Retribution (18 page)

CHAPTER 30

 

T
he lunch at the executive dining room was a buffet. Tranthan didn't like the dining room because of its nonsmoking rule. As a consequence, he would always eat quickly and leave. A man of habit, he took tuna on whole wheat toast, lettuce, and no mayonnaise. He had a Diet Coke without ice. And he always ate alone at a table against the wall in the back of the room.

Tranthan could be social if he had to be. For years, he had played the social game. Now he didn't want to be bothered. There was no one in the room who he cared about. Besides, he could tell from their looks that many knew what was going on with Maggie.

But his wife wasn't just anyone. Her father, the senator, could bring Tranthan down with a phone call.

For her part, Maggie had kept their secret. She was smart—brilliant, in fact—and knew the likely consequences. Now, though, she was out of control—her own control. And there wasn't a hole deep enough to put her in.

An orderly changing her bedpan could hear something.
One misspoken word.

Suddenly, he didn't feel hungry anymore.

He reached for a cigarette as he walked down the hallway to his office.

“Hey, Mr. Tranthan.”

“Laura?”

“Mr. George is waiting to see you.”

“George?”

“Yes, sir, the IT fellow on Ms. O'Donald's computer.”

Robert turned and stepped into his inner office.

“Sir, I'm Todd George.” The man wore a tie that looked more like an afterthought. His plaid shirt and plaid tie were a perfect mismatch.

“You've got the computer from our agent in Doha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's on it?”

“Nothing. At least nothing retrievable.”

“That's not much help, Mr. George.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were the one who pulled the photo off our security officer's cell?'

“Yes, sir, what was left of it.”

“Bad?”

“Yes, sir, very bad.”

“I need you to do the same on her computer. It is important.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, if you find out anything let me know. Let me know directly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The startled look on George's face told Tranthan that the young man had never had been ordered to deliver information to only one person.

Tranthan repeated his order. “You understand?”

“Absolutely, yes, sir.”

“Thanks.” Tranthan absentmindedly pointed toward the door. It was rude for even him, but this had been a particularly bad week.

“Oh, Mr. Tranthan, I can say one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“The computer downloaded the contents of a flash drive just before it was destroyed. It was one of the new ones from EMC
²
.”

EMC
²
didn't mean anything to Tranthan. He assumed it was some sort of cutting-edge IT company.

“Was the flash drive found?”

“No, sir, I checked the inventory. No flash drives. But even if we find it, we will also need the password. This equipment is made to be pretty much bulletproof if someone wants to flush something.”

“I imagine it would be.” Again, Tranthan looked to the door, putting the cigarette to his mouth. “Thanks again, Mr. George.”

CHAPTER 31

 

“Y
ou're going to the BBC?” The editor of
Al-Quds

Al-Arabi
was standing at Sadik Zabara's door.

William Parker looked up from his computer in the cubbyhole that was his office. It was an old building, and its windows tended to let the wintery London air seep in. On mornings like this, Parker typed his stories while wearing a sweater and a coat.

“Yes.”

“What's the meeting about?” Atwan was more than just the editor of
Arab Jerusalem
, the English translation of the newspaper's name. He was the soul of the newspaper. Born in a refugee camp in Gaza, Atwan had survived the worst of Deir al-Balah. He and his little paper were unknown until a man named bin Laden granted the newspaper and its editor one of the first interviews.

“A tomato factory.” Parker was tossing a jab at his boss. He knew that Atwan spent much of his youth working slave labor in a tomato factory. It was Zabara's way of saying leave me alone and read it when it's done.

“Well, who are you meeting with?”

“BBC's chief producer for
Five Live,
” Parker said, not wishing to make an enemy for no reason.
Five Live
broadcasted the news live for the BBC around the world. “I want to discuss with him the House of Saud's influence on the media.”

“Oh. Excellent!”

Atwan's paper only had a circulation of around fifty thousand, but it thrived on cutting-edge stories from the Arab world. Online, it was read by more than two million unique users every day. Some questioned the stories' accuracies, but the stories certainly attracted attention. It had been a rub with
Al-Arabi
and many in the Arab world that the West never told a story that criticized the royal family and the House of Saud. If the king of Saudi Arabia didn't like what was being said, he would affect advertising. And if the king were truly angered, he would affect the price of oil sold to Great Britain.

