The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (31 page)

Largo nodded. “Sounds like a spy’s improv.” “That’s where they started to run into opposition,” August said. “The IED on the highway, reported gunfire at a construction sight outside of Moulay Bouselham—the police there just found a body in a shed. He had no ID and there are no fingerprint results yet. The last thing was a burning car the terrorist had been driving. They left it outside a Christian cemetery.”

“Subtle,” Largo remarked.

“Mr. Kealey expected him to go to Tangier, almost everyone concurred, and you know the rest.”

“The speed bumps started to slow him and gave the quarry just enough room to wriggle away,” Largo said. “Now there’s no trace.” He looked at August. “Let’s put away the graphs and collaborations. We need to figure out how to sprinkle flour in the air between there and here to find a nuclear bomb.”

August smiled.

And then the system shut down.

“What the hell happened?” Largo asked.

August checked his DNI-issued cell phone. “It’s still working. Something poisoned the streaming system.”

The phone beeped. It was August’s counterpart at the CIA. “
Et tu
, Hunt?”

“Yeah. Hold on—there’s a tweet from the FBI. They got hit, too.”

“Crap.” August hung up and started typing on dead keys. “Sounds like the entire Streaming Intelligence grid is down.”

“Can you restore and reboot?” Allison asked.

“Nothing’s responding,” he said. “So it’s not just incoming but outgoing.”

“I thought we have firewalls to prevent that,” Allison said.

“We do. Good ones. This could be a homegrown job. Makes getting in a whole lot easier.”

“Let’s not waste time with that,” Largo told him. “Do you have an atlas?”

“A book one?”

“Yeah. A book one.”

“No, but I’ve got this.” August wiggled his cell phone. “What do you need?”

“The North African coast up through the top of Portugal,” he said. “We need to narrow the search window.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Yeah, hypothetically,” Largo snapped. “What else have we got?”

Largo apologized but August brushed it off with a little roll of his head. He was too busy typing with his thumbs. That was Largo’s frustration showing. He was disgruntled with youth and their obsession with gotta-have-it-now. He saw it in the Green Acres Mall, he couldn’t avoid it in the street when he walked along Forest Road, he heard it on TV. The sad thing was, compared to this, no one really needed to have anything “now.”

The map came up. It was small, but Largo’s eyes were good. He got close to it. “Can you print that?”

August jacked the phone into his printer and the image slid out.

“Now the east coast of the U.S. from New York to Washington, then the ocean in between. Let’s keep the scale the same.”

August brought up the images and printed them. There were eight pages in all. He got on his knees, and when they were assembled on the floor between them, Largo said, “Assuming the enemy has to act before we can muster all our resources, they’ll come by air. Let’s draw cones from the cities here to the other side of the Atlantic and mark the areas by longitude and latitude.”

“The zone where we sprinkle the flour,” August said.

“Correct. We inform—who would it be, NORAD?”

“They only watch us now, the continental U.S.,” August said. “That would be—”

The phone went out.

“Oh boy,” August said. “We’re being totally cyber-attacked.”

“The Chinese?” Allison asked. She looked afraid. Largo didn’t blame her. The blunt-force unfolding of another 9/11 was on his mind, too.

“Not likely,” August said. “Beijing has nothing to gain if we’re nuked.” He turned on his personal iPad. It was fine.

Largo looked down at the map. “We’re not going to be nuked,” he said. “Goddamn it, we’re not. They’re moving this quickly. We’re blinded now for a reason. They have to be coming in by air.” He eyeballed the map. “They’ve got three thousand, five hundred miles and change to cover. That’s a couple of hours and a lot of open water.”

“For us to do what?” August asked.

Largo looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“We lost this thing because it’s sealed in lead, apparently. Even with your cones, that’s a lot of air traffic. We don’t know what kind of aircraft we’re looking for and even if we did, suppose they decide to remain silent. I’ve been studying our protocol manuals in class. The military can’t just shoot down an aircraft they suspect may do us harm. They have to force it to land. Worse, if the incoming aircraft declares an emergency, pretends to be in distress, they have to allow it to land at the nearest airfield. Mr. Kealey, this may be an off-the-cuff operation, but there are clearly some smart people behind it. And they will want to land, sir. I looked up the specs of theoretical designs. This doesn’t get them the spectacular visuals they like with an air burst, or the deaths—especially if hot air from the city carries the radiation off and dissipates the fallout. An explosion on land is what they need.”

