“You did what?” She could feel his gaze on her, cold and accusative.
“It was a job, Harry,” Carol answered, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “I had sources inside the Pentagon — knew when the files were being moved. It was a simple hack. In and out, all evidence of CHRYSALIS erased.”
She looked over at Han. In person, the retired SEAL seemed different. Perhaps it was the intervening years — perhaps it was knowing the rest of his story. The big man looked deceptively relaxed as he stood there, the rifle cradled in his hands. “And he paid well.”
“You know what’s going to happen if they ever figure out who did it?” Harry asked, shaking his head. “You’ll go down — and hard.”
“Why do you think we implicated Anonymous and WikiLeaks in the attack?”
She could see Harry’s response forming on his lips, but Han cut them both off. “You know what, the two of you can have this out later. Right now it doesn’t explain what you’re both doing here.”
Harry looked over at Carol, then back at his old…friend?
“Mind if we talk this over inside?”
“I do,” Han replied, steel in his voice. “You’re going to answer my question before we go any further. What do you think you’re doing here?”
“David Lay is dead, Sammy. A Russian hit team took him out yesterday morning in Virginia.” Harry saw Carol flinch at the blunt brutality of the statement. Han’s face hadn’t changed.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Chapter 8
Most of her time may have been spent with computers, but Carol hadn’t forgotten how to read body language. And Han’s was anything but good.
They were standing in the kitchen of the hunting cabin, a glass of ice-cold spring water in her hand.
“What were you thinking, Nichols?” Han asked as Harry finished his story. The SEAL’s face was pale in the light of the fireplace. “You know I’m out.”
Harry shook his head, determination in his eyes. “Then what are you doing wandering the woods with a battle rifle? Don’t kid yourself, Sammy. No one’s ever out of the game. You’re no diff—”
“It’s not a game!” Han swore, taking a step forward. His dark eyes blazed fire, barely controlled anger. “Why do you think I moved out to this godforsaken piece of country? I didn’t want to be found.”
Yeah, he knew that. Had known it from the beginning. But Sammy had changed.
Harry met the eyes of his friend, his coldness meeting Han’s anger. “You know I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, Sammy. You have to know that.”
Han passed a hand over his brow, turning away from Harry to stare into the fireplace. Fire burned away at the wood, sparks disappearing up the chimney. Flickering, devouring tongues of fire. A piece of wood broke in the middle and collapsed against the chimney, the sudden noise startling them.
“You know, Harry, you haven’t changed a bit,” the former SEAL said finally, his tones bitter. When he looked up, the fire had gone from his eyes, replaced by an ineffable sadness. “It’s all about the mission, isn’t it? Whatever it takes, whoever you have to destroy to get the job done.”
Harry looked over to where Carol stood, leaning against the wooden island. Emotion warred within him, wanting to deny the accusation, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was the truth. And it didn’t matter.
“You’ve been there, Sammy,” he replied. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why. You can’t let emotion get in the way of completing the mission. You do, you’re dead. Or have you forgotten?”
Han sunk back into one of the kitchen chairs. A sigh, and he buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through the stubble of his buzz-cut black hair. “No, I haven’t. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”
“I’m sure,” Harry replied, watching him closely. The voice had changed, years of past experience coloring the question. And in that moment, he knew that he had won. It was a dirty feeling.
Han rose to his feet, glancing from Harry to Carol and back again. “You can stay. The hunting cabin has a garage — we can get your vehicle under cover, hopefully before the NRO decides to dedicate satellites to this search. Sorenson still running the show over there?”
Harry smiled, pushing away the feeling of guilt with an effort. “Yeah, he is, Sammy. I’ll come out and give you a hand.”
“What type of hardware are we talking about?” Omar asked, cradling the laptop in his dark hands as his eyes roved the screen. Yes, this was familiar. Had he closed his eyes, he could have traveled back to that night, the pinnacle of his career. The screams of the crowd — the bestial look in the eyes of the women who had torn at his clothes as he left the building, surrounded by his security.
Tarik looked momentarily confused. “I do not understand. Hardware?”
“American slang,” al-Fileestini interjected, his tone apologetic. “He means guns.”
“Ah!” the Pakistani smiled. “We are prepared — Kalashnikovs for every man of the assault team. It should be enough to overwhelm the security.”
“You’re talking some serious firepower, brother. Mind if I ask where you think you’re gettin’ them?”
The hynoptic eyes of the shaikh narrowed in suspicion, but al-Fileestini lifted his hand. “You are in the presence of the ikhwan, Shaikh.” The brothers. “You can speak freely in front of Omar.”
Tarik nodded at the older man’s reassurance. He took the laptop from Omar’s hands and typed in a command, his slender, almost feminine, fingers moving rapidly over the keys. “We will receive the weapons and conventional explosives from the same man who helped us get into the country. This man.” He moved the screen so that they all could see. “Valentin Stephanovich Andropov. We meet him in five days.”
Bond was not in his blood. Michael Shapiro had known that for years.
Stress gave him migraines, and he’d had the mother of all headaches ever since the bomb blast that had taken David Lay’s life the day before.
He popped off the childproof lid of the aspirin bottle in his hand, eyeing the last two pills.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? He winced as he leaned forward, shaking both pills out into a sweaty palm. He didn’t know that Lay was dead. No one knew.
Nothing had gone according to plan. Shapiro’s fingers trembled as he reached for the glass of water on his desk. In his mind’s eye, he almost half-expected Lay to come walking through the door.
It was supposed to have been a clean kill. The thought made him angry now.
The DD(I) wiped the water away from the edges of his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for his cellphone, scrolling down the screen with a thick finger until Kranemeyer’s number came up.
SEND. Shapiro stared across the office at the wall clock as the phone continued to ring. Over twenty-four hours since Nichols had gone rogue, taking Lay’s daughter with him. That hadn’t gone according to plan either — so far the Bureau was drawing a blank.
Four rings, and the DCS picked up. “Kranemeyer — go.”
“Listen, Barney,” Shapiro began, forcing calm into his voice. “I was talking with Director Haskell earlier today and he thought it would be helpful for the Bureau to interview Nichols’ team members. If you’d handle that, I’d appreciate it — just make sure Richards and Parker stop by the Alexandria field office this evening.”