Tears of God (The Blackwell Files Book 7) Page 4

  “Why’s that?” asked Alton.

  “The Afghani government has always been reluctant to share intelligence, even during the U.S. occupation. Now that they’re on their own, they won’t give us the time of day. Asking about Pasha Tech now would just alert them to our investigation.”

  “Yes,” said Alton. “We’re better off checking it out discretely.”

  “We’re?” said Vega. “You’re assuming you’ll be members of the team?”

  Alton shifted in his chair. “Yes, I think we’d be a natural fit for this mission. Mallory and I personally witnessed Creighton’s death, and she knows her father’s background better than anyone else you could assign to this case.”

  “Plus, when you recruited us, you said we had a talent for ferreting out the truth,” added Mallory.

  Vega chuckled. “So I did. I happen to agree with you. You’re on the team, provided you can prevent your personal feelings from getting in the way of executing the mission.”

  “Understood,” said Mallory, sounding grim.

  “What are the next steps?” asked Alton.

  “We need to discuss the exact mission parameters and team members,” said Vega. “Both of you, meet me in my office at nine tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’ll let your employers know you’ll be out of town for a few days.”

  “How do you know we’ll only be gone a few days?” asked Mallory.

  “I don’t,” said Vega, “but I have to tell them something. I recommend you each put in place your work coverage plans. This will be your last day in your normal jobs until we get to the bottom of Pasha Tech’s activities.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning, Alton and Mallory met Agent Vega in the sprawling lobby of the NSA’s Washington, D.C. office.

  “Here are your ID badges,” said Vega. “I was waiting for our first case together—at least the first when you’re officially on the NSA payroll—to give them to you. They’ve already been activated. Just hold them to the wall plate outside a door, and it’ll open up. Now keep in mind, you’re expected to travel only to those parts of the complex needed to conduct official business.”

  “Got it,” said Mallory. She gazed at a patch of lawn enclosed within a rectangle of imposing, brick NSA buildings. “No picnics in the quad unless authorized.”

  “Very funny. We need to discuss our next steps on this case. Let’s go to my office.”

  They wound their way through a maze of tiled corridors, stopping only at a coffee station where the Blackwells each poured a cup. Occasional announcements over the PA systems echoed throughout the building, and a mix of military and civilian employees passed them in the halls. Four or five times, one of the employees would send a nod or hello in Vega’s direction.

  They reached Vega’s office and stepped inside. On the left side of the room, heavy binders and thick books filled two bookshelves. The room’s right half appeared to serve as a Spies-R-Us warehouse. Electronic gear of all stripes—laptops, servers, routers, external hard drives, cables, RF scanners, surveillance equipment, and a hodgepodge of other devices—packed four aluminum bookshelves, reaching nearly to the ceiling. More equipment lay in piles on the corners of Vega’s desk and filled a scratched-up cardboard box pushed against the back wall.

  “One of everything?” asked Alton, gesturing to the mountain of electronics.

  “Ha! I have to keep up with the times in this job. You know better than most how challenging that can be. There’s nothing like hands-on experience to get up to speed.”

  Alton picked up a pair of night-vision goggles. “True. The best learning comes through experience.”

  Vega threw himself into a battered chair behind his desk and gestured to a pair of aluminum seats upholstered with retro, orange plastic. “Have a seat.”

  His leg a little sore from the long walk, Alton lowered himself a bit slower than usual into his chair. Mallory took the adjacent one and hitched one leg over the other.

  Vega pulled a bottle of cranberry juice from a mini-fridge ensconced in the pile of electronics and took a sip. “Let’s get down to business. I briefed my boss yesterday. He agrees this is a class-two priority—a case involving national security, but not quite the level of urgency needed to be designated level one.”

  “From a practical perspective, what does that mean to us?” asked Alton.

  “It means you two will move forward with the investigation immediately. It also means we need to assign a mission team.”

  “Do you have the team members picked out already?”

  “Not all of them,” said Vega, “but I have the core team identified.”

