had to go away again, explaining that it was his job and that even if he didn’t come back — something he would say only when he was positive she wasn’t awake — he still loved her, and no matter what, would be her father and protector.
Reid eased himself down to that very spot on the floor next to the bed, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling. A dim brownish light filtered in from the window, casting the room in faded sepia.
If the CIA was running an illegal assassination program, from a country it had been ordered to leave, with a potentially uncontrollable weapon, what should Jonathon Reid do? Where was his loyalty? What was his moral obligation?
The CIA was his life. He had a deep personal relationship with the director, not to mention countless fellow officers, present and retired, who would surely be affected by any scandal.
He also had a deep personal relationship with the President. He was one of her husband’s best friends, and hers as well.
And there was his obligation to his country, and to justice.
How did those obligations sort themselves out here? What exactly was he supposed to do?
Li Han was not on the preapproved target list. It was possible, though unlikely, that he had been added under a special mechanism allowed by national security law; those proceedings were compartmentalized, and there was always a chance that Reid’s search — thorough, and itself skirting the bounds of his legal duties as a CIA officer — had missed this particular authorization.
Even so — even if there was no authorization — did that make the targeting wrong? Li Han was such a despicable slime, such a threat to the country, that his death could easily be justified. Truly it would save lives; he wasn’t running an agricultural program in Sudan, after all.
The Agency’s development of the UAV clearly had begun under the previous administration. While the recent reorganization did not allow for such programs, there were always gray areas, especially when it came to development.
Given the CIA’s long history of producing such weapons, not to mention the Agency’s record of success, this was another area that at worst might be a minor transgression. And certainly in his case, given Reid’s relationship with the Office of Special Technology and Whiplash, Reid could easily be criticized for trying to guard his turf. And in fact he might even be doing that, unconsciously at least.
Utilizing a software program that could hunt down and kill on its own? Without authorization?
Raven sounded like science fiction. But then, nearly everything that they did at the Office of Special Technology sounded like science fiction as well. So did half the gadgets covert officers carried in their pockets these days, at least to an old-timer like Reid.
What should he do?
He’d need more information — talk to Rubeo, look at the authorizations he hadn’t had a chance to access. Confront Edmund. Ask what exactly was going on.
Then?
Well, he had to go tell the President, didn’t he?
She
Maybe he just didn’t know the whole story. Maybe the original Raven was just a pipedream, and had become a sexy name for a cool looking aircraft. Maybe there was nothing special about the aircraft at all.
“Jonathon, what are you doing on the floor?”
Reid looked over at the doorway. The dim light framed his wife’s silhouette. In that instant she was twenty- five again; they had just met, and she was the most beautiful woman he could ever imagine, in every sense of the word.
She still was, to his eye.
“Jon?”
She came over and knelt by him. “Are you OK, honey? Is your back bothering you?”
“I was feeling a little… stiff,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, just far from the truth. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Sitting on the floor isn’t going to make your back better,” she said. “Come on and get a heating pad.”
“I’d rather a nice backrub,” he said.
He reached his hand up to hers. She took it. Forty some years flew by in her grip.
“Come to bed,” she told him softly.
Reid got up and followed her to their room.
Chapter 7
Danny Freah hated to lie, even in the line of duty. It was the one aspect of Whiplash and working with the CIA that he didn’t particularly like.
In his role as a covert officer, Nuri often pretended to be someone else. He was a smooth liar, a born bullshit artist and a good actor: as soon as he put on the watch and jacket he’d bought in Asmara, he became a slime-bag arms dealer. The performance was utterly believable.
By contrast, Danny felt awkward in the uniform, and not just because it was a little tight around the chest. Fortunately, his job was simple — follow Nuri and keep his mouth shut.
Duka had grown around a small oasis on a trading route that led ultimately to the sea. It had never been a particularly large city, though during the short period when the railroad was active it quadrupled in size. Most of the people who arrived during that tiny boomlet had left, leaving behind a motley collection of buildings that ranged from traditional African circular huts to ramshackle masonry warehouses. The place was far from prosperous, but what wealth was here was expressed in odd pieces of modern technology. Power generators hummed behind a number of grass-roofed huts, and Danny saw a few satellite dishes as well.
The huts were the most interesting to him. These were in the oldest part of town, clustered along the western edges. Most sat in the center of small yards and garden patches. A few of the yards had goats and even oxen. There were also chickens, which wandered near the road as the Mercedes approached.
Danny hit the brakes several times before Nuri told him it was senseless — the birds would only get out of the way at the last moment, no matter how fast or slow he was going.
“You’re sure about that,” said Danny.
“They always do.”
“Why do they let the birds roam around? Aren’t they afraid of wild animals?”
“Lions?”
“Well—”
“I doubt there have been lions or even hyenas around here for centuries,” said Nuri. “Lions would be worth a fortune. The hyenas they’d kill for meat.”
Though Danny’s ancestors had come from Africa, he wasn’t sure where. He felt no connection to either the land or the people.
“This place was pretty poor, right after the railroad stopped,” continued Nuri. “A bunch of aid organizations got together and tried to help. Most of the money was siphoned off by the central government.”
“That why there are so many rebel groups down here?”
“Not really. People expect corruption. The resentments with the government have more to do with tribal rivalries and jealousies, and outside agitators,” added Nuri. “The outside people come in, find a malcontent or some crazoid, give him a little money and weapons. Things escalate from there.”
“Are the Iranians here?”
“Not so much. Hezbollah tried getting some traction a little farther north, but it didn’t work out. The Brotherhood, which is made up of Sudanese, isn’t even that strong. You can be from the next town or a related tribe and still be considered an outsider.”
“Like us.”
