Running the Maze (8 page)

Kyle looked hard at her. The new sun was heating the area enough that she had removed the watch cap and shaken out her hair. Her bright blue eyes were large and questioning. She looked like a schoolgirl and shot like an assassin, and the way she had stood up to him and the general was proof that she had no fear. He nodded his head. “I’ve seen enough. Put the weapon back in its case, Ledford, while I police up the brass. We’re done here, so let’s go get some breakfast. We need to talk.”

They drove away, leaving the shredded target hanging there, smiling to greet the Marines who next used the range. The distant helicopter circled in the morning sky.

*   *   *

T
HE
I
NTERNATIONAL
H
OUSE OF
Pancakes was seven miles away, a boxy building with a blue roof, and a cluster of vehicles in the crushed-rock parking area. A sign on the door read
OPEN
, and they went inside. A booth was available by a window overlooking the parking lot, and they slid into it, facing each other. The menu was as thick as a book and as confusing as a nuclear launch code, with every possible combination of pancakes and eggs and potatoes. Three small bottles of syrup stood beside the fake sugar packets, and the laminate tabletop was still damp from being wiped down after the previous customers.

Swanson and Ledford were the only military uniforms in the place, but a large man with a bristly high-and-tight haircut was gobbling eggs and waffles at a single table, his back to the room, reading a morning newspaper. He had not looked up. Ledford ordered eggs over easy and sausage, with blueberry pancakes. Kyle blanched at the amount of fat implied in that order and went instead for his usual fruit and cereal. Mugs of coffee soon appeared. Kyle adjusted his jacket and slid his M-1911 .45 caliber Colt pistol free, putting it beside his leg.

“You made me start rethinking things, out there on the line, Ledford,” he said. “I know what you mean about being able to shoot and not knowing why you’re so good at it. I barely got through high school in South Boston because I was no good at math and science courses. Never had fired a gun in my life. Then in the Marines, when they issued me a rifle and took me out to the range, they discovered that I was a better than average shot. All those hillbillies who grew up hunting couldn’t touch me. In the classroom, all of the equations and formulas and explanations and tables suddenly made sense. I didn’t question why; I just ran with it. Sound familiar?”

Beth Ledford looked at him steadily, and a tentative, relaxing smile came to her. “At first, I thought I was weird; a little girl who liked guns instead of Barbie dolls. People would come out to the farm just to watch me plink targets. Then a local TV show did a bit about me, and the news media tried to make me a celebrity. Mom and Dad, thankfully, stopped all that in its tracks when they saw what was happening. No more exhibitions, no special appearances, and plain ol’ Beth Ledford who stayed in school, ran track, and was afraid of the popular cheerleaders. My gun work was kept strictly private. Dad worked with me, and eventually hired a coach to see if I was material for the Olympics or a military shooting team. I kept improving, but then Dad died and I lost interest in the fancy stuff. Had no desire to go to college, so I joined the Coast Guard.”

“Why not the Army or the Marines?”

“Coast Guard was the only available path for a woman to become a sniper. You guys run a closed shop. I am dying to find out how Colonel Summers did it.”

“You ever have that strange moment, when you’re shooting, that you actually can see the bullet?”

“Uh-huh. I can watch the disturbed air behind it.”

“What about your brother, the doctor?” Kyle saw a gray pickup track pull into the lot, and a medium-sized man in blue coveralls got out and made his way inside. Dark hair, dark complexion, physically fit. Swanson adjusted his pistol beneath the table as the new customer was taken to a booth.

“Joey was a genius. He always wanted to be a doctor. When we were kids and I’d get a cold, he would write me a prescription for two aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Before we knew it he had a first-class medical education. He told me that he went on the humanitarian missions to balance the guilt he felt for being so blessed. His real love was research.” She leaned toward him. “I think he was going to do great things … What’s happening, Gunny?”

