'What?'
'Nothing. These guys Bashi's been bringing in from the Middle East,' Stoke said. 'They come here, scatter, disappear after a month or so. Maine to California. But one thing. Know where they all end up? Same damn place. Stir. Commit some crime, armed robbery, assault, anything sufficient to land them in the joint. So you gotta ask yourself why?'
'Missionaries,' Michelle Garcia said. 'That's what we call 'em anyway.'
'What's that?' Harry asked.
'It's what they are in prison for,' Detective Garcia said. 'Spread the word of radical Islamism throughout this country. And tell the newly converted what they are supposed to do with that new knowledge. Primarily, what these young men are brought to America for is to spread the gospel. It is ridiculously obvious. But you think anyone in D.C. is concerned about this? Masses of immigrants here to recruit naive U.S. prisoners, in effect, captive audiences, to earn the Islamic Gangbanger Ph.D. degree? Doctorates in hating the American infidels? No one is even looking at this problem, much less talking about it. It is, or will be, a huge problem for this country when these guys start hitting the street and spreading the word. Believe me.'
'I believe you, Michelle,' Stoke said.
'Great. I got one guy who thinks this is serious.'
Harry said, 'So this is the deal. They do the crime to do the time, get released, hit the Greyhound stations, get anonymous jobs all over the country, and then-'
Stoke sighed and rubbed his reddened eyes with his knuckles and said, 'Blow us up. Scare the living shit out of all of us. From the inside out. Cheapest damn form of warfare in history. Get enough of these assholes operating around the country, raising hell in every town, sooner or later they shut us down, the whole damn country. Nazis couldn't do it. Japanese couldn't do it. Russians couldn't do it. But these guys? Shit.'
Harry said, 'I'm with you, Stoke. I'm down with everything you just said. I really respect what you're doing today. Going inside, I mean.' Stoke just stared at him until he turned away.
Garcia said, 'Big Black Muslim gang operating inside the Glades. Recruiting migrant workers, hardened cons, and anyone else they can get their hands on. It's one of the first fully franchised gangs we saw in the system. Now they number in the thousands. Sword of Allah. Get cane workers, local black and white farm kids, in for minor offenses, kids who don't know any better, talk about how America enslaves them all, always has, how to do something about it. Strike back at the Great Satan.'
The food came and Stoke was happy to see it. He shut up, just thinking about not this gorgeous cheeseburger, or the next one after that, but the one after that. When he was out. When he'd learned whatever he had to learn inside the Glades, got his friend Sharkey out alive, his virginity intact. But first he'd figure out who was behind the radical gang culture growing in the prison system.
Not just Florida, either, or California; these gangs were everywhere, ultimately threatening everybody in his whole damn country. It was just a matter of time until they started running around like those ragheads in Kabul, blowing shit up. These guys really pissed him off, threatening Americans on their home turf, still the home of the brave and the land of the free.
He hadn't spent the best years of his life in Nam for this. Lost all those brave boys, his buddies, the SEAL platoon he commanded and loved with all his heart, all those young kids calling out to their mamas when they died, ripped to shreds by Charlie, guts spilling out of their stomachs, Stoke trying to hold their insides inside them with his hands.
This new enemy would pay, all right, just like he'd made the VC pay, one way or another. You could listen to the media. Or you could listen to your heart. This was the greatest country the world had ever produced. And anyone who wanted to try and bring it down was going to pay dearly for the privilege.
He knew a whole shitload of people who felt exactly the same way he did. Take the fight to them. Wherever you found them, get right up in their face. And keep fighting until every last one of the bastards bit the dust.
He stuck an onion ring inside his burger and took a big bite, feeling a whole lot better about what he was about to do inside the Glades. He was doing his duty and that was the only thing he knew that was really worth doing. One thing for damn sure. He was going to penetrate these radical Islamic sons of bitches, learn their plans, and break their goddamn backs on the wheel of American justice.
And if he couldn't waterboard 'em, he'd airboard their asses. At night. That's right. Threaten to throw them the fuck out of Black Hawk choppers deep into the Everglades. Talk, or you're gator bait, pal. Congress hadn't outlawed that yet, had they? Airboarding? You always had to stay one step ahead of these criminal-coddling nannies up in Washington, else they'd put an end to America soon as they could.
'Stoke?' Michelle said. 'Sorry. Time to go.'
'Yeah,' Stoke said, looking at his watch. 'Listen up, Harry.'
'Yeah?'
'You take the turnpike back to Miami. Not 95, OK? Safer. No trucks allowed. You keep your speed at 55. Not 56, 55. You don't talk on your cell, you don't text anybody, you don't even turn on the radio. All you do is drive. Okay? Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Thing is, I don't want anything bad to happen to you, see? You're my bud, right? We partners, right? Got each other's backs?'
'And all this has got absolutely nothing to do with the GTO, right, Stoke?'
'The GTO? Damn, you insult me. That GTO sitting out there? Stopping traffic on Worth Avenue even as we speak? That's just metal, my brother. Metal and rubber and plastic. You? You're a human being, Harry. You are a gift from God.'
'Gee, thanks, Stoke. I love you, too, man.'
'But I swear to God, Harry, you put one scratch on that car and I will rip your tiny testicles off and feed them to you one at a time. I will then stick cotton so far down your throat it will come out your ass, make you look like a goddamn Playboy Bunny. Are we clear?'
'You two boys having a problem or something?' Michelle asked innocently.
'Problem? Nah, we cool,' Stoke said. 'Cool Hand Brock here is driving my GTO back to Miami. Most likely with the top down. While I'm going straight to goddamn jail. You see a problem?'
THIRTY-THREE
C'S OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR of MI6 Headquarters, an odd architectural mix of the new, the newer, and the newest, was located at 85 Albert Embankment in Vauxhall on the banks of the Thames. It was a far cry from the Service's rather grotty old digs near Regent's Park, but then Hawke usually preferred the old rather than the new when it came to architecture.
Sir David Trulove's private sanctuary, however, was pleasantly reminiscent of a captain's cabin dating from Admiral Lord Nelson's era. Varnished wood paneling, electrified oil lamps on gimbals, period mahogany furniture, valuable marine art on the walls, a brass chronometer and barometer standing to either side of the model of Admiral Lord Nelson's Victory atop the carved mantelpiece.
The only things missing in C's lovely office, Hawke observed once to Congreve, were portholes.
It was Monday morning, a few days following the harrowing but profitable visit he and Congreve had paid to Mutton Island. After Hawke had a series of meetings with British Army intelligence officers for Northern Ireland, Ambrose had remained in Ireland, he and Drummond returning to the island with the Yard's Scene of Crime lads for a thorough forensic examination of the entire scene. Lab results from the human gallstone found at the scene had not yet been released.
Hawke, who loathed meetings of any type, now found himself in the middle of yet another one, no matter how congenial he found the surroundings. In addition to Hawke, C had invited his protege Montague Thorne to this command performance. Thorne, the reigning expert on all matters Pakistani, Indian, and Afghani, and an American fellow, CIA, who introduced himself to Hawke as Abdul Dakkon.
Dakkon was tall and lean with black eyes, swarthy good looks, and a neatly trimmed black beard. Hawke put him in his late thirties. He was Moroccan, he said, born in Tangier. Despite his navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, he
