‘Yaeger,’ Crawford finally called out.
The mercenary looked up. ‘Yeah.’
‘Need a moment with you, son.’
Jason handed the last gas canister to Meat, then went over to the colonel.
‘Walk with me,’ Crawford said, pacing away from the tent.
Jason kept step beside him.
‘I need to know if you’ve spoken to anyone about what’s happening here.’
Jason’s response was forthright: ‘You, air command …’
‘Don’t be coy with me, Sergeant,’ Crawford warned. He needed to be direct, without raising undue suspicion. ‘Someone on the
outside
. Did you communicate with non-military, civilians perhaps?’
Jason was a master of reading between the lines. Best to answer him with a question. ‘Why would I do that?’ He could tell Crawford was unsure how to push the issue.
Crawford turned and tried to decipher Yaeger’s gaze, but read nothing. ‘Until we confirm exactly who’s holed up in that cave, I want all communication running through me. I know you want this guy in there to be Al-Zahrani. But until we’re absolutely certain, this operation has to be airtight. Let me have your sat-com.’ He held out his hand.
Jason merely stared at the hand. ‘You know I can’t do that, Colonel.’ He waited for the hand to go down, then looked deep into Crawford’s hard eyes. ‘No one is more sensitive to secrecy than me. Same with my men. We
survive
on trust. From what I see, none of your boys have surrendered equipment and it’s far more probable that a leak or mole might exist in your platoon. Don’t make me remind you that I’m accountable to a different authority. So if you have a concern, best for you to voice it. I don’t like playing games. Especially not when the stakes are so high.’
Jason knew he struck a chord, because Crawford’s jaw was jutting out again.
Folding his arms tight across his chest, Crawford shook his head like a disappointed parent. ‘Yeah, the stakes
are
high. Ten million high for you, isn’t that right? Free agents like you don’t get it, Yaeger,’ he said with venom. ‘True soldiers aren’t motivated by a 401(k) plan and bonuses. And don’t cry to me about your story, ‘cause I’ve already heard it: how your brother died in the Towers and, instead of grieving, you dropped out of Dartmouth and did your time with the marines. This little vendetta of yours’ - he twirled a finger up and down at Yaeger’s outfit - ‘seems too personal. One might say it compromises your objectivity.’
Jason kept his cool, and his distance. ‘Since you’ve done your homework, you should know that my psych examination suggests otherwise,’ he replied levelly. ‘My profile shows that I approach my work quite clearly and without bias. Don’t forget that I have people too. And I’m starting to feel that I need to check
your
background.’ He saw Crawford’s jaw extend to the max. ‘I called for backup. I didn’t call for a dick-measuring contest. Unless you’d like for me to file a formal complaint with the brigadier general, I suggest you start helping me. Stop talking to me like I’m your bitch.’
Crawford let out an exasperated sigh, flashed a sardonic grin. ‘Until we know what and whom we’re dealing with up there’ - but Stokes had already provided concise details - ‘I’d appreciate it if you could not stir the hornets’ nest, is all I’m saying.’
While staring into the colonel’s shifty eyes, Jason counted to five to decompress. ‘The bot’s prepped and ready,’ he replied calmly. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He didn’t wait to be dismissed - just sidestepped Crawford and strode to the tent.
Randall Stokes stared at the computer screen wondering when Frank Roselli’s elusive e-mail would make an appearance in his inbox.
‘If you have something to say, Frank, let’s get on with it,’ he said to no one.
This morning’s clean-up had Stokes’s lower left eyelid twitching and his neck muscles quaking in spasm - his body’s most recurrent stress valves. Even the skin on his hands was breaking out in an itchy rash. No doubt that was due to the message that
had
turned up in his inbox: Crawford’s blunt update concerning the botched kill order on the Boston mark. Normally, this wouldn’t overly concern Stokes. Except this time the mysterious white knight who’d thwarted the assassin had been overheard asking the mark probing questions about Iraq. That the guy had a gun and managed to escape with the mark posed some serious questions concerning his motive and his employer.
