The Ares Decision (14 page)

B
RANDON GAZENGA PULLED INTO
his garage and closed the door, sealing out the cold wind that had descended on the Washington area. A poorly placed bag of garbage nearly trapped him in the car, and he had to push with his shoulder to open a gap large enough to slip out. Another month and he was going to have to start parking in the driveway.

He’d said it before, but now he really meant it: this weekend he was going to rent a truck and haul all this crap to the dump. And then he was going to hire one of those organization consultants—preferably a dour old British lady with a riding crop. The time had come to take back control of his life.

The house wasn’t in much better condition, but at least it was warm. He flicked on the lights and looked around before committing to the short trip to the kitchen. The Uganda operation had been burning a hole in his stomach for months, but now it was starting to kill him. Smith and his team had been arrested and the initial report that it was because of a fight by the hotel pool went out the window when he received confirmation that they’d been taken to a high-security military base.

And then there were the tentative reports that Mehrak Omidi was personally on the ground in northern Uganda. Finally, and perhaps worst of all, there was Randi Russell and the note he’d put in her pocket.

Had she found it yet? What would she think of an anonymous request for a meeting? Would she report it?

The truth was that there was absolutely no way for him to know. He was just an analyst with delusions of grandeur. Most of what he knew about clandestine meetings he’d learned from James Bond movies just like everyone else.

But this wasn’t a cheesy action flick and he wasn’t Sean Connery. Drake and Collen had put their careers—maybe even their lives—on the line for this operation, and they wouldn’t be happy to find out that some nobody from Langley’s basement was working behind their backs. Not happy at all.

He made his way to the refrigerator and pawed through a mishmash of aging takeout containers until he found something that looked like it was still edible.

He left the living room dark, falling into a leather chair and stabbing into the box of General Tso’s chicken with a dirty fork. The romantic fantasies he’d had about moving into operations were long gone now. There were no Panama hats and ceiling fans. No supermodels or fast cars. Just the constant nagging feeling that you’d made a fatal mistake somewhere and someone was slinking up behind you to make you pay for it.

Going back now, though, wasn’t an option. Randi Russell had his note, and if he didn’t show up to the rendezvous, it was unlikely she would just let it go. Her reputation for tenacity was one of the many reasons he’d picked her.

He crammed another forkful of chicken into his mouth, not hungry but also aware that if he lost any more weight he’d have to buy all new suits.

Things would be better soon. Russell was going to come through like she always did. She’d know what to do, who to talk to. But mostly, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

Gazenga put the empty food container on his cluttered coffee table and headed for the bedroom, locking the door behind him and positioning an empty beer bottle so it would tip if anyone tried to get in. He stripped to his boxers and crawled beneath a traditional African blanket his mother had given him. The lump in the pillow made by the Colt beneath it was even more comforting than it had been the day before, and he caressed the grip for a few moments before rolling onto his back and staring up at the dark ceiling.

Things were going to get better. Soon.

G
AZENGA AWOKE IN
a sweat, his stomach cramping and a numbness spreading through his chest. At first he thought it was just a dream and gave his head a weak shake to wake himself, but that just brought on a wave of nausea.

The clock glowed four a.m. as he pushed himself into a sitting position and struggled to get in a full breath. Because of his frequent travel in Africa, he’d had more than the normal complement of illnesses in his life, including bouts of malaria and river blindness. Enough to know when something was seriously wrong.

His cell phone was still in his pants and he was sliding awkwardly off the bed when he froze. The blackout shades he’d recently bought in an attempt to help him sleep were fully drawn but the light from the clock was enough to pick out an unfamiliar outline near the door. A chair? Had he put it there for extra security? No, he’d used a beer bottle. The chair should have been—

“How are you feeling, Brandon?”

A surge of adrenaline shot through him and he reached beneath his pillow. Nothing. The gun was gone.

“Sorry, I had to take that. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

The voice was familiar, but it still took him a few moments to identify it in the absence of its normal context.

“Dave? What are you doing here?” Gazenga said, his initial shock turning to a deep sense of dread. It was Russell. It had to be. They’d somehow found out. “Has…has something gone wrong in Uganda?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Gazenga reached for the light next to him, but his arm didn’t respond normally and he just ended up pawing weakly at the shade.

“You know why I’m here,” Collen said. “Tell me what you gave Randi Russell.”

“Russell?” Gazenga said, feigning surprise as he tried to calculate his options with a mind clouded by fear and lack of oxygen. “What are you talking about?”

He slid the rest of the way from the bed, discovering that his legs would no longer support him and collapsing to the dirty carpet.

“We have video of you sliding something into her pocket on the elevator, Brandon. You’re wasting time. And you don’t have much left.”

