Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (21 page)

From where he squatted in the shade of the UH-60 Black Hawk, he squinted east, where he had once come across the pillars of a ruined temple jutting up through the sand. He believed, like many, that the temple had belonged to the Queen of Sheba.

The helicopter refueled at a makeshift outpost in the desert in Ma’rib Province, where the crews took on and dropped off supplies for various missions.

He admired the Ma’rib for her stark beauty and for her history. In ancient times, Sheba, spoken of in the Qur’an, and even in the Bible, might have walked here, in this very spot, where he waited.

He glanced over at three Quonset huts. Inside the farthest was a battered jeep with a full tank of gas. On the other side of the UH-60, about seventy-five meters from where he worked, members of his three-man team kicked a battered soccer ball back and forth. As the wind shifted, so did their voices, carrying intermittently to him—teasing and mock anger minus the heat of real conflict.

He stood now, strong and athletic at twenty-six years, dusting off his hands and wiping sweat from his sun-browned face with a rag that
smelled of engine oil. He walked toward the others, his mouth splitting into a grin so white and wide it seemed to break his face in half. He held out his hands and the others nodded, reaching out in return, until the four of them had intertwined their arms in a circle, bowing their heads.

“Brothers . . .” He had memorized the words they needed to hear, the words that would ease this sacrifice. His voice was deep, resonating as he intoned: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord Jesus, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Jesus Christ you are serving. Anyone who does wrong will be punished for their wrongs, and there is no favoritism.”

They finished the prayer with “Amen” all around.

He high-fived each of the others as they broke off one by one to head for the helicopter, while he stayed where he was.

Minutes later, the pilot lifted the bird into the air and he raised his hand in salute. He watched as it rose swiftly upward into the overcast sky and toward the heavens. When the helicopter appeared as small as his fist, he hefted the metal suitcase and walked to the farthest Quonset hut and the Jeep. He had a long drive ahead of him and only half a day to complete it.

He was guiding the Jeep carefully along the provisional road scratched into hard earth, when the UH-60 Black Hawk exploded into a fiery ball. He kept his eyes forward, staring west toward his destination, the capital city of Sana’a. But his mouth moved in silent prayer.

At least this morning Vanessa was awake, seated at the kitchen table, and working on her second cup of very strong coffee, the kind her dad used to say put hair on your chest, when Chris showed up at 0643 hours. His pale skin, heavy-lidded eyes, and shaved-but-nicked beard betrayed his lack of sleep.

Shrugging off his overcoat, he said, “I have good news and bad news.”

She was getting a little bit used to being woken up with bad news, but she rolled her eyes at the ancient saw. “Does anyone ever really want the bad news?”

“You’re cleared to talk to Dieter Schoeman.”

She raised her free arm and made a loose fist. “Finally.” Her mind was already working, flicking through questions she needed to ask Bhoot’s closest ally.

“The Agency’s G-IV flies out of Le Bourget tonight between midnight and 0400 hours.”

She sucked in more coffee as Chris said, “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” she said. She was thinking about Jeffreys and the
fact that clearance had to go through his office, but she couldn’t confide in Chris about her dark suspicions about him, not yet. Before she even whispered an accusation aloud, she needed at least a shred of concrete evidence of actions on his part to betray his country.

Jesus, the whole thing sounds crazy this morning, even to my own ears.

She felt a pang of fear. If she were wrong about Jeffreys, it would mean she’d missed the real traitor. But she shook off the uncertainty for now; it wouldn’t help her move forward.

She faced Chris with a forced smile. “Okay, so, the bad news, right?”

“Your friend Fournier got wind of your trip and he’s going with you.”

Vanessa screwed up her face. “No effing way.”

“Way,” Chris said flatly. “If you want to be on that jet tonight, Fournier will be sitting beside you.” He scratched his chin where the tiny shaving nick was oozing blood. “Remember, Vanessa, this is a
joint
team effort. You don’t have the final say.”

Vanessa simply shrugged. Talking freely about the French in the safe house was making her increasingly nervous.

“That’s it?” Chris asked. “You’re not going to kick and scream?”

