The Icarus Prediction: Betting it all has its price (18 page)

And now, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, she knew it was over. She couldn’t be sustained by hate and rage any longer. She could go for eleven years, but not eleven years and a day.

She managed to stumble back to the condo. She quickly went into the bathroom where she splashed her face with water and got her breathing under control. Then she realized the tears were blissfully cathartic—that the ability to finally grieve and let go of Alison enabled her to feel human again.

Somewhat in a daze, she went into her study and decided to check her work e-mail. But if her presence was required at Langley, she’d get a “call home” notice anyway, and there was none. Just an e-mail from personnel that she was behind on her continuing education credits for the Agency’s internal professional designation. That, and another e-mail that said her subscription to
Congressional Quarterly
had expired.

With time on her hands, she went to a personal e-mail account she checked infrequently, and when she spied the name on an incoming message, it caused her to take in a little gasp.

With a tremble to her hand, she clicked on the message, which read:

I NEED TO SEE YOU. URGENT.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

New York City

Six Days Until Options Expiration

The Russian was totally slack-jawed as he stared at Jarrod. “I still in shock. You cannot serious be?”

Stryker stood to pull on his jacket. “It’s our only hope, really. Granted, it’s the longest of long shots, but it beats sitting on our hands and hoping things will get better. I have to become a ghost for the next few days. You and Gwen mind the fort. Keep me apprised of William’s condition, and I’ll let you know how things are going. Now I have to head out for Teterboro.”

Sergei sighed. “Very well. Caution, that part of the world—”

“He knows,” injected Gwen.

Just then, Donald Pippin, the firm’s administrative partner, appeared at the door with a rather large security guard standing behind him.

Jarrod looked up and with a quizzical tone said, “Oh, hello, Don. What do you need? I’m kind of—”

Pippin cleared his throat and his eyes seemed ablaze with excitement as he held a document in his hands. “Jarrod Stryker,” he began in his high-pitched voice, “as chief of the firm’s energy trading desk, I have been informed you have engaged in actions that may have resulted in significant losses to client accounts. These trades were reckless and foolhardy and have put the firm in a desperate position. Therefore, in my capacity as acting general partner, I am suspending you without pay from Blackenford Capital effective immediately. As I don’t have access to your trading book, you or someone on your team needs to provide me access immediately. Then, you are to be escorted from the premises.”

Jarrod, Gwen, and Sergei regarded Pippin as they would an unwelcome horsefly that had just flown into the office.

Finally, Jarrod said, “Don, the trade is not over. Also it does appear you are into hallucinogenic drugs. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got important work to—”

“This is no hallucination!” he yelled with a twisted intensity, as heads turned in the trading room. He slapped the document in his hand and said, “Under paragraph twenty-seven D, subparagraph four, of the partnership agreement, the section on the incapacitation of the general partner reads, and I quote, ‘In the event the general partner is incapacitated for any reason, the firm’s administrative partner shall assume the position of emergency interim acting general partner, with all powers and responsibilities pertaining thereto, for a period of 72 hours, or until the limited partners convene to elect and appoint a permanent interim acting partner unless the general partner has pre-appointed a successor.’”

Jarrod stared at him as if he was a cockroach he had to deal with. “Don, I never liked you either. But I know that William likes you even less than I do, and the minute he wakes up and finds out what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull here, he will send you to the ground floor without an elevator. This trade is not over.”

Pippin’s face was flushed and red as he unleashed a pent-up geyser of distilled jealousy. “We’ll see about that, Mister Golden Boy! William called you his crown prince. Well, you’re not so princely now. You’ve ruined the firm, and I’m not going to tolerate your presence a moment longer. Guard, remove him from the premises!”

Jarrod cracked a wry smile as he said, “What’s wrong, Don. Can’t do it yourself?”

Pippin’s eyes grew wide as he backpedalled, and the security guard filled the doorway. He was big and beefy, but soft, not muscle. He had a goatee that was dot on a flabby chin and neck. Jarrod put him at 270 pounds. Probably played defensive tackle at some junior college before he flunked out and discovered beer.

“Sir,” he intoned in his best Darth Vader imitation, “I must ask you to come along with me.”

Jarrod smiled charmingly and replied, “Of course.”

Walking past Sergei and Gwen, he winked at them as he recalled the pointer from his instructor at the Farm. “If you can connect your elbow to their solar plexus before they have a chance to tighten their ab muscles, well, it’s sort of like cutting off their oxygen supply.” Jarrod knew it was true, because he’d done it a couple of times—accidentally on purpose—with a lacrosse stick as payback for some cheap shots on the playing field.

