A Knife Edge (33 page)

On the screen, Professor Boyle was frozen, staring down the lens of the camera. The photographer would have used a very long lens—no way would Boyle have known at the time he was going to be a poster boy for Uncle Sam's security machine—but the guy's stare right into the camera was unnerving…

And that's when it hit me. Oh, Jesus, the body in the makeshift morgue down at the Four Winds that was supposed to be the professor. I hadn't believed at the time that it really was Boyle, but I also hadn't had the nerve to carry that suspicion to its final terrible conclusion—that if Boyle's death had been faked, then someone, or some organization, had done the faking. So many people dead and injured… Pakistan had set up the explosions purely to cover Boyle's disappearing act. Whatever Boyle had, they must have been pretty damn desperate to get their hands on it.

The residual image of the dream I'd had at Clare Selwyn's place swam before my eyes, the one of Dr. Tanaka's outstretched hand spinning in an eddy as the shark dove beside him, Boyle's wallet clenched firmly in his white fingers. Jesus, the wallet! How did it get there? Who planted it on the body?

General Howerton's voice snapped me out of it. “Dr. Spears, if you wouldn't mind?”

Dr. Freddie Spears. I hadn't seen her in the gloom.

“Certainly,” Spears answered, standing. The doctor made her way around the table and an admiral held open the door for her. She flashed the general a smile as she left. I figured the briefing
was about to roll into operational issues that didn't concern her. By this time, my eyes had adjusted to the low light. I was sitting at a desk only a little smaller than the state of Rhode Island, populated by a full bench of heavy hitters, one of whom was, again, the SecDef. He said, “Do we have a military option yet, Henry?”

I was right about those operational issues.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Howerton. “Nigel? You wanna take over?”

I didn't know who Nigel was, and I wasn't given an introduction. He was British Army, though, and from the single crowns on his epaulettes and the sand-colored beret in front of him, an officer with the rank of major in their Special Air Service Regiment. “This is the facility itself,” the major said, pressing a button on a touch screen in front of him. The pictures up on the monitors changed. There were views of a large walled compound containing a number of buildings, followed by blueprints of one of those buildings. There was one road in. The major cleared his throat. “We, that is to say, a British construction company, built this facility for Pakistan in the mid-eighties. Because of that, we have available to us an intimate knowledge of it. This knowledge gives us a unique edge. As you may or may not be aware, we've had a number of men from the British Special Air Service Regiment Mountain Troop training in the States over the past three months, learning cooperative operational techniques with the U.S. Army and Air Force. For the past week, however, since Boyle's existence has been confirmed, this troop has been training for the specific intention of storming the Phunal facility—”

The door to the room opened. A soldier walked in and hopped to attention. This guy I did know. We'd met.

“Ah, Staff Sergeant Butler,” said Nigel. “Good of you to join us. You can stand easy.”

Chris Butler removed the poker from his butt.

“Have a seat, Staff.”

Butler took the one next to me. He avoided eye contact.

“Why don't you bring us up to speed, Staff? How are things progressing?”

Butler said, “Sir, the Air Force Special Ops squadron we've been training with is confident of being able to get us into the sky over the target covertly. And, thanks to the excellent intel provided, we're confident of being able to capture and remove the target from the facility. But there are a number of variables, weather being of concern. Winter is harsh in those hills, though that could also help shield our arrival and make pursuit, once we've secured the target, more difficult. The plan is to air-drop three Ski-Doos and two team members five clicks to the south in an area that's comparatively flat and unpopulous. The attack force will continue in the aircraft, which will climb. We will then HALO down to the ridge on the high ground above the facility …” Nigel handed Butler a small laser pointer, and a shaky red dot appeared on an area up behind the high wall that surrounded the facility. “We're going to need a diversion. We'll blow the propane gas tanks here. That should make a bit of noise. In the confusion, the power will be chopped at the main junction box here. We'll cut through the wire here before the auxiliary power can be fired up, and make our way to the accommodation block here in the darkness and confusion.” As Butler spoke, the small red dot flitted over the satellite photos of the research compound. “Sir, does intelligence still have the target quartered in the block?”

