With the debris haphazardly stacked back in place, Gibson gave Daniel Cabot McCabe a small, fiery sendoff.
He left the truck where it was, with the keys in the ignition. The last trace of the marine biologist who had passed through the port of Astoria would be stolen and gone by morning. Gibson flung the shovel as far as he could, and it bounced and came to rest amid the beer cans and junk. Shouldering the backpack, he made the easy walk back into town, paid a hundred dollars in cash for a nice, bland room at the Holiday Inn Express, showered, brushed his teeth, and went to sleep feeling like a new man.
The following morning, he slept late and missed the complimentary buffet, so he wandered downtown and found a real restaurant that fortified him with eggs, ham, hash browns, fresh biscuits, and strong coffee. Back to the Holiday Inn Express, and the crowd was gone, off to wherever their big recreational vehicles would travel. Gibson slid into a chair in the semi-private travelers’ business suite and logged into one of his accounts. He had been out of touch since Hong Kong, but struck gold in the first chat room, where a coded message awaited. The source was an old-timer inside the CIA:
Regret to report that your good friend Kyle Swanson suffered catastrophic head and spine injuries. Condition critical. Prognosis grim, probably fatal. He is paralyzed neck down and on life support in the care of a private clinic in London. Condition entered in personnel file by on-scene observers who interviewed physician. I share your grief.
Gibson sucked in a sharp breath. Damn. I got him! Or did I? He had butt-stroked Swanson pretty good, but to this extent? Still, what extra damage was done in the following action? Good news indeed, but inconclusive. He called up a second secret site, a private message board from a source buried within the élite community of special operators, and his heart began to sing:
Swanson is finished with a broken neck. Source the two snipers who brought him out, plus helo medic that treated him on extract.
Luke shut the computer down, erased the history, leaned back, and snapped his fingers with controlled joy. I got him. Not the shoot-out I wanted, but I got the bastard.
He returned to his room, gathered his belongings, and checked out of the hotel into a bright and glorious Idaho day. Number One! He stuck out his thumb beside the highway and headed east, toward Big Thunder.
The sun was high when Kyle Swanson awoke again, this time with a gentler emergence back into the real world after his drug-enforced hibernation. His lids fluttered and he coughed. There was some mild disorientation, but it gave way as life resumed. It felt as if he were being reborn, leaving a comfortable place of which he now had no memory.
Hands were holding his, Coastie on the right and Lady Pat on the left. He smiled at them. “Welcome back, boy,” called out Sir Jeff, leaning on the foot of the bed. The big frame of Double-Oh Dawkins shadowed behind them.
He just looked at all of them for a moment, taking in their presence. “Did I make it okay?” His voice was a croak.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of sleeping for a while,” grumped Dawkins. “You still have all your fingers and toes.”
Coastie leaned forward and kissed Kyle lightly on the forehead. “Everything is good,” she said.
“Hey, you really are here,” he said, taking a long look at her. “I thought I saw you earlier. Can I get some water?”
Sir Jeff told him that he’d been attended by one of the finest physician-surgeons in London, who was now on his way home. “You looked like hell, and we have pictures to prove it, but you’re fine. You may have a headache for a day or two, and an upset stomach. Otherwise, it went well.”
“Let’s not do that again, shall we?” Lady Pat squeezed his hand.
Kyle drank some water. “Did it work?”
“Who knows? We sure planted enough hard evidence and rumors. Everybody but a tight handful of friends believes you are crippled with a broken neck and expected to die.” Double-Oh crossed his arms. “We are ready to go hunting whenever you are.”
Kyle felt the gentle sway of the yacht and knew they were aboard the Vagabond. His stomach felt a bit queasy, and he closed his eyes again. “Where are we?”
Sir Jeff spoke again. “We’ve passed out of the North Sea and are nearing the Channel Islands. The captain says we’ll be in the Atlantic sometime overnight.”
“Anything on Gibson yet?” He looked at Double-Oh.
“He got away aboard an old helicopter in the Afghan fracas. Marty Atkins thinks the agency may have a lead on him in Hong Kong, but he hasn’t pinged the system.”
“So we don’t know if he’s taking the bait.” Kyle was tiring.
“Not for sure. But we certainly provided a convincing show.”
Kyle faded again, and the medical orderly stepped in to instruct that he should be left alone for a while. Reluctantly, the four of them trooped out of the cabin. The patient asked weakly, “Can I get something for sea sickness?”
“No problem,” replied the orderly. “All your vital signs are stable. You might be on your feet tonight.”
“I may puke.”
“Basket’s at your right hand.” She gave him a shot of Dramamine, then turned off the light and left the room.
32
The congresswoman felt that her star-spangled universe was closing in on her. She had wrapped herself in the flag and called it patriotism, and now it was strangling her. She was seated in the immense office of the Speaker of the House, and he looked at her as if she were a bug that had splattered the windshield of his limousine. The same look came from her boss, the minority leader. There were four people at the conference table, and the third was Marty Atkins, the CIA director of intelligence. The welcome hadn’t been cordial.
“We’ll get right to it, because we all have more important things to do today,” said the Speaker in an icy tone. He nodded to the minority leader.
“If you were in a private company, you would be fired for cause and incompetence, Congresswoman Keenan. We, however, are the Congress of the United States and cannot do that. So here is the offer you can’t turn down: You are out of politics at the end of this term. Do not run for reelection.”
Veronica Keenan opened her mouth to say something, but the Speaker shut her down. “If you do not heed the advice of your party leader, we will all crush you. Go back to the farm, Veronica. You’re done in Washington.”
“This is a cover-up!” she squeaked, and turned to Atkins. “Your agency is riddled with corruption and you’re trying to lay the blame elsewhere.”
The professorial civil servant had seen hundreds of these characters in a lifetime with the agency. Flailing for support, their first instinct was to throw a stink bomb at the CIA. This one had caused more trouble than most because of the congresswoman’s membership on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.
“You brought us a scandal, Ms. Keenan,” said Marty Atkins. “A scandal with no proof. As a result, the media had another field day at our expense. We investigated everything thoroughly and found nothing.”
“I don’t believe you, sir,” she snipped.
“We do,” bellowed the Speaker. “In the process, you endangered our men and women, compromised operations, and broke your oath of secrecy. You should be going to prison, but we don’t need even more bad public relations from your tawdry power grab.”
“Two of our field agents are dead and a third is missing, thanks to you.”