He knew Bentley was upset he’d shot and killed Mustaff bin Yasir, but Bentley’s refusal to even acknowledge his presence upset Jake. Yasir got what he deserved. After all, he was about to kill the woman who Jake now knew was an operative with an intelligence organization of some sort. He learned the woman’s pleas to stop him from shooting were legitimate—she was close to learning the location of other cells. She needed Yasir alive, he was her only connection to Hashim Khan, the handler of the cells.
As Jake discovered after he returned to Langley, Yasir planned to reunite with Khan after the cell’s attack on Sydney. Yasir and the woman had been booked on a freighter owned by the Hilal Shipping Company in Yemen, the same company Isabella Hunt infiltrated, and from which she had disappeared. Too much of a coincidence not to be connected.
When he and Kaplan arrived back at Langley from Australia, Jake was sent home, told to get some rest, and pack.
No destination given.
Jake knew Kaplan had been in contact with Bentley prior to and during their flight back to Washington. Kaplan was summoned directly to Bentley’s office and Jake was sent home. He could only surmise that Kaplan would be going to Yemen in search of Isabella Hunt—only he wanted to go too.
“Sir.” Jake had to break the silence. “Where are we going?”
“Jake, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Bentley closed his portfolio and gave his seatbelt a tug.
“Why the silent treatment?”
“Because I had to decide what I was going to do with you.”
“And that is what…fly me across the country so I can meet someone?”
Bentley stared at him. “Yes, but first we’re going to eat lunch.”
“Where are we? We’ve been in the air for hours.”
“West Texas. Not too far from El Paso.”
“That’s a long way to go for lunch. It must be good.” Jake thought he saw a slight curl in Bentley’s lips. Then it disappeared.
The jet descended toward the desert floor. Jake looked out the windows on both sides and saw nothing but tumbleweeds, sand, rocks, and cliffs. As if out of nowhere, an asphalt runway appeared beneath the aircraft as it gently touched down and taxied to a large hangar. Parked in front of the hangar was the longest golf cart he’d ever seen with a driver dressed in full cowboy regalia.
Jake followed Bentley down the air stair to the tarmac.
Bentley turned and pointed back at the aircraft. “Go get your bag, you’ll need it. You’re not returning with me.”
The sound of those words sent a chill through Jake. He grabbed his bag and followed Bentley.
The cowboy stepped from the cart and motioned to take Jake’s bag. “Director Bentley, Mr. Pendleton, Welcome to Wrangler’s Steakhouse. If you’ll hop in, I’ll take you to your table.”
Cowboy tucked Jake’s bag away in a covered trunk on the rear of the cart. The cart’s seats were made of plush leather with studs securing it around the thick padding. Tassels hung from the outside of each seat and whipped in the wind as the cart pulled away from the hangar.
Jake ran his hand across the leather. “Is everything here this nice?”
Bentley kept looking forward, “E. W. doesn’t do anything half-ass.”
The cart pulled under a thatch portico attached to the large adobe style building. Jake counted five parking lots, two of which were full. He glanced at his watch, “A lot of people for lunch, I hope we have a reservation.”
“This is nothing," Cowboy said. "Wait til suppertime. It’s Friday night, all seven lots will be full and there’ll be a good two-hour wait for a table. Happens every weekend. Holidays are worse.”
“Seven parking lots? I only counted five.”
Cowboy pointed to a hill behind the restaurant. “Two larger ones beyond that ridge.”
Jake turned to Bentley, “Will I be staying here tonight?”
“No.”
“Mr. Pendleton, I’ll deliver your bag to you this afternoon.” Cowboy pointed toward the glass entryway. “Right this way gentlemen.”
Cowboy took them to a table in an empty part of the restaurant, “Your waiter will be right with you.”
Jake’s curiosity grew until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Sir, what’s going on?”
Bentley placed his portfolio on the edge of the table. “You promised me you’d control yourself in Australia…yet you didn’t.”
Jake inhaled to speak but Bentley’s finger was in the air signaling him to remain quiet.
