“I only want to ask what she might remember of a former neighbor, the people who lived in what’s now the Alonso home.”
“Good. She’s ninety-six, but she has a pretty good memory for someone her age. Just be gentle. Can I get you some tea?”
Lucky blanched. “No, thanks.”
Clara Boykin was in a sunny little parlor, with a white lace shawl thrown over her shoulders. She was in a wheelchair, and blue slippers peeked from beneath the hem of her cotton nightgown. She studied Sharif from head to toe as Adele made the introductions and motioned him to sit down. The small room was filled with loaded bookshelves, and a Garfield cat glared at the intruder.
“You read all those books, Mrs. Boykin?”
“I certainly did. Those and many more.” Her voice was soft but clear. “I was an English teacher for thirty years. But age took my eyesight and all I can do now is listen to audiobooks. I don’t get the same flavor that the writers wanted to convey from audio. Do you read?”
Sharif grinned. “Not as much as I’d like. Mostly I’m wrapped up in work, and official forms aren’t very literary.”
“You look smart.” She appraised him. “Play ball in college?”
“Basketball at Marquette. Majored in criminal justice, and a master’s in psychology.”
The woman nodded approvingly. “Ask your questions then, young man, before Adele forces more pills down my gullet.”
“This is just routine background information-gathering because a former neighbor of yours is being considered for a high-ranking position in the federal government. He lived right across the street. His name is Lucas Gibson.”
The levity drained out of the old woman, the eyes sharpened, and her mouth went grim. “Luke. I should have figured that out. Well, Special Agent Sharif, I remember him well and have absolutely no use for that imperious little shit. Do not trust him. Do not give him the job. Let me tell you.”
Sharif was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. “May I record this?” he asked, putting his cell phone on the table.
She smiled. “Yes, you may.”
Director of intelligence Martin Atkins got a kick out of meeting Janna Ecklund in a McDonald’s out beyond the beltway. He was long past his clandestine days as a CIA field agent, but there was always something about hiding in plain sight. They were in a corner booth, and his security detail occupied the surrounding tables. The yells of kids back in the play area would overwhelm any listening device.
He had a chicken salad, while Janna had a Big Mac with fries. An agent placed the order and delivered the red trays to their table. “You’re not really going to eat that, are you?” Marty asked.
“Maybe a little. I want to send a picture of my meal to Lucky first. He’s down South eating like a pig and torturing me with his food. I hope he gains a hundred pounds.” She snapped, clicked, and sent, then pushed the meal aside except for a single French fry to nibble on. “So, what’s up?”
Atkins drew in a deep breath. “We have some potential problems, and I wanted to give you guys an early warning. Word is going around Capitol Hill that the agency is running drugs again, that Kyle is involved, and that, somehow, Excalibur Enterprises and Sir Jeff are behind it all.”
Janna pushed back against the hard bench and chewed thoughtfully. “Bullshit.” She swallowed, then smiled. A shark smile. “Utter bullshit, Marty.”
“I know, I know. It’s a political thing that came out of nowhere. A congresswoman from Nebraska, of all places, is trying to tear a piece off the agency’s hide to earn some Brownie points.”
“Where does it stand now?” She picked another fry from the carton.
“The chairman of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence says he’s concerned. Nice choice of words there, eh? Means nothing either way. So I have to go to a private meeting to explain things, which I will not do. Next step will be for the minority committee members to leak it to the press to force something.”
“Ouch,” said Janna. “This have anything to do with Kyle being out chasing Nicky Marks?”
Atkins pushed the salad aside and helped himself to an oily fry. “No such thing as a coincidence in this business, Janna. You’re FBI-trained and know that. For protection, I’m going to have to shut down the Marks thing and get Kyle and Luke Gibson back under cover until the political flap blows over.”
“You think Sir Jeff should also hunker down? He’s not the type to hide from some politician. He’ll go after them with everything we’ve got — and we’ve got a lot.”
“I cannot advise you to do anything. Excalibur is your business, but none of us want to put a light on the help the company provides on special operations. Tell Sir Jeff what’s going on and get Kyle back on safe ground. I’ll get around to Nicky Marks later.”
“Good enough. Thanks for the tip, Marty. You’re a good friend.”
Atkins wiped his hands on a few little paper towels and slid out of the booth. A coterie of security men and women stood at the same time, like flowers blooming in a group. “Right. Be careful what you say about this.”
Janna nodded and her snowy hair kept its shape. She made no move to get up. “Yeah. The hell with Lucky, I’m going to finish my Big Mac after all.”
16
“Up! Up! Get Up!” Kyle Swanson had gone for a run to get some exercise, choked down a sandwich, and collapsed on a bunk in the special-ops dorm at midnight, a new day in Pakistan. He groaned now as some worthless SOB pounded on the plywood door. “What?” he called out angrily, and the voice answered, “Briefing room SAP.” Swanson looked at the blue numbers on a digital clock. Two-thirty in the morning. Not enough sleep. Not nearly enough. He heard the man pounding on Gibson’s adjacent door and shouting the same instruction, followed by the thump of something, probably a boot, hitting the door in response. Gibson was awake, too.
They met in the hallway, two bleary-eyed operators in wrinkled T-shirts and boxers and flip-flops. Gibson stretched and yawned, and reflex made Swanson to the same. They stumbled down the short hallway, out the door, across a patch of pavement, and into the command center, where young men and women in front of computer consoles and projected maps ignored them. Operators came and went through this room, and no one raised an eyebrow. A man with a shaved head waved them into a side room and they flopped into chairs.
“What?” Swanson asked, glancing at the three clocks mounted side by side on the walclass="underline" 0230 local time, which meant that the calendar had flipped from Tuesday to Wednesday. It was still Tuesday in England, where the Greenwich Mean Time — called Zulu by the military — was 2230. Washington lagged behind, at 1930 Tuesday, five-thirty in the afternoon, which meant that offices all across the capital were closing.
“Coffee,” Gibson said. “I demand coffee.” The man pointed to a sideboard where a squat Mr. Coffee pot was full. Gibson poured two cups and handed one to Swanson.
“Your target popped up again,” the CIA briefer said, lighting up a map. “Got into a shoot-out at a border crossing and killed two — one Paki and one Afghan — and wounded two more. Cameras caught it all, so the ID is positive. You want to watch it?”
“No need,” said Swanson. The coffee was hot and strong, but he still felt as wobbly as a duck. “Where did he trip up?”
The officer enlarged the map several times, then used a red laser pointer. “Right here. A lightly used road, way off the main highway. More of a village road than anything.”
“Why didn’t he just go around it?” Gibson asked.