The big man who had been sitting alone was on his feet, and Kyle slid out of the booth, the big Colt against his leg. They arrived at the new customer’s table at the same time, and Chief Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins jammed in beside the surprised stranger while Kyle eased into position across the table, letting the man get a glimpse of the weapon before it disappeared.

“What the fuck?” the man stammered.

“Keep both hands on the table,” Double-Oh ordered. “Try to pull that gun in your overalls and I will break your arm.”

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

Kyle tapped the pistol against the bottom of the table. “I’ll ask the questions this morning. We’re a detail assigned to protect Petty Officer Ledford over there. You and your people are following her. Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, settling in and growing calm.

“Look, buddy, your surveillance has been busted for two days now. I saw your helicopter this morning; now you show up. You have a partner outside who is probably listening to this conversation, so invite him in. I’m putting my weapon away now.” Swanson stuck the pistol back under his windbreaker. Within two minutes, another man appeared at the door and ambled over. Jeans, boots, stained blue sweatshirt, and graying hair. He looked at Ledford, then dropped into the booth beside Swanson.

“My name is Fred Watson, and that’s Hector Holmes.” Watson flipped open a leather folder with a gold badge and a laminated identification card and put it on the table. “Counterterrorism Division of the Diplomatic Security Service, State Department. And you are?”

“Samuel L. Jackson and Brad Pitt. Task Force Trident. Pentagon.” Double-Oh produced some identification.

Kyle said to the man across from him, “Holmes and Watson. Not very original.”

“Better than movie stars.” Watson flashed a crooked grin. “I don’t make these things up. I just carry the plastic.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling. Well, here’s what is going on, Special Agent Watson. Petty Officer Ledford is currently on extended temporary duty with Task Force Trident, we’re not going to let her go, and we’re not going to let anything happen to her.”

“It’s a terrorism thing with us,” said Watson. “Nothing was going to happen to her.”

Dawkins replied, “Your appearance here just underlines what we already know: that the State Department is somehow involved in those medical team murders in Pakistan.”

Watson scratched his cheek. “I wouldn’t know about any of that. Our instructions were just to follow Ledford and see who she contacts. She met you, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Pitt. And I never heard of Task Force Trident, so since the quiet surveillance has been blown, you boys are just going to have to get out of the way now and let us have Ledford for some questioning.”

“Not gonna happen, Mr. Watson. Call your boss and tell him or her that it’s over.” Kyle’s words were emotionless. An order.

“Well, I hate to tell you, Brad Pitt, but your Task Force Trident, whatever it is, does not outrank the State Department. I can have a dozen agents in here in five minutes.” He pointed toward the table where Ledford sat.

Dawkins took a cell phone from his pocket. “No, we don’t, but the White House does, and they will back us. We already have four more guns in this place right now, and none of us wants a firefight. But when Ledford leaves, she’s going with us. Want me to make the call?”

Watson looked over to where Ledford was staring at them. Sybelle Summers, wearing the black pants and white blouse of an IHOP waitress, was leaning back against the table, facing them, with her right hand holding a pistol that was barely visible beneath a white dishcloth.

Watson waved his hands slowly. “OK. OK. Make that call, Mr. Samuel L. Jackson, and tell whoever it is to set up a meeting between all the right people. Then both sides here know what’s what. This is obviously some kind of fuckup, and I don’t want to get shot over a stack of pancakes.” He winked good-naturedly at Summers. “Say, miss, could you put away the artillery and get us some coffee over here?”

Summers smiled sweetly and said, “Fuck you.”

8

H
E DREAMED OF GREAT
ropes of shining steel hanging in the sky, double-deck trusses, towering monopoles, and H-shaped pylons standing tall, probing into the clouds above wide bodies of water, and supporting wide carriageways and pedestrian footwalks, all illuminated by lights hidden in the ribs. Asleep, his brain amused itself by solving the mathematical and technical riddles of the complex Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong, the majestic sweeping curve of the Øresundsbroen, between Denmark and Sweden, and the impossibly beautiful Rion-Antirion over the Gulf of Corinth in Greece. All were works of art in his opinion, classical outdoor statuary that would serve mankind for ages. In the dreams, each bridge had an engraved stone that hailed the name of the greatest Islamic builder of the twenty-first century—Mohammad al-Attas: Chief Engineer and Architect. Then he awoke in his wide, soft bed and lay still. Just dreams. Someday, Allah willing, such miracles could come to pass for him.