“Your article on America's support of the upper class in its idea of democracy in the Arab world was excellent. Washington didn't like it.” Atwan paused. “Which is always a definition of a good article for our paper.”

Parker nodded pleasantly, then checked his watch. “Oh, I must go. The meeting is at White City.
As sala'amu alaikum,
brother.” William Parker smiled and clasped Atwan's hand.

“Yes,
walaikum as sala'am!
”

Atwan and
Al-Arabi
were not far from White City. A short ride on the Hammersmith & City line would take Parker to the BBC's Broadcast Centre, a complex of buildings from which the BBC broadcast its television, radio, and Internet shows. But it was a long walk to the Hammersmith station.

Parker flew through the walkers strolling down King Street. He looked at the time on his PDA as he grabbed the next tube on the pink Hammersmith & City line. The commute was only twenty minutes as the train passed by Goldhawk Road and Shepherd's Bush Market. At Wood Lane, he switched to another subway that took him the short distance to White City.

The BBC's headquarters were a complex of buildings directly across from the train station. The glass, steel, and gray brick structures covered several blocks. In the center, a doughnut-shaped modern structure reflected the glint off its glass of the early winter's bright sun.

The security guard gave Parker a glance of doubt. His beard was now several days old, his sweater worn, and his gray cotton pants well used. He looked suspect.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I have an appointment with Daniel Suthby.”

“Do you have some identification?”

Parker thought for a second.

“No, I don't.” Parker hadn't really thought about it, but any identification may not have been much help. He had his Serbian passport back at the flat, which would have probably caused more trouble than not having any identification.

“But please call Mr. Suthby and tell him Sadik Zabara is here.”

The guard's face showed doubt, but he went to the telephone on the far side of the desk. As he passed the other guard, he whispered to him. Both guards kept a watchful eye on Zabara while he called. But the guard's face changed again when he spoke to the person on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Zabara, here's your pass. Please come with me.”

The guard led the way through the security detectors, leaving his partner to handle the front desk alone. He led Parker down the hallway to a bank of elevators. On the fifth floor, which seemed near the top, he led Parker to a conference room at the far end of a hallway.

“Mr. Suthby will be with you in a moment.” The guard opened the door to a wood-paneled conference room with no windows and left him there.

Parker took off his coat and pulled up the chair at the end of the table.

“Hello, Mr. Zabara, I'm David Suthby. I think this is what you need.” A man in a dark gray pinstriped suit walked through the door on the far end of the conference room. He handed Parker a sheet, written by hand, that had several quotes and some background information on Suthby. Parker glanced at it. Suthby had graduated from Oxford and worked his way up within the news agency. Several quotes reflected a denial of any influence by the House of Saud but also showed dates and times of visits from officials from Saudi Arabia. It was incriminating, but not dangerously so.

“Thank you.”

Suthby nodded and left, closing the door behind him. A short moment later, James Scott walked through the same door with another man.

“I'm impressed,” said Parker, referring to the idea of the BBC interview as a cover for their meeting. They could meet for whatever time it would take, and the BBC complex was so large and so secure that no one would see anything other than his appearing at the front door.

“Why, thank you,” said Scott. “It means an awful lot, coming from you.”

“But we can only do this once.”

“Once is all we need. Colonel Parker, this is the man who is going to keep you alive.” Scott stepped to the side as the man stuck out his hand.

Scott's companion was clearly an active military officer. His close-cropped hair went down to the skin at the hairline, but, oddly, he wore a full, brown beard.

“Sir, I'm Captain Furlong. Mark Furlong.”

Army Captain Mark Furlong's reddish-brown beard was full of curls, which seemed to make his thin face fuller than it actually was. Dark hazel eyes framed by a scar that extended through the eyebrow over his left eye and a sunburned face gave him the look of a man who had spent most of a hard life in the outdoors.

“Where are you from, Captain?”

“Colorado, sir.”

“What did your father do?” Parker had learned long ago that what one's father did said much about the man, even in this day and age. More important, how the son described the father often said more.

“He ran a hunting service.”

“Elk?”

“And bear.”

“You know the outdoors.”

“Born there.”

A hunter made the best soldier. He knew patience, he weathered the hot and the cold, he knew movement, and he knew the significance of small, seemingly insignificant signs. A broken branch, a rub of bark, a bedding down in brush could tell whether the animal was sick or healthy, old or young.

“How many tours?”

“One in Iraq and three in Afghanistan.”

