Sympathy For the Devil (26 page)

“W
HAT THE
hell was that?” Jason’s voice caused the Buick’s speakers to tremble as he drove back into Manhattan.

But Hicks was still too charged to even let Jason dampen his mood. “That what a successful operation looks like, Ace. Now that you’ve actually seen one in real life, you’ll recognize it next time it happens.”

“I demand to know why you disobeyed a direct order to terminate all suspects on sight.”

“Because it was an order that made no sense based on the realities in the field. I’m not going to start a running gun battle in a crowded apartment building. All that would’ve done is drawn a hell of a lot of cops, blown our entire operation, and maybe get me killed in the bargain. Besides, this isn’t just about stopping Omar anymore.”

“It’s about finding the extent of his network by watching what he does with the money we gave him. He was treated like a rock star yesterday by people we didn’t even know he knew. That means Omar’s been carefully building up some kind of network even while we were watching him. Grabbing Omar right now is like mowing the lawn to kill the weeds. It’ll all grow back in time. We need to rip them out at the root.”

“If only everything was that simple,” Jason admitted. “We’re still trying to trace the logo on the mailing label, but our lab has come back with the initial test results on the envelope, and it’s not good news.”

Hicks had been afraid of that. “They didn’t find anything?”

“Just the opposite. They found traces of several viruses on the inside of the envelope; among them SARS, MERS, and even the Ebola viruses.”

Hicks grabbed the wheel to keep from driving off the road. Sometimes, he hated being right. “How much of a trace?”

“None of them were large in and of themselves, but all traces were exactly the same amounts. I’d say Omar is playing with something he doesn’t fully understand.”

Hicks knew Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome and Middle Eastern Respiratory Syndrome were deadly diseases that had threatened to turn into pandemics for years, but hadn’t. Yet. Ebola was difficult to catch, but equally deadly when someone caught it. There’d always been rumors of scientists in the Middle East and elsewhere who’d tried to weaponize these diseases, but failed.

Hicks wondered if Omar had found someone who’d finally been able to make it work. And he wondered if the image of the man from the camera wasn’t involved in this somehow.

“Has the Dean been able to get the British to release the identity of the man I found on the SD card yet?”

“No, but that’s not a priority now,” Jason said. “We need to hit Omar’s house and hit it now before those viruses get out in the open.”

“Bad idea, Ace. We don’t know how much he’s got or where the viruses are now. We have the place under surveillance and a go-team in place. If this mystery man on the SD camera is important enough for the British to hide, he’s important enough for us to know who and where he is.”

Hicks wasn’t surprised to hear the Dean’s voice break into the conversation. “Unfortunately, they’re not cooperating.”

Hicks had been afraid of that. Since Snowden, once the British dug in their heels on an intelligence matter, they were damned difficult to budge. “Fortunately, I think I know someone who might be able to tell us.”

“I was hoping you might,” the Dean said. “How long would it take you to get in touch with this someone?”

“Let me make some calls and let you know,” Hicks said. “In the meantime, have Scott’s people ready to hit Omar’s place if the situation warrants it. Keep me apprised of what happens.”

“Wait a second,” Jason said. “Who are you calling? Where are you going?”

“Quiet, Junior. The adults are talking.”

Hicks killed the transmission and gunned the engine. He had another phone call to make on his way back to New York. He knew he couldn’t afford to be late.

The British were sticklers for punctuality.

H
ICKS HADN’T
met his British counterpart in New York yet. There hadn’t been a reason until now.

The British referred to their version of the University as The Club. They preferred to rotate the assignment to their New York Office every couple of years or so. They viewed the posting as something of a joke; a reward to agents in good standing who were close to retirement and looking to run out their string. They were men and women who’d been put out to pasture in the concrete jungle; given a chance to go to the Big Apple for a bit before they hung up their cloak and dagger for good. Enjoy the city, old boy and, while you’re at it, see if you can’t pick up a few things. Report back should you hear anything interesting. There’s a good chap.

Hicks checked his watch again to make sure he was early. Postings to the Club might have been something of a joke to Her Majesty’s government, but ten minutes early was still on time as far as the British were concerned. Old habits died hard, even among spies approaching the last stop on the train.

Hicks found his counterpart already waiting for him at the agreed upon rendezvous point: a wire bench in a park off Bleeker Street. The snow hadn’t shown any signs of melting and there were still large piles of it clumped on one side. The Brit had only cleared off enough snow for himself.

The man Hicks knew as Clarke filled the entire other side of the bench meant for two people. He wasn’t simply big, but incredibly obese and seemingly happily so. The fleshy rolls of his body were evident even beneath his green parka; the zipper’s teeth appeared strained to the limit. Tufts of unruly reddish hair going an unseemly gray tucked out from beneath a faded black ski cap. His fleshy face may have been reddened a bit from the cold wind but Hicks would have bet that ruddy was his usual color.

Watching him work his way around the falafel wrapped in tinfoil almost turned Hicks’ stomach. Bits of lettuce and meat had flecked on to his parka and he showed no signs of noticing them. They were cleared by a sharp wind blew up Sixth Avenue.

The fat man glanced at Hicks from head to toe before going back to his falafel. “You the Yank?”

Hicks nodded at the snow next to him. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

“I’m not your fucking butler, Yank. Clear it off yourself and have a seat. Standing up talking only draws attention.”

Hicks pulled his gloves on tighter and shoved a mound of snow off the other section of the bench.

“I’ll admit you’re not what I expected,” Hicks said as he settled on the damp bench.

