“How soon do we launch?”
“Have a seat, Harry,” Kranemeyer sighed, gesturing with his hand. “The short version is that we don’t. The Brits won’t sign off on a rendition.”
That didn’t make sense. Harry could feel the anger rising within him, his hand beginning to tremble. “Why?”
“We have no evidence, they say. Nothing that definitively places Tarik at the scene of the terrorist attacks. Nothing that would stand up in court.”
“When have they ever demanded that level of proof? We’re allies — and we were attacked.”
Kranemeyer got up from behind his desk, limping around the front as if his prosthesis was paining him. “The ‘special relationship’ is a thing of the past, Harry. A different time…perhaps more importantly, a different England. In 2010, there were eight Muslim MPs in the House of Commons. Now? There’s twenty-seven, and they’ve become increasingly Islamist in their ideology. A Gitmo detainee like Tarik Abdul Muhammad is a hero to their constituents, and if 10 Downing Street ordered him taken, there would be blood spilled in Trafalgar Square.”
In the battle between fanaticism and apathy, the fanatics were winning. As ever. It was a sickening feeling. “So what are you telling me?”
“We wait…and watch. Our request to dispatch an Agency team to liaison with the Security Services in establishing surveillance on Tarik has been approved.”
“How soon do I leave?”
Kranemeyer’s eyes locked with his and he could see a note of sadness written there. “You don’t, Harry. I don’t know the best way to say this…but you’re on your way out.”
No. Not like this — not with all he had yet to do. “You’re firing me?”
“I’d prefer not to. Which is why I’m asking for your resignation instead.”
He felt frozen in place…caught in the middle of a nightmare. Wanting to ask why, but fearing the answer too much to speak.
“It has nothing to do with your photo being released to the public,” Kranemeyer went on. “The image we used was old and grainy — deliberately so. And it has nothing to do with the murder of Pyotr Andropov…it took work, but we were able to bring down the veil of ‘national security’ over that investigation. Easy enough to do in light of his connections to the Vegas attacks.”
“Then what?”
The DCS paused. “Do you really want to go down this road, Harry? I think we both know where it leads.”
It felt like it was all slipping from between his fingers, but he found he couldn’t stop himself. Losing control. “Just give me one good reason why you’re doing this?”
“One?” Fire flashed in Kranemeyer’s coal-black eyes. “I could give half a dozen, all of them equally valid. You’ve been out in the field too long, Harry — and the strain is starting to show. I have video of you executing a downed suicide bomber in the Bellagio. Point-blank, single round to the forehead. A man we could have interrogated if your emotions hadn’t gotten the best of you.”
He closed his eyes against the accusation, remembering that moment. The feeling of justice as he’d brought the Colt up, iron sights framing his target’s face. The fear, the desperation in the young jihadist’s eyes. “It was justified.”
“It wasn’t, and we both know it,” Kranemeyer retorted, not giving him an inch. “We walk on the edge of a knife out here — a razor-thin line between light and darkness. And you’ve crossed that line. Emotion has no place in our business.”
The worst of it was knowing he was right. And not being able to do anything about it.
“I have to get out. Leave all of it in the past. All the death. All the killing.”
But that had been before…before his dreams had found themselves in ashes.
“Please, just let me take the team to Britain. Let me be there when they finally take down Tarik Abdul Muhammad. Then I’m done, my resignation will be on your desk.” He’d never begged for anything before in his life, but nothing had ever seemed this important. The anger crept back into his voice, a dangerous presence. “I’ve served my country for fifteen years, fifteen long years out there in the night — for God’s sake, you owe me this, Barney!”
The fire was gone from Kranemeyer’s eyes, replaced by an unmeasurable sadness. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t. And I think you understand why. Parker will go to Britain to liaise with Five. As for you…I need your resignation by the end of the week. Clean out your desk — turn over your access cards. And then leave. Put all of this behind you.”
It felt like he was falling off a cliff — sliding into the abyss beneath. No way back.
Kranemeyer looked over into Harry’s face as he rose from the chair, the emotion seeming to leave him as he did. “You’ve been one of our best, Harry. It’s been an honor to serve with you these years…I only regret that it had to end this way.”
“The regrets…are mine.” There was something there in those steel-blue eyes. Something dangerous.
“Of course, you understand what it’s like to leave the Agency. You’re no longer an employee of the federal government, but that doesn’t mean they lose interest in you. Any overseas travel in the next thirteen years…will have to be approved by this office, with a full copy of your itinerary submitted for review.”
“I understand.”
“Then good luck,” Kranemeyer said, extending his hand. Harry looked at him for a long moment, then turned away without accepting it.
Another moment, and he was gone.
The DCS limped back to his desk, sighing heavily as he sank down into the chair. It couldn’t have been helped.
And the war went on.
A thin line between light and darkness, Kranemeyer thought. A line he himself had crossed, the image of Haskel’s face floating before his mind. Justified?
“Carter,” he asked, picking up the phone. “Has our intel on the Antonov An-12 been verified?”
“As far as we can — from tracking down what parts could be identified and cross-referencing it against available databases and sat imagery, we believe the purchaser to have been Prince Yusuf ibn Talib al-Harbi, a member of the Saudi royal family.”
The Saudi royal family, Kranemeyer thought. It wasn’t as significant as it sounded…there were literally thousands of princes in the House of Saud, all of them living fat off oil money. American oil money.
Driving their fast cars, enjoying their whores — and atoning to Allah for their sins by waging jihad on the West. “What do we have on him?”
“He’s twenty-eight, still single, a graduate of Harvard with a master’s degree in law. As far as terrorism goes…Avi ben Shoham has confirmed that he’s been on Mossad’s radar for several years.”
“Work it up,” Kranemeyer ordered, glancing back at the TV. At the continuing inauguration. “And get it to my desk. I’ll be asking that President Norton issue a finding.”
War without end…
She had called off from school, claiming that she was coming down with the flu. She found her hands trembling as she watched the television, and wondered if it might not have been the truth.
Alicia Workman watched as the new President of the United States rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue in his armored limousine. Previous presidents had always walked — at least part of the way, but the Secret Service had overruled, citing security reasons in light of the Vegas attacks.