Raven Strike (17 page)

“So did we,” answered Nuri.

“I’m going, Colonel,” she said, turning back to him. “I’ll go if I have to walk.”

“Let’s talk about it in private,” said Danny.

T
he night suddenly seemed incredibly cold, and Melissa wished she’d taken a sweater. She and Danny walked away from the tent area, moving along the hardscrabble field. The remains of a stone foundation sat overgrown by weeds; with a little imagination, Melissa could picture a prosperous native farm.

“You can’t go back in there,” said Danny as they walked. “You’ll be a target.”

“No more than anyone else.”

“I can’t let you. It doesn’t serve any purpose.”

“It does serve a purpose.” She felt she owed Bloom, who had helped her, and now would be a target. But at the same time, Melissa also thought that being there might allow her to get Li Han—he might come right to her. But she hesitated telling Danny all of this—her emotions and her sense of duty were all confused. “I can gather intelligence. I can find out what’s really going on.”

“We can drop bugs in there. There’s no need to risk your life.”

“Eavesdropping gear just tells you what people say. It can’t steer conversations. It can’t tease information out.”

“You want to go in to help these people,” said Danny.

“I’ll help them because it will help me. But that’s not why I’m going in. Li Han may come to them. I’ll be able to get him.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Danny.

“Whatever. I’m not going to argue. You may be in charge of Whiplash, but you’re not in charge of me.”

“You need sleep,” he told her, staring at her face. “You’re tired.”

He had strong eyes. He was a strong, powerfully built man. Yet there was care and concern in his voice. Softness.

“I want to get Bloom out,” she told him. “She helped me. She was an MI6 agent. Now she’ll be in danger.”

“She’s a spy?”

“No. She was. She got out and became a nurse. But she helped me find the house. With what’s going on, she’ll be targeted.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Honestly, Colonel, there is nothing you can do.”

Danny stared at her for a few moments more. Melissa suddenly felt weak—it must be fatigue, she thought, or perhaps hunger: it had been a while since she’d eaten.

Danny clamped his lips tight together.

“I can’t stop you,” he said finally.

“No, you can’t.”

“First sign of trouble, you get the hell out of there.”

“No shit,” she said.

Chapter 4

CIA Headquarters

J
onathon Reid stepped into the elevator in the lobby of the CIA headquarters building and pressed the button to go up to his office. He hadn’t had much sleep—after returning from the White House he’d lain in bed, eyes open, for hours.

A parade of past problems marched across the ceiling. Reid had participated in a number of operations and projects during his career that could be questioned on any number of grounds. He could think of two that were frankly illegal. In both cases he was operating under the explicit orders of the director of covert operations. And in both cases he felt that what he did was completely justified by the circumstances, that not only America but the world benefited by what he did.

But not everyone might agree. He imagined that if he were the case officer here, if he were on the ground in Africa, or even further up in the chain of command, he would feel completely justified by the goal. Li Han was a clear danger to America. He was not a “mere” sociopath or killer. He possessed technical skills difficult for terrorists to obtain, and he was willing to share that skill with them for what in real terms was a ridiculously cheap price. He was, in a military sense, a force multiplier, someone who could influence the outcome of a battle and even a war.

The U.S. and the world were in a war, a seemingly endless conflict against evil. Li Han clearly deserved to die.

Given that, was the process leading to that end result important?

Under most circumstances he would have answered no. As far as he was concerned, dotting a few legal i’s and crossing the bureaucratic t’s was just bs, busy work for lawyers and administrators who justified their federal sinecures by pontificating and procrastinating while the real work and risks were going on thousands of miles away.

But Raven required a more nuanced view. Li Han deserved to die, but should the Agency be the one making that judgment?

And should they alone decide what to risk in carrying out that judgment?

Raven wasn’t a simple weapon, like a new sniper rifle or even a spy plane. It was more along the lines of the atomic bomb: once perfected, it was a game changer with implications far, far beyond its use to take down a single target.

It was Lee Harvey Oswald all over again.

Of course, he was assuming the President didn’t know. Perhaps she
did
know. Perhaps she had played him for a fool.

Or simply felt that he didn’t need to know.

Maybe his problem was simply jealousy. Maybe the real story was this: Jonathon Reid couldn’t stand being out of the loop. Even now, far removed from his days as a cowboy field officer, he went off half cocked and red-assed, laying waste to all before him.

He knew it wasn’t true. And yet some might see it that way.

Inside his office, Reid sat down and looked at Danny Freah’s most recent updates on the Whiplash operation. The involvement of the Russian agent alarmed him. He quickly brought himself up to date on the Russians and their various operations in Africa. It wasn’t clear whether they were trying to make a new push onto the continent, perhaps to be part of future mineral extraction operations, or were simply on the lookout for new clients for their weapons. Either theory made sense, and in any event neither changed the situation.

It was inconceivable that they had caught wind of Raven and knew it would be tested there.

