Intercept (15 page)

Just then Anne arrived with a large pot of coffee and mugs, with a pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl. She placed it on the sideboard and instantly beat a tactful retreat. Mack walked over and closed the door to the front hall. “Okay, what do you need? I doubt that chopper in the field was on loan for a social call.”

Jimmy Ramshawe opened the proceedings. “Lieutenant Commander,” he said, carefully granting the SEAL the full respect of his rank, “I wonder if you read recently that under a new Supreme Court ruling some of the most dangerous inmates of Guantanamo Bay are now being released by the U.S. appeals court?”

“I did. And I should tell you that a couple of years ago I thought the world had gone crazy when my own career was shattered. I now think it’s
gone a lot crazier. I’m sure you understand just how dangerous some of those characters are. I used to hunt them down, up in the Hindu Kush. They’d slit your throat as soon as look at you.”

“Well, there are four guys in question right now. The appeals court let ’em loose a few days ago, and as we speak they’re in Pakistan heading north across the Punjab on a train.”

“Up to the Swat Valley, I guess?” said Mack. “There always was some serious shit going on up there—training camps and all. Probably preparing another hit on the U.S. mainland. Better stay on ’em. Seems just about every last fanatic who got out of Tora Bora headed for the Valley.”

“You ever go there?” asked Bob Birmingham, who was always rather in thrall to the military, and loved their stories.

“I never did get right in,” said Mack. “But I observed it a few times from the steep walls of the escarpments that run alongside it. I remember one time some hairy fucking tribesman walked up on me, carrying this curved dagger. Said he would cut the throat of the Infidel. And he meant it.”

“Christ, what happened?” asked Bob.

“Nothing really. But I had to kick him in the balls, then break his wrist, then his neck. Mad bastard.”

“I’m guessing a kick in the bollocks from a bloke like you would have shot his eyeballs straight across the Swat Valley, like a couple of bullets,” said Jimmy.

“Got his attention,” Mack replied, chuckling at the Aussie’s knack of reducing even the most violent confrontation to a scene from a cartoon.

“Well, anyway,” said the NSA director. “We are now facing a problem that may repeat itself. Right here we’ve got four of the most dangerous terrorists ever captured, and they’re all on the loose. We cannot re-arrest them because they just got freed by the U.S. Court of Appeals.

“Equally we cannot forget about them because they all have the most diabolical records of mass murder and violence. And they’ve sworn revenge on the United States. The Mossad wants them worse than we do, but daren’t move because of U.S. law.”

“So you want to take them out?”

“Precisely.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“And may I ask the purpose of your visit?”

“Of course. We came to ask you if you could help in this mission.”

Mack Bedford stood up and walked to the sideboard. “At this moment,” he said, “I have two very simple questions.”

“Fire away . . . ”

“Would everyone like some coffee? And, do you think I might be insane?”

“Yes, to the first,” said Ramshawe, “Not bloody likely, to the second.”

“I am not quite clear on one thing. Are you suggesting I very quietly go out and murder these four characters?”

“Well, we were not going to put it in quite that way,” interjected Bob Birmingham.

“Any way you phrase it comes to the same thing,” replied Mack, “Shoot, blow up, cut throats, poison, or throttle. You want them all dead. And since all four of them are now, apparently, innocent men, that would come under the general heading of ‘murder.’ So the penalty for me would be life in prison or a death sentence.”

“The way you say it, no one would dream of taking on the mission,” said Andy Carlow.

“Well someone might,” replied Mack. “But he’d have to be a professional, someone who would do it for money. You might locate one of those somewhere. Ex-military, highly paid, for certain unusual skills.”

He passed around the coffee, and through the closed door Mack could hear Anne talking animatedly, just catching the phrase, “Well, they definitely wanted something very important.”

