One Rough Man (9 page)

“Sir, you told me to tell you if the professor found anything. Well, he found something.”

Eduardo explained the entire expedition in detail, telling of his and Olmec’s actions, the discovery of the temple, Olmec’s death, and his subsequent journey here.

Miguel was intrigued. “Tell me again how Olmec died. What was it he found?”

Eduardo went through the description of the bag and Olmec’s symptoms, reliving the terror again as he told the story. Miguel failed to notice the increased interest of his two guests in the description of the death.

“And you know where this temple is? You can take some of my men there?”

“No, sir. Olmec read the map, and he’s dead. The only one who would know where the temple is would be the professor. I wish I could take you there, but I can’t.”

Miguel’s demeanor turned cold. “But you said you had a GPS. Surely that would make this simple. Where is it? Are you hiding something from me?”

Eduardo felt sweat pop on his forehead. “Sir, the professor took the GPS back. I promise I don’t know where the temple is, but I do know where the professor is. He’s staying at a hotel in Flores waiting on a flight home. He’s got the GPS. I promise I’m not hiding anything.”

Miguel began smiling again. “I believe you, Eduardo. You’ve always been true to your word. So I understand, only two people have been to the temple, you and Olmec, and only one person knows the location, the professor?”

Eduardo visibly relaxed. “Yes, sir. I’m the only living person who’s seen the temple, and the professor is the only one who can find it.”

“Good. Very good. Please head home and speak nothing of the temple or the professor.” He handed Eduardo a wad of cash and showed him to the door.

Miguel saw an opportunity that he would have to seize immediately. If he could get to the temple before the government or UNESCO found out, he could ransack it, use his smuggling network to get the pieces inside the U.S., and sell them at a handsome profit. If he did it quickly enough, the government or UNESCO would never know it existed. First, he had to locate the temple. That meant finding the professor. Second, he had to eliminate anyone else who knew about it and was in a position to talk.

Miguel motioned to the security man who had shown Eduardo in. “Kill him once he reaches the bus station. Take his body into the jungle. Oh, and don’t forget to get my money back. Send in Jake.”

The security man nodded and went about his tasks as if he had been told to bring a glass of water.

Miguel spoke to the Arabs in English. “I’m sorry, but something of urgency has come up. You’re welcome to stay in the guesthouse. I’ll send someone for you when we can continue our conversation.”

The taller Arab nodded and said, “I hope it won’t interfere with our transaction, but we understand the demands of your business.”

The head of Miguel’s security entered the room just as the Arabs were leaving. A large man, at six feet four inches, Jake walked with the grace of a cat. The only gringo on the detail, he was also the only one with any true security experience. He had been expelled from the British Special Air Service for activities that he wouldn’t elaborate on. The rumor making the rounds was that he had enjoyed interrogating suspected terrorists a little too much, using force long after the subject had spilled his guts. Since then, he had hired out to numerous organizations, finally landing as Miguel’s head of security.

“You wanted me?”

“Yes. I need you to go to Flores and find a man named Cahill. He’s an American professor staying in a hotel in the town. Probably a flop-house. Don’t hurt him. Bring him back here with all of his equipment. Pay particular attention to any electronic items such as computers or GPS. I need him in the next forty-eight hours. Take my plane to the airfield at Santa Elena.”

Jake simply nodded and left the room. That was another reason Miguel liked him. He never asked questions. Given some guidance, he simply executed, unlike all of the other pipe-swingers he employed, who would ask a thousand questions to ensure they didn’t screw up. Jake was fire and forget, and just like a guided missile, once he locked on there was little that could be done to stop him.

I
n the fourth-floor conference room of the Old Executive Office Building, Harold Standish glared at Kurt Hale, infuriated. The man was arrogant to a fault. The Oversight Council meeting was winding up, and Standish had been stiff-armed on every question he had asked. It didn’t help his mood that nobody else on the council seemed to think Kurt was being insubordinate. In fact, most seemed to agree with him. Tall, at six feet six inches, Standish looked like a cross between Ichabod Crane and Christopher Plummer, with a head of close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and the sour disposition to match. At the official conclusion of the meeting, he closed his portfolio, stood up, and stalked out of the room before anyone could stop him.

He went down to his NSC office on the third floor, flew through the anteroom without addressing his secretary, and fell into his chair. Staring at his computer, he began to calm down. He was still, after all, a very powerful man. A political strategist of rare skill, he had risen from the trench warfare of American politics by mastering the art of manipulating information. He was the go-to guy when it came to playing dirty. By the time he was thirty, he was richer than he’d ever thought he would be. By the time he was forty, he was the undisputed master of political destruction. By the time he was forty-five, he was becoming aggravated at how he was treated. How could he be so rich, and yet still feel like the boy with the dirt between his toes, begging for scraps?

He vividly remembered the victory party for the previous president’s second term. He was celebrating with the rest of the campaign staff when the president-elect motioned for his top advisors to follow him into his suite. Standish, who had been standing in the group, went along as well. Once the doors closed he found everyone looking at him like he was a turd in a punch bowl. The silence was extremely uncomfortable. The president-elect finally broke it.

“Harold? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Sir? Uh . . . no. I thought you had asked me to come in here.”

“No, Harry, the campaign’s over. Your job’s done. We have real work to do now.” Standish vividly remembered the president’s patronizing smile. “If it wasn’t for you we wouldn’t even be having this meeting. I mean that.”

We have real work to do now.
The words had hit Standish as hard as a physical slap. He had seen some of the advisors fighting to suppress a smirk. He left feeling a burning shame. He realized at that moment that money wasn’t the Holy Grail. Power was.