“What have you done to me?”

The shadow grew as Collen stood and took a step forward. “I poisoned you at our meeting this afternoon. That last cup of coffee, remember? It’s an interesting compound based on botulism that causes paralysis and respiratory distress. The official cause of death will be the half-rotted food in your refrigerator. That is, unless you tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gazenga said, struggling to focus. The past and present were becoming muddled as his brain was slowly starved.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Collen said, anger beginning to take shape in his voice.

“I’ve never even
met
Randi Russell. She’s stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq or something.”

Collen looked through the dim light at the prone figure of his colleague, examining the unnatural position of his mostly paralyzed limbs and the impenetrable shadow hiding his face. It was a frustrating and extremely unfortunate situation. The fact that the loss of Gazenga could put the operation in jeopardy was bad enough, but the lack of anything but the threat of death to extract information was potentially disastrous. There was no choice, though. Other techniques, while more reliable, were slow and left obvious marks—something that they couldn’t afford. The young man’s demise had to be above even the slightest suspicion.

“I have the antidote with me, Brandon. We’re not angry. You got scared and you made a mistake. It happens to everybody. Just tell me what I want to know and we can fix this.”

Gazenga gulped at the air like a dying fish, panic clearly starting to set in. “I didn’t tell her anything. Just a…just a time and a place to meet.”

Collen knelt and pulled a bottle containing two large pills from his pocket, shaking it so the young man could hear their seductive rattle. Of course, they were nothing but an over-the-counter pain reliever, but desperation had a way of making true believers out of even the most ardent skeptics.

“That’s good, Brandon. Very good. Now, just tell me where and when and we can put this behind us.”

T
HIS TIME THE CROWD
parted easily as their cab approached the elaborate archway. Of course, they still got a lot of stares, but by and large, weapons remained shouldered.

“Here is fine,” Peter Howell said, reaching over the seat and holding out the two hundred euros they’d negotiated. “We won’t need a ride back.”

The three of them piled out of the vehicle and dumped their packs on the dusty road before removing Sarie’s scientific equipment from the roof. A few of Janani’s men came out to help carry it inside, where their boss was sitting on a low stool drinking tea.

“Peter!” he said, rising and shaking the Brit’s hand. “You have once again returned safely to me.”

“Barely. Did you know that Sabastiaan was in town?”

“I heard rumors. But now it is my understanding that he is no longer alive. No great loss to the world, in my humble opinion.”

They followed Janani back to the outdoor range, where a table had been laid out with two custom handguns and two Belgian-made assault rifles that looked stock but probably weren’t.

Smith picked up the pistol with a tag bearing his name and sighted along it. The grip felt like it had been molded to his fingers and the balance was dead-on.

“Will it be adequate?” Janani said.

“It’s a work of art, my friend.”

The African smiled and turned to Sarie. “You think I forgot you, but like all beautiful women, you jump to conclusions.”

He put a hand on her back and escorted her to another table, where a scaled-down bolt-action rifle rested in an aluminum case. It was another beautiful specimen, with a Swarovski scope and gleaming black barrel. Those qualities, though, were overshadowed by a stock painted with colorful flowering vines. The artistry was undeniable, but a little out of place.

Janani offered the weapon to Sarie with both hands, frowning as he looked down at the pink and yellow blossoms. “I told my youngest wife about you, and she insisted that I allow her to do these decorations. She’s only sixteen, and I am embarrassed to say that I find it impossible to deny her anything. Of course, I can have one of my men replace the stock before you leave.”

Sarie accepted the gun, examining the lifelike images winding around the smooth wood. “Absolutely not. Tell her it’s beautiful.”

The African smiled broadly, obviously pleased that he wasn’t the only one who appreciated his wife’s work. “So everyone is happy, then? Our transaction is on the path to being a good one?”

“Didn’t we also talk about a vehicle?” Smith said.

“Of course! How could I forget?”

They followed him into a small warehouse, threading through an extensive inventory of steel and exotic hardwoods on their way to a Toyota Land Cruiser parked at the back. It was a deep maroon with oversized tires and a crowded light bar across the top.

Smith stopped a few feet away, appraising his reflection in the chrome bumper. “I don’t suppose you’d have anything that would blend in a bit better?”

“Blend in?” Janani said, sounding a little insulted. “If you want a twenty-five-year-old pickup that drags on the ground, go to a used-car dealer. I trade only in top-of-the line merchandise.”