Or was it?

Even though it appeared that Whiplash had things under control at the moment, Edmund had to be informed about the Russian. Reid took a quick run through the overnight briefing, making sure there wasn’t anything major he had to be aware of, then called up to the director’s office.

“Mr. Reid, the director is out of communication at the moment,” said his secretary. “I’ll put you through to Mr. Conklin.”

Out of communication? That was a new one on Reid.

Conklin came on the line. He was Edmund’s chief of staff, an assistant. Reid rarely if ever dealt with him.

So it begins, he thought.

“Jonathon, what can we do for you?” asked Conklin.

“I need to speak to Herman.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult to arrange for a while.”

“This is critical.”

“I’m sure. But—”

“Why would it be difficult to arrange? Is Herman all right?”

“The director is fine.”

“It has to do with Raven,” said Reid, unsure whether Conklin would even know what that was.

Apparently he did. “You should talk to Reg on that.”

Reginald Harker: Special Deputy for Covert Operations, head of the Raven project, probably the idiot behind the whole screwed-up situation in the first place.

Not the person Reid wanted to speak to.

“This is really a matter for Herman,” he said. “It’s critically important.”

“Reg is the person to speak to,” said Conklin.

“I’ll do that. But inform Herman as well.”

“I will pass a note to Mr. Edmund at my earliest opportunity.”

Reid hung up. He started to dial Edmund’s private phone, then stopped.

How paranoid should he be? The system would record the fact that he had made the call; the internal lines could also be monitored.

Should he worry about that?

What if it wasn’t a coincidence that the Russians were there? What if someone inside had tipped them off?

But who?

Reid debated with himself, but in the end decided that paranoia had its uses. He left his office, left the campus, and drove to a mall a few miles away. After making sure he wasn’t being followed, he took a lap through the building, found a drugstore and bought a prepaid phone. Then he walked through a large sporting goods store to the far entrance to a parking lot. He went outside and after once again making sure he wasn’t being followed, used the phone to call Edmund’s private phone.

He went straight to voice mail.

“We need to talk ASAP,” he said.

Reid hung up, then made a call with his encrypted satellite phone. When he got voice mail again, he hung up. After sending a text through the secure system—it took forever to hunt and peck the letters—he set the ringers on both his phone and the cell to maximum and went back inside. He pretended to be interested in the treadmills and T-shirts before leaving.

On the way back to the campus, he called Breanna, this time with an encrypted phone. She answered on the second ring.

“Have you seen the overnight update?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“We can’t let the Russians get ahold of this. If a handoff is made to the Russian, they must take him out,” said Reid. “There should be no question.”

“All right. We’ll need a finding.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Reid.

“Did you speak to the President?” Breanna asked.

“We had a brief session,” he said.

“Anything I should know?”

Reid spent a long moment thinking of what to say before answering.

“There’s nothing that came out that affects us directly,” he said finally.

“Jonathon—is there anything else I can do? Should I come back to D.C.?”

“No, I think I have it under control,” he said finally. “Stay in touch. Keep your phone handy.”

“You sound tired,” she added just before he was about to hang up.

“Well, I guess I am,” he told her before ending the call.

“Y
ou’re trying to trump this up into something,” charged Harker when Reid met him in his office. He picked up the coffee cup on his desk, brought it about halfway to his mouth, then in a sudden fit of anger smacked it onto the desktop, splattering some of the liquid. “You want to create a scandal. There’s nothing here, Reid. Nothing.”

“I’m not creating a scandal,” replied Reid. “I’m simply doing my job.”

“Which is what?”

“Getting Raven back. Keeping it from our enemies.”

“I know you’re angling for the DIA slot,” said Harker. “It’s not going to work. Everybody can see through the games you’re playing.”

Reid said nothing. Denying interest in the job—which he had absolutely no intention of taking—would only be interpreted as a lie. In fact, everything he said would be interpreted through Harker’s twisted lens. It was pointless to even talk.

“I only came to you because I’m having trouble speaking to Edmund.” Reid rose. “And I’m concerned about the Russians.”

“Herm doesn’t speak to traitors.”

Reid stared at Harker. The man’s face was beet red.

“This isn’t a question of loyalty to the Agency,” he said.

“Get out of my office,” said Harker.

“Gladly.”

Chapter 5

Duka

M
elissa watched Marie Bloom survey the reception room, her hands on her hips. The clinic director turned and looked at her with a worried expression.

“Ordinarily, this room would be full,” she said. “But maybe we should count our blessings.”

“Yes,” said Melissa softly.

They had seen only a small handful of patients since opening at dawn. Now it was past noon.

Bloom sat down on the couch that faced the door. Her face was drawn. “Did you bring these troubles?”

“No,” said Melissa.

“Did the man you’re hunting for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“One of the people from Sudan First fired on the leader of Meurtre Musique.”

“I know that. What’s
really
going on?”

