“Funny, you haven’t even mentioned your agency or what it does. Plus, I’m still pissed about being blacklisted.”
Smith regarded him with pale blue eyes. “I don’t believe you are. Now that you know you are highly valued and there is something that requires your skillset, you want back in the game. Besides, once I offered the job there was no going back.”
“You’re right,” Eric sighed. It burned him to admit it, but Smith had him. “I want back in.”
Smith smiled. “Of course you do.” He thumbed the briefcase open and withdrew a stack of folders. “I work for the Office of Threat Management.”
Eric pondered the preprogrammed cell phone. He was stunned. If half of what Smith said was true, the Office of Threat Management had been responsible for shaping much of the past fifty years and Smith had been right there, leading it.
He glanced at the pictures on the fireplace mantle, pictures of him as a child, some with his parents and some of him alone. Never pictures of him with friends. The pictures moved from left to right, him as an infant, him in grade school, pictures of him and his dad at the target range, pictures of him with his mom after graduation on the day he enlisted.
There were no pictures after that.
He sipped his beer but it had gone flat. He sat the can next to the Colt and picked up the gun. His father was dead now, and his grandfather, too. He wished he had asked them more about their time in the service.
On the day he enlisted, he begged his mother to drive him to the recruiting station. His father was waiting when he got home that afternoon. His father never spoke a word, just shook his hand, then went to putter around the garage. His grandfather stopped by later, hugged him, then stood at attention, his back ramrod straight, and snapped off a salute. It was the last time he saw his grandfather alive.
Physically his mother was now in Central West Community, a nursing home for Alzheimer patients, but mentally? She called him William at the funeral.
His father’s name.
Then she quit speaking, just staring when he tried to engage her in conversation. He picked up the phone to dial her number, then paused. What would he say? What would she understand?
He placed the phone on the table and walked through the empty house. Over the years his parents had moved his childhood possessions from room to closet, to garage, to the corner trash. Only his bed remained, just big enough for a child but much too small for an adult. His growth spurt in high school made sleeping on it sheer torture, but he found himself on it once again, even though his feet dangled over the end.
The offer from Smith gnawed at him. His retirement barely covered the bills and his meager savings account afforded him no luxuries. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. He barely left the house and his love-life was a distant memory. He hadn’t had a date in two years, the last serious relationship five before that.
In the end, the choice was easy. He sat on his childhood bed, the musty yellowed sheets folded tight and crisp, and dialed the number. “I’m done here.”
“I’m not surprised,” Smith answered.
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Abdullah walade Muhammad Younis, but the loyal Mujahideen in Afghanistan called him Abdullah the Bomber. He was one of the chosen few recruited during the eighties by the Maktab al-Khidamat, funneled from Saudi Arabia through Pakistan to the mountains of Afghanistan to fight the Soviets.
He stared at the base through the binoculars, shimmering in the heat from the bare desert floor. Kandahar was dozens of miles away, and the base was the only thing breaking the monotony of the dusty valley.
A line of ancient pickup trucks and wooden carts entered through the south side entrance. He could not blame the locals for cleaning the American’s dishes and picking up their trash. They were poor. Centuries of fighting had ravaged the country, and even after they had worn down the Soviets they were still surprised when the Americans attacked. The people of Afghanistan had seen so much of war; their children barely knew peace. The boys and girls rarely had the luxury of time to read and study the Quran.
His current student, Naseer, believed that women should not be taught to read, let alone read the Quran. He disagreed. It was every person’s duty to read the Quran, including women. Not while they were menstruating, of course, even a fool knew that, but nonetheless a sacred duty.
He also disagreed with Naseer’s idea of using children to bomb the American base. Children should be protected from the cruelties of war. He would not sacrifice one American child in Jihad, let alone Afghani children.
Children were off limits. But soldiers? Soldiers were a legitimate target. The only way to fight the Americans, the most powerful army on earth, was a shadow war of bombs versus bullets. Naseer had found a local man named Fahad who worked in the American base, cleaning and doing menial labor, and Fahad had agreed to drive the truck full of explosives.
The dusty brown rocks poked him uncomfortably in the stomach but he dismissed the discomfort. It was a small price to pay to deliver the justice that Allah demanded, a small price for what the Americans had done.
He watched as soldiers committed a perfunctory inspection of the vehicles before waving them through. Yes, it was possible. The explosives would have to be powerful, hidden so they would pass the checkpoint.
He prayed silently to Allah for help in his quest.
Eric took a cab to the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport. Terminal One was shut down for construction, but he followed his instructions and a bored security guard took one look at his ID, nodded, and directed him toward a hallway. A windowless room and a pretty blonde were waiting at the end.
She looked up with cool blue eyes and nodded lazily. “I’m Nancy.”
Eric smiled. Smith said he would have a liaison. “What time does the flight leave?” he asked.
“Now,” she said as she stood. “I’ve been waiting for you. Follow me.”
They walked through a set of doors, down a flight of stairs, and onto the hot tarmac. A Gulfstream G550 waited for them. He had flown in an older Gulfstream before, as part of joint CIA/Delta operation, but not the newer G550.
He stepped into the plane and was shocked again to find only a handful of chairs along a small table, and a large video screen against the facing bulkhead. A stack of folders sat neatly arranged on the table. “I’d start reading if I were you,” Nancy said. “You should at least glance them over before we arrive in Gitmo.”
“Guantanamo? Why?”
Nancy snorted. “That’s what the files are for.”
“Fair enough. What’s with the layout?” he asked, pointing to the table and chairs.
“Cuts down on weight, gives us better range and more speed,” Nancy said. “This is your personal plane now, no need for a lot of extras.”
His own personal plane? A Gulfstream G550 started somewhere around 40 million.
How big is the OTM’s budget?
“I’ll get started,” he said.
“You do that. I have to get this bird in the air.” She headed for the cockpit.
“You’re not sitting back here?”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Hard to sit back there and fly the plane.”