Miles To Go Part 14

Margot rolled down the window of the car. It was humid from the rain and her face was damp with perspiration. And she was anxious. She had never met Garrison but she knew of his reputation. And her work in Tajikistan hadn't exactly honed her skills. But she was good at what she did, even if she never gave herself enough credit. She had been two years in Dushanbe under diplomatic cover. She spent her days at her desk, glued to her computer, and her nights at emba.s.sy c.o.c.ktail parties sniffing around for anything her country might be interested in. It wasn't what she imagined for herself when she joined the CIA. But since the Soviet Union collapsed, the work of the spy was much less glamorous. She also knew that her time here was just a stepping stone. She did good work and eventually it would pay off. This a.s.signment showed that her bosses were confident in her and if she pulled it off, a promotion was inevitable.

She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the side mirror of the taxi, wide eyes peering out from the headscarf. Even with her hair hidden, she still looked impossibly American, with the pert good looks of a Midwestern beauty queen. She was very pretty and a bit vain about it. She still wore what she had worn to work, a dark suit with a subtle pinstripe. She hadn't had time to change before leaving, barely had time to rush home and throw a few things in an overnight bag. She fished a cigarette out of her purse and lit it, drawing in deeply on the smoke. She wished she'd had time for that drink before she got the call.

Okay, Margot, it's time to get it together. She felt her nerves begin to settle.

Margot had first heard of Martin Garrison right out of training when she was stationed in Moscow for her first gig.

There were still a bunch of oldies but goodies moldering in the emba.s.sy who couldn't quite believe the Cold War was over. And Garrison was their hero, a celebrity in the world of espionage.

Few agents worked with him since he spent so much time in deep cover, spending as much as a year undergroundno wonder he had family problems. But his exploits were known and revered.

And now she was supposed to detain him. She fingered the gun under her arm. Detain him. That was what they said, at first. But it quickly became clear that by "detain" they meant for her to shoot him on sight. The CIA had zero tolerance for agents who betrayed them. They knew too much and were too dangerous.

Margot knew she had to be careful. She couldn't afford to be spotted by Garrisonhe was too good and could take her before she knew what hit her. But her talents lay in stealth and in firing a weapon with absolute certainty. The silencer was in the pocket of her jacket. Garrison would be waiting for a delivery that would never come. And she would be waiting for him. The voice on the phone had told her not to get near him, not to speak to himjust fire on sight. And then strip him of all ID, connect with the FBI agent, accept the doc.u.ment and get the h.e.l.l out.

Margot thought of the 1976 ban on political a.s.sa.s.sination.

It was laughable. It was what her government did when they ran out of options. Everyone in the business knew that. She flicked her cigarette out the window and reread the article on Ahmad Armin's death, printed off Lexis after she got the call.

Her presence in the little village closest to Armin's camp was no coincidence and neither was Martin Garrison's. She didn't know exactly what was going on but she knew what she had to do.

Shadowy fields flitted past her in the darkness. She could see lights up ahead and knew she was near the village. She should have gotten some sleep on the plane but her nerves were jangling too loudly for that. She would check into a room, settle herself and then head to the building opposite Garrison's boarding houseCIA had no idea what it housedand see if she could procure a place to watch.

Hannah walked alongside Rennie. It was late. Or early, depending on your perspective. Nearly four a.m. and they would soon begin to see the first signs of day. The night in the woods was the most difficultthe period from midnight until the first intimation of dawn seemed interminable, minutes crawling by in the unchanging dark. Rennie had said that this would be their last night in the woods, that tomorrow would bring the village.

Hannah believed her. She had to. She couldn't last much longer.

Rennie had given her another of the little white pills a few hours before and her mind was wide awake. But her body seemed disconnected from it, a sluggish ma.s.s her mind had to drag along after it. But they had kept up a challenging pace and were making good time. She would continue to push herself, anything that would get her closer to home. Home. She wasn't even sure what it meanther country, her city, her apartment? Like Dorothy, she wanted to click her heels and just be there, no matter what it meant, someplace where she wasn't locked in or carrying a gun and looking over her shoulder.

