Nomatterhisailmentsandtheconstantpainanddiscomfortheenduredfromallhisbrokenbits,hewouldbedamnedifhewasgoingtolettheterroristsrobhimofhisretirementtwice.Nowhewasinchargeoftheteamsthatdidwhathephysicallycouldnolongerdo.
The phoneonhisdesksounded with a specialringtonereservedforonlyacoupleofpeople.Heknewitwasimportant,eitherfromoneofhisunitsinthefieldorfrom AndyFleiss,informationtechnologyspecialist.
“Hogan.”
“Paul,thisisAndy.”
“Yeah? What’smyfavoritenerdupto?”
“Weirdstuff.sir,reallyweird.CanIcomeup?”
“Yeah,I’llbewaitingforyou.”
Fourminuteslater,AndyFleissenteredHogan’sofficewithoutknocking. Andy Fleiss was in his mid-thirties and looked every bit the part of a serious nerd with unruly locks of wavy brown hair, dark eyebrows, and a long, narrow face comically accentuated by soda-bottle black horn-rimmed glasses and a plastic pocket protector stuffed with writing and calculating tools. He could recite from memory the entire code of the base Linux Kernel, could count to infinity in binary, and spoke fluent Tolkein Elvish, in addition to half a dozen real-world languages used by both humans and computers.
That being said, outside of work, women actually fawned over the man, something Paul Hogan had never really believed until he went out to dinner with him at a ritzy DC restaurant shortly after arriving in the capital when they both were promoted. Fleiss, outside of work, shed his nerd-by-day look, popping in contacts in place of the glasses and donning tasteful shirts and sportjackets that rendered him a quite remarkable likeness of the famous British actor Hugh Grant when he was at his heart-throb pinnacle in the nineties.
Today, though, Fleiss was all nerd as he stormed tothedeskand quickly spreadseveralsheetsofpaperacrossitwithoutregardforanyworkHoganmayhavebeendoing.
“Okay, Andy,whatamIlookingat?”
“I printed out these emails that I thought seemed significant,” Andy said. The energy in his voice seemed to indicate that whatever he saw should be obvious to anyone.
“Andy,” Hogan said, “thislookslikethecrapthatcluttersmyinboxeverymorning.”
“Exactly,” Andy replied. “These are printed copies of spam emails sent from generic user accounts. The kind of thing you probably routinely delete from your email account without looking twice.”
“Why are these any different?”
“It's a puzzle,” Andysaid. “First,takealookatthesedocuments.” He pointedatthetoppages.“ThefontatthetopofthepageisblackandtalksaboutsomekindofspamadvertisementforfakeViagra.Butifyoufollowthetextfurther,whatdoyousee?”
“Whatdoyoumean,followthetext? It ends.”
“Lookcloser. It doesn’tend.”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
Andyliftedthepageandheldithigherinthelight.Hogancouldmakeoutaveryfaint,brightyellowglareagainstthewhiteofthepaper.
“Youseethat?There’s awholeparagraphatthebottomofthepageinapaleyellowfontonawhitebackground.Nearlyinvisibleonthescreen,but…” Hepickeduptheothersheetsofpaper. “Iwasgoingtodeleteit myself, butI accidentally clicked the printiconandsentit to myblack-and-whitelaserprinter.AndthisiswhatIgot.”
ThepagehehandedHogancontainedtwoadditionalparagraphsoftextinalightgrayfont.Itwasfaint,butreadable.Andyhandedhimanotherpagewiththesametextindarkblackfont.
“WhenInoticedtheextratext,Ichangedthefonttoallblackandreprinteditagain.Readwhatitsays.”
Hoganreadthetext.
SoforyourarroganceIambrokenatlast,Iwhohadlivedunconscious,whowasalmostforgot;ifyouhadletmewaitIhadgrownfromlistlessnessintopeace,ifyouhadletmerestwiththedead,Ihadforgotyouandthepast. Myhellisnoworsethanyoursthoughyoupassamongtheflowersandspeakwiththespiritsaboveearth.beforeIamlost,hellmustopenlikearedroseforthedeadtopass.
“Whatthehellisthattalkingabout?” Hogan grunted, his face twisting in consternation.
