The Protectors (14 page)

CHAPTER 22

W
e exchanged our bullet-riddled car with a pleasant Scottish couple three miles before the interchange. One of the perks of having Lyla around. I have to knock people out, which, as several MI5 personnel will attest, makes auto and health insurers cranky. When Aphrodite needs to swap vehicles? A wave, a roadside stop, a dose of the hypno-eyes, and everyone comes away unharmed with smiles all around. Hell, she even let me drive.

I thought I’d need the entire three hours to Edinburgh to convince her that Tucker’s mission was our only chance of getting a fresh start—although just how fresh was up for debate in light of the grenade corsage he’d tried to pin on my chest. Turns out all Lyla needed was one word. As soon as I said “Iran,” she couldn’t pop open the case fast enough. But as Lyla read through the documents, sighs and grunts revealed the dampening of her initial enthusiasm.

“They want us to sabotage the Iranian nuclear program,” she said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Any steps to weaken the regime are welcome, but this . . . this is not enough!”

She punched the glove box, and the car swerved as I jumped in surprise—not only at the sound but the violence of it. She flexed her miniature fist of fury a couple of times before propping an elbow on the doorsill.

“Half measures,” she said under her breath. The road ahead drew Lyla’s empty stare for a moment and she feathered her ponytail between
sore fingers. When she spoke again, it was louder, more forceful. “No different than before. Sneak me into Algeria to broker a cease-fire, when I could just as easily end the war altogether. But nooooo . . . that would be against policy. Order Diego to destabilize Pakistan’s electrical grid to send a ‘message.’ A mysterious avalanche blocks North Korean troop movements and Carsten giggles because it is fun. We were pathetic then, and this is pathetic now. I can do so much
more
!”

I sucked in a deep breath to begin the long monologue—you know, the one where I pick apart her argument, assure her that Tucker’s plan is our ticket to safety, tell her she needs to relax—all the sanctimonious crap that all people—scratch that—all
men
think is the perfect strategy to calm someone down. But before I could utter any of my gold-plated advice, a last-second burst of common sense intervened and reminded me how things work. Not in my overrational, A+B=C imagination but in the
real
world of relationships, where A+B often equals “fuck you.”

Experience taught me that the only message I’d actually manage to get across is: your feelings don’t matter and I’m smarter than you. I won’t go down in history as a rocket scientist, but let it never be said Scott McAlister doesn’t learn from his mistakes.

Eventually.

“You’re right.”

Lyla twisted toward me. “What?”

“You
can
do more. We can. One day, we might. But right now, we need to focus on
making
it to ‘one day.’ And that path goes through Iran.”

She grunted and slumped down, clamping her arms across her chest. After a long look at the passing countryside, she issued a tired “All right.”

Her tone reminded me how heavy my hands felt on the wheel; the adrenaline high from the meeting and the chase was fading into exhaustion. If I was feeling it, Lyla had to be as well, but she didn’t have the ability to nod off whenever she liked. Maybe I’m biased, but there are few things in life as calming as a well-timed nap.

“Would you like to sleep? Some rest before Edinburgh?” I offered.

“Please.”

“Lean the seat back, let Knockout do his thing.” Within seconds, she was out.

Much better than a monologue.

—

I cursed myself a couple of times for offering up peaceful slumber so quickly; if anything, Lyla’s condition made her the perfect designated driver. Me, on the other hand? I fought an annoying three-hour battle against fatigue the whole way to Edinburgh; one of those slap-yourself/play-mental-games/listen-to-loud-music marathons. At one point I plucked part of the file out of Lyla’s lap and stole a few glances in between curves of the A82 through Trossachs National Park. I hadn’t peppered Lyla with questions about the mission before, mostly because I assumed it was a straightforward “find a couple of guys, do mind-control mojo, get outta Dodge” kind of thing. The Agency has a way of taking those three simple steps and turning them into an encyclopedia-thick dossier, though. Dry, boring stuff. There comes a point after your fourth fatigue-induced panicked mini-swerve, however, when you will give even the most boring file a look-see.

