Any Minute Now (17 page)

St. Vincent settled himself, arranging his tie as a peacock will show off its tail, and Hartwell knew he had made the right decision. Preach had taught him about decisions.
“These decisions,
” Preach had said, “
will lead us into a newer, better world
.”

“These men—these warriors we are creating—” St. Vincent said, “will stand by the Kurds to defend the oil fields in northern Iraq, which are in Kurdish territory. They will help the Kurds stand up to and repel the Shi'ites, and now the scourge of IS, who have already taken brave American lives.”

“Islamic State,” Hartwell said softly, as if prompting an ADHD student.

“IS, right. This terrorist group is an unacceptable disease that must, at all costs, be excised from the corpus of the world.” St. Vincent nodded. They were in his bailiwick now. No one within the Alchemists knew as much about IS as he did. “Seven years, that's how long Mobius has been in gestation. Our aim, as I said, was to take control of the oil fields in northern Iraq. To understand completely we must go back in time to before this country's invasion of Iraq. There
were
weapons of mass destruction inside Iraq—the reports were correct, but Saddam knew nothing about them. They were brought in by our people, controlled by our people masquerading as Saddam's elite forces for the benefit of reconnaissance drone flights. The moment Cheney, Wolfowitz, and our talking head neo-cons pushed Bush into believing he had no other choice but to invade Iraq, we spirited them out of the country.

“The result you know. Our people played on the arrogance of the high-level neo-cons so that they never gave a thought to what must actually happen in the aftermath. They assumed a nice tidy pro-Western government would be set up by the grateful populace, which Democratic elections would ensure. And the enormous cost of the war would be paid for by Iraqi oil. That was a pipe dream. None of it happened, as you all know. The chaos that resulted was just what we had envisioned, just what we wanted.”

St. Vincent paused to open a bottle of water and take several sips before continuing. “But, frankly, I had concerns that the chaos of tribal warfare would not reach the Kurds, would not threaten their territory. My fear was that they would not solicit our help.

“Then everything changed. My backdoor agreement with Universal Security Associates bore fruit. One of King Cutler's foreign assets told him about a newly forming group known as ISIS, Islamic State in Iraq and al-Sham, now simply known as Islamic State. This interested me greatly for two reasons: first, ISIS's stated aim was to absorb Iraq, Syria, Jordan, the Levant, Palestine, and Israel into a radical Islamic version of the ancient land known as al-Sham. Second, ISIS was too radical even for al-Qaeda. Even at that time, its leaders had distanced the organization from ISIS.” St. Vincent shook his head. “Still, I had no way of knowing the steps ISIS would take in order to achieve a goal that, frankly, appeared far beyond their grasp.

“Cutler's foreign asset had captured a member of ISIS. He was going to be executed, as an example to ISIS. Instead, I had Cutler fly him back here. I myself escorted him under heavy guard to the Well. But this man was entirely different from any other terrorist we had renditioned. The interrogator will usually appeal to the prisoner's rational side—the one invested in his self-interest. In other words, saving his life. This method is successful nine out of ten times—it's simply a matter of how long the prisoner can hold out. But this man had no rational side; he seemingly had no interest in staying alive. He was, to put a fine point on it, completely emotional.”

“And that's when you brought Whitman in.” No one used Whitman's Alchemist's name anymore.

“Whitman was our best interrogator at the Well, this much I'll admit,” St. Vincent said. “To make a long story short, he got what we needed out of this prisoner, though, at the end, the man was scarcely recognizable as a human being. We had to dump him down the
cenote
in pieces. How Whitman accomplished his task is a mystery even to me. The point is, with the intel he extracted we were able to intervene in the formation of ISIS. Through third and fourth parties, we were able to make contact with them—provide them with funding and tactical support; we were able to accelerate their timetable for becoming a force to be reckoned with in Iraq.”

Trey was smiling. “A new war, with an enemy that even our dovish president dare not ignore.”

