A tree finally stopped it on its roof, Dahab’s bullets pummeling the underside in an attempt to ignite the gas tank. Fortunately, they bounced harmlessly off the protective plating that Sarie had been so impressed with, and soon the gun went silent.
Dazed, Smith managed to crawl through the broken passenger window and stagger into the road with one of the remaining AKs, but by that time, the truck had disappeared into the darkness.
55
Randi Russell slid a half-eaten sandwich into the trash can next to her desk and looked around at the temporary office she’d been assigned. The only other things in it were a computer, the chair she was sitting in, and a framed poster by the door. It depicted four rowers in a boat, and the caption read “Teamwork.” Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt.
What she really wanted at this moment was to be back in Afghanistan. To hear the wind against the cliffs, to see the shocking color of the poppy fields, to get swallowed up by the emptiness. She longed for the simplicity of knowing the Taliban would do everything in their power to kill her and that her men would do everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.
In many ways she’d spent her life trying to prolong the game of cops and robbers that she’d abandoned her dolls for as a child. Black hats. White hats. And a whole lot of guns.
But those days were gone. The grown-ups were playing now.
She’d spent the last two days using both legal and illegal means to dig into every aspect of Nathaniel Frederick Klein’s life. His work record was sterling, respect for him was almost universal, and even his enemies begrudgingly used words like “brilliant” and “patriot” to describe him. Still more interesting was that her vague memory of his personal relationship with President Castilla turned out to be right — they’d been friends since college.
The obvious implication was that Castilla was the “people high up in our government” Klein had referred to and the White House was behind Covert-One’s funding and power. But implications weren’t proof.
She’d contacted Marty Zellerbach because he was the first person she’d have gone to if someone had given her a copy of that Uganda video. The hunch had paid off and he’d shown her his analysis after making her swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone he’d kept a copy.
So everything Klein had said checked out. But did that mean he was on the up-and-up or just that he was as smart as everyone said he was? Could he be working as a private contractor? His modest lifestyle didn’t suggest a highest-bidder scenario, but that didn’t prove anything either. Even if he was raking in serious cash, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to make it obvious.
And finally, there was the irritatingly enigmatic Jon Smith. Klein knew the name would be a powerful motivator — both because of her desire to make sure he didn’t end up dead and because she would tend to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone he’d already vetted. But how could she be sure that Jon actually worked for Covert-One? Hell, for all she knew, he was working against the organization and Klein wanted to use her to track him down and get him to lower his guard.
The bottom line, though, was that Klein’s story wasn’t something she could turn her back on. If he was on the level and she didn’t help, countless people could die. On the other hand, if she let herself be played, even more people could die.
Randi sat in silence for a few more minutes, finally reaching for the phone and dialing Charles Mayfield, the CIA’s deputy director.
“Don’t tell me you’re backing out of lunch tomorrow,” he said by way of greeting.
They’d been friends for a long time and Mayfield had always watched her back — even when it wasn’t in the best interest of his career. But how far was he willing to go?
“We need to talk, Chuck. Now.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. About what?”
She propped an elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand. Good question.
56
Peter Howell skidded the stolen jeep to a stop and jumped out, running through the dust cloud he’d created to the Land Cruiser resting on its roof. The front and side, dimly lit by his one working headlight, were full of bullet holes and he hesitated before looking inside.
No blood to speak of and, thank God, no body. Just a couple of rusting AK-47s with missing clips.
He’d lost friends on ops before — in fact, Jon Smith was one of his last comrades in arms still aboveground. But the circumstances of the others’ deaths had been very different.
Now that the fog of vengeance had lifted, he could see clearly what he’d done. He’d jeopardized a mission that he’d given his word to carry out, he’d turned his back on the millions of people who could be victimized by the parasite, and, worst of all, he’d abandoned a man who wouldn’t have done the same to him.
Howell pulled back and searched for tracks, finally finding footprints in the dust at the edge of the road. He followed them for a few feet, seeing the stride lengthen. Smith was not only alive but in good enough condition to run. No thanks to him.
He jumped back into the idling jeep and floored it up the road. Its top speed wasn’t much more than forty — something he couldn’t confirm with any precision because there were only loose wires where the speedometer had once been. Fortunately, the one piece of electronics the vehicle’s late owner hadn’t pawned was the temperature gauge, and Howell managed his speed to keep it just below redline.
Almost a half an hour passed without a breakdown but also with no sign of Smith. Frequent stops confirmed that the footprints were still there but also that the stride was beginning to wander. Despite the darkness, the temperature was still hovering around one hundred degrees. Even Jon Smith couldn’t run for long in that kind of heat. No one could.
The jeep’s headlight continued to dim, and he concentrated on the tiny swath of illumination it provided, covering the brake with his left foot in case of a sudden obstacle.
It was a strategy that worked well for keeping him from snapping an axle but one that made it impossible to see the man aiming an AK-47 at him until it was almost too late.
Howell slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, sending him into an uncontrolled fishtail as the figure dove back into the jungle to avoid being hit. When the jeep finally skidded to a stop, the Brit jumped out, not bothering to reach for one of the weapons in the back. “Janani’s not going to be happy about what you did to his car.”
Smith didn’t acknowledge his attempt at a joke, instead dusting himself off and shouldering his rifle. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and his face still carried sooty streaks from the fires started by Sembutu’s air force.
“Jon, I—”
When he got within range, Smith slammed a fist into Howell’s midsection hard enough to lift him off the ground. The Brit sank to his knees and then rolled onto his side in the dirt, trying desperately not to throw up.
“Okay,” he said when he could breathe again. “I had that coming. But it worked out, eh, mate? It’d be a long walk to Kampala.”
“And that’s the only reason I didn’t shoot your ass,” Smith said, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet.