“I am the commander of Syria’s cyber warfare unit, but you should be asking ‘what do you want?’”
“What do you want?”
“I want what you want,” the stranger reasoned.
“I don’t understand.”
The stranger smiled. “I want to bring America to her knees. Maybe not for the same reasons, but we both want the same thing.”
Bo looked at him, puzzled. “Who are you?”
“I am the one who devours the souls of humans. The one who grows spiritually stronger with each bite. I am the one who will use the Switchblade Whisper to feast on America.” He stroked his satchel.
Bo didn’t know what was inside it, and not knowing made his gut queasy. “I know nothing about any Switchblade Whisper.” His statement was partly true. He knew what the drone was and that the Syrians had brought it down, but he didn’t know where or why.
The stranger smiled again. “One of my people betrayed me and sold information about my cyber-warfare unit to you. Of course, he is no longer with my unit, but you sent an encrypted message to your superiors.”
Bo pulled against his handcuffs, and they rubbed against his skin and bones, but he couldn’t free himself.
The man stepped closer to the bed. “We decoded your message. And you claimed you found a piece of the aircraft. I want to see the piece and know where you found it.”
“I lied,” Bo said. “I lied so I could get more money. And so China wouldn’t send me home. I didn’t find anything.”
“Is there anyone else looking for the Switchblade Whisper?” the stranger asked.
Bo swallowed. “Chi Lee. He is with the PLA Special Forces.”
“Is he working alone?”
His hands flapped in the cuffs. The more he tried to ease them, the more they tried to take flight. “I don’t know.”
The stranger stepped closer to the bed, his body pressing against it. “I believe that you have every reason to tell the truth. But I am not sure that you truly believe that.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Bo said.
The man stroked his hair like a new pet. “I believe you.”
Bo recoiled out of disgust and whimpered. “Please unlock my handcuffs.”
The stranger’s eyes were dark and void of emotion, like two black holes. “I have one more question: if Chi Lee does obtain the Switchblade Whisper, how does he plan to transport it to China?”
Mentally, his nerves mixed in a blender. “I’m telling the truth — I don’t know. Please let me go.”
“Okay, since you are not answering my last question, I will help you.” The man opened his satchel and pulled out a set of knives. “The small one is a paring knife, excellent for removing skin. Next, the long carving knife is used for slicing thin cuts of meat. Oh, maybe you will appreciate the irony of this next one.” He pointed to another blade. “A Chinese cleaver, used for chopping through bone. And the last is a boning knife, which does what its name implies.”
Bo’s mouth was dry, and his head felt like it was on fire. Screaming, he yanked on his handcuffs.
8
In the morning, Chris, Hannah, Victor, and Jim Bob took separate routes to make sure they weren’t under surveillance by any of the foreign spies that often targeted Langley. After shaking any tails and making sure they were “clean,” they would rendezvous at the Montreal-Trudeau Airport, where they’d assume their new identities.
Unlike traveling abroad, Chris was on his home turf and had the advantage of blending in more easily and noticing anyone who exhibited a marked appearance or behavior — such as a foreign operative whose dress was too casual or too formal in comparison to the other people in his environment, a commuting salary man without a bored look on his face, or anything else out of the norm. Also to his benefit, surveillance would probably only be solo or a small team rather than a large team, such as the KGB used in Russia during the Cold War to observe suspected CIA officers.
Chris took a taxi to a nearby hotel, briskly walked in the front door, and quickly walked out the back. If enemy agents were following him, they’d struggle to keep up. He didn’t want to be obvious and turn around to look for a tail, so he checked the window reflections. No one suspicious. So far, so good.
From the rear of the hotel, Chris hailed another taxi. As he sat down and told the driver where to take him, he observed the hotel door to see if anyone came out. When the taxi driver pulled away from the curb, the hotel door remained still.
No surveillance vehicles seemed to pursue, but Chris remained alert as his taxi dropped him off at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport — the busier the airport, the easier it was to disappear into an ocean of people. DC was also a hotbed for spies, so the farther from DC, the better. From there, he flew to New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. Inside JFK, Chris switched carriers and hopped on a plane to Montreal, Canada.
In a restroom stall of the Montreal-Trudeau Airport, he changed into a green polo shirt with Adventure Tours embroidered on the left breast. He proceeded to the security gate, where he showed his navy blue Canadian passport with his alias—Chris Grey—written inside. He placed his wallet on the counter between them. In it, he had a Montreal driver’s license, Visa card issued by Canadian Tire, a business card with working phone number and email address that the Agency manned daily, and a Tim Hortons card, the Dunkin’ Donuts of Canada. In his carry-on, there was a Canadian edition of the Bible and some business papers.
After passing through security, he found a seat in the Swiss International Airlines lobby near the gate for Zurich, the next stop on their circuitous journey to Latakia, Syria. Chris wore the face of any other tired traveler, but he maintained situational awareness, watching out for anything that didn’t belong.
Hannah arrived at the gate, wearing her green Adventure Tours shirt, carrying a drink, and strutting as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But Chris knew better — Hannah was switched on, too. She sat down next to him. Any moment, Victor and Jim Bob were due to arrive wearing their Adventure Tours shirts, too.
Hannah took a sip from her straw. “You ever know a shooting instructor named Ron Hickok?” she asked randomly.
Ron was the toughest SEAL instructor Chris had had at BUD/S. Later, he’d taken an honorable discharge from the Navy and opened a gun school called the Blaze Ranch for military and law enforcement personnel and US citizens. Teaching guns was his true destiny. Before he’d agreed to teach Chris beyond the advanced levels, he’d sworn Chris to secrecy. Chris hadn’t understood why, but he’d wanted to learn, so he’d agreed not to talk about his training. “Is there anyone in our business who doesn’t know Ron?”
“I’d heard of him; that’s why I signed up for one of his courses. When I first arrived at the school, someone must’ve said ‘hi’ to me, but I didn’t notice, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have known it was Hickok because I’d never met him before.”
“Why are you talking to me about Ron Hickok?”
“That asshole kicked me out before I even started training — just because I didn’t return his greeting. My boss tried to smooth things over on the phone, but Hickok refused to accept me.”
Chris gave her a patient smile. “I’m assuming there’s some point to this.”
She made a punching motion. “He’s lucky I didn’t give him optic surgery.”
“What he lacks in personality, he more than makes up for with firearms talent.”
“Guess so. Victor learned under him.”
Chris sat up in his chair. “So that’s the point. This is about Victor.”
She nodded.
“You ever hear of Flash-Kill?” he asked.