For now, instead of building a sky-piercing colossus, he seemed to be working in the opposite direction, creating a smooth, single-arched bridge of rock across a flood-chiseled chasm in northeastern Pakistan. His task was to make it utilitarian and strong, unremarkable in every way, so that the casual eye would pass right over it instead of lingering and applauding the ingenuity involved. Al-Attas rose and went into his private bathroom to wash his face. This was not to be one of the great bridges of the world, but it might become one of the most important: the first of many along a highway of enlightenment being created for the New Muslim Order, and a protected secret refuge for its leader.

He stared into the mirror above the porcelain sink, and his intense black eyes peered back. He ran his fingers through his long hair and was disgusted when loose strands clung to them. Even as he shaved, more mathematic calculations unscrolled in his mind, a precise march of equations.

And his skin! He was becoming pale from the lack of sunlight and the constant work underground. The physician had given him a large bottle of vitamin D to help maintain his health, and al-Attas made a mental note to install more ultraviolet lights. If it was happening to him, it would happen to anyone spending much time in this self-contained underground fortress. That could not be allowed.
Make it a point,
he told his reflection,
to get topside more. Every day.

He pulled a fresh white towel from a cabinet and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water, soap, and shampoo fully awaken him. A hot breakfast would be waiting in the canteen; then he would put on his hard hat and take the elevator that was used to move freight up to the surface. An hour at least in the morning sun, and even a brisk walk to the little village that had sprung up at the west end of the bridge. Then back down in time for the noon teleconference and working on the computers. He checked his fingernails carefully and found them clean. His teeth got a hard brushing. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail, which he bound with a rubber band. Mohammad al-Attas was not a mole or a termite, and this bridge job was only a step toward greater things. He would endure. Why was the bathroom such a mess?

As he left his little apartment one hundred feet belowground, his silent manservant was already busy cleaning the bedroom. The man had been especially chosen because his tongue had been cut out as a child to make him a better beggar, and he could not talk. Al-Attas ignored him and left the room, dressed for the day in the Western style of blue jeans and loose shirts, with a billed cap turned backward.

The servant stopped his work and pressed his forehead to the burgundy carpet on the chill stone floor, giving thanks to Allah for letting him survive to see another morning. He was terrified of his young master. The man was very smart, the smartest the servant had ever met, smarter even than the elders in his home village, but the man’s mind was bent like a horseshoe. The servant entered the bathroom and found a stack of blood-soaked towels and clothing that had been flung into a corner. The shower would have to be scrubbed hard to remove the streaks of blood on the floor. Sandals crusted with thick mud needed to be cleaned. The weapons would be cleaned and sharpened, and put away in the cabinet. His young master was not what he seemed, and the servant could not, would not, ever tell a soul.

*   *   *

“T
HE MAN IS A
lunatic,” said Major Najib Umair of the Pakistani Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, the ISI. He had read the reports and seen the videos made by his agents at the bridge about the engineer running about in the night, killing people and cutting up bodies. They had even documented the cleanup and subsequent cover-up after the engineer slaughtered and brutally violated the entire team of doctors and nurses who had somehow stumbled into the most secret tunnels.

“A very useful lunatic,” reminded Lieutenant General Yahya Gul, the director of the ISI, who also had examined the latest reports. “Your agents say that because of his activities, the area is believed to be haunted. People in the villages speak of the Djinn and are afraid. That is not a bad thing for us.”

“A minor benefit, sir. He went crazy with bloodlust for a few hours. By killing that medical team, al-Attas put the entire operation at risk. He is not an evil spirit, just a very deranged man.”