Apocalypse Crucible (20 page)

Goose stepped into the service area and took a left. He passed by the arched doorway to the huge hotel lobby.

Trimmed in classic art deco, the hotel lobby stood out immediately as a fantasy landscape for tourists, a trip back in time to a foreign land where
Lawrence of Arabia
and
The Ten Commandments
had been set. Posters of both movies, as well as
Cleopatra
and
Ben-Hur,
held positions of prominence in the lobby. Palm trees in ornate pots reached for the main chandelier high above the floor.

It was a place, Goose knew, that he would like to have brought Megan to, the kind of place where normal life and all its problems evaporated at the door. They’d never had a real vacation since their honeymoon. Because money had always been tight, they had never felt comfortable with spending so extravagantly. Now, however, Goose wished he had taken Megan someplace like this. The chance might not ever occur again.

And Chris wouldn’t be there with them.

Goose’s heart ached at the thought. Desperately, he pushed the troubling thoughts away. He couldn’t afford to think about Chris’s absence now. He had to survive; then he’d see what he could do about seeing Chris again.

The allure of the hotel was conspicuously absent at the moment. Patients without life-or-death wounds lay on the marble floor on makeshift litters and mattresses culled from beds throughout the hotel. The living shared space with the dead, which were covered with sheets. Some of those sheets bore bloodstains that testified to terrible wounds and painful deaths.

A mix of Rangers, marines, Turkish military, and U.N. forces guarded the hotel’s doors. Rangers held command there at Captain Remington’s insistence. Heavy plywood covered all of the elaborate windows on the main floor. Guards posted on the top three floors made constant security sweeps. So far, none of the Syrian forces had managed to reach the building. Patrols had stopped the closest tank less than a block away. The south end of the hotel had taken a couple of severe hits. Military firefighters had put out the blaze that threatened to consume the building.

The hotel security office was located behind the main desk. Two Rangers stood guard at the entrance. A simple desk took up the back third of the small office space. The desk held security camera monitors that rotated through all four upper floors of the hotel and the basement. Two Rangers sat at the desk watching the camera sweeps, keeping constant radio contact with security teams throughout the building.

The unknown man Goose’s squad had picked up in the alley sat in the center of the room in a straight-backed chair that didn’t look comfortable to any degree. His bruised face had swelled considerably. Black-and-purple splotches covered most of his features. Dried blood mottled the long tears and split skin. He held a chemical ice pack along his jaw.

Barnett lounged against the wall and smoked a cigarette.

The man glared up at Goose. “You in charge of this operation?”

Goose returned the man’s gaze full measure. “Yes.”

The man nodded, but the movement looked painful. “They’re not letting me leave.”

“They were told not to.”

“Why?”

“Because we found you, unconscious, in the middle of a battlefield.”

“So what?” the man asked belligerently. “You put me under guard to make sure I stick around long enough to say thanks? Well then, thanks.” He started to get to his feet.

Barnett leaned forward casually and shoved the man back into the chair. He landed heavily, and the chair legs screeched across the stone floor.

“What is wrong with you people?” the man demanded. “First you save me; now I’m getting the tough-guy treatment.”

“What’s your name?” Goose asked.

The man didn’t hesitate. “Winters. Mike Winters. I’m an American citizen. From Newark, New Jersey. You don’t have any right to hold me here like this.”

“Well, Mr. Winters,” Goose said, “at the time we found you, you didn’t have any ID.”

Winters made a show of reaching into his pants pocket. He looked surprised when he came up empty. “My wallet must have fallen out.” Then he glared suspiciously at the Rangers in the room. “Or maybe someone stole it.”

“At the time we found you,” Goose repeated in a slower, more forceful voice, “you didn’t have any ID.”

“Then I guess I lost it while I was running for my life,” the man said. “Just my bad luck. That doesn’t explain why you’re holding me.”

“I notice you normally carry a couple of sidearms.”

“Not normally.”

Goose shrugged and acceded the answer. “You did tonight. And if you don’t normally go armed, tonight was a special occasion.”

Winters shifted a little, rocking from side to side and grimacing. The holsters he wore offered mute testimony that he had carried weapons.

“I like to be safe,” the man said.

“Safe would have kept you inside tonight,” Goose said.

“The building I was staying in was bombed. Killed a whole room full of people. I was lucky I wasn’t killed.”

The man was lying. Goose’s sergeant’s nose for trouble and falsehoods told him that. “Safe would have had you out of the city days ago.”

“I got trapped here during the attack.”

“A lot of people left immediately afterward. Before the Syrians started running jets through Turkish airspace and taking out convoys headed north.”

“I wasn’t in the city then.”

“Where were you?”

Winters waved a hand. “South.”

“What were you doing?”

“Business.”

Goose waited a beat, took a look at the empty shoulder holster the man wore, and asked, “What kind of business are you in, Mr. Winters?” “Photography. I’m a photojournalist.”

“Whom do you work for?”

“I’m independent. I work for myself.”

“You didn’t have a camera with you tonight.”

Winters hesitated. “I did. It must have gotten stolen.”

“I thought so,” Goose said. “An attack like this, there’d probably be a lot of news agencies willing to pay for pictures.”

Shifting the ice pack along his jaw thoughtfully, as if suddenly realizing he’d stepped out onto dangerous ground despite the innocuous line of questioning Goose had introduced, Winters nodded.

“Yeah. A lot of ‘em.”

“How much film were you carrying?” Goose asked.

Winters shrugged. “Don’t know. A bunch.”

“Where is it?”

“I suppose it was stolen with the camera.”

“And your pistols.”

