Quantico Part 38

Jane Rowland turned up her eyes.

A black Suburban pulled up to the curb and came to a halt with a slight screech of tires. Two agents inside stared at them with imperious suspicion through the half-open window.

'Where are we going?' William asked.

'We're leaving c.u.mberland,' Grange said. 'Other than that, do you care?'

An hour later, they boarded a Coast Guard jet on the runway at Dulles for a flight to Eglin. At Eglin, he showered and shaved in an officer's quiet apartment, wasting twenty minutes under the needle-spray to scrub off the humiliation. Grange brought him a small case with personal items and a fresh change of clothes that almost fit.

From Eglin, they took a C5A military flight to Oman. He heard Rebecca was on the flight, but he wasn't interested in talking or catching up. He was exhausted and he had too many tough questions. William hid himself at the back of the pa.s.senger seating area. Outside, the supernal drone of the turbo-fan engines lulled him into nothing at all like sleep, more like a hop, skip and jump along the nightmare border of death, and it was not pleasant.

Hours later, he came fully awake with a jerk and saw Rebecca sitting across from him. The plane was descending.

He stared at her.

'Jesus, William Griffin. You've got zombie eyes.'

William swallowed and looked away. 'I don't like being soaked in s.h.i.t,' he said. 'Your s.h.i.t or anybody else's.'

'Mm hmm,' Rebecca said. Again she made that motion with her upturned, scissored fingers, as if she really needed a cigarette.

'I have never never been treated that way,' William said. 'What other surprises do you have in store for me?' been treated that way,' William said. 'What other surprises do you have in store for me?'

'It wasn't me. You know that.'

'Then what about the FBI? You sucked me into this. What did I do to be tarred with that great big old brush, huh?'

'Nothing,' Rebecca said.

'And what about you? What did you do?'

'Nothing.'

William grimaced. 'I heard a lot at c.u.mberland,' he said.

'So did I. I tend to ignore big tough guys, or haven't you noticed?'

'They wanted to open me up and spill out my brains, Rebecca. They were scared. scared. I could smell them even without a pong detector. Somebody told them something that made them want to s.h.i.t their pants. I think if we had stayed there a few more hours, they'd've started injecting some really cool new drugs, and who cares what they damage? They wanted to turn our brains into alphabet soup and read the little words, Rebecca.' I could smell them even without a pong detector. Somebody told them something that made them want to s.h.i.t their pants. I think if we had stayed there a few more hours, they'd've started injecting some really cool new drugs, and who cares what they damage? They wanted to turn our brains into alphabet soup and read the little words, Rebecca.'

Rebecca looked straight at him, her eyes showing something William had not seen before-real hurt and disappointment. 'I didn't do this to you, William.'

'What the f.u.c.k is Desert Vulture?'

'I don't know. Maybe I don't want to know.'

'Did they ask you about it?'

She nodded.

'Did they box your ears?'

She shook her head.

'So with you, they were gentlemen?'

Rebecca lifted her eyebrows and looked down at her hands.

'Why are we here, can you tell me that?'

Her hands were quivering. She took a shallow breath. 'How long do you think a sunshine patriot will run around, once you cut off his head?'

'Is that a rhetorical question?'

'No time limit has ever been found,' Rebecca said. 'They go on for years. The rest of us take up their slack and shovel their s.h.i.t-or soak in it-and they live to retire and fill their dens with trophies and flags. They get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to give talks before the American Eagle Forum or the Red White and Blue Inst.i.tute of I've Got Mine, Jack, and then they write their memoirs and dangle their grandchildren on their knees. They cram our ears with tales of patriot glory, when all they ever really did was get good people killed. They squander blood and treasure, and then they try to figure out desperate ways to make it come out right. That's what Desert Vulture must be. Some old guy's brilliant idea of how to make the world right again, and to h.e.l.l with you and me or the grunts on the line, or anybody else.'

'It was anthrax anthrax, Rebecca. Even Lawrence Winter couldn't go through with what they were planning.'