It defied all logic. Jarrod felt he couldn’t just be led off by Pippin and the gorilla with his entire team looking on after all the upheaval he’d endured. So, as he walked through the doorway in meek submission, the guard turned sideways, seemingly allowing him to pass. As Jarrod brushed against the guard, the guard took a moment to overstep his bounds by unnecessarily shoving Jarrod in the back. Jarrod immediately grabbed his left fist with his right hand, and at the perfect moment whipped his left elbow into the gorilla’s soft solar plexus. Then he stepped out of the way.

Pippin gaped in horror as the guard wheezed, went down on one knee, and then fell over, his diaphragm paralyzed. As the face of the lummox migrated from red to purple, the controller gaped at Stryker. Jarrod stepped forward menacingly and uttered a “
Grrrrrr
!”

The accountant dropped the partnership document and ran like hell down the hall, triggering a chorus of hoots and catcalls from the trading desk.

Jarrod smiled and nodded an acknowledgement, and then he squatted down to speak softly to the gorilla with the purple face.

“I’m sorry, my friend, but it was necessary. Very soon, you’ll be escorting Mr. Pippin from the building. In the meantime, should you entertain any thoughts of a lawsuit or some such fantasy, my Russian friend here and the lady will testify you tried to assault me, and I defended myself. Besides, in your line of work, you don’t want it to get around that you were taken down. Bad for the reputation. That said, have a nice day.” He rose and waved good-bye to Sergei and Gwen, then he was gone.

Slowly, the guard’s breathing returned to normal, and Sergei turned to Gwen, saying, “You know, he joost might pull it off.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tbilisi, Georgia

Laughter.

It filled the warehouse with a raucous, biting resonance as Shamil Basayev himself bent double and fell to the floor. He pointed to the satellite news image on the screen and stammered “D-d-did you see
thaaaaat? Ha-ha-ha-ha
!” He tried to speak through the paroxysms of laughter.

Like so many times before, Elbruk Matsil was befuddled by the behavior of these sadistic lunatics. The more time he spent among them, the more he became convinced the Russian invasion of Chechnya wasn’t the reason they engaged in terrorist acts. It was just the excuse.

But the laughter? What had triggered it? An al-Jazeera news report on the destruction of the Russian pipeline had aired, and everyone had watched intently. But when the screen cut to Turkish soldiers patrolling past a ragged station post along the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline, Basayev and his cronies burst into convulsions of laughter.

What was he missing? Why the laughter? When Basayev had finally caught some of his breath back, Elbruk gently helped the terrorist to his feet. “Commander, forgive me, but I do not understand. Where is the humor in the Turkish pipeline?”

This sent Basayev into another convulsion as he leaned upon Elbruk for support. “D-d-don’t you see?” replied Basayev as he cuffed Elbruk on the shoulder. “They walked right past it, because it is hidden in plain sight.”

Elbruk squinted at the screen. “Hidden in plain sight? What is hidden in plain sight?”

The gleam disappeared from the Commander’s eyes as his body language shifted markedly. “In the fullness of time, as the British say. Years of planning are coming to fruition.”

Elbruk was lost.

*

Boston

The rapier-like fuselage of the Gulfstream 550 taxied onto the parking tarmac of Logan Airport’s general aviation terminal like a racehorse returning to its stable.

Sarah Kashvilli listened as the whine of the turbines spooled down and the aircraft halted. The words Blackenford Capital were painted on the side, and while jumping out of a plane at night over the wilds of Pakistan had its own brand of terror, her heart was now thumping from a different flavor of adrenaline.

The seal on the door was broken and the gangway steps deployed. She reached up and touched her necklace, gave her hair a quick pat, and realized her palms were sweaty. Nerve impulses were firing off within her like Roman candles and then —there he was.

He came down the steps with that athletic confidence that always dripped off him, and he flashed that grin of his. At the foot of the gangway, he stopped, and they both took each other’s measure in silence.

In one vein of thought, Jarrod was hoping that maybe the bloom was off the rose, that the updated version of Sarah Kashvilli was not as striking as the memory or that maybe she’d gotten fat. Perhaps some streaks of gray had appeared or a set of bifocals would be perched on her nose. But the fact remained she was still the dead solid perfect raven-haired beauty that was indelibly etched on his memory.