“It would just be a waste of a fight,” she said.

“Wow,” Chris said, smiling a little. “Look at you, all grown up.” He lost the smile. “Fournier will be an asset. He’s been at this a hell of a lot longer than you, and he’s got the field experience to show for it.”

“With his lack of interpersonal skills, he’ll also make it harder,” she said. Fournier had no idea she’d been in communication with Bhoot, and somehow she had to relay this fact to Dieter Schoeman without raising Fournier’s suspicion.

Chris was watching her closely; her guess, his thoughts mirrored hers. “You’re good enough to handle this,” he said slowly. “And God
knows you’ve been getting ops experiences faster than anyone I’ve ever known in this business.”

“Hold that thought, because I need a smoke.” She stopped short of wiggling her eyebrows. Instead, she nodded toward the French doors to the balcony even as she turned toward the bedroom to retrieve her cigarettes.

When she returned, Chris was standing dutifully on the balcony. She joined him, carrying the pack and lighter across the threshold.

“How’s the quitting going?” he asked softly.

“It’s going . . .” She stared absently at the Dunhills and then pocketed them. Chris nodded, turning to stare down at the streets; a bit of a ritual by now, this balcony thing, she thought. She took a moment to study Chris instead of the view. She had worked with him as her immediate boss for almost three years. He was fair, brilliant, and loyal. She’d tested the last too many times.

As if he read her thoughts, he said, “You know, we have to talk about you and Khoury.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t filed anything official about your relationship,” Chris said. “Not yet. But I will have to talk to the DDO at some point. What are you going to do about this? I mean both of you.”

“Honestly, I don’t know and I doubt Khoury does, either.”

“You better come up with a plan and fast. You both understand a relationship between you when you are both in the field simply cannot continue. It jeopardizes every op both of you engage in. Furthermore, his future with the Agency is pretty clouded at this point. I don’t have any details on the internal investigation into him, but I can tell you it does not look good.”

Vanessa tried to absorb his words, the intensity of his message, but she felt overwhelmed and unable to formulate even one clear thought when it came to David Khoury. She thought Chris looked melancholy
and she didn’t want to see that, either. She sighed deeply before she realized she’d done so.

“Hey . . .” Chris said it softly, his version of a hand pat. And then he pointed to something in the dense gray clouds. It took Vanessa a good moment to spot the small black V of a bird flying high above the city. “Some kind of hawk?”

“I’d guess. Many species seem to thrive in cities.”

“Why not?” Vanessa said. “Plenty of doves and pigeons to eat, right?”

“That makes me think of sitting ducks,” Chris said, turning to hand her what she realized was a car key.

Vanessa narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “What’s this for?”

“Peyton is leaving today. She’s back to Headquarters to compile more of the profiling data on both True Jihad and Bhoot.”

“Okay,” Vanessa said, nodding slowly. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You drive, make sure she gets to De Gaulle in one piece this afternoon.”

“What? Why? I’ve got to compile some intel of my own. She doesn’t need a nursemaid to get her to the airport. She seems pretty capable to me.”

Not to mention the fact that although Vanessa had come to admire the psychologist, the woman made her squirm
sometimes. It was as if Peyton Wright was always looking through her to the next layer—a layer better left hidden, Vanessa thought.

“You’re missing the point,” Chris said. “She is the reason you’re still in communication with Bhoot in spite of every iota of my better judgment. If she so much as whispers to take you off, you’re off this entire op. So if she wants to share her counsel with you on the way to the airport, if I were you, I’d bow, jump, and say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

Vanessa groaned but turned toward Chris to give him a mock
salute so tight and clean it would have made her father proud. “Yes, ma’am—I mean sir.”

“Cut the baloney,” he said, but his tone was good-natured. He moved toward the door. “Are we finished with our tête-à-tête, at least for today?”

“Almost. Just one more question.” Vanessa glanced over her shoulder, looking into the safe-house living room, to check that they were alone. “Did Allen Jeffreys sign off on the trip to talk to Dieter?”

Chris looked at her through lowered lids, instantly wary. “He was one of the green lights, why?”