Largo looked back at the map. It suddenly seemed useless—not like the maps he used to carry on fabric sewn inside his shirt back. He felt useless; worse than that, he felt stupid. He wished he were back home watching whatever unfolded happen on TV.

“Why don’t we take a walk,” Allison suggested.

Largo nodded. He got up stiffly, suddenly feeling a lot older. She took his arm and they walked to the elevator, took it to the lobby, stepped outside into the sunshine. Streams of people were coming toward the building, none away. Tellingly, none was on a cell phone.

“All hands on deck,” Largo said. “The system is broken, we need to fix it.”

“You ever see anything like this?”

“After Pearl Harbor,” he said. “People running toward newsies who were selling extras in the streets. Not again until September 11.”

“We come together with purpose and fear,” Allison said. “And it all gets booted upwards. The general, Carlson, Admiral Breen, the President—they’re all having to deal with what just knocked us back on our heels.”

“Did it ever!—and I’m not proud of that.”

“Hey, I was no real help, either,” Allison said. “This isn’t what we were trained for. Who is?”

Largo nodded. “Wild Bill was right.”

“About what?” Allison asked.

“Being an armchair general is much tougher than it sounds.”

As the truck continued at a steady pace, Kealey heard movement behind him. The man coming toward the prisoners did not have a gun: turning slightly to the right on his chin, Kealey could see the end of several lengths of rope dangling from the fists of whoever was approaching.

He caught Rayhan’s eyes. She was alert and ready. Even under the single bulb in the back of the truck, he could see the vein in her slender neck pulsing hard.

There was no tension in his body, no anxiety. Kealey was aware that these might be the last seconds of his life, yet he was not afraid. The seconds, the fractions of seconds seemed to him right then a dear, precious gift and he was actually cherishing them, enjoying them, smiling to have them as he made his move.

Kealey still had his hands on the back of his head. He tucked his elbows toward his face and when the man stepped between them—to bind him first, as Kealey had expected—the American rolled toward him like a child going down a country hill. The Iranian stumbled back, and as Kealey kept rolling toward the side of the truck he went down. He did not fall on Rayhan, however; she had bolted as Kealey had ordered. She took off like a sprinter, making for the slit in the canvas in the back. She swatted the flaps aside, took a moment to mark the speed the truck was moving, and jumped. Kealey heard a thud, did not know whether she had landed on her feet, her side, or her face. Whatever the case, she was on her own.

Yazdi had the gun, but the tangle of Kealey and the Iranian prevented him from firing. With an oath, he half ran, half jumped around and over the two men. Kealey took the punches the Iranian guard was throwing and grabbed Yazdi’s leg as he passed. The Iranian spy chief hopped awkwardly on his free foot, tugged on the other, but had to stop and pull in an effort to get away. Kealey wasn’t letting go. Not even when Yazdi turned the gun and aimed at his head. He was betting his life that one high-level American agent was more valuable alive than two American agents dead.

Yazdi went down as Kealey pulled his leg toward him. The Iranian yelled something and the truck stopped hard. The driver got out. He did not come into the back; Kealey assumed he was going after Rayhan.

The Iranians wrestled Kealey onto his back, Yazdi having to tuck the gun in his belt to free his hands. The American refused to be pinned. He kicked, flopped, moved his arms, and clawed with his fingers. He bucked up with his forehead, hoping to hit Yazdi as he bent over. Kealey had received rudimentary training in krav maga, a close-proximity combat style developed by the Israeli Army. But none of that was useful with the weight of two men on him. The guard had moved so that he was straddling Kealey, despite the American’s knees clubbing him in the middle of his back.