Turned out the objective was more than a couple of guys: seven, to be precise. The seven scientists who formed Iran’s atomic brain trust. They’d all played major parts in design, construction, and implementation of twin reactor facilities. Now the scientists were mission-critical pieces in the two big-boy steps of nuclear club membership: creating weapons-grade plutonium and fashioning it into a bomb. The ultimate piece of the nightmarish puzzle was an intercontinental ballistic missile capable of delivering the device anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, but according to the file, Iran was a decade away from launching anything so powerful. Still, even without an ICBM, building a crude atomic bomb was a line Washington wasn’t willing to let Tehran cross. You didn’t need a billion-dollar rocket to kill millions; a guy with a twenty-dollar-a-day rental van and a low-yield nuke could ruin Manhattan’s day just fine.

And the Iranians weren’t stupid. If seven people hold the key to your country’s nuclear future, you don’t let them eat lunch together in an
open-air market. Each man worked in a different location, each had his own security detail, and they collaborated via Internet to get their work done. The whole setup was designed to prevent what Lyla and I were assigned to do: get to all of them.

But with our combined abilities, the tough part wasn’t getting to these guys, but how long it would take. Provided the intel in the rest of the thick dossier was solid, we’d be in and out in two weeks, tops. If the information was out-of-date, inaccurate, or simply a bunch of bullshit thrown together by a clueless junior analyst, three weeks was more like it. Bottom line: when you have an asset who can speak the language, blend in seamlessly, and wear a head-covering hijab to hide her identity in broad daylight, the mind-control stuff is almost icing on the cake. Having me along for the ride was overkill, unless . . .

Unless the whole operation was an elaborate trap.

Set us up on foreign soil with no backup and a huge file of false intel to walk into an ambush. If I was setting
me
up, that’s probably how I’d do it. If Tucker went rogue and continued his streak of ratting us out to the local authorities, the mission’s success wasn’t guaranteed, nor was our ability to, well, stay alive. It was really the only thing to give me pause.

The longer I stewed about it on the drive to Edinburgh, though, the harder a betrayal was to believe. Basic strategy stacked the deck too high in our favor:

The Iranians had spent years hardening their nuclear infrastructure.

The program and facilities were buried in bunkers with heavy defenses.

The United States had vacated Iraq and most of Afghanistan, so they had no forward bases in the region.

Iran had a real army, which would fight back.

These facts meant ending the Iranian nuclear threat militarily would take an operation bigger than the Iraq War and the Afghani occupation combined—which would run up a tab somewhere in $800 billion territory. Not to mention how bad it would piss off Iran’s two biggest allies, Russia and China, who weren’t exactly wearing matching friendship bracelets with the USA to begin with. Last but not least,
an invasion would generate fun-filled stats, like somewhere in the neighborhood of forty thousand dead American soldiers.

Or the CIA could spend three grand on two coach tickets to Tehran and roll the dice.

When you got right down to it, we were too damn cost-effective to kill.

CHAPTER 23

U
ncle Sam (Uncle Tucker?) was nice enough to put an Agency credit card in our mission packet, so once we got to Edinburgh and dumped the car, I let Lyla indulge some of her shopping desires. Nothing too elaborate, but we both needed a few changes of clothing, as well as specialized garb for her. The traditional Islamic stuff took a while. Trust me, shopping for a niqab and hijab in Scotland is like a Boston fan trying to find a Red Sox jersey outside Yankee Stadium. Thankfully, a helpful cabdriver from Oman pointed us in the right direction.

There were other gifts buried in the briefcase, too. A small contact lens case with Lyla’s “celebrity contacts” was a handy addition. She used to wear them along with a blond wig as part of her street disguise when she wanted a quiet night out. The contacts changed her eye color to an unremarkable brown. The change didn’t detract from her loveliness one bit, but since her eyes were such a well-known part of her image, the lens dissuaded most potential gawkers in mid–“Hey, isn’t that . . . ?”

The big prize of the briefcase came at the bottom, wrapped in plastic and wedged between foam inserts. When I saw the glint of silvery metal, I became a ten-year-old at Christmas again. The one thing I missed from the old days: a tactical gauntlet. Back then, each of us had one, and they were mostly for show, but it was a helluva show. The gauntlet was a combination smartphone, secure video-comm link, and mobile computer, engineered into a ceramic/titanium cuff that slid over the wearer’s forearm. On the back of the device was a layer of pressurized gel; once you put the gauntlet on, a button below the small
video display inflated the gel and fitted the cuff snugly to the contours of your forearm. It felt like a part of you—a Wi-Fi, satellite-enabled, all-the-information-you-ever-wanted,
kick-ass
part of you.

So I like gadgets. Sue me.

