“Frank, I was telling Eddie that he needs to take the patch off his flight jacket or wear something else. For obvious reasons.”
“That’s it? After all that?”
Keegan shrugged. “The rest is poetry.”
Leopole’s gunmetal gaze returned to the former Army rotorhead. “Mr. Marsh, this is a covert operation. We are in a foreign country, wearing foreign clothing, using foreign weapons, operating foreign aircraft. The American flag is a dead giveaway. I suspect you already know that. So what’s the shouting
Edward Marsh, late of the 160th Special Operations Regiment, realized the consequences if he lapsed into a he-said-I-said defense. “Just a difference of opinion, sir.”
Keegan folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. He was not enjoying Marsh’s discomfiture as much as before. “Well, Frank, we were discussing the difference between symbolism and substance as it relates to national emblems.”
Inside Frank Leopole’s brain housing unit the mental tumblers clicked into place.
Leopole lanced Marsh with a gaze. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your philosophical differences, gentlemen. You’re paid to show on time and fly where you’re needed. Everything else is secondary… or less. Is that clear?”
Marsh nodded earnestly. “Yes, sir.”
Keegan straightened in a mockery of military protocol. “Sir. Yessir!”
Kassim stood at a respectful distance, waiting for Ali to finish the afternoon prayer. It occurred to the intelligence operative that he might profitably exercise his own prayer rug — wherever it was these days.
When Ali finished, Kassim quickly approached. “Doctor, some more information arrived today. I consider it urgent.”
Ali paid close attention. Kassim seldom exaggerated. “Yes?”
“The woman at Quetta. She is probably British. Passport information confirms that a white female arrived the same day as the soldiers. Her full name appears to be Padgett Smith.”
Ali figuratively shook his head. “Kassim, that cannot be her full name. Not unless her parents were extremely unconventional. ‘Padgett’ must be her middle name; perhaps her birth name.”
Kassim consulted his notes, still hand-written by the cell’s contact at the passport office. “My information is Dr. Padgett Smith.” He looked up. “Does that make it any clearer?”
Ali’s reaction was a tiny tremor across the back of his shoulders. “A doctor! You are certain?”
“Brother, I cannot be certain of anything other than the contents of this message. But the source has always been reliable.”
Ali turned away, forcing order upon a jumble of new possibilities. “A doctor. A female doctor with a group of Crusaders. A British doctor with a group of American mercenaries. Why would they bring a foreign doctor instead of one of their own? And why a woman?”
“Perhaps she has special skills.”
Ali spun on his heel. “Or perhaps she is not a medical doctor. She may be a scholar of some sort. A doctor of philosophy.”
“It will take time to find out. And it looks as if the Crusaders are preparing to leave. Several soldiers were observed loading weapons and boxes into helicopters yesterday.”
“Kassim, I must get into town. Tonight if possible. We need more information.”
The Syrian’s antennae sensed a risk, and risk assessment was his department. “Surely someone else can check on the details.”
“No, not without undue attention. I need access to a computer.”
“A computer?”
“Ten minutes on the internet should be all I need.”
Leopole corralled Keegan after dinner.
“Another debate about patriotism, Terry?” The former Marine was chewing a cigar before lighting it.
“Actually, it wasn’t much of a debate. I had him on facts and logic from the get-go. It was pretty much a slam-dunk.” Keegan grinned wryly. “The benefits of a Jesuit education.”
Leopole let it go. He knew that Keegan had been molested as a youngster and swore off religion for life. After an op that had gone south the two had stayed up late-late or early-early — Leopole forgot which — and Keegan had tied one on and vented his rage at the church. Leopole inferred that it was not the first time that an offending priest had been transferred to avoid prosecution. It was the only time Leopole had seen the pilot drunk.
“Terry, why in hell do you do it? Most of us understand your viewpoint. Hell, some of the guys
The aviator grinned. “I guess because it’s so easy.”
“Cut the bull, mister. You’re smarter than most of these guys but you’re making a mistake. More than that, it’s an avoidable mistake. You think that because logic is on your side, and because you got a raw deal, that you’re untouchable. But damn it, Terry, this is a
“Hell, I don’t know, Frank. But yeah, he probably is. He doesn’t have to like me. But if he’s really a pro, he’ll come fetch me. And you know something more?” He didn’t give Leopole a chance to respond. “When he’s the one who needs a dustoff from a hot LZ, I’ll man up and fly the lead bird.” Now the Navy man grinned. “As long as he doesn’t wave his damn flag at me!”
Ali leaned back in his chair, at once pleased and disturbed. The two al Qaeda bodyguards that Kassim had dispatched with him caught his mood but tried to appear nonchalant. The internet cafe was nearly vacant at 1:30 A.M. but the jihadists had long since developed professional paranoia. It was why they were still walking around.
Ali considered printing out the information but decided against it. He had a lengthy drive back to his base camp, and there might be surprise checkpoints. Besides, he was not about to forget the information he had gleaned.
He looked at the photo on the screen. An unusually attractive woman by western standards, with large, violet eyes. Dr. Carolyn Padgett-Smith, one of Britain’s foremost immunologists.
He mused at the wondrous ways of Allah. Simply because of a runaway dog.
Kassim usually reported to Ali without others present. It was the best way of preserving the security essential to longevity in his line of work. But this time was different.
Kassim made the introduction: “Qazi, this is Dr. Ali. Doctor, Sergeant Qazi is stationed in Quetta. He has information that I consider worthy of your ears.”
Ali gestured for his guests to join him for tea. They sat at the rude table in his office, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Ali nodded to the visitor. “Proceed, brother.”
“Doctor, I am a noncommissioned officer in the base facilities office. I have access to certain… information.”
“Yes?” Ali sensed that the man was leading up to something. He glanced at Kassim, who appeared slightly on edge. That knowledge sent tingles up and down the doctor’s spine. The Soviet Union had rarely made Kassim edgy.
Qazi proceeded. “Sir, I have obtained information about the foreigners on the base. They are not soldiers, as
