Butler licked his bottom lip and scratched his head, weighing the odds. He said, “OK, I lied about Amy and me.”
“Why didn't you tell me the truth the first time?”
Butler shrugged. “Broken ribs, smashed flashlight, shagging the dead bloke's bird… wouldn't have looked good for me, would it?”
“And still doesn't,” I reminded him.
“I didn't kill your buddy,” Butler insisted again.
“Did you know Ruben Wright had taken a number of intimate videos of you and McDonough?”
“Dirty bugger,” said Butler, almost proudly.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Yes; I mean, no — I didn't know.”
“I suppose you also didn't know Amy McDonough was first in line to collect?”
“Collect what?” he asked.
“Framed butterflies. Money. What do you think?”
“How much, then?”
“Plenty.”
He shook his head. “No, I had no idea.” He leaned against the bench, folding his arms.
Just like McDonough, it seemed to me Butler didn't know, or didn't admit to knowing, much of anything. Did I believe him? The SAS were the cream of the cream of the British Army. These guys were handpicked for their intelligence and resourcefulness. They were committed and self-reliant. The way Butler talked, I had trouble believing he was capable of remembering how to tie his own shoelaces. “Have you been in contact with Ms. McDonough since Wright's death?” I asked.
“Yes, I saw her once. To call it quits.”
“Was that at a place at Laguna Beach called Miss Palm's?”
Butler fixed me with a look that could break rocks. “You been following me?”
“Just happened to be out for a drive,” I said. “It's a small world. Did you break up because Ruben's death spooked you? Or was it after McDonough told you she was having your kid?”
Butler's ears went purple. Full of indignant anger, like I'd suggested something that had breached his code of honor, he said, “Amy told me she was on the pill. I was surprised to hear she was up the duff.”
“So she tricked you into getting her pregnant? Or did you make her promises you had no intention of keeping?”
Butler pushed out his chin. “Get off your fucking white horse for fuck's sake, Special Agent. Men have been tricking women into licking their dicks since we all climbed down out of the trees. Don't tell me you've never lied to a bird?”
Okay, he had me there. I kept the acknowledgment out of my face. “Maybe that meeting down at Laguna Beach went the way it did for different reasons.”
“Like?”
“Like maybe you misjudged Amy? You were both after Ruben's money, and it was all going along nicely until Amy got pregnant and she told you she wanted to keep the child.”
“Is that what that slut told you?” Butler's voice dropped to a whisper. He took a step into my personal space so that we were toe-to-toe. “Cooper, in less than twenty-four hours, we're jumping into a hostile country. I'm done with your questions. If I were you, I'd forget about Ruben Wright for a few days. I'd concentrate instead on how to avoid joining him. I'd also be checking my kit, especially the condition of your MC-5.” Butler pushed past, bumping my shoulder. The MC-5—the ram-air foil chute. It was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall. I'm not great with hints, but I did have the vague feeling that I might have just been threatened.
I packed and repacked the MC-5 twice, paying particular attention to the harness and suspension lines. I also thoroughly examined the oxygen system and mask. I then stripped the M9 and M4 several times each, and replaced the manufacturer's gun oil in both with a silicon-based type. I checked the M4's magazines, all eight, removing all two hundred and forty rounds and then replacing them, shifting the tracer to the fifth-last shot in each.
At some stage in the evening, Butler and his men returned to go through their gear again. There wasn't a lot of small talk between them. I wondered whether that had anything to do with my presence, because there was absolutely zero small talk between us. Wignall, especially, went out of his way to have no contact with me — eyeball or otherwise. I wondered if Butler could sense that Wignall was the Judas in his ranks.
I tested the batteries of the GPS I'd been issued, as well as the spare set, and did likewise with all other electrical gear I'd be taking in, from the Iridium satellite phone to the SpecterIR thermal sight. Everything appeared to be in order. Despite Butler's parting comment, I didn't expect to find anything amiss. Maybe he was right — I needed to stop being a cop for a while and start thinking like Special Forces. He was also right in saying that my survival would depend on all my gear being present, accounted for, and in good working order.
Aside from ammunition, weaponry, electrical equipment, and the usual survival gear like a hook knife for cutting tangled suspension lines, I made sure I had enough water-purifying tablets to last an extra four days in the field, as well as MREs — meals ready to eat — to last an extra day. I also threw in a dozen chemical hand-warming packs, half a dozen nylon cuff locks, and, finally, my lucky Smith & Wesson stainless-steel, double-locking handcuffs. I held the reassuring weight of them in my hand and couldn't decide who'd I'd rather slap them on — Boyle, Butler, or maybe even Clare Selwyn. I dispelled the happy thought. The sack called and I slept like a cadaver till after sunrise. When I woke, I was relieved to find Chalmers's bunk un-slept in.
After breakfast, I again checked and repacked all my gear, except for the MC-5, which I didn't want to disturb, having taken extra special care with it twice already. I then spent three hours in the briefing room with Butler and his men, running through the op with the latest intel from CIA and NSA, as well as getting the latest atmospheric conditions from CWT — Air Force Combat Weather. I keep hoping these people from CWT will look like network weathergirls, but they never do. Today's report was delivered by a couple of dumpy guys with dandruff. They promised nil wind, but low visibility with heavy snowfalls and cloud at 22,000 feet down to 7000 feet, the altitude of Phunal. Temps, of course, would be subzero. Ordinarily, conditions such as these would have guaranteed an abort. But, as it was only a matter of time before Pakistan killed a few million people on the subcontinent, I had the feeling we'd be going in anyway.
The briefing progressed and I was again told I'd be having very little to do on the ground in the assault phase, though Butler had decided to bring me in closer. My role would be limited to keeping the Ski-Doo's motor running and maintaining overwatch on the snatch through the SpecterIR, looking for Hajis who might want to get trigger-happy in behind the SAS unit. From what I could see, Chalmers had even less to do — except perhaps to pick his nose a couple of times.
The assault itself still looked pretty much like Butler's presentation to General Howerton back at the Pentagon. After the color and movement provided by the blowing up of the facility's propane tanks, and while the Pakistanis were racing around yelling “The sky is falling,” Butler and his men intended to just stroll into Boyle's billet and grab him. We'd all then simply drive across the Afghan border into the arms of a waiting company of U.S. Army Rangers, who'd then escort us to the U.S. Embassy in Kabul. Plans were best kept simple, but this one seemed a dime or two short of a quarter. For example, there were no backup escape routes if things fell to pieces. Weather would prohibit emergency extraction by a chopper. Our safety was up to us. There was, however, one interesting modification. SOCOM informed us by sat link that we didn't necessarily have to bring the professor back alive. If things went into the crapper, we just had to bring him back. Or return with evidence that he'd never be coming back. I had the feeling SOCOM would have been happy with Boyle's head on a stake.