'I suppose it was.'

'And where are these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds now? Why are we taking their lumps for them them? f.u.c.k,' William said, and kicked the seat in front of him.

David Grange worked his way to the back, leaning into the seats as the plane banked. 'Am I interrupting something?'

'We're done,' William said.

'We'll be landing in Oman in an hour.'

'Tell William what you've told me,' Rebecca said. 'About why we were busted.'

Grange squatted in the aisle. 'There's no way yet of knowing who's involved in what. An executive order went out-it was pretty broad. They decided to detain anyone who had a connection to Winter or Amerithrax. ATF got handed the lead, but DEA and even the Postal Police are involved-it's a real zoo. You two got scooped up in the net. Can't tell the players without a program, and I don't know anyone who has a program.'

'David says News may or may not be implicated,' Rebecca said. Her expression was fragile, hopeful.

'Newsome may have been stringing some people along, trying to catch up with Winter before any harm was done. BuDark didn't even exist four years ago,' Grange said. 'Why he wouldn't tell you up front, I don't know.'

'He was senior. He had some armor,' Rebecca said.

'Yes, and look where that got him. You're out and he's still in,' Grange said. 'You must have made some impression on the President.'

'News was there, too.'

'Well, I don't know who the h.e.l.l impressed who,' Grange said, shifting his knees. Then he stood and flexed his legs. 'Problems at Quantico and in DC aren't our biggest worries. Jordan and Turkey have refused permission to land. We're going to touch down in Oman, then grab a chopper and transfer to a frigate or something in the Red Sea. After that, there's talk about flying us directly into Saudi Arabia. The insurgency is consolidating its gains, trying to squeeze money out of the Hajj, I suspect, to finance their next moves. We have contacts with what's left of the Saudi General Intelligence Service, al-Istakhbarah al-A'amah al-Istakhbarah al-A'amah. They're as interested as we are in preventing a Hajj disaster. So far, we're just telling them it's anthrax-that focuses their attention. We'd let them take the lead, but frankly, they're f.u.c.kups when it comes to handling foreign nationals-in their prime, they were best at bullying immigrant workers. Still, I was deputy RSO in Riyadh for a couple of years. I know a few who aren't too bad.'

'What good are we in all this?' William asked. Rebecca took a thermos from her travel bag and poured him a cup of black coffee.

'We're short-handed. Desperately so. Most of the career types are covering their a.s.ses. After I boosted her from c.u.mberland, Rebecca volunteered you.'

'Thanks, I guess,' William said.

'We're bringing along Jane Rowland to handle special communications.'

'How about the full scoop on BuDark?' Rebecca asked.

Grange nodded. 'BuDark began as an internal DS and FBI response to rumors about Desert Vulture.'

'Pete Farrow?'

'Not one of us. Like News, however, probably a good guy -just not in the loop. Some agents tried to dig out facts on their own. Three years ago, we went to the senate and the effort became bipartisan. We found conspirators in just about every branch of government. The last administration tried desperately to shut us down, and then they lost the election-finally, and thank G.o.d. Right now, we're a shambles, scattered all over Europe and the Middle East looking for a needle in a haystack. Half the operational directors don't want to believe there is is anyone in Mecca. The other half-well, we have UAVs watching the city right now, mostly from alt.i.tude. But we've dropped some midges into the town to scope out the street scene. Current plan is, we're driving or flying to the outskirts of Mecca, escorted by undercover officers who've bribed their way into Hijaz Liberation. If we get through-and that's a big if-we still need to find the truck or trucks. Based on the equipment captured in Jerusalem, we think there may be as many as three. When we find them, we have to stop them and destroy their contents-and that's where Fouad Al-Husam comes in. He's been made chief of a team of guys they call Janissaries. All American Muslims, orphans from the first Gulf War. Seems to be quite a story. He's going to join us outside Mecca. His team has been trained and equipped but they're not military, they're not CIA-they're not even heavily armed. And none of us is going to carry ID. If we get caught, we're just crazy victims of the Hajj gone wrong-or the revolution.' anyone in Mecca. The other half-well, we have UAVs watching the city right now, mostly from alt.i.tude. But we've dropped some midges into the town to scope out the street scene. Current plan is, we're driving or flying to the outskirts of Mecca, escorted by undercover officers who've bribed their way into Hijaz Liberation. If we get through-and that's a big if-we still need to find the truck or trucks. Based on the equipment captured in Jerusalem, we think there may be as many as three. When we find them, we have to stop them and destroy their contents-and that's where Fouad Al-Husam comes in. He's been made chief of a team of guys they call Janissaries. All American Muslims, orphans from the first Gulf War. Seems to be quite a story. He's going to join us outside Mecca. His team has been trained and equipped but they're not military, they're not CIA-they're not even heavily armed. And none of us is going to carry ID. If we get caught, we're just crazy victims of the Hajj gone wrong-or the revolution.'