“It just took longer than usual to be approved.”

“Vanessa . . .” Chris prodded.

“He’s the one who transferred Dieter to our black site. Why would he do that?”

“Because there had been threats on Schoeman’s life? Because they wanted to keep him away from any news about the bombings? Because of a million reasons you don’t need to know—reasons people way above my pay grade don’t need to know and I don’t need to know, either.” He reached for the door, pulling it open. “Don’t start getting paranoid.”

Too late for that,
she thought, following Chris back inside the safe house.

Allen Jeffreys seemed to be gazing out the black SUV’s tinted windows at the familiar passing streets of D.C., but his mind was actually a thousand miles away, mentally exploring the winding streets of Istanbul. The meeting with POTUS had been mercifully brief and had gone fairly well. After several years he had learned to hold his tongue for the most part when it came to POTUS’s weak and flaccid policies and his mealymouthed rationales.

My only directive is action,
Jeffreys thought, silently mouthing the words, as he loosened the knot in his burgundy tie. He gently fingered the distinctive cross that he always wore around his neck. More than a sign of his faith
. But faith is nothing, it is passive.
The cross was a sign of Dominion.

The driver guided the vehicle along the tree-lined street, into a long driveway, and, finally, into the roomy parking area behind the large, slightly rambling home in an affluent D.C. suburb. A man in a sharp black suit stepped briskly out of the shadows and to the car door.

“Excellent to see you, sir.” He held the door for the deputy advisor, and then he led the way to the back entrance of the home. Jeffreys
shooed him away, much more relaxed now, and in an increasingly good mood.

The back stairs were heavily carpeted and his footfalls as he climbed were muted. The soundproofed walls efficiently blocked all noise coming from the various rooms.

He slowed and stopped in front of a set of polished walnut double doors. He needed this,
oh, yes,
had been feeling the undercurrent of it all day. As he opened both doors and stepped across the threshold, the swell of prayer washed over him, and he registered it as a physical and cleansing wave. He took a deep breath. Nine middle-aged men stood encircled in the center of the room, their arms cabled together, their heads bowed as they spoke. They did not look up until they completed the last stanza of the prayer.

Jeffreys stood, both expectant and at ease.

As the men began to straighten and turn his way, most of them were grinning, some were dripping with sweat. They were all apparently very pleased to see him.

“Sorry I was late, Brothers,” Jeffreys said, stripping off his jacket. “But I was doing the work . . .”

And now the nine other men chimed in with Jeffreys to finish the sentence: “. . . the work of Jesus.”

Sprawled on her bed in the safe house, her jiggling foot betraying her edgy energy, Vanessa began her research with the obvious: the
Time
profile on Allen Robert Jeffreys III, born in 1960 in Charlotte, North Carolina. The son of the influential Baptist minister Allen Robert Jeffreys II, Jeffreys graduated from Wheaton College in 1981. Before continuing to graduate school, he’d enlisted in the U.S. Marines.

He was no slouch, Vanessa would give him that.

After four years in the military, he’d continued his academic education, earning a law degree at Harvard. Upon graduating, he interned with several conservative Republican congressmen, while becoming increasingly involved with the powerful international conservative Christian group the Circle, whose most publicly visible event was an annual prayer meeting in D.C.

The profile writers put it this way:

He attributes his true call to the group the Circle to the tragic loss of his first child. Jeffreys married his college sweetheart,
Eileen Johnson, while he was serving in the Marines, and, soon after the wedding, Eileen became pregnant with the couple’s first child. The couple was devastated when their first son was delivered eight months later, stillborn.

“When my son died, our Lord Jesus tapped me,” Jeffreys stated, in a later profile in
Harvard Magazine.
I felt His presence, believe you me, because he was standing right next to me. I heard him speaking my name and I listened more closely than I had ever listened to anything in my life before that moment . . .”

Jeffreys credits his faith and his connection to the Circle for seventy percent of his success, while crediting the remaining thirty percent to his father, a Baptist minister quoted often for calling America “a Christian nation.”

