Clara frowned. She was puzzled. “I don’t know, Special Agent Sharif. There is only one regimental CO at a time. Let me call someone — my predecessor, Millie Hartnett. She knows everything.” Clara used her cell phone to dial Millie and exchanged pleasantries, then put her on speakerphone to include Sharif.
The woman’s voice sounded strong. “Oh, my. That was just awful. I recall it. The whole school went into mourning.”
“Why?”
“Gary was a wonderful cadet — stood first in his class in academics, and played quarterback for the football team. He had already served two years as an enlisted soldier before coming to VMI and had — let me remember here, he was a paratrooper with the hundred and first.”
Lucky Sharif felt Gibson’s glow dimming. Maybe he wasn’t the gold standard that year after all.
“Well, what happened to him, Millie?”
“It was around Thanksgiving. Gary went rock climbing with some friends over the break and tragically fell to his death. The police said it was a terrible accident.”
“So the corps was without its student commander for a while?”
“Not for long. That couldn’t be allowed, so the selection committee bumped up the regimental XO to the higher rank so the institute could get back to normal. Gary was a good boy. It was awful.”
Clara glanced at Sharif. “Anything else?”
“No, ma’am. Many thanks to both of you. I’ll see myself out.” When he left, he could hear Clara and Millie turning the conversation to more personal matters as they set a lunch date.
Sharif got into the car and called Washington to get an FBI researcher to investigate the climbing accident that took the life of a VMI student by the name of Gary Smith, including his military record. Then he drove away from the orderly, regimental campus and back into the untidy real world.
13
Nicky Marks, one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, felt safe enough among the teeming mass of more than four million people who lived in the capital federal district of Pakistan and the adjoining city of Rawalpindi. In fact, Islamabad was one of his favorite cities. He was sure that one of the surveillance cameras that webbed the city was probably watching him, but that was no concern. Marks wasn’t an enemy of Pakistan; for years he had worked with agents of its intelligence service. One of those agents was on the other side of the table at the café right now, enjoying a cappuccino and watching the attractive women walking outside beneath the tall trees that were bursting with purple and fiery-red springtime colors. Serious cyclists in neon racing tights zoomed by in practice runs along the city’s neat grid of streets. The dense green Margalla Hills climbed skyward in the distance.
“I hope you’re not planning on staying long in our fair city,” said Maroof Sherdil of the Pakistani Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence — better known by its feared acronym, ISI.
Marks grinned. “Why, Maroof, do you mean that I’m not welcome here in the diplomatic quarter?”
Sherdil, a native Isloo, put down his cup. He was dressed in a fashionable Western-style suit and tie, and had considerable hair that was meticulously barbered, along with a close-trimmed beard — the aggregate giving him the appearance more of an international gentleman than the ragamuffin Pakistani a bystander might have expected. “You, my friend, are not welcome anywhere right now.”
Marks wasn’t disturbed. He hadn’t been arrested, so he counted himself still to be ahead of the game. “I’m just following orders. How long do I have?”
“A couple of days, three at the most. Nobody knows where you are right now, but you will be pinged on the cameras soon enough, and then the facial-recognition software will identify you and requests for action will start piling up on my desk.”
Sherdil looked out at the street, then back at Marks. “I can’t believe you would show up here in plain view. Particularly after that stunt in Paris. Damn, Nicky, that was harsh, even for you!”
“Come on, Maroof. You know how the game is played. Sometimes a sacrifice must be made to win the day. She was only an American lawyer, and there’s no shortage of those.” He seemed not to have a care in the world.
“I’m not talking about the woman. I mean that wave to the surveillance camera. It’s gone viral on the Internet.”
Marks said he understood, but that in setting a trap you sometimes had to lead the prey to the snare. That was what he was doing now. “I just want you to keep the cops off me for about twenty-four more hours, then I’ll be out of here.”
“That may be hard to do, with the price on your head getting higher and higher.”
“What am I worth now?”
“The Rewards for Justice program is a full million dollars, with France offering just as much. I should arrest you myself and retire rich.”
All the play went out of Marks, replaced by a coldness that made the Pakistani wish he hadn’t said those words. “The Prince wouldn’t like that,” he said.
Maroof Sherdil tapped on the small table with his fingertips. “I misspoke. Unforgivable for a diplomat like myself. I would not do such a thing, nor would I intentionally annoy the Prince. You know that.”
Marks yawned and stretched. Yeah, he knew that. Mention the Prince and they fold right up. “We’re good, man. Give me space for another day and I’ll be out of here. The Tribal Areas are calling my name.”
“Only if you do no mischief in this country. Do not force me to take action.” The ISI man was trying to recover.
“Just passing through, mate. Just passing through.”
Elizabeth Ledford Castillo felt a cold cube of air enfold her as soon as the flight attendant popped open the hatch after the direct United flight from Washington. By the time she arrived at Burlington International Airport, she was longing for the warmth of the Mexican sun. The light sweater she had brought along was no protection at all as she made her way to the luggage carousel. Long bags of skis were carted in. Skis. In April. People in tufted down jackets looked at her with the annoying smiles bestowed on first-timers to Vermont.
“We only have two seasons up here: winter and August,” said a man’s voice over her shoulder. “I brought this for you.” Orville Oliver Dawkins loomed large and easily wrapped a heavy coat around her shoulders. It was his size, which meant that it swallowed her. Her hands didn’t need gloves now, because they didn’t reach the cuffs.
She gave him a tremendous hug, squeezing hard. “So good to see you again, Double-Oh.”
“Same here. My life has been much duller without Coastie in it. I missed you a lot, girl.” Chief Master Sergeant Dawkins, USMC, retired, and Ledford had been close friends when they both worked with the élite and secret Task Force Trident, back in the day. He had been the teacher, and she was his prize pupil. His hair had grown out and was speckled with gray, but the big man was still a rock of muscle and strong as an oak. She noticed that he had on only jeans and a long-sleeved lumberjack shirt, apparently immune to the cold. He held her at arm’s length and examined her face. “Listen, that thing with Mickey was absolutely one of the worst things possible. I won’t ask if you’re okay, because you’ll lie and say you are, when you’re not. So let’s just get your bags and hit the road before we get all weepy.”
Coastie looked down at the scuffed floor, shoved her hands deep into the jacket pockets, and didn’t react when Double-Oh pulled up the parka’s hood. As they walked out together, she looked like a little kid beside him.
A gray Hummer was parked right outside, and when Double-Oh popped the rear door to toss in the suitcase Coastie found herself face to face with two soulful and alert eyes, two pointed ears cocked forward in curiosity, and the furry snout of a large German shepherd that sucked in all her scents in great swoops of breath. “This is Nero, a retired warrior dog who lost that front paw sniffing for us in Afghanistan. He detected an ambush and his handler died in the following firefight.” Double-Oh scratched the big dog’s head. “Ole Nero has been recovering with us out here in the boonies. He’s one of our therapy dogs. Give him a few seconds and he’ll lick you to death.”