'Sounds like we're being sent to do the one thing Quantico doesn't train us for,' Rebecca said.

'What would that be?' Grange asked.

'Sweep up after the elephant parade.'

William snorted coffee through his nose.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR.

Mecca.

The city was now in the eighth day of the last month of the Islamic calendar, Dhu al-Hijja Dhu al-Hijja. Islam's year of twelve synodic months, each of approximately twenty-nine days, was ruled by the moon and cyclically fell behind Western calendars. This had pushed the Hajj into October, a relatively pleasant time of year in Mecca. Daytime temperatures rarely exceeded ninety degrees. Many were now dressed in the two white cloths of ihram, ihram, right shoulders protruding, fat and shining and nut-brown or bony, ancient and withered. They were on their way to Mina, carrying their bags and cases of worldly goods or waiting at the curbs for buses and shuttles. There were no trains or subways in Mecca. Travel to Mina could take hours through heavy traffic. Many simply walked. right shoulders protruding, fat and shining and nut-brown or bony, ancient and withered. They were on their way to Mina, carrying their bags and cases of worldly goods or waiting at the curbs for buses and shuttles. There were no trains or subways in Mecca. Travel to Mina could take hours through heavy traffic. Many simply walked.

Winter felt invisible. He looked poor and sick, not prosperous. Indeed, he was sick. And so he stood on a corner near the Grand Mosque and watched as the pilgrims' mandatory patience-a requirement of ihram ihram-was tried by inexperienced police and guards from Oman and Yemen. The air was cool. He struggled to remember and concluded that he had come in search of something-logically, that would have to be G.o.d. He had come to listen. He felt as if there had been long years of grief and pain, an unceasing agony of duty and labor, of betrayal and evil-but somehow the details escaped him. Something had been left unfinished.

Along the busy streets, the modern thoroughfares and underpa.s.ses and overpa.s.ses, the hotels and shops and apartment complexes studded with air conditioners that surrounded the broad plazas around the Grand Mosque, came the streams of travelers and citizens. Down one narrow road lined with bistros and shops and overarched by apartments and neon signs blinking in Arabic and sometimes in English, Winter saw Pakistanis and Palestinians. Along another wider street, shops selling rich fabrics were attended by Indonesian pilgrims who cast suspicious glances at Chinese Muslims. There were old men and young, in some cases handsome but also exotically ugly, even barbaric, as if plucked from ancient centuries-with scars on their glossy cheeks and foreheads, or missing eyes or hands or limbs.

Nervous ma.s.ses, by the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. Troubled or blissful. Sweating and vomiting in the gutters, or walking with heads high, singing the prayerful chant of talbiyah. talbiyah. Pilgrims frightened by the confusion, troubled and exalted by what they might find within themselves. Shopping, eating from paper plates and plastic bowls in stalls and at tall round tables set on cracked ochre and red tiles or garish pink linoleum, fueling for the long and trying day ahead. Pilgrims frightened by the confusion, troubled and exalted by what they might find within themselves. Shopping, eating from paper plates and plastic bowls in stalls and at tall round tables set on cracked ochre and red tiles or garish pink linoleum, fueling for the long and trying day ahead.