She was wearing a navy blue pantsuit with a single strand of pearls, and per his request, a rollerbag was parked at her side.
Still all business,
he thought.

The silence between them lingered until it became awkward. He stepped forward and took her into a politically correct embrace. Stepping back, he took both her hands and said “Hello, Kash. You are, as the trite saying goes, a sight for sore eyes.”

She cocked her head and gave him an impish smile. “Well, Mr. Stryker, it appears you’ve done well for yourself.”

“That was true on Friday. Today is another story all together. And in fact, that’s why you’re here.”

“Oh? So this isn’t a social call?”

“I wish it were, but no. We’d better get going. You bring your passport?”

“Would it be terribly rude of me to ask where the hell we’re going?”

“Not at all. You can certainly ask.”

A white-jacketed steward appeared. “Is this the lady’s luggage?”

“Yes, Osborne, thank you. By the way, Osborne, this is Miss Kashvilli. She has a taste for Beluga caviar and a well-blended Manhattan, easy on the vermouth.”

“Consider it done on both counts, sir. Miss Kashvilli, a pleasure. I’ll get this on board for you.”

Jarrod motioned with his arm, and Sarah stepped toward the plane, saying with a resigned sigh, “What kind of shitstorm are you taking me into?”

“Nothing a Blue Heart recipient can’t handle.”

The impish smile returned. “You have been out of the game for a while.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Classified. You’re a civilian now. Let’s see what kind of Manhattan Osborne can whip together.”

They mounted the steps and entered the main cabin as Jarrod said over his shoulder, “Let’s rock ’n roll, Hank.”

Hank Garvin, the pilot, raised his hand from the cockpit in reply and began his checklist.

Although she was comfortable in the cargo hold of a C-130 troop transport, Sarah found the luxurious appointments of the Gulfstream a little unsettling at first. She slipped into the glove leather captain’s chair that seemed molded just for her, while the teak paneling was inlaid with starburst patterns of real gold and silver. A lamp on the end table beside the couch was really an exquisite sculpture of some futuristic blue-and-white material. On the other table was a spiral of gold that held a candy bowl made of blue lapis.

Jarrod smiled as he saw the handcrafted finery was having the desired effect. As he slipped into the facing captain’s chair, he reached over and flipped a small switch below Sarah’s armrest. She gave a little start as the top of the armrest retracted and a tiny gantry arm rose up with a
whirr
to deploy an iPad in a cradle.

“For your in-flight entertainment,” Jarrod explained, not hiding his smugness very well.

Just then, Osborne appeared at her elbow with a Manhattan on a tray.

“Why, thank you, Osborne.” She took a tentative sip. “Perfect.”

“I’m so glad it is satisfactory,” he said. Now if you would fasten your seat belt, we’ll be taking off shortly.”

Over the rim of her cocktail glass, she eyed Jarrod warily and conceded, “It’s official. I’m impressed. So where are you taking me? ‘Urgently’ as you requested?”

Jarrod snapped his buckle. “We’re headed to Georgia. Specifically, Tbilisi, Georgia.

She almost spilled her drink. “What? What the hell is this all about?”

“As I recall, you speak the language, so I thought it might be a good place to start.”

“Well, yes, but I’m a little rusty. I have to say you’re going to extraordinary lengths to get a translator. Couldn’t you just point this bird to a Caribbean beach instead?”

“Afterward, that would be a great idea. But for now, we have a serious task ahead of us.”

“What sort of task?”

The Rolls Royce engines spooled up to full power, and in the blink of an eye, the Gulfstream was racing down the runway. He waited until they were wheels-up and she couldn’t jump out before he finished explaining.

“We are on our way to Tbilisi to find and neutralize Shamil Basayev in order to prevent him from destroying the oil pipeline that runs through Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Turkey. I need you along to provide me with access to Agency assets in the region so I can track him down.”

Sarah gaped at him. Then she stared at her cocktail glass. “What, exactly, did Osborne put in this drink?”

“Kash, I know this is quite the curveball, but I’m serious. Deadly serious. There is a king’s ransom riding on this enterprise; but beyond that, there’s someone in a hospital back in New York with a bunch of tubes running into him. I owe him everything. And to save him I have to keep that pipeline from being destroyed. It’s that simple. He gave me my life back after I fell on my sword for you.”

With that invisible slap in the face, Sarah straightened up in her chair and seemed distressed. Her eyes became glassy, perhaps with anger. “All right, Jarrod, that was a magnanimous gesture. I grant you that, and I will always be in your debt. But this sounds like sheer lunacy. Could you, perhaps, fill out the picture for me a little?”

