Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Intelligence Officers, #Thrillers, #Espionage, #Action & Adventure, #Spy Stories, #National security, #Adventure Fiction, #Undercover operations, #Cyberterrorism
Jihad (46 page)
“Li?”
“Yes. Listen. The plane for Boston leaves in an hour. Um, I hate to leave you here, but I kind of have to make it. I’m late already. Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“No. I—I have to make the plane.” Dabir started to get up.
A woman in a white dress—a nun or a nurse, he couldn’t tell which—came to his side. “Are you sure you’re okay to leave?”
“What happened to me?”
“You bashed the back of your head on some steps. We took X-rays. They’re negative. You don’t have a concussion, but I would imagine it hurts a great deal.”
That much was true. Dabir touched the back of his head gingerly.
“There was’a small cut and some abrasions. We cut off some of your hair to clean it. I think it will heal fine,” added the nurse. “You didn’t even need stitches.”
“That’s all that’s wrong with me?”
“Yes.”
“I have to go.” Dabir placed his feet on the floor. His head hurt, but he wasn’t dizzy.
“You should leave the bandage on for a few days,” said the nurse.
“Are you going to try and make the plane?” asked Li.
“Can we?”
“If we hurry. I’ll call a taxi.”
Dabir gazed at her as she left the room. She had a small, compact body—an attractive one. Had circumstances only been different, he might have found it too tempting to resist ...
CHAPTER 156
DEAN FLEW INTO Boston to back up Lia, even though the Art Room told him it wasn’t necessary. He’d learned from experience that he was one who had to make that call as far as Lia was concerned, or he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.
Waiting for her flight to come in, Dean found himself with time on his hands. After scoping out the terminal for the third time, he wandered over to the payphones. As he stared at them, he realized he hadn’t wandered here at all. He went to one, punched in a credit card number, then told the Art Room he’d be off-line for a few minutes.
“Hello.” The word sounded more like a demand than a greeting.
“Hey, Dad,” said Dean.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Charlie. Who’d you think it was?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I felt like it.”
The answer seemed to stump his old man. Dean imagined him scowling at the phone. He half expected him to hang up.
“Good,” said his father finally. “I’m glad.”
To Dean’s great surprise, he actually sounded as if he meant it.
LIA TOOK A taxi from Logan Airport in Boston, checked into a hotel, and waited for the Art Room to tell her Dabir had gotten a room before leaving. A pair of CIA agents had trailed him from the airport; Desk Three was feeding them intercepts from the implanted bug and would continue to do so until he arrived in Ireland, where the CIA was installing gear to take over the rest of the job.
As far as she was concerned, they could have the creep. Every minute she spent near him, the temptation to shoot him increased tenfold.
Charlie Dean was waiting for Lia when she got out of the taxi.
“Hey, good looking,” he said, grabbing her by the waist. She started to resist—reflex onty—then gave in, wrapping her body around him in a long kiss.
“I missed you,” she whispered. “Bad.”
“Yeah? Even though I’m over the hill?”
“Oh, stop.”
“How’s Terry?”
Lia felt her face warm. She bit down on her lower lip. “Stop that,” she told him.
“You gonna tell me about Pinchon sometime?” asked Dean, taking her bag.
“Sometime. Maybe,” said Lia. “Where’s our flight?”
“I DON’T LIKE the insinuations that my father was a criminal,” said Irena when Rubens met her for lunch. With the bugging operation now in the CIA’s hands, he’d rewarded himself with a few hours off. “The Justice Department people were quite nasty.”
“You mustn’t take it personally. It’s part of Washington politics.”
“I hate it. They’re implying that he had the documents simply because they can’t locate them. He must not have had them, or they would have found them. Right?”
“No, not exactly,” said Rubens. He patted her hand. A warm wave—of what? electricity? emotion?—ran through him. “Your father is not the real target here.”
“Who is?”
“Me. Among others.”
Rubens explained that an investigation, even one that began innocently, could be used to damage reputations by casting doubt indirectly. Clearly that was what was going on here.
The papers that were missing had to do with Asian trade matters, and while they had been code-word classified, the information in them would hardly bring down the republic if revealed. They had been prepared in conjunction with Hadash’s recent mission to China, which accounted for their secret classification. It was possible that Hadash had inadvertently shredded them without recording that fact (or returning them to their electronic “locker,” which would have been the correct procedure). It was also possible—and more likely, Rubens thought—that one of his aides had taken the copies under his authority while preparing for the mission and now felt there was too much heat to own up to the mistake.
“Is this going to hurt you?” Irena asked.
“I wouldn’t think so. On the contrary, it’s so transparent—I would think it might help in some quarters.”
This was a lie. Every bump and bruise, no matter how slight, took its toll. The slate would eventually grow crowded, and sooner or later the tipping point would be reached. The criticisms, spoken and unspoken, would coalesce; one’s star would sink. That was the Washington way. But Rubens wasn’t thinking about that eventuality now. He wasn’t thinking about politics at all. He was staring into Irena’s eyes, lost in them.
“I’m not so naive as that,” said Irena. She lifted her hand. Rubens began to draw his back reluctantly, but stopped as she caught his fingertips. “You’ve been a real friend. More.”
“Of course.”
“I would like to see you. Under—other circumstances. I would like that. If it’s possible,” she said.
For the first time, he noticed a tremor in her voice. His own throat suddenly dry, Rubens nodded, then moved his hand to hold hers properly.
STEPHEN COONTS
As a naval aviator,
STEPHEN COONTS
flew combat missions during the Vietnam War. A former attorney and the author of fifteen
New
York Times bestselling novels, he resides with his wife and son in Nevada. He maintains a Web site at
www.coonts.com
.
Deep Black co-author JIM
DEFEUCE’S
most recent solo effort is Cyclops One. He lives in upstate New York and can be reached at
[email protected]
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