He averted his gaze. She had not flinched, and her voice had not wavered. They could hook her up to a polygraph and the needle wouldn’t budge. She was either the most proficient liar he’d ever met or she really didn’t know.
He blurted out, “I was in the hangar. Rugar was going to torture me. I wouldn’t have broken. I know that. But Sergei was there, and he shot Rugar. And then… he was going to shoot me.”
She set down her cup of coffee. “But you took him out.”
“I was lying on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back.”
“What’ re you saying?”
He closed his eyes and he was back there, squinting toward the shadows, the cold rafters, the long seams in the metal ceiling. “Someone shot Sergei and left me there. I think that same person took off in Bratus’s car.”
The tension in Hansen’s chest began to loosen, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at her.
She’d removed her glasses, and her gaze had gone distant. “Oh, my God…” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“And I’m going to sit here and let you tell me nothing?”
She sighed. “I can’t say much more.”
“You know who it was.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
Hansen leaned toward her. “But you have an idea. Did you send someone to babysit me? Yes or no?”
“I told you no. And you’d best watch that tone.”
He huffed. “Sorry. And if I can still ask… Did we get anything from the phones or that tag number?”
“They’ve wiped clean any traces. You shouldn’t expect anything less.”
“I guess not.”
She took a long breath, then said, “I’m putting together a squad.”
“Squad?” He’d uttered the word as though he’d never heard it before.
“Five field operatives, all new recruits, and you’ve earned your place as the team lead.”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“I’m not trying, Ben. This is my meeting.”
He nodded. “Okay, but one more thing. About Sergei. His body got back here okay? He’ll get a proper funeral? Family notified?”
“It’s all been taken care of. Kovac used him, Ben. He knew Sergei was vulnerable, and he used him. I feel terrible about that, and even more concerned about our current operations.”
“So… you’ve decided to build a team? Wouldn’t a group pose a greater security risk?”
“Or would a team be even more proficient than a single operator?”
“Depends on the situation.”
“Exactly. And, you know, you never work alone. You always have a runner, you have us, you have eyes in the sky, watching.”
“It’s a test, isn’t it? A test to see if the new guys have what it takes. I just told you that someone bailed me out of my mission, and now you’re giving me team lead.”
“Someone helped you evacuate. That’s all. You got the information. You earned the spot.”
“I’m not sure I want it.”
Her frown deepened. “Are you kidding me?”
“Who are these people? I don’t even know them. We’ve been training alone. And now I’m supposed to trust my life to them?”
“You’ll start training together.”
“I’ve been out there alone. I’m ready.”
“You are. But I still want you to play nice with others.”
“Do we at least get a cool code name?”
“It was randomly generated.”
Hansen rolled his eyes. “What is it? Lard Barrel? Cow Dung?”
She almost smiled. “Delta Sly.”
Hansen repeated the name. “Not too bad. And there’s no significance?”
She shook her head.
The door behind them suddenly opened and a rather short, clean-cut man with dark eyes and a deep tan that looked more manufactured than natural strode into the room.
“Hi, Grim. Sorry I’m late.”
Hansen rose from the table and turned to their visitor.
“Ben, let me introduce you to one of your new teammates,” Grim began. “This is Allen Ames.”
Ames beamed at Hansen. “Hi, Ben. Nice to meet you.”
13
After returning from the mission in Houston, Hansen was accosted at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport by a pear-shaped man in his fifties wearing shorts, Birkenstocks, and a Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with purple parrots and palm trees. The guy had a camera case strung around his neck and a thick beard encrusted with pieces of his lunch (a thick sandwich, probably). He squinted through a pair of Harry Potter glasses and asked, “Are you Matthew Pine?”
Hansen froze. That was his alias for the work in Texas. “Who’s asking?”
“If you’ll come with me, Mr. Pine?”
“You have to talk sexier than that.”
The fat man sighed, then spoke in an agitated singsong. “I don’t have time for this. I was told to pick you up. If you won’t come, I’ll have to call my boss.”
“Let me call mine.” Hansen tried to hail Grim on his OPSAT. No response. He whirled back to the man, who was speaking rapidly on a cell phone. “Who are you?”
The big guy flashed an ID: NSA. Then he ended his call.
“Great,” Hansen said through a sigh. “Am I under arrest or something?”
“Not technically.”
“But technically I have to go with you.”
“Technically, yes.”
“Do you think you can outrun me?”
“Dude, come on. I’m a fat bastard. Don’t make my life miserable. Just come along and play nice.”
“Where are we going? Back to Hawaii?”
“Someplace out in the ’burbs. That’s all I know.”
“How long’s the drive?”
“Not long.”
“Not much of a detail-oriented guy, are you?”
He snorted. “You sound like my wife.”
“You got an iPod?”
“Yeah.”
“You got any AC/DC?”
The fat man grinned.
They arrived at a small, one-story house on a narrow street lined by old oak trees and warped telephone poles. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway. This was typical middle-class America, about as nondescript as you could get. The front lawns were beginning to turn green from their long winter brown, and the ticking of a sprinkler sounded in the distance. Two black boys, about seven or eight, were standing on the driveway and shooting each other with water rifles that resembled antitank guided missile launchers.
“This is it,” said Hansen’s well-dressed NSA taxi driver.
Hansen shook his head. “What am I doing here?”
The man rapped a knuckle on the GPS unit mounted on his windshield. “Look, bro. This is where they told me to bring you. You mind getting out? I’m sure they got some pizzas they want me to pick up.”
Hansen sighed, grabbed his small carry-on bag, and climbed out of the car. As soon as he slammed the door, the driver floored it, leaving a trail of sarcasm and echoing AC/DC in his wake.
With a deepening frown, Hansen started up the driveway, breathing in the sweet scent of hamburgers grilling on a barbecue from the house next door. One of the boys looked at him, wriggled his brows, then shot Hansen in the face with his water rifle.
“Hey!” Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.
“Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard,” came a voice from the front door.
Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.
He was about to open his mouth when she added, “Come on. They’re waiting for you in the basement.”
“Okay… ” Hansen started for ward and asked, “Am I supposed to introduce myself?”