The question was addressed to Major Nigel Whoever, but the CIA boss chipped in instead. “Yes, but that's why we've had to move things forward,” said Willard F. “Assets on the ground have informed us there might be a pull out to another compound closer to Islamabad, or maybe south to Dalbandin, where the weather's a little more predictable. They've had a hell of a winter there this year.”
“The timing change shouldn't affect our schedule adversely, sir,” said Butler. “With the target secured, we'll rendezvous with the Ski-Doo team, and then drive for the Afghanistan border. It's not far from the facility. There we'll rendezvous with U.S. Special Forces. We'll be ready to go in a couple of days, once we've had time to work in with the arresting officer.”
“Excellent. How about your man, General? How's he coming along?” asked Nigel.
“I don't know,” said Howerton. “Let's ask him, shall we? So, Special Agent Cooper. How does it feel to be jumping into hot water again?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Something had caught in my throat and it wasn't a chicken bone. It was the phrase, “Are you fucking kidding?” It eventually found its way out, modified a little to “I'm not sure, sir. I haven't seen the mission planning.”
“Well, keep your ears open, Cooper, because that's what we're here to discuss,” said the SecDef. He leaned forward and looked down the table. “So what's the legal position on all this? What does JAG say?”
The discussion moved on while I felt as if a hurricane had just passed overhead leaving me battered and bruised in its wake. A mission with Butler to snatch Boyle from a military facility in Pakistan? I dialed back into the meeting on the lawyer's summation. He was saying, “What you're suggesting here breaks U.S. law, international law, and a raft of agreements we had in place with the former government of Pakistan. This is kidnapping, and, if that's not bad enough, you're doing it on foreign soil. My advice would be to find another way.”
“OK, so we'll just cancel the mission,” said the SecDef. This comment removed sound from the room as effectively as a drain hole sucking water from a bath.
Silence.
Several sets of eyes shifted around the room, searching for more dissent. A few throats were cleared. No one for a moment believed the SecDef meant it. I focused on the JAG lawyer. His face had more lines on it than a used bus ticket, and all of them were headed in the general direction of a scowl. He knew the SecDef didn't mean it, too. His hair was thick and polar-bear white, his skin newborn-baby pink. I figured he was around a year off settling into a condo, probably down in Florida, maybe Naples, someplace rich and effortless where the hired help manicured the grass with nail scissors and the mosquito population was held in check with regular aerial spraying. His recommendation to abort meant nothing that happened in this room would touch his retirement benefits if things went to shit. He'd done his job. I was having trouble concentrating. The situation seemed surreal. I thought about Boyle's wallet. I also wondered whether the JAG general personally knew the lawyer swapping body fluids with my girlfriend.
Objection. Former girlfriend.
Sustained.
OK, former girlfriend.
There were quite a few lawyers in the military these days — which said a lot about the military — so maybe not. I wondered whether the JAG general would appreciate my two-lawyers-in-the-bank joke. If not, I had others.
“Special Agent Cooper? Cooper?”
Howerton. He was talking, leaning across the table toward me. “Yes, sir,” I said. The hurricane had doubled back like they've been known to do on occasion. I was doing a lot of wondering. Now I was wondering what I'd missed. A couple of the officers were standing. Butler and Nigel were in a huddle, talking about something. The JOPES was concluded.
“Like I said, son, we don't have anyone in the OSI or the Army's Criminal Investigation Command with your particular skill set,” said Howerton. “With your time in the CCTs working with Special Forces from coalition countries, coupled with your experience working with the law… Well, you're uniquely qualified.”
After hearing the doubts expressed by the staff judge advocate, maybe they needed someone who knew less about the law and more about how to take a fall. Nevertheless, I replied, “Yes, sir.”
He handed me another thick envelope. “What we're talking about here, Cooper, is a snatch op. Usually, with this kind of situation, we'd offer the country development grants and low-interest loans, which, of course, would subsequently be forgiven. They'd roll the guy over to us and that'd be the end of it. But that's not possible in this case. Pakistan reminds me of Iran in 1980 when Khomeini's revolutionary guards booted out the Shah and took over the country. And just like Iran, anti-U.S. sentiment is rife. CIA says the place is high on its own revolution. Your job is to get Boyle safely back to the U.S. embassy in Kabul. The FBI, armed with a warrant issued by a U.S. federal judge, will arrest him there. All nice and legal. In the packet are your orders to Kandahar. Three days is not a lot of time to get yourself prepared for this. Rely on Staff Sergeant Butler and his men. They come highly recommended.”
Yeah, Staff Sergeant Butler and his men. Here again was a twist of fate confirming my opinion that fate was one twisted son of a bitch. Why me? I didn't get it. In three days, fate was going to send me up in a plane and then he was going to make me jump out of it into the Pakistan night with the very same guy I was investigating for possible murder. Ruben Wright, his wrecked parachute harness, and his even more wrecked remains flashed through my head. Then I thought about Butler's smashed flashlight and broken ribs. Howerton had told me to trust Butler. But, with all the doubt still swimming around the Ruben Wright case, could I do that? Seriously?
The temperature dropped through the floor as I closed in on the exit. I had a few things on my mind jostling for attention with the impending mission: the hit on the Transamerica and Four Winds buildings; Al Cooke; Dr. Freddie Spears's resignation from Moreton Genetics and then her presence in heavyweight Pentagon meetings; the charred corpse; Boyle's wallet… all of it swirled through my brain like snow flurries.
If I was right about the wallet, and I believed I was, that meant it had to have been planted, only the people who detonated the truck bomb and set the device in the basement of the Four Winds wouldn't have had the opportunity to do that. So who did?
Outside, the snow was still falling, playing havoc with the traffic. Vehicles were sliding around on the ice and slush. I made my way to the cab rank and joined the line. I looked down the length of it, trying to judge the wait, when I saw Doc Spears climb into a cab at the head. And suddenly I was running, weaving through the crowd of people coming and going. Spears's cab was pulling forward, sliding around. I jumped off the curb and half-stumbled as I landed in a ridge of knee-high brown-and-black icy crud pushed to the side of the road. Ahead, Spears's cab had stopped, waiting for a gap in the stream of slow-moving traffic. I got up and sprinted. I dived for the rear passenger door handle and pulled it open, just as the cab began to move. I hauled myself inside and the driver jammed on his brakes, shouting, “Hey!”