Ghosts of War (11 page)

S
he jogged down the tunnel, her headlamp bouncing, and I followed. We reached an oaken door and she hesitated, putting her ear to it. Then she opened it. I felt a breeze and a spattering of rain, and we were out. We exited into a courtyard of groomed landscaping and fountains, two floors below the entrance. The bracing rain hit us, and I realized we were on the opposite side of the castle. We'd entered on the north side, but were now on the south side. Above, we saw flashlights bouncing back and forth in the entrance courtyard. I pulled off my balaclava, enjoying the rain against my face. She did the same. I said, “Where do we go from here?”

“On this path. We can cut underneath the main courtyard and get out.”

She started to move, but I pulled her up short, saying, “You sure? You're not just guessing? We're about to expose ourselves.”

She said, “I'm sure. Mission prep. You didn't get the same, but we've been planning for months. In the end, it did no good.”

I said, “Yeah, it did. Don't worry about that damn Torah. You were right. They were coming for it. Nothing we could do about that.”

She started moving, saying, “I'm not worried about the Torah.”

Flinching at every shout we heard, we jogged up the path, the castle courtyard above us. The path turned north, running into a tunnel that stretched underneath. We went through it and found ourselves back on the north side, on the same road that led to the hotel. I paused,
staring down the blacktop. The van that had been there before was gone, and I held no illusions as to why.

We took a quick look around, then sprinted up the road, entering the sweet embrace of the lights of our hotel. We went to the parking area, and I saw that our car was gone.

Shoshana cursed, and I said, “That's good news. Jennifer will take care of him.”

She said, “If she didn't leave him for dead and run to save herself.”

I said nothing, standing in the drizzle, waiting on the apology. It came.

She sighed, then leaned into me and said, “Sorry. I know Jennifer would never do that. I'm . . . just worried about him. He's . . . someone . . . that . . . that . . .”

Having never seen her express emotion, I was unsure what to do with the little demon. I wrapped my arms around her and said, “Yeah, you talk about as well as I do. Look, he can't be hurt too badly or he couldn't have gotten down the ladder. And we know he did, because the car is gone. Thank God you guys kept a room. Let's get off the street and give them a call.”

It was a risk, but not much of one. They'd never think that whoever had hit the castle would be staying in the hotel connected to it.

The comment brought her up short, giving her a shot of confidence. She broke from my embrace and raced up the stairs, jamming her hand in a pocket for the key, and I realized she'd read into what I'd said.

She exploded in, finding the room empty.

She threw the key to the ground and looked at me. I said, “I told you to give them a call, not expect to find them here. Come on. I taught Jennifer. I'm sure she's getting him med care right now.”

She dialed, and Aaron's phone went to voice mail. I tried Jennifer and got the same. I said, “Look, maybe they're at a hospital. They'll
call back. The car's gone. Someone with a key took it, which means Aaron. I'm not worried about Jennifer. I trained her. I know she's okay.”

She looked at me with venom, thinking my only concern was Jennifer's welfare. I said, “That's not what I meant and you know it. Jesus. I can't sleep here wondering if you're going to kill me. And I'm really tired.”

She sat still for a moment, then said, “You're sure he's okay?”

“You're asking me? With your psychic mumbo jumbo?”

She flopped onto the bed, the mattress sagging under her.

I went to the minibar and pulled out a beer. I said, “Yeah, he's okay. My ESP is telling me he's with Jennifer.”

I saw her anger rising at my sarcasm. She said, “My actions got Aaron shot.”

“Stop that. You were trying to accomplish the mission. Although I'll say you might want to take a hard look at doing things that are suicidal, regardless of what your Spidey-sense, or Hanukkah-sense, or whatever you call it is telling you.”

I changed the subject. “What was up with the guy you slammed? The one with the tattoo?”

She evaded, saying, “Nothing. I just recognized the tattoo from Israel. I was surprised to see it.”

I said, “They were speaking Hebrew, weren't they? And you recognized who was giving the orders. I saw you. Tell me I'm making that up.”

She said, “No, he was speaking Yiddish. I'm not going to talk about it.”

I let it go. She glanced around the room and said, “There's only a queen-size mattress. You sleeping on the couch?”

I chuckled and said, “Hell no. You can squeeze your ass over as far as you want, but I'm sleeping in a bed after all this.”

A scary little grin slipped out, and she said, “I knew you were sweet on me.”

She stretched out and slapped the mattress, saying, “Come on. Let's sleep.” Then gave me a look straight from Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
.

I said, “That's okay. I see your point. I'll take the couch.”

K
urt Hale threw his parking pass on the dash, then saw the president's national security advisor and the vice president leave the West Wing of the White House and speed-walk toward the Old Executive Office Building, followed by a scrum of advisors all working a BlackBerry or other electronic device.

He looked at George Wolffe and said, “I don't think we're on the agenda anymore.”

“What's your guess? The attack in Belarus?”

“Yeah. Unless we've had another Benghazi somewhere that we haven't heard about.”

With the Taskforce on stand-down, it had been deemed unnecessary to bring the entire Oversight Council together for simple updates that had no operational ramifications. Kurt had taken to providing President Warren with a weekly update on the ongoing fallout in Greece, and the potential exposure from the investigation of Secretary Billings's death. This week, President Warren was overseas at a G8 conference, so the reporting had been delegated to Alexander Palmer, the national security advisor, and Kurt had good news. Only now it looked like he wouldn't get to deliver it.

Kurt said, “Come on. Let's hit him up before they get inside.”

