Threatcon Delta (21 page)

“We need to get the Staff.” Kealey regarded Durst. “Will you help us?”

Phair felt the eyes of every Iraqi he had encountered, shared a meal with, spoke to, slept beside, burning into his soul and branding him a coward and a traitor to humanity. Phair didn’t like Durst, but at that moment he liked himself even less.

“They are people, not stupid dogs,” Phair said.

Durst and Kealey both looked at him. They suddenly seemed to have a common enemy. Incredibly, Durst’s expression seemed milder than that of Kealey.

“That is entirely beside any point,” Kealey said sternly.

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” Phair said.

“Herr Kealey, it is not necessary that the priest and I agree,” Durst said. “I am here, in this country, because my ideas are so unwelcome elsewhere. I learned that during the time I spent in Europe and then in Australia after the war. I don’t take offense. I don’t care, quite honestly, what others may think.” He put his palm on his chest. “I know to be true what is true.”

Phair looked from Kealey to Durst and then to Durst’s granddaughter, and remained silent.

Kealey said, “I apologize for my colleague’s remarks.”

Durst laughed. “You are a gentleman and, very clearly, a diplomat. Who
do
you work for?”

“An intelligence agency. That’s all I can tell you unless you agree to help me recover the Staff,” Kealey said.

“I will help you to stop the Arabs,” Durst said. “Jews are bad enough but at least they are educated. And neat, except for the bearded ones.”

“Thank you,” Kealey said.

Those two words caused bile to fill Phair’s throat. He had never felt like hitting someone, not even in Iraq. He felt the desire now. He was actually angrier at Kealey than he was at Durst. Kealey should know better.

“Mr. Durst,” Kealey said, “were there any records of your quest, any maps or reports or letters?”

“
Ja,
” he replied. “We sent pouches with top-secret maps and dispatches to Berlin. I knew the couriers. They were never intercepted.”

“Where in Berlin?” Kealey asked.

“Our office was part of Himmler’s complex at the Chancellery.”

“The Russians ate that place up,” Kealey said. “Your data could easily have fallen into their hands.”

Durst dismissed the notion with a wave of his finger. “The Soviets were interested in rockets and bombs, nothing more. I was held in a makeshift prison—in a church basement—by those godless peasants. I told them what I had done during the war. They were so disinterested in my work that they sent me to the Americans as a show of comradeship. I wasn’t worth feeding.”

“That doesn’t mean they didn’t read your reports.”

“Doubtless they did,” he agreed. “Some poor, underpaid drunk who probably thought our work was a joke and tossed the files in a fire rather than carry them to Moscow. They were more interested in carting spoils than research.”

“Assuming there’s no record,” Kealey said, “what can you tell us that will help our search?”

“Tell you?” he said. “Nothing. I will help by going with you abroad and taking you to the real Staff.”

Kealey and Carla both looked like they’d run into each other, their shoulders moving forward involuntarily.

“Sir—”

“Grandfather!”

“I wish to go. I insist upon it,” Durst said. “I once traveled the globe, going where I pleased, where I was needed, yet I have not left this country for longer than Carla’s mother has been alive. I will go to finish what we started, to collect items that will save the human race from
scheize.
”

Phair didn’t need a translator to know what that meant. Durst practically spat the word.

“I really don’t have time to debate it,” Kealey said.

“
Nein.
And—you will be going, will you not?” Durst asked Phair.

“I work in Washington—”

“He’ll be going,” Kealey said.

Phair glared at him.

“He’ll be going because this is more important than bruised egos or personal feelings,” Kealey said, glaring back.

“
Sehr gut,
” Durst said. “I am glad. I have not had such a stimulating friend in years.”

“I will go, too,” Carla announced.

Kealey shook his head once. “This is a clandestine operation, not a holiday—”

“Then you cannot afford to leave me here,” she told him. “I might slip and tell someone.” There was an implicit threat in her tone. “Besides, I will not let my grandfather go alone. That is out of the question.”

There was a scraping of metal and shouts from the street. A moment later a woman was apologizing in English. Men were yelling in Spanish. Phair heard the word
detención.

Kealey was already moving toward the side of the house. “Carla, would you come with me? I may need your help.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Yet.”

