Jon Smith’s foot hovered over the brake for a moment and then slammed back down on the accelerator as he approached a washed-out section in the dirt road. It was a good ten feet wide, but the Land Cruiser lofted obediently into the air and landed on its reinforced suspension without so much as a creak.
It was impossible to know for certain which way Omidi had gone, but a good bet was toward Kampala, where he would find the modern airstrips necessary to bring in a jet. Another benefit of chasing in the direction of the city was that the wind was with him, carrying enough smoke to make the Land Cruiser invisible from the air for the first twenty miles. By the time Smith had broken out of the haze, he’d been well away from the area Sembutu’s forces were concentrating on.
He came around a bend, the halogen-loaded light bar making it possible to creep up to ninety on the straightaway that followed. Where was that Iranian bastard? Had he guessed wrong? Was there an airstrip to the north? Was Omidi planning on escaping by another means?
Thoughts of Sarie encroached on his mind, and he tried to limit them to the ramifications of letting her fall into Omidi’s hands. Soon, though, he found himself sinking into vague fantasies of a teaching job at the University of Cape Town. About Saturdays working on her old farmhouse followed by grilled kudu and beer with the neighbors. But most of all, about never again picking up the phone and hearing Fred Klein’s voice on the other end.
He shook his head violently. Where the hell had that come from? Concentrate!
He drifted the vehicle around another corner and leaned forward over the steering wheel, squinting at two pinpricks of red light barely visible ahead. When he made it to within two hundred yards of the beat-up military truck, its gentle sway turned violent and confirmed that it was the vehicle he was looking for. Omidi had spotted him and was making a run for it.
The road was far too narrow to pass, leaving few options. Ramming the back of the heavy vehicle seemed pointless — most likely it would just destroy the front of the Land Cruiser. Hanging a gun out the window and trying to aim with one hand seemed equally low percentage. And that left him with one last possibility that was only marginally better.
He selected the best maintained of the AK-47s he’d found on his way out of the jungle, set the cruise control, and stood up through the open sunroof.
Before he could line up on the left rear tire, though, the flap on the back of the truck was thrown open. His position wedged into the sunroof was surprisingly stable, and he swung the barrel in the direction of the movement, filling his sights with the battered, dirty form of Sarie van Keuren. She was on her knees and Dahab was behind her, a bandaged arm around her throat and a machine gun resting on a crate next to her.
The motion of the vehicles made it pointless to try anything more ambitious than going for Sarie’s center of mass and hoping the bullet passed through into the man holding her.
Smith hesitated for only a fraction of a second before tightening his finger on the trigger, but it was all the jihadist needed. He opened up on full automatic, punching through the Land Cruiser’s grille and then moving up to shatter the windshield.
Smith dropped back inside, letting the AK skitter across the roof and land in the road behind him. Rounds continued to hiss past as he grabbed the wheel, trying to get control. The tires on the passenger side dropped into a ditch, and he felt himself being thrown around the interior as the vehicle rolled.
A tree finally stopped it on its roof, Dahab’s bullets pummeling the underside in an attempt to ignite the gas tank. Fortunately, they bounced harmlessly off the protective plating that Sarie had been so impressed with, and soon the gun went silent.
Dazed, Smith managed to crawl through the broken passenger window and stagger into the road with one of the remaining AKs, but by that time, the truck had disappeared into the darkness.
55
Randi Russell slid a half-eaten sandwich into the trash can next to her desk and looked around at the temporary office she’d been assigned. The only other things in it were a computer, the chair she was sitting in, and a framed poster by the door. It depicted four rowers in a boat, and the caption read “Teamwork.” Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt.
What she really wanted at this moment was to be back in Afghanistan. To hear the wind against the cliffs, to see the shocking color of the poppy fields, to get swallowed up by the emptiness. She longed for the simplicity of knowing the Taliban would do everything in their power to kill her and that her men would do everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.
In many ways she’d spent her life trying to prolong the game of cops and robbers that she’d abandoned her dolls for as a child. Black hats. White hats. And a whole lot of guns.
But those days were gone. The grown-ups were playing now.
She’d spent the last two days using both legal and illegal means to dig into every aspect of Nathaniel Frederick Klein’s life. His work record was sterling, respect for him was almost universal, and even his enemies begrudgingly used words like “brilliant” and “patriot” to describe him. Still more interesting was that her vague memory of his personal relationship with President Castilla turned out to be right — they’d been friends since college.
The obvious implication was that Castilla was the “people high up in our government” Klein had referred to and the White House was behind Covert-One’s funding and power. But implications weren’t proof.
She’d contacted Marty Zellerbach because he was the first person she’d have gone to if someone had given her a copy of that Uganda video. The hunch had paid off and he’d shown her his analysis after making her swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone he’d kept a copy.
So everything Klein had said checked out. But did that mean he was on the up-and-up or just that he was as smart as everyone said he was? Could he be working as a private contractor? His modest lifestyle didn’t suggest a highest-bidder scenario, but that didn’t prove anything either. Even if he
And finally, there was the irritatingly enigmatic Jon Smith. Klein knew the name would be a powerful motivator — both because of her desire to make sure he didn’t end up dead and because she would tend to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone he’d already vetted. But how could she be sure that Jon actually worked for Covert- One? Hell, for all she knew, he was working
The bottom line, though, was that Klein’s story wasn’t something she could turn her back on. If he was on the level and she didn’t help, countless people could die. On the other hand, if she let herself be played, even more people could die.
Randi sat in silence for a few more minutes, finally reaching for the phone and dialing Charles Mayfield, the CIA’s deputy director.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out of lunch tomorrow,” he said by way of greeting.
They’d been friends for a long time and Mayfield had always watched her back — even when it wasn’t in the best interest of his career. But how far was he willing to go?
“We need to talk, Chuck. Now.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. About what?”
She propped an elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand. Good question.
56