What he didn’t know was that Anne was talking to Mack’s father, and that they were both concerned in many ways about Mack’s recent demeanor. Plainly he missed the SEALs, missed the hugely fulfilling role of commanding men who had a higher calling than mere cash. Men who had a touch of the noble savage about them. Americans, who, when the bugle sounded, would come out fighting, for honor and patriotism, and would die for their country. Mack missed it. Missed every last vestige of his far-lost command.

And he treasured every memory. There were nights when his dreams were filled with elation. Nights when he was scared, waking up, breathless, reaching for his rifle, shouting out to Lieutenant Mason, leading his men into unknown territory, way up in the mountains, or, in the hot and dusty ghettos of Baghdad.

The trouble was, Mack was a SEAL, from his boots to the top of his head. For months and months he’d tried to enjoy his new life, enjoy his big salary and time with his small family. But the blacktop grinder where they
trained, out in Coronado, was never far from his thoughts. He’d even had a flag-staff constructed in the front yard, in the same position as the SEALs’ flag, back on the shores of the Pacific.

Every morning he hauled up the Stars and Stripes, and every evening as twilight descended upon his home, half a world away from SPECWARCOM, Lt. Commander Bedford hauled it down. When he thought no one was looking, he came to attention, and saluted. And whenever he did so, there was the faintest tremor on his upper lip.

Anne usually knew what Mack was thinking. And right there, when he stood rigidly beneath his personal flagstaff, she understood he was recalling the lines from the creed of the SEALs—lines she considered utterly magnificent. Lines for heroes:

On the rare occasions when Anne caught a glimpse of her husband enacting this private ceremony, it almost broke her heart. Just to see this strong and powerful warrior, a man born to lead troops in battle, so utterly alone, so solitary, yearning for the only life he could never have. She always pretended she had seen nothing.

But these past few weeks, both she and his father had noticed an ever-increasing change. Mack was becoming more within himself, reading more, watching the History Channel and the Military Channel. She was secretly thrilled that Andy Carlow and his friends were here, especially when she heard Mack’s great shout of laughter at one of Ramshawe’s more absurd metaphors.

And he was plainly flattered at being selected by an old friend to commit a quadruple murder. “Sets you apart, old mate,” said Jimmy. “We could probably make you more famous than Jack the Ripper!”

“Well,” said Mack, “What price do you put on it?”

“Ten million bucks,” said Birmingham, instantly. “Cash. Half up front, if we get the right guy. No taxes.”

“Just tell us. Are you interested?”

“Not really. I was never cut out to be a mercenary. Killing for money. It just doesn’t feel right. And with a crime like this, well, you gotta live with
yourself. And I don’t think I’d like it much. And Anne, if she ever knew, would hate it.”

“How would you feel about $20 million?” asked Ramshawe.

“Same.”

“But could you do it? If no expenses were spared, and you could make all your own rules and arrangements?”

“Probably. With some backup in locations. I guess I probably could.”

“But, Mack Bedford,” said Rear Admiral Carlow, “there is no price we could put on it, that would tempt you to perform this service for your government and your commander-in-chief?”

“Well, that’s not quite accurate, Andy. Because there is a price.”

“Name it,” said the SEAL boss.

“I want my commission back in the United States Navy SEALs. I want my name cleared of any wrongdoing, and I want my rank back, as if I’d stayed in the Navy.”

“Jesus,” replied Carlow. “That would take a Board of Inquiry . . . ”

“Quite frankly,” replied Mack, “I don’t really care if it takes an Act of Congress. They say every man has his price. And I guess that’s mine. Because for that, I’d do anything.”

Rear Admiral Carlow stood up and told them he needed to call the Pentagon, and speak to Admiral Mark Bradfield, the head of the United States Navy. He walked out of the room and then out of the house to make the call on his cell. He had been gone for only around six minutes when he walked back into the room. “It’s done,” he said. “Welcome back, Commander Bedford.”

“Steady, Andy,” replied Mack. “I’m still only a lieutenant commander.”

“Not any more, you’re not,” replied the SEAL boss.

