Beloved Enemy (6 page)

Jack knew there was no point dressing in the leo’s clothes or using his ID; the suits were sure to have his photo on their mobiles—he’d never get past them. There had to be another way, and time was fast running out. He had just over six minutes to get on the InterGlobal Logistics aircraft before it taxied out onto the runway. If it lifted off without him, he was trapped in D.C., and sooner rather than later, he’d be caught, with no chance to clear his name.

Then he remembered the cargo vehicle backed up to the warehouse. A quick glance confirmed that it was still there. He turned to the warehouse door, but it was locked. Crouching down beside the fallen leo, he went quickly through his pockets until he found a ring of keys. Checking the lock manufacturer, he found the matching key, inserted it into the lock and pushed open the door. Turning, he grabbed the leo by the back of his collar, dragging him into the interior. It wouldn’t do to have anyone see him lying there, especially the suits.

From the moment he entered, he could tell this was no ordinary warehouse. For one thing it was overheated, for another, it stank of animals. Jack realized he was in one of Dulles Cargo’s several specialized warehouses, equipped for all manner of exotic cargo, including live animals for Washington’s National Zoo.

Moving through the interior toward the rear doors, which were open to the crane and the cargo vehicle, he saw that only one crate remained to be loaded. He sprinted the remaining distance. The crane’s steel fingers moved downward to lock into the last crate as he came up on it. There was a locked door and several slit-like windows set with bars, but it was so dim inside, a hurried glance through them revealed nothing of the crate’s contents, except a powerful stench. Something big was inside.

The crane’s tines gripped the edges of the crate, beginning to dig into the sturdy wooden frame, and Jack began working on the lock. Unlike the one guarding the warehouse door, this one was a simple tumbler he was able to pick in a matter of seconds. Swinging the clasp away, he opened the door and stepped in.

He shut the door behind him, but not before he had caught a glimpse of the beast curled in one corner. Its eyes briefly glowed a brilliant emerald in the light, its tail switched back and forth as it stared at him.

Jack had seen tigers before, but this one was massive, a third again as large. Years ago, he had read about the gigantic Royal Bengal tigers whose habitat was the tidal islands of the Sundarbans, on the edge of the Bay of Bengal in eastern India. If he remembered right, besides their size, what set these tigers apart from all others was that they were known man hunters as well as man-eaters.

He could hear the coughing of the great beast’s breath, like a high wind soughing through tree branches. Its musky odor was overpowering. The tiger didn’t move a muscle, not even when the crate began its ascent, but Jack was absolutely certain it was staring at him, sizing him up.

Slowly, he crouched down on his haunches, back to the door, and tried not to breathe.

F
IVE

“H
OW THE
hell could this have happened?”

Kinkaid Marshall and G. Robert Krofft sat across from each other in a Dunkin’ Donuts on K Street NW, but neither of them cracked a smile at the thread-worn joke. It might seem odd for the directors of the DCS and the CIA to be taking their early breakfast at a fast-food shop, but they both knew that they would remain undetected and anonymous in the continuous foot traffic that headed in and out. Over coffee and powdered donuts, they discussed the president’s emergency briefing.

“A rotten apple happened,” Krofft said, with a dismissive air. “Dennis Paull and his security team were shot to death by that fucking snake Jack McClure.”

“Could Dennis have been so blind?”

Krofft broke open two packets of sugar and added the contents to his coffee. “Who the hell cares? What’s done is done.”

Marshall, listening to the reassuring background hum of human voices, cut his donut into four precise pieces with a white plastic knife. Every movement he made appeared precise and considered. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough when we have McClure in custody. There are going to be a lot of people who want a piece of him.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Kin. We don’t want McClure in custody, we want him dead. Containment is priority one. The quicker this sorry incident is put to bed the better.”

Marshall made a meditative sound in the back of his throat. The scent of warm sugar was as thick as the morning fog down by the water. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

The rest of the quarter vanished into Marshall’s mouth. “But what if you aren’t?”

