Court shushed him before he could finish it.
The SF man scratched his beard. It was clear to Court that the man wasn’t sure what to do.
Another bearded American with body armor and forearm tats entered the room and spoke before he looked up and saw his colleague in the middle of an interrogation. “Hey, Robby, second platoon snipers spotted SAA helos about ten klicks north of—”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Court nodded to him. “Hey, man. Any chance you could run and grab the sat phone for Robby? He’s got a really important call to make.”
The new Green Beret stared at the prisoner for several seconds before turning to the big man sitting with Court. “What the fuck?”
“He says he’s an American.”
Court chuckled. “Either that, or I’m a Bedouin camel herder who just watched a shit-ton of Sesame Street growing up.”
Robby said, “And he’s tellin’ me he’s OGA.” OGA meant “other governmental agency,” and it was the “down low” way of saying CIA when out in the field.
Court shook his head. “Didn’t say that, Rob. Said they’d vouch for me. Look, you’re obviously in charge here, so that makes you, what, a captain?”
“None of your business, Slick.”
Court said, “Lieutenant, then. Got it.”
The other man in the room laughed despite himself. Court was clearly the last thing they’d expected to run into in the hills of the Syrian Desert. He said, “You want me to get the phone?”
Robby said, “Negative. Take the FSA guys and give me a few minutes alone with my new friend here.”
When the room was empty other than Robby and Court, the American Green Beret said, “You gotta help me out, man. You’re saying you are, or are not, CIA?”
Court shrugged. “I’m something, Robby, that’s really all I can tell you. Just put me on the phone with them. That’s not me playing tricks, that’s me doing you a favor. The person on the other end of the line is going to be really pissed off that I’m right here, right now, in your custody, and there is no sense in them taking out their anger on you.”
Robby just stared at Court another minute, still in silence.
Court said, “All right. I’ll cut you in just a little, but I’m code word, so your TS/SCI clearance doesn’t get you into the party. You can’t even know I exist, understood?”
Robby nodded, a dazed look on his face now.
“I’m on the job. I was in cover as a contractor for a regime-backed militia, but one of your little buddies RPG’d me and I ended up right here. Now I’ve got to get back on my time-critical mission, and the only way I can see to do that is to have you talk to Langley so they can tell you to let me go.”
Robby said, “The other guy the FSA picked up?”
“He goes by Broz; he’s a Croatian mercenary, working for KWA.”
“Those bastards.”
“Yep. They shot civilians yesterday at the refinery along the M20 highway. Don’t know what you can do about it.”
Robby shrugged. “Me, either, in the grand scheme of things. But I sure as hell can make him miserable while I’ve got him.”
Court said, “Talk shit, get hit?”
The man smiled. “I bet a merc who just committed war crimes is gonna talk some serious shit.”
“Before you tune him up, you mind making that call?”
Robby nodded slowly. “Okay, Slick. I’m curious enough to play along.”
He was on board now, at least partially. He squirted some more water in Court’s mouth, radioed for the sat phone to be brought to him, and then went out into the hall, leaving Court tied up alone in the room.
Robby was curious—he wasn’t stupid.
* * *
? ? ?
A half hour later Robby and three other Americans walked purposefully back into the room. Robby pulled a knife off his chest rig and cut Court free.
As Court stood, the soldier extended a hand. “Captain Robert Anderson, Tenth SF. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Court shook his hand. “I was pretty happy to run into you myself.”
“I apologize about the treatment. We hear some tall tales in this job, and I’ve run into a couple of Brits running with ISIS and Al Nusra, so even your American accent didn’t prove you were on the level.”
“You’d have been a fool if you acted any other way.”
“I checked with my command, and they okayed me calling the number you gave me after they checked it out to make sure it went to Langley. I spoke with a woman there, she wouldn’t give her name, but she confirmed you were one of hers. She didn’t seem too happy to hear from me.”
“Her name is Suzanne, and I’m only telling you that because it would piss her off if she knew that I did.”
“Yeah, well, she wants you to call her ASAP. Here’s the phone.”
Court took the phone. “I’ll call her boss. He’ll be just as pissed about this, but he’ll also be a little more helpful.”
“I don’t really have much of an office, but you can use my hooch for some privacy.”
* * *
? ? ?
Captain Anderson led Court out of the little mud, stone, and plywood building and through a warren of similar structures, all built deep in the hills. This Special Forces forward operating base was well hidden here, protecting it from possible Russian or Syrian aircraft above, and the FSA unit they were embedded with held a solid-looking defensive perimeter. Robby told Court there was one ODA here, or Operational Detachment, Alpha—meaning a dozen Green Berets working with some seventy-five FSA fighters. The Americans were here fighting against ISIS, not the Syrian regime, but the FSA fought against both groups.
Anderson led Court into a small room on the ground floor of a bombed-out building and told him no one would disturb him during his call.
Court sat on the cot, looked at the phone in his hand, then took a deep breath.
He dialed a number from memory, but he wasn’t really sure what he would say when the call went through.
CHAPTER 65
As the director of the National Clandestine Service of the CIA, Matthew Hanley often worked late into the evening. Today had been no different. He’d arrived at his office in McLean, Virginia, just before eight a.m., and it was just after nine p.m. when he crossed the Potomac River on his way home to D.C.
His driver got him back to his Woodley Park neighborhood by nine fifteen, but just a few blocks from home, Hanley changed his mind and decided to go out to dinner instead.
Hanley was a bachelor in his midfifties, a former Green Beret, and he didn’t splurge on much in life apart from good food and wine. Tonight he made the last-minute decision to indulge at the Bourbon Steak restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel, not because he had anything special to celebrate, but rather because the pressures of his job had him certain it would kill him one of these days, so why shouldn’t he enjoy a good meal while his heart was still beating?
He and his four-man security detail entered without a reservation, but a table for one was found in the center of the room, and Hanley ate while his detail maintained a discreet 360-degree watch over the dining room and the street out front.
Apart from an urgent call from the office, he enjoyed the first half of his meal in silence at his table while he listened to the soft murmur of conversation from others seated around him. Well-heeled couples talked about their kids and marriages, businesspeople discussed their work, and foreign travelers to D.C. spoke in foreign languages, most of which Hanley understood, and the big man in the middle listened in on it all while he dined alone.
At ten thirty he poured the last of his first full bottle of cabernet into his glass, and was just about to cut off another slice of his twenty-two-ounce bone-in rib eye, when his cell phone rang. The sound of the ring told him it was on his encrypted app, so he decided he should answer it.
This was his second encrypted call of the past forty-five minutes, and he was certain it would have some relation to the first.
“Hanley.”
“Hey, Matt. It’s me.” It was Violator. Courtland Gentry. Hanley’s wayward lone-wolf asset.
Hanley put his fork on his plate and leaned back from the table. “Yeah, I know. Brewer called. She’s about to have an aneurysm.”
“Fingers crossed.”
Matt smiled but didn’t let Court hear him chuckle. He took a sip of his cabernet with his free hand. “So . . . last I heard you were in Frankfurt, about to go on vacation. Did you get off at the wrong bus stop on the way to the beach?”
“Yeah, the one in the Syrian Desert.”
“Right. Some indigenous forces working with an A-team captured you in the middle of a firefight, thought you were ISIS or Al-Nus. I trust you’ve charmed the hell out of them and smoothed things over.”
“Yes, sir. We’re all gonna get matching tats when this is over.”
“And you want my help in getting the hell out of there.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Court?”
“I don’t want to leave, but I do need some help.”
“You are on the job?” Hanley said it as a question. “Aren’t you getting support from your employer?”