The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (20 page)

38

W
e hit the runway of Heraklion Airport and I immediately told Knuckles to call Creed, seeing if he’d gotten any more fidelity on the man we were hunting. Creed had managed to crack the Carrier IQ of the phone, giving us a wealth of data, including its location, but he was still trying to find out the man behind the phone. Or more precisely, the name of the man behind the phone. We needed that. Even in today’s electronic world, an identity was paramount. It was something that could be hidden online but was necessary in the real world, and the real world still mattered in a manhunt. At least for a few more years.

Too many vendors required identification. Required some measure of proving who you were, from hotels to airlines to rental cars, and in foreign countries, that meant a passport. A US driver’s license wouldn’t cut it. In the end, you just can’t fake it when you’re talking to a human, and if we could find that name, we could track Guy.

We taxied to the FBO, away from the commercial terminal, and Brett stood up, saying, “What do you want downloaded?”

The aircraft we were in was a Gulfstream G650—a Rock Star bird like the ones famous celebrities used to initiate unfortunate groupies into the mile-high club—and was leased to Grolier Services through about a thousand cutouts that eventually ended up at Blaisdell Consulting and the Taskforce. As much as I would have loved to test out
Jennifer’s propensity to be a groupie—okay, I didn’t say that—its true purpose was to infiltrate our weapons and equipment through customs, with everything hidden in secret panels throughout the aircraft. Brett was wanting to know what to break out, since the concealment was a bit of a bitch to penetrate, with each category of equipment in its own little shell.

I said, “Surveillance stuff only. Cameras, cell phone penetration, and beacons. I want only one suitcase. I don’t want to walk out of here like we’re tracking an army.”

“Weapons?”

I considered, not liking the thought, but knowing it was necessary. “Pistols. Suppressed.”

Nick was sitting wide-eyed next to Jennifer, listening to the conversation. He’d taken that seat on purpose, I was sure, because he knew her and she was friendly. He was still scared of me, which suited me just fine. He said, “Are we going to do an assault here? On Crete?”

I said, “That’ll all depend on him. Don’t freak out on me here, kid. You just point him out. I’ll do the rest.”

Nick went from Knuckles, to Jennifer, to me. He said, “I’m not sure . . .”

I said, “Not sure of what? All I’m asking you to do is ID him for me. Jennifer will be with you. She’ll work the kit. Don’t make me regret bringing you here. I promise you won’t get hurt.”

I saw him take the words as an insult, and I realized I’d misjudged his reticence. He said, “When I was in Ireland, you showed a desire to do good. A ferocious will to rescue Kylie. It’s why I came to the Taskforce. I’m just not . . . sure this is good.”

I said, “Look, I’m sure you thought you’d be slaying terrorists left and right, but sometimes you follow orders, even if they’re unpleasant. This doesn’t make me happy any more than it does you. But you are doing good.”

“How? We’re chasing an American. We’re hunting a guy in the
Taskforce. Someone I’m supposed to emulate. Someone I should look up to. Instead, I’m wondering if I’m going to kill him.”

I glanced at Jennifer, passing the ball. She took it seamlessly. She said, “You talked about Pike as someone you trust. Someone who got you to join this organization because you saw something in him that you wanted to follow. So did I.”

I nodded, pleased with her using my leadership to get him to continue. Then she said, “But Pike wasn’t always this way. When I met him, he was the sorriest human being I’ve ever seen, and I don’t mean just because he was pathetic. He was worse than that. He was despicable.”

I started to spit out something to get her to shut up, and she held up her hand, silencing me. Nick looked surprised at the action, which really aggravated me. Before I could explode, Jennifer said, “I saw him slaughter two men with his bare hands in a psychotic rage. I ran from him because I saw a sociopath. Then he saved my life at great risk to his own. He was not that man. And neither is Guy.”

As serious as I’ve ever seen her, she said, “This is just like hunting terrorists, because you’re going to save a life. Guy’s life, and he deserves it. Pike picked you for the same reason you joined. He trusts you. And I’ve been here before. Let’s bring Guy home.”

Nick looked uncertain, and I said, “Hey, this is a shitty mission all the way around, but I wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t have a team to get it done. I chose you because of your judgment. Don’t sell me short on the same thing.”

Knuckles came forward, holding out the phone. He said, “We got him. He’s currently at a tourist attraction south of Heraklion, inland. Been there for a couple of hours.”

“Name? Did they get his ID?”

“Yeah. They think. They’ve found digital links to some guy named Sean Parnell, and they think it’s him. He’s used a credit card to buy a ferry ticket and a moped here on Crete, and the name came into Greece on the timeline we have for Guy. Nothing on hotels, though.”

All I heard was the name, feeling a little sadness at what Guy had done. I said, “Sean Parnell?”

“Does that mean something?”

“Yeah. It’s him. I knew a guy named Parnell in Ranger Battalion. Second Batt. No way is that a coincidence.”

“So he’s getting help from active-duty guys? They gave him a passport? You think this is a conspiracy?”

I shook my head. “No. Parnell’s dead. Killed in Iraq.”

39

S
itting just inside the entrance to the Palace of Knossos, an ancient archeological site detailing Minoan life on Crete, Guy kept his eyes on the ticket booth, waiting on his target to show. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly five p.m.—the time the tourist destination closed—and wondered if he’d put too much trust in the email. Maybe his actions last night had somehow altered the instructions the second man had received. Did they know his phone was compromised? Had they decided to change venues? Did they understand that the man who owned that handset was now dead?

It was a question he couldn’t answer, and so he sat, waiting. Watching. Regretting letting the other man out of his sight. He consoled himself by thinking about the ferry ride. He would link up with the target there, whether he showed here or not. Worst case, he would miss a piece of the puzzle, but he hadn’t lost the target.

