She is standing at the concourse window, watching the runway, when the flight to Los Angeles takes off.
She watches it climb into the air, recede into the hazy distance. Another plane barrels after it down the runway. She thinks, After this, I’m done.
She tells Ripley to put those words into a text and she sends them to Alex: After this, I’m done.
Then she calls up the tablet’s settings. Ruthlessly, she switches off phone and text functions, logs out of her ReqOps account, and sets her profile to anonymous to prevent any apps from reporting on her location, her availability, her activity. All automatic backups get switched off. She has a credit account in her own name that Alex won’t be able to access.
She can still get email.
She’s not looking forward to that.
I’m sorry for taking off like this, but you heard Lincoln. War is coming. And I need answers while it is still possible to get them. The best—the fastest—way to make that happen is to go on my own. That’s how I see it. I am sorry I didn’t say anything to you. The truth is, I didn’t know I was going to do it until I stood up and walked off that plane.
I’m going to be out of touch for a while. Not long. A few days maybe. When it’s done, I’ll call you. I hope you’ll be there. I hope you forgive me.
North Africa
Private military companies exist around the world. Some are small, some immense. Many provide only support and training services. Others include armed security. And some are mercenaries in the classic sense: soldiers for hire, willing to work in offensive military operations that might include frontline combat or the overthrow of vulnerable governments.
It’s a secretive world. Even the white-hat companies are publicity-shy and cautious of new contacts.
True has worked four years in the industry. She’s done a lot of networking, developed alliances, but only among white-hat companies that are signatories in good standing to the Military Company Code of Conduct. She is sure, though, that in the volatile regions of North Africa and the Middle East, even those local companies with sterling reputations will have connections reaching into the darker side of the industry. She needs to tap those connections. It’s the only way she’ll ever find Shaw Walker.
She targets a company she’s worked with before, one based in Rabat, Morocco, and run by a middle-aged Egyptian expatriate known as Dove Barhoum. She sets up a clean email account for the purpose.
She doesn’t want to mislead, so when she contacts Dove, she is careful to say that she is not representing Requisite Operations Inc. and that she is not seeking services. To her surprise, the approach piques his interest. Sixty minutes after clearing customs in Rabat, she is sitting across a desk from him, in a windowless room within a large training complex on the city’s edge.
He is a man of stern posture, with dark eyes, a neat beard, and a weathered, sun-blackened visage. His wavy hair is streaked with gray. “We have all heard of Requisite Operations’ recent job in the TEZ,” he says. “And of the troubles that followed—at Eden Transit, and at your company headquarters in America. There has been talk that a retaliatory strike is sure to follow. Yet you are here on your own?”
True’s response is blunt, and honest. “I’m here ahead of the war,” she says. “I can’t tell you what form it’s going to take or when it’s going to happen—because I don’t know. But I don’t deny it’s coming. Too many lines have been crossed. But I’m not here to reconnoiter, or to cultivate allies. Like I said in my email, I’m on personal business. All I’m looking for is an introduction.”
“You understand that my company abides by the code of conduct?”
“Yes, of course. I would not imply otherwise. But while you and I operate by that code, we can’t afford to ignore those who don’t. I don’t doubt that you sit at the nexus of an intelligence operation that is aware of every other PMC in this region, legitimate or not. How could you successfully serve your clients otherwise? I am not asking to access that operation. All I’m looking for is an introduction, or a referral. Someone able and willing to get a message to Jon Helm.”
“Jon Helm,” Dove repeats, slow and thoughtful.
“Do you know him?” True asks.
Dove shrugs. He tugs at his beard. He asks, “You are not seeking a negotiated peace?”
True’s thoughts go to Renata. “It’s gone too far for that.”
“So you wish to speak with this Jon Helm.”
“Yes. About something that happened a long time ago. He’ll know what I mean.”
He reverses her earlier question. “Do you know him?” he asks, doubt in his voice.
“Yes, Dove, I do. At least, I knew him—in another life. He’ll know me.”
This brings a scowl to Dove’s weathered face. His mouth knots as if with a sudden, bad taste. “I prefer dealing with the young,” he finally says. “Their lives are simple and their secrets are trivial.”
“Can you help me?” she presses.
“I cannot. Not directly. But I know someone. He is an agent who knows all kinds of people. I will share your contact card. How long will you be here?”
“No longer than necessary.”
She thinks of Lincoln, home by now and surely occupied in setting ReqOps’ house in order. Right or wrong, he blames Shaw for Renata’s death and eventually he will come. She needs to find Shaw before then. It’s that simple.
She gives Dove the number of a burner phone she purchased at the local airport. She knows that he will call Lincoln, mention her visit, in case it matters. There’s nothing she can do about that.
They both stand. “I appreciate this courtesy,” she tells Dove. “I will not forget it.”
Several seconds pass as he studies her. It’s easy to see he would like to ask more questions, but he does not. “Be cautious,” he advises as he walks her to the door.
He means well, but it’s not advice she can follow. To do this, she’ll have to do it on Shaw Walker’s terms, if he’s willing to offer terms at all. She’s gambling, no question. Risking her life on a promise implied by the tattoo Miles saw. The Last Good Man.
She’s convinced Shaw did his best for Diego; he would have died for Diego.
Take me instead.
It’s Diego’s memory that links them. She’s gambling that will be enough to keep her alive.
It’s late afternoon when True strolls into the hotel lobby, her gaze taking in the décor—sleek and modern—and the clientele, the same. It’s a hotel intended for business travelers, not tourists. She evaluates the layout, picking out places a beetle could be concealed. It’s just habit. She already left one perched on a tiny ledge in the façade outside, positioned so that it can collect images of everyone entering the hotel or passing by the front doors. Her inventory of surveillance devices is limited. She won’t risk a second beetle in the lobby—especially given a real possibility that hotel security runs regular checks for unauthorized electronics.