Miles To Go Part 15

The bearded man, who wore a sport jacket and looked like any average Londoner, swung Mukhtaar roughly against the wall and cuffed his arms behind his back before he could think to struggle. A useless thought anyway. The egg could only do so much.

Martin Garrison had the features and complexion that could pa.s.s for almost any ethnicity. Today he was a Frenchman. It had been years since he had played the role. Not too much of a stretch. A lot of it was in the expression, especially the set of the mouth. Though he changed his hair and beard only slightly, anyone who knew him would be hard-pressed to recognize him.

Sometimes when he slept deeply, which was rare, the names of all the men he had been ran together in a kaleidoscopic whirl, twirling through his sleeping brain. He would wake and for a moment have no idea who he was. Fortunately it only happened when he was safe in his own bed in Virginia, never in the field, and the familiar setting of his own bedroom quickly brought him back to himself. The histories of the men he had been ran through his veins, were st.i.tched into his musculature, instantly accessible, each detail catalogued in his mind.

Deep cover wasn't something everyone could handle. Most agents burned out in a few years. It takes a particular personality to be able to completely subsume your own ident.i.ty. It had been early in his career when the Agency discovered Martin Garrison's apt.i.tude for transformation and dissembling, the two talents most required for an undercover agent. That and a kind of fearlessness that can't be taught.

Garrison was sitting in the cafe again, his legs crossed at the knee, reading the same copy of Le Monde he had taken from the plane out of Paris. He had read every inch of it and now resorted to the cla.s.sifieds. He hoped Armin's men would turn up before he resorted to the advertis.e.m.e.nts. They would be in perfect French, of course. The French government's stranglehold on the language and its purity always struck Garrison as autocratic, a long hidden tendency in the French breast. He wondered when it would emerge and in what form. Garrison motioned for the cafe proprietor to order breakfast. He was achingly hungry.

If Armin's men didn't show up today, he might scout around for a newspaper in his native tongue before going back to his boarding house. Surely some shop in the village must carry a New York Times or a Guardian. Even a more recent edition of Le Monde would satisfy his need for news at this point. He was already thinking of what he might do next if Armin didn't come through for him. He would have to resurrect some of his old contacts, sketchy characters he preferred to have no dealings with and who the CIA might already be watching, antic.i.p.ating his next move. But he would do whatever he had to do to find Jon. He blamed himself for Jon's conversion to Islam a few months after his mother's suicide. On a.s.signment at the time in Berlin, he had known nothing of it until he returned. By then it was too late. Jon was already attending a mosque in nearby Falls Church and had grown a patchy beard. He was still taking cla.s.ses at George Mason, but only sporadically. Garrison had hoped it was just another phase, that it would wither before taking root. But he'd been home only a few weeks before he had to go back out and was focused on his next a.s.signment. He should have taken a leave of absence, taken the boy in hand and shaken some sense into him. But he'd left, as he always had, and by the time he was 0.

home again, Jon was gone. He could be anywhere now.

Garrison had a friend look into the Falls Church mosque.

It had a handful of extremists, militant figures who raised the spectre of jihad on the quiet to those who were sympathetic and who had connections all over the world. Jon could be in Paris, Hamburg, Syria, Palestine, London or, G.o.d forbid, Afghanistan.

Or countless other places where fanatical Muslims sowed their hatred of America and the West, distorting their religion for political purposes. So, Martin Garrison had played the easiest card in his hand. Ahmad Armin.

Garrison reached into his suit jacket and touched the envelope, secure in his inside pocket. The photographs. The incontrovertible proof that Ahmad Armin's outrageous claims that the CIA had murdered his brother, Na.s.ser, were absolutely true. By stealing them Garrison had betrayed his country and committed an act of treason that would put him in prison for the rest of his life. If he got caught. But he would do anything for his son. He was a little late coming to the game, but it was time to make up for the past.

He had contacted Armin a week before and made him the offer. Armin was suspicious at first but Garrison explained his situation and finally convinced him that it wasn't a ploy to capture him. It was a nasty business, the story with Na.s.ser Armin, and Garrison was glad he hadn't been involved. Just one more misstep in a long line of mistakes the CIA had made with Iran.