“Neither can the Kurds,” St. Vincent said. “They're terrified, and rightly so. ISIS is ruthless, unyielding, impossible to negotiate with. And they are cruel beyond human understanding. You've all seen the most recent videos coming from Iraq and Syria. These people cannot even be classified as human beings.”

St. Vincent rubbed his hands together. “And so to the fruits of Mobius. The troops we are creating are afraid of nothing and no one; they cannot be intimidated. They will enable the Kurds to do what they have never been able to do before: carve out their own sovereign state within Iraq. In return, we send in our people to run the oil fields, and we reap the enormous windfall from those rich wells.”

“This is irrefutable,” Hartwell said. “Mobius was born to make money. Incalculable amounts. After all, the Alchemists are a profit center: we make money from war. And this fucking president has been making our lives miserable. No more. Our manufactured war in Iraq will have the added benefit of putting an end to his mealy-mouthed peacemaking. The profits from our holdings in military hardware, aerospace, metals mining, and high-tech industrials will balloon, and, God willing, keep on ballooning.”

Washington nodded. “Wisely spoken. However, it seems to me, though not expressed verbally, that Mobius's inevitable missteps would necessitate reopening the Well, as Mr. Madison has wisely suggested.”

Monroe, his expression neutral, his thin lips pressed tightly together, as usual, kept his own council. He was an enigmatic figure, to be sure: African American, charismatic, deeply conservative, and the only member to feel the use of the presidential pseudonyms at table to be childish and unnecessary. He was also possibly the smartest mind in the room, which was why he frightened Hartwell, a man not prone to fear on any level. Monroe, a behavioral scientist by training, a CEO of a large multinational company by trade, rejected all overtures at friendship. He seemed to be averse to any form of intimacy, no matter how small or sincerely offered. On the other hand, Hartwell mused, since the Well was his brainchild and since he had run it for the entire length of its first life, perhaps that was hardly surprising. Hartwell knew that Monroe harbored a resentment against the other members for shutting down his operation. He himself had stood with Monroe, but the two of them were outvoted. Hartwell kept a keen weather eye on him, wanting to see his reaction to its resurrection.

Van Buren, a raven-haired captain of the shipping industry with pale skin, nodded. “I, for one, wish to have nothing further to do with it.”

Adams, along with the others, looked to Madison. “Why in God's name should we reopen it now?”

“The human trials,” Washington said.

“Indeed.” With a congenial nod to him, Madison said, “Gentlemen, please open the file in front of you to the first page.”

The six men did, almost in unison, and almost in unison four of them gasped, for there staring up at them was a color photo of the chimpanzee who, under the influence of Mobius's implants, had torn off his own face. Neither Washington nor Monroe showed any reaction whatsoever.

“The failed test subjects must be disappeared without a trace.” Hartwell waited a moment or two to allow the shock to subside, then said, “All in favor of reopening the Well under the supervision of Mr. Monroe please indicate with an ‘Aye.'”

After the smallest hesitation, seven ayes were uttered. Hartwell saw the briefest flicker of a smile animate Monroe's face. Relief and fear struggled for supremacy inside him.

 

15

The morning sun cast long shadows across Djibouti. Deplaning with the Marine cadre, the Red Rover team crossed the tarmac and, without further ado, climbed aboard a twin-engine jet as sumptuous as the C-17 had been Spartan.

“One thing's for sure,” Flix said, checking it out. “Cutler didn't order this up for us.”

“Who did?” Charlie asked as they seated themselves in the wide, butter-soft leather seats.

“Friend of mine,” Whitman said.

“When can I meet this mystery man?” Charlie said.

Whitman gave her a look, and there the topic stopped dead in its tracks.

A uniform from immigration came on board just before they took off, but all he was interested in was baksheesh, which he came away with in spades. When they were airborne a flight attendant in a tight-fitting jacket and short skirt took their drinks order and told them breakfast would be served in thirty minutes.

Whitman turned to Orteño, “How you doing, m'man?”

“Tolerably well.” Flix looked at Charlie, then back to Whitman. “I'm a little put off by this sudden change in plan. Does Cutler know about this?”

“It was all planned,” Whitman lied.

