Woods studied it quickly. He saw the mark that showed their current position. He spread his hand out along a longitude line, then used it to measure their distance to Lebanon. “Two hundred nautical miles to Beirut,” he said. He stared at LaGrou. “Two hundred miles.”
“I’m not following you, Lieutenant.”
“That Sheikh who killed Tony Vialli, my best friend, is eating grapes in Beirut while we’re out here, two hundred miles away, picking up the pieces of two others. What were they doing? Trying to stay sharp. To stay ready. For what?” he said, raising his voice. He stared at the chart. “We keep sharpening our sword, showing everybody how sharp and shiny it is. We use it sometimes. Kosovo? Sure. Iraq? Sure. For an American Naval officer murdered by a terrorist?” He could see LaGrou was trying to control his surprise. “I guess not. We just sharpen our sword, and cut ourselves with it.”
13
Kinkaid had been alarmed by Ricketts’s call in the middle of the night. Most of the alarm though came from the fact that Kinkaid had complete faith in Ricketts’s judgment. If he called in the middle of the night, it was for a reason. He was wily, brilliant, a master of languages and disguises, and someone who never failed in a mission. But there was a dark side as well — no respect for authority. He was known to think that those not in the Directorate of Operations, the DO, were just weak-tit parasites. He was unimpressed with electronic intelligence and “analysis,” a word he used only when forced.
Kinkaid pulled up into his reserved parking spot at 4:37 a.m. His hair was still matted in the back. He had taken the time to get dressed for the day, since it was sure to be another long, frustrating day anyway.
He walked toward CIA Headquarters and shifted his travel coffee mug to his left hand with his briefcase while he put his car keys in his suit coat pocket. He nearly dropped everything he was carrying when a voice called his name from right behind him, no more than a foot away. He swallowed. “Trying to give me a damned heart attack? What the hell are you doing?” he said, turning around.
Ricketts stared at him with his hands in his pockets unsmiling.
Kinkaid growled, “Let’s go inside where it’s warmer. I’m freezing my ass off.”
“Out here,” Ricketts said.
“What for?”
“I don’t want any of the other parasites listening.”
“To what?”
“Our conversation.”
Kinkaid put his briefcase down and took a long drink from his coffee. “Okay, what?”
Ricketts looked around the mostly empty parking lot. There wasn’t anything but asphalt for seventy-five yards in any direction. “What do you want to do with this Sheikh?”
“Do with him? I want to find him. Then I want to get him.”
“Meaning…”
“I don’t know.” Kinkaid frowned. “Grab him. Bring him back for trial. Put his ass in prison for a few lifetimes.”
Ricketts stared down at his feet. “I may have some information on his whereabouts.”
“What? You’re shitting me? Where is he?”
Ricketts shook his head. “I know where he will be. Not where he is.”
“Where? How do you know—”
“I cannot disclose—”
“I’m in charge of the task force,” Kinkaid said gruffly. “You’ll tell me whatever I need to know—”
“No, I won’t,” Ricketts said icily. “Not if it will endanger my agents.”
“How would telling me endanger your—”
“I got an agreement from the Director himself when I started running agents that I didn’t need to tell anyone anything I didn’t want to. It’s my judgment alone—”
“That’s bullshit. We have to share information—”
“That’s why I’m here,” Ricketts replied. “But I will tell you only what is necessary, and to the others, nothing. They can do their analysis, and stare at their photographs, and drink Starbucks—”
“We are on the same team—”
“We walk to the same destination, but not together.”
“What do you have in mind?” Kinkaid asked.
“I don’t think we should waste our time trying to capture him. We should take him out—”
“That would require a finding—”
“I know. That’s what we should do.”
“No,” Kinkaid said. “The Director wants him here. He wants a nice big trial the whole world can see.”
Ricketts understood, even though he disagreed. “I can grab the Sheikh. I need only your approval.”
“How would you get him?”
“You do not need to know that.”
“The hell I don’t—”
“You may ask the Director. He won’t tell you, but you may ask him.”
Kinkaid fought back his frustration. “When?”
“Soon.”
“Do you think you can do it?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“How much risk?”
Ricketts pondered, as if doing a calculation. “Much.”
“Do you want to do this?”
Ricketts nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”
“Do you need any help, any support from us?”
“No.”
Kinkaid wasn’t sure what to say. It was all very irregular. He also had served in the DO long enough to know that some of the best officers were the quirkiest. “I don’t like it. I have to know.”
Ricketts said nothing. He just stared at Kinkaid. The distant light in the parking lot at the top of a pole was behind him and showed only his silhouette. “You can tell me not to do it. Or you can let me put this guy out of our misery, but I can’t tell you how or when.”
“How about where?”
“Sorry.”
“You got a plan?”
“Start of one.”
Kinkaid debated with himself. He finally had to admit that results were what he wanted, and Ricketts brought results. “Do it.”
“Want to get a slider?” Woods asked Wink and Big at the back of the ready room as the SDO set up the video projector in the aisle between the seats and aimed it at the enormous screen suspended from the overhead in the front. Movies in the Navy had long been a grand tradition. The movie would be shown at an announced time and all the officers would show up to watch it. The SDO was responsible for selecting the movie from the hundreds of videotapes available from the ship’s video library and ensuring the projector was set up. He had to roll the movie exactly at the specified time. To the second. Or the Executive Officer would rail on him and he would be held in general contempt by the squadron for some unspecified period.
“Sure,” they replied together. “We can get back in time for the movie. How many stars is it?”
“I’m not sure. Three, I think.” The star system was legendary within the squadron. Every SDO tried to get a five-star movie. If the CO agreed that it was five stars, that SDO was taken off the SDO watch bill for an entire month. But it was hard to find a five-star movie. The categories were clear enough: a train, an Indian, female nudity, a mort (someone killed by other than natural causes), and a snake. The snake and the Indian were the toughest. One movie had a hat trick in one scene — a naked female Indian riding a horse when confronted by a snake. There was a mort, but a train never showed up so it stalled at four stars.
In the forward wardroom, several aircrew in their flight suits were spread out among the long tables. Woods, Wink, and Big stood in front of the grill expectantly. After a few seconds the messmen asked them what they would like.
“Double slider,” Woods said.
“Triple cheeseburger,” Big said enthusiastically.
“Single for me,” Wink said, looking at Big. “Geez, Big, you’re going to weigh three hundred pounds.”
“I already do.” Big smiled.