Three kill confirmations had already arrived: an archaeologist in Geneva, a biocontainment engineer in Munich, a micro-biologist in Moscow. No complications or interference. No interloper. Therefore, the archaeologist was an isolated problem that, in all probability, linked directly to the ID card the deep-cover unit found near the cave. That would soon be remedied too. But for now, Stokes mothballed his concerns.
Turning his attention back to the business at hand, Stokes brought up a new window and entered three pass keys in the software’s prompt boxes. A chequerboard of live video feeds came on line, each shot glowing in eerie green monochrome. In all, sixteen closed-circuit cameras equipped with audio and infrared transmitted interior shots of the labyrinth via an encrypted digital signal bouncing through military satellites.
Fourteen cameras showed no movement - only still shots of winding passageways walled by jagged rock glowing in emerald night vision. The scene on the cameras numbered ‘01-E’ and ‘11-G’, however, were far from static.
Stokes double-clicked the grid box for ‘11-G’ and the video window enlarged on the screen. The live shot showed the five heavily armed Arabs funnelling single file through the tunnel, moving deeper into the mountain, still frantically searching for an alternative exit.
No such luck.
No one knew better than Stokes that the cave had only one accessible opening. Precisely the reason the ancient Mesopotamians and Stokes himself had chosen the site. After all, the lair’s primary purpose was to contain evil, both then and now.
‘Sorry, boys. One way in, one way out.’
The lead man had enabled the flashlight tool on his cell phone - the device’s only useful feature so deep beneath the earth - and was holding it out to illuminate the ominous path that lay ahead. The fellow looked extremely distressed, and rightfully so, thought Stokes. What could possibly be going through his mind right now? Could he know that he was a caged animal being led to the slaughter?
Stokes grinned widely. ‘Hello, gentlemen. Welcome to Armageddon. So glad you could make it. Those weapons aren’t going to help you now. Nothing can help you now.’ He put both elbows on the desk and cradled his chin on folded hands, beaming.
When the tall man in the middle came close to the camera, Stokes paused the feed and minutely studied the infamous, iconic face. How Crawford could plant reason for doubt was impressive. Fahim Al-Zahrani. The odds were incredible, on the outer fringe of impossible. Yet the picture didn’t lie. The Lord had brought the Dark Prince into the lion’s den for ultimate judgement. How poetic, thought Stokes.
Stokes estimated that it wouldn’t be long until they reached the main chamber.
He switched the camera back to the entry tunnel. Though it was nearly eleven a.m. in Las Vegas, nightfall had already descended over Iraq’s northern mountains. It wasn’t sunlight that now filled the passage - it was floodlights. And at the opening, he could just make out two marine snipers lying prostrate on the incline. Crawford had indicated that a SUG-V would soon be sent into the tunnels.
Then just outside the window, Stokes heard a pecking sound. He turned to see a white dove perched outside his window. An untrained observer would easily consider this a miracle since doves weren’t native to the Mojave Desert. However, it wasn’t uncommon for local hotels to release flights of doves during wedding ceremonies. But surely this lone messenger had been sent for Stokes.
He has given me a sign that the time has come. ‘Thank you, Lord. I am your servant. I am your avenger.’ With renewed vigour, he turned back to the computer and input the encryption keys that brought up the Remote Systems Interface. Using this simple command module, Stokes could manage virtually the critical systems installed in the cave’s deepest, most protected chamber. He stared at the main panel where seven indicator icons blinked ‘SEALED’. He moved the mouse pointer over the first icon and let his index finger hover over the mouse button.
‘Is it time, Lord? Give me a sign.’
The sign he received was not what he expected: a new message alert chimed over the computer speakers. His heartbeat quickened.
Stokes immediately switched program windows to check his email inbox. An absurd thought came to him: might God be so bold as to communicate through e-mail?
But the message was not from Heaven. It was from Iraq. Crawford’s simple message read: ‘NEED MORE TIME.’