Problem was—only one device in the case. When I looked at Lyla, she must have noticed the drool.

“I’m not wearing that silly thing. Consider it yours.”

When I felt the gel squeeze my forearm, I’ll admit: pure tech-boy bliss. Damn, the gauntlet was so freaking sweet. Only downside was my sleeve was loose enough to slide over and cover the device completely. No one would even know I was the coolest man alive. Lyla laughed when she saw me preening with my newest toy.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Says the woman who looked like she was gonna cry when I made her leave her machine gun in our stolen car.”

“Touché.”

By 4 p.m. we were back at the Lairg to throw our new acquisitions into travel backpacks and change clothes. I had a pang of longing when I stuffed my torn, scraped duster into a pack, but it needed to be put away. From now on, low profile was more important than badass.

After we packed it was time to leave Scotland, but not in the usual way. The airport was definitely off-limits. As soon as MI5 got wind of us in Inverness, there was no question every airport and train station in Scotland would be crawling with undercover personnel. Not to mention red flags installed in every computer, every passport ID file, and every security system in transit stations all over the northern United Kingdom. All conventional methods of travel out of Scotland would be monitored.

Except one.

We took a taxi down to the waterfront and got dropped off near the largest pleasure boat harbor the cabbie knew. The weather had cleared and row upon row of private boats now swayed before us, bathed in late-afternoon sun. Several were magnificent sailboats with masts stretching high above, but we were much more interested in the motor yachts toward the end of the pier. The big ones, with five-hundred-plus-
mile range. Didn’t take long to find one with an owner on board: the
Aileana,
a gorgeous sixty-footer. She was owned by a jovial Scot named McTavish, who was only too happy to talk to a pretty lady. He didn’t seem nearly as enthused with her skittish companion, who was starting to imagine assault teams moving in the shadows of the pier. I couldn’t relax when we were so damn close to getting beyond MI5’s grasp. Still, Lyla was our ticket to ride, and when McTavish revealed that the
Aileana
was fully fueled, she turned on powers beyond charm.

An hour later, we cleared the cape at North Berwick and headed into the North Sea. McTavish brought the helm around south and belted out a hearty “Well? Where do ye want to go?”

I said, “Is Amsterdam too far?”

“Not a problem, lad. Only a wee four hundred miles from here . . . can have ye there by mornin’ so long as yuir willing ta take a shift at the wheel tonight.”

Done and done. The risk of anyone looking for us on the Continent was low to begin with, but if you had to pick a country to enter illegally, might as well be the Netherlands. I’d never been, but you gotta figure port security isn’t quite so tough in a country where it’s legal to buy marijuana brownies at Starbucks.

In the end, we didn’t have to worry about security, port or otherwise. Rather than go the long way east around the peninsula and down into the Amsterdam harbor, McTavish suggested a shorter route. He cruised directly to the nearest shoreline under cover of darkness and dropped anchor a hundred yards off the coast. We were near an empty part of the wide peninsula that protected Amsterdam from the open sea. A large national park occupied this section, which meant lots of trees, no lights, and even better, no people. McTavish took us to a secluded beach on the rocky shore in his landing craft, a ten-foot dinghy with an outboard motor. I slipped him a chunk of our casino cash in return for his help. From the beach, the gauntlet’s GPS got us to the main road running through the park. By sunrise, we were nothing more than two hikers with backpacks, happy to accept a ride from friendly strangers who were (after a brief talk with Lyla) also on their way to Schiphol Airport, west of Amsterdam.

CHAPTER 24

O
nce in the car, my stress level practically evaporated. Airports, however, have a funny way of concentrating that vapor and raining it back down on you in buckets. Especially airports where you don’t speak the languages you hear coming from all directions. While a part of me always liked the thrill of new places, a much bigger part focused on the current reality: unfamiliar meant unsafe. Ask a blind guy. Running is dangerous when you don’t know what’s around the corner. We bought our tickets with the fake documents provided in the CIA goody bag, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to fully relax until we were on that plane.

I muttered my disbelief out loud. “The only place I’ll feel safe is on a one-way flight to
Iran.
”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to see how crazy it sounded out loud.”

“And?”

“Yep. Pretty crazy.”

“Welcome to my world,” Lyla said.

