Al-Masri’s stone countenance broke into a slow smile. “It would be a suicide mission, Commander. Curtis will wrap his arms around the girl soldier and Kyle Swanson and blow himself up. There will be no question.”
“A new martyr.”
“Yes. To rid us of an old enemy who has done great harm.”
Commander Kahn weighed the scales for only a moment. Curtis was extremely valuable in his position in the State Department, and the source of important advice, but striking back directly against a Special Forces operative was a great opportunity. “Will doing so harm the Mars mission attack? That is more important. We have put a lot of money into that.”
Al-Masri had thought that one through during his long drive back from the bridge. “Curtis will not be anywhere near the rocket in any case, and his man carrying out the sabotage reports nothing unusual at this time. It’s still on, and we will claim responsibility as soon as it happens. The two plans are independent.”
Kahn was quiet, thinking. The one thing that he still lacked in trying to take over the Osama bin Laden legacy was a signature strike of huge proportions against the United States. Bin Laden had brought about 9/11 and had killed thousands; Kahn was still relatively unknown, which was both a blessing and a curse.
The destruction of the Mars mission would put him on the throne of terrorism. When the space vessel died, credit would fall to him through a computer-powered campaign of publicity. Now he was being given an opportunity to make his claim even stronger. An American suicide bomber with a widely known political name would kill other Americans within the United States’ borders. The double assault would resurrect the fear of Islamic attacks, a fear that he wanted to permeate the United States and establish his supremacy as the new terrorist chieftain. And the troublesome Marine, Kyle Swanson, would die in the bargain.
“Very well, my friend,” he said. “You have my permission. Give Curtis whatever help we can.”
28
THE
VAGABOND
L
ORD
J
EFF
,
L
ADY
P
AT
,
and Beth Ledford were at the table in the spacious dining salon, digging into the chef’s presentation of fish that had been caught only a few hours earlier. A pinot noir had been chosen from the wine locker to complement the meal, the French bread loaf was fresh and warm, and the vegetables and fruit tasted straight from a garden. No place had been set for Kyle Swanson, who had disappeared into his stateroom almost as soon as the helicopter landed on the fantail of the long white yacht that morning. Pat had gently told Beth to just leave him be and not spend any time worrying. Kyle had some odd ways.
The Cornwells were old hands at settling down warriors after a fight. Jeff had gone through the same decompression process while he was an officer in the British SAS and had developed a habit of hauling home young men who were stressed out and struggling. His leadership never stopped at the front gate of the base. Pat had watched them come and go, all thoroughbreds who needed some quiet time and a warm cup of tea, a mug of beer, or a bottle of whisky and a nonjudgmental ear. Gradually, most would climb out of their mental foxholes, reassemble their thoughts, and stop dwelling on the grinder of death and destruction they had survived, perhaps while some close buddy had not. Some soldiers had not been able to handle it, and Jeff helped them move on to civilian life.
Beth was now being led through the same recovery exercise, without realizing it. They spoke of little things at first, such as raising cattle and the coming interplanetary launch; then she opened her soul.
Everything happened so fast!
She had been on the yacht, then jumped from an airplane, then ran into the patrols, and then, and then, and then. With only an occasional question from Jeff or a prod from Pat, the small woman spilled out the bloody story. The words came faster, her voice rose, and the thunderclap of realization hit her.
“When I went in, I knew I could shoot, but I did not know if I could kill like that,” she said. “Then I discovered that not only could I do it, but it was easy. Even that wasn’t enough. I learned from Kyle to give them a head shot, a coup de grace, to be sure they were dead. Then that became easy, too.”
She crumpled the napkin and pushed away from the tables, with sudden hot tears bursting from her eyes and streaming down her face. “My God, what have I done? What have I become?” She ran from the salon.
Pat unobtrusively wiped some tears from her own eyes, then met the sympathetic stare from her husband. “Should I go and fetch her?” she asked.
“No. Not yet. She’ll be back. Our pretty petty officer has finally seen the elephant.” Sir Jeff wheeled his chair out and around to where Lady Pat was seated, then reached out and poured some more wine. “Our only job is to let her know we are here, remember?”
“It is easier when we’re dealing with a man,” she replied. “They have that whole special ops fraternity thing to help them adjust, other men who have been through hell. Beth is almost alone as a woman; much more fragile, and this could tear her apart.”
Jeff moved around and hugged his wife. “The hardest part is yet to come. She’s standing at the gateway, deciding whether to pass through and join an elite club of operators or stay out on the safe side, where apple trees grow and ponies frolic in the pasture.”
“I know. I saw it in her eyes, too; the gleam.”
“Right-o. Deep down, she enjoyed it.”
“Yes. Oh, without a doubt.” He placed his hand on Pat’s forearm and dropped into a booming stage voice to recite a favored fragment of
Henry V
: “And gentlemen in England now a-bed/ Shall think themselves accursed they were not here/ And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/ That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”
“So we should not hold her back?”
“No, my dear. We cannot. If anything, we must help and encourage her. She is what she is, and she wants more. This time, the elephant has met its match.”
KANDAHAR ARMY AIR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
C
HIEF
E
NGINEER
M
OHAMMAD AL
-A
TTAS
,
clad in cotton pajamas and a bathrobe, smiled broadly, a picture of cooperation. A cold soft drink in a bottle stood on the small table in front of him. His arms were free, but he was handcuffed and firmly belted to the chair. He lifted the soda bottle, examined it, then took a long pull.
Steve Longstreet, a longtime interrogator with the CIA, was struggling to remain pleasant and unruffled. He had been talking with the young man for almost an hour during this latest questioning session, and the conversation ebbed and flooded like the tides as the severe psychiatric disturbance surged back and forth within the captive’s brain. Looking into the bruised face, Longstreet was reminded that serial killers look just like everyone else.