Sarie dropped to her knees next to the vehicle and flipped onto her back, wriggling under it for a look. A moment later a low whistle escaped her. “The frame’s been reinforced, it’s got protective plating that looks like it would take a direct hit from an atomic bomb, aftermarket shocks, locking differential…”

She scooted out and reached through the open driver’s-side window to pop the hood, which she promptly disappeared beneath. Her legs left the ground for a few moments, dangling over the brush guard while she fished around in the engine bay. “Chevy small block with a snorkel: simple, classic, easy to repair and get parts for. Exactly what you want.”

Janani leaned in close to Smith. “What an extraordinarily useful woman. Would you consider parting with her?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was thinking that I could probably be persuaded to make an even trade. The car and the weapons for her.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course not. I apologize. I’ve insulted you. The car, the weapons, and fifty thousand euros.”

Smith grinned. “A generous offer, Janani. The problem is, she’s not mine.”

“Pity.”

Sarie jumped into the driver’s seat and started pressing buttons on the dash.

“So what do you think?” Smith called. “Should we take it?”

“Are you kidding? It’s got leather and a place to plug in your iPod!”

R
ANDI RUSSELL EMERGED FROM
the woods and stopped at the edge of a thirty-foot cliff. Below, the Susquehanna River ran black in the moonlight and patches of snow glowed on the abandoned railroad track running parallel.

There was no way down and she turned east, moving silently along the tree line. It had taken her two hours to get there, most of that time spent on the maze of rural roads that cut through Pennsylvania’s farm country. With the exception of three cars and an Amish horse and buggy, she’d seen no one. It was approaching eleven p.m., and this part of the world obviously still adhered to the adage “Early to bed, early to rise.”

She had studiously avoided the obvious entrance to the railroad cut, instead parking at the edge of a poorly defined dirt road and bushwhacking toward the river. Her preference was to have these types of rendezvous in crowded areas, and the whole midnight thing seemed a little melodramatic, but once her curiosity was piqued she had a hard time letting go.

A gulley appeared to her left and Randi appraised it, calculating the difficulty of the climb down and searching for icy spots. The satellite images had underplayed the steepness of the rock, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. The clock was ticking.

She dangled her legs over the edge, then flipped over and eased herself onto a narrow ledge below. Her hands were getting numb from the cold, and that, combined with the darkness, made the descent much more treacherous than it should have been. The smart thing would be to take it slow, but even with black pants and parka, she wasn’t comfortable being exposed against the cliff.

The rock became more featured as she continued down, providing better cover and allowing her to move more efficiently. She let go when she was still almost ten feet from the ground, dropping into the gravel and then going completely still for a few seconds to scan for movement.

Satisfied that no one was bearing down on her, she leapt over the old tracks, wincing at the unavoidable crunch of her footfalls. Once back in the trees, she stopped again to listen. Still nothing. The night was completely windless and the animals that normally prowled the area all had the good sense to dig in and get out of the cold.

She started east again, moving deliberately and occasionally looking to her iPhone for an update of her position. The note she’d found in her jacket had been brief—only a set of GPS coordinates, a date, a time, and a very intriguing name: Colonel Jon Smith.

Undoubtedly the man she was there to meet would be disappointed to know that he wasn’t as anonymous as he thought. A life spent in unstable countries full of petty criminals and pickpockets had given Randi an awareness of her surroundings that didn’t shut down just because she was in Langley. And while Brandon Gazenga’s technique wasn’t bad for an Ivy Leaguer, he was no Iraqi street urchin.

The question was, what was a young Africa-division analyst with an impressive, if unspectacular, record doing passing her notes in elevators? And even more interesting, why was the name of an army virus hunter scrawled across the bottom?

Her phone indicated that she was within twenty feet of the coordinates she’d been given and she slid a Glock from beneath her coat. The direction arrow pointed left to a spot that looked to be dead on top of the tracks.

She went right, finding a boulder large enough to protect her flank, and positioned so she could see anyone coming up the railroad cut.

Jon Smith.

There was nothing Gazenga could have put in his note that would grab her attention more. She’d spent a long time blaming Smith for her sister’s death. As unfair as it was, he had provided something she needed—a target for her anger, despair, and helplessness. Strange that she would end up as close to him as to anyone in the world.

Despite that relationship, though, there was a great deal she didn’t know about the man. He insisted that he was just a medical researcher, but then had a way of popping up in places that had nothing to do with his job at Fort Detrick.

The first time they’d run into each other in the field, she’d completely fallen for his beautifully delivered “simple country doctor” line. And she wasn’t
too
bothered by the second time their lives collided—coincidences happened. Occasionally.

After that, though, things just got stupid. He was clearly an operator and he wasn’t working for one of the normal acronyms.

