“You’re right. So maybe we’re not going back to your place,” said the Snow Maiden. “You can check us into a hotel. That’ll work now.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Heidi, I never told you this, but Aldo was working for the CIA. That’s why he was killed. And the same men who tried to kill him are trying to kill me.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“Come with me, and I’ll explain. I’ll tell you everything. Just help us get a room.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“I want to tell you. I really do. But it’s important that you just do as I say. All right?”
“No, no, I won’t do this, I can’t,” cried Heidi. “I don’t know if you’re a criminal or a prostitute or who you are!” She reached for the door handle and opened the door.
The Snow Maiden bit her lower lip, drew her pistol—
And as Chopra shouted, “No!”
— she killed her old friend.
SEVENTEEN
Brent sat in the reception area outside General Scott Mitchell’s office. Mitchell was the man, head of the entire JSF. You couldn’t go any further up the ladder.
And you didn’t get a meeting with a guy like that by just whining that you disagreed with a superior’s decision.
You got a meeting by showing… audacity. A word much in the news during the past year or so.
So Brent had made the call and had informed the general’s staff that he wanted to strike a bargain.
The general had initially declined, but his curiosity won out when he learned that Grey had denied Brent permission to go over her head, and Brent retorted that he wasn’t seeking permission; this was just a courtesy call advising her of his intentions.
Dozens of framed wartime photographs of Mitchell in action covered the walls, and as Brent studied them, he began to understand the enormity of what he was doing, the enormity of this man’s position.
Who in the hell was Brent to try cutting a deal for another chance? The mere act was going to incite every officer above him: most notably Grey and Dennison.
Moreover, Mitchell had been a Ghost Recon legend, arguably the unit’s greatest living officer. Many of the techniques, tactics, and procedures that Brent had learned had been developed by Mitchell himself during his own time at the JFK School. Brent wasn’t even sure if he could speak intelligently let alone make a persuasive argument once he faced the man in the flesh.
And worse, he’d have to do that on two hours of sleep. He’d spent most of the night arranging to get his butt back to Tampa, and as he checked his watch, he expected his cell phone to ring at any—
There it was, ringing. After a long sigh, he answered.
“Captain Brent, this is Colonel Grey’s office. It’s oh eight ten, and we’re wondering where you are.”
Brent tossed his head back, closed his eyes, and saw himself standing before a general court-martial. No, his punishment wouldn’t be that severe, of course, but his imagination always took him straight to hell first.
“Captain Brent? Are you there?”
“Ah, yes, I’m here, here as in I’m at MacDill AFB for a meeting with General Mitchell.”
“Uh, all right, I’ll inform the colonel.”
“Thanks.”
As Brent hung up, he pictured Grey’s face when she got the news. Heat waves would billow from her brow.
“Captain?”
Brent rose and was escorted into the general’s office by Mitchell’s assistant.
The general had divided the room into two areas: a rather regal-looking work zone with rich dark furniture, bookcases, and unit flags hung from the walls, the other area a high-tech observation post with a cocoon of monitors displaying battlefield operations. The station was, in effect, a miniature version of the JSF’s more elaborate command center. Mitchell was seated at that station, wearing virtual-reality gloves and manipulating holographic data bars that only he could see via his VR glasses. His fingers flicked right and left, and he made the O shape with index and thumb several times to close open windows. He suddenly wrenched off the glasses and gloves and bolted from the seat as though it were on fire.
“All right, all right…” he muttered, clearing his thoughts aloud.
The general sported a snowy white crew cut that complemented his angular jaw. Brent guessed he spent as much time in the gym as he did in the VR chair, and an unmistakable twinkle in his eye seemed infectious.
“Captain Brent, you’re a persistent man,” said the general, taking Brent’s hand in his own. “That much I admire. The rest of your record looks inconsistent. You, son, have been on a roller coaster ride instead of a career ladder.”
“I just take it as it comes, sir.”
Mitchell hardened his gaze. “So what the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Sir?”
“Forgive my candor. Dennison tells me she pulled the plug on your mission. And Grey doesn’t want you on it. You’ve come here to ask for a second chance in the guise of some deal regarding a low-life warlord in Afghanistan that you want to hand over to me.”
“Sir, I’ve had sources there for years, and I’m finally calling in all my favors.”
“At a rather convenient time.”
“Sayyaf has links to China and the Russian Federation. There’s a rumor that he’s in bed with the Green Brigade, too. He’s a piece we need to take off the board.”
“And you’re handing him to me in exchange for another chance to go after the Snow Maiden.”
“What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t come in here and insult my boss’s intelligence.”
Brent glanced away and smiled. “Sir, in the grand scheme of things, I’m just a little guy. I know that. And at my level, this is the best I got. The deal might be insulting, but you’ll have Sayyaf.”
“So Brent comes first, country second.”
“I never wanted it to be this way. I hate the politics. I really do. But I’m asking for a lot, so I give something in return.”
“So this has been your ace in the hole in case we screw you over, huh? Keep a little piece of the pie to yourself, and give it back when the time is right.”
“No, sir. I wish I were that smart. When they pulled me off the mission, I started thinking about my options. Then I made a few calls.”
Mitchell sighed very deeply for effect. “You want me to take this deal and overstep my officers.”
Brent opened his mouth — but the general spoke before he could: “And you want me to take your intelligence on good faith and place more Americans in harm’s way.”
Brent glanced toward the window. The general’s tone had come as a challenge, and Brent knew if he backed down now, there was no second chance. The general was probing, looking to see if he had any fight left in him. Well, he sure as hell did.
“Sir, can I ask you a question? Why’d you join the Army?”
Mitchell grinned, as though over some private joke. “You know the answer to that as well as I — because they forced you to read my bio.”
“I don’t mean the facts, sir. I mean the