Kealey’s body began to react to the punches it had taken. His side and chest throbbed, it hurt to breathe, and that moment of distraction allowed Yazdi to kneel on his forearms and open his face for the guard to punch it. Blows rained left and right on his cheeks and on the side of his head, causing dark circles to spin in front of his eyes. His head snapped from side to side. His energy drained rapidly; it was as if someone had stuck a tap in his spine and flipped it wide open. His body relaxed, then went completely limp, and his hearing was lost to the drumming sound of blood racing through his temples. A moment later, Kealey was unconscious.

All kinds of heroic moves went through Rayhan’s mind as she poised on the lip of the truck. Hold onto the flap, swing around to the side, and cling there so she could eavesdrop. Or cling there and swing back in, like an acrobat, kicking whoever came to get her. Then she could grab his dropped gun and rescue Kealey. Or what about climbing onto the top of the truck, lying flat until it was daylight, then signaling for help.

Poised on the bouncing edge of the truck, her arms trembling from being turned back around her head, Rayhan knew she could do none of those things. She simply jumped into the dark.

Rayhan hit the ground on her feet. But she, like the truck, was moving roughly thirty miles an hour and she fell forward on her knees, tearing them open on the rough surface. Her palms followed her down and were also badly scraped. Though she hadn’t been trained for this, it didn’t seem so long ago that she was on a playground playing “parachute”: jumping off a swing while it was moving forward, her mother yelling that it was unladylike. Rayhan’s childhood instincts returned, and when she hit the ground she rolled forward in a crude but effective somersault.

The truck continued to move forward, but Rayhan knew that would not last long. She rose on wobbly legs as blood trickled from her knees down her legs. She peered through the dark. She could see water to the right, a downward sloping field to the left. She opted to head for the water, unaware that as she pushed her way into the high growth she was entering a wetland. Rayhan’s first hard step onto what she thought would be solid ground threw her forward with a splash and she was unable to find her footing in the muddy silt beneath. She didn’t panic but started moving her arms like wings, thrusting herself forward while trying not to linger long enough on the mud to allow the suction to pull her down. Living things moved around her, wriggled, slapped water, croaked, rasped. They brushed her arms and bugs hummed around her eyes and ears. Something stationary snagged the ends of her hair but she yanked without pausing. In the distance she heard the squeak of brakes. She looked over, saw the rear lights of the truck. It had stopped.

She took a breath and went under the water, not swimming exactly but staying as low as she could among the high reeds. Her head popped up now and then for breath but she did it quietly, to create as little disturbance as possible. During one of her breaths she saw a flashlight play on the road. She did not fear whoever it was coming after her; she was afraid he’d shoot. She was less valuable as a prisoner than she was dangerous as an escapee.

Her clothes grew heavy as they absorbed water. She didn’t dare pull anything off and leave it behind: she needed to get out of range of the light. She couldn’t see it now but she could hear the footsteps on the dirt. The beam poked again to her right. She went underwater entirely and stayed there as she swam-walked ahead. She didn’t understand how she could smell the rankness of the water while she was in it, not breathing, but she could. When Rayhan couldn’t hold her breath any more she stopped, turned on her back, and poked her mouth up like a fish going after a waterbug. She remained still so the waves she’d created didn’t lap over her lips. Her hair floated below her like a mass of weeds; it was a strange sensation lying there, looking at the stars, having committed herself to a course of action that might result in her death.

The light shone just to her right—but below her by about ten feet. It reached up slightly, then swept down. It returned, coming toward her. She closed her mouth tightly, sucked air through her nose, lowered her face. Murky water covered her, seeping into her nostrils, but she did not swallow it. She moved her hands to and fro to keep from sinking. She literally prayed that nothing brushed her face, startled her, caused her to jump. The darkness behind her closed eyelids brightened to dull red as the light passed near. Her ears were full of a burbling noise as water filled them. It seemed longer than a minute that she was under but she knew it could not be; that was about all she could ever hold her breath.

And then the light softened and was gone. Rayhan turned over, lifted her head so the mass of tangled hair covered her surfacing, and got her nostrils above the waterline. She snorted down air in the most ungraceful manner but did not care that she sounded like a bullfrog. She opened her eyes, saw the light to her left now. She remained where she was until the light had moved several yards over.