Growing up she'd always felt out of place. She loved Baltimore in her own way, the way you love a sc.r.a.ppy, unruly dog who knows how to steal your heart the moment you're about to write him off. But she never felt truly at home there. She was always a traveler at heart and had stolen away the moment she'd had the chance. She wanted to perceive the world through eyes other than her own, eyes without the permanent cloud of someone else's history. Her work as a reporter brought her into contact with every form of human miseryhunger, strife, boundless grief, hopeless despairand she found that seeing such things firsthand was the only thing that blunted her cynicism. But she always found it easier to extend her sympathy to strangers. She was much harder on the people in her life, the friends and family and lovers who were supposed to matter.

She remembered her first a.s.signment overseas, in Tehran, during a demonstration against the country's oppressive theocratic government. It was the first time she had witnessed real chaos.

Here were people desperate for change. Screaming, chanting, fists pumping in the air. Violence was the undercurrent, on the verge of erupting at any moment. Witnessing the expression of such raw, unconstrained emotion had made her want to weep. Until later when she learned that the demonstration wasn't what she thought it was, the spontaneous eruption of a people kept down for too long. The men in the streetbrought in from the slums in the south of the cityhad been paid a pittance to form a mob, feigning pa.s.sion and allegiance to a burgeoning political faction that opposed the Ayatollah. She felt like a fool. She had forgotten the first lesson she should have learned from her parentsa mob can be manipulated to believe or they can willingly partic.i.p.ate.

You can never truly trust anyone but your family. So they had said.

An evil thing to tell a child. But she seemed to have succeeded in following their advice, at the very least, in her relationships.

Hannah glanced at Rennie forging ahead through the woods.

Rennie, who seemed so earnest. So earnest, perhaps she was a fool. Trusting her country enough to kill a man for it. Hannah wondered how that felt, to believe in something so completely to be able to kill for it. It struck her as fanatical, as unreasonable as the Islamist terrorists they condemned. But maybe she was making a.s.sumptions. Nevertheless, Hannah found herself powerfully drawn to Rennie. She questioned where the attraction was coming from. Maybe it was as simple as that she owed Rennie her life.

She now knew her own government never intended to bring her home, even though they knew they would be within a few hundred yards of her cell. In a world where some strive for power, a few struggle to hold on to it and the rest only hope to avoid getting caught in the crossfire, violence and deception are the oil that makes the engine run. It was the way of the world.

Hannah didn't dispute this or feel any need to lament it. She just hated the hypocrisy. But Rennie had done the right thing, even if her government hadn't, and in the process risked her life and her career, too, Hannah imagined, to bring her out of the h.e.l.l she'd thought she'd never escape. Now, she wanted nothing more than to go home and be done with it all. And she didn't know if she'd ever leave home again.

The night was warm and, aside from the fatigue of her body, Hannah felt better than she had in days. Her clothes were finally dry and the chill she had taken into her bones by the river was nearly gone. Walking was easier, the ground even and the trees less dense. She was continually surprised by the different aspects the woods manifestedone moment seeming grand and protective and the next ominous and foreboding. Rennie walked more slowly now and seemed to be scrutinizing every rock and tree. Her energy must be flagging too.

But something was wrong. Rennie seemed on edge, keyed up in a way Hannah hadn't seen before. Then Rennie stopped and turned to Hannah, exhaling forcefully.

"This is where it happened."

The ambush.

"I need a moment," she said quietly, indicating to Hannah to stay where she was.

Rennie walked away from her, slowly through the trees towering above her. It was the farthest they had been from one another since the rescue and Hannah felt strangely alone, leaning against a tree, the bark rough against her back. Watching Rennie from a distance, she seemed so much smaller, a slim silhouette in the faint moonlight. Hannah saw her stop and stand before the 0.

bodies. She could smell them from where she stood, an unholy stench that wormed its way into her brain, imprinting an indelible memory, and making her stomach leap to her throat.

She was never able to think of death with any kind of clarity.