“That’s all that I know.”

“The problem with you people . . .”

Bloom let her voice trail off, not bothering to finish the sentence.

“I’ll leave if you want,” said Melissa finally. “I’m only here to help. That’s the only reason.”

“How could I ever believe that?”

The door opened. Melissa felt her body jerking back, automatically preparing to be on the defensive.

A pregnant woman came into the room. In her arms she had a two-year-old boy. The child was listless, clearly sick.

Melissa looked over at Bloom. She had a shell-shocked expression.

“I’ll take this one,” said Melissa, going over to the woman.

She held out her arms. The mother glanced at Bloom, but gave the child over willingly. She said something in African, explaining what was wrong. Melissa could tell just by holding the baby that he had a fever.

“Come,” said Melissa in English. “Inside.”

The woman followed her into the far examining room.

It was an infection, some sort of virus or bacteria causing the fever. Beyond that it was impossible to diagnose, at least for her. The fever was 102.4; high, yet not so high that it would be alarming in a child. There were no rashes or other outward signs of the problem; no injuries, no insect bites. The child seemed to be breathing normally. Its pulse was a little slow, but even that was not particularly abnormal, especially given its overall listless state.

Melissa poured some bottled water on a cloth and rubbed the baby down.

“To cool him off a little,” she said, first in English, then in slower and less steady Arabic. She got a dropper and carefully measured out a dose of acetaminophen. Gesturing, she made the woman understand that she was to give it to the baby. The mother hesitated, then finally agreed.

As she handed over the medicine, Melissa realized that the woman was running a fever herself. She took her thermometer—an electronic one that got its readings from the inner ear—and held it in place while the woman struggled to get her baby to swallow the medicine.

Her fever was 102.8. More serious in an adult.

And what about her baby? The woman looked to be at least eight months pregnant, if not nine.

Melissa took the stethoscope.

“I need to hear your heart,” she said.

She gestured for the woman to take off her long, flowing top. Unsure whether she truly didn’t understand or just didn’t want to be examined, Melissa told her that she was concerned about the baby.

“You have a fever,” she said.

The woman said something and gestured toward the young child on the examining table, who was looking at them with big eyes.

Realizing she was getting nowhere, Melissa went out to the waiting area to get Bloom to help.

Bloom had nodded off. Melissa bent down to wake her. As she did, the pregnant woman came out from the back, carrying her child.

“Wait,” said Melissa, trying to stop her. “Wait!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Bloom, jumping up from the couch.

“She’s sick. Her baby may have a fever, too.”

Bloom spoke in rapid Arabic. The woman answered in her own tongue. Whatever it was she said, Bloom frowned. She answered, speaking less surely. The woman waved her hand and went to the door.

“You have to tell her,” said Melissa.

“I can’t stop her,” said Bloom as the woman left.

“We could at least give her acetaminophen, something for the fever.”

“She won’t take it,” said Bloom. “It’d be a waste.”

“But—”

“If we push too hard, they won’t come back. They have to deal with us at their own pace.”

“If she’s sick, the baby may die.”

“We can’t force her to get better.”

Melissa wanted to argue more—they could have at least made a better argument, at least explained what the dangers were. But her satellite phone rang.

“I—I have to take this,” she said, starting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Thinking it was Danny calling to tell her what was going on, she hit the Talk button as she went through the door.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Melissa, what’s the situation?” asked Reginald Harker.

“Hold on, Reg. Let me get somewhere I can talk.”

She walked outside, continuing a little way down the road. The harsh sun hurt her eyes. There was no one outside, and the nearby houses, which yesterday had been teeming with people, seemed deserted. Otherwise, the day seemed perfect, no sign of conflict anywhere.

“I’m here,” she told Harker.

“What’s going on with Mao Man?” he asked.

“We have him tracked to a house on the northeastern side of town.”

“What about the UAV?”

“We think it’s nearby.”

“Think?”

“We’re not entirely sure.” His abrupt tone pissed her off. Try doing this yourself, she thought.

“When will you be sure?”

“I don’t know. There’s a Russian who’s trying to buy it—”

“Do
not
let the Russian get it.”

“No shit.”

“Mao Man has to be terminated. Take down the Russian, too. Take down the whole damn village—what the hell are you waiting for?”

“Reg—”

“I’m serious, Melissa. Why do you think I sent you there? What the hell did we invest in your training for?”

“I have no idea,” she told him stonily.

“Don’t let these Whiplash people run the show. They have their own agenda. Tell them to stop pussyfooting around and get the damn thing done.”

“Fuck yourself,” she said. But he’d already hung up.

Melissa pushed the phone back into the pocket of her baggy pants. She was so angry she didn’t want to go back into the clinic; she needed to walk off some of her emotion. She clenched her hands into fists and began to walk.

She’d gone only fifty yards or so when she heard trucks in the distance. The sound was faint, the vehicles far off, but instinctively she knew it was trouble.