Krofft, dunking his donut into his coffee, laughed harshly. “Don’t be absurd. Come on, we both saw the evidence. The case against McClure is open-and-shut. Let’s at least refrain from bullshitting each other.” He eyed Marshall. “Unless you have another agenda.”

“I’m simply trying to be thorough. I’d like to do some follow-up investigation on Dennis and McClure.”

Krofft’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because the two men were friends as well as colleagues.” Marshall peered at him.

“McClure was a mole. That was part of his job.”

“It would seem so.” Marshall looked thoughtful. Absently, he ate two quarters of his donut before he spoke again. “But Dennis’s murder has given me a weird feeling in my gut.”

The shop was awash in early morning customers now, all of them bleary-eyed and rushing to get their morning fix of caffeine and sugar before they set foot in their offices. No one paid them the slightest attention. Nevertheless, Krofft produced a small oval with a plastic shell that gleamed like polished metal and was just as hard. It looked like a beetle. He thumbed a tiny switch and a red LED light popped on. He pushed the electronic jammer across the table so that it sat midway between him and Marshall, protecting them both from eavesdroppers.

“That the latest doohickey from DARPA?” Marshall was referring to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.

“A prototype. I like to stay one step ahead of everyone else.”

Marshall nodded. “So what’s really on your mind?”

“First Malone, now you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw Dickinson getting into Malone’s car and driving off. I don’t know what those two fucks are planning, but you can make book that it doesn’t include us.”

“On these shores, G.R., your hands are tied. Mine, too, for that matter.”

“I wish to God I had Malone’s car bugged.”

“You’d be the one to do it, too,” Marshall laughed dryly.

Krofft hunched forward. “Are you serious about that feeling in your gut?”

“Lookit, Dennis’s death set me to thinking. I mean, why now, at this particular moment? And then the answer came to me: Atlas.” The word was voiced in no more than a whisper.

“We are about to begin the operational phase of Atlas. He was the fucking architect of Atlas. We all signed off on it, but it was his idea. He built it from scratch.”

“And a brilliant plan it is,” Krofft said. “Ever since Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula arose in Yemen, we have kept an eye on the growing threat of domestic terrorism. But it wasn’t until the AQAP started actively recruiting disaffected Westerners to their cause on the Shumukh and Al-Fidaa jihadist forums, among others, that Paull really began to take action.”

Krofft unlocked his briefcase, pulled out a sheaf of papers, shuffling them until he found what he wanted. He cleared his throat, and read: “‘Corresponding with those who yearn for martyrdom operations and the brothers who are searching to execute an operation that would cause great damage to the enemies the goal now is to activate those brothers who reside in the land of the enemy … whether Jewish, Christian, or apostates as clearly individual jihad or the so-called lone wolf has become popular.’”

Krofft looked up. “The usual drivel, we thought, but Paull became alarmed.”

“Hence Atlas.”

Krofft nodded. “An operation to plant our own people, posing as disaffected Americans—Muslims or Christians wanting to convert—aligning themselves with AQAP’s jihadist aims.”

Marshall tapped a forefinger against his lower lip. “Do you think McClure knows about Atlas?”

Krofft frowned. “Atlas is a director-only operation. But because of their close friendship, I’d say it was probable.”

Marshall passed a hand across his eyes. “Fuck me. Stealing the Atlas field personnel list would be a disaster of epic proportions.”

“The list isn’t even complete,” Krofft said, “Just the first wave is about to be sent out.”

“Even that would compromise over a hundred specially trained operatives,” Marshall said.

“A perfect disaster.” Krofft nodded. “Okay, Kin. Much as my own gut tells me this is a waste of time, I have an idea how we can satisfy it. You and I are going to cook up three pieces of red-hot intel. We’re going to feed them, one each, to Malone, Rogers, and Dickinson, then sit back and see what happens. But I’m telling you nothing is going to happen. McClure was the leak. The faster we find him and air him out, the better.”

*   *   *

The crate settled with a small crash onto the flatbed, jolting the door open slightly. The Royal Bengal was momentarily illuminated in the sliver of light—it was larger even than Jack had first thought. Its left forepaw was extended to brace it against the jolting movement and its head was low, bobbing between its enormous shoulders. Its tongue came out, licked around its dark muzzle. Then the light winked out as Jack pulled the door closed.

