Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“Of course.”

She thought about Jack’s insistence that Aleixandri wore a Bluetooth even though they never found it or her phone. She admitted to herself that it was odd not to find a phone on or near her because everybody under eighty had a cell phone these days.

It was also a strange coincidence that this hazel-eyed man wore a Bluetooth, as Jack reminded her in his text. If all of that was true, it seemed as if this mysterious man might have directed the L’avi attack, which meant he had some kind of authority or leadership. It seemed highly unlikely that Brigada would take direction from an outsider unaffiliated with any organization they could trust. And loners typically weren’t leaders of organizations.

“I doubt he was acting on his own.”

“We’ll have to wait and see what they find in the ruins.” Peña handed her phone back.

“But what if he was never in the ruins?” she said as she forwarded the Bykov photo to Peña’s e-mail address.

“Suppose he wasn’t. What would that tell you?”

“That our only other suspect is still on the loose, and if he is, I intend to catch him and find out exactly what this has all been about.”

“Or it could mean he had nothing to do with any of this. He just happened to be in the area when the L’avi bomb went off, as were hundreds of other people.”

“It’s impossible to know which, isn’t it? So that’s even more reason to find him.”

Peña laughed. “Laia Brossa, you are relentless. It is your best quality. I trust you will remember your old friend Peña after you become the director of our illustrious organization?”

Brossa rubbed her head, trying to push away a headache.

Peña frowned with concern. “You’re not well.”

“Just tired.”

“I wish you would go home and rest.”

She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed by the pain pounding inside of her skull. “One last thing. This Sammler fellow. Is he still a dead end?”

“Completely. Whatever Ryan thought he heard was obviously wrong.”

She nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Of course I’m right. All that matters is that the people who killed Ryan’s friend—and many other people, I will remind you—are all dead. Ryan wanted his justice, and now he has it. Next time you see him, tell him to go home.”

Brossa stood. “I think I will take you up on your offer and take the rest of the day off. And please thank the office staff for the warm welcome.”

Peña rose from his chair. “I will convey your thanks, and yes, please do take the rest of the day off. Tomorrow as well, if you need it. I’ll handle all of the paperwork. And I promise you that if the coroner comes up with anything, I’ll call you straightaway.”

She thanked him again. Peña escorted her to his office door, which he closed and locked after her.

He tracked her egress from the CNI suite to the street below via the office security cameras. Once he was certain she was gone for good, he unlocked one of his desk drawers, removed a Faraday bag, and pulled out an encrypted satellite phone from it. A voice picked up on the other end.

Peña was to the point.

“We have a problem.”

44

SOUTH CHINA SEA

Guzmán took another puff of his Marlboro, his pants gathered around his ankles. He was almost finished with his business in the cramped quarters of the captain’s head, the only private shitter on the boat and, thankfully, his alone for the duration. He had needed the privacy. A dead galley refrigerator killed their beef stores two weeks ago. A steady diet of greasy fried fish and fish head soup since then had worked its toll on his gut.

The boat’s actual captain had to do his duty with the others belowdecks.

Rank hath its privileges, he laughed to himself, taking his last drag. His encrypted satellite phone rang beyond the thin mahogany door.

Guzmán swore. That phone was only for emergencies. He needed to answer it. He quickly cleaned himself, yanked his filthy, fish-stained pants back on, and flushed the toilet, tossing the spent butt in after it. As it gurgled away into the black water tank in the hold of the ship—soon to be dumped into the ocean—he fought his way out of the confined space and into the wider but still cramped quarters, snatching up the ringing sat phone from the bed.

He saw that it was Peña. The Brigada killings had gone perfectly, according to Bykov. Why the call?

“Digame . ”

“We have a problem.”

“Be more specific.”

“Brossa just left my office. She knows who Bykov is.”

“Impossible. How could she know?”

“She doesn’t know his name, but she has a picture of him. She thinks he’s connected to L’avi.”

“How would she know that?”

“That hijo de puta American has been sniffing around.”

“The one that Bykov was checking out? Ryan?”

Guzmán sighed through his broad nose, frustrated. It was too soon for DNA results, and the audio bugs had failed, thanks to Ryan’s resourcefulness. What concerned him was that the big American went on the offensive and chased off Bykov, nearly capturing him. Whoever the hell this Ryan character was, he was dangerous.

“Brossa is relentless,” Peña said. “She won’t let go until she runs Bykov down.”

“Why are you telling me this? Take care of it.”

“Me? No, jefe . You don’t pay me to kill people. You pay me for information. Let your man Bykov do the job. He’s better equipped to handle it.”

“Fine. I’ll instruct Bykov to take care of Brossa—and Jack Ryan. If Bykov calls you for assistance, I expect you to give it.”

“Of course. Any information I have, I’ll pass along.”

“Excellent, Peña. Thank you for the call. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, jefe .”

Guzmán killed the call.

Peña was right. Bykov was singularly qualified to kill, unlike that buffoon Peña. Bykov was also loyal to the organization, his brothers-in-arms. Peña was the true mercenary, selling his services for cash. The Spaniard was both greedy and cowardly, and while greedy men aren’t easily trusted, cowards were utterly untrustworthy, valuing their own skins above all other loyalties. Such men were treacherous in the extreme.

Guzmán picked up the satellite phone again and punched the speed-dial number for Bykov. Brossa and Ryan had to die.

So did Peña. Preferably in a manner worthy of his cowardice.

Bykov would enjoy that.

45

WASHINGTON, D.C.

SITUATION ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE

President Ryan sat at the head of the long mahogany table again, surrounded by his same trusted advisers. Two days ago, they were dealing with an uncertain situation in the South Pacific. Today they were confronted by a full-blown global crisis. Their faces showed it. The same map of the oceans of the world was displayed on the big-screen monitor but now with an additional seventh green cargo ship with an X overlaid upon it. That seventh X sat in the middle of the Indian Ocean west of Australia.

Time to marshal the troops.

“Anybody here as pissed off as I am?” Ryan asked.

That elicited a few nervous chuckles.

“It was bad enough when we thought we were chasing a Russian diesel sub. We had as much chance of finding that as buying seven winning lottery tickets in a row—isn’t that what you said, John?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“But we did it, didn’t we?”

Heads nodded.

“And now, it looks like we’re really screwed.” Ryan pointed at the wide-screen monitor. “Whoever the hell was jerking our chain in the middle of the South Pacific has decided to expand his operations into the Indian Ocean. Any doubts they will spread out even farther if we don’t stop them?”