“Don’t see how they could help it,” was Lay’s reply. “What’s the latest from Langley?”
“The hourlies are on the table,” Ramirez responded, turning back to the stove. Lay took in the incongruous bulge of a holstered Glock 21 beneath the bodyguard’s apron and shook his head.
At thirty-two, Pete Ramirez was a retired Navy SEAL, sidelined from active duty after suffering a back injury during a mission on Mindanao. A solid, five foot-six battleship of a man, he had joined the Secret Service upon recovery. A year and a half had now passed since he had been assigned as Lay’s personal bodyguard and the two men had bonded well. Protector and principal.
“Any progress with Sergei Ivanovich?”
Ramirez shook his head. “Carter’s team is on it, but so far nothing. If his face hadn’t been caught on those surveillance cameras…”
“Tell me it shouldn’t bother us that a former Spetsnaz commando with mob ties could wind up in Philly without us knowing he was in the country.” Lay sighed. “Reading in the Bureau without explaining exactly how we obtained that footage will be one of this morning’s joys.”
There was nothing else notable in the stack of hourly reports, and the DCIA set them aside wearily, reaching for the TV remote.
“…and the election battle continues, now a month after the election, with continued reports of voter fraud in New Mexico. It is believed that the Supreme Court will take up the case next week, making it the first time the high court has intervened in a presidential election since the 2000 Florida recount between former President George W. Bush and former Vice President Albert Gore. With President Hancock’s lead dwindling to a mere fifty thousand votes over Senator Richard Norton, the allegations of thousands of votes having been cast by illegal immigrants in the border state could have a profound impact on the outcome of the election. Here to discuss the allegations and the possible impact of a Supreme Court decision on the legitimacy of a Norton administration, is the Senate minority leader, Senator Scott Ellis, of Utah. Senator, you’ve long spoken out—”
With a snort, Lay turned off the TV. There wasn’t anything about the election he cared to hear, unless perhaps it was a concession speech from President Roger Hancock. And even that would be marred by some stupid talking head who wouldn’t have a clue. Wouldn’t understand the darkness beneath.
Perhaps that was for the best. The country had been through enough…
It was fated to end like this, Harry. There is no escaping the will of Allah…
He hadn’t slept in three days. It was the classic sleep deprivation before an interrogation, standard Agency protocol. He was trained for it.
And that’s what this was…an interrogation. The polygraph was there, but Ellsworth wasn’t following the protocols by which those were conducted. The familiar routines, the standard format of yes/no answers.
He was going for blood.
That voice. Haunting his dreams. Truth be known, he hadn’t slept for a long time. He closed his eyes momentarily, willing it away.
Ellsworth was speaking again and Harry raised his head to face the inspector general.
“Following the defection of Hamid Zakiri from Alpha Team, you were ordered to bring him in for interrogation. Is that correct?”
“You were ordered to take me alive, weren’t you?”
The voice of a dead man, reaching back from beyond the grave. He could still see the face, there in the darkness of the Masjid al-Marwani, beneath the Temple Mount. The face of a dying friend. The face of a traitor…
“Did you receive such an order?” Ellsworth repeated, testy at the delay. It wasn’t typically the responsibility of the inspector general to perform an interrogation like this himself, but he had an ax to grind.
“Yes,” Harry replied, his eyes locking with Ellsworth’s in a cold, icy stare.
A nod. “And you chose to disregard that order. Following his murder of your fellow team member, Davood Sarami, you wanted to take upon yourself the role of executioner, didn’t you?”
“He screamed when I shot him, Harry. I enjoyed myself…”
A involuntary shudder rippled through Harry’s body and he looked away. Even now, two months later, he could still feel the anger, the rage burning through him. Executioner…
Yes, that much was true. He could still remember the sneer in Hamid’s eyes as he lay there helpless, awaiting the final bullet. The big Colt recoiling into his hand. Every moment, playing endlessly through his mind.
“No,” he replied, mastering his emotions with an effort. “Zakiri’s death was unavoidable, the inevitable consequence of close quarters combat. If I could have aimed to wound, I would have. He died with a loaded weapon in his hand.”
Darkness. Standing over his friend there in the darkened prayer hall of the masjid. No, not his friend — the traitor, he reminded himself, his mind still struggling with the realization.
A burst of submachine gun fire had broken Hamid’s pelvis and he’d been lying there helpless when Harry had reached him. A weapon in his hand?
He’d been struggling to reach his Glock. Harry had kicked it away from him. Disarmed…
“Is that the way it happened?” Ellsworth asked, skepticism clearly visible in his eyes. Harry sensed the warning bells — emotion was filtering through into the machine results. His emotion. Control. “Let me tell you what I think, Mr. Nichols. I think it was deliberate — I think you wanted to kill him.”
Harry’s head came up with a jerk, his eyes flashing daggers at the bureaucrat. “Wanted to? Wanted to?” he demanded, his voice barely above the level of a hiss. “He was my friend.”
Even as the words left his mouth, he saw his mistake. A neatly-laid trap, he realized with a detached sense of emotion. Or the lack thereof. Ellsworth was smarter than he looked.
“That’s right,” Ellsworth responded, “he was your friend, wasn’t he? Your recruit, too, if my memory serves me. You brought him into the Agency, vouched for him. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, Nichols, perhaps there is another reason you killed him?”
The sound of the SUV engine starting struck David Lay’s ears just as he finished tying his necktie. Undoubtedly Ramirez had finished his search for explosives. That was part of the morning routine, along with the continually-varied route to work.
Lay grimaced, adjusting his collar. It was probably paranoia. No CIA director had ever been assassinated. No one had ever even bothered to try. No matter, he didn’t plan to be the first. And with the enemies he had made in this past month…
His gaze fell to the framed photograph on his nightstand. The face of a young woman in her late twenties stared back at him, a smile dancing in those azure-blue eyes. She had her mother’s smile.
To have his daughter Carol back in his life — after well over twenty years of separation. It was a blessing beyond anything that he deserved. His wife had left him just weeks after Carol’s fourth birthday, tired of the long absences and lonely nights. He still couldn’t find it in himself to blame her.
He’d been an up-and-coming young CIA field officer in those days, the waning years of the Cold War. Young and brash. Patriotic. Or maybe just ambitious. He still didn’t know. All he knew was that it had left his family in ruins.
Even his daughter no longer carried his name, despite their recent reconciliation. And his wife was dead, stolen away by breast cancer. There were times that forgiveness was unobtainable.