He left Kane to “wonder” what was going on, not bothering to translate, and the men to take their pick of the clothes, Kane thankful that soon the stench that filled the cramped room would be lessened as weeks of sweat, grime, shit, spit and every other lovely excretion caked on their bodies would be washed away.

  Somebody is going to have to burn these clothes.

  He closed his eyes.

  And fumigate the room.

  28

  Traiskirchen Refugee Camp, Austria

  Alexis Morrison read the number on the side of the tent then tapped her foot on the piece of wood at the entranceway, meant to give them something dry to step on should the ground turn into a mud pit as it had in some places.

  “I’m looking for Amira Shadid.”

  A woman’s head poked out, her face etched with fear, the wide eyes and pink cheeks suggesting to Alexis’ untrained eye the woman was certainly scared of something, but then, everyone here was probably terrified of being sent back.

  “Are you Amira Shadid?”

  The woman nodded, stepping out of the tent, two little girls, on their hands and knees, sticking their heads out. Alexis smiled at them and gave them a little wave. “Hello!” They disappeared instantly. She looked at Amira. “My name is Alexis Morrison, I’m one of the volunteers here. You told one of my colleagues something that I would like to talk to you further about.”

  Amira went ghost white. “Not here,” she hissed.

  Alexis was prepared for this. “Oh, if you want to talk about the special nutritional requirements your daughter has, we can do that in private. Follow me.”

  The woman’s eyes flared for a second then narrowed, a slight smile of relief pulling at the corners of her mouth as she clearly understood the ruse. She poked her head in the tent and told someone inside that she’d be gone a few minutes and to please watch the children. They walked in silence for several minutes before reaching the cordoned off section separating the refugees from the no-go area of the volunteers. This small area allowed them to interact with the refugees in private, away from prying eyes and ears.

  Alexis stepped inside the tent, several lamps on, it already late evening, and motioned for Amira to sit in one of the chairs, she taking the other. She put her tablet computer on the table in front of her along with a notepad and pen.

  “You know why we’re here?”

  Amira nodded, hesitantly. “About my husband. About who killed him.”

  “Yes. Please, tell me everything.”

  The story laid out before her was heartbreaking, terrifying, inspiring. It was the story of a courageous woman who had taken charge and saved her children after suffering an unimaginable loss and untold horrors and trials along the way. It was the story of not only the physical dangers of the journey, but the mental anguish of being forced to relive the horrors of that fateful night that had changed her life forever as she realized the very men that had committed the foul deed were among those she was traveling with.

  And she believed every word of it. From the kind white man to the murder of the Christians.

  Every word.

  Yet her belief meant nothing.

  She needed proof.

  She needed something verifiable.

  “Would you recognize them?”

  Amira nodded. “One of them, yes. The other, only his hand.”

  There’s thousands. Tens of thousands. Millions!

  Flipping through unfiltered pictures of the refugees would be a complete waste of time, and that was assuming these men had even been processed. If they were indeed terrorists, they most likely would have tried to avoid it.

  So a face couldn’t verify her story.

  She smiled, realizing what she needed.

  “When did your husband die? You said it was during an air raid?”

  Amira nodded and gave her a date. An exact date.

  Alexis’ eyes narrowed. “Do you even know what day it is today?”

  Amira shook her head.

  “Then how do you know what date your husband died?”

  “I may not know what day it is today, but I will never forget the day my husband died.”

  Alexis nodded, the woman’s words ringing true.

  How could anyone forget?

  She quickly wrote her contact info on the pad and tore off the sheet, handing it to Amira.

  “Whatever you do, don’t leave the camp without contacting me first, understood?”

  The woman nodded, her hands shaking as she reached for the paper. “I-I won’t.”

  Alexis led her back into the camp, directing her toward her tent, before returning to the segregated area.

  Now to talk to Dad.

  29

  Morrison Residence, River Oaks Drive, McLean, Virginia

  Leif Morrison took a sip of his scotch, his eyebrows popping in surprise. Kane had somehow bypassed all of his security and left the bottle, with a card, on the antique mahogany desk in his den months ago as a thank you for his assistance with the Chinese national, Lee Fang.

  And tonight he had decided he would open it in his honor, his agent missing now for weeks and, he feared, very much dead.

  Fantastic!

  He picked up the bottle, reading the label.

  Glen Breton Ice.

  Nova Scotia?

  “Huh.”

  His wife Cheryl looked over at him, resting her Kindle on her lap. “What is it dear? Something wrong?”

  He shook his head, returning the bottle to the end table. “No, but Scotland better start to worry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Scotch talk, dear.”

  “Tuning out.” She glanced at the television, CNN on low, a report on the crisis in Europe playing. “What do you think of this?”

  He glanced at the screen, savoring another sip. He swallowed. “You don’t want to know.”

  “That bad?”

