Irish Pennant

By Drew Howell

As an ending, it's familiar: A man with no way out fakes his death and sails off into a sunset of palm trees and fuzzy drinks

But what happens when that's your beginning?

For a burned spy named Gault, a pile of money and a new face don't hide the fact that his second life is pretty empty. But when a deadly terrorist murders his best friend, everything changes.

Now, Gault wants blood for blood. Tracking the killer from the oil rocks of Azerbaijan through the old cities of Europe and into the rugged Alps, nothing is going to stand in his way.

Problem is, disgraced FBI Agent Samantha "Sam" Calvert has her own score to settle with the assassin, even if she has to go against orders to hunt him down.

IRISH PENNANT puts Gault and Calvert on a collision course, each hoping to catch a bloodthirsty killer before he strikes again. What they don't know is that he already has a plan of his own, a daring new attack under false colors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drew Howell
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476381596

Drew Howell

After graduating Annapolis, Howell served in the United States Navy for more than two decades, deploying to every numbered fleet and operating with more than sixty nations. On leaving active duty, he endured law school and entered private practice. Howell engaged in complex federal court litigation and intellectual property law before joining Blackwater as a senior vice president and its general counsel. Then things got interesting.

Book preview

Prologue

They’d stuffed the money in a suitcase. Not some high-speed, brushed-aluminum job—a case like that screams cartel bagman or government courier. Nor did this case have the obligatory handcuff and chain. That’s a fast way to end up with your arm hacked off at the wrist if things go sideways.

This case was a beat-up brown number. Some space-age miracle plastic that was sleek and futuristic around the same time people thought platform shoes, mood rings, and drinking Tang were good ideas. The kind of case you used to see some guy in a gorilla suit throw around on late-night TV.

It held a spare shirt, toothbrush, change of socks. And money. Lots of money. Benjamins. Used but bundled like new.

Worldwide, the standard for any denomination or currency is one hundred notes inside each paper strap, ten straps per brick of bills. Meaning a brick of Benjamins is one hundred thousand dollars.

There were three bricks in the bag.

The bearer of the case was a good match for it—scuffed and worn around the edges, but still functional. Tall and rangy, dark hair, blue eyes, a little rumpled and unshaven.

He wore an ill-fitting suit picked from a thrift store not long before his flight from Frankfurt. In the left inside jacket pocket was a European Union passport issued to one Axel Stieg by the Bundesrepublik Deutschland. The rest of Herr Stieg’s pocket litter told you he was from Hamburg, as were his phone number and his small export company.

Presuming, of course, that Axel Stieg was anything more than wholesale fabrication.

The man playing the role sat in the passenger seat of an ancient Russian knock-off of the Jeep called a UAZ 469. Sturdy and uncomfortable, the thing could drive almost anywhere, at least between bouts with its legendary transmission problems.

At the moment, the Jeepski was clattering over a cracked and faded ribbon of concrete trestle several meters above the Caspian Sea. Behind them, the water was littered to the horizon with hundreds of oil rigs, platforms, pipelines, pilings, and piers. Ahead, the miles of elevated roadway were finally about to end.

Five short trestles branched off to the left, like fingers on a hand. They led to five identical structures perched on steel pilings. Peeling paint on concrete block, rusting metal window frames, three stories. Fifty years ago, they might have been warehouses, dormitories, or offices—it was impossible to tell.

The driver slowed as they reached the end of the line, turned the truck in a narrow circle and pointed it back the way they’d come. He killed the engine.

A small blockhouse covered the head of the nearest trestle; a pair of shabby-looking guys with Kalashnikovs leaning next to the gate.

Warm welcome, said Stieg.

The two groups stared at each other.

Don’t have to play it this way, Gault.

I know. And for today, it’s Stieg. He grabbed the suitcase and shouldered out the door.

‘Luck.

The passenger smiled, I got angels watching over me.

His driver snorted.

As Stieg approached the gate, the two goons pushed themselves off the wall. The steel door to the guardhouse opened and a massive guy in a nylon track suit lumbered out. He wasn’t exceptionally tall—maybe six feet—but he was a solid tank of muscle, built like a side of beef.