The cafe proprietor's teenage son, a handsome boy with black eyes, served Garrison his breakfast. Garrison nodded his thanks and whispered a prayer that today would bring the doc.u.ment with Jon's whereabouts. And then he ate.

Hannah took another of the little white pills that Rennie handed her and thought it was too bad she didn't have them in grad school. Her mind was active and alert on a level she hadn't felt in years. It was like she was finally waking after a long and torturous nightmare. Light in her stall at the camp had always been muted, weak rays slipping through the dirty pane high on the wall of the stable. She knew now that the absence of sunlight had had its effect, causing her mind to enter a place of near hibernation. She had slept a lot. What else was there to do? To make the days pa.s.s and avoid thoughts of the future and all that was lost.

Now, finally, she was beginning to see things, as if nature's palette had been restored after a long monochrome dream.

Summer was coming to a close and the woods were still lush and full and verdant. Her eye took in everythingveins of leaves set in relief, patterns and varying shades of gray and white in the rocks speaking of their long history, soft beds of moss at the base of a tree, the shocking reds and yellows of wildflowers. The woods, with the sunlight filtering through the trees, were so fine it made her ache to think how long it had been since she had taken in beauty.

Hannah always yearned for beauty but had never tried to attain it in such an undiluted form as nature. She was thoroughly urban and natural beauty had seemed to her too benign, too ba.n.a.l and prosaic, as if it had slipped into a hackneyed stereotype. Such thoughts seemed absurd to her now. She had always sought man-made beauty. Pigment on canvas gripping her like a panic. But no romantic landscapes or impressionist confections for her. She had discovered a young artist whose work spoke to her like no other. Paintings bright and light using the colors of summer but the addition of raw flesh tones, rendered ambiguouslymeant to be living or dead?cast a darkness of mood over the work. So it always was with Hannaheverything good tempered with dark.

But here in the woods, those old conceptions retreated in the face of summer in full bloom. She was alive and free and, for the moment, no taint was able to sneak into her vision.

Rennie, too, loomed larger than ever before her. She was finally struck by the awareness that here was a woman she felt drawn to in a way she had never experienced. With anyone.

Something was being forged between them, had been in the process of being forged ever since she had come back to herself as they ran down the hillside from the camp. Something she didn't want to name and couldn't if she tried. Whatever it was, it was entirely new.

She remembered birthdays as a child. Her parents always waited to give her her gift after dinner just before she went to bed. She would finish brushing her teeth and crawl into her pajamas. Sitting cross-legged on the worn living room rug, she was unable to sit still with excitement, wagging her knees and wriggling her shoulders. She would have an hour with her new toy before bedtime. The magic hour. Finally tucked snug in her narrow bed, she would lie grinning, suffused with absolute happiness. The next morning when she woke and remembered the gift, she wouldn't rush to it, but lay warm in her bed turning it over in her mind. This was when the magnificence of the toy reached its zenith, never to be had again. Her joy over its novelty imbued it with qualities it almost certainly didn't have. In her sleepy imagination, it was perfect, becoming almost cinematic in her mind, taking on a l.u.s.ter that real life never had. She had never had this experience with people, only things, and not since she was small. Until now. She felt foolish, realizing that Rennie had taken on that indescribable hue. Glancing at her, Hannah wondered if it was the drug. And she wondered if, like the toy, it would pa.s.s as quickly.

"You okay?" Rennie said, noticing her look.

Hannah nodded. "Yeah. I'm good." She smiled. "Really good."

Hannah looked at Rennie, taking her in fully. She was tall and angular and intensely beautiful. Hannah felt foolish, responding to beauty in such a simple form. Sharp bone met muscle in a way not often seen in a woman. Her muscle curled over her body like a snake, rising and dipping over her frame as if she had shed every ounce that wasn't necessary to maintain herself. Hannah wondered briefly if it was something akin to masculinity that she was drawn to. No. That wasn't it and she swore to herself at that moment that she would never again mistake something for what it wasn't, no matter how much it made her afraid. She wanted something pure and unadulterated, something devoid of her past. No more false connections built upon a foundation riven with hollows of rot. Whatever this was she would approach it with an open heart.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking how absurd it is that I'm actually enjoying this moment. Walking through these woods. With you. On a gorgeous sunny day."