The vehicle and the animal began to move at the same moment. Jack felt the vibration of the vehicle as it rolled over the tarmac. He could feel the presence of the tiger looming over him. He was, quite literally, between a rock and a hard place. If he escaped now he’d be right in the line of sight of the suits, who were undoubtedly on the lookout for him; but if he stayed where he was, he might become the tiger’s next meal. He knew that if the Royal Bengal decided to attack him he wouldn’t stand a chance against its jaws and raking talons.

Jack risked opening the door enough to see what was going on. At that moment, he heard voices raised in challenge and the vehicle ground to a stop. He saw the flap of a suit jacket, and then clearly one of the feds asking the driver what was in the crates.

By cracking the door a bit wider, he could make out the nose section of the InterGlobal plane. He was turned away from the tiger, but he felt its hot, panting breath, and he knew it had come halfway across the crate. And still it came on, its head lowered, its eyes glowing green.

Then he heard one of the suits say, “I don’t care about flight schedules, we need to check your cargo.”

That was his cue to leave. They’d see the lock off the crate door and be instantly on alert. Opening the door wider, he was about to leap out when he was brushed aside by the tiger’s immense body. He froze in shock to see its entire length stretched out as it bounded from its cage.

A frenzied shout from the driver brought Jack to his senses. Leaping from the flatbed, he sprinted around to the right of the vehicle. On the opposite side, the tiger was confronted by the two suits, one of whom had the presence of mind to pull his service pistol.

From behind him, Jack heard the driver screaming, “No, don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot!”

Jack, running full out, made the rolling ladder in seconds. Racing up it, he kicked it away with one leg as he stepped into the cockpit with the other. Then the navigator slammed the door shut behind him.

“We thought you weren’t going to make it,” the pilot said.

“What the hell was that?” the navigator said as he slid back into his seat.

“You don’t want to know,” Jack replied, as he buckled himself into the third seat.

The pilot was going through his last-minute checks. “We’re done loading, yes?”

“We’re good to go,” the navigator nodded.

The engines revved up as the pilot spoke to the tower. “Runway clear.”

Opening his window, the pilot had to yell at the member of the ground crew who was supposed to kick away the chocks but was mesmerized by the standoff between the men and the animal. Getting an all-clear wave, the pilot slammed his window shut and released the brakes.

The aircraft turned and began taxiing toward the head of the runway. The pilot brought them around until they were parallel, the plane came to a stop, then it commenced its run, its wheels propelling it faster and faster until it lifted off.

They were airborne.

Jack put his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through him. His heart was in his throat. The rank stench of the beast was still in his nostrils, the image of its lambent green eyes imprinted on the back of his eyelids, and he trembled with the sensation, both terrible and exhilarating, of the Royal Bengal brushing past him on its way to freedom—or death.

*   *   *

Dreaming, Jack fell through successive layers of deepening gloom, like a diver going deeper than ever before. As he fell into darkness, he saw below him glimmers of light. As he approached them, they became dazzling bursts, like flashbulbs going off.

And then he was within the winking galaxy of lights, illuminating shards of his recent past: the sudden death of his daughter, Emma; his acrimonious breakup with his wife; meeting Annika for the first time in a hotel bar in Moscow; saving her in a nearby alley as she was assaulted by two men; finding out that she was an agent, working for her grandfather; hooking up with her when their missions overlapped; meeting Dyadya Gourdjiev, her grandfather; discovering what a brilliant tactician he was …

The lights flashed, more scenes burst upon him in a conflagration that caused his heart to contract: Annika’s note, telling him how she had lied about everything, that, at her grandfather’s behest she had spent six months researching him before they had ever met, that the meeting had been planned, the assault in the Moscow back alley staged, that they could never see each other again. He was already in love with her by then, ready to shed his old life like a snake sheds its skin. But, despite what she had written, he had seen her again; they could not stay away from each other, and their love had burned ever brighter, fusing them together: