“You know who made them, then?”
“We do not.” Wallford looks at Porter, gives it a moment, then adds, “But there were other calls from that location, and those calls were to a man in Texas. A man in Texas who called you, Eric. A man in Texas who, it turns out, you’ve been talking with at least once a week for the last three months, and who you talked to three times yesterday. You want to tell us what you and he talked about?
“I-”
“I would think very carefully about how you answer this,” Wallford says. He leans back in the chair, craning his head to look pointedly at Bell, then to Porter.
“Jerry-”
Bell says, “We have a code. One of ours dies, someone answers.”
“One of yours? None of yours died.”
Bell takes three steps forward and grabs Eric Porter by his silk necktie, wraps it once around his fist, and yanks. Porter falls forward onto his desk, a strangled cry, and Bell puts his other hand to the back of the man’s head, pushing down, hard, so that Porter’s neck is caught at the edge.
“Angel was one of mine,” Bell says. “And I think you’re responsible for her death. Tell me how I’m wrong.”
Porter gags.
Then Porter talks.
The planning is completed quickly, in the passenger compartment of a chartered Learjet, with Chaindragger assigned to back Bell on the ground, Cardboard on overwatch. Bonebreaker is still out on medical, two broken ribs needing time to heal, though he was adamant that he wanted to Charlie Mike.
“You are continuing mission,” Bell told him. “You’re just doing it on medical leave.”
“Fuck you, Top.”
“Not with a stolen dick.”
“When you deliver, make sure a stamp comes from me,” Jorge said.
“To be paid in full,” Bell agreed.
Doctrine varies on the best time to make a night raid, but when Bell has the luxury of making the call himself, he prefers to roll between three and four in the morning. This time, Ruiz has given him the reins, and it’s 0340 when he and Chain begin the breach of the big house overlooking the lake outside Austin, Texas. Their target is a very, very rich man, who can pay for very, very good security, but what he cannot pay for is absolute privacy, and with the right floor plans and the right tools, nothing is impossible.
With the right plans and the right tools, sometimes it’s even easy.
By 0344, Bell and Chain are inside the big house, with the security guards outside still believing everything their cameras are telling them, and the alarm system on the house still believing it works properly. Floor plan memorized, it’s seventy seconds later before Bell is silently pushing open the door to the master bedroom. Chain follows him inside.
Night vision gives them two figures in the bed, one old man and one young woman, and Chain moves to the latter while Bell moves to the former. Bell waits while Chain puts the woman under, gets the nod, and then brings his gloved left hand to the mouth of Lee Jamieson. With his right, he puts the silencer on his pistol against the man’s forehead.
Eyes snap open in sudden terror.
“Eric Porter gave you up,” Bell says. “Eric Porter says you bought the hit on WilsonVille. What Eric Porter doesn’t know is who you bought the hit from. Give me a name.”
Bell lifts his hand from the old man’s mouth, moves the silencer a fraction away from the old man’s forehead. Lee Jamieson coughs softly, looks to his side, sees the woman asleep, and Chaindragger, a black silhouette that mirrors Bell’s, standing silently by. He looks up at Bell.
“You’re a soldier,” Jamieson says. “You should applaud what I tried to do.”
“I don’t care. I want a name.”
“But you should care. Everyone should care. We’re at war, you know that. What are you? SEAL? Delta? A soldier, a warrior; you know the stakes.”
“Name.”
Jamieson chuckles, sitting up more fully, adjusting the pillows at his back, and Bell has to admit he recovers himself quickly. “Now, let’s be reasonable. I know many people, and I have more money than you can imagine.”
“You have five hundred million less than you should,” Bell says. “Which seems to me a bit steep for faking a terrorist incident, but I don’t normally buy such things, so I may not be equipped to judge.”
“They fucked me, you understand that, don’t you?” Jamieson squints up at him. “Nobody was ever supposed to die. The device was never supposed to be operational, it was just there to lay the blame at the feet of the Revolutionary Guard. To push us, to speed us along.”
Bell stares at the man, thinks it must be appalling arrogance rather than incredible naivete that allows him to imagine that no lives would be lost. In a park filled with fifty thousand people, the fact that so few died was a miracle, one achieved only by the presence of himself, Chain, and Angel at the start.
He cannot help but wonder if his presence in the park was coincidence, or something more. If those whispers that put him into play didn’t start from this man here, or others connected to him. Or if those whispers were started from the inside, by this man’s associates, by others who share his agenda.
He doesn’t like thinking that. It would mean a betrayal of trust at the highest levels. It would mean that what this man before him put in motion was done with someone’s tacit consent.
“Name,” Bell says again. “You are running out of time.”
“These are the end times, son.” Jamieson leans forward. “This is the end of an ideological war. We’re fighting savages, they know nothing of civilized society, of the rule of law, of peace, they have no faith in God. We’ve got a president who gets down on his hands and knees in front of these people, their religion, we’ve got a populace who thinks that’s appropriate. They’re ‘war-weary,’ but they don’t even know where we’re fighting, let alone what we’re fighting for. You know this! You know they’ve forgotten. They make movies about the day the towers fell, in the name of Christ!
“We have to send a wake-up call!” Jamieson is warming to his words, more confident, defiant before Bell. “We have to bring this country back together, we have to reunite, focus ourselves on our common foe! This is the end, you’ve got to see it! They’re fighting a holy war? We’re fighting a holy war! You think I could do this alone? There are others like me, others who know what happens if we do not recover our will to fight. Others who share with me the understanding that we cannot falter. If that means showing America what these people are capable of, then I’m proud to have done it.”
Bell nods. Then he puts his hand over the old man’s mouth, and shoots him in the knee. The scream is muffled, dies against his glove, and Bell keeps his hand there for almost thirty seconds longer, watching as Jamieson’s eyes go from wide to half lidded before releasing his hold.
“Give me the name of the man you paid,” Bell says. “Or I shoot you in the other leg.”
“You fucking son of a whore,” the old man gasps.
Bell raises the pistol, sighting the other leg.
Jamieson’s hands fly out, tears of pain shining in the night of the room. “He tried to keep it from me, he tried to keep it all anonymous! But I was careful, I was…I was careful, I did a lot of checking before we moved the money. I don’t know if it’s a real name, I don’t, but it’s the name I found. He’s some Uzbek bastard, lives in Tashkent.”
“Name.”
“Tohir! Vosil Tohir!”
Bell moves a hand to his ear. “Get that?”
“Got it,” Ruiz says. “Finish and go home.”
“You go after him,” Jamieson says. “You go after him, you let him know it’s from me. Son of a bitch double-crossed me, tried to take me for a billion dollars. You go after him, you tell him you came from me.”
“I don’t work for you,” Bell says, and shoots the man twice in the head.
He and Chain leave as silently as they arrived.
By the time they’re wheels-down and have their gear stowed, Ruiz is ready to brief them for Tashkent.