“I can save you some time.” Scott interrupted the conversation. “He and his team are the best, the very best. I have worked with him before, and their OP team has never let me down.”

“OP?” Parker asked the question.

“Sir, it's Oscar Papa. Just a name for our team.”

Furlong was dead serious, and Parker liked that. He needed a team of intense alpha males where he was going. He didn't want anyone who knew anything less than success.

“You've heard ‘an army led by lions'? This is my army of lions led by lions.” Scott smiled but seemed sincere.

“What's your army consist of?”

“Sir, our team has five in it. Two sniper teams each with spotters. And me.”

“How about medical?”

“We are all capable. You name it. Push an IV, triage, stop bleeding, whatever it takes. We carry two full med kit bags. Everyone in the team has the training of a four-year ER trauma nurse.”

“Language?”

“Two are fluent in Pashto and Dari. I can understand it but can't speak it.” What Furlong was really saying was that he couldn't speak it fluently. He understood both, like all of his team.

Parker was impressed with Scott's backup team. “Okay, Scott, what are your thoughts?”

Scott pulled out a laptop that had at least a seventeen-inch screen and rugged green casing. The machine was obviously meant to function in a combat environment. It had a mobile card that was much bigger than most, with a black, tubular-shaped extension that seemed like an oversized antenna. He spun the computer up and turned it around. A live satellite image of western Pakistan filled the screen.

“Your invitation will be to Peshawar. After pickup, they will take you into the mountains of western Pakistan somewhere north of the Khyber Pass.”

Scott ran the cursor across the terrain. It was an instant, up-to-date satellite view of the mountains of eastern Afghanistan and western Pakistan. The mountains were topped with snow, and it was starting to extend down into the valleys. Parker could see vehicles moving slowly over twisting roads. The earth was barren. It was a cold, bare, brown, rocky world. A moonscape looked more inviting.

“Why would he take me into the mountains? Why not just meet in Peshawar?”

“He wants to show off. He is a god with some of these tribes.”

Parker nodded.

“We think he will take you to one of two valleys. Both are well above fifteen thousand feet, so I hope you're still in shape.”

Parker would have just completed his tenth marathon if he hadn't been sitting in this room. For a moment, it made him think of his running mate several thousand miles away.

“I'm good.”

“Sir, as soon as we get a sense of what direction you are going to, we will insert our team.” Furlong pointed to a mountain range close to the Afghan border but still well within Pakistan.

“You'll be in Pakistan.”

“Yes,” Scott cut in, “and no one will know who they are. They are going full maverick on this one. Neither the Pakistan Army nor us. We won't risk any leak whatsoever.”

Parker couldn't have agreed more.

“Once we know where you are going, we will get in, set up shop, and stand back. The plan is that there will be a well-camouflaged tent probably to the east of this valley here.” Furlong pointed to a particular grid.

“What will be in the tent?”

“Just like what you said,” said Scott. “An ice chest with two drips of Oritavancin and Rocephin.”

The powerful antibiotics could stop a bad bug, but the key word was
could,
especially and only if the timing were absolutely correct.

“I need some other gear in the tent. An HK P30 .40 cal with an Evolution silencer.” Parker began reciting a list he'd created in his mind.

“Yes, sir, good choice.” Furlong leaned back in his chair. “What else?”

“A Windrunner, set up with a .338 barrel and a Titan can.”

“Again, good choice. . . .” He was hesitant.

“Bad idea?” Parker asked.

“I did my tour at the sniper school and the marksmanship unit, but . . .”

Parker read Furlong's face. “But why not a Hellfire from thirty thousand feet? Right? Or even a cruise missile if the target is important enough? Is that your question, Captain?”

“Yes, sir, exactly.”

“It's because we miss,” said Scott. “He moves to a different hut to sleep, he changes caves, the randomness of combat, explosives, fate. And worse of all, we don't know we didn't get him. You see?”

Parker watched Furlong, who nodded. It was a compelling argument: Someone had to make the kill personally, on the ground.

“A Windrunner, then?” said Furlong. “With a .338 Lapua Magnum barrel?”

“Yeah. The M96.”

“One thousand two hundred and thirty-six yards, sir.”

“What?” Scott asked.

“Exactly, Captain.” Parker smiled. “Mr. Scott, one day the captain and I will tell you all about it.”

Furlong smiled. They had a secret.

“It will work.”