She stood in front of me in the security line, examining her fingernails and rolling her head to stretch her neck. It was hard not to marvel. I was coming up on six straight days of constant pursuit, and it wore on me like heavy chain mail. She’d been at this for how long? A month? Two? She looked like she was getting on a plane to go to Euro Disney. Granted, a good night’s sleep had something to do with it, but I couldn’t take all the credit. Lyla was simply better at this stuff than I was . . . dealing with stress, remaining calm. It’d be a long time before
I forgot her grabbing those rifles and taking out the chopper:
Oh, here we are . . . problem solved. Nice gun. I’m hungry, let’s eat.

“What?” She’d noticed my stare.

“Uh, nothing. Just thinking.”

“Well, gawk less when you think. It’s embarrassing.”

“You suck.”

“You wish. Don’t worry about the security scan, I’ll take care of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gauntlet. Keep it on—walk through the scanner.”

I’d forgotten about the gauntlet completely. “It’s gonna set off the detectors.”

Lyla brushed my complaint away. “I said I’ll take care of it.”

Sure enough, the metal detector buzzed the moment I walked through the empty doorway. Security made me walk through again, with the same result. When the guy pulled me aside for a wand check, Lyla went, too.

The guard protested in accented English, “Please, miss, return to the line.” A man accustomed to wielding power over annoying travelers, the guard stiffened and put his arm up to block her. Lyla looked like a harmless wife, clinging to her husband. Once she drew close, she was anything but.

“I do not need to return to the line.” I could hear the vibrato of her voice. Even with her hypno-vision neutralized by the contacts, she had more than enough power to go around. The guard’s eyes didn’t glaze over; they melted. His body and stance, though, remained just as before. The change was unnoticeable unless you were staring directly at him.

“You don’t need to return to the line,” he said. Stone-faced.

“There is no problem here. Wave your wand over his body without pressing the button,” she whispered. The guard did as she commanded. “Now tell him he is fine and to have a nice flight.”

He nodded. “You’re fine, sir. Have a nice flight,” he said, then waved us through.

The five seconds it took to get outside earshot of security was one of the longest waits of my life. I could barely contain my enthusiasm.
In the past, the power of her voice alone wasn’t nearly so effective. The guard’s embrace had been instantaneous, but even better, it didn’t overwhelm the poor guy. I knocked shoulders with her as we walked toward the gate.

“Tell me you just Jedi-mind-tricked security.”

“You are a child,” she said, but she was grinning.

“
Tell
me you just Jedi-mind-tricked security!” I repeated it three more times before she bumped my shoulder in return.

“I Jedi-mind-tricked security.” The smile spread over her features and she laughed.

Men throughout the terminal did double takes as we walked down the concourse. Judging from the fiery glances of their significant others, there’d be some chilly evenings in store for the onlookers. Without reading their minds I knew what every one of the gawkers thought:

Daaaamn.

As I stopped by a water fountain, one guy came up to Lyla and started spewing a stream of “beautiful”-this and “bella”-that, only to finally scamper off as I returned and put my arm around her. He had no idea he’d dodged an entire clip of bullets. Lord knew what kind of humiliation Lyla had in store for him if he’d carried on.

I wasn’t with Lyla like he thought, not anymore . . . but, God, I was beginning to notice how easily the old feelings overwhelmed the memory of despair and the ever-present doubt. I felt like I did seven years ago—the very beginning—when I walked into a meeting room and realized I was in serious, serious trouble.

—

“They’re an unusual bunch,” the general says with his hand curled around the doorknob. “But I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He’s trying to be reassuring, but he sucks at it. My hunch is he’
d say the same thing before ordering a charge into No-Man’s-Land. I’ve been a CIA Special Operations field agent for approximately fifteen minutes, and I’m about to meet the team he says I’m supposed to lead.

“Ravzi arrived yesterday, finished her physical and paperwork this morning. She’s got a ten-minute head start on meeting the others.”

“Ravzi, the mind-control chick.” I repeat her name because I
’m trying to remember it; didn’t know she existed until fourteen minutes ago. The others were all over the Internet and TV, worldwide celebrities, but Ravzi’s a mystery.

The general’s hand falls away from the knob. “If I were you, that’d be the last time I call her a ‘chick.’ ”

I nod,
but it’s too enthusiastic.

“Couple of things to remember: Ravzi doesn’t like to be touched. Keep your distance and let her approach you.”

“Got it.” I’m staring at the door, eyes open so wide they hurt.

“And whatever you do . . .”
The general grabs the knob again but doesn’t finish the sentence until I turn to look at him. “Don’t hit on her.”