He brushed off one more vendor looking to sell him bottled water or a postcard, glaring at the woman hard enough to make her scurry away. Or maybe it was just his appearance. A three-day growth of beard, no sleep, and the devil slithering through his soul.

He’d spent the better part of six hours interrogating Nassir, the subject answering all questions unhesitatingly.

Nassir told him he’d passed identification and money to the man he’d met, that the identification had come from a safe-deposit box
owned by the Qatar Investment Authority, and that the man was up to no good. But he didn’t learn what that might be.

Nassir didn’t know, of that he was sure. During the interrogation, in between Guy’s sessions of vomiting at what he was doing—the only break the subject received—Nassir would have made something up, if he was smart enough.

He was not.

Eventually, Guy turned to the table again, picking up the cell phone. Nassir gave up the passwords, scared of what Guy would find but more afraid of the repercussions if he remained mute. Guy had searched it, seeing justification for his actions. He waded through names, text messages, and PDF files, laboriously using Google Translate only to find all detailing normal activity. Then he’d come across a word document held on a service called Dropbox. When Google Translate finished, he saw it was a damn after-action review of his brother’s killing in Afghanistan. A triumphant discussion of slaughtering the infidels in the quest for jihad.

And then a new email message appeared, about a meeting tomorrow. He’d grown angry at that point, losing his objectivity and his nausea.

He demanded answers for the email, but Nassir refused to tell him. Or didn’t know. After the destruction was wrought, Guy was betting on the second reason.

When he felt he’d gathered all he could, Guy had dragged Nassir to the shower, still in his chair cocoon, placing his head near the drain, a gag in his mouth. Nassir had begged, thrashing in the tape. Guy had placed the barrel of his suppressed pistol up to the temple, saw the rolling eyes, tears streaming down, and couldn’t do it.

Not with the man looking at him.

Key West had been different. There, the man had fought, pulling a knife and coming close to gaining the upper hand. The rage had been flowing, and it was almost self-defense. Man on man, with Guy
earning the win. Nothing like this. Nassir had no fight in him, and was completely defenseless.

Guy had knocked him out at that point, hammering his temple with the barrel, getting the eyes off of him.

And then had pulled the trigger.

Afterward, he’d distractedly turned on the shower, strangely feeling that it wouldn’t be right for the maids to be forced to clean up the blood after it had solidified. He’d watched the red water swirl down the drain, feeling his soul going with it. He’d then curled up on the bed in the fetal position, trying to sleep.

Way past midnight, staring at the ceiling fan in a half sleep, he heard Nassir speak, asking for help. He’d snapped awake, sweat dripping down his back, straining his ears. He heard it again. He leapt out of bed, running to the bathroom and flipping on the lights. Nassir lay on the chipped tile, a gaping hole in his temple, his eyes unseeing.

Guy began to believe he was losing his grasp on reality.

He packed what little he’d brought, and went outside, leaving the
PRIVACY PLEASE
sign on the door. He’d rented the room for three nights, hoping nobody would check the room until he was gone, but if Nassir kept begging for help, the maids would hear.

The thought made him giddy and confused.

Losing it.

He slept on a makeshift bench built by workers at a construction site next door. When dawn broke, he’d awakened, retrieved his scooter, and began to watch.

At 0900, Guy saw a cab pull up to the hotel, a spike, given the small size of the town and the absolute absence of a taxi business. Someone had called him. At 0910, the target exited the hotel, his face now shorn clean, and got into the back of the cab. At 0912, the cab drove away, winding through the small roads of the town, heading back to the main highway.

Guy followed, glad to drive away from the voice inside the room. Glad to distance himself from his sin.

He strained to keep up with the cab, his mind not on his task but on the ghost in the hotel room. Wondering if it would remain or follow him.

They went back into Heraklion, the target stopping at the ferry terminal. Guy watched him from a distance, then let the cab leave, going to the terminal himself.

With two hundred euros, he learned the man was leaving tonight, and purchased a ticket himself. He’d then jumped back on his scooter and headed to the Palace of Knossos, the destination in the email. The meeting was set for four thirty in the afternoon, but so far, the man hadn’t shown.

He watched a school group getting berated for not behaving properly, then the entrance of a family, two kids whining and the parents dragging them along, demanding that the trip to Crete become a learning experience instead of the vacation it should have been.

He took a swig from a bottle of water, and saw a cab pull up. He lowered the bottle, and saw his target exit. He patiently waited.

The target entered, and Guy let him get deep inside, where he stared at a map under a glass shield.

Planning for his contact.

Guy snapped a couple of shots with his little digital camera, and waited. The target moved up the path toward the ruins, and Guy followed.

For the average tourist, Guy figured it took about an hour to see everything in the ruins. More if you had a tour guide blathering on. Guy started the chronograph on his Timex, both to keep track of his potential heat state, and to determine a pattern of life for these types of meetings with the target. He needn’t have bothered. Guy’s target did a quick lap, moving among the trees and paths that surrounded
the ruins, then stopped at a display of giant urns, just standing and waiting. Above him and to the right, behind an ancient mural, Guy held his breath and readied his camera.

Nothing happened.

Guy saw him check his own watch, then continue on, nonchalantly circling back to the parking lot.

Guy saw the signs and realized the meeting was busted. He had no idea why, but knew, with the man headed back to the entrance, there would be no linkup.

So intent was he on the target that he failed to see the female tourist shadowing them the entire way. Guy couldn’t be faulted for this. He’d kept a wary eye out for a threat, and had found none. After all, there were plenty of tourists in the park, each taking pictures, so the woman didn’t spike.

But he failed to notice that the woman included him in every frame.