The question was addressed to Major Nigel Whoever, but the CIA boss chipped in instead. “Yes, but that's why we've had to move things forward,” said Willard F. “Assets on the ground have informed us there might be a pull out to another compound closer to Islamabad, or maybe south to Dalbandin, where the weather's a little more predictable. They've had a hell of a winter there this year.”

“The timing change shouldn't affect our schedule adversely, sir,” said Butler. “With the target secured, we'll rendezvous with the Ski-Doo team, and then drive for the Afghanistan border. It's not far from the facility. There we'll rendezvous with U.S. Special Forces. We'll be ready to go in a couple of days, once we've had time to work in with the arresting officer.”

“Excellent. How about your man, General? How's he coming along?” asked Nigel.

“I don't know,” said Howerton. “Let's ask him, shall we? So, Special Agent Cooper. How does it feel to be jumping into hot water again?”

S
omething had caught in my throat and it wasn't a chicken bone. It was the phrase,
“Are you fucking kidding?”
It eventually found its way out, modified a little to “I'm not sure, sir. I haven't seen the mission planning.”

“Well, keep your ears open, Cooper, because that's what we're here to discuss,” said the SecDef. He leaned forward and looked down the table. “So what's the legal position on all this? What does JAG say?”

The discussion moved on while I felt as if a hurricane had just passed overhead leaving me battered and bruised in its wake.
A mission with Butler to snatch Boyle from a military facility in Pakistan?
I dialed back into the meeting on the lawyer's summation. He was saying, “What you're suggesting here breaks U.S. law, international law, and a raft of agreements we had in place with the former government of Pakistan. This is kidnapping, and, if that's not bad enough, you're doing it on foreign soil. My advice would be to find another way.”

“OK, so we'll just cancel the mission,” said the SecDef. This comment removed sound from the room as effectively as a drain hole sucking water from a bath.

Silence.

Several sets of eyes shifted around the room, searching for more dissent. A few throats were cleared. No one for a moment
believed the SecDef meant it. I focused on the JAG lawyer. His face had more lines on it than a used bus ticket, and all of them were headed in the general direction of a scowl. He knew the SecDef didn't mean it, too. His hair was thick and polar-bear white, his skin newborn-baby pink. I figured he was around a year off settling into a condo, probably down in Florida, maybe Naples, someplace rich and effortless where the hired help manicured the grass with nail scissors and the mosquito population was held in check with regular aerial spraying. His recommendation to abort meant nothing that happened in this room would touch his retirement benefits if things went to shit. He'd done his job. I was having trouble concentrating. The situation seemed surreal. I thought about Boyle's wallet. I also wondered whether the JAG general personally knew the lawyer swapping body fluids with my girlfriend.

Objection. Former girlfriend.

Sustained.

OK,
former
girlfriend.

There were quite a few lawyers in the military these days—which said a lot about the military—so maybe not. I wondered whether the JAG general would appreciate my two-lawyers-in-the-bank joke. If not, I had others.

“Special Agent Cooper? Cooper?”

Howerton. He was talking, leaning across the table toward me. “Yes, sir,” I said. The hurricane had doubled back like they've been known to do on occasion. I was doing a lot of wondering. Now I was wondering what I'd missed. A couple of the officers were standing. Butler and Nigel were in a huddle, talking about something. The JOPES was concluded.

“Like I said, son, we don't have anyone in the OSI or the Army's Criminal Investigation Command with your particular skill set,” said Howerton. “With your time in the CCTs working with Special Forces from coalition countries, coupled with your experience working with the law… Well, you're uniquely qualified.”

After hearing the doubts expressed by the staff judge advocate,
maybe they needed someone who knew less about the law and more about how to take a fall. Nevertheless, I replied, “Yes, sir.”

He handed me another thick envelope. “What we're talking about here, Cooper, is a snatch op. Usually, with this kind of situation, we'd offer the country development grants and low-interest loans, which, of course, would subsequently be forgiven. They'd roll the guy over to us and that'd be the end of it. But that's not possible in this case. Pakistan reminds me of Iran in 1980 when Khomeini's revolutionary guards booted out the Shah and took over the country. And just like Iran, anti-U.S. sentiment is rife. CIA says the place is high on its own revolution. Your job is to get Boyle safely back to the U.S. embassy in Kabul. The FBI, armed with a warrant issued by a U.S. federal judge, will arrest him there. All nice and legal. In the packet are your orders to Kandahar. Three days is not a lot of time to get yourself prepared for this. Rely on Staff Sergeant Butler and his men. They come highly recommended.”

