how we take him out, guaranteed.”
But that would be far from easy. Xhafa’s base was the impregnable city of Tetovo, in western Macedonia— coordinates 42° 0' 38' North, 20° 58' 17' East—an area as wild and lawless as Afghanistan or western Pakistan. Xhafa, clever fellow that he was, had played on the theme of Albanian freedom, making the rational case that freedom for Albanians was unattainable unless they were united in their efforts against the Macedonian government.
However, in the three years since he had come to power, the main thrust of his activities had been to increase the efficiency of the clans’ smuggling operations. This included expanding the white slave trade, exporting Eastern European girls from ten to eighteen from their native countries to Italy, England, and the United States. Most often, these girls were sold to Xhafa’s representatives by their own parents, desperate and poor beyond measure, who could see no monetary upside to female offspring.
Paull, pausing in his reading, glanced up. “Surely this is a job for Interpol, not Homeland Security.”
“The Pentagon disagrees. They believe Xhafa to be extremely dangerous and so do I. Listen, after the last decade of wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Yemen, America’s image abroad is in desperate need of rehabilitation. Edward was on the right track with the arms deal he signed with Russia just before his death. And I’m fully aware of President Yukin’s attempts at double-dealing. Without you and Jack McClure, the deal would never have gotten done.”
He looked around the room, as if suddenly self-conscious or overwhelmed by his surroundings. “In tonight’s TV address I’m making human rights one of the ribs of my agenda. We can’t have young girls—hell, girls of any age—being shipped into the United States and sold into prostitution rings. The traffic in human beings is enormous. Every six minutes another girl is sold or snatched off the streets. The trade is epidemic; it has become a worldwide scandal. Think how the image of the United States will profit when we bring Xhafa to justice.”
“Have the DoD send in a team of Special Forces—”
The president sighed. “Look at page ten.”
Paull pulled it out. It was an “Eyes Only” field SITREP from General Braedenton, the head of DoD, to the president himself. In brief, a Special Forces SKOPES unit of six highly trained black ops agents had been dispatched to Macedonia two weeks ago with orders to take out Arian Xhafa with all due speed. DoD monitoring lost contact with the unit thirty-one hours into the mission.
“The SKOPES unit never returned and was never heard from again,” Crawford said.
“How in the hell did Xhafa manage that?”
The president looked like he’d just seen a dog run over by a car. “That’s one of the mysteries. This man is not like other crime lords; there’s something different about him.”
“He’s smarter?”
“Among other things,” the president nodded, “such as sophisticated weaponry to take out an entire SKOPES unit.”
“Sophisticated weaponry takes big bucks.”
The president’s expression became even more pained. “Simply put, we aren’t authorized to send military into Albania. Besides which, the military can’t cut it in that region—the mountainous terrain works against them. No, this is strictly black ops. A small guerrilla unit is what’s needed. And don’t talk to me about Interpol. Those monkeys can’t find their own assholes.”
“Nevertheless, with all due respect, sir—”
“Loyalty, Dennis.” Crawford’s voice was soft but with a backbone of steel. “I want you to find Xhafa and shut him down … permanently.”
Paull sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll get a task force to work up a plan ASAP.”
“That’s just what you
Paull felt as if he were a whiplash victim of a car crash. “Sir, I don’t understand. A secretary of HS doesn’t —”
“It seems to me, Dennis—and I say this as a compliment, though I fear you’ll take it otherwise—that secretary of HS was never the best use of your talents.” He turned and took a thick Eyes Only dossier off his desk. “For ten years, during your assignments in the field, you never once failed to complete a mission. Plus, you never lost a man.”
“Once,” Paull said. “I lost a man once.”
“No.” The president paged through the dossier until he reached the page he was looking for. Running his forefinger down the page, dense with typescript, he said, “The agent, Russell Evans, was wounded by friendly fire. You carried him on your back for twenty-five miles until you crossed over from hostile territory.”
“By then he was dead.”
“Through no fault of your own, Dennis.” The president closed the dossier with a decisive slap. “You received a medal for that mission.”
Paull, chilled to his marrow, sat very still. He was hyperaware of his heartbeat and his breath, as if he were a scientific observer monitoring this unreal scene. “What is this,” he said in a voice he did not fully recognize, “a sacking?”
“What makes you say that?”
“A demotion, then.”
“Dennis, as I feared, you’ve completely misinterpreted what I’ve just said.”
“Do you want me to step down as secretary of HS?”
“Yes.”
“Then I haven’t misinterpreted anything.”
Crawford hitched himself to the edge of the sofa. “Listen to me, Dennis. I know you don’t trust me. I know your loyalty was to Edward, and since we never saw eye to eye on most matters…” He allowed his voice to trail off, as if he was thinking ahead three or four steps. Or, anyway, that was Paull’s interpretation of the small silence.
Then the president’s eyes reengaged with Paull’s. “I value you, Dennis, perhaps—and I know this will be difficult for you to believe—perhaps more than Edward did. This job he put you in—it’s not … You’re not a politician. Your expertise is in the field—it always has been. That’s where you shine; that’s where you’ll be of the most use to me—and your country.”
“So the decision has been made.”
Crawford looked at Paull for a moment. “Dennis, answer me this: Have you been happy the last year or so? Happy in your job, I mean.”
Paull said nothing. He sat thinking of a future that now seemed as treacherous as quicksand. “Since the deed is done, it doesn’t matter what I say.”
The president steepled his hands together, elbows on his knees. “The reason I scuttled Edward’s initiatives is simple: They were doomed. The health care bill—he had to get into bed with big pharma in order to even get it cobbled together. It had more pork in it than a pig farm. The attack on the merchant banks—too punitive and difficult to get through Congress. Edward would have expended all his remaining political capital on this agenda, and he would have failed. His presidency would have foundered. I’ve been given a chance to right the ship, and I’m taking it.”
“Right is right,” Paull said sourly.
Crawford laughed and shook his head. “Dennis, I’m going to take a chance. I’ve decided to trust you enough to tell you a secret.”
He paused as if needing another minute to make up his mind. Despite himself, Paull edged forward, the better to hear what the president had to say, because Crawford was speaking now in a hushed tone.
“I’m a conservative by design, not by conviction. Not many people know this; Edward certainly didn’t. But I have to deal from strength with certain powerful elements in this country. In any event, I want to do what’s right for the country, and as of this moment what we need more than anything else is fiscal responsibility. I’m going to see we get it.”
“That involves appointing someone else as HS secretary. Is that what you’re going to say in your address?”
Crawford waved away Paull’s words. “I’m doing away with the position. Your man Dickinson, who’s director,