Standish began putting his talents to use getting a key to the doors of power. He had worked hand in hand with the same people who had smirked at him in that suite and he knew he was just as intelligent as they were. Someday he’d jam that smirk straight up their ass. He didn’t have the experience or backing to join the political fray, but there were other ways to get on the inside. When Payton Warren began his first run for president, Standish had eagerly signed on. Simultaneously, he began his research, looking for a position to which the president could appoint him, should he win. He found it in the National Security Council.

Created by the National Security Act of 1947, the same act that had created the Air Force, Central Intelligence Agency, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the NSC was designed to help the executive branch synchronize political and military affairs. What Standish found attractive was that the statute dictated who would be on the council by law, but, unlike other organizations such as the CIA and the DOD, it didn’t specify any congressional oversight. It was one of the most powerful entities in the U.S. government, but the legislative branch had no control over its activities. In effect, it served one man: the president. Outside of the members mandated by law, the president could appoint anyone to the council for anything.
Perfect
. Since its creation in 1947, Standish saw that the NSC had evolved into a byzantine organization that fluctuated every time administrations changed, making it hard to ascertain who was doing what—exactly what he needed.

He had read about the NSC under President Reagan, and had become fascinated at how a mere lieutenant colonel in the Marine Corps named Oliver North, working as a junior staffer at the NSC, had managed to create a complete clandestine infrastructure and manipulate foreign policy on a grand scale. The fact that it had eventually unraveled, splashing into the history books as the Iran-Contra affair, did little to temper him. Clearly, the people involved weren’t his caliber.

He had worked hard on the president’s campaign, proving to be more indispensable than ever before, with his information critical in the political fight. After the election, he asked for and received an appointment as a do-nothing member of an inconsequential subcouncil on the NSC’s statutory Committee on Foreign Intelligence. He went to work, using his skills to build what he wanted. In three short years he had managed to create the Deputy Committee for Special Activities, and had slowly but surely been included in the mission planning for all covert operations. If it was a secret operation on foreign soil, he knew about it. And knowledge was something he knew how to use.

He had come a long way since that late-night meeting. The memory still made his face flush, but that would fade. Soon, it would be him asking people to leave the room.

Standish was startled out of his thoughts by a knock on his door, followed by the president’s national security advisor, Alexander Palmer, entering the room.

“Hey, Harold, you got a minute?”

Standish stood up and put on his kiss-ass face, wondering why his boss was here unannounced.

“Sure, sir. All the time you need. How can I help you?”

Palmer took a seat without being asked. “It’s about the Taskforce meeting we just left. Kurt has some concerns about your line of questioning, and frankly, so do I.”

That fucking crybaby,
Standish thought,
what did he say?

“Okay,” he said, waiting on Palmer to continue.

“I let you on the Oversight Council because it seemed to fit the office here, but your primary purpose is simply to absorb what’s said so you can see how it affects other activities going on. I don’t expect you to weigh in on any decisions.”

He picked up a paperweight off Standish’s desk and twirled it around in his hands. “The council is well versed on the ramifications of these types of things. It seemed as if you were questioning our judgment.”

Shit. I’m being frozen out. What did Kurt say?
Still wearing a smile, Standish said, “Got it, sir. I just thought that Kurt and the council were being a little timid on everything. We have quite a few opportunities here that we could seize right now if we wanted. I don’t think the council understands how important—”

Palmer interrupted. “Look, I know you don’t have a lot of experience in government, and I see that as a good thing, but these activities are very, very, volatile. The combined experience of the council is probably over a hundred years dealing with national security issues. You have to trust that we know what we’re doing.”

“Sir, I meant absolutely no disrespect. I know I have less time in the government than other folks, but I
have
worked inside the NSC for the last three years. I’ve seen how things run. We seem to make more charts and briefings
about
doing something than actually doing something. I just think the Taskforce could be better utilized.”

Palmer replaced the paperweight and stood, indicating the meeting was over. “I hear you. Sometimes I think the same way, and admire your attitude, but you’ve only been on the Oversight Council for six months. Give it some time before you decide we’re all hand-wringers. See a few operations go down, then begin to contribute. Okay?”

“Sure. Yes. I don’t want to get a reputation as a know-it-all. I’ll sit back and watch for a while.”

“Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say. You’re a valuable contributor and I don’t want to lose you.”

Standish watched the door close, thinking,
Valuable contributor, huh? Not yet, but I will be, you patronizing asshole.
He had seen the sausage factory of decision-making by the inner circle of the U.S. government and determined it was a recipe for failure. What was needed was decisive action, without a bunch of quibbling from Congress, or, heaven forbid, from the great unwashed of the American electorate.

Since Al Qaeda had started this war in 2001, Standish had seen the U.S. take a daily beating on everything it did in its defense. The public just didn’t seem to understand that there was a threat.
Christ, even global warming is seen as a bigger danger
. After watching all of the timid, halfhearted measures employed by the United States, he was convinced that something more aggressive needed to occur, outside of the public eye. The Taskforce was the perfect tool for the job. If he could get control of the Taskforce, the nation could get serious about terrorism. He couldn’t order around the CIA or the military, but he could definitely find a use for an organization that had no official affiliation with the U.S. government.
Shit, even Ollie North could do that
.

T
he Arabs had retired to Miguel’s guesthouse and were embroiled in a heated conversation. Far from being ignorant, both had spent countless hours with a Rosetta Stone Spanish software program in preparation for this trip. While they couldn’t pass as natives, they were now fairly fluent—something they had kept hidden from their host.

The shorter of the two went by the
kunya
of Abu Sayyidd, after Sayyidd Qutb, the Egyptian member of the Muslim Brotherhood, whose rabid proselytizing and interpretation of the Quran were, before his execution in 1966, milestones in future Islamic fundamentalist thinking.