When Longstreet had first met al-Attas earlier in the day, it was with an absolutely blank slate. The prisoner was allegedly the designer who had built a superbridge in Pakistan, and there was no doubt that he was capable of doing that. A few elementary tests indicated that the young man was a brilliant mathematician and engineer, a savant with numbers who freely gave details of the sophisticated construction design, right down to the weight-bearing girders, and then would describe weaponry and optics and communications. However, al-Attas was also something else. He had been found tied to a hospital bed and had unexpectedly attacked those who had rescued him.
During the first session, Longstreet had listened with stoic, professional patience when the engineer would stop spouting numbers to start shouting nonsense about being an Arabic fairy-tale demon that he called “the Djinn” and give an evil sigh when describing how it felt to look into the eyes of his victims as he cut their throats. The bridge was not a fortress built by man but a digital castle that the Crusaders would never conquer; or he might describe it next as a portal to the red planet, where the Djinn would wield his bloody sword for Allah, then return to earth to slay all of the infidels. In those moments, Longstreet was glad that the prisoner was secure. When that mental storm would pass, the engineer’s thoughts would return, and he would reach out and calmly snare another cookie. He had eaten almost the full pack.
The CIA man had interviewed hundreds of patients during his long career, sometimes resorting to extreme measures of physical punishment, and felt he had seen it all. He had been told to get as much information as possible from this captive about a possible attack on the United States, and to uncover details about this strange bridge, then also to delve into his mental history, political beliefs, and feelings toward the United States, plus his personal background. Easy enough. A standard assignment.
Once the conversation began, however, things quickly crossed the threshold of being standard in any way. Dealing with a brilliant mind that was also totally mad was tiring Longstreet, while the engineer seemed ready to chat about his evolving nightmare world, quite pleasantly, all day long—but he would not stick to the priority list. He wanted to share his personal information, and only reluctantly was he even willing to move away from talking about himself long enough to discuss the bridge. The possible attack drew only a blank stare. It was time for the CIA man to decide about the next step.
“Mohammad, you must excuse me for a few minutes. I have to use the restroom. If you have to go, I can have a guard take you, and we can start again in fifteen minutes.”
“You know, that is probably a good idea, Mr. Longstreet.” He patted his stomach. “Too much Pepsi and Oreos.”
Longstreet called for a guard from outside the door and watched as al-Attas was taken away. He got up and paced the room, and a voice came over the speaker hidden in the ceiling. “What about it, Steve?”
“This guy will take months of work and still leave us in the dark,” Longstreet said, looking at a one-way mirror set into one wall. “You heard what he is doing. Yammering all over the place.”
“Any conclusions so far? Anything hard that we can pass along?”
“Only that we can’t really believe a damned word he says. Is it real, or some fantasy, and does he know the difference? One moment he hates the entire human race, and the next second he wants to marry the woman soldier who captured him. He confirmed my queries about Commander Kahn and the New Muslim Order, but can we believe him? Some waterboard sessions or other stuff might tighten that up, but how could we trust the information? This guy would tell us what he thought was true, or whatever we wanted to hear to make it stop, and he would be quite believable.”
Longstreet stretched his arms and twisted his torso as he thought. Sitting too long in that damned chair was slaughtering his back. “So far, I gotta say the only new gem of information is this name that he keeps mentioning, apparently a former employer named Bill Curtis. Let’s find him and see if he can give us some personal background on this nut.”
“OK,” said the voice on the speaker. “I’ll send it on up the line.”
Steve Longstreet headed out for his own bathroom break, taking the black notebook from the interrogation room. Stopping back in his office to check the e-mails and phone calls, he took another look through the early part of the questioning and made a note to himself. The special operators who brought him back had mentioned that the engineer had spoken of a coming attack on America. Enough of the bullshit. Longstreet knew that was the top priority for the next questioning session, and things might get rough.
THE
VAGABOND
M
OONLIGHT
CHECKERED THE RESTLESS
sea with rolling shadows as passing waves rose and fell, and the big vessel slid through the water. Beth Ledford was at the bow, staring out at the blackness, and the cold spray that flew up every time the bow cracked open another wave made her shiver, and she eventually decided to find a more sheltered spot. She walked down the starboard side, got out of the buffeting wind, and found some deck chairs that were lashed to the bulkhead. She unfolded one and moved it close enough to the railing that she could put up her feet. No stars out tonight. Her whole world seemed black and bleak, and her future even worse.
Kyle Swanson had watched from the deck above. He had awakened an hour ago, tangled in his sheets after another taunting dream visit from the Boatman, his own personal inner fiend, but things had been squared away between them. The Boatman did not have a lot to say that night and laughingly paddled off in his rickety boat to cross the final abyss with another load of Kyle-killed souls. Swanson was once again told to go back to work. That was their deal: Kyle kept the supply coming, and the skeletal Boatman hauled away the corpses, along with Kyle’s shame and the guilt.
He put on a gray sweatshirt and black sweatpants and went outside, barefoot on the damp deck, blending into the evening mist and standing invisible in the cool air in the shadow of an overhang. The action was done, the extraction was done, the debrief was done, and even the inevitable reckoning with the Boatman was done. He felt good. So why was his spider sense tingling, as if something had lightly touched his protective web? He stretched and scanned a three-sixty, checking off everything as normal, and then saw Beth, alone in a deck chair, in the dark.
No one knew any better than he what Beth was going through. He went down to the armory, checked out a large gun case of polished aluminum, and returned to the deck softly, barely stirring the air.