“My father is a truly amazing man of great faith and he wields immense influence on my life, in both the public sector and the private,” Jeffreys says. “But it is a simple fact that no one individual can have the influence and reach equal to a group like the Circle.”

Vanessa skimmed on—noting that, after several years as CFO of Eagle Enterprises, Jeffreys emerged in 2008 basically unscathed by the fallout from potential scandals involving military contracts. In 2010, he resigned his position at Eagle Enterprises and cut his professional connections to the company in order to return to public service as Deputy National Security Advisor.

A man who always seemed to land on his feet.

His CV read to Vanessa like an ultraconservative’s wildest fantasy, but he’d managed to survive during liberal administrations, donating generously to conservative candidates, though never forgetting more moderate, even liberal, ones—if their support fit his objectives.

Vanessa read the final few paragraphs of the profile highlighted on the screen:

Allen Jeffreys continues his work with the Circle and its feeder organization for young Christians, the Camp. In 2011 he was part of a core group within the Circle who funded a ten-week retreat in rural Virginia for three dozen young men, Coptic Christians from Egypt and Yemen. “It was an amazing experience for the initiates and for us older mentors,” Jeffreys says, smiling broadly. “These young men had suffered so much oppression by Muslims in their homes, and yet their spirits remain unbreakable and they work harder every day to see Jesus’s will done.”

For those who worry about too close a marriage between religion and politics, Jeffreys has these words: “My daddy is proud to proclaim America as ‘the most powerful Christian nation on Earth.’ And I’m not going to deny that truth and what it means to me. At the same time, we live in a democracy and I abide by those laws just like every other patriotic American.” Here Jeffreys loses all bluster. “But I go to bed each night remembering Jesus’s laws will always be my beacon.”

Before Vanessa finished, she sorted through photographs she’d printed of Jeffreys. On the cover of
Time
he was dressed so impeccably in suit and tie, even his face looked starched.

But there was one photograph taken at a prayer breakfast picnic. In it, the men had removed their jackets and loosened their ties. If Vanessa looked closely, with a magnifier, she could just barely make out what might be an unusual cross around Jeffreys’s very pale throat. Some of the other men seemed to be wearing the same style cross, although it was difficult to tell because their shirts were only slightly open.

She circled the crosses with highlighter and added a simple note to Zoe:
Research symbolism?

She slipped the pages into a folder, even as she gave herself a mental shake. What would convince a powerful national figure, an openly zealous Christian, to turn traitor? Vanessa didn’t believe that Jeffreys was one of the legion of hypocrites who wore their religion as a political asset when it suited them. He was a man who truly believed he had a Christian mission.

It made no sense. It was the absolute opposite of logical. But then again, humans often behaved in ways that seemed to make no sense whatsoever. And traitors regularly sold out their homelands for the most bizarre and seemingly paltry reasons.

Vanessa glanced at her watch and saw she had only another five minutes before she had to get ready to pick up Peyton and taxi her to the airport. At least she could take advantage of the unexpected errand and ask the psychologist to personally hand off the file to Zoe. Vanessa could say it was personal, nothing to do with the Agency, but Peyton wouldn’t buy that lie for a minute.

As she gathered up what she would need, she registered again the deep rev of excitement. By midnight she should be on a flight to the CIA black site to talk to Dieter Schoeman.
Finally.
She wanted to walk out of the interview with a solid ID for Scarface. Bhoot had to believe Dieter had done business with the apparent leader of True Jihad—that’s why he had pressed Vanessa just hours after the bombing to seek out Dieter. And now, six days later, it would finally happen. It was time to move into high gear.

Vanessa reached for her phone, dialing quickly from memory. It rang so long her hope flagged. But just as she was about to hang up she heard a light click and a man’s recorded voice: “You know what to do.”

She’d recognize her friend Charles Janek’s voice no matter how much time passed between encounters.

“Hi, Charles, it’s me. I know it’s your birthday and I want to
celebrate with you, spur of the moment. Dinner day after tomorrow, your pick of where, my treat.”