Usually, this kind of thing would raise the hairs on the back of her neck, but with Jon it was different. As much as she hated to admit it, he was one of the few people in the world whose motivations and integrity she didn’t question. If the word didn’t always get stuck in her throat when she tried to utter it, she might even say she trusted him.

A quick glance at her phone suggested that her contact was late. Five minutes and counting.

The cold was starting to seep into her—something she had become sensitive to since an operation had gone badly wrong on an island near the Arctic Circle. An island that would now be home to her frozen body if it hadn’t been for Smith.

She stood, wrapping her arms around herself but remaining still enough to blend into the trees around her.

It was possible that Gazenga was playing the same waiting game, but there was no way she was going to go stand out in the open with nothing but a note from someone she’d never met. She’d collected far too many enemies over the years to offer up that easy a target.

R
ANDI RUSSELL SLIPPED
behind the wheel of her borrowed car, turning the heater on full blast and confirming the road was completely dark before pulling out.

Her thumb hovered over her phone’s number pad for a moment, and then she thought better of it and dug an untraceable satellite phone from the glove box. No point in taking chances.

She dialed and listened to it ring for a while, immediately hitting redial when it flipped to voice mail. The third time was a charm.

“Yeah?” a groggy voice said. “Hello?”

“Trip, it’s Randi.”

“Randi? What…Do you know what time it is in the States?”

She wasn’t in the habit of broadcasting her whereabouts and didn’t see any reason to correct her friend’s assumption. “Two p.m., right?”

“No, it’s two
a.m.
As in two in the
morning
.”

She’d known Jeff Tripper for more than five years—ever since they’d teamed up to track down an Afghan terrorist who’d managed to slip over the Mexican border. Since then, his career at the FBI had been in overdrive and he’d recently been made the head of the Baltimore field office.

“A.m.?” she said innocently. “Sorry, bud. It’s a subtle difference, you know?”

“Not from where I’m sitting,” he said, now awake enough to be suspicious. “Is it safe for me to assume this isn’t a social call?”

“I’m insulted.”

“And I’m tired.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it’s not
entirely
social. How are your contacts with the Virginia cops?”

“Good. Why?”

“I need you to have them send a black-and-white to a guy named Brandon Gazenga’s house.”

“Why?”

“I don’t care. Say a neighbor was complaining that he was playing his stereo too loud.”

“I mean, what are we after?”

“I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Do you need to know now or would nine o’clock work for you?”

“Are you going to make me remind you that you owe me?”

Tripper swore under his breath. “I’ll call you back.”

R
ANDI HAD JUST
crossed into Maryland when her sat phone began to ring. She put in an earpiece and picked up.

“What’s the word?”

“I’m not a happy man, Randi.”

“Have you considered meditation?”

“Brandon Gazenga’s body was found late this morning.”

Randi glanced reflexively in the rearview mirror, cataloging three sets of headlights behind her and estimating their distance. “How?”

“A coworker went to his house when he didn’t show up for work and found him on the floor of his bedroom. They’re thinking food poisoning.”

“Food poisoning? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding? According to the cops, it’s not as uncommon as you’d think.”

“Was there anything suspicious about the circumstances?”

“Beyond getting a call from a CIA operative at two in the morning, you mean?”

“But you never got a call from a CIA operative at two in the morning, right?”

“Right. Look, I talked to the investigating officer—who really appreciated being called in the middle of the night, by the way—and he said the guy’s house was a complete pigsty and his fridge was crammed with moldy takeout. He said it’s a miracle Gazenga survived as long as he did.”

A new set of headlights appeared behind her, and they were coming up fast. Randi waited until the last possible moment before swerving onto an off ramp. The car stayed on course, passing harmlessly by.

“Okay. Thanks, Trip.”

“Now hold on a minute. That cop also told me that Gazenga worked for a certain government agency you’d be familiar with. What are we talking about here?”

“We’re not talking at all, remember?”

“That’s fine and good, but consider the position you’ve put me in, Randi. I just made a very suspicious call about a CIA agent whose body isn’t quite cold yet.”

“I have complete confidence that you’ll figure out a way to explain that.”

There was silence over the phone for a few seconds. “Hey, Randi?”

“Yeah?”

“About that favor you did me. We’re even.”

The line went dead and she immediately began dialing a number from memory. There was no choice at this point.

It rang twice before transferring to voice mail.

“You’ve reached Jon Smith. I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hi, Jon, it’s Randi. You know, it’s getting close to Sophia’s birthday and I’m feeling a little blue. Just wanted to talk. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

She disconnected the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. No one hearing that message would think much of it. Even if they were thorough enough to check, they’d find that her dead sister’s birthday was indeed at the end of the week. But Jon would know better. She had never been one for melancholy reflection, and her call would set his alarm bells ringing.