Her parents had seen hundreds of naked, emaciated bodies that never made it into the ground or to the synagogue to have the rabbi speak over them. She'd grown up with those images rendered in black and white. It was an introduction to a subject most American children only encountered in the safety and artificiality of the funeral parlora loved one made up in their Sunday best, laid out for the eternal sleep. She hated having those photos, that history, always in her mind. It seemed like it was her reference point for everything. Every experience filtered through that one monumental event.

Rennie knelt on one knee, her head in her hand. Watching her, Hannah saw that here was a woman bound by duty and loyalty first and foremost. Hannah wanted to go to her and offer comfort. But she knew that this was Rennie's last opportunity to make whatever kind of peace she could and Hannah let her be.

She recalled those archetypal stories of war, of soldiers risking their lives to rescue the bodies of their dead comrades. Before, she believed it to be rooted in a kind of militaristic machismo ant.i.thetical to practicality. Men whose blood still beat in their veins risking their lives in order to bring home rotting flesh to be put in the ground. It seemed wasteful. To honor the living, that was what mattered. But now, with these men before her on the ground, the black-and-white pictures seemed to blur and fade.

There was nothing like the real thing in front of you. Even in the dark she could imagine the vivid colorthe red of spent life, the green of rotand the stink of death soaking into every pore.

Rennie stood slowly and turned away from the dead men.

She knelt again a little off to the side where a heap of packs lay.

She finally turned and walked back to Hannah. Hannah could see that her face was set, pain written all over it. In her hands were a stack of magazines, a few MREs and clothing. An automatic pistol was stuck in the waistband of her pants. She tossed the load next to their pack.

"Okay." The word only a whisper, she could barely speak.

She bent to arrange the pack, but Hannah stopped her, pulling her close, slipping her arms around her waist. Rennie stood against her, stiff and unyielding, but then Hannah felt her muscles relax and Rennie leaned into her. Hannah held her tighter and then Rennie's arms were around her, holding her so hard Hannah thought she might break. Rennie didn't utter a sound and her breathing remained even. They stood together for a long time. Finally, Rennie released her hold on Hannah and, looking into her eyes for a long moment, she laid her hand along her cheek.

For hours they walked, without a word. As the night wore on, the woods became thick and pitchy with darkness, but as dawn broke, the sky was streaked with curtains of pink and purple. It became a bright clear morning.

Rennie's body carried her forward, but she hardly knew where she was. Her legs continued to move and she was aware that she was alert, watching for any sign of danger, but her mind was operating on some animal level, concerned only with survival.

Since leaving the site of the ambush, something in her prevented any coherent thought to form but now she began to return to herself. How could it be that she was the only one to survive? It seemed like a cruel joke. The irony was that as the only woman she would be blamed for everything that went wrong instead of being recognized for making it to the end. But what was the end, she wondered.

They should stop soon. Hannah must surely be hungry. But Rennie couldn't think of food, of sustaining her body, and didn't know if she ever could again. She didn't know if the smell of them in her nostrils would ever leave. Say their names, G.o.ddammit!

Goode, Smythe, Levin, Baldwin. Like a prayer, she recited their names in her mind. Goode, Smythe, Levin, Baldwin. Reduced to almost nothing. A horror of putrid flesh, an oozing fetid ma.s.s.

She could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. To be reduced to such a condition so quickly, what a thin thread life was strung upon, always only a step away from dissolution.

What if she had been alone? Kneeling before them, childhood terrors rearing up in the dark? Thank G.o.d for Hannah. A good Catholic, religion returned to her in times of stress. All those dead saints. They were surely mad, G.o.d speaking to them in the dead of night. Would it have been the same for her? If she had been alone. Her mind becoming unhinged. Did she owe them that?

How could things have gone so badly? She mourned for all of them. Even Smythe. But it was Brad that made her hurt, ache from the loss of him. Her friend. She had loved him. He was absolutely good, at his core, where it mattered most.

Her mind was growing weary. And her body craved rest. She knew the trauma of the early morning hours was dissipating as she became aware of her own needs. Hannah strode beside her, holding her AK-47, like a good soldier.

"Let's take a break. I need to change the dressing on my arm."

Hannah looked relieved to stop. "I can do it."

