"Okay. Let's stay in touch. Nice talking with you."
"Likewise." Carter broke the connection.
He went over the conversation in his mind. The Bureau had told Harker nothing when she requested their files on Wu. Now he knew there was a connection between the Triads and Colonel Wu, and by extension General Yang.
If the book was at Connor's country place tomorrow, some questions might get answered. He hit the rack and fell asleep.
He had the dream.
They come in low and fast over the ridge, the relentless hard drumbeats of the rotors echoing from the valley walls.
The village is a miserable, dust-blown cluster of low, flat-roofed buildings, baking in a bleak hollow of sharp, brown hills. A wide, dirt street runs down the middle. They drop from the chopper and hit the street running. On the right, low flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market, a patchwork of ramshackle bins and hanging cloth walls. Clouds of flies swarm around things hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.
He leads his team past the market. Close enough to the buildings to be able to duck into a doorway. Far enough away so a round fired won't burrow down a wall and right into him.
He hears a baby cry. The street is deserted. Where is everyone?
A dozen bearded figures rise up on the rooftops and begin firing AKs. The market stalls disintegrate around him in a firestorm of splinters and plaster and rock exploding from the sides of the buildings.
He dives for cover. A child runs toward him, screaming about Allah. Nick watches and hesitates, a second too long. The boy cocks his arm back and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The M4 kicks back, one, two, three.
The first round strikes the boy's chest, the second his throat, the third his face. The child's head balloons into a red fountain of blood and bone. The grenade drifts through the air in slow motion…everything goes white…
He woke shouting, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets.
He got up, made coffee, poured in a double Jameson's. When he had the dream there was no point in going back to bed.
When he joined the Marines he'd been gung-ho. Naive. Ready to change the world. But all the nameless and meaningless landscapes of loss and death had changed him. The world stayed the same.
That kid in Afghanistan couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. Old enough to throw a ball, or a grenade, a pretty good distance. Young enough to believe the bullshit he'd been fed about what God wanted him to do and put himself right where Carter would have to kill him.
The child and the grenade always waited in the back of his mind. Carter knew there wasn't anything else he could have done, but it didn't help. It was one more death in a chaotic war that couldn't be won, in a corrupt and brutal land.
Working for Harker gave him a way to bring some kind of meaning to it. It was personal. A way to stop the kind of people who'd sent that child against him. People who thought it was a really good idea to put grenades in the hands of children. People who thought that whatever they wanted was the only right way for everyone. That killing anyone who didn't agree with them was righteous. People who thought God was pleased by that. Carter was damn sure God hadn't told that kid what to do.
He waited for sunrise.
Chapter Nine
Sunlight shone on streets wet with early morning rain. Water on the pavement mirrored a clear, bright sky of light blue with scattered white clouds. The heat wave had broken. The smog had blown away in the night. The city smelled fresh and clean.
A black Ford Crown Vic with plain wheels and government plates pulled up where Carter waited outside his building. A man sat in the front passenger seat wearing a gaudy red Hawaiian shirt covered with white flowers. A loose, cream colored linen jacket bulged over his holstered Glock. He was wearing wraparound shades and a pork pie hat. He looked like he'd just stepped off the set of CSI Miami.
Ronnie Peete was a full blooded Navajo, born on the Reservation. His skin was a light, reddish brown. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips and sleepy brown eyes that could spot a hawk or a sniper at a thousand yards. Ronnie had been a Gunnery Sergeant in Nick's Recon unit. Carter considered him the best combat Marine he'd ever known. He was also a friend.
"How's the ear?" Ronnie asked through the open window.
"Itches like hell."
Nick climbed in back. They pulled away. Ronnie looked back over the front seat.
"They had some great shots on the news last night. Bodies and wrecks on the highway, you covered with blood. How come you have all the fun?"
"Lucky, I guess. Harker find anything out yet?"
"Nope. No ID on any of them. The attackers were probably Chinese. Harker filled me in. Maybe it's about that book. It's too much of a coincidence."
"That's what I think."
"She asked me to ride along to the airport, just in case."
They pulled up at the Mayflower. Selena waited outside with her bodyguard, dressed in jeans and Nikes, a light jacket over a gray silk blouse. She got in the back with Nick. She looked tired, stressed out.
"Morning," he said. "Sleep well?"
"Good morning. Not very. I kept thinking about yesterday."
"This is Ronnie. You'll see a lot of him."
"Morning."
The driver picked his way through traffic. Selena was quiet, lost in thought. They got to the airport without incident.
Ronnie left them at the counter. Carter looked at his ticket. Booked in First Class.
"How did we luck out with this? I usually end up next to the baggage."
"I called in and got us upgraded. I didn't see any point in getting squeezed into coach. It's a long flight."
"Maybe they'll have some real food for a change."
"I wouldn't count on it. I bring my own. The hotel made up a package for me. Do you like roast beef?"
"Any horseradish with it?"
"I haven't looked, but they seem to think of everything."
Carter took Selena through private security. There was a discussion about his gun. A look at his ID with the Presidential seal on it and they let him keep it. They settled into the comfort of First Class.
The attendant brought mimosas.
Selena said, "I was thinking about immortality. If you're immortal, what happens to your friends and lovers? Are they immortal? Do you think someone could stay married for, say, a thousand years?"
"No one could stay married that long."
"Have you ever been married?"
His whole body went tense.
"No. I was engaged, once."
He remembered.
Megan was laughing, her fine, brown hair blowing in the wind coming off the Pacific. They'd gone up the coast to Trinidad for the weekend and found a Victorian bed and breakfast, on the cliffs looking out over the water.
From the deck outside the room they'd watched the seals sunning themselves on the black rocks out in the ocean.
They were getting ready to leave. Megan was beautiful, that day, her green eyes sparkling in the morning sun, excited about going to her new job down in San Diego. Nick had held her close.
"I love you," he'd said. "I'll always love you."
"Nick. You've got to come back to me, come back safe."
"We'll get married when I get back. My tour is up in six months. I'll be a civilian and we can have a real life together."
"And a very, very fine house?" She'd smiled and punched him lightly in the chest with both hands while he held her.
"And two cats in the yard, just like the song." He'd kissed her.