They reached the top of the stairs and the kid led the way to the right. The hallway that encircled the foyer was high-ceilinged, with white walls and molding along the ceiling, deep, gray carpet on the floor, and dark wood doors leading to the rooms off the central foyer. A wrought-iron handrail kept anyone from falling back down the stairs, and a massive crystal chandelier hung over the base of the steps.
The kid stopped at one of the gleaming, walnut doors, and knocked. He leaned in to listen to the muffled voice from inside. “It’s General Abernathy, sir. He called ahead last night.”
Another muffled word came from inside, and the young man opened the door and ushered the three of them inside.
The room was apparently Briggs’s home office, or something of the sort. A massive oak desk stood in the center of the room, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. The shelves didn’t hold many books, but a lot of photos of himself with various celebrities, other politicians, and world leaders, along with various extremely expensive souvenirs. The few books that Santelli could see were all brand new, untouched, and whatever was currently considered “important” in the media and political circles.
It was the most carefully arranged façade that Santelli thought he’d ever seen.
Briggs himself was in his mid-sixties, but his slicked-back hair was still entirely brown. His chiseled face was starting to show some wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but every bit of his appearance seemed carefully manicured, down to his polo shirt and khakis.
“Well, this is certainly somewhat unexpected, General.” Briggs came around the desk with his hand extended, until he glanced at Van Zandt. He stutter-stepped, ever so slightly. Santelli saw the flash of uncertainty, even fear, in his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t think it really is, Senator.” Abernathy ignored the proffered hand and sat down in one of the leather armchairs across from the desk, pulling a cigar out of his pocket. “I believe you know General Van Zandt.”
Briggs tried to play it off. “I… I think we might have met. Some Pentagon function, or maybe a Senate hearing.” He stepped back toward the desk as if seeking cover, ignoring Santelli altogether.
“Look, Senator, I’m a busy man and I don’t like bullshit, so I’m going to cut to the chase. I know that you hired a team of operators through General Van Zandt here to intervene in a nasty little situation down in Colombia. Not a bad thing, on the surface, especially considering that there’s some fishy stuff happening in the background that’s keeping the Colombian National Army out of it. Except that some of the strictures you put on the mission raised some eyebrows.”
Van Zandt settled in the second chair, while Santelli leaned against the wall by the door with his arms folded. “When you called me last night, Senator, you made some references to events happening on the ground that even Sergeant Major Santelli here—” he jerked a thumb back toward where Santelli was leaning against the door jamb “—hadn’t been apprised of. They were confirmed later, but that raised the question of just how you’d gotten those details. How did you know that the team had gotten involved with the local resistance, instead of simply following the canned operational plan you handed me?”
Briggs had gone a little pale, but he leaned against the desk and folded his arms. “So, you admit that your little team of contractors has already gone off the reservation?”
Abernathy snorted. “Only a moron would use a canned op plan put out by a politician without question. Only the crown prince of the kingdom of morons would go in to set up an ambush on an insurgent leader without prior reconnaissance. And from what I’ve been able to glean, that reconnaissance confirmed that there was no follow-up plan at all.”
“I don’t recall reading you in on the operation, General.” Briggs’s voice was cold.
Abernathy lit the cigar, daring Briggs to object with his eyes. The senator couldn’t meet that stare for very long. “I read myself in. If you’re on the Senate Intelligence Committee—which I know you are—you know that there is very little that happens in the special operations world that I don’t know about. Which also means that I know that there are no other teams in the area, none of our units assigned to look into this little revolutionary problem right on the Colombian border with Venezuela.” He kept Briggs pinned with an unblinking stare through a cloud of tobacco smoke. “So, the question once again arises, how did you know the details about events on the ground that are otherwise not being publicized or reported on by American assets?”
Briggs wasn’t giving up yet. “You seem to have a theory, General.” He leaned back, his arms still folded, looking defiant.
“Oh, I’ve got more than a theory. I’ve got call records.”
Briggs blanched, but held his peace.
“See, there’s an individual down there that my operation’s had an eye on for a long time. Hell, we’ve been trying to kill him for more than a decade. Does the name Diego Galvez ring a bell? No? How about Adolfo Aguirre? Or maybe El Verdugo?” Abernathy inspected his cigar as he blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Don’t play coy, Senator. I know you know who I’m talking about.” He glanced over at Van Zandt. “Nobody’s entirely sure what his real name is—he switches aliases fairly often. But we’re pretty sure they’re all the same guy. He’s been active for the last fifteen years, and we’ve been actively hunting him for the last ten. He’s a slippery bastard, though. One of the most cunning terrorists I’ve ever gone after. He’s like a nightmare mashup of Carlos the Jackal and Che Guevara. And