Hannah pulled the medical kit from the pack and spread it open on the ground. Rennie sat staring at the twisted roots running along either side of her from the tree she sat against. She ripped the bandage off her arm, wincing at the pain. Her wound looked good. No infection.

Hannah approached her with the antiseptic. "You ready?

This might sting."

It did sting, sending an arc of pain through to her bone and radiating down her arm. Hannah finished with gauze and tape.

"You were lucky," Hannah said softly.

"Yes."

"And I was lucky."

"You think?"

"Yes."

Rennie ripped open an MRE and they sat in silence, sharing their meal.

"Are you all right?" Hannah said without looking at her.

"I'll be fine."

"I know you will." Hannah laid her hand on Rennie's thigh, kneading it with her fingers.

"I guess you have no idea what you'll be going home to."

Rennie laid her hand on top of Hannah's, hesitantly at first. Then Hannah turned her hand, taking Rennie's and intertwining their fingers. "I know you're not married. Is there a boyfriend?"

"No." She took a deep breath. "I just hope my parents are okay."

Rennie could hear Hannah's voice tightening as she continued.

"I spent most of my life trying to get away from them. From the weight of what they went through in Ravensbruck. Now, all I can think of is whether I'll ever see them again."

"How old are they?"

"Old." She tossed her head, throwing off the emotion. "And they don't take care of themselves. Can't seem to get away from that Old Country diet. Sausages, meatb.a.l.l.s, b.u.t.ter, cheese. If it's bad, it's on the menu."

Rennie was only aware of Hannah's hand. Their hands together.

They would reach the village before the next day pa.s.sed.

She could feel it, knew that step by step they would get there before midnight. It would become night, but they wouldn't have to endure the small hours, when the dark felt like death. When even the moon seemed to fail them, turning in on itself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

London, England After finishing his morning prayers, Mukhtaar Abdullah stood in the middle of his one-room flat lost in indecision. He wasn't well and these periods when he was unable to formulate a thought were coming more frequently. He was very weak. He ate little more than a crust of bread and an egg every day, convinced that living the existence of an ascetic would make him fit for the important work he had to do. He didn't have much choice, anyway. He had no money and lived off the charity of his brothers at the mosque. His beloved mosque. Thank Allah he had found it. It was his salvation. And his room, a dirty hovel in Hackney, a slummy East End neighborhood, was only about two miles from the mosque. His thin legs carried him there every day even when he thought he couldn't take another step.

Mukhtaar sat down carefully on the threadbare, spindly couch. The room had come furnished or he'd be sitting and sleeping on the floor. Not that he would mind. He didn't mind anything. Except that he felt his body was failing him and he feared he wouldn't be much use to his mentor, Abdul-Haafiz al-Katib, who had great plans for him. He lifted his T-shirt and looked at his ribs, prominent against his thin skin. He seemed to be wasting away. It wasn't always like this. When he first came to London, he was strong and never had the lapses of memory or concentration he had now. What was wrong with him? He was finally living the life he knew to be good and true. Maybe he just needed to take better care of himself.

He went to the cooler by the door where he kept his food. He would need to get ice soon. Two eggs, his last, had slipped out of their carton and floated, bobbing, in the icy water. He fished one out and broke it in a dish. While the pan heated he inspected the egg for any sign of disease. He was very careful not to break the yolk. He spotted a cloudy area and, before he began dry heaving, he slipped the offending egg down the drain, running hot water so that every trace of it was washed away. He had better luck with the second, his last egg. Frying it without oilhe had noneit blackened quickly in the heavy pan. He ate it standing at the stove, mopping up the yolk with a quarter of a slice of bread. His mind began to clear.

He had always been troubled by food, resorting to precise weights and measures whenever something worried him. Like a woman, his father had said. It started again after he added Abdullah to his name. When he converted to Islam, he had taken the name of Mukhtaar, the Chosen, never to use Jonathan again, never to be Jonathan again. Jonathan was a non-person, someone who was never meant to exist. But after leaving the States he knew he had to rid himself of Garrison, too. Nothing could tie him to his former life. Abdullah it had been. The ultimate renunciation.