Yeah, Staff Sergeant Butler and his men. Here again was a twist of fate confirming my opinion that fate was one twisted son of a bitch. Why me? I didn't get it. In three days, fate was going to send me up in a plane and then he was going to make me jump out of it into the Pakistan night with the very same guy I was investigating for possible murder. Ruben Wright, his wrecked parachute harness, and his even more wrecked remains flashed through my head. Then I thought about Butler's smashed flashlight and broken ribs. Howerton had told me to trust Butler. But, with all the doubt still swimming around the Ruben Wright case, could I do that? Seriously?

*   *   *

The temperature dropped through the floor as I closed in on the exit. I had a few things on my mind jostling for attention with the impending mission: the hit on the Transamerica and Four Winds buildings; Al Cooke; Dr. Freddie Spears's resignation from Moreton Genetics and then her presence in heavyweight
Pentagon meetings; the charred corpse; Boyle's wallet… all of it swirled through my brain like snow flurries.

If I was right about the wallet, and I believed I was, that meant it had to have been planted, only the people who detonated the truck bomb and set the device in the basement of the Four Winds wouldn't have had the opportunity to do that. So who did?

Outside, the snow was still falling, playing havoc with the traffic. Vehicles were sliding around on the ice and slush. I made my way to the cab rank and joined the line. I looked down the length of it, trying to judge the wait, when I saw Doc Spears climb into a cab at the head. And suddenly I was running, weaving through the crowd of people coming and going. Spears's cab was pulling forward, sliding around. I jumped off the curb and half-stumbled as I landed in a ridge of knee-high brown-and-black icy crud pushed to the side of the road. Ahead, Spears's cab had stopped, waiting for a gap in the stream of slow-moving traffic. I got up and sprinted. I dived for the rear passenger door handle and pulled it open, just as the cab began to move. I hauled myself inside and the driver jammed on his brakes, shouting, “Hey!”

I pulled the door shut with a thud. “Jesus, it's cold out there,” I griped.

“Cooper!” exclaimed Spears.

“Everything all right, ma'am?” asked the driver, a skinny black guy in a leather hat with woolly flaps that covered his ears. From behind, he looked like a cocker spaniel.

“Er… y-yes,” she said, not a hundred percent certain about it.

He shrugged, muttered something, and turned back to get on with the driving.

“So,” I said, “what's it all about?”

“What's what all about?”

“I don't know. Start wherever you like. Tell me what you know about Tanaka and Boyle. Tell me what they were working
on. Tell me about the DVD you slid under my door. Tell me why you resigned from Moreton Genetics after I interviewed you. Tell me when you think the weather will clear up. Your call. Where are we going, by the way?”

“My hotel.”

“Which one?”

“The Sofitel.”

“That's on Lafayette Square, isn't it?”

She nodded.

“Nice.” Nice was an understatement. The Sofitel had a view across the square into the front sitting room of The White House. “You've lost weight, Doc.”

“I've been under a lot of stress.”

“I would, too, if I had to pay for a room at the Sofitel.”

She gave me the thinnest of smiles. The cold had burned red circles into her cheeks. “Care to unburden yourself?” I asked.

“I can't,” she said.

“OK, well, I'll go first. Let me tell you how your friend died.”

“That's not necessary,” she said.

I ignored her. “The weather was calm and it was a moonless night. It was peaceful out on the
Natusima's
deck. There was a party going on below deck, celebrating the end of a successful expedition. Nearly everyone was there. Your friend Hideo had drunk too much. You can thank the guy who kept filling his glass for that—Professor Boyle. Feeling queasy, Hideo went out on deck to get some air. Big mistake.”

Doc Spears wasn't looking at me, but I knew she was listening. The cab pulled onto the 359, heading toward D.C. over the 14th Street Bridge. Our speed went down to a crawl as the weather worsened.