. “Precisely. The great cathedrals of France are mere tourist attractions now. Soon enough, they'll be nothing but tributes to the nihilistic abyss of infinity. Or mosques.”

Pilier waited for a value judgment, which was not forthcoming. But he could guess.

“Empty monuments in stone to a God who has taken up residence elsewhere. The pinnacles of western civilization, now nothing more than curiosities to the Japanese and an offense to the Arabs. What do you make of it?”

Pilier hazarded a guess. “Of Notre Dame, sir?”

A small sigh of exasperation. “Of Edwardsville.”

“They're calling it a tragedy.”

“I suppose to the Americans, it is. But of course, it's not. Not in the classical sense. There is no protagonist, whose own pride or anger or greed or lust sows the seeds of his own destruction. A random criminal act, now matter how bloody or spectacular, cannot be tragic. You need to reread your Aristotle, Monsieur Pilier. Preferably in the original Greek, not one of those vile French translations.”

Pilier issued a small cough of self-deprecation. “My education—”

“Continues with me. Which is why I hired you. You show promise. And at the moment I have no heirs. Only employees. Which is why what happened today—”

Pilier coughed modestly. “Not a tragedy, then?”

“An occurrence.” Skorzeny sat down at his desk and contemplated its clean leather surface.

“There were deaths.”

“There are deaths every day. Even of school children.”

Skorzeny gestured in the direction of Notre Dame. As he did, one of the
bateaux mouches
floated by, casting its Platonic reflections on the walls of Skorzeny's elegant cave. The old man's face danced in and out of the chiaroscuro. “Do you think the God who once resided in that prime piece of Parisian real estate ever murdered a school child? A virgin? A nun? Of course He did. So if what happened today in Edwardsville wasn't a tragedy, then what was it?”

“As you said, sir—an occurrence.” He realized that Skorzeny liked to take both sides in an argument, but it was getting late. Even Skorzeny had to sleep some time.

Skorzeny began to move toward the interior stairway, toward his private chambers. It was only at moments like that the man showed even a glimmer of his age. There was the hint of a shuffle in the walk, a
moue
of weariness at the mouth. Both of which would have vanished by morning—which, on Skorzeny's schedule, was only a few hours away. “Really, Monsieur Pilier, you disappoint me.”

As Skorzeny passed him, Pilier tried once more: “An opportunity?”

“Precisely,” said Skorzeny. “Good night, Monsieur Pilier.”

“Good night, sir.”

Skorzeny stepped into the hallway. He never took reading to bed. When it was time to sleep, that's what he did. Efficiency above everything. Tonight, however, he had a valedictory. “Do you ever wonder where He went?”

“Who, sir?”

Skorzeny shot him a look. Suddenly, one bony hand shot out, grasping Pilier hard. “Inform our other British member that I expect to receive his report of his American activities at the London board meeting. That is all.”

That was his signal. Pilier nodded and went to retrieve a portable basin of water spiced with lemon juice in which Skorzeny ritually washed his hands before retiring, reflecting his absolute abhorrence of dirt. Mentally, Pilier referred to it as the “Pontius Pilate” bowl.

“Thank you,” Skorzeny said, wiping his hands on the freshly laundered linen towel draped over Pilier's left forearm, which would go straight to the laundry service in the morning.

Pilier stood motionless as Skorzeny disappeared up the stairs. He had learned from experience not to move until he heard the music—you never knew when Skorzeny would poke his head out one last time with a request or an observation. What would it be tonight? What elegy to accompany Emanuel Skorzeny into slumber?

Sure enough, the voice wafted from above: “Do you remember who St. Bernard was, Monsieur Pilier?”

“Something to do with Clairvaux, sir?” hazarded Pilier, trying not to shout.

“The abbot of the great monastery, to be precise. In the twelfth century, the man who preached the Second Crusade in 1146. Friend to Saint Malachy, he of the apocalyptic prophecy of papal succession in 1139. Of the 111th Pope, Peter the Roman, and the revenge of the dragon.”

Pilier had no idea what he was talking about. When Skorzeny went off on one of these numerological tangents…

“Today, their successors will not even use the word, ‘crusade,' much less preach one. What do you call that, Monsieur Pilier?”

Pilier thought for a moment. Of course it was a trick question. They were all trick questions. “Prudence, sir?” he replied.

“Cowardice,” said Skorzeny, shutting the door again.

Silence for a moment, and then the music: the opening strains of the Elgar cello concerto, first movement. Skorzeny's taste was impeccable, as always.