They broke into a jog and caught up with the back of the pack, then circled around to the front. Palmer saw the arrival and smiled. “I tried to catch you before you left to come over here. Sorry. Our meeting's been postponed.”

Kurt said, “Yeah, I gathered that, sir. It would have been an easy
one anyway.” Out of formality, Kurt nodded at Vice President Hannister, saying, “Sir.”

Hannister said, “Good to see you, Kurt. I hope it was a positive development.”

Kurt glanced back at the trailing advisors, none of whom were read on to Project Prometheus, and was pleased to see them all self-absorbed in digital land.

He said, “Yes, it is. The Greeks have busted up a mafia cell responsible for forging the passport the suicide bomber had on him. They're wrapping up their investigation, leaving all the loose threads alone. They want to put it past them, and have tied it up in a neat bow of Greek antigovernment jerks leveraging an Islamic lunatic. As long as we don't push, it's over.”

Palmer said, “Billings was the secretary of state. How can we not push without looking like we're hiding something?”

Kurt said, “Come on, sir. There's pushing, and then there's
pushing
, with threats behind it for enforcement. Sure, have State proclaim the relentless search for the truth, or whatever they want, but follow it with BS about trust in the Greek government. Then let it die.”

They reached the steps of the Old Executive Office Building and Palmer said, “It does sound good, but we'll have talk about this later. Sorry.”

“I'm available at any time.”

Vice President Hannister said, “Why don't you two come on up? Sit in the back. I might want your opinion, off the record, when it's over.”

Kurt looked at George, then said, “By all means. What's this about?”

“Video teleconference with President Warren. There was a terrorist attack in Belarus last night, against Russian aircraft stationed there, and Putin is going nuts. He didn't show at the G8 conference because of it.”

They trotted up the stairs, then continued speed-walking down the marble hallway until they reached an NSC conference room, a line of people trying to get in but held up by the fact that they each had to surrender all electronic devices.

Kurt looked at the size of the group and whispered to George, “As much as I bitch about the Oversight Council, can you imagine trying to get anything done with this giant beast?”

George chuckled and said, “Stick behind Hannister. He's not waiting.”

Sure enough, like Moses parting the Red Sea, the lower-level staffers stepped left and right, and the royalty of the national security advisor and vice president strode right up. Kurt and George followed, blending in with the other ass-kissers and coffee-grabbers of the personal staff.

They entered a conference room dominated by a long oval table, each seat taken by the members of the president's national security team. Secretary of defense, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, director of national intelligence, attorney general, and a host of others. In the secretary of state's position was some unknown place sitter. In the back were rows of standard metal chairs, filled with numerous aides and lesser individuals.

Kurt and George filed through to the back, Kurt saying, “No wonder nobody can keep a secret in this town. Might as well let everyone in with their cell phones on speaker, dialed in to
The
Washington Post
.”

They sat for about fifteen minutes, staring at the blank screen in the front of the room, everyone buzzing in small group discussions. Eventually, the screen flickered, then cleared, showing President Warren in another room full of people, making Kurt chuckle.

Alexander Palmer said, “You have us, sir?”

“Yes. Everyone there?”

“Everyone I could get on short notice. The deputy secretary of
state is in Honduras on that global engagement deal. We have the undersecretary for political affairs on this end in her place.”

“Well, bring me up to speed. Is this a crisis, or just a tempest in a teapot?”

“Yes, sir, I'm turning it over to General Durham.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood up and said, “Sir, as you know, Russia is in a start and stop phase of building an airbase in Belarus. In between they've placed Su-27 Flanker squadrons at two locations in Belarus.”

The screen split and a map appeared next to the president's face, showing the country of Belarus marked with two blue marbles: one southwest of Minsk, the capital, and one northeast.

“These aircraft are comparable to our own F-15s, and the deployments are a direct result of our reaction to the crisis in Ukraine. Last night at around 0200 local time, 1900 East Coast time, the squadron in Baranovichi was attacked.”

The marble to the southwest turned red.

“We cannot confirm casualties, but from satellite imagery, we know that at least two aircraft were destroyed. Russia is proclaiming it a terrorist attack, and has mobilized forces on the border, demanding that Belarus let them in. Basically, they're saying that Belarus can't—or won't—protect the airfields, and that Russia will do so, with or without permission.”

President Warren said, “From what I'm hearing, Putin's claiming Chechen terrorists.”

General Durham turned to the director of national intelligence and said, “John?”

The DNI said, “Sir, I'll be honest. Given the closed nature of Belarus and our lack of penetration, everything I'm about to say is extremely rough.”

“Have we talked to the embassy? The station there?”

“Yes, sir, but calling it an embassy is stretching things. It's really
only a consulate. The Belarusians forced us to chop the embassy by more than half nearly a decade ago, and since then they've whittled away at the numbers we could station there. We don't even have an ambassador, which is to say, the station can talk a lot about the politics of the next Belarusian presidential election and the dynamics of their relationsip with Russia, but has no ability to penetrate a tactical attack on the spur of the moment. We have little real-world intelligence.”

The DNI waited on an admonishment, but all the president said was, “Go on.”

“You are correct that Russia is blaming Chechen terrorism, and to back that up, there was a message claiming credit on an Islamic website coming out of Dagestan. In addition, they say they've found weapons with biometrics—fingerprints—of known Chechen insurgent figures.”

“But?”

“Well, the claim of credit was removed within hours and followed up explicitly with a denouncement of the claim. They're now saying they
didn't
do it. And they're saying it through a recording of the man whose fingerprints are allegedly on the firearms found at the base.”

“Jesus. Can I get a simple answer here?”