One Rough Man

79

Inside his Crystal City office, Lucas closed out the tracking Web site in disgust. It had grown dark outside, and he wondered if he had missed the opportunity to take out his prey. The pager beacon had gone to Arlington National Cemetery, then had driven aimlessly about for the next couple of hours. It had finally stopped at the Dulles Fixed Base Operations center, where it had remained ever since. That meant one thing: the beacon, and presumably whoever was carrying it, had flown somewhere. Due to the length of time it had remained stationary, that flight was taking some time, either going across the country or out of it.

He picked up the phone to relay the bad news. When Standish answered, Lucas went secure and got right to the point.

“We missed both targets. The beacon signal itself has become stationary at Dulles, which leaves me to believe the targets are airborne moving to another location. Do you wish to proceed?”

For a moment he heard nothing but breathing on the other end, disgusting him. Weasel can’t make a decision. He’d last about eight seconds in combat.

“Well, yes, I guess so,” Standish said. “We need to get it done.”

“Even if it means going to a foreign country? You willing to risk that?”

“Is that what they’re doing?”

“I won’t know until the beacon lands, but the last report was over four hours ago, so they’re flying a long ways. What do you want me to do?”

“What have you done so far?”

Lucas proceeded to tell him about the lead they had gleaned from Ethan’s phone call the night before, clinically using terms such as asset information and neutralizing further exposure. Before he could continue with the morning’s events, Standish put two and two together and interrupted the conversation.

“Whoa! Wait a minute! Don’t tell me you’re involved in that multiple murder in Herndon. Lucas—”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“Jesus Christ! They’re calling it a Charles Manson copycat killing, for God’s sake! They think a psycho gang’s on the loose. Are you insane? Four people were fucking slaughtered. Tortured to death.”

Lucas wanted to reach through the phone and rip out Standish’s heart. You coward. Just like everyone else. Want to get the job done, but don’t have the balls for the work.

“Listen to me, you self-righteous blowhard, you gave me my mission parameters and I’m still within them. I’m accomplishing the fucking mission. You don’t like how I’m doing it, then you should’ve specified some restrictions beforehand. Now shut the fuck up and let me finish my situation report.”

* * *

On the other end of the line, Standish felt sick to his stomach. Not because of the deaths in Herndon, but because of the possible exposure to himself. He was barely listening to the rest of Lucas’s situation report, frantically going through all of the ties that connected them, when something Lucas said clicked, bringing him back into the conversation.

“… So we were forced to exfil without terminating either target. From there we regrouped, waiting on contact from the asset’s phone you gave me…”

Holy shit. He did the drive-by shooting in Clarendon as well? That can’t be right. No way is that right.

“Wait… wait. Are you telling me you’re also responsible for the shootout across from the Arlington Courthouse? You actually opened fire on a bunch of civilians?”

This time Lucas didn’t shout. He spoke in a calm, deliberate manner. Standish recoiled from the venom he felt coming from the phone.

“I’ll say this one more time. You gave me my parameters and my mission. I’m executing. You told me to ensure the hit wasn’t traced to you, and that’s why we did the drive-by. I’m following your lead. Don’t question my methods again.”

He thinks he’s in charge. I’m losing control.

“Bullshit. You’ve exceeded my parameters. I told you that collateral damage had to be five or less. You killed four at the house in Herndon, then shot at least two at the courthouse, maybe more. You’re outside my guidance, and my guidance stands. Is that understood?”

“Standish… there are two targets. A collateral damage of five per. That means I still have four to work with. Anyway, two of my guys are in the hospital because of your target, so I really don’t give a shit about your damn guidance anymore. It’s getting personal.”

Standish couldn’t believe how quickly the violence had escalated. He thought about telling Lucas to stand down but was afraid of his response. He might ignore me altogether.

“Okay, okay. I can see the miscommunication, but I’m the one in charge. I’m still the one funding this. You want to get him, the only way you’ll do it is with my money — and that comes with my oversight. Got it?” He waited on a response, the silence making him wonder if he’d already lost control.

“All right,” Lucas answered, “as long as we understand each other.”

“Continue with your report.”

After Lucas had finished, Standish gave him the go-ahead to execute — even on foreign soil — but told him that no more collateral damage was to be tolerated. He hung up the phone, wondering if Lucas would bother to listen to him. I’m going to have to do something about him when this is over. Too much exposure. Too much of a threat.

80

After a solid day and night of heading inexorably eastward, Bakr exited the train station at Tuzla, Bosnia- Herzegovina. Weary down to his bones, he gathered his meager possessions and walked to the first taxi he could find. Speaking in halting English, Bakr asked for a cheap hotel somewhere downtown. The driver held up a finger, saying he knew just the place.

Driving east, toward the heart of downtown, the taxi traveled about two miles before stopping in front of a nondescript four-story concrete building with a Cyrillic sign in the front.

“Here. They treat you well here,” he said.

Bakr thanked him and was surprised when the man butchered the phrase Allahu Akhbar in return.

Bakr stared at the man, smelling of liquor and smoking a cigarette, thinking surely he was not one of the faithful.

“Are you a man of the book?”

“Yes, yes.”

Bakr said, “Allahu Akhbar,” and exited the cab. He knew that the horrific civil war that had occurred in Bosnia during the 1990s had been primarily between the Serbian Christian population and the Bosniak Muslim population, but had never stopped to think that a “Muslim” in Bosnia was as far removed from his version of Islam as the far enemy itself.

Bakr entered the lobby of the hotel, seeing an establishment dating back possibly to the 1940s, solidly built of quarry stone, decorated with heavy drapes and dreary colors. The long registration desk, complete with old- fashioned boxes mounted on the wall behind for the guest to place his or her key, was manned by a thin, acerbic- looking man wearing the ubiquitous black leather jacket found all over Bosnia. Bakr checked into his room, happy to see that, although old, it was clean and tidy. The primary concern he had was that the door had a shabby, cheap lock, without a secondary locking mechanism. That would force him to take the weapon everywhere he went.

His first order of business was to check the prearranged e-mail account with Sayyidd. He had made initial contact twenty-four hours ago after leaving the ferry in Kiel, Germany, but that e-mail had been disappointing, with Sayyidd saying he was still waiting on a message from Walid. On the plus side, at least he appeared to be following instructions. The message referenced Fallujah and said that he had checked out of the Muslim section and moved