Carla followed, with Phair close behind.

So much for clandestine operations,
the cleric thought as he jogged along the slate path.

“W
hat are you doing?”

The monk flicked on a flashlight and approached Adjo from behind its thin but powerful beam. He was about thirty meters away. The young lieutenant shielded his eyes. He was effectively blind and had never felt so exposed.

“I was hungry, your grace, and the concession shacks are all closed down,” Adjo said.

“That does not give you the right to steal our fruit or prowl about in our garden!”

The monk was ten meters off now. Adjo could see his feet and he was approaching along the wall with swift, long-legged strides. Adjo was bowing from the neck, his arms across his chest, a portrait of supplication. He supposed he could run without being fired upon, but that wasn’t what he came to accomplish. Now that he was convinced this was no monk, he needed to know more.

Adjo took a quick, furtive look at the top of the wall. His face was overwrought, twisted with fear, as though he were imploring God to save him. That was all for show. His panicked, searching eyes scanned the summit. No one was there. His fingers splayed in front of his eyes and he looked past the flashlight. No one was coming around the corner.

Adjo was startled back to the moment when the man grabbed his right shoulder. Adjo immediately slapped his own hands on top of the man’s hand to keep it there. Simultaneously he twisted his torso and snaked his right leg around the outside of the man’s right leg. He hooked his heel hard into the back of the man’s knee joint. The impact bent the knee forward. Then Adjo stepped down hard on the back of the man’s lower leg. The man dropped to that side. At the same time Adjo twisted the man’s hand so it was palm-up, causing him pain. He grunted but it was all happening too fast for him to realize he should be shouting. Adjo’s control of the man’s hand allowed him to swing the man around as he fell. The lieutenant dropped him hard on his back on the stone path and swung himself in an arc so that he ended up behind and on top of the man. Adjo drove a hard knee into his chest to knock his breath away and prevent the coming, belated scream. He also broke two or three of the man’s ribs, causing him to suck air back painfully. By that time, though, Adjo had slapped his left hand on the man’s mouth, simultaneously pinching his nostrils shut. While the man struggled weakly for air, Adjo hauled out the man’s gun with his right hand. It was an MPT-9K submachine gun.

It was Iranian, but that told him nothing. Tehran sold arms to countless local militia, whatever their affiliation. Anything to destabilize the region, allowing them to be an anchor.

His knee pinning the man like a butterfly, Adjo felt for additional magazines. He found two in a pouch and took them. Then he shoved the barrel of the gun into the man’s ear. He removed his left hand, allowing the man to breathe.

“There is a saying where I trained,” Adjo said. “ ‘The man who turns a gun on an unarmed man is cocky. The man who takes that gun should not make the same mistake. ’ Help me and live. Defy me and die.”

“Shoot me and others will come!”

“Nine hundred rounds per minute can do a lot of damage,” Adjo growled. “And it will force the MFO to shut down the region.”

“
Allah Akbar!
” the man shouted.

That was not what the young lieutenant wanted to hear. This man was willing to die. Further interrogation would be pointless and allowing him to go would be deadly.

Adjo couldn’t shoot him. He set the gun down, grabbed the man’s hair, and slammed his head hard on the stone path. The man grunted thickly. There was a crack as Adjo brought the man’s head down a second time. The man wasn’t unconscious, but he was dazed. Adjo rose and dragged him against the wall. He was in this now, up to his chin, and the clock was ticking. He searched the man for ID, found none, then picked up the gun and hurried in the direction from which the man had come. He also tucked the flashlight under his arm.

The gate was ajar. The man obviously hadn’t expected to be out for very long. Adjo crouched. Swinging the flashlight inside, he took a picture of the interior of the monastery with his cell phone.

“Darius?”

“Yes!” Adjo replied.

“Okay,” said the other.

Adjo was glad he’d used the flashlight and not the flash. He glanced at the picture. It was dark but he could see enough to make out one monk standing by the door where he’d been shot at, outside St. Stephen’s Chapel. Otherwise, the narrow streets were empty. Taking several quick, shallow breaths to get his adrenaline flowing, Adjo ducked around the gate, making for the first hiding place he saw: a stairwell to his right leading down. He didn’t know where it led, but unless someone was on the wall they wouldn’t be able to see him. He stopped on the fifth step down, his eyes at street level. After studying what he could see of the compound, he went down two more steps and called Lieutenant General Samra.