  “Potentially.” He sighed. “The news isn’t getting vetted properly. Look at what happened in Canada. A politician blamed the government for the death of that little Syrian boy. Turns out it was all lies. The family had never made a refugee claim yet the press ran with it including the New York Times. Now the truth is starting to come out, and the more reports that come across my desk, the more I realize my cynical nature is probably guiding me in the right direction on this one.” He motioned toward the screen, the ice in his glass clinking. “Like this guy getting off the bus. Why is he hiding his face from the cameras. Something like that makes no sense to me.”

  “Maybe you should check him out?”

  Morrison chuckled. “Believe me, dear, every single scrap of footage we can get our hands on is being analyzed. That guy will be singled out.” He took another sip. “And now the press is finally starting to report on some of the things that have come across my desk, like refugees rioting, some carrying ISIL flags, an Austrian woman being dragged out of her car and assaulted, food being turned down because it was from a Christian group. Christ, hon, you’d have to be a fool to let this go unchecked.”

  The phone rang, cutting off his rant.

  Cheryl read the call display. “It’s Alexis!” She grabbed the phone from its charging station and answered. “Hello, honey, how are you? Is everything okay?”

  A few moments of quick pleasantries were exchanged before a look of disappointment crossed his wife’s face. “She wants to talk to you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is it my birthday?”

  “Ha ha. Enjoy it while you can.”

  He took the phone, giving his wife a wink. “Hiya, kiddo, want to talk to the old man, huh?”

  “Hey Dad, can you find out if there was an airstrike at a specific date and time in a specific location?”

  Morrison put his drink down.

  “You’ve got my attention.”

  30

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “The meatloaf isn’t bad today.”

  Leroux glanced at Sherrie White’s plate. “Looks like just the right amount of burn on it.”

  Sherrie nodded, stabbing the block of ground meat with her fork. “That’s the key. A little crispy on the outside, moist and juicy on the inside.” She stuck another bite in her mouth and chewed. “Or I’m just craving good ole American food.”

  “How’s the training going?”

  “If someone had told me that I’d need to learn how to identify and enjoy pretty much every food and drink from around the world, I might have thought twice about taking the job. Do you know that I ate actual scorpions today?”

  Leroux covered his mouth, his stomach churning. “How about we skip the dirty talk.”

  Sherrie beamed a smile at him, reaching over and patting his hand. “You okay, dear?”

  He smiled at her, taking a drink of water. “I’ll live. I’m just glad this mac and cheese is fairly bland.”

  Sherrie pushed the salt and pepper shakers toward him. “I’m always telling you that you need to add seasoning.”

  Leroux eyed the shakers. “I always thought it was an insult to the chef to do that.”

  Sherrie laughed. “Yeah, Chef Ramsey will bite your head off and teach you a few new swearwords, but here, I think you’re safe.”

  “Uh huh.” He shook on some salt.

  “Don’t forget the pepper.”

  He gave her a look. Then shook some on. He shoved his fork into the mass and swirled it around a bit then took a bite, nodding in appreciation.

  “See, told you.”

  “Right as usual.”

  “Never forget it.” Sherrie leaned back, patting her impossibly flat stomach. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Already?”

  “Hey, I’ve been eating all day. This was just a palette cleanser.”

  “What are you eating tomorrow?”

  “The delicacies of Mother Russia.”

  “Ahh, borscht and vodka.”

  Sherrie smiled. “What the hell is borscht anyway?”

  “Something pickled, I think. I think they pickle everything over there.”

  “Including their livers.”

  Leroux snorted in mid chew, grabbing for his napkin. He swallowed. “In America, you eat food. In Soviet Russia, food eats you?”

  “Oh, don’t get me started on the Soviet Russia jokes. Yakov Smirnoff is like required viewing.” She checked her watch. “Do you want me to wait up for you?” She leaned forward. “Maybe I can ‘welcome’ you home?”

  Leroux flushed, nearly dropping his fork as he felt a shoeless foot run up his leg. He looked around, the crowd light at this time of night, but the fine dining table cloths that might hide her game of footsies were nowhere to be found at this CIA cafeteria.

  He cleared his throat, reaching down and blocking her foot.

  She appeared hurt.

  “You’re going to get us in trouble,” he hissed.

  She bit her finger. “But it’d be worth it.”

  “It would be, but then we’d both be unemployed, I wouldn’t be allowed to violate people’s privacy, and you wouldn’t be allowed to kill them for what I found. And what fun would that be?”

  Her foot dropped as she laughed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Okay, you’re right, life would be boring.” She tapped her watch. “So, am I waiting up for you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t know when I’m coming home. We’re processing so much footage trying to identify possible terrorists, everyone is working overtime.”

  “How’s it looking?”

  “Let’s just say, disturbing. We’re getting dozens of hits. There’s no doubt there’s infiltrators.”

  “And what’s being done about it?”