  Alton leaned back in his chair and stretched out his bad leg. “Who do you have so far?”

  Vega smiled. “A couple of my best. You’ll meet them in the morning.”

  “That soon?” asked Mallory.

  “You’ll like that about the NSA. When we commit to a mission, we move quickly.” Vega swished the cranberry juice in his cup and took a whiff as if sampling a fine wine. “Let me tell you a little about your new teammates.” He opened a manila folder to reveal a five-by-seven photograph of a bespectacled, middle-aged man with graying temples. “Your first teammate is Nick Gilbert, the toxicologist I mentioned the other day. You’ll need an expert in the field of poisons, and Gilbert knows his stuff…been working in that specialty for years. Now I have to warn you, he doesn’t have any field experience, so he’s a bit nervous about this. But he’s willing to try, and that’s half the battle. It seems like the idea of getting out of the lab has him excited.”

  “I’m glad he’s on the team,” said Alton. “We’ll need someone who can assess the importance of whatever Pasha Tech is up to these days.”

  “Exactly,” said Vega. “I’m also including Jessica Silva.” He slid another manila folder across his desk. A crisp photo displayed an unsmiling Army lieutenant who looked to be in her mid-twenties. The Latina’s brunette locks were nearly as dark as Mallory’s. “Unlike Gilbert, Silva has plenty of field experience. She’s served on twenty-six field missions during her four years with the NSA. Silva has traveled all over the world and has demonstrated a knack for quick thinking and extracting herself and her teammates from tight situations.”

  “She sounds valuable, too,” said Mallory.

  “You, Mr. Blackwell, will serve as Supervising Agent of the mission. You’re the boss.”

  “Me?” asked Alton. “On my first mission?”

  “Your first official mission,” replied Vega, “but let’s be real. You commanded soldiers in Afghanistan for years, you foiled an attack on our military base there, you and your wife have solved multiple, high-profile cases in the last year and a half, and you stepped in to lead an NSA mission just four months ago—a mission in which you solved another case. I think you’ve proven your capacity to lead teams.”

  “He’s right,” said Mallory, turning to her husband “You’re ready.”

  Alton nodded and cracked a grin. “How can I say no?” He took a deep breath. “You said you’ll be adding a few more team members, right?

  “Correct,” said Vega.

  “Once we have the complete team, what next?”

  “You’ll travel to Afghanistan on the next available commercial flight.”

  “Commercial?” asked Mallory. “Not military?”

  Vega took on a grim expression. “Creighton never recorded his investigation of Pasha Tech into his NSA case log, yet somehow the company learned of it and silenced him. At least that’s our working theory. It’s imperative you and your team stay under the radar, so you’ll be traveling as civilians. We also won’t be telling our Afghanistan military command that you’re there. The fewer people who are aware of this mission, the better.”

  “Agreed,” said Alton. He drummed his fingers a moment, deep in thought. “With mission secrecy being a priority, can I make some suggestions regarding the remaining team members?”

  Vega leaned back in his chair and regarded Alton with a quest
ioning look. “Who did you have in mind?”

  “You said Mallory and I make a good team because we feed off each other in getting to the bottom of a case. The people I have in mind are folks we’ve worked with before, people who’ve proven that they’re not only resourceful but also that they can help root out the truth.”

  “Go ahead,” said Vega.

  “The first person is David Dunlow. He and I served in Camp Eggers in Afghanistan together, up until I left the Army four years ago. He helped me with an investigation during my service there, and he’s helped me and Mallory with three of the stateside investigations you mentioned a minute ago.”

  “Is he dependable?” asked Vega.

  “Definitely. And he’s Secret Service. Between that career and his Army one, he’s well-seasoned in combat. We’ll need that kind of experience, especially given Gilbert’s inexperience.”

  Vega nodded. “I remember Dunlow’s name coming up when I researched the backgrounds of you two. He seemed capable, but I didn’t know how much he really contributed to the cases.”

