Lopez felt completely helpless. He was losing track of how many times they had narrowly escaped death. “The wraith?”
She nodded. “Good name they gave him. Saved our asses, though. And got the kill on Zulu. He gets my Jason Bourne award nomination.”
Nothing made sense. “Why, Sara? Why is he helping us?”
“I doubt he’s helping us, Francisco. He came here to kill Zulu. For all he knew, these assets were here to protect Blobel. He ID’d them and took them out.”
“But why didn’t he kill us, too?”
Houston paused. “Good question. I don’t know, Francisco. Maybe he’s got his list of targets, and we aren’t on it, for obvious reasons. And I don’t think he’s worried about the cops or anything two people like us could say to them.”
Lopez nodded. House lights were starting to come on. There was too much disturbance in the neighborhood. Perhaps someone had heard something, noticed them running, or seen Zulu’s door open. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to be caught by the police again.”
There was a metallic click behind them. “Sara Houston and Francisco Lopez?”
They turned around. Lopez couldn’t believe it, and nearly laughed. Someone else was pointing a gun at them.
50
They sat around the bed in a cheap, nowhere motel off a highway in Virginia. Simon’s man, Jim Fields, had led them here, telling them that he’d explain all he could once they were more hidden. After Lopez and Houston had checked in under false names provided by Simon’s other agent, Fields had gone and bought a bunch of Chinese food, refusing to let them out of the room. He didn’t want any risks that unnecessary exposure might bring.
“Fred has been under siege,” Fields said, looping a mass of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. He spoke as he chewed. “Whoever ran this operation, they’re still a force, even out of the CIA. They have assets, money, and influence. And there were two attempts on his life. He’s moving place to place constantly. That’s why you couldn’t reach him in the station after you were caught. Hell of an escape, by the way! How on earth did you get out of there?”
Lopez and Houston stared at each other. “Another one of your men came, sent by Fred Simon. He got us out,” said Lopez.
The man looked shocked. “Jesus. Communication has totally broken down. I was completely unaware of this. Where is he now? Why isn’t he with you?”
They looked at each other again, confused. Houston spoke. “I don’t know, Jim. Until you asked, I hadn’t thought about it. God, we had just run out of a shooting gallery. The place blew up, and he pointed us to that SUV out there and screamed for us to go. We didn’t ask any questions. We got our asses out of there.”
Fields nodded but looked troubled. “Still, you could have used some help. I was told to be looking for you, but I had no idea how to find you. I couldn’t reach Fred either, and everyone was cut off.”
Lopez furrowed his brows. “How did you know where to find us?”
Fields laughed. “Luck. Sources with the police radioed that they had discovered some pretty explosive stuff. We debriefed them, got a list of names. Wow — pretty high-level names, too. That shook some people up. Fred was stunned.”
“Francisco and I have been looking over the list of kills we copied from Miller’s computer,” said Houston. “At first, we could only identify those that matched names we could immediately recognize. These were powerful, important players in law, politics, and activism.”
“Yes,” grumbled Francisco, “assassinations that removed all obstacles to the program of black-ops rendition and torture.”
“And the others on the list?” asked Fields.
“It took more work, but we were able to associate the initials with a number of high-profile Arabs in America. Some were almost certainly dirty players in the underground terrorist networks. But others — it isn’t so clear.”
Francisco cut in angrily. “They didn’t care. Circumstantial evidence was all they needed. Close enough for government work. They killed anyone they thought was a threat.”
Fields looked stunned. “How could something like this happen?”
“It’s the logical step, from a certain set of assumptions,” said Francisco. “First, they rendered terrorist suspects without due process. Then, they justified holding them in secret, indefinitely. No rights. What’s next? Well, if they don’t have rights, and you think you can get information from them, why not hurt them until they talk? Well, why limit that to noncitizens? Why limit kills of suspects to foreign lands? If you want to protect America, you have to get them wherever they are, whoever they are. That includes even the deluded do-gooders who are fighting to stop your programs. They began with terrorist suspects and ended up with congressmen; they went from Arabs to WASPs with money. One step after another until you are a secret murder squad without oversight, reporting only to shadows.”
Fields spoke coldly. “It has to be stopped, and Fred will be onboard one hundred percent, I can tell you. The last communication I received from him told me to make sure nothing happened to you two, that this mess had to be cleaned up. From what you’ve told me now, he’ll be even more committed.”
Lopez felt relieved. So the word will get out. Maybe even to the press soon. He was tired of the story being about the two fugitives and their flight. Today’s local paper had dramatic photos of the charred wreckage: “Terrorist fugitives blow up police station.” It was just getting better and better. Or worse and worse.
Houston spoke with a frustrated tone. “But Mark Blobel, Zulu, was the last on the list, Jim. All the others are gone. Hiding out, no doubt. We have nothing to go on now!”
The CIA man smiled. “Well, Fred hasn’t been idle, Sara.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched in several numbers, and showed Lopez and Houston the screen.
“An address?” asked Lopez.
“Yes. A high-security, recently outfitted, militarized farmhouse.”
“How’d he get this information?” asked Houston.
“It wasn’t easy. They have buried so much, killed so many, to hide these missions — and they’ve done a good job covering it up. But it’s hard to hide the money trail. With a good dog — and Fred has some very good hunting dogs — the trail is there to read. In short: the mission leaders are tied to Agency-associated money transfers involving this site. Recent money transfers, all in the last year. Transfers that began shortly after agents started dying.”
“Oh, my God,” said Houston. She hugged Lopez. “Fred’s done it! This has to be where they’re laying low. We’ve got them pinned down!”
“Where is it?” asked Lopez.
“Here are the satellite photos. Rural nowhere in Virginia,” said Fields.
“He’s sure about this?” asked Lopez.
“Absolutely. One hundred percent.” He looked at them solemnly. “Fred knew you’d want to go, and he wants you to go. But it will be dangerous. For obvious reasons, we can’t go to the police. The fireball in upstate New York is just one of several items on the list law enforcement has on you two. So, they’re out. So’s FBI. Or, God forbid, the CIA. No one can help. So he insisted that I come with you.”
Lopez smiled. “No problems from me on that part! I wish we had an army of Fred Simon’s men! Seems like he knows how to pick them.”
Houston nodded. “Of course, as long as you know the dangers too, Jim. These are some really scary folks. Dark side of the force material.”