“That,sir,isthemillion-dollarquestion,” Andyreplied. “Ididsomeresearchandfoundthewholepoem,aswellasabiooftheauthorandwhatshewasoriginallywritingabout.Whatweseeisashortportion,orrather,twoshortportionscombined,ofalongpoemwrittenbyaladyknownonlyasH.D.,backabout1915orso.It’saprettydepressingpoem.Accordingtoherbiography,theauthorwasstrugglingwithbisexualityandcouldn’tdecideifshelovedhergirlfriendorherboyfriendmore when she was surprised to discover thosetwowerehavinganaffairwitheachotherbehindherback.Screwed-upstuff,ifyouaskme.”
“Okay,” Hogan said, “whyisthisimportanttotheUndersecretaryforTerrorismInterdiction,Andy?”
“Ah,yeah,” Andysaid. “Thepointisthatithasnothingtodowiththeoriginalintentofthepoem.Theseweresiphonedfromanaccountusedbysomeoneonourwatchlist,oneStevenFarrah.”
“Theguy Hilde called about from Alaska.”
“Theoneandonly,” Andy replied.
Hogan looked back at the pages and reread them more seriously. Rubbing the late-afternoon stubble on his chin, he muttered, “Andyouthinkit’sacodedmessage.”
“That’swheremybrainistakingme.”
Hogan pressed into the wrinkles that creased the middle of hisforeheadwiththetipsofhisfingers,smoothingoutdeep furrows that bounced back as soon as he moved his hand.Hewasonlyforty-six,buthefeltold.
Fleisscontinued, “Theycamefromanotherpersonandweresenttohim. Thatpersonisanonymous—we can’tfigureoutwhotheyare.”
“Whatdoyoumean,anonymous?We’retheFBI—supposedlywecanfindoutanythingwedamnwellwant.”
“Notinthiscase,” Andyreplied. “WhoevercreatedthesendingaccountBallyHoo94423@gmail.comdidareallygoodjobcoveringtheirtracks.IeventriedgettingGoogle’shelp,buttheygotmenofurtherthanIdidonmyown.”
“Howaboutlocation? DoweknowifitcameinfromAlaska,orwasitsenttherefromsomewhereelse?”
“ThemessagepingedoffaserverinAnchorage,butsomeofthelinksinthetracerouteindicateitmayhavebeenproxiedfromanrdpsessionthatcouldbehostedfromaclientjustaboutanywhereontheinterwebs.”
PaulgaveAndyasternlook. “English,Dr. Geek.”
Andyshrugged. “Sorry.Shortansweris,Idon’tthinkso.Ithinkitcamefromsomewhereelse,buttheytriedtomakeitlooklikeitcamefromAlaska.”
“Whatdoyouthinkitmeans?”
“Probablyanattackbeingsetup,” Andy said. “I’vebeenthinkingaboutthat,andmyfirstimpressionisrevenge.Itmightalsobeapersonwhodidn’twanttodoit,butfeelsforcedintoacorner.”
Paulrosefrombehindhisdeskandpacedtowardthewall.
“HildesaidKharzaiwasthere.”
“Youthinkthiscouldbefromhim?”
“Hesentmeanemailoncebefore,duringtheOhiobombscare.It'swhattippedusofftothebadguy'splans.Maybethisisanotherattemptatawarningfromhim.”
“To be honest, sir,” Andy said, his voice lowering with uncertainty, “it soundsmorelikeathreattome.Irecentlyheardsome scuttlebuttabouta CIAoperativewhofitshisdescriptionwhose wife was killedinabotcheddroneattack.”
“Damn,” Hogan muttered, leaning back in his chair, thesprings underneath gave out a long squeak. “It will not be good for us if he is on the rampage.”
Andy's eyes went wide as his imagination ran back to the bloody scene from Ohio. “He seemed pretty crazy the one time I saw him.”
“Yeah.” Paulnodded. “Healwayshasbeen.Workonit.I’llcontactHildeandletherknowwhatyou'veshownme.”
Chapter24
CaptainCookHotel
8:37a.m. AlaskaTime
Marcus'sphonevibratedwith a loud rumble against the wood of the nightstand.Herosefromthehotelroombedandsliditoutoftheleatherholster,pressingtheanswerbuttonand lifting ittohisear.