Leaning on the side of the truck, the driver watched across the hood as Track Suit searched the case. The big man then both patted down and carefully wanded Stieg before the two disappeared through the gate.

Five minutes turned into ten.

The driver stared at the Kalashnikov Twins. They stared back.

Finally, the gate opened again and Stieg was roughly shoved out, stumbling and falling to the concrete. Track Suit flung the open suitcase off the trestle, most of its contents spilling into the water.

Herr Stieg pushed himself to his feet, picked up his toothbrush, and shuffled over to the truck. Tucking the brush in his torn jacket pocket, he began dusting off the ruined suit.

Where’s the money?

They took it.

Get the info?

Nope.

Stieg wiped some blood off the corner of his mouth.

Take it that ox hit you. Surprised he’s still walking.

I was feeling charitable.

The driver keyed the Jeepski, which ground for a while then caught. So, he asked, What next?

Guess we do it the hard way.

Chapter 1

Washington, D.C.

The day’s first tour group shuffled out of the White House, their guide herding them onward as everyone jockeyed for a last look back at the Entrance Hall and the Grand Staircase.

Off to one side, unnoticed, a man slipped through a plain door and moved quickly across the pink-and-white marble. He faded into the group as they gaggled down the North Portico’s shallow stairs.

This newest tourist was dressed in a grey suit and a worn pair of Justin ropers. Tall and weathered, he had a fringe of white hair. A folded newspaper rode loosely in one hand.

His name, had any of them asked, was Harlan Houston.

Of course, if they’d asked, he would have lied.

That’s what old spies do. Habit much as anything.

But this morning, it was also necessity. Houston wasn’t advertising this little trip. Far as the record—or his own protective detail—was concerned, he would spend the entirety of the morning locked up in a National Security Council working group.

That was an acceptable, perhaps expected, activity for the Director of Operations of his agency. Meeting with a burned agent—even one who used to work for him—was not.

The working group gathered in the Eisenhower Building, better known as the Old Executive Office Building. Since the security guy on its door this morning knew him by sight, Houston had ducked over to la casa grande to slide out with the touristas.

Besides, the White House exit was closer to his destination.

His group made its way past the large fountain gracing the People’s front yard and filed through the heavy iron fence via the northeast gate.

Houston crossed long-closed Pennsylvania Avenue and headed into Lafayette Square. Through the years, this seven-acre patch served as a racetrack, a zoo, a slave market, a campground, even a graveyard.

Now, it is a finely manicured park.

This early in the sightseeing day, the Square wasn’t busy. Maybe two dozen people milling about. Lots of snapshot posing before the White House or the historic statues. Some guy walking his dog. One harried woman in a skirt and sneakers trying not to spill her coffee.

Moving deeper into the park, Houston found a bench backing up to a large tree. He checked his watch.

Fifteen minutes early.

Good.

You aim to arrive ahead of time for a meet. Lay low, observe what’s normal, try to spot things out of place. Watch the other guy when he shows.

This, as it turned out, was immediate.

Gault came trotting out of the Hay-Adams Hotel, crossed the street and parked it on the bench.

You watching from the restaurant?

For the last half hour.

That all?

Says the man who just got here.

I’m a washed-up paper-shuffler, remember? Besides, what kind of an observation point is that?

Pretty good, you ask me. Warm. Dry. The shirred eggs aren’t too shabby, either.

Houston just nodded. He glanced toward the White House. "You got cojones the size of cannonballs meeting here, son. Being a wanted felon and all."

I was never convicted.

You died before trial.

They were trumped-up charges, nothing but a political witch hunt.

I can think of ten thousand marshals and federal agents who’d love to prove you wrong.

Gault sat on that for a moment.

He pulled a curled-up guidebook out and showed it to Houston. Says here this is the perfect spot for this meeting.

Harlan leaned back and crossed his feet. This oughta be good. Let’s hear it.