“Yeah. And my pistols. Maybe you should be out there looking for whoever jacked me instead of giving me the third degree.”

“I don’t do police work,” Goose replied. “I’m here to help my captain maintain a strong position inside this city and resist occupation by enemy forces.”

Winters relaxed a little in his chair. “Looks like I’m keeping you from your job, Sergeant Gander. I’m not the enemy.”

“Part of my job responsibilities here includes running security and identifying potential threats,” Goose said.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Goose ticked points off on his fingers. “You don’t have any ID. You were heavily armed for a civilian, even under these circumstances. You were in motion in this city, carrying out your own agenda when common sense would have dictated that you hole up until the worst of this situation was over. You don’t come across like any photojournalist I’ve ever met, and I’ve come across a lot of them since the op here began. You’re demanding to leave immediately instead of taking comfort in the fact that—at present—you’re safe from attack.”

“That’s all circumstantial. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“You were in the same area as me,” Goose said softly. “And you know my name.”

Hesitation froze Winters for an instant. He tried to cover. “You gave me your name.”

“Private,” Goose said, raising his voice slightly.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Barnett looked directly at the back of Winters’s head.

Goose knew the man felt the private’s stare because he squirmed uncomfortably and couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder. “Did I give this man my name?” Goose asked.

“No, Sergeant.”

“Did anyone else in this room give this man my name?”

“No, Sergeant. I’ve been doing the only talking in the room.”

Goose shook his head and maintained eye contact with Winters. “No one gave you my name.”

“Maybe we met somewhere before,” Winters suggested. “You said yourself that you’ve seen a lot of media people. We probably met in Glitter City or possibly when I was doing some shooting on the front line.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Sure you did. You just don’t remember me.” Winters gestured to his face. “I bet I look like raw hamburger right now. If you’d seen me before this happened you might have remembered me.”

“Before what happened?”

Winters didn’t miss a beat, flowing smoothly into the question Goose thrust in the middle of the conversation. “Before I was beaten up and robbed.”

“Did you see the person or persons who did this?”

“No. It was dark. Maybe he followed me.”

“He?”

Shrugging, Winters said, “He, she, it. Pick your pronoun, Sergeant.”

“Followed you from where?”

“The bar.”

“You were in a bar?”

“I told you I was in a bar.”

“No,” Goose said, “you didn’t.” He paused. “What bar would that be?”

“I don’t remember. Some hole-in-the-wall that survived the bombing.”

“Until tonight.”

“That’s right,” Winters agreed testily. “Until tonight.”

“I don’t forget faces,” Goose said. “I’ve never seen you until tonight. But I find it interesting that you know who I am.”

Winters didn’t say anything.

That, Goose knew, showed training. A normal individual caught in a lie tended to try to overexplain or modify his or her answer to take care of any discrepancies. Winters was trained to refuse the kneejerk reflex.

“Did you see who attacked you?” Goose asked.

“No,” Winters replied. “I told you that.”

The answer came too quick and too certain. Goose’s instincts told him the man had lied again. “Do you think whoever did it meant to kill you?”

“No. Probably just wanted to get the camera and pistols.”

“And the film,” Goose said. The answer wasn’t a complete lie. Winters—and Goose doubted that was the man’s real name—knew who had attacked him but not if that person intended to kill him.

“Yeah.”

Goose surveyed Winters’s face. “That’s a lot of damage for a guy who was just intending to rob you. Someone who spends that much time at that kind of beating usually intends it as personal.”

“It could have been a rival photojournalist,” Winters said. “Things have gotten crazy in this city.”

“A rival journalist who decided to take on a guy carrying two pistols.” Winters nodded and decided to stay with his lie. “A really desperate photojournalist who’d broken his own camera or didn’t get the pictures of the attack that I did.”

Raised voices sounded out by the main desk. Goose glanced in that direction and saw the two Rangers posted at guard confronting a tall athletic man with dark hair going gray at the temples. He wore a tailored canvas jacket covered in dust and splintered wood. He stood toe-to-toe with the Rangers, obviously not intimidated.

Winters started to get up again. Goose noticed the look of recognition in Winters’s eyes.

Barnett dropped a big hand on Winters’s shoulder. “Siddown, Mikey. You haven’t been dismissed yet.” He shoved the smaller man back into the chair with a thump.

Goose walked to the doorway. “Something wrong here, Private?” He locked eyes with the civilian.

The Rangers stood with their M-4A1s at the ready, far enough back from the man that he couldn’t impede their ability to use the assault rifles. Three men in lightweight jackets flanked the tall man. All of them had flat-eyed stares that reflected only cold dispassion. Goose had seen the same lack of personal attention in the eyes of trained guard dogs.

“This man says he wants to speak with you,” one of the privates answered.

Goose stared the man in the eye. “Did he ask for me, Private? Or did he ask for whoever was in charge?”

“He asked for you, sir. By name.”

Goose pinned the tall man with his gaze. “Did he identify himself?” “No, Sergeant.”

The man regarded Goose with cold disdain. “You think maybe we can cut the chitchat, Sergeant Gander?”

“Sure,” Goose said. “Tell me who you are, prove it, and we’ll negotiate how chitchat-free we can become.”

“Maybe we can talk in private,” the man suggested.

Goose walked by the desk, not bothering to try to clear the security office as he guessed the man was hoping he would do. The Rangers held their post. The three bodyguards followed their leader.

“You said in private,” Goose reminded. “If you start playing the intimidation game with me, I’ll fill this area with Rangers and conduct this conversation with a bullhorn while we try to figure out who you are.”