  “Significantly,” said Alton. “I trust him.”

  “Okay. He’s in. I’ll call the Secret Service and have him assigned to your team. Who else did you have in mind?”

  Alton produced a hand-in-the-cookie-jar grin. “My second recommendation is going to sound a bit more unorthodox, but hear me out.

  “A few months before the Galapagos case, Mallory, David and I traveled to Kabul to rescue Mastana Meer, a friend of ours who had been kidnapped. While we were bungling around trying to find her, Mastana managed to talk her way out of her prison cell and escape a fortified compound guarded by dozens of armed cultists. She was only recaptured when they put dogs on her scent. Thankfully, we were able to track her down eventually and rescue her.”

  “She seems capable,” said Vega. “Why the comment about this being an unorthodox recommendation?”

  “She’s a civilian, and she’s only sixteen.”

  “What! We can’t ask the members of a covert strike team to act as babysitters on this mission.”

  “You wouldn’t need to,” said Alton. “Like I said, Mastana is smart and resourceful. And she’s been studying Silat ever since she moved here from Kabul.”

  “Silat?” said Vega. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a form a Malaysian martial arts—one of the world’s deadliest, in fact. Mastana’s not an expert, but she’s making great progress. And David Dunlow, who’s now her adoptive dad, has been training her in firearms. She’ll be able to take care of herself. But there are perhaps more important considerations for including her on the team.”

  “Such as?”

  “We need her on two accounts,” said Alton. “First, she’s a native of Afghanistan. Pasha Tech’s records will surely be written in Pashto, Afghanistan’s most common native language. If we’re able to get our hands on company documents, we’ll need someone we can trust to interpret those records immediately. We can’t wait to send them back here for analysis.”

  Vega nodded.

  “Then there’s the second reason we need Mastana on the team,” said Alton. “You said we need to travel incognito as much as possible. Mastana can help provide a plausible cover story. Who’d suspect that a lame guy traveling with his wife and teenage daughter were members of a covert mission?”

  Vega looked uncertain. “You said Mastana is Afghani. How do you know we can trust her?”

  “Six months ago, she immigrated to the U.S. permanently as a political refugee. David Dunlow and his wife Fahima, who’s also originally from Afghanistan, adopted her two months ago.”

  “You said Dunlow’s wife is Afghani,” said Vega. “Why not use her?”

  “Fahima doesn’t have Mastana’s firearm or martial arts training,” said Alton. “And she doesn’t provide as good a cover story.”

  Vega looked crestfallen.

  “Regarding Mastana’s trustworthiness,” continued Alton. “You don’t have to worry about that. The Dunlows are best friends with me and Mallory. We see them all the time. I can assure you that Mastana is completely happy to be an American citizen. She certainly wouldn’t approve of a plot to develop chemical weapons.”

  “But Alton,” said Mallory, “would Mastana be willing to return to Afghanistan? She barely escaped with her life the last time she was there.”

  “That’s a good question. I guess it’s time I told you…”

  “Told me what?” asked Mallory, looking perplexed.

  “Even since we told the Dunlows about the Galapagos case, Mastana’s been bugging me about taking up our line of work. She wants to be a criminal investigator, and she asked if she could participate in a future case.”

  Mallory looked hurt. “Why didn’t she ask me? I’m the FBI agent, for Pete’s sake.”

  The question put Alton in an awkward spot. “She isn’t really interested in forensic accounting cases. Sorry. But she did say she’d like to work with both of us if something like the Galapagos case came up…a case where we’re taking on a broader role.”

  “I think ‘a broader role’ is an understatement,” said Vega, “but I’m still not keen on taking a minor over there as part of your team.”

  “In a way, I’m not either,” said Alton. “I don’t propose we take her into any direct combat or infiltration missions. Rather, I suggest she accompany us so our presence doesn’t land us on Pasha Tech’s radar. And she can serve as our interpreter. We suspect that somehow, Pasha Tech learned of Creighton’s renewed investigation and had him killed. How did they learn about it? One possibility is a leak within the NSA. Do you have any other NSA operatives who speak fluent Pashto and who can be absolutely trusted not be the source of a potential leak?”

