“The sergeant was March?”
Hale nodded. “He was the platoon sergeant. At first, I was a little skeptical, because he couldn’t point out what the specific problem was. I mean, Jason March was a hell of an NCO. He didn’t have a college degree, otherwise I would have pushed him kicking and screaming into Officer Candidate School. He was a little arrogant, but all leaders have self-confidence…Anyway, I just didn’t buy into what Kealey was saying. Even he was embarrassed to bring it up, because it didn’t sound like much.”
“What did he say?” Naomi’s voice was a gentle probe, almost seductive in cadence and tone.
The general hesitated for a moment. “He said that March never showed any emotion.” He registered Naomi’s reaction and recognized it as his own eight years earlier. “I know, I know. It doesn’t sound like a serious problem. That’s what I thought at the time. But if you think about it, you might understand what that means. For a young soldier in peacetime, the military is not a difficult life. You do what you’re told, show a little respect to your superiors, and take some interest in your job. Anyone can do it. As you gain rank, though, the responsibility grows exponentially, while the pay does not. Now you find yourself held accountable for the lives and well-being of the soldiers under your command…With the responsibility comes stress, and with the stress comes the occasional outburst. Anything else is unnatural.”
“Obviously, I’ve never been in the military, but that doesn’t sound like enough,” she said.
“No, you’re right. It’s not enough. Ryan also told me about the strange expressions that would come over March’s face, and about the fact that he lived off base but no one had ever seen his quarters. To be honest, my opinion of Kealey dropped after this little speech. I mean, it sounded paranoid and more than a little unsubstantiated.”
Naomi could see the pain flicker in the man’s eyes.
“He was right, though. I should have listened to him. I finally deployed Kealey’s unit in the fall of 1997. It was in response to the bombing of the Khobar Towers in Dhahran in 1996. If you remember, nineteen U.S. airmen were killed in the attack and Hezbollah claimed responsibility. It took a while, months of gathering intelligence, but we were finally able to pinpoint the architect of the attack: Mohammed Khalil. He had been granted political asylum by Syria, and was shacked up in a house on the Mediterranean coast.
“I needed the best because we only had one shot at it, so I gave Ryan’s unit the go-ahead. It’s called direct action, a mission that results in the capture or death of enemy combatants. It’s usually the last thing SF is called in to do, but it’s important. March was in an overwatch position. He was the only one on the squad to have completed the sniper school at Benning, so he was up on the ridge with the next-best marksman in the unit. It was going to send a message, it would have counted for something…March was supposed to take out the car with Khalil inside, and then notify the team on the ground. Instead, he shot the second sniper and fired on the unit as they came down the hill.”
Naomi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “They were all killed?”
“All except the captain. The extraction team, which was the other half of the twelve-man detachment, arrived twenty minutes after they lost radio contact. They didn’t know what had gone wrong until later, but they pulled Kealey out with a bad chest wound and a punctured lung. It’s a miracle he survived as long as he did. They found a lot of blood at March’s position, decided that he would probably bleed out, and that was it.”
“So you just assumed he was dead?”
“There was pressure on us to do it that way. With no witnesses, nobody to dispute our version of events, we avoided a potentially huge problem. Until now, that is.”
“Until now.”
Naomi could hardly see Peter Hale, the dark having eased through the tiny holes in the screened walls, discreetly covering the porch with a black shroud. His disembodied voice reached out to her through the cool night air, along with the gentle chirps of crickets hidden among the long blades of grass.
“If Harper is sending you after him, then I hope you’re ready. If you miss him once, he won’t give you a second chance. You should count yourself lucky to have Ryan on your side, but remember what you’re up against…Whatever happens, don’t let March get his hands on you. Believe me, that’s the last thing you want.”
She felt a distinct ripple of fear run through her body in response to the general’s last words. The fear pushed through her imagined wall of stoicism and touched her deep enough to leave her with a cold feeling that lingered in the pit of her stomach. For Naomi Kharmai, the fear was a new and unwelcome sensation.
Thanking him quietly for the beer and the information, she rose and pushed past the screen door. It squeaked angrily on its rusty hinges as she disappeared out into the empty space beyond the elevated porch.
CHAPTER 11
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Jonathan Harper’s elegant brownstone was located in DuPont Circle on historic General’s Row. The line of town houses had been constructed in the late-1800s and given to former Union army generals in lieu of a pension, the federal government finding itself somewhat short on funds at the time. The buildings had admirably withstood the ravages of time, towering over the narrow street below, just as they had more than a hundred years earlier.
Surprisingly, it was not difficult for Ryan to find a place to park his car on the street. As he walked with Katie up the front steps, he found himself wondering if Harper took advantage of his influence to ensure that the Metro PD kept the curb in front of his home clear of vehicles. Ryan knew that he would do the same if he were in the DDO’s position. They were greeted warmly at the door by Julie Harper, a short, slightly overweight woman whom Ryan had known and liked for as long as he had her husband. He introduced the two women and moved gratefully into the warm interior of the house. Jonathan was waiting for them in the dining room.
“Ryan, that face looks terrible.” Turning to Katie, he said, “It must be embarrassing for you to be seen with him.”
Katie smiled and hooked her arm into Ryan’s, pulling against him playfully. “Absolutely,” she said. “I’ve started walking a few steps behind so people won’t know we’re together.”
Harper laughed as Kealey sent a rueful grin in his direction. “John, this is Katie Donovan. Katie, John Harper. He’s the deputy director over at Langley—my boss, in other words.”
Jonathan shook hands with her warmly. “Thank you for coming. Ryan talks about you all the time. It’s starting to affect his work, not that he ever did too much in the first place.”
Katie laughed as Julie emerged from the kitchen with the first of several steaming dishes in her arms.
The food was delicious, a light meal of grilled lemon chicken with baked potatoes, a fresh salad, and French bread, all served with cold white wine. The talk across the table became easier and more animated as the night wore on and another bottle of wine was consumed. Long after the meal concluded, the two women wandered off to the living room with Julie clutching a third bottle, giggling softly at a shared joke.
Jonathan laughed as they walked away, shaking his head. “They certainly seem to be getting along.” Kealey smiled in agreement. His host lifted his glass and stood up. “I need to go over a few things with you,” he said. “Let’s talk upstairs.”
Ryan followed Harper up to the second-floor study. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, a large part of the space consumed by an immense desk of burnished wood centered on a fading Persian rug. Taking a seat in one of two comfortable leather armchairs, Jonathan noticed the look on his friend’s face and smiled knowingly.
“I know, it’s a lot different from the rest of the house,” he said. “I needed at least one room without floral décor and rose-patterned wallpaper. You might have the same problem if you’re not careful.”