Well, you look around and it’s this inspiring, beautiful, patriotic park. But nothing’s what it seems.

Like?

"Start front and center. We’ve got the famous statue of President Jackson on the rearing horse.

"Guy was in so many duels we don’t even have a count of ‘em. Most infamous one, he takes a bullet an inch from the heart, proceeds to aim, gun misfires. He calmly recocks, aims, and fires a killing shot.

"Then there was the guy who tried to assassinate him. Pulls a pistol, misfires, pulls another pistol, misfires again. At this point, Jackson attacks the assassin and beats the guy near to death with his walking stick. His aides had to pull him off."

The point?

Point is, you’re not taught any of that. Nor about the cockfighting, drunkenness, bigamy, arson … Instead, he’s up there as the model General, Jurist and Statesman.

If you say so.

He is. But the guy invaded Florida against orders, summarily executed British citizens, invented the pocket veto, ignored the Supreme Court, introduced the spoils system to federal government—he was a one-man wrecking crew.

Houston bit his lip, hid a rueful smile.

You see those four other statues here? Gault demanded.

Yep.

Not one of those guys is an American. None one of ‘em were even in the Continental Army.

So?

So, they’re held out now as great heroes of the Revolutionary War. But these guys were paid civilians. Today we’d call ‘em private security contractors. They’d be labeled mercenaries, shooting everything that moves as they dance about on cloven hooves and drink goat’s blood out of baby skulls.

Glad to see this whole thing hasn’t made you bitter, pardner, Houston drawled.

Look, this town runs on lies. To anybody who lives across the street or their friends up on the Hill, this is just a game. Theater. And we’re all pawns, manipulated for their amusement.

Gault paused.

All I’m saying is: Don’t think just because I’m here it means that I’ve forgotten that.

A young couple approached, pushing a stroller along the brick walkway, the kid holding a red-white-and-blue balloon.

Houston waited until they were out of earshot, then said, You know, I was reading about this politician the other day. Said he was ‘the fungus from the corrupt womb of bigotry and fanaticism … a worse tyrant and more inhuman butcher than existed since the day of Nero.’

Harsh. Anybody I know?

"Ever hear of a guy named Abraham Lincoln? That’s what newspapers in the North were saying about him during his own time. Disliking politicians is an American tradition."

Yeah, well Honest Abe gets re-elected, you let me know. Meantime, I’ve got no use for politicians and adminiscrats.

Present company included?

Your heart’s still with the guys on the line. But I don’t want anyone else near this little project.

Gault let that sink in for a moment. You bring what I asked?

Houston raised the newspaper an inch, then pushed it across the bench.

Gault flipped up a corner and saw the photocopies inside.

What’s it say?

You forget how to read?

Gault shrugged as if to say okay.

I need to return this?

Return what? Houston asked, getting up. He headed toward Pennsylvania Avenue without looking back.

Chapter 2

Gault thought about chartering a plane, but that kind of anonymity leaves its own paper trail. And he avoided paper trails like you’d avoid a debt collector with the clap.

Instead, he used a counterfeit ID and flew commercial. It took three different planes, but he ended up in the cool white openness of the arrivals terminal in Key West.

Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he walked through the sliding doors and along the wide sidewalk, ignoring the line of waiting cabs.

Cab companies leave records. Gypsies don’t.

In the front row of the short-term lot, a skinny kid in dreads and tie-dye leaned against the side of a thirty-year-old Cutlass Supreme.

Perfect.

Hey mon, welcome ta Conchtown! You be needin’ a ride into town, yeah? the kid asked.

How much?

Twenny dollah.

It’s like two miles. Ten bucks.

Okay, mon, deal.

They piled into the turd-brown beater and the kid backed out of his parking space, reggae blasting over the whine of the power steering.

Whatchu doin visit de Key West, mon? Wanna go down’e Mallory Square? You lookin for a ladyfrien?

No. Friend of mine.

Oh yeah, mon, why?

Gault weighed the question for a minute, then said, Ka im bun hole eap a erb daz mayan.

Uh, say what?

Ka im bun hole eap a erb daz mayan.