“Yeah,” He said, sleep still in his voice.
“Marcus,” Hilde’svoicesaid, “wejustgot a warrantforFarrah’splace.”
“Excellent.” HeglancedatLonnieandgaveanod. “Whereareyou?”
“FBIofficerightnow,butwe’re headedoutimmediately.”
“I’m atthehotelwithLonnie.I’llmeetyouatthehouse.”
“I’lllettheagentsknowyou’re coming.”
Marcus disconnected thephonecall.Lonniesatupontheedgeofthehotelroombed.Herswollenjointsfeltasthoughtheyhadrustedovernight.Inthetwenty-somehourssinceBrassert’sattack,herbruisedmusclesandjoints had grown increasingly achy,asifshehaddoneaheavyworkoutaftertakingalongbreak.Thatdiscomfortwas,ofcourse,heapedontopofherstiffbackandroundbelly. And there was no relief in sight, the pain thedoctorhadsaidshecouldnottakeanykindofpainmedicationoranti-inflammatoryasitwouldbelikelytoendangerthechild.
“Iamsosickofbeingpregnant,” shedeclared.
“It’llallbeoversoonhoney.” Marcussaid. “Andyou’llbeholdingthelittleoneontheoutsideinsteadoftheinside.”
Herfacereddenedwiththestrainassherosefromthebed.Sheletoutapuffofbreathonceshewasupright.Shescratchedatthewoundacrossthefrontofherthroat.TheERdoctorhadsprayeditwithLiquidStitches,ahypoallergenicadhesivethatboundtheskintogetherforhealing.Withalittlemakeupitwasalmostinvisible,alotbetterthanrealstitches.
“God,Iwishthedeliverywastoday.”
“Well,let’smakesuretheloafisfullycookedbeforewetakeitoutoftheoven.”
“Huh?” Shelookedathimquizzically. “Areyoucomparingourbabytobread?Whatareyou,somekindofclosetgoblin?”
Marcusgrinnedather.
“Iwilladmit,” hesaid, “Ilikethetasteofyourflesh.”
Lonnieputherhandsonherbackandstretched.Thenshe crossedtheroomwithanexaggeratedwaddleandcalledoutinatired-old-womanvoice.“HereIam,yoursexslave.”
“Ifwedidn’tneedtogo…”
“Yeah,right,” Lonniesaid. “Iamafraidtheothernightwasthelasttimeforawhile.”
Theymovedtowardthedoor, and Marcusgaveheraseriouslook.
“MaybeyoushouldstayhereinsteadofcomingtoFarrah’shouse.”
“Why?”
“Foryoursafety,” hesaid. “Idon’twantyougettinghurtagain.”
“Idon’tthinkanythingisgoingtohappen,” shereplied. “Besides,Brassertfoundme hereinthefirstplace.I’dfeelalotsaferbeingwithyouasmybackup.”
Sheusedpolicetalkandastrongvoicetosoundbrave,butLonniereallywasafraidofbeingalone.TheincidentwithBrasserthadshakenher.Beforeherpregnancy,itwasdifferent—she ranintodangeraspartofherdailyworkload.Shewasneverafraid.Butnow,withthebabyinherbelly,herinstinctshadshifted.Self-preservationbecamethesoledrivingfactor—not herownpreservation,butthatofthenewlifeinherwomb.Sinceseeingtheimagesontheultrasound,thechildhadbecomeevenmorereal.Thebaby’smovement.Itslimbsandfingersandtoes.Theshapeofitsface,thetinynubofanose,thethumbstuckinitsmouth.Thechildwasalive,trulyandcompletelyalive.
“Allrightthen,” Marcussaid. “Let’sgetgoing.Butdon’ttrytogetinvolvedifanythinghappens.”
“Don’tworry.”
Thirtyminuteslater,theypulleduptoalarge collectionBuickRoadmastersandadozenStateTrooperandAnchoragePoliceDepartmentcruisers. Marcus searched for a place to park the F250. “Looks like a car lot for a police surplus auction.”