He had once read of the Malaysian custom of giving the surname Abdullah to Muslim children born out of wedlock, when no claim could be made to the name of the father. He was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child now, no son of his father's. Allah was his only father now. His true father. And always had been, only Mukhtaar hadn't known it when he was living the life of lies at home.

He would eat more. Brother Abdul-Haafiz had begged him to take better care of himself, had pressed money into his hand at every turn, but Mukhtaar would always drop it in the collection box as he left the mosque. He searched his mind trying to discover anything else that might be bothering him, that would bring back the issue with the food. He couldn't imagine. He was happier than he had ever been. It must be the thing with the name. It was like him to take the blame for things he shouldn't.

Like his mother.

His mother had taken him to see her shrink in D.C. when he first began to get weird about his food. It was the time when he had begun to be obsessed with his father's guns. He had always been horrified by violence of any sort, but suddenly the knowledge that a gun was present in the house fixed in his mind and he could focus on nothing else. He had known for years that there were guns in his father's life. He had walked in on him once as he was dressing, standing before the wardrobe and bending to reach into the bottom drawer, the one that was always kept locked. The boy had seen not just one gun, but many. It was years before he understood why and that lack of understanding made it all the worse. He would ask his mother: Why do we need guns? We have a security system. We live in a nice neighborhood. Nothing ever happens here. That was before he had been able to see the value of weapons.

As the protein continued its restorative work on his body, Mukhtaar thought of things he fought to keep hidden from himself. Things that made him doubt what he was doing in London. He knew Brother Abdul-Haafiz didn't truly care for him. Mukhtaar was valuable to him only as an American who would rouse no suspicion in anyone. An American who was willing to betray his country. Soon he would shave his beard and don his American clothes again. And then fly home and begin the revolution.

Mukhtaar finished cleaning his pan and went to the window.

He peered through a small tear in the blind. Something wasn't right. His mind was clear now. He went to his trunk and got the gun. The door to his flat was cheaply made and hollow. A jagged hole, the size of a medium-sized London mouse, was about a foot from the floor a few inches from the hinge. He had made another hole, just large enough to see through, a half-foot above it on the inside of the door and a larger one in the outside panel.

He crouched to it now. Peering through, the barrel of his gun in the lower opening, he saw nothing unusual but his view of the hall was limited.

They were coming for him. He could feel it. He knew he wouldn't hear them, but there was only one way to his apartment doorup the stairs and straight down the hall. He could see the landing of the stairwell from his spot.

Then he saw legs, black booted. Mukhtaar fired, hitting the lead man in the thigh before the rest scattered.

He left his position and went to the narrow iron bed next to the window. He was glad he had eaten the egg. A thick knotted rope was tied around the joint of the bed. He didn't have much time and this was his only chance. He peered around the blind again. No sign of anything out of the ordinary, just the usual street traffic and junkies on every corner, but that didn't mean anything.

He lifted the blind, tossed the rope over the window ledge and leapt over, shimmying down the side of the building, the toes of his tennis shoes sc.r.a.ping against the brick. His feet had just hit the sidewalk when he heard the splintering sound of his door being ripped from its hinges. They would see the rope in a moment. An alley ran along the side of his building, but he needed to blend with the street traffic as much as possible. They couldn't fire on him if he was surrounded by pedestrians.

Out of habit he turned in the direction of the mosque, jogging down the pavement. So far, so good. He might just make it. He kept close to the storefronts along the street to avoid being seen from his window. He was almost at the corner. He would turn there and cross the street and then dart into an alley mid- block. Running, his cheap tennis shoes slapping the concrete, he clipped a ma.s.sive leather-clad man with his shoulder.

"Watch yourself, w.a.n.ker!" The man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt pulling him close and breathing hot, oniony breath into his face before shoving him away and staggering down the street.

Mukhtaar was nearly at the corner. He turned and looked back at his building expecting to see a black-suited figure leaning out of his window with a scope trained on him. Nothing. He turned the corner and exhaled in relief. Then an arm shot out of a recessed doorway and grabbed him by the arm.

"Going somewhere, Jonathan?"