“Then why wasn't I told about it?”

“Security. Cutler doesn't want a repeat and neither do I.”

Flix's eyes switched to Charlie again. “You know about this?”

Her gaze held his challenging one without even the hint of a flinch. “I found out the same time you did. I assume it was all between Whit and Cutler.”

“Whit, is it?” Flix picked at his nails. “Little soon for that, no,
chica
?”

“I'm your armorer,” Charlie said with more than a trace of steel. “I'm not even
chica
to my friends.”

“Wrong friends,” Flix muttered, but his eyes slid down to his nails.

Whitman rose, slid into the seat next to Orteño. “What's up with you,
compadre
?”

“Nothing.” Flix looked out the Perspex window.

“Doesn't sound like nothing to me,” Whitman said softly. “You've been kind of spooky ever since you reported for this brief.”

“Huh! Really.”

“Hey, man, how long we know each other? How many briefs have we been on? How many times have we saved each other's life? Something's wrong, I can feel it. I mean, are we friends or are we not friends?”

Flix said nothing. The flight attendant brought breakfast, which the three of them ate in silence. Not until they were finished and the trays had been taken away did Flix turn to Whitman.

“You're not gonna give up on this, are you?”

Whitman bared his teeth. “Nope.”

Flix heaved a deep sigh. “All right, fuck it.” He paused, appearing to be ordering his thoughts. “Okay, you remember me telling you about my niece Lucy? I showed you her picture?”

“Sure. The runaway.”

Flix nodded. “She's been found.”

“That's great news.”

“No, it's not, Whit. The cops have her on felony drug possession charges.”

“No problem. I'll get Cutler to—”

“She crossed state lines.”

“Ah. So the FBI is involved.”

Flix hung his head. “I went to see her. She hardly knew who I was. It was so bad, I haven't had the heart to tell Marilena. I mean, what's the point? She's already had her heart broken once.”

Whitman's heart went out to Flix, but at the same time something nagged at the back of his mind. Why during this whole story had Flix not looked at him? He was staring between his feet as if reading from a text written on the carpet. Whitman couldn't put his finger on just what, but something was wrong, something Flix didn't want to talk about.

“
Siento mucho, compadre
,” Whitman said with a pat on Flix's good shoulder. “Get some rest, okay?”

Flix nodded, but didn't lift his head.

When Whitman slipped into his seat beside Charlie, she whispered, “What's with your pal there?”

Whitman looked over to where Flix was holding his head in his hands. “Damned if I know.”

“Well, you'd best find out before we hit enemy territory,” she said. “A team member who doesn't have his eye on the ball is very likely to get us all killed.”

*   *   *

“Luther St. Vincent continues to be a problem,” Valerie said into her mobile, as she strolled through a park in Anacostia on her lunch break. She was far enough from Cutler's office to assure her of anonymity.

“Enlighten me,” Preach said.

That was a joke. It was Preach who had taught her enlightenment when she was just a little girl. She took a bite of her hot dog, bare as a man coming out of the shower. “Luther St. Vincent is like a maddened pitbull.”

Preach laughed. “Just so.”

The park was a grubby place, filled with sand and grit and the detritus of human beings who took no notice of their immediate environment. They strolled amid blighted trees, passing men and women of uncertain age slumped on benches, insensate to the outside world.

“I'm imagining me here,” Valerie said, “on one of these benches, sad and wasted.”

“What's the point?” Preach had instructed her to call him from this park; he knew the point, he just wanted her to say it.

“A lesson in humility,” Valerie said.

Preach grunted. “You should be more interested in the lesson Luther St. Vincent wants to teach you.”

“Like what? When it comes to NSA policy, Luther St. Vincent is it. As head of Directorate N, he's got the ear of not only the national security adviser but POTUS as well. The two of them dote on his words—they rely on him absolutely. What Luther St. Vincent says goes, no questions asked. His intervention in Mobius puts him in direct opposition to Hemingway. And we're caught in the middle.”

“Which is where we want to be,” Preach said. “It was important that I know when Luther decided to make his move.”