“Fair enough.” He hit the call button and Osborne reappeared. “The lady will have another Manhattan and a spread of the Beluga would be good. Plus a Blue Label, double, on the rocks for me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jarrod looked into her eyes and began. “Why don’t I pick this up where we split up in Beirut? That will give you the whole context.”

She looked out the window at the Atlantic and shook her head. “I believe the expression is that you have a captive audience. Proceed.”

As the Gulfstream cruised over the Continental Shelf and then into darkness over the Atlantic, he recounted his expulsion from the Agency, his first encounter with William Blackenford, his rise in the firm, how energy trades worked, how William imploded the firm with a bet gone wrong, and how he’d almost saved it. He then outlined the attack by Basayev, the threat to the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline, and how that threat had to be eliminated in order for oil prices to go back down.

By the time he’d finished, they were flying in darkness at forty-one thousand feet north of the Azores. She’d lost track of the number of caviar wafers and Manhattans she’d tossed down.

“So how, exactly, do you intend to neutralize Shamil Basayev and move world oil prices in the direction you want?”

Jarrod shrugged. “Like everything else, it comes down to information. Clearly, the Russians don’t know anything. Neither do the Turks. The Azerbaijanis tend to be insular. If anyone has touch points into the Basayev organization, it probably would be the Georgian intel people because they share a hatred of the Russians. So that’s where we start. Georgia wants to get into NATO, you know, so they’ll play ball with the Agency.

Sarah sighed. “And how do you propose to get the station chief to assist?”

“That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You are to present yourself to him—along with me—as a special envoy from the deputy director of operations to assist in locating Basayev.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what makes you think he’ll buy that?”

“Because he knows me. I did some checking around. His name is Rick Edgerton. I knew him in Somalia. Not well, but I did know him. I remember I got a back channel congratulations message from him when I got my Blue Heart.”

“So does he know you were bounced from the Agency?”

“I hope so. Then I can confide in him—confidentially, of course—that I never left the Agency. My messy expulsion was to enable me to build a new cover as an investment banker, trafficking in the high realms of finance, looking for terrorist money flows. Even my employer doesn’t know.”

Sarah stared at him. “Wait, you never left the Agency?”

Jarrod couldn’t help but grin. “Of course I did. But tracking terrorism finance is our cover story. If nothing else, the Agency is about deception. Rick Edgerton will believe it, because for a split second, you believed it as well.”

She shook her head. “The operative words are ‘split second.’ All this Edgerton has to do is ping the DDO’s office for confirmation, and we are blown all to hell.”

Jarrod shrugged. “That’s a risk we have to take. I’m hoping two Blue Hearts walking in the door will provide all the credibility we need.”

“Three, actually.”

“Three? What do you mean three?”

Sarah waved a hand. “Jarrod, even if you could keep this deception alive for a few hours, or a few days, eventually it’s going to unravel, and we’ll be exposed. Possibly prosecuted. Certainly ostracized. Our careers would be toast.”

“Not if we’re successful.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. This is just too far out there. I can’t agree to your request.”

Stryker stared at her coldly. The silence held for a few moments, then he said with an icy softness, “This is not a request.”

Sarah’s eyebrow went up.

He leaned forward. “If you refuse to back me up on this, OK. I’ll tell the pilot to turn around and drop you at Boston. But then I go directly to New York and convene a press conference. With the Blackenford name, I can get access to all the major networks. There I will very publicly spill my guts on everything that happened in Beirut—how you came into the CIA to wage a personal vendetta to track down and kill the brothers of the 9/11 hijackers. How I took the fall for you. Maybe you’ll get a lucrative book deal out of it, but your life in the Agency is over. If you go with me, you have a slim chance—and I do mean slim—of keeping your life on the rails. Turn me down, and it’s over.”

She returned his cold stare, volt for volt. “It’s illegal to disclose the name of a covert CIA agent. Remember Valerie Plame?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. If I don’t nail Basayev, then I’m f’d anyway. So are you with me or not?”

She smoldered in silence.

Jarrod sighed, then leaned back and eased his tone. “Kash, let me put it to you this way. Say this wasn’t Shamil Basayev. Say it was another brother of a 9/11 hijacker. Wouldn’t you crawl across broken glass on your elbows to take his head off? Wouldn’t you lie, cheat, and steal to bring him to heel?”