Ah, uh, okay mon.

I said, ‘Cause him burn a whole heap of herb that’s mine,’ Gault laughed, So where you really from, Bob Marley?

The kid smiled sheepishly. "Detroit. But tourists come here, and that island stuff works man, you know what I’m sayin?"

Well, you can save it—and the questions.

Okay, dude, okay. Where to?

Key West Bight.

No sweat, said Bob. He cranked up the stereo another notch and nailed the gas.

It actually turned out to be a little over three miles from the airport instead of the promised two. But they didn’t hit major traffic and 15 minutes later the Cutlass eased onto Caroline Street, a block in from the historic seaport.

You got an address? Bob asked.

Just park up there behind the old train station.

What, I’m your personal chauffeur driver now?

You want to make another fifty?

You know it.

Then park where I said and sit there.

‘Til when?

Thought we agreed no more questions.

Oh yeah.

Gault grabbed his bag and eased out of the car.

Hey, where you going with my first ten? Bob asked.

Handing the kid a bill, he walked a block up to the boardwalk and headed west.

A couple hundred yards down stood a lime green block building with a shallow tin roof. The windows were shielded by large wooden shades and a plain sign above the glass door said Restaurant in neon.

He pushed inside. Café-style tables with white plastic chairs sat on a bare concrete floor, only half filling the space. At one table, a bearded guy in t-shirt and shorts read the paper, his dog sleeping underfoot. Otherwise, the place was deserted.

Gault went ahead and helped himself to a table against the wall. He kept an eye on the entrance while he looked at the photocopied menu.

Finally, the glass door banged open and a woman in a pink polyester waitress dress came in.

Hey Ruthie, got a customer, The Beard observed.

She grabbed a pad off the counter and sauntered over.

Hey there handsome, welcome to Monk’s, she said.

I thought this place was called Tom’s.

It was. Now it’s Monk’s. Whatcha having?

Coffee fresh?

Eh, more or less.

Large, please.

Want something with that? Pie?

I don’t like pie. Got cake?

Not even Key Lime?

It’s still pie. What about the cake?

We’ve got cheesecake.

That’s not cake.

They call it cake.

Does it have a crust and get baked in a glass pan?

Yeah.

Then it’s pie. It’s pie with a pseudonym and delusions of grandeur.

You’re funny, she giggled and headed for the kitchen.

Gault pulled out the file Houston had given him. He sat it on the chair next to him and thought about reading it a final time before he burned it.

The dossier was on an Iranian lieutenant colonel. Much of the info was boilerplate, or general background that was fundamental even to someone just out of training. The rest was largely conjecture and supposition.

Still, Gault had pretty much memorized it front to back.

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

Subject father believed tank commander Iranian Imperial Guard prior to coup d’etat engineered by U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, 1953. [see file: Operation TP-AJAX]. Father active member Hezb-e Tudeh (Farsi; Party of the Masses) [Iranian Communist Party] prior to coup. Father fled to neighboring Afghanistan prior to apprehension by secret police, June 1955.

Subject mother believed national of United Kingdom assigned as D7 delegated grade officer attached to British Embassy Kabul.

Subject believed born 1973 [note: other reports indicate possible early as 1967]. One brother. Subject primarily uses name Sayfullah al-Maslūl (Arabic; The Drawn Sword of God) in tribute to general that conquered Arabia to establish First Caliphate.

Subject believed raised Kabul, Karachi, and London prior to return Tehran several years subsequent 1979 Revolution and establishment of Islamic Republic. Estimated to have attended American University of Beirut prior confirmed attendance graduate studies University of Oxford, focus in military studies [see file: OXONIENSIS]. Confirmed photograph enclosed; only confirmed photo.

Pink-Polyester Ruthie returned with his coffee.

Thanks, he said. By the way, I’m looking for an old buddy of mine. Guy name of Hunter, runs a dive boat. Used to eat breakfast here almost every day.

Sure, I know him. Takes mainlanders out to the Dry Tortugas two or three days a week. Rest of the time he’s drunk or sleeping with that bimbo bartender from over at the Reefer.