AlargeutilitytruckmarkedSERTinbigwhitelettersonthesidewasparkedamongthem.OneoftheSpecialEmergencyReactionTeammembersstoodatthereardoorofthevan.Lonnie quickly recognized the unmistakable body shape of TrooperCorporalHarland,whohadrecentlybeentransferredfrom her detachment in Fairbanksto the headquarters detachment in Anchorage.
Atfivefeet,fourinchestall, the fifteen-year veteran weighedovertwohundredandtenpounds,butwasbynomeansfat.Harland had been a competitive power lifter in college and wasbuiltlikeabattleship.Unlikethemodernsleekandfastmodelswho weremostlyuntestedincombat he wasmorelikeoneoftheold-schoolironships,thekindthatwerebuiltthickandscaryandcouldtakeadozenhitsandstillmakeitbacktoporttogetresuppliedandbackouttothefight.Harlandalsohadatroll-likefacethatcouldfrightenaRottweiler. In spite of his intimidating appearance, Lonnie knew him as a really nice guy with a wife and twin teenaged daughters.
“Hey, Harland,” Lonnie said. “How's big-city life treating you?”
“Fine,Lieutenant.” He gave her a slight nod and glanced over at Marcus with a similar greeting. His heavy voice sounded like he ate gravel for breakfast every morning. “To be honest, though, I'd rather be back in Fairbanks, ma'am,” he said. “Being around this big city just ain't my cup of tea. Lots more SERT action down here with all the meth labs and pot grows out toward the valley so duty time is okay, but I think I'm becoming more of a homebody as I get older. My daughters didn't take this move so well—sucks to be thirteen and have to move to a new school.”
“I imagine so,” she said.
“You'll be learning that kind of stuff a bit more yourself in a few years now,” he replied, gesturing at her belly. “Unless, of course, you retire when you hit your twenty. Then the kid might be spared a lot of it.”
“I'm not as close as you are, but that's the plan,” Lonnie said as she and Marcus moved toward the house. An APD officer stopped MarcusandLonnieandcheckedcredentialsbeforeallowingthemto enter the yard which was cordoned off with police tape and several officers guarding the approaches.As they drew near severaloftheSERTteam cameoutofthehouse,facesobscuredbyblackmasks,helmets,andgoggles. They woreMP-5sub-machinegunsslungovertheirshoulders in a tactical posture.Marcusthoughttheylookedmorelikecommandosthancops,andwasn'tsureif helikedtheideaofthatroleforpoliceofficers. Mikecrossedthelawntowardthem,hisfacetwistedwithapensivelook.
“They’regone,” hesaid. “Packedupandsplit.”
“Anythingleftbehind?” Lonnieasked.
“It’sprettycleansofar.”
Hildepokedherheadoutfromthe front door of the houseandsignaledforthemtocomein.Thetriosteppedontotheporch,MarcushelpingLonnieasshestruggledupthesteps.Theyenteredthehouseand foundCaufieldandseveralotheragentsstandinginthelargeformaldiningroomlookingatapieceofpaperonthetable.TheSACglancedupastheycamein.
“AnyofyoureadArabic?”
“Ido,” Marcus replied. “IwasalinguistintheMarines.”
“Takealookatthisandtellmewhatitsays.”
Marcuscameintotheroomandglanceddownatthepaper.Acrossitssurfaceinneatlinesflowedthewavesandcurlsofhandwrittenscript.
“Thisisn’tArabic.”
“It’snot?” saidCaufield. “Whatisit,then?”
Hilde’scellphonerang.ShewalkedawayfromthegroupasMarcusexplainedhisstatement.
“It'sFarsiscript.”
“Farsi?”
“ThelanguageofthePersians,” Marcussaid. “Iran.”
“Huh,” Caufieldgrunted. “Whatdoesitsay?”
“I’mnotfluentinFarsiitself,” Marcusreplied. “ButthisisactuallyEnglish.”
EveryonelookedatMarcusasifhehadjustpoppedoutofarabbithole wearing the Mad Hatter’s tophat.
Caufieldcrunchedhiseyebrowsandsimplysaid, “Explain.”