"And carrying a high-powered weapon."

"There is that," Hannah said, lifting the AK-47.

"It works for you," Rennie said with a trace of irony in her eyes."You think?"

"Yeah." Rennie paused. "You're doing great, you know? I know this hasn't been easy."

Hannah stared at the ground before casting her eyes back to Rennie. "Thanks."

They continued picking their way through the forest in silence, Hannah walking next to Rennie but slightly behind, watching her. Rennie never wavered. Every moment she was scanning the woods for danger. Keeping them safe. Hannah knew without a doubt that she owed Rennie her life. And she knew that even in the absence of that monumental fact, she was still drawn to her.

Rennie broke into her reverie again. "We're going to make it, you know?" she said, looking back at Hannah.

"I know."

It hit her then. She knew it was true and knew it was all Rennie. She could have shot Armin and gone on her way, as was surely her mandate. But she had risked her life to bring Hannah home.

Hannah reached out and took Rennie by the arm, stopping her.Rennie looked concerned. "Everything all right?"

"Yes." Hannah let go of her rifle, letting it dangle from its strap and slipped her arms around Rennie.

"Yes," she said again. Rennie was nearly half a foot taller and Hannah stood, her face buried in the hollow of Rennie's neck just above her collarbone, taking in her scent. Their bodies still close, she pulled her head away and looked into her eyes.

"Thank you."

Rennie shook her head. "It's okay."

Hannah reached up and kissed her lightly on the cheek, her hand on the back of Rennie's neck. "Yes. It's okay."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Shuroabad, Tajikistan Sitting on an old bench, the stuffing peeking out of the upholstery, Margot Day yawned as she stared through the crack in the soiled drapery, peering out at the door of Martin Garrison's boarding house. At least she hoped it was Garrison's boarding house. She had yet to receive any confirmation of the intelligence from the FBI. She had seen every variety of shady character come and go from the door that fronted directly onto the street, but none of them, she was sure, was Garrison. For all she knew he may have found another link to his son and her efforts were for naught.

She hated surveillance. She hadn't done it in years. She had to constantly fight against the tedium that led to fatigue. Exhaustion tugged at the edges of her consciousness and her mind wandered without her permission. She couldn't help but think of Andy Rivera, the new case officer in the Tajikistan emba.s.sy. They held similar roles and worked together often. And their attraction to one another had emerged soon after his arrival. She had resisted it so far, knowing the Agency frowned on such relationships.

She wasn't looking for a boyfriend, just wanted to let off a little steam. Which didn't really count as a relationship, she justified.

All the same she wasn't willing to risk her career for a few nights of pleasure.

Just then, the door of the boarding house swung open and a man emerged. Margot raised her field gla.s.ses to her face and the man leapt into view. He was short and stocky and very dark.

Not Martin Garrison. She lowered the field gla.s.ses, took a deep a breath and glanced around the room.

The family that lived in the house she'd commandeered for her surveillance was not happy with her presence. But crisp Tajik currency had turned their heads and so she was now ensconced in the workroom of the lady of the residence. Often, during the day, they were there together, as they were now, the woman seated on the floor by the other window, embroidering colorful skullcaps in rich shades of purple, green and pink and eyeing Margot with suspicion. The floor was layered in carpets, locally produced. They were beautifulnot as beautiful as those Margot l.u.s.ted over in Iranshe always took a few small samples home as gifts for her friends. But the color that permeated the textiles in Tajikistan broke the monotony of the drab architecture. Margot had an eye for fashion and sometimes lamented the clothes she was compelled to wear for her work. Clothing in Tajikistan was a riot of color and she loved color, always tending toward reds and oranges and purples in her private life. Anytime she was outside of her own room in the village, Margot dressed as a traditional Tajik in a long multicolored dress with loose striped trousers underneath. On her head she wore a hat, the same type the woman was making, covered by a headscarf. But here, in the house, she abandoned the headscarf as was customary. The two women sat at their work, one dark, one blonde and fair.

The woman addressed Margot in Tajik. "Your husband's a bad man?"

Margot shifted her position so she could keep an eye on the door of the boarding house and appear to give a sliver of her attention to the woman.

