“The Saudis say they’re pumping at full capacity,” the president said. “That’s significantly beyond their official capacity. The recession cooled the demand for oil, so there’s no reason for the current prices. The Republicans are hammering my administration on that.”
“Sir, with respect, it’s bigger than politics. It’s economic warfare.”
The president blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it in those terms.”
“They’re draining the economy, sir. The loss of treasure is just as significant as if we were at war.”
The president drummed his fingers on the table. “Holzinger. Was he behind it?”
“Honestly? We have no idea. His secretary wanted to speak to our agents, but she never showed.”
“Never showed?”
“She was murdered, sir. Our agents found her body and tried to work with Swiss intelligence, but the Swiss… well, they were only accommodating up to a point.”
“Yes,” the president muttered. “They’ve harangued the Secretary of State.” He frowned. “They’ve made it quite clear they expect us to change our views of their financial policy.”
“Sir, they’ve been moving money for terrorists for generations. We’ve only looked the other way because they worked with us when we really needed them.”
“We should expose them to the world,” the president said. “Shine a light on just how much money they’ve laundered for terrorists.”
“I agree with you, Mr. President. Any right-thinking person would.”
The president fixed weary eyes on Eric. “But we’re going to let it slide, aren’t we?”
“The OTM isn’t the only necessary evil. If things were different, we could do as you say. But that’s not the world we live in. We live in this world.”
“What really happened to Holzinger?”
“Blown up,” Eric said. “Probably the same actor that killed his secretary. It…”
“What?”
“There’s a chance that the bad actor was trying to expose us.”
The president blinked. “Nobody knows you exist.”
“Someone might have figured it out.”
“Smith assured me that no one would ever know.”
“It’s unlikely that they know much,” Eric said. “Right now? They have nothing.”
“The public saw that video,” the president countered. “That’s something.”
“We’ll handle it, sir.”
“How?”
“Disinformation. We’re going to spread stories that the footage was doctored. We’ll claim it was a terrorist attack.”
“But—”
“The world is awash in information,” Eric said, waving his hand around. “The news no longer sticks to facts. There are arguments, claims, and counterpoints. Even those who believe the man jumping from the window was a US agent will quickly question their own beliefs. In a few weeks, it will be as forgotten as the reports of a stealth aircraft flying through downtown Manhattan.”
The president glared at him. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Trust me.”
“Was that him?” the president asked. “Was that… Frist?”
Eric nodded. “Yes, it was.”
“God help us,” the president said. “I still can’t believe it.”
“If there’s nothing else, Mr. President, I need to be on my way.”
The president held up his hand. “What about the hackers?”
“The hackers?”
“The ones who released that video.”
Eric smiled. “They’re activists. They want to know they’re doing something important.”
“It seems to me they almost accomplished it. Don’t underestimate the youth. They’re stubborn.”
“I’ve got people on it,” Eric said. “The DFA won’t be causing any more problems.” He stood, offered the president his hand, then headed back to his armored Lincoln under the Eisenhower Building.
Chapter Eight
Taylor Martin watched Bill “Redman” Burton stuff another wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. “I don’t know how you stand that shit.”
The squat Georgian spat a stream of juice into a paper cup, careful to not get any in his shaggy beard. “Tammy keeps you on a short leash.”
Taylor shifted the van into a different lane outside Mildenhall. It was a several-hour drive to Biggin Hill to meet the Gulfstream, and Taylor looked forward to the drive. He would never admit it, but he actually enjoyed Burton’s company. “She wasn’t the reason. You talked me into trying it once. That was enough.”
“Yeah,” Burton said, “but you gave up cigars. Tell me that wasn’t her.”
“I will admit she wasn’t fond of the cigars,” Taylor conceded, “if you admit that you don’t like the chew nearly as much as you pretend to.”
Burton grunted. “We all got to die sometime. It ain’t gonna be the chaw that kills me.”
They drove in silence for a dozen kilometers. “Have you talked to him?” Taylor finally asked.
Burton was staring at the English countryside. “Mark? A week ago.”
“He’s not… Mark.”
Burton spat another wad of tobacco juice into his paper cup. “What do you mean?”
“Ever since”—Taylor paused—“since Nashville. He’s just not been the same.”
“Of course not,” Burton said so quietly that Taylor could barely hear him over the road noise. “He’s a paraplegic. Not much worse for men like us. Might be better off dead.”
Taylor took his eyes off the road and gave Burton an uneasy glance. “I don’t mind dying. That comes with the job. But paralyzed?”
They drove in silence until Burton finally said, “I been thinking a lot about Flipper.”
“Yeah?”
“It was dumb luck that got him killed.”
Taylor shrugged. “I think about Roger, too.”
“I worked with Johnson,” Burton said. “Back in 2003.”
“He mentioned it. Said you were the craziest son of a bitch he’d ever met.”
“Hah,” Burton smirked. “That ain’t me. That’s Steeljaw.”
“Is it true what they say? About him eating with that warlord and then shooting him?”
“Yep,” Burton said. “I was there. Me, Steeljaw and Ironman.”
“That was before I knew him,” Taylor said. “I asked him once, but he wouldn’t talk about it.”
“He’s a hard man to read,” Burton said. “We went in. Intel said the warlord was working with AQ. We had orders to engage them, but the warlord offered us a meal. Wise held us back. Said it was polite to eat. Manners mattered to those people.”
“You ate with them?” Taylor asked.
“Food tasted like shit, but they had these dried dates that were pretty good. The whole meal, we were talking all polite, like we weren’t there to kill him, and like he wasn’t leading the attacks on our FOB.”
“Then what happened?”
“The meal was done,” Burton said, his voice growing deeper and more gravelly. “Wise stood, pulled his Colt, and shot the man right between the eyes. The other locals, they got upset, but Wise gave them that stare of his, told them that he took their measure during the meal. They were only following their elder.”
“No shit.”
“They just froze. I ain’t never seen nothing like it, TM. Wise picked that fella’s body up, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him down the dirt road they called a street. All the men followed, and brother, they never said a word.”
“You’re joking.”
Burton shook his head. “Wise asked for a shovel, and a young kid, the fella’s grandson, fetched one. Nobody spoke. They just watched as Steeljaw dug a hole in their cemetery. It musta been an hour he dug.”