“ItisFarsiscript,likeIsaid,butthewordsareEnglish.HejustwrotephoneticallyinthePersianalphabet,butitisdefinitelyEnglish.”Hescannedoverthesheetslowly,eyebrowsfurrowingashestudiedit.
“Whatdoesitsay?” Tomer asked.
Caufieldandtheotherslookedbackatthepaper,squintingas if they thought that by lookingatitwithenoughconcentration,theymightseethepatternemergebeforetheireyes.
“It’sanexcerptfromTheCremationofSamMcGee,theold Robert Service poemfromahundredyearsago.Exceptithasbeensignificantlychanged.”
Marcusread the poem withthepaceandrhythmoftheoriginalonwhichitwasbased.
“Therearestrangethingsdoneinthemidnightsun
Bythemenwhomoilforgold;
TheArctictrailshavetheirsecrettales
Thatwouldmakeyourbloodruncold;
TheNorthernLightshaveseenqueersights,
Butthequeeresttheyeverdidsee
“Thisiswhereitchanges,” Marcus said,thencontinuedreading.
“WasthatnightonthemargeofAnch-or-age
Whenmyvengeanceloudlyscreamed.
Therewasn’tabreathinthatlandofdeath,and
Ihurried,horror-driven,
WithacorpsehalfhidthatIcouldn’tgetrid,
ofaweddingpromisegiven;
Itwaslashedtomysoul,anditseemedtohowl:
'Youmaytaxyourbrawnandbrains,
Butyoupromisedtrue,andit’suptoyouto
crematethoselastremains.'
AndIlookedatit,andIthoughtabit,
AndIlookedatmydeadlovedone;
Then'Here,'saidI,withasuddencry,
'ismycre-ma-tor-eum.'
Therearestrangethingsdoneinthemidnightsun
Bythemenwhomoilforgold;
TheArctictrailshavetheirsecrettales
Thatwouldmakeyourbloodruncold;
TheNorthernLightshaveseenqueersights,
Butthequeeresttheyeverdidsee
WasthatnightonthemargeofAnch-or-age
WhenIscreamed, “Youshould’vekilledme!”
“Jeez,” Tomer said, “whoeverwrotethatneedspsychiatrichelp.”
One of the other agents slowly shook his head and said, “Obviouslyit’sathreatfromoneoftheterrorists.”
“No,” Marcus said.
“Whatdoyoumean?” Caufield asked.
“Kharzai,” Marcus replied. “IfIdidn’tknowhewasintown,I’dthinkthesameasyou.Butknowinghe’s here,thereisnodoubtinmymindit’s hismessage.Andit’snotathreat.It’sastatement.Oneyoushouldtakeseriously.HeisoneofthemostdangerousmenI'veevermet.”
“Marcusisright,” Hildesaid asshereturnedtotheroom. “ThatwasUnderSecretaryHogan.HejustgotacommuniquefromtheCIAconfirmingthatKharzai Ghiassi disappearedfromtheirradarseveralmonthsago.TheysaidhiswifewaskilledinanairstrikeinPakistan.HeblameshisCIAhandlersandmaybeouttotakerevenge.”
“Heknewwewouldbecominghere,” Marcus said. “Otherwise,hewouldn’thaveleftthenote.”
“Thepresidentisgoingtobehereinthemorning,” Caufieldsaid. “Tomer,callyourSecretServicegirlfriendandsuggesttheycancelthetrip.”
“Yes,sir,” Tomer saidwithastutter,hisfacereddeningastheotheragentssuppressedsnickers. “Sir,Tonia’snotmygirlfriend.”
“Yeah,right.Whateveryousay. Icouldn’tcarelessaboutyourlovelife.Getitdone.”
Chapter25
SecretServiceTemporaryHQ
CaptainCookHotel
11:30a.m.
ToniaRobertshungupthecalltoherfieldheadquarters chief, pulled Tomer'scontactinformationupinhercellphone,andpressedthecallbutton.Heansweredonthefirstring.
“Theyain’tdoingit,” shesaidwithamatter-of-factgrunt.
“Whynot?” Tomer asked. “Wehavecredibleevidencethatthisguyisflippin’ nutsandhell-benttokillsomeone.”