“You disobeyed orders,” Samra said angrily.

“I showed initiative,” Adjo said.

The lieutenant was annoyed by his superior’s attitude even though he understood it. Samra would have to explain this to the minister of defense, who had to keep the MFO from finding out lest they be cited by the United Nations for infracting the Territorial Jurisdiction Agreement of 1998. Still, this situation seemed more potentially dangerous than that.

“In any case, I am here now,” Adjo said, “where the problem lies.”

“What’s your plan?” Samra asked.

Adjo used the light of the cell phone to check the small tourist map he carried. “I’m on the stairs leading down to St. Stephen’s Well. Everyone seems to be coming and going from St. Stephen’s Chapel. I need to get inside.”

“How?”

“There’s a guard in a robe,” Adjo said. “I need to take him out and then take his place.”

“The man who came after you—did you take his robe?”

“No,” Adjo said. “His clothes were white. I felt the black robe would help to conceal him if anyone went looking.”

Samra was silent for a second. “All right. Check in when you can. I’ve just learned there is an American team investigating this matter from another direction. I may have information.”

Adjo acknowledged and clicked off. He quietly ascended two steps, intending to watch the road he could see and pick his way over to the chapel, moving wall by wall, shadow by shadow.

A moment later—earlier than he would have liked—he heard shouts from a window overlooking the garden. Someone had spotted the unconscious body of the false monk. Adjo was about to make a bolt for the chapel to find out what was in there when that plan was rendered moot. Men dressed as clergy came rushing from the chapel, holding automatic weapons.

Adjo ducked back below street level. He moved so fast that he lost his footing on the well-worn stones and thumped down several steps, landing ungracefully on one knee at the bottom. The other was in the air, with the rest of his leg; he was leaning forward on both hands. Breathing as shallowly as he could, he lowered his leg and waited, pushing aside the many throbbing pains, listening to see whether anyone had heard him. Adjo felt around for the flashlight, which had clattered from his pocket as he fell. He found it just ahead and wrapped his fingers around it. Incongruously, he had a flashback to his days as a fresh recruit, racing against his fellow cadets. He was literally in a sprinter’s position, baton in hand. He hoped the muscle memory was there as well.

For a few seconds, he couldn’t tell whether it was his heart throbbing in his ears or footsteps pounding in his direction. Someone had to have heard him fall—

He couldn’t see much in the dark. There were low arches to his right, an open, musty area to his left, and a dark corridor ahead.

Lights came on. A string of naked bulbs trailed from his position, disappearing behind a bend.

Of course there would be lights down here,
Adjo told himself. He hadn’t suddenly slipped into the sixth century.

He looked back and saw a monk. The man was carrying the same weapon as Adjo. There was a radio on his left hip. Adjo was completely exposed.

The Task Force lieutenant didn’t think the I’m-justa-goatherd gambit would work. Not with him on the inside and an unconscious guard on the outside. That left just three options: fight, surrender, or one other.

With no time to waste, he took the third option.

K
ealey hurried toward the front of the house, followed by Carla and Phair. He slowed at the corner of the house to see what was happening. The police were in an argument with the woman with the bicycle. She had obviously collided with one of them as they crossed the street.

“Are they here for us?” Phair asked, sidling up to Kealey.

“Probably, or our friend there wouldn’t have hit them to get our attention,” Kealey said.

One of the officers glanced over at the house. He saw the two Americans.

“He wants you to stay where you are,” Carla said from behind the two men.

“We don’t have much choice,” Kealey said. Phair had heard him happy and angry but never openly annoyed.

“Are you here legally?” the woman asked.

“With papers to prove it,” Kealey said.

“Then why are they here?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

Apparently, they had been watching them—either before or after the hotel meeting, Phair guessed. Were they checking on every American who entered the country? Or just those who met someone in a hotel lobby? That was improbable, but he couldn’t think of where else they might have been discovered.