"Yes. It's very sad." This was the role Margot had taken on in order to gain entry to the housespurned wife.

"Who is the woman?"

"Just a common s.l.u.t."

The woman nodded in understanding. "My first husband, for a long time he went with another woman, like the woman your husband is with."

"Oh?"

"But I accepted it. That and everything else." She paused, reaching into her basket for a different color, holding the needle to the light to snake the thread through the eye. "Where did you meet him, your husband?"

"He worked for a time in America."

"You should have stayed there," she said, not raising her eyes from her work.

Tell me about it. The woman was a distraction and she wished she would just concentrate on her sewing, but at least her chatter helped keep Margot awake. She glanced down the street. There was never much foot traffic and only the occasional car or bike.

She suspected Garrison was coming and going through the back door of the boarding house that exited into an alley. But she had no vantage point from which to watch it. And she could hardly loiter in the alley until he came along. If he didn't turn up soon, she would have to go out and canva.s.s the streets for him, an almost pointless and possibly dangerous endeavor.

She felt the vibration of her cell phone and hunting through the folds of her dress, plucked it from the waistband of her trousers. The woman cut her eyes toward her. The conversation only took a moment and when she hung up, the ever-deepening line between Margot's eyebrows had relaxed a little. The CIA had Jonathan Garrison and would soon be boarding a plane with him for Tajikistan. Her orders had changed. Now that they had some leverage, they were going to try to bring in Martin Garrison without violence. Margot felt like doing a dance, feeling Garrison's reprieve as deeply as if it were her own. Now she just had to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn't go anywhere.

But first she had to find out if Garrison was even in the village.

"I need to go. But I may be back."

The woman didn't understand. She turned her dark eyes on Margot and nodded. Margot wondered if the woman enjoyed her company on some level, a distraction from her deadbeat husband who, though he didn't cheat on her, spent his days slumbering in an opium-induced stupor, his addiction funded by his wife's hard work.

In a moment, Margot was out the door and down the steps, taking two at a time. She usually wore a suit at work and it was a strange feelingall this material flowing around her, the shoulder holster of her automatic snug under arm, directly against her skin. On the street, she adjusted her headscarf, making certain her hair was hidden. It was blazing hot with every inch of her covered. Without a glance at the boarding house, she headed for the corner. It seemed hopeless. Randomly walking the streets, looking for Garrison. But what else could she do? Jonathan Garrison, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, would be en route any moment. If she found no sign of Garrison in the village, she would have to take the precarious step of entering his boarding house to see if she could find any trace of him.

Jonathan Garrison returned the stare of the agent sitting across from him. Jonathan was in custody on a military transport speeding toward Tajikistan. The engine of the plane they had taken out of Heathrow was loud, its vibrations coursing through his body and setting him on edge, the long flight giving him plenty of time to think. The agent near him was tall and dark with a close-cut beard, sitting with his long legs outstretched, his hands behind his head. He had removed Jon's cuffs once they were in the air, knowing he was no threat.

It's over, Jonathan thought .

His adolescent rebellion had taken a dangerous turn and for the first time he could see it all with perfect clarity. He had envisioned the end countless times before. But he always imagined it as a martyrdom, a face-off where he would acquit himself admirably, and die a hero for his cause. But the actual event was a slap in the face. He hadn't fought, but run like a scared rabbit. And when the CIA agent grabbed his arm, he was like a man waking from a dream. His madness slipped away like a silk sheet and he became docile and cooperative. In that moment Mukhtaar Abdullah disappeared as if he had never existed.

The CIA had taken Jonathan to their London office where self-preservation soon kicked in and he thought of what would happen when all of this was over. He would not fare well in prison. But who knows, with a good lawyer, maybe he wouldn't be in too long. He had made a few threats and, with Al-Katib, had planned much worse, but the Feds didn't know that and he had no intention of telling them.