Disappointed, Stokes clamped his jaw tight.
When he turned to the window, the dove was no longer there. The rash on his hands suddenly flared and he scratched at it incessantly with a letter opener, with little relief. Then he dipped into his pocket for his pillbox.
Studying the USAMRIID insignia on the BlackBerry’s display, Brooke positively recognized the three icons central to its design: a chromosome helix, a Petri culture dish and a five-pointed star. Such a unique image was easy to remember, and she was certain that this was the exact insignia embossed on the scientist’s report cover. ‘I don’t understand. How could the Infectious Disease guys have anything to do with the cave?’
Flaherty shook his head. ‘We’ve had bioweapons teams in Iraq since we first stepped foot there. Remember, Iraq supposedly had a huge cache of WMDs?’
She vividly remembered the Department of Defense’s elaborate slideshow on national television that included ominous, yet hazy, satellite images of Iraqi weapons facilities ready to churn out biological agents. In the context of it all, the mission statement listed on USAMRIID’s website made perfect sense: ‘To conduct basic and applied research on biological threats resulting in medical solutions to protect the warfighter.’
‘Maybe they found something in the cave, like a chemical weapons stash,’ he guessed.
‘I don’t remember anything like that.’ She keyed the agency name into
Wikipedia
and scrolled the entry. ‘Says here the agency began in the fifties at Fort Detrick, Maryland … biomedical defence … opened a state-of-the-art biocontainment facility in 1971 …’
‘The Crozier Building. That’s where they test and stockpile weaponized Ebola, anthrax and smallpox, among other things. You know, Cold War goodies.’
‘Nice.’ She kept reading. ‘What’s a BSL facility?’
‘Biosafety containment lab. I toured a BSL-4 mobile unit at one of our security conventions. Picture a tractor trailer with a state-of-the-art safe lab, a built-in airlock and Hazmat gear. I remember the guide saying they used them during the Gulf War.’ He considered this for a moment, then said, ‘Hey, any chance you saw something like that at the cave? Any guys wearing bio-suits?’
It didn’t take much thought before she replied, ‘No.’
The more Brooke read, the more the military’s biodefence division sounded like a biological bakery that specialized in the most unsavoury recipes. She wasn’t sure whether to praise or fear its existence. ‘Who runs this place?’
He pronounced the acronym USAMRIID phonetically: ‘You-sam-rid. It answers to the US Army Medical Research and Materiel Command. An army colonel oversees the operation.’
‘Not a scientist?’
‘Nope.’
‘Isn’t that a conflict of interest?’
He chuckled. ‘Most would argue that bioweapons are a matter of national security. But you go ahead and write your senator, Brooke.’
‘So why would an archaeologist have been talking to these people?’
‘Probably wasn’t an archaeologist, is my guess.’
‘Wait. If samples had been sent to this agency for testing, there’d be a record of it, right?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Can you call one of your people to check it out … to see if tests were performed on samples from Iraq during that time? Maybe we can figure out who ordered them and why.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘But first, I need to call my guy in Iraq … let him know what happened back at the museum.’
In the side mirror, Flaherty eyed the illuminated headlights of a Ford Explorer that had turned in behind him three blocks earlier. The SUV trailed at a comfortable distance, occasionally falling back two or three car lengths. Nothing to worry about … yet.
Flaherty pulled out his sat-com and put a call out to Jason.
‘Hey, Jason,’ Flaherty said loudly into the sat-com’s microphone. The dense storm clouds over Boston made the satellite signal sputter like crazy. ‘It’s Tommy. Can you hear me?’
‘Yeah. What’s up, Southie. You’re a bit choppy … but … hang on a sec …’
Flaherty heard crinkling static and squawking, as if Jason had stuck the phone in his pocket. In the slow lane, he continued cruising steadily along Huntington Avenue towards downtown. The snow had slowed to a sprinkle, but the roads were coated in briny slush, bringing traffic to a crawl.
A few seconds went by before Jason came back on the line.