The fact is, for as good as his satellites were, they did not record every inch of the entire world at all times. The cameras had to be told where to look, and unless they had been focused on the archaeological dig site at the aforementioned times, there would be no archival record created.
“Anyhow,” Jones continued. “We followed that truck’s payload all the way to, of all places, the Warrior Princess. It turns out this was all being done by Ingrid Karlsson. We’re not sure what exactly is in that woman’s head or what she thought she was going to accomplish. But Agent Bryan went through our dossier of plane-crash victims and he was able to confirm there was any number of people who had made themselves inconvenient to Ms. Karlsson. I’m sure this all comes as quite a surprise to you.”
Jones had dangled the last sentence out there as a bizarre kind of peace offering. Both men knew the other was lying. It was Jones’s way of saying, I know this is garbage. But let’s just bury it and move on. And maybe a younger Derrick Storm — the one who had not yet been scalded by Jones’s “killing” of Clara Strike and then letting Storm believe she was actually dead — would have accepted the olive branch with a halfhearted, “Oh, yes, I’m stunned.”
But not this Derrick Storm.
“You knew about Brigitte Bildt, didn’t you,” Storm said, evenly, in a way that was not to be confused with a question. “She told you why she was coming to America. The moment she was shot down, you knew Ingrid Karlsson was behind it. The reason you didn’t tell me or anyone else immediately was because you didn’t care as much about stopping her as you did about recovering the promethium, because you knew it would earn you a big pile of favors from the Joint Chiefs and an even bigger budget to boot.”
“Hmm,” Jones said, followed by his own pause. Eventually, he seemed to reach the conclusion that there was no point in trying to concoct a cover. “Well, look, you can tell yourself whatever bedtime stories you want to, Storm. It’s all above your pay grade anyway. I was just calling to tell you your involvement in this matter is now over. Your orders are to stand down. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“So that plane ticket you just bought to Morocco, the one the techs just alerted me about, you’re not going to use that, are you?”
Storm paused. “Actually, I probably will. I’ve got an old buddy in Tangier I’ve been wanting to see. We promised each other we’d have a good two- or three-day drunk a while back. This feels like the perfect time to celebrate the end of a successful mission. You have a problem with that?”
“No, I suppose not,” Jones said. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks,” Storm said. “We’ll be sure to hoist one in your honor.”
STORM ENDED THE CALL and was about to get going again when he saw a new e-mail had arrived on his iPad. It was encrypted and asked for a password.
Storm just stared at it dumbly. Maybe whoever sent it to him had confidence he would be able to guess the password. But there was still a world of possibilities. He was about to start with some of the more obvious ones.
Then another e-mail arrived. It was from, of all people, cstrike@cia.gov.
I was just thinking about the game we played in Luxor, Clara wrote. That was a lot of fun. I hope we can play again sometime. I like the way it ended.
Storm stared at it for a second, then returned to the encrypted e-mail. It was from Strike, obviously. And she was trying to give him a clue about the password.
The game we played in Luxor. He typed in chess and hit ENTER. He got nothing. He entered the name of every chess piece on the board, from king down to pawn. Still nothing.
He looked back at Strike’s e-mail. I hope we can play again sometime. I like the way it ended.
He grinned. He got it now. He typed in checkmate. The message opened:
You were right about Jones. He’s made some kind of deal with Ingrid Karlsson where she gets to go free in exchange for the promethium. He’s assembling a team to send to the Warrior Princess as I type this. As far as I can see, the only way to stop this is if you get there first. Good luck.
Love,
Me
CHAPTER 30
TANGIER, Morocco
he announcement went out over the loudspeaker not twenty minutes after Storm’s plane had landed: as was forecast, the tropical cyclone had taken a left turn away from the French Riviera and was now barreling down on the Strait of Gibraltar. The eye was expected to pass very near Tangier. Ibn Battouta Airport, which had just opened up again, would officially be closing down. All flights in and out would be canceled until further notice.
As a smattering of departing passengers groaned, Storm actually pumped his fist in celebration. Whatever team Jones was arranging to take the Warrior Princess, their operation would be delayed until after the storm passed. There would have been no reason for them to take the unnecessary risk of carrying out the mission in the middle of a hurricane. They believed Ingrid Karlsson and the Warrior Princess would still be there when the weather calmed.
It gave Storm the narrow window of time he needed.
Get there, evade the Warrior Princess’s sophisticated sea/air defenses, defeat its well-trained security personnel, destroy the promethium, get Dr. McRae out safely, and arrest Ingrid Karlsson so that she could stand trial for her crimes.
All in the midst of a hurricane.
Storm was sure he had accomplished more impossible tasks. Just none that came to mind at this particular moment.
He walked quickly through the baggage area, still in disbelief he was back in Tangier. Long a haven for spies, writers, and other disreputable types, it had been under Moroccan control for more than fifty years. Yet it retained a distinctly international flavor from having been batted about between rulers for several thousand years. It had started out as a Phoenician trading post, then became a Carthaginian settlement. Then the Romans took over, setting the stage for it to be conquered and reconquered over the centuries: the Vandals, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Portuguese, the Spanish, the British, and the French had all left their mark on the city and its history.
Then there was Storm’s own history here. But that was something he was trying to forget.
He walked outside the airport into the passenger-pickup area. It was covered, but the steady rain that was falling was being blown under the roof by the wind. The first tentacles of the storm were already lashing the area. Storm looked at the sky and saw nothing but gray. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was still wearing the black T-shirt and pants he had bought in Asyūt, which didn’t provide much protection from the wet gusts.
Still, the moisture felt good. Refreshing even. He had grabbed a nap during his flight — and didn’t mind nature’s shower reviving him further.
As he scanned the cars waiting under the protected area, a camouflage-painted Hummer emerged from a nearby entrance ramp and made a line toward Storm. It slowed as it approached. The passenger-side window was rolling down.
Inside, Storm could already see the driver. Thami Harif — “Tommy,” to all his American pals — had a bushy head of silver hair, olive skin, and a scar that stretched across his left cheek, a memento from a knife fight. Ethnically, his father was of some undetermined mix of North African, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and perhaps other unknown strains, much like Tangier itself. His mother was a librarian from Bettendorf, Iowa, which meant Tommy had a full command of American English and all its idioms.