“
¿Es usted James Phair?
” the officer asked as he neared.

“What do I tell him?” Phair whispered to Kealey.

“The truth.”

“Yes!” Phair called out, smiling and raising his hand. “
¡Si!
”

The officer unbuttoned the flap on his holster. “
¡Salido donde puedo verle!
”

“He wants you to come out where he can see you,” Carla said.

“Now what?” Phair asked anxiously. He hadn’t felt this fearful since his earliest days with the army in Iraq.

“You must have showed up on some kind of watch list,” Kealey told the cleric.

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Kealey said. “Go to him.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go with you.”

“Won’t that tick them off?”

“Just go.”

Raising his hands, Phair walked onto the front lawn. Kealey followed a long pace behind. He was watching the bicyclist. She stood on the far side of the street as the officer came over to join his partner.

There were sirens in the distance.

“Backup,” Kealey speculated as they grew louder.

“We haven’t done anything,” Phair said. “What can they do to us?”

“Whatever they want,” Kealey said. “This isn’t America. At least we know these aren’t the efforts of our protector, or else they would have come after me.”

A van tore around the corner so quickly that it reached the front of the house even as the police were turning to see where the screeching tires had come from. Two men in black trousers, black sweaters, and black baseball caps jumped from the back of the vehicle. They were holding AK-47s and trained them on the two suddenly motionless Venezuelan officers.

The driver’s window had come down. “Let’s go!” the driver shouted at Phair and Kealey.

It was Aguirre. Kealey turned to Carla. Her grandfather was just arriving from inside the house. Kealey looked at him.

“Will you come with us, sir?” Kealey asked. “We don’t have much time—”

“You have none,” Durst suggested.

He was right. Two police cars sped around the same corner as the van.

“We’re coming,” Durst said, after exchanging a look and a smile of thanks with his granddaughter.

Kealey stepped aside so the two could go ahead. Durst paused by the gate and positioned himself in front of the camera. Kealey watched impatiently as Durst waved his hands in front of his chest in an “I’m going” gesture, then raised both his thumbs and grinned. Having left his message that he was leaving voluntarily—presumably for Ricardo Ramirez, which reduced Kealey’s irritation—Durst ran toward the van with the others. He even managed to mount some speed. Kealey waited and fell in behind him but he needed no help.

When they were all inside the van, the gunmen and bicyclist jumped in the back and Aguirre sped off.

Kealey turned to the embassy personnel. He thanked them for their assistance, then asked, “How did this happen?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Aguirre said. “They couldn’t have organized a tail after our meeting. There wasn’t enough time.”

“They asked for me by name,” Phair said, shaking his head. “It must have to do with Iraq.”

“Did you have anything to do with terrorist organizations or oil companies over there?” Aguirre asked.

Phair continued to shake his head. “Not that I’m aware. But it isn’t like they wear name tags or badges.”

“We can figure that out later,” Kealey said. He turned to Durst. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Herr Kealey, I trust no one except my family,” he said frankly. “But I have been waiting years for a reason to go from here. I did not want to miss this.”

“I am curious about something,” Carla said. “This van—it was waiting nearby, yes?”

No one answered.

“I see,” she said. “Would you have taken my grandfather had we declined your invitation?”

“It was an option,” Kealey admitted.

Carla did not seem pleased with the answer. “Thank you, at least, for not insulting my intelligence,” she replied icily.

She looked away, her face stone. Durst did not seem upset, and Kealey didn’t appear to care whether or not they were offended. As Phair had noted before, Kealey could be cold, too.

Kealey looked at Durst, who was sitting between himself and Phair. “What were you doing inside the house?” Kealey asked.

“I was getting our passports,” Durst replied. “If we elected to join you, I thought we might need them.”

“You won’t, but I like the way you think,” Kealey said.

“When you run from people, you learn to do it with your documents handy,” Durst said.

Carla was sitting opposite her grandfather. As she looked through the dark windows behind him she said warily, “This is not the way to your embassy.”

“No,” Aguirre responded. “The police are not stupid. They may think to intercept us.”

“It is not the way to the airport, either,” she said. “Where are you taking us?”

Aguirre replied, “To your stateroom on the USS
Liberty Bell.
”