The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (35 page)

Largo and Allison had not bothered going back to August’s cubicle. They went to the commissary for coffee and a long, thoughtful sit-down. The commissary was empty as workers either tried to fix the broken systems or waited impatiently at their stations for them to come back online.

This was one of the reasons Allison had invited the older Kealey down. One reason analysis isn’t over and done in a few weeks is it takes time and maybe an additional trauma or two to open patients up, to get them out of their own way. For Largo, a strong, proven, once-reliable rope had suddenly and unexpectedly played out. She didn’t know if it had been cruel to let that happen, to leave him standing alone and naked like that. She
did
know that Largo was a man not just rooted to the past but in many ways stuck there. Profound, youthful events not just shaped us but also limited us in many ways. For the first time in nearly seventy years this man was in terra incognita. She hit the playbook.

“What are you feeling right now?” she asked.

“Lonely,” Largo replied, his chin on his chest, his coffee untouched. “God damned alone.”

“Like in France?”

“Christ, no,” he said. “God, no. I had an army behind me. Several, in fact. I had a nation behind me—a couple of those, too. I had a girl at home.” He stopped, looked up. “A woman. Sorry. But she was my girl till the end.”

“It’s all right, Largo.”

“She never minded,” he smiled tearfully.

Though she usually kept a physical distance from her patients, Allison reached across the Formica tabletop and lay a hand on his. “You aren’t alone now, you know.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said. “The people I loved, the things I loved, all fell off the cliff ahead of me. Oh, that’s the nature of things. When you scratch at ninety years of age there isn’t going to be a whole lot of ‘the familiar’ around. But the things that are close to you tend to be things that came up behind you. You, Ryan—however much you care or learn to care it isn’t the same. This is a cold ledge. I don’t feel sorry for myself—I never have. I made it out of something that many of my friends and colleagues did not. Even when I was delivering milk and trying not to go on high alert with every unexpected noise, I never forgot to be grateful.”

“Survivor’s syndrome is natural.”

“That’s what they call it now, like shellshock became post-traumatic stress disorder and streetwalkers became sex workers. Pardon me again.”

“Not a problem.” She could see it in his eyes: he was back there, reliving the experience. Missing it.

“But I was
happy
to be alive and there was not a day that I didn’t thank God for giving us victory. The sacrifice had been necessary and it had been worth it. That was always my bottom line. What I just realized, though, is how my focus kept changing.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like those shots in movies where you move away from something but it gets closer,” Largo said. “I feel like the older I get, the more vivid my memories become. Not like they say it happens with dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever
that
is called now, where you can’t remember what you ate for lunch but you remember a shell you picked up on the beach when you were five. I mean I held onto the past because I knew it. Back there”—he jerked his head in the direction of the Streaming Intelligence wing—“Back there, I felt like one of those spacewalkers whose tether just got cut.”

Allison was about to turn him toward the future, not the past, when Largo’s phone beeped. He didn’t seem to hear it so she reached over and answered it for him. It was General Clarke.

“Allison? I’ve got Ryan on the other line. He wants to talk to his uncle. Is he there?”

“Just a minute,” she said, not hiding her relief that they found him. “How is Ryan?”

“Pretty good,” was all Clarke could tell her. “I’ve got to make this quick. Ryan, you there?”

“Here,” he said. “Uncle Largo? Allison?”

“We’re here,” Allison said.

“Hi, Allison. Can you bring a map of D.C. up on your phone?”

“Okay—”

“Uncle Largo, I am out of country and at odds with everyone from the President down over a very crucial matter.”

Allison said nothing as she went to MapQuest, only thought,
What else is new?

“I believe your device is on a private aircraft belonging to an international VIP, probably headed to Washington—”

The general interrupted, “Possibly via the harbor, if they stick to their flight plan.”

“Allison, you have the map?” Keely asked

“Right here.” She put the iPhone in front of Largo; he held it back a little to see.

“Assuming it remains on the aircraft, where on that map does the device get used?” Kealey asked.

“Not before they cross the border from Maryland into D.C.,” Largo said.

“Agreed,” Kealey said. “There’s a lot more publicity value actually being inside D.C., even if it’s just a few feet across the border.”

“Why would you assume they don’t offload it?” Clarke asked.

“Simple equation, risk versus reward,” Kealey said. “Customs is going to have a look at the aircraft before it enters the harbor proper. You can check their records, see where they’ve done it before. The terrorists can’t afford to risk eyes on their point man, who has been drawn into something he wasn’t expecting, hasn’t been trained for, and has just had a few hours to contemplate. Either he’s frightened or euphoric. Either way, he stands out.”

“If we’re talking old school, the enemy lets the agent aboard, keeps him there, and hauls ass for D.C.,” Largo said.