Clarke grunted as he took another bite out of his falafel. “You were expecting some poofter in a tuxedo, sipping a martini.” More bits of meat and lettuce fell on his parka as he spoke. “You bastards really make me laugh sometimes.”

“I was actually expecting a professional who knew enough to pick a better location than this.”

“What’s wrong with here?” Clarke said with a full mouth. “Park bench out in the open just after a snowstorm? No one around. Who’s going to bother with a couple of dodgy looking fuckers like us, gabbing on a park bench in the middle of winter? Besides, if you know what you’re doing, this won’t take long. You’ll be sipping hot cocoa in a fucking coffee house in no time.”

Hicks knew he was being tested and tried not to let the fat man get to him. “I’ve been around a long time and I’ve never heard about you or anyone like you in the Circle.”

“The Circle,” Clarke laughed. “You still call yourselves the University and your chief the Dean, don’t you? Awfully collegiate for the kind of work we do, isn't it? All ivy and marble, but no blood or guts. Christ, you bastards are kind to yourselves with your fucking names.”

For the sake of progress, Hicks held his temper. “I said I never heard of you.”

“That’s because I haven’t been in this bloody Circle of yours very long, least your idea of it anyway. Don’t worry, though. I’ve heard plenty about you. That stunt you pulled in Guatemala last year was the real thing. Some real Cold War stuff, that. I respect a man who can think on his feet and save his man’s life.”

Hicks wasn’t in the habit of talking about his career with total strangers. “How about you tell me about the image your people embargoed? I want to know why.”

“Sure you do,” Clarke said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then folding the tinfoil over the rest of his falafel. “Damned good, this. The fuckers might not be able to govern themselves, but their food is right tasty.”

“The man in the photo,” Hicks repeated. “What about him?”

“Watch the imperious attitude, cousin. We taught it to you, after all. And that goes for your Dean goes for you, too. I’m not telling you fuck all about him until you tell me why you want to know who he is.”

Hicks kept it vague to see how far it got him. “We need him for questioning on a matter that’s come up.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Clarke spat. “You’ll need to tell me a damned sight more than that. Your Dean called my minister directly, demanding that we lift our hold on his information. That kind of call wouldn’t have been made if you were just looking for general information. Now, you play nice and tell me why you care about this man or I’m leaving.”

Hicks had never heard of Clarke before. He didn’t know who he was or where he’d worked. He had no idea if he was capable or if he was just another fat man with a big mouth. He also didn’t have any choice but to trust him.

“We think he’s involved in some kind of event that’ll take place in here in New York, probably in the next few days.”

“Not good enough.” Clarke got up, but Hicks grabbed his arm.

“It involves a small time Somali hack named Omar and some men working with him. This Omar turned two of my agents and it looks like they’re planning something big.”

Clarke stopped moving away. “How big?”

“Probably biological,” Hicks said.

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘probably?’”

“It means we found traces of MERS, SARS, and Ebola on the inside of an envelope we know was in Omar’s possession. They were only trace amounts of each virus in the envelope, but they were all exactly the same amount of contamination. We think they might be samples but that’s just guess work at this point.”

Clarke sat back down on the bench without any prompting from Hicks. “You said SARS, MERS, and Ebola.”

“Did you get anything on the envelope itself?”

“It was an oversized padded envelope with a mailing label that had been torn off it. But we were able to trace the manufacturer and that the particular batch of envelope had been shipped to Saudi Arabia.”

“Madinha,” Clarke muttered more to himself than to Hicks. “Those lying bastards.”

“What about Madinha?”

“I think you’ve found more than you know, Yank. More than any of us thought you had.”

“So cut the shit and tell me why you guys embargoed the picture I sent for analysis.”

“Because the man in the image is an Algerian national named Rachid Djebar. He’s someone we’ve lost track of and want very much to find again.”

Finally, Hicks thought, a name. Too bad it was a name he’d never heard before. “What does this Djebar have to do with Madinha?”

“If you’d asked me that same question three minutes ago, I would’ve said he had nothing to do with it. But when I put it together with your envelope and his disappearance, I think he may be the link between the two. And that is very bad news for all of us, believe me.”

Hicks waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. He simply sat there, going from ruddy to pale despite a steady cold wind.

Hicks knew pushing a man like Clarke wouldn’t do much good. In this game, the importance of not panicking is often more important than rushing things.

The fat man was probably deciding what we should say as he looked out at the traffic mulling up Sixth Avenue instead. Despite the snow and the slush, bicycles darted alongside cabs and cars and trucks and buses as the autumn sun’s harsh glare hurt his eyes. Several deep puddles had formed in potholes and at crosswalks, sending dirty water into the air every time a car or bike drive through one. It was a bland scene on a bland day that should’ve been forgotten as soon as it happened.

But judging by Clarke’s reaction, Hicks had a feeling this was a moment he’d remember for a long time to come.

“Anything I tell you stays between us, yeah? I’m talking about operational detail shit. We don’t like seeing our dirty laundry on CNN like you.”

“All I care about is Djebar.”

When Clarke spoke, his tone was quiet and clear. “Rachid Djebar is an Algerian national who burned one of our assets in Morocco during a joint operation with the French. This was about six months ago. The French have largely forgiven him for it, but we’re not as understanding and we’ve been hunting him ever since. The bastard has been completely off the grid until your picture hit the wire and set off all sorts of bells in a variety of places.”

“Who is he?”

“He fashions himself a dangerous man who shouldn’t be crossed. You’d do well to keep that in mind when you come up against him, because he’s every bit as dangerous as he thinks he is.”

“So am I,” Hicks said. “What about him?”