“I realize you thought you were saving the woman. She was undercover, sent to infiltrate Yasir’s camp. She’s a South Korean posing as a North Korean arms dealer. It took her nearly six months to gain Yasir’s trust. She was supposed to arrange a weapons transfer for Khan. Her intel indicated that Yasir’s camp was one of three cells planning attacks around the world. She claims she tried to stop you, our link to Khan is dead and we don’t know what other cities are targeted. Now we might not be able to stop the attack or attacks.”
“Sir, it all happened so fast. By the time I realized what she was saying, Yasir was already dead. I thought she would be more useful to us than Yasir. I had no idea a plant was in the camp.”
“That’s why you follow orders. You don’t have the bigger picture.” Bentley paused. “Are you familiar with Senator Richard Boden, Committee Chairman for Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs?”
“The old man with Donald Trump hair who's always chewing gum?” Jake nodded. “Yes sir, I know who he is.”
“He wants me to hand you over to him. He has so much as ordered me to do so. He wants to make an example of you. Drag you through the coals publicly and then lock you away. I won’t let that happen. Not to any of my operatives. I take orders from the President, not Boden. So I’m putting you someplace where you can lay low. Let this whole thing blow over, and sooner or later it will blow over.”
Bentley unrolled his cloth napkin, placed it in his lap, and rearranged his silverware on the table. “Things have changed, Jake. Times have changed. The Clandestine Service is not what it once was. Society has trouble accepting what we do. Congress is slowly neutering the CIA. Everyday we lose power and prestige.
The People
want things done, want to feel safe and secure, but they don’t want to know the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jake?”
“I think so, sir. The good ol' days are gone and the wheels of bureaucracy are grinding the company train to a halt.”
“Crude…but accurate. In many ways, we’ve already ground to a halt. More and more covert operations are being farmed out to contractors and paid through over-budgeted slush funds and dummy corporations. The government has reached a point where it can no longer have assassins as employees. The public has an unrealistic expectation that all problems can be solved diplomatically. Society has grown soft and refuses to accept the true, evil nature of our enemies. So we have been forced to find other ways to accomplish our goals—goals that must be accomplished for the welfare of this nation as well as many other nations.”
“How long before all this blows over and I can get back to work?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m putting you out of sight for a while. And in the mean time, maybe you will learn a little about yourself…and why your problems can't always be solved by simply pulling a trigger.”
“But Admiral, I’d like to help Kaplan find Isabella. We’re a team.”
“Jake, first of all, you and Kaplan need a little time apart.” Bentley’s tone startled him. “Kaplan is a team player. Isabella is a team player. You, on the other hand, are not a team player and you had better learn to be one very soon or there is no place for you in my organization. Do I make myself clear?”
Jake now understood the impact of his actions in Australia. Bentley had never spoken to him like that and obviously had given him all the leeway he could. He would do what ever Bentley asked of him. He would control his anger—he had to. He would become a team player.
Their waiter interrupted them. He brought two menus, two glasses and a pitcher of water. While he poured water in the glasses he asked if they wanted cocktails. They both declined.
Out the window Jake saw an old covered chuck wagon with a steer skull attached to the front of the canopy. A peacock perched on the hitching rail. In the distance an old barn surrounded by cactus served as a reminder of the ranch’s history as a stopping point for the old Pony Express.
“When do I meet this man?” Jake asked.
“He’ll let us know when he’s ready for us. In the meantime, enjoy a good meal.”
“What do you mean, ‘when he’s ready for us?’ Is he here?”
“He owns the place, Wrangler’s Steakhouse. He’s been watching us since we got off the jet.”
CHAPTER 9
Sana’a, Yemen
K
APLAN, AND THE young man known only as Chase, pulled up in front of the safe house in the Company’s Toyota Land Cruiser. The ride from Aden to Sana’a was long and lack of food and sleep were taking its toll. Kaplan hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours or eaten in over nine. The back of the U. S. Army C-130 that flew him from Washington to Yemen was loud and uncomfortable. First order of business was to eat and sleep. Daylight was only nine hours away and he wanted to be on the move by sun up.
Chase was younger than Kaplan expected, mid-twenties, and shorter too. Maybe five nine. He looked strong, and cut. He had a close-cropped beard—a chin curtain with no mustache. With his jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes, and backpack, Chase looked like a college student.
