“Can someone please shut him up?” Camille said.
“Cam, I think he’s got something,” Iggy said as he moved back to his seat.
Al-Zahrani continued. “Training the tangos also allows us to keep tabs on who’s who, where everyone is and to preempt any serious plots against the West. Not to mention the lousy training we gave them. Any time the Agency wants to send another mole into al Qaeda, all it has to do is have Rubicon drop them off at our doorstep and we take care of the rest. And then there are all the homegrown al Qaeda-wannabe groups who turn to us for official endorsement and support.”
“You’ve turned al Qaeda on itself. That’s genius. It sure beats the Whack-A-Mole game we’ve been playing, taking out individual terrorists when they pop up,” Iggy said, taking a deep breath.
Hunter chimed in. “I’ve seen it in action. Some of your followers in Iraq were trying to truck bomb a wedding of Abdullah’s followers. Crazy SOBs, eating their young.”
“It’s working brilliantly-or it was until you fucked it up,” al-Zahrani said.
“What was Chronister’s role?” Iggy said.
“Joe? He’s my inside officer and he was the project case officer for SHANGRI-LA and BALI HAI. He’s also the contracting officer’s technical rep for both contracts.”
“What the hell’s all that?” Hunter said.
Iggy turned toward Hunter. “It means he was this SOB’s main contact and he ran the shows and controlled the purse strings on behalf of The Agency. Then Joe wasn’t selling out the Agency for a retirement package with Rubicon?” Iggy said. “That was a hard one for me to believe.”
“Are you kidding? The man’s incorruptible-prickly, but clean. He kept Rubicon in line. Those bastards were cutting costs every chance they got. Joe was the only one who could break their balls and even then they got caught shipping us arms they seized from al Qaeda in Iraq. Stupid, greedy bastards.”
“Oh my god,” Camille whispered. Camille suddenly felt alarmed. She remembered her father telling her about the old Cold War days when the CIA used to run its own Marxist organizations so it would know which activists to keep an eye on. The Agency also kept the left constantly infighting this way. The FBI used to do it to anti-Vietnam groups and she vaguely recalled the British doing something similar in Kenya when they couldn’t defeat the Mau Mau tribesmen through conventional means. If the CIA were really running the al Qaeda faction and they had just destroyed the operation, Black Management was finished. They all were. It couldn’t be the truth. “Are we really supposed to believe you would give your life to do this? This is bullshit, I tell you. This is bullshit.”
“I was with the Bureau, getting ready to go undercover with a fundamentalist Islamic group in New Jersey because I was one of their few native Arabic speakers. My wife and kid had just flown in from Dearborn and we were celebrating my kid’s birthday with brunch at the Windows on the World restaurant that day at the top of the Twin Towers. I got delayed.”
“That’s no excuse.” Camille swung around and shouted, surprising herself.
“For what I did back there?” Al-Zahrani licked his lips. “Honey, you were the best lay I’ve had in years.”
“You son of a bitch,” Hunter shouted and nearly knocked Camille off his lap as he tried to get up.
“Later, Top.” Iggy grabbed his arm as he blocked him. “GENGHIS, Cam, help me out.”
Hunter pulled away from Iggy and swung around to get to al-Zahrani the other way. Fucking middle seat. He couldn’t wait to tear into the bastard. GENGHIS jumped into his way and Stella grabbed his arm.
“Sit down. Now.” The force in Stella’s voice caught him off guard. “He’s mine.”
Hunter stood there for a moment, then without saying a word, sat back down and strapped in.
As he waited for the helicopter to land, all he could think about was what he had done to Jackie Nelson.
The Pave Hawk bounced slightly as it landed and the Cobra came in beside them, kicking up more desert. They waited in silence for the rotors to die down and for the sandstorm to settle. Camille sat there, trying to decide what to do. Everything she had worked for was collapsing in on itself. She wanted to pop al-Zahrani and leave the body in the desert for vermin to devour, but she knew if what he was claiming was true, he was too important to national security for that. With the Agency running an al Qaeda faction, she wasn’t even so sure what national security meant anymore.
She wanted the fucker dead.
GENGHIS slid the door open. He held his hand out to help Camille from the bird.
They stood beside the Hawk stretching while the flight engineer ran a hose between the two helicopters for the fuel transfer.
“Stone, GENGHIS, I’ve got to make a call to the seventh floor at Langley and confirm that motherfucker’s story,” Iggy said as he punched a number into a satellite phone. “The refueling is going to take about ten minutes. Why don’t you two take our passenger for a walk? Be careful. I want him alive and I don’t want to get any hospitals involved; doctors, but not hospitals.”
“No.” Camille moved in front of Hunter, grabbing his sidearm and pointing it at al-Zahrani’s head. “I said he’s mine.”
“Cam, don’t do it. The boys will take care of him,” Iggy said, as he lowered the phone. “He’s too valuable. And you’ve got too much to lose.”
“Not anymore.” She flicked off the safety.
Hunter grabbed for the gun just as she fired.
Al-Zahrani dropped to the ground. Hunter put his hand on the gun and guided it so that it pointed away from them as he drew her close. She released it without resistance and collapsed into his arms.
GENGHIS walked over to al-Zahrani and kicked him in the kidneys. “You pantywaist. It hardly grazed you. On your feet. We’re going for a walk.”
Several minutes later, GENGHIS and Hunter dragged al-Zahrani back, bloody and moaning. Camille wasn’t surprised he was still conscious because they probably had wanted him to be aware of his pain. “Boys, why don’t we let him relax his hands a bit?” Camille picked up a pair of bolt cutters from the engineer’s toolbox.
She approached al-Zahrani from behind and moved the bolt cutters close to the zip-cuff binding his wrists. Then she whispered into al-Zahrani’s ear. “An eye for an eye, you piece of shit.” She shifted the bolt cutters and snapped off his right thumb. It snapped off with much less pressure than she had expected.
Al-Zahrani shrieked.
Without a word, she walked back to the toolbox, wiped off the blood with a rag and dropped the bolt cutters back inside the engineer’s toolbox. “Thanks, chief.”
They shoved al-Zahrani back into the helo, this time stuffing a gag over his mouth and a duffle bag over his head.
Everyone stood around while they waited for the engineer to finish the fuel transfer. Ashland smoked a cigarette closer to the aircraft than he should have.
“I made the call to Langley, said the magic words and they couldn’t patch me through to the Director fast enough.” Iggy shook his head. “The story checks out. The fucker’s who he says he is. He’s CIA. We just screwed the pooch. Black Management’s going to be history. We had a good run, guys. It was fun.”
“Hold on.” Camille held up her hand. “I was thinking while they were on that walk. The camp’s gone, but if the world believes al-Zahrani escaped, that would only add to his legend. I’ve got plenty to work with to save us. Black Management will come out on top. Trust me.”
“I love it,” Ashland said, holding the glowing cigarette at his side. “The Americans are running al Qaeda for a profit. Let me guess, now you’re going to try to get a piece of the action. Wait until Paris learns about this.”