It snapped off. She heard footsteps run for a moment, then stop. He must have entered the field.

Rayhan began to swim away slowly, gently, gratefully. She did not forget to thank God, and only now began to pay attention to how wet and waterlogged she was. Still, she did not complain. She had no doubt that Ryan Kealey would be delighted to change places with her right now.

The wetlands emptied into a region of dunes that lined the coast. Rayhan didn’t know how far they stretched, only that she needed to go toward lights, toward people. Soaked and stumbling, her arms and legs heavy with exhaustion, she fell flat among the high grasses and did not immediately get up. She knew she had to; there were gentle waves to her right, in her ear, and she could not hear anything to the left. The desperation of her flight had left her drained and it felt good to collapse.

But he might come
, she thought.
He might still find you.

Rayhan put her palms to the sand. Her arms wobbled as she pushed up, got her knees under her. She looked back, through the reeds. The truck was still there but she could not see the flashlight. She could only imagine what they were doing to Kealey. They would want to keep him alive but they would make sure he could never again do what he did. She needed to get in touch with General Clarke. She had no money, no identification, no phone, no weapon. She needed to get to a local police station and call the DNI.

She fell back to a crawling position and fought the urge to drop back down onto her chest. But she was so tired. She breathed deeply because she could. The salty taste of the marsh water was still lodged in her throat, and she swallowed several times. It was still there. She shut her eyes. Maybe if she rested—

No
, she thought.

The water. She had to get to the sea. Rayhan turned to her right and crawled toward the water. The surf was relatively calm. She wasn’t looking up, it took too much effort. She crept into the Mediterranean and allowed the surprisingly warm waters to cover her hands and knees. She used her toes to kick off her shoes, which were like sponges. She rested on her knees again, splashed herself, let the sea move around her. She put her face in the water, used her fingers to comb the marsh weeds from her hair. She looked to the right and left. There were lights on the water to her left. She could not tell whether it was a boat or a restaurant and had no idea what hour it was. But it seemed to be only about a mile away and she would head in that direction. Maybe she would find someone along the beach.

She walked on her knees back to the dry sand, pushed herself up and, after steadying herself, started walking toward the lights. Her head pounded, her ears filled with the sounds of the sea, and she had trouble staying on a straight line. Her mind was a muddle.

I wouldn’t need Ambien to sleep now, Ryan
, she thought.

Suddenly there was a glow at her feet. She looked down, saw it grow. It was coming from behind her.

Rayhan did not turn, did not try to make a stand. She started to run.

 

 

The driver pushed his way in through the flap in the back of the truck. From his expression, Yazdi knew what had happened.

“She’s gone, sir,” he said as he stepped up to the intelligence chief.

“Unharmed?”

“I didn’t see her,” the man said.

Yazdi looked down at the unconscious figure of the American agent. The Iranian did not get angry at his subordinate. He had long ago learned that living with the shame of failure was sufficient punishment. He had a more immediate need, more practical applications of time and energy.

“She will be found,” Yazdi said. “We need to get rid of the truck and wait for more intelligence. Where can we go?”

“We have a little operations center behind a barbershop,” the man said.

“All right,” he said. “Head there while we await word. I need to send a text.”

While the other guard stood over the bound American, Yazdi leaned against the back of the cab. He wrote to Sanjar:

The deputy intelligence chief replied:

That was at least twelve hundred kilometers from his present position. It was no help.

By that, Sanjar meant the Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran was looking into the Saudi’s efforts to move a package from the region by land, sea, or air. Because of the close relationship between the United States and Saudi Arabia—or rather, Saudi oil—Iran had eyes and ears on the payroll in control towers and at ports—and their own radar on everything that moved into and out of the region. A computer program in Tehran would filter out anything that wasn’t an American transport or Saudi military vehicle. KOO would not risk using a government asset for this project: too many officers were loyal to the royal family . . . and their money.

Of course, the information on KOO’s activities would be helpful but only if those conveyances and personnel were within reach. Right now, Yazdi was not feeling as if he had control of that . . . or very much else.