The plane hit a rough patch of turbulence and Jon squeezed his eyes shut. He hated flying. He whispered a prayer in Arabic out of habit, the first words that came into his mind, and recalled his early days in the mosque in Virginia when he first discovered the beauty of Islam. Before his mind had been seduced by dreams of jihad, Islam spoke to him and he felt accepted. He was happy and for the first time had friends, young men his own age who liked him. Or so he thought. Eventually the young men spoke of what Jon could do for Islam and he was filled with dreams of himself as a savior. Now he could see himself for what he wasa lonely boy in search of some kind of connection, in search of acceptance.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the small window of the plane. Anatomy is destiny. In his case, the blond, boyish looks he had inherited from his mother had kept him a boy for too long, given him an excuse to sink into his weaknesses, to realize their ultimate potential. But it had been a choice he knew that nowchild's play gone horribly awry. He could have taken his medicine and struggled against his mental quirks.

0.

Instead he romanticized them, took them as a sign that he was special, gifted with a sensitivity and openness that others lacked.

Without the chemicals to smooth out the rough edges, he was p.r.o.ne to superst.i.tion and felt compelled to perform rituals. Like now, he sat tense in his seat, feet flat on the floor, his hands curled around the armrests maintaining a distinct separation between each finger. And what would happen if he allowed his fingers to touch, the heel or toe of his shoe to lift off the floor? The plane might teeter in the air, become unbalanced and plummet. He knew it wasn't true, but something in him wouldn't allow reason to be the victor.

Enough.

He crossed his legs and relaxed his grip on the armrests, covering his face with his hands. A vein rose on his forehead, pulsing with pain as a tiny panic rose up at this small rebellion.

The plane will be fine. Unless you're sitting in the c.o.c.kpit, your actions have no control over it. That much is true.

A lump formed in his throat and his anxiety rose as he refused to give in to the mania in his brain, an inherent reluctance to partake in what is perhaps G.o.d's greatest gift to manlogic. His father had said that to him once, speaking of G.o.d one night on the deck of their Virginia home after too many gla.s.ses of bourbon.

Martin Garrison valued logic over all else and it was perhaps the only instance Jonathan had ever heard his father speak of G.o.d.

He knew it would take time to puzzle everything out. To separate the truth from the fictions his mind spun. He knew just one thing for certainit was time to become a man.

Now they were taking him to his father who was in as much trouble as he was. Jon would never have guessed that the old man had it in him, to break from the organization that was his lifeblood. Jon would go with the Feds and hope they could find his father before he did something that would irrevocably cement his fate. Then Jonathan Garrison would make amends to his father and his country.

Rennie felt herself failing and knew she should have taken the pill miles back when she first felt her vision begin to swim.

But there were only two left and they still had hours to go before they reached the village. She should have thought to collect more when they were at the ambush site when she retrieved food and ammunition and clothes from the packs of her teammates.

And she should have taken her gun with her when she stepped away from their campsite that first night. So many mistakes that couldn't be undone. She hadn't thought herself capable of such failure. It stung and burned to the very quick. As a young agent she had received year after year of commendations. And then she became the first woman on a special operations team. Everything fell into place. Until now, when the whole world seemed to be disintegrating around her.

Still walking, her panic rising, she slipped her pack off her shoulders and swung it around to her front before going down on one knee and unzipping the first pocket she saw. Then Hannah was by her, her hands on her shoulders.

"Are you all right?"

Fatigue coursed through her body. She could feel her heartbeat thumping everywhere, her body pushed to its limit, as she stared dumbly at the pack. In her state, she realized she had no idea where the medical kit was stored.

"The pill."

She unzipped another pocket. It was the wrong one, but in it was the satellite phone. And it was blinking. The signal for her to call in. She pulled the phone out of the pocket and sat down on her haunches, covering her face with her hand.

Hannah was kneeling next to her now.

"What is it?"

Rennie looked up into her face. Was it fear or concern playing out over her features? Rennie's perceptions were too muddled to be able to tell. But she knew she couldn't fail Hannah, too. That would be too much.

She tried not to sound desperate. "It's okay. Do you know where the medical kit is?" she said, squinting at her.

Hannah nodded, wide-eyed, and reached for the pocket on the opposite side of the bag. She pulled out the kit and handed Rennie the pill.

Rennie stared at it for a long moment before popping it into her mouth and swallowing it with a gulp of foul, warm water. It would take effect quickly and just knowing it was in her, working its magic, brought her around.