Quest for Honor (21 page)

Winkler was there, saw Mark and hustled over. “Good afternoon, Colonel.”

“What’ve we got here, Gerard?”

“Well, sir, I discussed the matter with Private Hong, and then with Specialist Rue over there. From what I was able to find out, he’s been the one giving Hong a hard time.”

“I heard that there were a few guys involved in it.”

“Rue would be the instigator, sir. He’s been on report once or twice.” Mark recalled the name now, seeing it on the weekly reports of disciplinary problems he received from his company commanders. Fortunately, those lists were usually quite short. “I’d thought Rue was coming around, but things started sliding again when Hong arrived a couple weeks ago.”

“Okay, now what?”

“Personal combat, sir. Both men agreed.”

Mark sighed. He didn’t like this sort of thing, had considered banning it, but it didn’t come around very often. As long as it was kept under control and both men shook hands at the end, he’d decided to tolerate it, although he emphasized to his lieutenants that this was not the preferred way to handle disputes among the men. Usually they resolved things themselves with a touch football game, one-on-one basketball, something a little less aggressive, but occasionally it came down to the ring.

“All right. What are the rules?”

“Martial arts sparring, sir, similar to Olympic taekwondo. Two rounds, two minutes each. A punch is worth one point, a kick gets two. Nothing below the belt. No grappling. Sergeant Callahan has some experience with this, so he’s the referee.”

“I didn’t know Rue was a martial arts guy.”

Winkler smiled. “He isn’t, sir. Says he did some tough-man smokers back home in Wyoming, and I’ve seen him working out here, sparring with some of the boys.”

“What about Hong?”

Winkler’s grin got a bit wider. “He wouldn’t say, sir, other than that he has some taekwondo background, but another fellow told me Hong’s a second-degree black belt.”

A bell rang, and a large black soldier in cammie pants and black tee got into the ring, summoned both fighters to the center and started going over the rules. Men had gathered around the ring, two ranks deep now. Mark and Winkler stood toward the back, maybe fifteen feet from the near side of the ring. Outside each corner stood a soldier holding a white cloth in one hand, a red one in the other.

Callahan moved the two fighters about six feet apart, then signaled to two men at ringside to his left. “Continuous fighting. One point for a punch, two for a kick. Judges, raise the hand with the appropriate color when you see a point. Wave the flag for two points. Scorekeeper, the point is scored when at least three judges concur. Private Hong is red. Timer ready? Scorekeeper ready?” Nods in return, and the sergeant looked quickly at each corner man. “Judges ready?” More nods. “Fighters ready?” Mark noticed both men had mouth guards. Rue had a cheering section, some of the beefier guys on the base, all white, while most of the crowd seemed to be outwardly backing the Korean. Evidently Rue hadn’t done a lot to make himself popular.

“
Si jak
!”

It was over in fifteen seconds. Rue stepped in with a right that would’ve taken Hong’s head off if it had been there, but the Korean ducked and weaved with a fluidity Mark had never seen, even in the movies. A leg flashed out and Rue grunted as he staggered backward from the blow to the gut. All four judges shot up the hand with the red flag. Another kick, this one from the other leg as Hong whipped his body around, caught Rue flush in the chest and slammed him back into the ropes. More red flags. Hong timed it perfectly as Rue came back off the ropes on legs that were turning to rubber, and the Korean screamed as one foot rocketed around and upward, catching Rue flush on the right side of his head. Rue’s mouthguard spurted out and into the crowd as the big redhead turned a slow, ungainly pirouette and slammed onto the mat.

Callahan rushed over as Hong danced away, perspiration sheening that marvelously cut upper body. The sergeant started counting in Korean as Hong went to the far side of the ring and knelt down, his back to the center. Rue groaned and rolled over as Callahan’s count reached five, but he didn’t get up. “
Rydel
!” Eight. Callahan waved his arms and a roar came from the crowd. Hong bounced up and walked calmly to the center, where Callahan raised his right arm, shouting “
Sung!
”

Winkler was cheering and applauding alongside Mark. “How about that, Colonel?”

