Swanson disagreed about the cartels. “The drug lords in Mexico keep whole death squads at the ready; plus, they have local cops and military on their payroll. Why reach all the way to Afghanistan to bring in an expensive specialist?”
Gibson regained his pleasant attitude. Swanson noted that the strong shoulders had relaxed. “No fucking idea, other than that Marks is very, very good. Somebody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody else who recommended him. His name has gotten around quite a bit among the jihadis and they put a reward on his head, with no luck. If they couldn’t kill him, why not just get him a new job somewhere else? Like I said, Nicky is a great mercenary. He would go to a high bidder. I can’t blame him for being tired of Afghanistan. I am, too.”
Swanson sighed with frustration and started to get up from the table. “I’ll ask him all that when I find him. And I will find him, eventually.”
The easy smile remained. “Maybe I misspoke, Swanson. When I said you wouldn’t get him, I really meant only that you will never find him by yourself.” Gibson shifted his position, leaning forward, switching gears as a negotiator. “Look, I’m as pissed off as you are about this. A recruit I brought in and trained has bolted over to the bad guys and did an abominable thing to your friend in Mexico. Nicky has dirtied my own reputation, and the agency will hold me responsible for allowing him to go off the reservation. Hell, I may lose my job.”
Swanson sat back down. “You have my attention.”
The tanned face turned serious, and the crow’s-feet deepened as he squinted. “I suggest that we work together. We’ll use every tool the company has available, every trick in the book and some that aren’t in any books, trace Nicky to his hidey-hole, wherever it may be, and then blow the fucker away.”
“We should partner up?” Swanson was surprised by the suggestion. “No way.”
“It makes sense. You and I are probably the tops in our weird game, and Nicky isn’t far behind with his skill set. Director Atkins wants him off the board and buried. So do you. So do I.”
“I work better alone,” Swanson said.
“Snipers work best in teams. You know that. How many shooters have you taught that rule?” Gibson had spent a lot of time doctoring this pitch before making it. Could Swanson deny his own doctrines?
That was a cold fact, and Swanson knew it. Was it not the reason that he was even considering bringing Coastie back to work? The difference was experience and trust. She had proved herself repeatedly as being able to cover his back in combat, and they made an excellent team, while he had just met Luke Gibson. There was no foundation here.
Gibson went on, “I just finished a gig up in the Badlands, and my partner was locally trained by the Green Berets. Asshole nearly got me killed. I think the damned mule we used to carry the gear was smarter. For me to work with a guy like you would be a privilege; plus, it would increase the odds of bringing Nicky down.”
That made some sense. “Tell you what, Mr. Gibson. I’ll think about it overnight and run the idea past the director. Meet me back here tomorrow, same time. And, if I agree, you be ready to tell me everything you know about Marks. Maybe we can work something out.”
Gibson’s smile broke out again. “Okay, you got a deal. Hey! Since we’re done here, you want to go have some dinner or a drink?”
“Maybe tomorrow. My body clock is messed up after the long flight. Enjoy the rest of your Bloody Mary.”
“Nah, I don’t like drinking alone. The company booking agent said you didn’t approve of their low-range hotel and upgraded to the Radisson Blu on your own dime. They did the same with me, so I changed over to the Hilton. Bureaucrats have strange priorities. He’ll be pissed that both of us ignored his picks.”
“Our meeting was supposed to be secret,” Swanson observed.
“Good luck with that. Every time I go on a job I worry about the long logistics tail. How many people were involved in just getting us together tonight? Dozens? No such thing as a secret.”
Swanson had to agree. “Yeah. Well. Anyway, I’m out of here.”
“I’m going in the same direction for a few blocks. If the rain has stopped, I’ll walk with you. Maybe I can find a nice warm bar with friendly women who are eager to please.”
Swanson retrieved his coat from Aurora and the two men exited onto a broad sidewalk that meandered along the River Spree and sloped down beyond a protective hedgerow to the water’s edge. They turned north. The rain had passed, leaving a misty overcast that dulled the glare of the city lights. Cars and trucks were a steady ribbon of illumination. On their left, the broad river flowed dark and swift. Boat traffic was minimal, because the Spree was too narrow to be a significant maritime route.
“What was it about Marks that made you recruit him in the first place?” Swanson shoved his hands deep inside his coat pockets as they walked.
Gibson, in a climber’s coat, fished out a cigarette and lit it with the practiced flip of an old metal Zippo. “I had watched him work a couple of times when he was attached to merc units. He was so cool under fire that he made it look easy. I checked his records and thought he showed some promise, so I brought him aboard in starter work like recon. Within six weeks, I knew I’d found a winner.” Gibson exhaled and the breeze snatched away the ribbon of smoke. “Langley loved him because he didn’t worry about unusual assignments. He would push the envelope without changing his heartbeat.”
“So they took over? Trained him up?”
“Yeah.” He inhaled deeply, then exhaled and flicked the butt. It twirled away like a little spinning torch. “You know the drill. Time passed and a lot of bosses punched his ticket. I was just the middleman.”
“If that ticket has a lot of fingerprints, then it’s no wonder the agency’s nervous. There might be a lot of blame to go around for him going rogue,” Swanson said, then paused. “So somebody back in the States was actually running him?”
Gibson looked up at the tall buildings, then down to street level. Snipers always kept their eyes moving. “Don’t know, man. Beyond my pay grade.”
A cream-colored automobile with a glowing yellow taxi sign on top abruptly broke from the line of oncoming traffic. The engine revved and the front wheels cut toward them. Swanson noticed that the passenger window was sliding open just as Luke Gibson hit him with a shoulder block that took them both to the ground. They fell to the left, over and through a waist-high border of shrubs and flowers, then down the grassy slope toward the water.
A small oval object flew from the window of the car, hit the pavement, bounced once, then caught in the hedgerow and exploded.
Swanson and Gibson were slashed with dirt and leaves, while the hot shrapnel of a hand grenade trimmed the greenery. By the time they raised their heads, the car had disappeared.
“You okay?” Swanson was brushing off his hair and face. The blast had gone over them, but the dirt and grass had showered down. His ears were ringing.
Gibson was on his hands and knees, coughing. “Yeah.” The man from Afghanistan wiped at his clothing.
“The good news is we didn’t get our dumb asses killed. The even better news is that we’re not going to have to look far to find Nicky Marks. He threw that grenade. The bastard was laughing as he went by.”
5
“Again?” Marty Atkins, back at CIA headquarters in Virginia, was on an encrypted call to Berlin, his voice incredulous. “You were attacked again by the same guy? In another country? Impossible!”
“Not impossible, Marty. I just picked a shard of metal out of my coat. It was about as hard and real as I care to get.”
Luke Gibson was also near the speakerphone. “Positive identification, sir. I saw him clearly. It was Nicky Marks who threw the grenade.”