It was code and she was a bit rusty and she prayed he would get the message and wasn’t away on a job, in muck up to his ears in the farthest reaches of Africa or eastern Europe. He was the one person she thought might be able to give her a global, historical perspective on the conundrums of the mole and True Jihad and Bhoot.

Message left, she hurried out the door with her bag, which held her toothbrush and documents. But she should have plenty of time to stop back at the safe house between driving Peyton to the airport and leaving with Fournier for the other airport close to Paris, Le Bourget.

—

VANESSA HURRIED
along the sidewalk, following on Peyton Wright’s stylish heels. This section of Rue du Bac was lined with trendy cafés under bright awnings and every kind of shop one could imagine—interior decor, art, frames, ceramics, couture fashion, florists, candy, and, of course, jewelry. Reflecting trends and real estate prices, shop windows were dressed to the hilt, each presenting a unique visual feast of light, color, and design, one outdoing the next.

Peyton continued on for another ten meters before pivoting abruptly to disappear into a shop doorway. Sighing loudly, Vanessa slowed.

Thirty minutes earlier, driving the loaner BMW, she’d picked up the psychologist at her hotel. She’d been surprised when Peyton asked her to pull over and park, as she had a stop to make.

Opting for a brisk and matter-of-fact approach, Vanessa had said, “We should make it with a few minutes to spare if we head straight to the airport—”

“We have plenty of time, Vanessa.”

“Time for what?”

“Retail therapy, of course.” Peyton had turned to Vanessa at that point, her very straight face betrayed by the twinkle in her green eyes.

Now Vanessa waited while a fashionably dressed older woman exited the shop while tugging on a leashed small white poodle; hard to say who was more voguish. When they both cleared the doorway, Vanessa entered.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Peyton held up a pair of dangling earrings. “You’d look great in these. The azure will set off your eyes and your skin.”

A slender, elegant shopgirl seemed to glide their way. Vanessa ignored her, all her energy focused on the psychologist. “Unless you’re planning to shop through your flight, you can just get to the point,” Vanessa said. She would be the first to admit she loved shopping—under the right circumstances. But now she felt irritated like a child ordered to do penance for breaking the rules.

“Okay, here’s my point,” Peyton said. “And brace yourself for a cliché, but you need to get out more—and I’m only half joking. You’ve been under tremendous stress and it’s vital to normalize, find moments for yourself.”

“Okay . . . so I need more fun.” Vanessa couldn’t resist touching a strand of frosty rose-quartz beads. They felt cool and smooth to the touch, but her mind moved quickly from the jewelry to the question of the psychologist’s motives. Was she trying to push a connection between them? She couldn’t keep the snide from her voice when she said, “Should I find a hobby?”

“Hah! Yes. I’d love to see you collaging, actually.” Peyton shot the snide right back. “Increase your social circle, and you’ll have a bigger pool to choose from when it comes to men.” Peyton eyed her, even as she lifted a sea-green scarf so its tiny pressed rhinestones glittered in the lights of the shop. “I know it isn’t easy, and I’m not going to tell you how to run your life. Wouldn’t dare. But I will tell you to keep
your shit together. I respect you, even admire your raw courage, but you’re too willing to put yourself on the line. You’re reckless with yourself, and that means, by extension, that you are reckless with the lives of others.”

Peyton stepped closer to Vanessa so they were almost nose to nose. “Do you love David Khoury?”

Vanessa tightened inside, or was it a hardening? “Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

She had to force herself not to take that first step backward. “Yes.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Anger rose like quick smoke inside Vanessa. “I told you before, just say what you mean.”

“Have you asked yourself if David is capable of making such a huge choice as a life partner when he’s still in the middle of an internal investigation? For that matter, are you? You’re back in the thick of trouble. Chris and David would do almost anything for you, Vanessa. They’ve proven that, haven’t they?”

Peyton reached out, but Vanessa pulled back, almost like a sullen teenager rejecting her mother’s well-meaning attention.

“You have a loose strand, sorry . . .” Peyton dropped her arm to her side. “You will go to almost any length to track down your traitor. Watch out. When I say you endanger those close to you, I mean it. Don’t add Chris or Khoury or anyone else to the list of casualties.”