“Pretty impressive,” Mark agreed, pleased to see Rue getting slowly to his feet. The beaten man shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then walked toward Hong, stopped, and bowed. Hong returned the bow as the men cheered, and the fighters embraced. Mark joined in the cheering this time.

He noticed Ruiz beside him. “Got here just in time for the bout,” the major said. “Colonel, remember that suggestion we got last week about having martial arts classes on the base? I think we might just have found our instructor.”

“All right, see if he’s interested.”

The fighters were leaving the ring now, both surrounded by fellow soldiers congratulating them. Hong looked calm but Mark could see his eyes shining. Rue was starting to come around. He’d have a helluva headache and probably a black eye in the morning, but hopefully this would be an attitude adjustment for him.

“Didn’t you tell me your brother does this type of thing?” Ruiz asked.

“Yes,” Mark said. “I’ve heard he’s pretty good.”

“Oh, and Colonel, I took a call from the General just before I came over here. He wants you to call him back at your earliest convenience.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Didn’t say so, sir. His aide said when you’ve got a moment.”

Back at the HQ building, Mark told the commo officer on duty to place the call to the General at ISAF in Kabul. “I’ll take it in my office.”

The phone rang sixty seconds after he took his seat behind his sparse desk. Through the clicks and pops and hisses that marked typical Afghan telephone service, backed up by NATO security features, Mark heard the familiar voice. “Hope I didn’t interrupt your Sunday, Mark.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good. This is a somewhat personal call, but it could develop into something requiring your direct participation.”

“All right.”

Five minutes later, Mark hung up the phone, still stunned. He sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly, replaying the conversation in his mind. He looked down at the notes he’d been scratching on the pad he always kept handy, then realized they’d have to be burned. Bits and pieces of the phone call kept bumping around. He felt another headache coming on.

His brother was in the middle of a CIA operation, flying to Somalia to meet with some terrorist leader, who had gone to college with Jim back in Wisconsin. Unbelievable as that sounded, the guy apparently wanted to defect, and only to Jim. The General expected actionable intel out of the op and it might involve Mark sending some of his people across the border into Pakistan, or a strike team might even be heading into Iran.

“This is close-hold, Mark. I’m letting you know now because of who’s involved.”

“The meeting will be in Somalia in a few days. I don’t have all the details yet, but DCI gave me a heads-up because if we get any actionable intel, I may have to send a strike team. If the NCA directs, it might be a cross-border operation.”

“DCI told me to get my best people ready. I’ll need someone I can trust to be on that team, Mark. That’s you. I’m getting two teams ready, one for in-country operations, the other will be for the cross-border strike if it comes to that. We have a special unit for that type of thing. You worked with a couple of them from the Legion. I’ll brief you in with them in Kabul if we get that far.”

“I know he’s your brother, Mark, but DCI assures me he’ll be in good hands. He’ll do all right.”

Mark rubbed his temples. What the hell had his big brother gotten himself into?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Wisconsin

I
t was the
phone call that worried him the most, and wasn’t that a laugh? He was packing a bag to go to Africa and maybe get killed, and he was worried about calling his boss and asking for emergency leave. There was a policy about getting that, but he couldn’t find his company handbook at the moment, so he would just have to wing it.

The phone was in his hand, but he hesitated, looking back at the CIA agent. Allenson was sitting patiently on his couch, while Spears, the G-man, was looking through Jim’s bookcase. “We have to leave tonight?” Jim asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Allenson said. “We have a plane waiting at O’Hare.” She looked at her watch. “We really need to be going pretty soon, Mr. Hayes.”

Jim sighed, then looked at his address book, punching in Lori’s home number. Maybe he’d get lucky, get her voice mail, just leave a message and be done with it. There would be hell to pay when he got back, but maybe these people could get him a letter from someone in the government, maybe a Cabinet secreta—

“Hello?”

“Uh, Lori, this is Jim Hayes, sorry to bother you at home.”

