The day he’d put his beloved soul mate in the ground, Cage had stood at the edge of the hole, staring down at the coffin lying amid the freshly turned earth. The tears had refused to come, until the soldiers and men he’d bled with filed by and in a silent gesture of respect tossed handfuls of dirt onto the lid of the casket.
The simple, unprovoked gesture opened the floodgate for tears that had been bottled up for so long, and he wept uncontrollably before God and everyone. After the procession had filed by, Cage grabbed a final handful of the cold earth in his hands and, sealing a promise he’d made on her deathbed, tossed it down into the hole.
Looking up at the president, he felt the guilt fizzle out in his chest as he steeled himself for what was ahead. If the man looking up at him had any idea of what was coming over the horizon, he would have put Cage in the darkest hole on earth, but he didn’t. All he saw was the patriot who had fought with his father, a scarred warrior who’d spent his life fighting for a country that was unaware of the cost.
Ten minutes later, Cage finally freed himself from the president, and once he was clear of any prying eyes, he pulled out his phone. He clicked on the text message and felt a chill creep up his spine as he looked at the man staring up at him.
“Shit,” he cursed as he called Simmons.
“Yes, sir?”
“How bad is it?”
“Sir, it’s not good. The picture you sent to me is of David Castleman, and he runs some kind of counterterror apprehension team called Task Force II. All I could find out was that they are working in Africa right now.”
“So, why the fuck is he here?”
“Sir, according to General Nantz, they are tracking Mason Kane, and I assume they think he’s somehow connected to this.”
“Shit, is this going to come back on us?”
“Sir, I’m trying to find out everything I can without going through official channels. I’ve already talked to General Swift and he swears that Decklin was not told to leave any stay-behind force when he left.”
“You tell Swift that if he doesn’t handle this in the next forty-eight hours, then he’s a dead man.”
“Yes, sir,” his aide replied.
Duke hung up the phone and walked over to the window, his mind racing to connect the dots. Things were getting out of control, and if his men didn’t get a grip, he was going to start putting bodies in the ground.
CHAPTER 12
Mason stood on the outskirts of the bazaar, taking in the smells of the dirty bodies filling the enclosed area. Smoke from charcoal braziers drifted in the gentle breeze and mixed with the smell of meats being grilled. The market was packed with wide-eyed tourists enthusiastically bartering for anything they could take home and display over their suburban mantels. Locals scowled at fat Europeans and fatter Americans whose pale skin and expensive cameras annoyed the shopkeepers. The city had been founded on trade and the modern generation held true to their forefathers’ innate ability to separate a foreigner from his money.
But he wasn’t here for trinkets. He needed to find Ahmed, his contact, the one man besides Zeus whom he could actually trust.
Ahmed had schooled him in the art of tradecraft and taught him that it was the subtle cultural differences that could blow your cover and label you as a foreigner in North Africa. He snapped to when he spotted a sleek Mercedes stop by one of the tea merchants. Ahmed had arrived.
Mason moved into the crowd, dodging the packs of sweaty Westerners who were blissfully unaware of the world that turned around them. Ahead of him, Ahmed was swearing loudly at the merchant’s overpriced tea.
“That price is ridiculous for these dried leaves. They aren’t fit for my bathwater, much less to drink.” Ahmed waved his hand dismissively in the air, while the wizened Algerian stood with crossed arms and a look of total disinterest.
“You Libyans wouldn’t know good tea if it was given to you on a golden platter. Why are you wasting my time?”
“I’m wasting your time? In Libya you would be flogged in the street for this. You take advantage of honest Muslims, in the face of Allah, with no shame at all.” Ahmed raised his arms in disgust and moved away from the tea merchant, who continued shouting insults until he was out of earshot.
“Perhaps I can buy you some tea, my old friend.” Mason spoke in Arabic from Ahmed’s side.
“Ah, Mason, I wondered how long you were going to make me wander around this dreadful place until you finally showed up.” The two men embraced warmly in the midst of their chaotic surroundings.
Ahmed held Mason at arm’s length, a paternal frown slipping over his countenance as he looked at the freshly sutured wound on the American’s forehead.
“Still getting into trouble, I see. One would hope that you’ve gotten better at sewing yourself up by now.”
“Could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t given me the heads-up,” Mason replied honestly. “How did you know?”
“A little bird told me,” he laughed.
The two men began walking through the crowded stalls. Ahmed pulled a light blue handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it with a flourish. Casually, he raised it to his face and dabbed the perspiration beading up on his forehead. Mason realized that the simple gesture was actually a signal to the men watching after their boss.
“I see that you have not lost your edge.” He’d been unable to locate Ahmed’s security detail, even though he’d arrived an hour early for the meeting. The man was a legend in the intelligence world for a reason, and while he was no longer actively employed by the Libyan intelligence service, Ahmed was still a very powerful man.
“You can never be too careful these days. I know of a place we can go — away from all these tourists.” Ahmed spat the final word out like it burned his mouth. Like many in the region, he had no love for Westerners.
Grabbing Mason’s arm, he led him toward the illegally parked Mercedes. The driver opened the door as they approached, and the two men settled into the luxurious leather interior. The air conditioner felt good, compared to the midday heat, and Mason allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction. Ahmed gave the driver a street name, and the German car pulled away from the curb.
Ahmed had been one of the contacts he used when deployed to Libya under Barnes, and the man was a fountain of information. The country was falling into chaos, just another domino in the chain of events they would later call the Arab Spring. The people were tired of Gaddhafi, who happened to be Ahmed’s boss, but the clever Libyan realized the writing was on the wall and quickly changed sides.
While conventional generals were focused on Iraq and Afghanistan, there were officers inside the Special Operations community who had a separate and very secret mandate. Iraq had offered a unique foothold into the region, and while most people thought the war was about oil, the real prize was Iran. It became obvious that a frontal assault wouldn’t work on the country that had vexed America since the Reagan administration, but if they could isolate it from all of its allies, it might just implode.
Libya was first on the list, and Gaddhafi, a man who had benefited as much from Iran as he had from his huge reserves of oil, had to be eliminated. Mason’s job was to stir the pot, and Ahmed, realizing what was about to happen, gave him the spoon. The spy told them where to find the dictator, and helped Mason fix his position and maneuver the mob that would eventually kill him.
Thirty minutes later, they were sitting inside a small café waiting for their tea to arrive. The café was a holdover from a more elegant time. The marble tile, dark wood, and burnished brass furnishings gave it the appearance of a European salon.