“Where the Harbor Patrol is waiting with heavy artillery to stop the pilot and choppers to take out the plane,” Clarke said.

“
After
the President is convinced, finally, that the plane is a danger,” Kealey said. “If we’re off by seconds, we’re too late.”

“And we don’t know how they may have this thing rigged,” Largo said.

“I was just getting to that,” Kealey said. “How’s your gut? Your sixth sense?”

“Haven’t had to use it for a while.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Allison said.

“Exactly,” Kealey said. “I don’t think the terrorists have had the time or resources to swap out the device or its inner workings. An X-ray apron was stolen, but that wouldn’t have bought them any kind of help. Someone died after being exposed to it. On top of which, the thing hasn’t sat still long enough and I don’t think it’s the kind of thing they’d monkey with on an airplane. Or it may have been too fragile to rewire. For all anyone knows, it may not even work.”

“In which case they still have the core,” Largo said. “That’s potent.”

“Especially if it’s riding the cloud of an IED meant to trigger the device,” Kealey said. “But we don’t know anything
except
that it is probably in the original lead container, which, as far as our readings tell us from the time it was sealed till now, is intact.”

“So you need me to be a customs agent and eyeball it,” Largo said.

“I need someone to get onboard and assess the situation,” Kealey said. “I doubt it will just be sitting in the luggage rack, but you can profile, you can sniff around, you’ll know if something is off.”

Largo didn’t breathe. It wasn’t that he couldn’t; he simply forgot to. This was madness.
But what, in war, is not
?

“And if he thinks there’s a problem?” Clarke asked.

“He puts the guy at ease, signals us that everything is A-OK—which it won’t be, of course—and that encourages the enemy to get closer to shore, buys us a few more minutes. We pull everything back to make sure they buy it—including Uncle Largo—and sharpshoot the terrorist before he can make his move.”

There was a short silence broken by Largo saying, “I can do that.”

“Your gut,” Kealey said. “This part is personal.
I
really need to know this.”

“Nephew, if that thing is onboard, I think I’ll know it.”

Clarke made a huffing sound. “No disrespect intended, gentlemen, but we are betting an ugly international incident at the very least, a city at the most, if you’re wrong about any part of this.”

“I know a rat when I see one,” Largo said, “and I followed that thing across a big chunk of continent. I had nightmares about it when I wasn’t on my feet. I killed to make sure it didn’t leave my sight. You’re talking to Captain Ahab here.”

Both Kealey and Allison laughed. Clarke did not.

“You remember how that story ended,” Clarke said.

“Yeah. The guy we called Ishmael lived to whale another day.”

“General, I’d rather be wrong than face the alternative,” Kealey told him. “Look, if Uncle Largo says the plane is clean I’ll agree that we can stand down. But we need eyes-on. You know that.”

“Right,” Clarke said. “Weapons?” he asked Largo.

“Wouldn’t want one,” he said. “You walk differently. Stronger.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Clarke asked. “You scare the terrorist into doing something suspicious?”

“Like detonating a bomb?” Largo said. “No. If he’s got something, if
he’s
armed, I’ll know what to do.”

Clarke sighed. “Allison?”

She looked at the man sitting across the table. She didn’t know exactly what the device was they were talking about, but she had gleaned from the conversation that it was potent enough to destroy the nation’s capital. This was bigger than making Largo Kealey feel good about himself, and useful, or revisiting his White Whale.

His hands were as steady as his gaze. He wasn’t asking for a chance. He wasn’t interested in doing his nephew a favor, any more than his nephew was off on a personal crusade to prove himself right and everyone else wrong. Again. What she had just heard was about country, about others.

“Sounds like a perfect fit,” she said.

Largo’s forehead dropped slightly as he acknowledged the evaluation he had just witnessed—witnessed carefully. The psychologist felt a tingle in her own gut, the thrill of seeing an old man’s instincts renew the man in whom they resided. For all her schooling, despite the abundance of theory, there was nothing like witnessing the right stimulus causing a perfect rebirth.

“I’ll talk to Carlson, find out who they’re using when they land,” Clarke said. “Allison, I suggest you two get over to the harbor—wait for my call.”

“If it doesn’t come, just knock the agent out and take his place,” Kealey said.

Largo replied, “As if you had to tell me.”

Clarke said, “Don’t. I’ll get the okay.”

Kealey told Clarke that the two embassy agents had a chopper waiting to take them to Rabat. He would be in touch again from a secure location, within the hour. Largo rose. He was still stooped, his shoulders rolled forward, his legs a little bowed. But his fingers were not drumming his thigh and his mouth was set, and he seemed younger than he had when they’d entered the room.

The terrorists would probably buy him as a seventy-something who was on the cusp of retirement. They would never see him for what he truly was: the kind of invaluable resource that had once helped save a nation and a world.

And could do so again.