“That’s all right, Jim. What can I do for you?” She actually sounded chipper today. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Something has come up, a family emergency. I have to leave town for several days.” There was silence. “Are you there?”

“Yes, Jim, I am. You’ll be out of town, you said?”

“Yes, I have to catch a plane in a few hours.”

Another couple beats of nothing, then, “Might I ask, does this involve your daughter?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said, remembering that he had to make one more call tonight. That one would be a lot tougher. “It’s about my brother, actually.” That was a bit of a white lie, wasn’t it? “I really can’t say anything more, but I’ll be gone at least a week.”

There was silence on the other end, then, “I understand there can be emergencies, Jim, but this is a little irregular…”

“Look, if you’re concerned about the project, I’ve got an e-mail ready to send out to Vicki. She can coordinate my files and keep things going, and call Stacy if she needs help.” Vicki Johnson was a customer service rep at the co-op who had also worked with Jim on some marketing projects in the past. She hadn’t been in the loop on this job, but Jim had no doubt she could get up to speed quickly, and even though Stacy was home with her new baby, she could certainly give good advice by phone, maybe even come in to help out for a day or so. “I already have the draft done. Vicki won’t have a problem.”

“Not that I don’t sympathize with your problem, Jim, but this is a big project, and I just want to make sure it’s done right.”

“You have good people working for you, Lori,” Jim said. “Just let them do their jobs, okay?”

“Jim, there’s no call for—“

“Look, I’m under a lot of pressure here.” He took a deep breath. “Let me put it to you this way: if you can’t see fit to grant me this leave, then you’ll see my resignation waiting in your in-box when you log on Monday morning.” There, he’d done it, and his heart was racing a bit but damn, it felt good.

There was another pensive beat or two of silence, and then, “All right, Jim. I’ll see you when you get back. Please keep us informed.” The line went dead.

He had to breathe deeply to get his shaking hands under control. Not a good sign, he thought. He glanced back at the living room, but his visitors apparently hadn’t seen that. One call down, two to go. He’d have to log on to his home computer before he left and send that email to Vicki and Stacy. Fortunately, he’d just spent an hour last night paying his bills, so everything was up to date in that department. He’d have to check with Mrs. Leonard, the widow who lived next door, to have her come in and take care of Spike the cat every day, but it would give her something to do besides harass her grandchildren.

Two more calls to make. He found Gina’s number in his phone’s call log, called and got her voice mail. Probably in a meeting. He hated to tell her this way, but he left the message, promising to call her in the evening. That left the one to Michaela.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, honey. Working today?” Since graduating UWM in ’08, his daughter had been teaching high school history and civics at a private school in the northern Milwaukee suburb of Shorewood, plus assisting with the girls basketball team. Her summer job was at a Boys and Girls Club in Germantown.

“Nope. Day off. How about you?”

“Same here. Listen, something’s come up.”

The drive from Cedar Lake to O’Hare wound up taking about ninety minutes, just about as long as the flight to Washington. The second-guessing started when they were about a half-hour outside of Cedar Lake, about to cross the line into Illinois. More than once he had to fight off an urge to tell them he was backing out, turn the car around and take him home. Not that he doubted the agents and their credentials. Their story, fantastic as it seemed, sounded oddly plausible. Jim kept up on the news, especially with his brother frequently overseas, so it wasn’t hard to believe the CIA was closing in on a high-level al-Qaida operative. But Joe Shalita? Little Joe from Uganda, with his wire-rimmed glasses and pencil-thin mustache, his quiet demeanor and studious attitude?

They hadn’t told him everything, of course. For the CIA to play ball with Shalita, and Jim still couldn’t believe that was really him, he must have something important to say, and he had to be someplace they just couldn’t snatch him and sweat it out of him. That wasn’t especially comforting, because that’s where Jim would be headed. He’d never been to Africa, but he’d heard some stories about Somalia, had seen
Black Hawk Down.
Nasty place, full of warlords and terrorists and pirates.