From the information Kaplan gleaned during his pre-mission brief, Chase was part of a Delta Force Squadron temporarily based in Oman, now on special assignment in Yemen. As the United States’ primary counter-terrorism unit, Delta was a versatile group of soldiers capable of assuming many covert missions, hostage rescue among them. Since Delta was a highly secretive unit, they were granted autonomy and tremendous latitude. They were allowed relaxed grooming and clothing standards and told to blend in and not be recognizable as military personnel.
Kaplan had studied the maps along the way with a Maglite held between his teeth. There were so many small villages in the outlying areas surrounding Sana’a that Isabella Hunt could be anywhere. The mountainous area was steep, rugged terrain, so a rescue attempt would be challenging. On the other hand, if they had taken her into a valley or the flat desert, infiltration and exfiltration would be simpler.
“Mr. Kaplan, are your familiar with Delta and its mission?” Chase asked.
Kaplan laughed.
“What’s so funny? That wasn’t a joke.”
Kaplan reached down, rolled up his sleeve, and let his Maglite flash across his upper arm. “What do you think?”
On Kaplan’s arm was a tattoo—Airborne—the insignia of the Delta Force. An arrowhead shield with a superimposed sword. “Good.”
Kaplan went back to studying the map.
“Rank?” Chase asked.
“Sergeant Major.” Kaplan turned off the Maglite. “You?”
“Captain.”
“Captain?” Kaplan folded his map. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Great.”
They promote them younger and younger these days.
According to Chase, one of the local sources had seen Hunt but was afraid to talk. Someone was needed to lean on the source and leaning was one of Kaplan’s areas of specialty. If the source knew anything, as Chase had indicated, Kaplan would squeeze the information out of him.
Chase turned off the ignition to the Land Cruiser. “Before we go in, let me brief you on our brick.” Kaplan remembered the term ‘brick’ referred to the small Delta team.
“Counting me, there are five of us, four men and one woman—“
“A woman? In Delta?” Kaplan was astonished. “I thought women were forbidden in Delta.”
“Most of the time that’s true but we’re called a
funny platoon
. Have you ever heard of that?”
Kaplan shook his head.
“A
funny platoon
is an intelligence gathering outfit, that’s our sole purpose.” Chase explained. “Almost always under cover. Here, we are college students under a foreign flag, Canada, studying architecture of the region. We’re all on a first name basis and never refer to each other by rank…ever.”
“Understood.” Kaplan said.
“We’ve only been here a day. We received the mission brief yesterday morning and we were on the go within three hours. We flew out of Oman and traveled to Aden and have been awaiting the arrival of our college professor—namely you.”
“College professor, eh.” Kaplan smiled.
“I have to be honest, the brick’s been a little nervous about you. Rumors. We’ve had a couple of unpleasant experiences with Clandestine Services before.” Chase grinned. “You being Delta will help put their minds at ease. Let’s go.”
Kaplan followed Chase into the safe house where three young men were playing cards while a short young woman stood watch. Barely five feet tall with dirty blonde hair, she wore sweat pants, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that read,
I’m Not Short, I’m Fun Size
—not what Kaplan was expecting. Certainly not fitting the mold Kaplan had envisioned of the Delta Force team.
“Look who I found.” Chase said. “Professor Kaplan just informed me he’s a fellow alumni.”
Kaplan pulled up his sleeve revealing his Delta tattoo.
The four soldiers smiled.
Chase introduced Kaplan to the members of the brick. He pointed to the woman. “She thinks she runs the place.”
“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Kaplan—“
“Gregg.” Kaplan corrected.
“Professor.” The woman paused until Kaplan grasped the protocol. “I only try to keep the boys focused.”
“Believe me, she’s got her work cut out for her.” Chase said. “Don’t let size fool you though—there’s a lot of fire in that small package.”
Someone had prepared a meal and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “Do you mind?” Kaplan inhaled his food, washing it down with three cups of coffee. When he finished eating he looked up and all eyes were focused on him. The short woman was smiling.
Chase pointed to a door. “You'll bunk in there. The room’s empty so you won’t be disturbed when the team rotates watches. Take the one on the right.” He pointed to the woman. “She’ll grab the bunk on the left in a few hours. We lock up at ten and lights out at eleven. We’re just outside the al-Rawdah district—it’s dangerous for Americans here so we keep guard all night.”