Countdown, p.3
Countdown, page 3
On the wood-paneled walls in his office Horace has a portrait of the Queen right after her coronation in 1953; a photo of Winnie standing among London bomb damage in 1940; and a framed photo of his younger self, standing on a balcony at some long-forgotten reception in Nairobi in the late 1960s. A representation of what was important in his life, and what was important to remember in his line of work.
There is a soft knock on the door. Horace calls out, “Enter!” and his assistant, Declan Ainsworth, comes in, wearing a frown on his plain yet schoolboyish face, even though the lad is approaching forty.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” he says in a soft voice, “but it appears there’s been a bit of a muck-up with our Detachment Four.”
Declan is dressed in a dull gray Gieves & Hawkes suit with a white cuffed shirt and a striped Magdalen College necktie. His hair is brown, trimmed short, and he wears gold-rimmed spectacles. At an office party last year, one of his section’s secretaries said Horace and Declan looked so similar that they could be father and son, which had shocked him, true as it was.
“Oh, damn,” he says softly. “And how did this wonderful news reach us?”
“Through a listening station General Communications has on Cyprus.”
“I see.”
With Declan standing there expectantly, Horace thinks through a variety of questions and decides to start basic.
“What was their mission again?” he asks.
“Jeremy Windsor and another detachment member were paired with a CIA sniper squad. The one led by a woman.”
“Ah, yes, that woman. Go on.”
“They were sent into the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, northeast, near the Syrian border,” Declan says. “Their mission was to terminate two Abu Sayyaf leaders traveling into Syria for a meeting.”
“Was the mission a success?”
Declan nods. “Quite. Both men were removed from the board. The problem came later: as the teams were deploying to be retrieved, Jeremy and the other chap”—Declan looks at a sheet of paper— “Oliver Davies, were captured by local militiamen. We don’t know the status of our chaps or who the militiamen were.”
Horace thinks, Well done, Jeremy. Well done.
“I see. The Americans?”
“Well, sir, this is where it gets odd. Their transport out was from their Army’s aviation unit, the 160th Air Regiment. But they didn’t board the helicopter. They stayed behind.”
Damn, he thinks. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Horace stares at Declan for a moment, puzzling things out. His office is old-fashioned in many ways, with the only concession to modern times being the computer terminal and the keyboard below it. He rarely uses computers—doesn’t trust them at all.
He still relies on paper, and on human contact such as this little session with Declan. Among the reasons he distrusts computers is that they never delete anything permanently. But paper can be burned, shredded, altered, and conversations like this one can be forgotten, or misinterpreted, or even denied.
He says, “Well, that is an odd little development, isn’t it? The Americans chose not to leave?”
Horace goes through his files, finds the one he wants. “This Amy Cornwall, a former Army captain. In military intelligence. Before she started working for our cousins, she was involved in a cross-country quest of sorts, trying to save her husband and daughter. Along the way she shot and killed at least four, possibly more, gunmen from a Mexican drug cartel.”
He closes the folder, looks up at Declan over his reading glasses. “I believe what happened is the American cowboy mentality came up at the right moment. Cavalry riding in to rescue the threatened Old West settlers, that sort of thing.”
And he thinks, That bloody woman—why didn’t she go into that helicopter like she was ordered?
Declan says nothing, and Horace sighs. “Please keep me advised on Jeremy and Oliver—and on the Americans. Remember, at the end of the day, two bad men from the Philippines have been removed. That mean hundreds of innocent Filipino civilians will live to see another day.”
Declan nods and Horace adds, “You may see yourself out, Declan. I have a meeting with ‘C’ in an hour, which means I shortly need to be on the A10.”
Declan backs to the door and says, “One more thing, sir?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Langley,” he says. “I’m sure that once the sun rises on their East Coast, you’ll be getting a call from your counterpart.”
“I imagine I will,” Horace says. “When that happens, do tell the nice man from Langley that I’m unavailable.”
Declan looks a bit shocked.
“You don’t want to talk to the CIA?”
Horace returns to his paperwork. “Dear me, no.”
Chapter 7
FROM HIS good eye—the one not swollen shut and oozing blood—Jeremy sees it’s around noon when he and Ollie are dragged out to a small courtyard next to the building where they are being held. The two of them are kicked, pushed, and slapped, and his muscle memory remembers the previous time he was captured by locals, outside Mogadishu.
He’s hoping this capture has a similar outcome, for eventually he was released, though it had gotten quite dicey at times.
The overhead sun is hot and the courtyard is dusty, and Jeremy tries to take everything in, looking at Ollie (bloody but still conscious), the gunmen (still chatting and laughing), and the building wall up ahead.
A light green piece of tarp has been hammered into the stone and wood.
Not good.
He’s prodded along with AK-47 stocks. One of the gunmen opens a long, zippered pouch, takes out a tripod and a video camera, and expertly sets them up. He and Oliver are pushed to their knees, side by side.
Ollie whispers, “What’s up, Jer?”
“Looks like we’re about to star in our own flick,” he whispers back. “Lucky us.”
But Jeremy knows better. In the standard hostage taping, there’s always a flag or a banner in the background, proclaiming the group, militia, or movement that’s responsible for the capture.
