James Abel
Vector
FOR JAMES GRADY
DR. NOIR
ONE
Kyle Utley received the first threat outside the new Post Pub, in Washington, a dark, cool bar on L Street near 15th, popular with National Geographic editors and local softball teams. Inside, on July 10, the White House National Security Team was celebrating a victory over the Senate Committee on Intelligence when the stranger appeared. The “Protectors” had overcome a 4–1 deficit to win the division championship. Twelve sweaty men and women sat drinking cold draft beer and eating the pub’s famed Diplomat Burgers, reliving the game. Their come-from-behind victory had been so satisfying that for once no one talked shop.
Nothing about this morning’s raid by FBI agents in Miami, where a gun battle and explosion had destroyed a small home. Three “foreign males,” as neighbors described them, had rented the house, barricaded themselves inside, and blown themselves up rather than surrender. “All evidence was obliterated,” the FBI report said.
Nothing about jihadist branches popping up in South America. Or the U.S./China face-off in the South China Sea. Just softball and gossip, until the cute Thai waitress bent over and told Deputy Assistant National Secretary Advisor Kyle Utley that a man needed to speak to him, outside.
“Tell him to come in.”
“He says it is too noisy in here.”
“Who is he?” Kyle asked, only half paying attention.
“He says he has big news,” the waitress said.
Kyle left his cell phone on the table — mistake — and walked out of the bar. On humid L Street waited a trim, white, neatly bearded stranger wearing a wide-brimmed red Nats cap, blue tennis shirt, and Adidas. Utley, a former Army Ranger, noted the lower end of a Special Forces tattoo on the right bicep: a coiled snake on a knife hilt. Above that, but hidden beneath the sleeve, would be the skull, beret, and snake head on the muscled arm.
“Sorry to interrupt the party,” the stranger said, not looking that way at all. “Nice home run in the seventh, by the way.”
“What do you want?” Kyle was irritated at the coy, I-know-things-you-don’t attitude, and the fact that the guy had been watching him. He noted the southwestern twang, alert posture, and smile that did not reach the mud-colored eyes. The man’s slim frame rose to wide shoulders. He radiated fitness.
“Kyle, you have instant access to the President’s Security Advisor. You’re not important enough to have a bodyguard. Pass along a message, will you?”
“What message?” Utley asked, chilled despite the heat and understanding that a threat was coming. All threats — he knew — were to be taken seriously.
“That slush fund you guys run out of Ankara, Turkey? To pay off friendly warlords across the border? We’re going to kill several hundred Americans in seventy-two hours if your bosses don’t divert that money. On this paper is a list of charities. Three hundred million dollars is not a lot. Imagine if a few hundred million would have averted the World Trade Center attack. That cost trillions and the bill keeps rising. Pay and everyone stays safe. Plus”—he winked—“it all stays secret, with the convention coming up. Hey, the money’s there already! Easy access!”
Utley stared into the eyes and saw intelligence and calm. His pulse had risen. His combat time in Afghanistan had destroyed any illusions about the depths of human violence. The stranger seemed rational, if that word could be applied to threats. Kyle eyed the paper and thin rubber gloves on the stranger, meaning no fingerprints.
“You sound American,” Utley said.
“Then my language lessons were good.”
“If you have a gripe about something, let’s talk.”
“We are.”
“What’s the money for?” Kyle asked, trying to delay, thinking, five foot ten, mid to late twenties, no visible scars, gap in the front teeth, three freckles on the right lower lip. He felt sweat on the back of his neck.
The man said, “Consider the payments reparations for Tol-e-Khomri.”
“What was that name again?”
Darkness had fallen. Kyle had never heard of Tol-e-Khomri. A lone Volkswagen Jetta cruised past. Two wilted-looking National Geographic writers — the only other people on the block — brushed past, into the bar. Air-conditioning blasted out into the ninety-degree night.
Kyle held out the paper. “These organizations are not charities. They’re fronts for terrorists.”
The man smiled. “That can’t possibly be right.”
“You’ll stop making demands if you get the money?” Utley said, not negotiating, just trying to keep the man there while he took mental notes, figured out what to do.
“Give us what we want and we go somewhere else.”
“What exactly will happen if we don’t pay?”
“Something terrible and unprecedented. Bombs, but not bombs. Panic, but no one will understand at first. It will occur in three cities. It will turn your world upside down. When America learns this warning was ignored, there will be consequences for your bosses. The third coming of wrath.”
“You’re not being clear.”
“I think I am.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The man shrugged. “Then wait seventy-two hours.”
“How about if I call someone more senior than me.” Kyle gathered himself to attack. He’d been trained in close combat, but that was years ago. These days he didn’t even have time to work out in a gym. He said, changing stance so he could move fast, “This is not my area and I’m sure…”
“Stop!” the man hissed.
He’d stepped back. “I’m faster than you, Kyle. You’ve been out of the service awhile. Just call your boss. That’s all you have to do. Then your part is over.”
The man smiled. What could be easier? he seemed to suggest. Left-winger? Right? Veteran who had suffered some injury and blamed the government? Kyle had been schooled in what to say if a threat ever came, although the lessons had always assumed a phone call, not a personal confrontation. Try to control the situation. What a laugh. He might as well try to fly.
The man said, “On 9/11 you had no warning. This time you have a choice.” He turned and limped briskly up the block toward 15th. Utley began to follow. The man spun and raised an index finger. Kyle halted.
Kyle watched the man disappear around the corner. Kyle went to the corner. Somehow, the man was gone. That he could disappear so fast made his threat seem more real.
Kyle went back into the pub, where his teammates realized from his expression that something bad had happened. He retrieved his phone, walked back outside, and punched in the emergency number for the President’s National Security Advisor, who picked up immediately. He was at a barbecue in Potomac. Kyle heard men and women laughing in the background. Someone had made a joke.
“A nut,” the National Security Advisor said, after hearing the story, but they both knew this was hope, not analysis.
After a beat, the NSA asked, “He actually said Tol-e-Khomri? Those exact words?”
“What’s Tol-e-Khomri?”
“Never mind. Special Forces, you say? An American?”
“He had the tattoo. But anyone could have that.”
“He knew about the special fund, eh?”
“Sir, everyone over there knows. It’s the worst-kept secret in the Mideast.”
“There’s never been a situation where someone just walked up and made a threat outside a bar. And bombastic rhetoric is par for the course. They talk big. They bluff.”
An hour later Kyle was at the barbecue, too, at the home of the White House Chief of Staff, on the patio, where a strategy session — how to handle soft-on-terror charges before the national political convention — had just been interrupted. He recounted the story, ice cubes melting in the tumbler of Maker’s Mark in his hand.