He could not remember hating these people. He watched them calmly and then felt the lump in his pocket and, right there on the street, reached in and pulled out the vinyl folder and stared at the odd doc.u.ments and the polished badge. Seeing the English words, he closed the case and returned it to the pocket where it pressed against his thigh.

They would mob him if they saw his creds. They would stone him to b.l.o.o.d.y pulp. But no one had seen.

What have I done? What have I brought?

Forgetfulness.

But I don't remember why.

He took out his keys and opened the small door beside the battered steel roll-up garage gate. Inside, Gershon stood watch over the second Volvo truck, perched on the edge of a plastic crate, eyes wide at the unexpected entry. Fluorescent lights flickered in the cracked and patched concrete ceiling. Water was leaking from the apartments above. Gershon looked at him with some concern. 'Mr. Brown. It's not time, is it?'

The American jangled his key ring and smiled. 'We have to keep our powder dry.' He opened the back of the truck and climbed up beside the crates. Then he walked the length of the truck bed, caressing the plastic and canvas tarps, tugging at the ropes.

Gershon crammed his hands in his pockets and watched from the rear.

One rope was loose. The American stooped to untie it, then swung it away. 'Why do that?' Gershon asked. 'We aren't supposed to mess with them yet, are we?'

The American held his finger to his lips and smiled.

Yigal entered from the rear and stood beside Gershon. Together, they asked again what he was doing, voices echoing. He took a crowbar and pried away the side of the middle crate, revealing a launcher within-steel tubes still shrouded in bubble wrap. 'They're traveling well,' he murmured. 'They look fine.'

'We aren't supposed to open the crates,' Yigal said.

'That's what I told him,' Gershon said. 'He's going against his own orders.'

'Well, he should know.' Then, more sharply, 'What are you doing, Mr. Brown?'

The crates containing the rockets had been stacked between the larger crates. He knelt and used the crowbar to rip open the wood at a lower corner, exposing the plastic wrapping and foam packing. He jammed the bar into the crate, vigorously punching and whacking at the exposed bottoms of the rockets. Gla.s.s beads and white and gray powder dropped in chunks.

'My G.o.d, he's gone crazy,' Gershon said, pulling himself up onto the truck bed. 'Stop it!'

Mr. Brown-that was what they called him, and he could not remember his other names-backed away from the crate as the young men approached.

'Tell us what's happening, Mr. Brown,' Gershon said, regarding him levelly.

He shook his head. 'It's nothing,' he said. 'Nothing to worry about. I've been out walking, seeing the sights. Haven't you?'

Gershon called back, 'Get Menachem. No, stay here and help me. We have to keep him from doing more damage. Get some rope.'

'He's our boss!' Yigal said.

'Mr. Brown, you need to come down here with me. Let's go back to the tent or back to the room. Let's discuss this.'

Mr. Brown lifted the crowbar but he did not hate Gershon. He could not strike him. His shoulders slumped. Gershon leaped forward, pulled him down, and jammed him against a crate. Yigal brought more rope. By that time, three more young men had entered the garage. They bunched at the back of the truck, staring at the tall American who had once recruited and led them.

'He's off his nut,' Menachem said. They took his arms and legs and dropped him from the back of the truck and let him slump on the floor.

'What should we do?'

The folder fell from his pocket onto the floor. Yigal reached down and flipped it open, examined the credentials with dismay, and then pa.s.sed the folder around.

'Who is this Lawrence Winter?' Menachem demanded. 'This is your picture!'

'Throw him out in the streets,' Yigal said angrily.

'Don't go back there!' Gershon yelled at one of the young men who had climbed onto the truck bed. 'There's powder all over.'

Gershon and Menachem slammed him against the wall of the garage. 'Who the h.e.l.l are you?' Gershon demanded. Menachem struck him several more times with the back of his hand, across the face. His lip cracked open.

He could not answer.

He did not know.