Yet there’s no flag or banner. Just a plain tarp.
What happens next will be the message, not the words on any flag or banner.
“Hey!” he yells out to Farez, the bearded militia leader. “My government will pay a handsome ransom for us! No dickering! No negotiating! Just name your price.”
The leader comes over, still laughing, and kicks Jeremy in the side. He groans and grits his teeth, but manages to stay upright. A small victory—perhaps his last.
Farez draws back, spits on the ground. “As if we’d take your British filthy money.”
He turns and barks out an order, and the older, heavier man wearing the black robe and black kaffiyeh ambles forward, carrying a small, rolled-up carpet. He bends down, gets on his knees, and unwraps the carpet.
There’s more laughter and applause as the object in the rug is revealed.
A curved sword.
The man coughs and tries to get up, and two of the militiamen rush to help him up by his arms. He holds the sword up to the sun, its sharp edge bright indeed, and the yells and chants grow louder. This is why Britain and America are in the fight of their lives, Jeremy thinks. How can one defeat or reason with a movement consumed with such bloodlust? If only those in Westminster and Fleet Street could understand this.
“Jer…”
“Hold on, Ollie, hold on.”
He yells again, in Arabic, “You proud fighters, you poor men of God, release me and my friend, and you will be rewarded—”
The swordsman comes forward, a militiaman pushes Ollie farther to the dirt, and in one heavy slice it’s over. A heavy thump as Oliver’s head strikes the ground, spraying the right side of Jeremy’s face with his friend’s arterial blood.
Now it’s hard to see what’s going on.
Strong hands are on his back.
He knows it’s his turn now.
It was bound to come, here or in any other place Queen and Country sent him. But if Jeremy feels one regret, it’s that there’s so much left to live, so much left to do, so many who deserve to be killed by his hands.
The swordsman bends down, wipes the blade clean on the back of Ollie’s jacket, and Jeremy’s anger and fury are cold and steady.
For as long as it will last.
The swordsman comes back, looking down at Jeremy, familiar brown eyes lit bright with pleasure and determination.
Then, a surprise that almost makes Jeremy gasp aloud.
In clear, Oxford-accented English, the swordsman says in a strong voice:
“You should have stayed home, Jeremy.”
The sword goes up, up, and up, but Jeremy refuses to lower his eyes. And so he is able to see and hear what happens next.
The sharp ting of metal striking metal, and the sword flying out of the man’s hands.
Chapter 8
I’M RACING as hard as I can, what gear I need bouncing around my waist and back, and Santiago is right next to me as we approach the low courtyard. From behind I hear the sharp, flat snap of Jordan taking his first shot. He typically shoots with a sound suppressor, but not now.
I want the knot of gunmen before us to frighten and scatter, and they do. Santiago and I kneel in front of the low, stone wall, and it’s over in a manner of seconds, the gunmen holding up their weapons and spraying round after round in our direction, the recoil kicking back and making the bullets whistle over our heads.
But Santiago and I keep low, keep our cool, and in careful, three-round bursts, we kill them all.
“Cover,” I say to Santiago. I go through the open wooden gate and run over to Jeremy, who’s struggling to get up. His clothes are torn, dusty, bloody. His face is also bloody and one eye is nearly swollen shut. I kneel down, withdraw my Ka-Bar knife, and cut the ropes around his ankles. He kicks free and stands up, sticks his wrists out from the rear.
“I’m cuffed,” he says. “That big chap over there missing the back of his head, he was the leader. The handcuff keys might be with him.”
I go over to the dead man, work my way through his pockets, find a small key with a long piece of colored rope attached. I return to Jeremy and use the key, and with the sound of the lock unclicking, he bursts his arms free and says, “The swordsman. Where is he?”
I look at the four bodies sprawled in the small courtyard. Santiago is still on the other side of the wall, keeping watch. A shape jogs into view—Jordan carrying his Remington rifle—and I wave at him and he comes through the gate.
I point to the building behind us. “Up you go.”
He nods, says to Jeremy, “Sorry I was late.”
“Did your best,” Jeremy replies, then says to me again: “Where’s the swordsman? The man who killed Ollie?”
I say, “Isn’t he here?”
Jeremy says, “No. The bastard was dressed in a black robe and scarf. Older and heavier. He’s not here.”
I give the four sprawled corpses one quick glance and say, “He must have run off when the shooting started. There was lots of movement here. Confusing. You know how it is.”
“Damn.” He calls up to Jordan, who’s taken position on the roof. “Any movement?”
“Just the goats.”
“Damn the goats,” Jeremy says.
I say, “We need to get moving. Santiago!”
I wave him over and he comes through the gate, and I say, “Santiago, look through the farmhouse, see if there’s anything of value.”
“I’ll go along as well,” Jeremy says, staring at the body of his spotter. “I want to see if my kit is in there, along with my weapon.”
They go through the near door and I call up to the form on the roof. “Jordan? Still clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“Good.”
I don’t bother telling him to warn us if something approaches. He’s a pro, like the rest of us, and knows his job.
As do I.
The killing part of this mission is over. Now it’s time for intelligence gathering, and then ass hauling.
