Gideon switched seats, watching as Parker moved his blinking cursor and clicked one of his desktop icons. A map of the South China Sea appeared on-screen. Parker traced his finger along the southern edge. “See this skinny little strip of ocean here, from the Strait of Malacca just below Singapore, up to the coast off Vietnam? Sixty thousand ships, billions of tons of goods, over a trillion dollars’ worth of commerce, pass through this corridor every year. It’s one of the most heavily trafficked shipping lanes in the world, and the one most vulnerable to piracy.
“Last year, off the Somalia coast, we saw just how vulnerable. The jurisdictional issues are messy, the money is huge, and the shipping companies view piracy as a cost of doing business. A wri heÁness. A wte-off. A ship gets seized, they don’t call the navy, they reach for their checkbooks. Spending a few million bucks now and then is easier than jeopardizing the safety of their crews and cargoes.”
Gideon held up his hand. “Hold on. What’s this got to do with Till-man?”
“It was his cover story. Disaffected American soldier turned independent contractor. To prove himself, he seized an oil tanker bound for Mohan. It was all playacting, of course, with a local crew he’d put together and a cooperative vessel he’d hired to go along with the setup.
“Problem was, it worked too well. The jihadis wanted Tillman to do it again. He tried to stall, but they kept pushing. Next thing we knew, he and his men had seized a second ship. This time, it was a real one. Tillman claimed he had to do it in order to avoid blowing his cover. Said it was worth doing a few bad things to stop some much worse things from happening, and the Agency went along with it. Nobody gets hurt, a couple of big companies lose a negligible amount of money, all for the greater good. But after a couple more seizures, he broke off contact with his handler and started doing this stuff for real.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means he started identifying with the people he was sent to destroy. He changed his name, became a Muslim. Or, I should say, a follower of the violent extremists who’ve perverted and co-opted that religion.”
Gideon shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
Earl blew out his breath. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“Almost a year.”
“A year? And you’re only telling me now?”
Parker’s eyes flashed. “Do not play the guilt card with me, son. The last time I asked you to reach out to Tillman, you told me to mind my own damn business.” Parker was right. Gideon had traveled the world brokering peace between warring parties, but he’d been unwilling to reach out to his own brother. A dozen times he’d picked up the phone to call him. Each time, he’d hung up before the connection even went through.
Parker lowered his voice to a wistful register. “Besides, I knew there wasn’t anything you could do about it. I tried contacting Tillman myself through an intermediary, begged him to come in. But he never even responded. For him to lose himself like that . . . I can’t even begin to imagine the twisted logic that must have gotten into his head.”
“Bullshit.” It was the only word that fit. “Tillman may have changed, but he’s not someone who changes sides. Not like this.”
“You need to understand, he’s not the same person anymore. Last year, in this shipping lane, over a hundred ships were seized. We’ve got multiple intelligence sources saying your brother was behind at least thirty of those.”
Gideon kept shaking his head as Parker continued. “Problem was he got so good at it, he became a target himself. He pissed off the insurance and shipping companies. He pissed off some of the more radical jihadists in Moh21;Áists in Man, who saw him as an outsider. Even worse, he pissed off the Sultan, the man he’d been sent over to help out in the first place. And now that the insurgency is gaining momentum—”
Gideon finished his sentence. “The Sultan wants him dead.”
Parker nodded. “He ordered his top operatives to hunt down Tillman. They’ve been spreading around lots of money, squeezing some captured insurgents pretty hard. Two days ago, they located him.”
“How did you find out about this?”
“From Tillman.”
“You spoke to my brother?”
“Not directly, no. He contacted me through a man named Prang. He’s a general in the Sultan’s army who Tillman worked with. Apparently, your brother kept a back channel open with Prang, even after he went dark. Prang warned Tillman about the hit, and he’s the one who’s brokering this whole deal.”
“What deal?”
“Tillman’s agreed to surrender himself and provide intelligence about the insurgency if the Sultan calls off his hit. He’s holding some big cards—safe houses, weapons caches, organizational structure, leadership, money flow, the whole nine yards.”
“Then the Sultan agreed to call off the hit.”
“Only temporarily. He’s giving us until tomorrow to bring him in. After that, it’s open season.”
“And President Diggs signed off on this?”
“Absolutely. He’s already getting pressure to send troops to Mohan. If this insurgency gets any bigger, he may not have a choice. He’d much rather let Tillman disappear into witness protection than be forced to put our troops in harm’s way.”
Gideon’s head was spinning.
“All right. So bring him in. I don’t understand why you need me.”
“Because Tillman only agreed to come in under one condition. If he could choose who President Diggs sends.”
“And Tillman chose me?”
“You’re the only one he trusts.”
Below the descending plane, the lush green canopy of the jungle was receding, giving way to the tar paper rooftops and steel containers of the sprawling shantytown adjacent to the airport. “How exactly is this supposed to happen?” Gideon asked.
“General Prang is still working out the operational details. He’s meeting us at the airport.”
Gideon sat motionless, turning over in his head what he’d just heard. As impossible as it sounded, he knew he had no choice but to see it through. At least until he’d heard more.
“Tillman’s a grown man,” Parker said. “He made his own bed, I realize that . . . but I still feel responsible for him. I feel that way about both of you.” Parker’s eyes welled, and his voice had more gravel in it than usual. He cleared his throat, as if trying toghtÁf trying break through the delta of emotions that had collected there.
The plane hit the tarmac with a jolt and a screech of tires. As the aircraft decelerated, Gideon stared down at the photograph and realized that his brother, his only blood relative, had become a complete stranger to him.
Gideon's War and Hard Target
“You need to bring him home,” Parker said.
Despite the sick feeling rising from the deepest part of himself, Gideon found himself nodding his head.
CHAPTER FOUR
“COULDN’T YOU AT LEAST have wiped off the poor guy’s blood first?” The artist frowned as he studied the passport.
The bearded man in the camouflage baseball cap didn’t speak. The crown of his hat bore the prominent outline of some kind of pistol. The artist—his name was Barry Wine—had never met anyone he liked who wore a hat with a picture of a gun on it. Or a gun logo. Or a gun joke. Or a gun anything.
Gun people were morons. Barry Wine detested morons.
Wine was a freelance document forger. In the trade, document forgers are called “artists.” Once upon a time he’d been with the Company. But there had been a minor misunderstanding about some receipts for supplies, and now he had to take whatever work he could get. Even for guys like this troglodyte creep in the baseball cap. Barry Wine had operated out of Singapore for a while, but the tax situation was better here in Mohan. And now he was holding the bloodstained passport for some poor bastard named Cole Ransom. The humorless guy in the baseball cap wanted him to replace the photo of the real guy with a photo of himself. Artists referred to this as a “face pull.”