He on the water today?

Nah, he should be stumbling in here any time, if he ain’t too hungover. You gonna wait?

Yep.

Cool.

She left to check on The Beard, he went back to the file.

Subject believed to have joined Basji [note: militia comprised boys 10-to-16 years of age; used for mine clearance via human wave during Iran-Iraq conflict] prior to advancing to Pasdaran e Enqelab (Farsi; Guardians of the Revolution) [note: Iranian Revolutionary Guard].

Subject believed advanced to al-Quds Force of Revolutionary Guard on return from Oxford. [note: Quds special forces branch charged with exporting Islamic revolution; organizes, trains, equips, funds foreign revolutionary movements; confirmed sponsor Hezbollah; confirmed sponsor Hamas; links to Sunni extremist groups reported, unconfirmed]

Subject believed [REDACTED]. Subject suspected pivotal capture and execution four American soldiers Karbala, Iraq 2007. Subject believed operational Lahore training camps 2009. Subject suspected [REDACTED].

Subject recommended for Capture-Kill List 2008 [note: denied per DoJ memo]. Subject recommended for Capture-Kill List 2011 [note: denied per DHS memo].

Subject believed operational in Quds First Directorate [Iraq] and Fourth Directorate [Afghanistan, Pakistan, Indian subcontinent] [note: Quds comprised eight directorates, each assigned geographic area of operation] [[note: indications Subject active Fifth Directorate [United States and Europe] UNCONFIRMED]].

There were another 25 pages of Governmentese, but they were largely useless. Grabbing the file, he headed for the bathroom. In the dingy sink, he burned each page and then washed the ash down the drain.

The visit with Houston had been a long shot. He figured it was worth a chance to see if the intelligence machine could tell him where to find this guy. Dream on.

Still, it wasn’t a total loss. Buried in the back of the file was one small lead—wasn’t obvious, wasn’t a sure thing, but it was better than nothing.

Sayf had purchased weapons from the same Ukrainian arms dealer fourteen times in the last three years. The most recent buy only a few months ago.

Follow the guns, you find the money. Find the money, you just might find the man. And he was dead set on finding this man.

Less than 48 hours ago, Sayf had killed his best friend.

Now he was going to kill Sayf.

Chapter 3

Near a busy subway station north of Tehran’s center lays Taleghani Avenue. Four lanes of traffic, with midsized office and residential towers lining its southern side.

Across the avenue, to the north, a long wall of painted brick crowds the asphalt sidewalk.

The wall, 15 feet high in places, is topped with iron fence or spikes. Numerous wrought-iron gates are locked and closed to spying eyes by rusting metal plate.

As is common for government spaces, the wall is covered with murals, many proclaiming the obligatory Marg-bar Amreeka—Death to America. One illustration shows a captured U.S. Marine being led away as a hostage, another Lady Liberty with a skull for a face.

At the front gate, a large stone medallion is set in the wall. Much of the surface has been chiseled away, but it is still recognizable as a seal reading Embassy of the United States of America.

Now, however, it is headquarters of the Quds Force.

Scattered buildings dot the compound, large trees and manicured lawns surrounding them. The low-slung main structure is red brick. Stone steps lead to a double entry.

The first floor is largely a museum dedicated to the capture of The American Den of Spies.

One room holds a plastic soundproof bubble of double-glazed Perspex, designed to defeat eavesdropping. Inside, dummies in 70’s clothing and haircuts stand in for CIA case officers. Further down, a three-inch steel door leads to the communications room, filled with old telecom equipment covered in dials and switches.

Above, the second floor is purely business.

Midway down its long central corridor, the Head of the Fifth Directorate paused before his commander’s office, steeled himself, and then knocked sharply.

Enter.

Major General, you wanted to see me, sir?

Davood, come, come, have a seat, the man said from behind a large desk. Would you like some tea?

The thought of a strong cup of black tea was inviting, but he was not so foolish as to accept the seemingly kind offer.

It was not that sort of meeting.