Jeremy finds his kit and Ollie’s as well, dumped in a corner next to some tables and low beds. Most of their gear is smashed, but at least his CIA-issued H&K MP5 submachine gun and four 40-round magazines are in one piece. He goes through Ollie’s rucksack, finds nothing to bring back to his wife and two young boys, which pleases him in a melancholy fashion. He and Ollie had gone into this mission sterile, with no ID, mementos, or reminders of home. Poor Ollie. A brave man to have at your back.
The Hispanic American comes in from another room, holding a computer hard drive and a sheaf of papers. He shoves the items inside his coat and says, “Sorry about Ollie.”
“He was a good sort.”
“I…saw what happened. Did that son of a bitch with the sword say anything to you before he tried to cut you?”
Jeremy gives his H&K a quick check.
“Not a bloody word.”
The three filthy pickup trucks and Suburban are empty of anything useful. The documents I get from the four dead men on the ground are pretty thin: prayer cards, newspaper clippings in Arabic, and identification passes from Yemen to Sudan, where restless, angry young men get an AK-47 shoved into their hands and are told they are Warriors of God.
I put these documents in a pocket, knowing that if we get out of here they’d eventually be studied, categorized, and recorded at Langley. These four dead men will then find eternity—probably not in their brand of Heaven, but in computer files among the infidels.
I turn to see Santiago and Jeremy exiting the building. Jeremy strides over to a dead man crumpled near a video camera mounted on a tripod. He picks up the camera and smashes it repeatedly against the stone wall, then picks through the pieces and destroys what I’m sure is the video chip.
Flies are starting to buzz around the dead bodies, including that of a man under my responsibility, Oliver Davies. My throat feels thick and heavy. I see his sprawled-out torso, arms, legs, and the drying pool of blood. Nearby is the lump that is his head—thankfully not looking in my direction—and I say, “Jordan! Come on down!”
He moves fast and gracefully from the rooftop, like a well-trained panther. I take out a folded topo map and say, “A trail about fifty meters down the road. Gets us up in the hills. Once we can find coverage, we’ll radio Langley. I’ll have to put up with some angry screaming, but hopefully they can get us out of here.”
Santiago and Jordan nod. Jeremy looks up at the ragged peaks and rocks, which have an odd name: the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.
“Jeremy?”
“Yes?” he says, still looking into the hills. Looking for what? Safety? Redemption? The swordsman who killed his mate?
I say, “Do you want us to do anything with…Ollie?”
Jeremy looks to me now, one eye swollen but both eyes hard and filled with discipline and fury.
“No,” he says.
Chapter 9
IN HIS small and sterile office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Ernest Hollister is drinking a cup of hot water with a slice of lemon in it when a blinking icon appears on his computer screen, sounding a chime and interrupting his morning read of the Washington Post.
The icon indicates a FLASH PRIORITY message is coming his way, and he double-clicks the icon, and waits.
And waits.
This may be the most powerful and well-funded intelligence agency in the world, but bureaucrats and the lengthy budget-appropriation process means it has an IT system that was cutting-edge when Bush was president—and Ernest isn’t thinking of the man’s son.
Still, he loves computers, loves information, loves being tied into a worldwide internet and a surveillance state.
The icon is still blinking at him.
Ernest likes keeping his office clear of plants, books, plaques, and photos. All of those personal items are bits of intelligence, allowing visitors to his remote and obscure office a way to gather information about who he is.
And he will never allow that to happen.
Ernest picks up his teacup. The truth is, he shouldn’t be here, overseeing a section of the Company’s Special Activities Division. His only battle experience is one quiet and unremarkable tour as an Army infantry officer during the Iraq mess, and his battles since then have all been of the bureaucratic sort. During one of the great upheavals the CIA experiences every few years, his division commander in Iraq was picked to head the Special Operations Group, and in turn plucked Ernest out of an analysis section in the CIA’s Asian Bureau.
The gunslingers in his section resent his position, Ernest knows. He had joined the CIA only after a drawdown that essentially kicked Ernest and hundreds of fellow Army officers from active duty. But he knows how to manage, how to operate, how to navigate among the bureaucratic shoals that can rip apart someone’s career in an instant.
The blinking icon saying FLASH PRIORITY is frozen.
He allows himself to say “Damn,” then picks up his telephone—whose buttons indicate inside call, outside call, or encrypted call—and makes a quick inside call to his assistant, Tyler Pope. Ernest knows he could just get up and walk six feet to Tyler’s office next door, but why not use available technology to do the job?
Tyler crisply answers the phone on the first ring. “I’ve got a Flash Priority message indicator,” Ernest tells him, “and now my system is frozen. Get me what I need.”
“Right away, sir,” and there’s a race to see who can hang up first. Ernest is sure he’s the winner.
Of such little victories a career is made.
There’s a knock at his door.
“Come in,” he announces, checking the little digital clock on his desk. One minute and five seconds. Not bad.
Tyler is short and pudgy, with brown hair and a rapidly spreading bald patch that he’s been artfully but unsuccessfully trying to conceal ever since he started working for Ernest. He has on khaki slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a plain red necktie.