  Vega rose and paced the cramped space in his office. “I’d need to get sign-off from David Dunlow and his wife.”

  “Yes. That’ll be an interesting discussion,” said Alton. “Mastana hasn’t told them about her interest in criminal investigations yet, either.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Rala Vaziri gazed through a pair of pocket binoculars, studying the terraced rear courtyard of the Petronas Towers. She didn’t care for this rendezvous location. It was too hard to spot a potential attacker and impossible to observe all points of approach. But the site’s porous quality also provided multiple routes of escape. If necessary, she could melt away into the throngs of tourists who came to gawk at the world’s tallest twin skyscrapers.

  She lowered the binoculars and stretched her back, still sore from the lengthy flight to Kuala Lumpur. Now she knew how the Director felt after a long day hunched over his microscope. She thought of the man—her mentor, and the closest thing to a father she had ever had.

  Certainly the drunken pig who had sneaked into her bedroom during her twelfth year had lost any claim to that title. Three weeks of this recurring nightmare had prompted Vaziri to flee her home. Destitute, and her mother long deceased, she had wandered into a local dojo. The aging owner of the martial arts studio had taken pity and allowed her to occupy the housekeeper’s room in the back as long as she agreed to attend school and clean the facility at night. Vaziri would have been happy to view the owner in a parental light, but the unsmiling man showed no interest in forming such an attachment.

  Before long, a handful of the studio’s instructors had begun to teach Vaziri her newfound passion: taekwondo. Most days, she spent the evening hours honing her skills so no one would be able to overpower her again. In a year, she had acquired enough expertise to return to her birth father and ensure he would have no further opportunities to turn his lascivious attentions to another young innocent.

  For another five years, Vaziri had struggled to balance the demands of coursework, cleaning, and hours of martial arts training. But at the end, she had emerged a scholar and a warrior, possessing a keen intellect and a set of lethal combat skills. And she had put those skills to good use, stopping an unrelenting tide of men—and a few women—who had seen her beauty and hoped to repris
e her father’s lecherous role. By the time she had met the Director at age twenty-six, Vaziri had come to realize the futility of love, a weak emotion that dictated putting someone else ahead of herself. At its core, mankind was essentially selfish. She acknowledged this truth—embraced it, even—and made self-preservation her top priority. Yes, she served the Director, but in doing so, she served herself with interesting work and fantastic pay. And deep down, she did feel a certain fondness for her manager, a true leader who had never tried to use his position of power to press for sexual favors.

  Vaziri snapped out of her reverie when a nondescript man of average height and weight took a seat on the fountain’s foot-high, brick wall. In the band of the man’s fedora fluttered a bright yellow feather, the prearranged signal. The man unshouldered a black, nylon backpack and placed it between his legs.

  The metallic sheen of the towers glittered in the bright afternoon sun, sending dappled sunlight onto the brick courtyard below. Vaziri shaded her eyes and scanned the courtyard one last time for confederates before plunging into the crowd. Despite the streams of people, she managed to glide between them without missing a beat—“dodging raindrops,” the Director called it.

  She arrived at the fountain and took a seat next to the contact. “Do you have an extra cigarette?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” replied the man. “I left my pack at Narita Airport.”

  The sign and countersign had been properly exchanged. “Mr. Teng. It’s good to finally meet in person.”

  “Indeed. Your appearance is not what I expected.”

  Vaziri bristled inwardly but held her countenance steady. “Where shall we go to perform the exchange?”

  “Makes no difference to me. Someplace private. How about one of the restaurants in the towers?”

  Vaziri nodded. “Perhaps Madam Kwan’s?”

  “Very well,” replied Teng, standing, “as long as I’m permitted to bring along my bodyguard.”

  “You’re talking about the man in jeans and pink Polo shirt standing at the northern entrance?”