  Leroux swallowed another bite of his mac and cheese then wiped the corners of his mouth. “We pass it up the chain and I assume it gets shared with the Five Eyes but I don’t know. It might explain why those countries have been reluctant to admit the refugees too quickly, and with the agreements signed between the intelligence agencies, they can’t release that data so their public is in the dark.”

  “Might help wake up some people if they knew the truth.”

  “True, but it would also tip off the terrorists that we know they’re coming. I can only hope someone is trying to round them up, quietly.”

  His phone danced across the table and he read the message, sighing. “Chief wants me.”

  Sherrie pushed her almost untouched meal back a few inches. “I guess you better go then.”

  He rose and leaned over, giving her a kiss. “Love you.”

  “Love you too,” she replied, smacking his ass as he turned to bus their trays.

  One of his junior staff members, Randy Child, grinned at him and Leroux flushed.

  Why oh why did it have to be him that saw that?

  31

  Traiskirchen Refugee Camp, Austria

  Alexis awoke with a start, bolting upright in her cot as she tried to figure out what woke her. Her boob vibrated. She reached in and grabbed the phone, it a trick she had read somewhere—where she couldn’t remember—to keep your phone safe from being stolen in shared accommodations, and to wake you if you were expecting an important call.

  It definitely worked.

  She eagerly swiped the display, the caller ID indicating it was her father.

  “Hi Dad, just a second.” She slipped on a robe and some flip-flops then quickly exited the sleeping quarters. “Okay, I can talk. Did you find out anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. How are you?” she asked with an exaggerated cheerfulness.

  Her father laughed, it a sound she missed terribly since being stuck here. The living conditions were miserable, though tolerable compared to what the refugees were living with, but sacrificing the comforts of home was tough, especially for someone who had grown up quite well off. They weren’t rich, though they weren’t hurting by any means, her father’s various jobs paying quite well over the years, as had her mother’s.

  “I’m okay, and you?”

  She surveyed the camp, the morning sun just making its presence known on the horizon. “Almost ready to tackle a new day.”

  “Sorry for calling you so early, but I’m in meetings all day tomorrow so I figured I’d pass this on right away.”

  She glanced at her phone. “Isn’t it almost midnight there?”

  “You know me, I never go to bed early.”

  “Uh huh. What did you find?”

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but yes, there was an airstrike at the location you provided. It wasn’t us, it was the Russians, which is the only reason I’m telling you this because we only classify our own missions.”

  Alexis sighed, relieved. “So she’s telling the truth.”

  “Don’t be so hasty. Never take what a desperate person says at face value. She could be telling the truth, but she could also be lying. But I’ll tell you this, if there’s any chance she is telling the truth, we need to find these men. They’re hardcore. We’re going to need specifics on where and when she saw them and what they look like. You up for the job?”

  A flush of pride swept through her, goosebumps raising every hair on her body as she realized her father was asking for her help. It was as if with that one, simple question, he had shown her he was proud of her, that he had confidence in her.

  That he finally thought of her as an adult.

  “Absolutely.”

  32

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Chris Leroux pinched the bridge of his nose, his tired eyes closed, the Sandman still doing a number under his eyelids. He hadn’t left until three last night, and then he had been paged to return only hours later, there a priority tasking Director Morrison wanted his team to handle.

  “Any luck?”

  Leroux flinched in his chair, uncertain of whether he had fallen asleep, the sound of his boss standing directly behind him shocking him wide-awake, his desperate desire for a Red Bull a fading memory, it no longer needed.

  “S-sorry, sir. Umm, I really hope I wasn’t asleep.”

  Morrison laughed, taking a spare chair beside him. “Never admit to your boss that you might have been sleeping. Just say you were thinking about something work related.”

  Leroux smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, that would probably have been smarter.”

  Morrison winked. “That’s why you’re here and not in the field.”

  Leroux grunted. “I think there’s a few more reasons.” He nodded toward the photos flipping by on several monitors spanning the front of the operations center. “We’ve found a few hits around the timeframes your daughter reported and we’re pulling hundreds of faces, but the witness isn’t sure of her dates and times, so it’s proving to be a larger dataset than we’d like—we haven’t even found her yet. And that doesn’t mean we haven’t seen her. If she wasn’t looking in the direction of a camera, or her face was covered, we’ve got nothing to work with. We’re sending everything over in real-time to Austria but there haven’t been any hits reported back yet.” He sighed. “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Found her!”

  Morrison smiled at Leroux. “I guess your team was just waiting for me to arrive.”

  Leroux flushed, still not used to having a boss who joked around. They both rose and walked over to Marc Therrien’s station. “What have you got?” asked Morrison.

  Therrien pointed at the main screen, video footage of a woman boarding a bus with two children playing, facial recognition points mapped and compared to the digital photo taken by Morrison’s daughter earlier. “It’s a match. We now have a date and time to work with.”

  “Excellent work,” said Leroux. “Send this to Austria, let’s see if our witness can spot any of the men she reported seeing.”

  33

 

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