No sir. Thank you. I expect you wish to go straight to the matter of Sayf.

The general gave a small laugh without humor and tossed his pen on the desktop. Yes, Davood, I expect I do. Sayfullah has been a blessing, but this last operation, it is a disaster.

Inwardly, the younger officer felt the knot in his stomach grow larger. It did not go well, he admitted.

Sayf had gone to America to engineer the killing of several former Presidents. They were alive and well.

I will be surprised if it does not provoke some sort of retaliation. He has hidden his tracks well? the general asked.

Yes, praise be to Allah, very well. Those who worked for him have no idea of his real identity; they have no way to lead the Americans to us.

So he has left nothing that will come to haunt us?

Davood hesitated, thinking How very dangerous a question. He said, He is confident, sir.

The general let that hang for a moment, ensuring Davood understood the line he had drawn. He has come home?

Sir, he was wounded, shot in the arm, during his escape. He required medical attention before returning.

Behind the desk, the commander leaned back and stared into space for a moment. You recall that I suspected his plan was too aggressive? he finally asked.

"Yes, sir. But I believe it was … it was a good plan, sir."

You also recall that I nonetheless personally vouched for this to the Supreme Leader, Allah bless him and give him peace.

Of course, but the … the plan was largely a success, sir. It was only through extreme misfortune at the last moment that victory was plucked from our grasp.

The commander sighed. Do we know what happened?

Somehow, the Great Satan was able to jam the detonation signal. The device never went off.

"This was the beesharaf CIA?"

Ah … no.

Homeland Security then?

Actually, we believe their agencies had no idea of the operation. Those involved were … civilians.

The commander scowled at him.

Davood rushed onward, But they were former military or spies, of course.

So these were hired guns?

"Not hired, exactly. They have been mercenaries for the American Crusade in the past. But our source claims that in this, they just decided on their own to … interfere."

The general leaned back and rubbed his face with both hands.

Davood thought, This is not going well.

And both of Sayf’s sources confirm this? the commander asked.

Uh, well, that is the other thing, sir. The politician with whom we have traded favors in the past has killed himself.

The general glared.

Before he could speak, Davood forged ahead, But Sayf still has his other source high within the Great Satan’s intelligence structure. This man has confirmed the information for us. And there is other news, perhaps even more promising, regarding the dead man.

Yes?

His superior—a full United States Senator—desires to meet with Sayf. We believe she may be willing to continue our prior arrangement. Someone so highly placed could be exceptionally valuable.

I see. What does this harlot desire?

The same as any politician, general, she desires power. And Sayf is confident that she is willing to trade anything to get it. He asks to remain in America and meet with her.

For a long time the general stared off into space, calculating angles and measuring risks. Davood felt a line of nervous sweat trickle down his back.

At last the Quds commander smiled broadly.

Then by all means, Sayf should meet with her.

Chapter 4

By the time Gault returned to the table it had a new resident. A compact guy with long black hair and a deep tan was sitting there in board shorts, water shoes, and a puka necklace.

The new arrival looked him up and down.

I don’t know you, bro.

A hint of a smile crossed Gault’s face as he slid into his chair. Pulling a thin brown folder out of the bag, he laid it on the table and folded his hands on top.

Well, I was thinking maybe you’d be up for a job, Hunter.

You want to hire the boat, go down to the dive shop like everybody else.

It’s not about the boat. More along the lines of what you used to do.

Ruthie arrived, a couple of plates balanced on one arm, glass of juice and a coffee mug in the other hand. Here ya go, hun, she said to Hunter, laying out scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, toast, hash browns, some oatmeal, and a bowl of tropical fruit.

Nice to see you’re having the fruit. Watching the waistline, huh? Gault asked dryly.

Yeah, this guy eats like nobody I’ve ever seen, Ruthie said.

Hunter curled his lip at both of them as she headed back to the kitchen.

What do you mean, ‘what I used to do?’

Before the dive boat, before the surf bum look, before the bimbo bartender—back when you were with the teams.