Yet, surely, the people weren’t all like that. In the next town over from Cedar Lake was a turkey processing plant that employed a lot of Somali immigrants. Jim frequently saw them in the office, applying for service, and saw them around town, too. The men were tall and slender, usually bearded, the woman always in flowing robes, and there was some sort of scent about them, spicy, not unpleasant, but definitely different. They were always polite, and he’d heard the billing department people say they rarely had a problem with Somalis making late payments. He’d heard one of the Plant guys talking about an installation he’d done in one guy’s apartment, and all that Somali fellow had for furniture was a card table and a couple rickety chairs, an old black-and-white TV sitting on a box, a couple of rugs and a cot. That was it. But over here, making more money than he’d ever dreamed of, sleeping safe and sound every night on a full stomach, that guy probably figured he was living like a king. The Plant guy said it kind of changed your perspective on things. Jim would certainly have to agree about that. He had the feeling his own perspectives on a lot of things were about to change, and drastically. He just hoped he’d make it back to tell people about those changes

The jet droned eastward into the gathering night. Jim had never traveled on a plane this small. They’d told him this was a Gulfstream IV, pretty fast. Not a bad way to travel. Besides himself and Allenson there were four other passengers, none of whom had been introduced to him. The skeptical FBI agent had dropped them at the terminal, then drove away, no doubt thinking the next time he heard the name of Jim Hayes it would be on a TV news story about the latest American civilian captured and killed by terrorists.

Nice as the jet was, Jim wasn’t really enjoying the flight. The two books he’d tossed into his carry-on hadn’t been touched. In the overhead bin was the gray leather travel bag that he’d started packing earlier in the day for a one-night trip to Marshfield. Now it held some underwear and socks, a case for his toiletries, and some workout gear. Allenson had told him they’d provide him with all the other clothing he’d need. He had not been allowed to bring along his laptop computer or cell phone.

.

Allenson came down the aisle from the lavatory. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” She took one of the two seats facing him. “So what’s your story, Agent Allenson?”

She gave him a bit of a smile, and he could see fatigue rimming the eyes. Jim had heard government people in D.C. put in some long hours, and certainly CIA was no exception. Still, she was very attractive. It occurred to him that if this were a movie, there would probably be a romantic spark jumping between them about now. He was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen.

“Not much to tell,” she said.

“How long have you been with the Agency?”

“Just over fifteen years.”

“You must have started quite young.”

That brought a smile, and her eyes twinkled. “Right out of college,” she said.

That would put her in her late thirties. “Married? Kids?”

“No, and no. How about you?”

“If the president was looking over my file, you probably did, too, so you know.”

She looked away briefly. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m a little tired.”

“No problem.” There was silence for a few moments, then Jim said, “So, what happens when we get to Washington?”

“You’ll be taken to a safe house for the night, then to Langley tomorrow. You’ll be briefed in and then begin your orientation.”

“So you guys work on Sundays?”

“We work pretty much every day, Mr. Hayes.”

He smiled back at her. “If we’re going to be working together, how about we use first names? Call me Jim.”

“All right, Jim.” She smiled again, this one more genuine. “Tell me about your daughter.”

They chatted easily for several minutes. Jim found his anxiety starting to dissipate. She was easy to talk to, made him feel relaxed. If they’d been in a bar, he would’ve bought her a drink, and some inner part of his male brain would’ve started thinking ahead. But the first step he took down that path brought an image of Gina to mind. “I’m in a relationship, so please don’t take this the wrong way,” Jim said. “But, if we have some free time in the next few days, maybe you could show me the town. I’ve never been to Washington.”

Her eyes changed just a bit, and he couldn’t decide whether she was disappointed or upset. She glanced at him with a look that could’ve gone either way. “I have some things to take care of before we land, Jim. You might want to get some rest.” She unbuckled her seat belt and walked back down the aisle behind him.

Jim slumped back in his seat, shaking his head. “Way to go,” he mumbled, “you’re off to a good start in your career as a dashing international spy.” He rummaged in his carry-on for one of those books.