“What?”

“No flirting. Don’t compliment her. If she doesn’t know you, it pisses her off.”

He opens the door. The space is big, filled with rows of long rectangular metal tables and folding chairs, like a high school cafeteria. The screech of bending metal yanks my head to the left and the general growls a tired “What the fuck?” I get the feeling he says it a lot.

The largest man I’ve seen in my life is sitting on the ground twenty feet away. He’s wearing a T-shirt and overalls big enough to fit a silverback gorilla. His back is turned so I can’t see his face, but it’s easy to see what he’s doing. He’s methodically pulverizing one of the tables
—wrenching the legs under the flat surface, then folding the surface in half, then half again—until he has a jagged, deformed cube of metal between his huge hands. Three other table-cubes are stacked by his side.

The general shouts, “Walker!”

The giant’s head turns. I expect to see an ogre’s face, contorted in rage, but I don’t. His features are young, clean-cut. A mop of unruly brown hair sits atop his gigantic head. When he sees us, he lights up like a golden retriever. The giant bounces to his feet and rushes over, but his walk is strange; an exaggerated bowlegged gait and he keeps reaching back and pulling at the crack of his overalls as he comes. When the hulk stops in front of us, the general notices the sharp odor.

“Walker, what the hell is going on? What’s that smell?”

A goofy smile curls on the giant’s face. He declares with pride, “I made boom-boom!” Then he turns to me and says, “Hi! My name’s Carsten, you wanna play blocks with me?” He motions to his collection of crushed tables. I’
m using every single molecule of willpower trying not to laugh. I look at the general.

“Uh, is he always like this?”

The military man is not amused. “Goddammit, no. He must have—”

The loud snaps coming from our right cut him off. In the corner stands a thin man dressed completely in black. Boots, jeans, and a button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is almost as dark as his clothing, and it’s long—Harlequin Romance book-cover long—and it droops over his face. I should say “what
’s left of his hair” is long because he’s losing it fast. He grips thick hunks, pulls them taut with one fist, then uses a finger from his opposite hand to fire miniature bolts of electricity to sever the locks from his scalp. Each time he releases a tiny bolt I hear a pop like a loud finger snap. The smell of burning hair is pleasant compared to whatever atrocity oozes in the giant’s underwear.

“Mendoza!” the general shouts. “What in the fuck are you doing?”

Fabio is muttering something in between giggles, but I can’t hear him. When I walk closer, I detect an almost incomprehensible stream of words.

“Shelikesshorthairhavelonghairneedshorthairneeditbad . . .”

All the while, he’s vaporizing chunks of his mane and cackling in joy at the progress. I look at the general and my expression speaks louder than the pops.

What the hell is wrong with these guys?

The general issues a grunt of tired frustration. “Goddammit. They hit on her.”

I finally notice the small woman sitting on a table farther back in the room. She’
s parked on the edge, hands curled around the lip of the table, and her legs kick back and forth in slow rhythm. She’s still wearing the light blue surgical scrubs from her physical and her hair is perched in a high ponytail. She has the chiseled cheekbones and pointed chin of a model; reminds me of the women you see on magazine covers, but in real life, no Photoshop. Some of her dark hair has escaped the ponytail and the fugitive tendrils wind down to rest in the tan hollows of her neck. I’ve never wanted
anything in my life as much as I want to be closer to this woman, but it’s not desire driving me.

It’s awe.

Without knowing, I take slow steps forward until the multicolored eyes stop me. They might be astonishing, but even in my state of slack-jawed admiration, I can tell they aren’t happy.

“I’m Lyla,” she says in a delicious British accent.

A full five-count passes before I blurt out, “Nice to meet you.”

A tiger shark’s smile lurks below swirling eyes.

“Go ahead,” she says.
“Tell me I’m beautiful.”

—

“It does not bother me as much as it used to,” Lyla told me in the boarding line.

“Only woman I know who hates being told she’s beautiful.”

“Being told never angered me. It was always about the person doing the telling.”

“Would it bother you if I said it?”

She cocked her head and pursed her lips, as if considering the question. The decision was either loaded with complexity or Lyla just wanted to screw with me; I gave both options fifty-fifty odds. Finally she walked another step forward in line saying, “It would not.”

“Good. Because I think you’re a solid six out of ten. Six and a half with your hair down.”

She turned halfway and winked.

“You’re not so bad yourself, McAlister.”