Hunter forked in a giant load of pancakes, now paying close attention.

Gault continued, You used to be one of the best electronics guys going.

I might still know a thing or three.

So, you interested?

Depends. What is it?

I can’t tell you if you’re not in.

How am I supposed to get in if you don’t tell me?

Let’s just say it’s doing the kind of stuff you used to do, maybe in some bad places. You help out and I pay off the note on that dive boat of yours.

This for the government?

Nope.

You stealing something?

That’s not the primary goal.

Killing?

Before it’s done, Gault said in a tight voice.

This some kind of revenge thing?

Yep.

Eh, I don’t know about that, bro. I’m trying to be in a better place, not screw with karma, you know?

The target, he’s the kind of guy sets off bombs in marketplaces crowded with women and children.

Whoa.

Yeah. So make a call. You in?

Hunter thought about it for a while.

I’m in.

Gault pulled a photo from the file and slid it onto the table. This is Ed Thatch. Warrant Officer, twenty-two years, special forces, Afghanistan, Iraq, the whole deal. Awesome guy. He was killed trying to save the lives of a lot of innocent people.

A second photo went across the table. This is the guy who gunned him down. Light colonel in the Quds Force, calls himself The Sword of Allah if you can believe that. Professional asshole. He’s wounded and on the run.

Another photograph came out. This is a Ukranian arms dealer name of Yuri Orlov. The Iranian colonel has bought weapons from Orlov fourteen times in the last three years. Yuri’s going to help us find his old customer.

A final photo. This is an overhead of the Oil Rocks complex, sixty miles off the coast of Baku, Azerbaijan. It’s a massive Soviet-era oil terminal—hundreds of wells, almost 200 miles of roads, docks, warehouses, barracks, bakery, hotel, clinic, cinema, everything.

I’m guessing we’re going there?

Orlov is wanted by half a dozen different governments, so he made some payoffs and for the past few months he’s been holed up in a corner of Oil Rocks. Guy is crazy paranoid, so he’s got some decent security electronics.

That’s where I come in.

Plus being an extra gun.

Who else is on this?

Guy you don’t know. Former Marine Recon. He’s working private security now. He’ll join us over there.

Who else?

You’re the first guy I’ve talked to.

Well, who are you gonna talk to?

I leave here, I’m going to see Goat.

Hunter seemed surprised to hear the name.

How do you know him?

We’ve worked together.

Who else?

Me. Maybe one other.

That’s thin.

It’ll work.

So who’s running this show?

I’m running the show.

I’m not wild about working with someone I don’t know.

Can you keep a secret, Hunter?

Lots.

Give me your word.

Word of honor.

Gault leaned in close. I helped you tap into that phone cable off Qingdao, I was the guy who saved your neck in Belgrade, and I was there when you punched that Royal Air Force prick right in the snot locker during The Noodle Incident.

How do you …

Looking around to make sure they were still alone, Gault held the folder up just below his eyes. Would it help if I wore a balaclava?

You wha … huh … dude no way! Hunter punched him on the shoulder and whooped, I heard you were dead, man!

Yeah, lotta people heard that.

Whoa. I can’t believe this. So, new name, new face … you some kind of secret agent or something?

Gault laughed bitterly. Not exactly. He slid an envelope across the table. Here’s a passport, ticket, some spending money. We fly out of Dulles on Monday morning.

Yeah, man. Definitely. This is awesome. Can you stay a while? Have a little reunion party tonight?

He shook his head and stood up. There’s other stuff I have to get done. I’ll see you up there.

Hunter crushed him in a bear hug. Man, it is good to see you. This rocks!

All right. Be cool, I’ll see you Monday.

You know it, man. Stay copacetic.

Rolling out of the diner, he headed back down the boardwalk.

The kid was still sitting in the turd-brown Cutlass, half-asleep with Boombastic thumping the speakers. Gault slapped the hood and then climbed in.

Bob Marley, let’s go.

No problem, man. You get what you need?

Questions.

Right, right. Sorry. Where now?

Airport.

"You got it. You leaving already? What’s