THE STUNNING EVENTS
of those six minutes in the Bedfords’ white house in snow-swept Maine took everyone by surprise.

By way of explanation, Andy Carlow told them a board of inquiry was being convened right now, with orders from the highest possible authority that the dreaded GOMOR—General Officer Memorandum of Reprimand—that had had been issued against Mack was to be overturned and struck from the record as from this day.

All further matters, regarding pay, pensions, benefits, and promotions, would be retro-active, backdated.

“If anyone’s interested,” said Andy with a broad grin, “Bradfield’s precise words were ‘This should have been done months and months ago, as soon as the stupid, know-nothing Middle East peace talks went down.’

“He also said he never could remember any action in any court-martial ever to cause that much bitterness and resentment, especially among the SEALs. He mentioned that even the goddamned janitor knew Mack should never have been sacrificed like that, especially as the court-martial had just found him not guilty on all counts.”

“Will I need to complete the mission successfully in order for all of this to kick in?” asked Mack.

“Absolutely not,” replied Carlow. “Your word and your handshake are good enough for us. Everyone knows you will either take out those four mass murderers. Or die in the attempt.”

 

THE OLD NAVY BASE
at New Brunswick, Maine, was still functioning, even though its days were numbered. They flew Mack Bedford out of there, direct to the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia. From there he was
flown into the Central Intelligence Agency’s helicopter landing pad, a short walk from the New Headquarters Building situated on the main Langley campus on the western bank of the Potomac. The entire building sits beneath a giant copper-grid of a roof designed and structured to prevent listening devices from penetrating the atmosphere inside the walls of the Agency.

Mack arrived under escort, the steel heels of his polished black shoes echoing on the sixteen-foot-wide granite CIA seal inlaid into the lobby floor. Heads turned to look at him; even the sound of Mack Bedford was not like that of other men.

Mack strode to the North Wall of the lobby and stood for a few moments staring at the eighty-three engraved black stars set into the white marble, each representing a member of the agency who had perished in the line of duty.

In the nearby Book of Honor, however, there were only forty-eight names revealed, the others still classified. Mack had known some of these fallen senior INTEL agents, having forged close friendships with them, both in Baghdad and at the Bagram Base in Afghanistan.

Their skills, observations, and strategic plans were often life-and-death for the U.S. Special Forces. The combat SEALs, in all of the world’s trouble spots, damn near worshipped their hard-eyed guides from Langley, Virginia. Mack glanced up at the wording on the wall, the stark black letters, which immortalized them all:

The memories of lost friends stood before him, and for a few brief seconds he was transported back to the hell-holes where he had fought an often unseen enemy. And he thought again of those guides and their consummate skills, and the terrible dangers in which they operated, undercover and behind enemy lines.

And he remembered the fear and the brutality, the death and destruction. And, here in this great wide and tranquil hall, standing in front of the flag of the United States, he bowed his head in private remembrance. He was unaware that every eye in the place was upon him, although no one knew who he was. He just seemed like someone who really mattered.

Finally, he walked across to the guard station where an escort had already arrived to take him down to the CIA’s situation room, one of the most secretive conference rooms in the United States. They took the elevator down and walked along the great curved concrete tunnels, which made electronic intrusion impossible.

Four guards stood at the entrance to the bomb-proof, sound-proof, phone-proof situation room, where every last law of classified military “Black Ops” was observed. For meetings like this one, there were no cell-phones, no communications to the outside world, no visitors, no secretaries, no assistants.

There would be just the principal operations personnel, men who made big decisions and had the power to make them without reference. In this case, reference might have put them all in jail.

Rear Admiral Andy Carlow, the SPECWARCOM commander, was already in the room. And so was Captain Ramshawe. Mack Bedford entered and stared around him. The space was plain, with white walls and no windows. But there were two giant computer screens set into the wall and one giant television. On the huge, polished central table, there was a massive world atlas and several Navy charts and maps.