“It'snotadirectstatementofintent.WithnospecificthreatagainstEagleOne,theywon’tcallitoff.There are toomanyotherleaderscominginforthemtoshutitdown.”
“FromwhatFarrisandJohnsonsaid,thisKharzaiguyissomekindofdeath-dealingsuperspyorsomething,” Tomersaid. “He's like Darth Vader and Jet Li rolled into one. And we don't have a Luke Skywalker or a Jackie Chan to stop him.Hell,fromthesoundoftheguy,evenChuckNorrismightgethisasskicked,ifthatwerepossible.”
“Webetterfindsomewaytogethim,honey,” Roberts said, “becausetheyain’tstoppingtheshow.”
“Aretheyatleastsendingextrasecurity?”
“Hell,theyain’tevengoingtotelltheforeignvisitors.Theydon’twanttoscarethem.They’lljustpostafewextrasnipersandmaybeputacouplechoppersintheair—otherwise, ain’tnochangetotheplans.”
“Whereareyougoingtobeduringtheeventtomorrow?” Tomerasked.
“MeandLurcharegoingtobeoncrowdpatrol.You?”
“I’llbedoingthesamething.”
“I’llgiveyouaSecretServiceradiosoyoucanmonitorourchannelatthesametimeasyourown.”
“Good.Maybewecanhookupafewtimesduringtheevent.”
“Tony!” Tonia feigned offense. “Thatsoundslikesexualharassment!”
“I…didn’tmean….” Tomerstammered.
“AfterEagleisgone,” Toniaadded, “youcanharassmeallyouwant.I’vegotthewholenextweekonleave.”
ShecouldpracticallyhearTomer’spulseaccelerateontheotherendthroughthephone'searpiece.
“Oh,my.Youarecertainlyfrisky,MissRo... ” Tomer's voice suddenly cut off.
Inthebackground,sheheardadooropenandadistantvoicesaysomethingtoTomer.
Heclearedhisthroat. “Iwillcertainlytakeyoursuggestionintoconsiderationandwillbesuretoaccommodateallaspectsoftheoperation.”
“What?” Toniaasked, her face twisting with sudden smirk as she realized Tomer’s predicament.
“AgentCaufieldjustcamebackin.I’lllethimknowwhatyousaid.Uh,aboutthepresident,thatis.”
“All right,youbigstud,” shesaid,tauntinghim. “Tomorrowweprotectthebigguy,and thenthenextday,you’reindanger. Get your lips ready for some serious non-regulation physical training.”
“Yes,ma’am,I'llbesuretobe...uh...readyforanything.” Tonycouldbarelykeephisvoicesteady. “Thankyou,AgentRoberts.”
Toniaclickedoffthephone.Warnerwalkedupbehindherandgrunted an announcementofhispresence.Toniajumpedinsurprise.
“Don’tdothat!”
“Dowhat?”
“Eavesdroponme.”
“Ijustcamein.Ididn’thearanythingyouandTomerweretalkingabout,thankGod.”
Hereyeswidened. “ThenhowdidyouknowitwasTony?”
“He’stheonlyguyI’veheardyouuseyour ‘supersilky’ voicewithexceptwhenyouuseitonsuspectsduringinterrogations.”
Tonia’sfaceblushedadeeppurple. “Supersilky?”
“Subconscious,Iamsure,” Warnerreplied. “Ihavenocluewhatyoutwoseeineachother,butyouobviouslyseesomething.”
“Youreallyneedagirl,Warner,” Toniasaid. “Thenyou’llunderstand.”
“Ifyousayso.” Warnerheldupasheetofpaper. “Butratherthantalkaboutyour desperate sexlife,weneedtofindthisguy.”
“I'll have you know mysexlife,andoranyrelateddesperation,isnoneofyourcyborg-autobotbusiness,” shehuffed. “Ibetyou’veneverevenseenfemaleanatomythatwasn’tinatextbook.”
Warner shrugged and held out a paper. Toniasnatched it fromhishandandlookedatit. “Damn,thatmanishairy. Is that even a man, or isita skinny-assed Sasquatch?”
“KharzaiGhiassiishisname,” Warnersaid.
Tonia's expression sharpened. She stared diligently back at
