Swanson drank some beer from a tall mug. “I can tell you don’t like it. Remember, this is the land of the Hindenburg blimp.”
“It blew up.”
“That’s my point,” said Swanson, cutting into his meat. “Our rule is to eat when you can because you don’t know when your next meal will be, right?”
Marguerite del Coda was suddenly at the table, pulling up a chair and brushing her hair back from her eyes. “Islamabad,” she said. “The sonofabitch just pinged the Net in Islamabad. The sighting has been confirmed by the Pakis.”
Swanson wiped his mouth with a white napkin and tossed it on the remains of the food. He looked at Gibson. “Let’s go to work, then. You ready?”
Gibson looked longingly at the half-eaten dinner and grinned. “I was born ready, podna.”
14
Coastie awoke to a series of quick wet slurps on her ear from Nero. The dog had slept with her all night, a warm, comforting, and hairy presence that she would bump a hip into or rest her arm across to keep from feeling so alone. The morning light was bright, and Nero was telling her that it was time for him to go outside and attend to important dog stuff. “Got it,” she said, sitting up with a big yawn, then pushing off the bed. Nero made the transition to the floor smoothly, despite his missing paw, and when she opened the door he hopped out, propelled by his strong hind legs. The remaining front leg balanced him, and the big foot landed surely. He had adjusted to his new lifestyle, felt no pity for himself. It was what it was.
She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and combed her hair into a hasty ponytail, then laced on her sneakers and did some stretches. She had slept only in shorts and a loose T-shirt, so she added a warmup suit before going outside for a run around the frosty Phoenix Farm. Other people were also up, mostly doing chores. A few waved to the newcomer. What could be more normal than feeding chickens and grooming horses while happy dogs gamboled about? What could be more safe? What could be quieter? She found a path and loped into the forest shadows.
Double-Oh explained it last evening during the evening meal, which was eaten on long wooden tables with attached benches so that a group could share the food that was prepared by a kitchen staff. Three men and another woman shared their table — the mashed potatoes, the salad bowl, the meat, the iced tea, and the conversation. All were special-ops types of one form or another who had found out about Phoenix and come for a stay during their personal journeys back to normality. Years of military service back in the day had placed them in extreme danger, over and over. They had lost friends and seen terrible things, and, often out of necessity, had been forced to do things they would never discuss. And it was hard to just walk away when the enlistment was up. Thanks a lot for playing, sign these papers and go back home and climb the corporate ladder, or go to hell. Ghosts didn’t like to stay behind doors. The blaze in the large stone fireplace helped burn them away.
Coastie found a comfortable jogging pace, and her lungs adjusted to the altitude. Is this place all uphill? she wondered. She ran automatically, as Phoenix Farm residents had been doing on this path for years. The sweat came with the deeper breaths. There was a quiet presence behind her. Nero was striding along at half speed without effort, his tongue hanging out like a wet pink shoe, and they went into a small valley with a swift-flowing brook.
If someone wanted to come to Phoenix Farm, all he or she had to do was ring the bell and walk on in. It was intentionally the direct reverse use of the bell that was clonged when a defeated and demoralized trainee decided to leave the Navy SEALs. This bell marked an arrival at a destination, not a failure. Residents could leave at any time, without shame or remorse, whenever they felt their time was done and they were ready to rejoin the civilian world. No private guns were allowed, just as no booze is allowed in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. The only drugs were in the first-aid kit. Dawkins kept some weapons in an off-limits safe for his personal use. He said they were just a couple of shotguns.
It all made sense, she thought. A noble effort to help troubled vets traverse the dreaded PTSD chasm. Good on Excalibur for sponsoring it. Good on the horsies. Good on Nero. Good on everybody. Good on her for being here.
“I hate it,” Coastie said to herself. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I didn’t ring that damned bell.”
This was going to be a good day, Veronica Keenan thought as she finished her own one-mile run in Rock Creek Park with a flashy sprint, then walked around with her hands on her hips, breathing hard and not even trying to hide the joy that she felt inside. She was going to make her mark with the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. There were many people who thought she didn’t deserve that committee assignment, but today they would change their minds when she took on the CIA.
She had been nervous the previous afternoon when she had the private meeting with her party’s senior member on the committee, but that eased when the wise old congressman lit up like a Christmas-tree bulb as she presented her findings. He could see it all unfold in his head even as she spoke: a congressional hearing about a rogue CIA agent running a big drug operation out of Afghanistan. Keenan was promised a place on the investigating subcommittee that would hold the hearings. Sticking a needle in the CIA would show their determination to hold the secret agency accountable to the public. It wouldn’t hurt the reelection chances of either member of Congress when the news leaked to the press.
Her aide caught her on her smartphone before she reached the office. There was going to be an emergency meeting of the committee leadership before lunch, and Keenan was to present her findings once again. The aide also explained that she had been able to dig up the astonishing background of the agent involved — Kyle Swanson, an expert sniper who had been around for years — and that would be juicy new meat for the conference. Instead of a vague description of the operation, she would have a precise target. It didn’t matter to her whether or not this Swanson guy was actually a bad guy, as he was just a tool to be used to pry into the CIA’s dirty little world.
“Is there going to be a CIA rep there?” Keenan needed to know before walking into a buzz saw of criticism. This investigation, if it got off the ground, could make her career. It could also end it in a hurry if she was wrong. She wanted the CIA person to know that she was really on the agency’s side, pointing out a piece of dirty laundry that could perhaps be handled internally.
“One of the big names is coming over,” the aide responded. “Martin Atkins, the director of intelligence.”
“The CIA director himself is going to be there?”
“No, Congresswoman. This man is one level away from the big chair, but he is the one in the know about all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
Keenan paused. She was only ten minutes from the office now and could see the white dome of the Capitol looming ahead, crowning the hill at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. “Okay. Put together a backgrounder on him, too. I don’t want to be blindsided.”
“Yes, ma’am. See you in a few.”
As far as the Prince could see, everything was in order.
Nicky Marks would soon be out of Pakistan, while the CIA hunters were yet to arrive. They had left the Ramstein base in a rush when the Pakistani intelligence service reported that their quarry had been sighted in Islamabad. Instead of a lumbering USAF transport plane, the two could now make shorter hops aboard aircraft owned and flown by the Central Intelligence Agency. They would be too late to nab Marks, but everyone involved would be buoyed by the feeling that they were closing in fast. One step behind is still second place, Marks thought.