Brett Battles - The Destroyed

A woman gasped, then an old man started reciting a prayer.

“Please, everybody, stand back,” the doorman said loudly, trying to take charge. “We must keep this area clear.” He then spoke in Swahili, presumably repeating his warning.

But no one moved. Except Mila, who slipped unseen to the back of the growing crowd and disappeared into the city.

WASHINGTON, DC

“This way,” the senator’s assistant said.

He led Peter down a long hallway lined with dark wood. Hung along it were black and white pictures taken at various locations around the world. The senator appeared in every image, sometimes looking no more than thirty, and in others middle-aged. There was always someone else in the photo with him, shaking hands or smiling or just looking at something that was out of frame. Trophy shots. The powerful American helping those in need, especially if the need was military in nature.

The assistant finally stopped next to a closed door. He knocked twice, then turned the knob and ushered Peter inside.

“Senator,” the man said. “Your guest has arrived.”

A large man with a full head of hair that was now more white than blond pushed himself off a couch. The senator looked older and stockier than he did in most of the hallway pictures, but his eyes were still piercing, and there was no missing the aura of power that radiated from him. He held out his hand. “Peter. Good to see you.”

“Senator Mygatt,” Peter said as they shook.

As of just over a year ago, Christopher Mygatt was actually no longer a senator, but like many titles in Washington, his was one that would stick with him until he obtained a better one.

The senator turned to another man sitting in a chair next to the coffee table at one end of the large office. “You know William Green, of course.”

“Yes,” Peter said, nodding a greeting.

Green was a weaselly man who’d been in the intelligence business about as long as Peter had been. Peter had done everything he could to avoid working with the man, but a few times when he was running the now-defunct organization known as the Office, he’d had no choice but to associate with Green. No matter how simple the assignment had been, Peter always felt he needed a bottle of hand sanitizer nearby whenever he even talked to the man on the phone.

“Peter,” Green said. “How are you coping?”

Keeping his tone neutral, Peter said, “Fine, thanks.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Mygatt asked him.

“No, thank you.”

The senator glanced at his assistant. “Some tea for me, if you would. William?”

“Coffee.”

As soon as the assistant left, Mygatt motioned at the couch. “Please, join us.”

Peter sat.

“So, I understand you’ve been doing some consulting,” Mygatt said.

“Sitting behind a desk, making a suggestion now and then that no one listens to.” Peter shrugged. “I guess you can call that consulting.”

“I’d call that a waste of taxpayers’ money,” Green said.

Peter ignored the comment, and said to the senator, “I understand you’re doing well, sir.”

“Things are moving in interesting directions,” Mygatt said.

“So it seems. If the rumors are true-”

The senator waved a hand in the air. “I don’t deal with rumors. Only facts.”

“And what are the facts?”

A mischievous smile crossed the man’s lips. “Now, Peter. I also don’t talk before it’s time.”

Mygatt was no longer a senator because he’d left to serve as his political party’s committee chairman. Now that the presidential primaries were over and the convention was looming, there was talk that his sure-handed stewardship of the party might lead to something considerably more visible. Specifically the vice presidential spot on the upcoming ticket.

But Peter had his doubts about that. He was sure the vice presidency was not the kind of position Mygatt would enjoy. Too much ceremony and not enough action. He had a feeling there was another position or two the senator was eyeing. Those rumors, though not as vocal, had been circulating, too.

The assistant reentered the room carrying a tray with Green’s coffee, and a teapot and cup for Mygatt. He set it on the coffee table, excused himself, and left.

“Peter,” Mygatt said as he poured his tea. “I’ve asked you here because I wanted to discuss something you might be able to do for me.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” Peter said. “I’m afraid, sir, you’ve wasted your time. The contract I have with my current employer clearly states I’m excluded from doing work with private industry.”

“Like no one ever cheats on the government,” Green scoffed, himself a government lifer.

The senator raised his cup. “The project I have in mind might be better referred to as a favor.”

Peter shrugged. “You can call it whatever you want, but I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

“Actually, you are,” Green countered. “It’s finishing something you were supposed to have completed a long time ago.”

Peter frowned, and shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite honestly, I don’t care. I have a job, and that’s all I need. Thank you, senator, for considering me, but I’m going to have to pass.” He stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Peter,” Mygatt said, his voice sterner than before. “Whether you help us or not, you’re involved. Wouldn’t you rather be in a position to control the situation than have to deal with the fallout later?”

Peter remained where he was, but said nothing.

“I’d like to show you something,” Mygatt said. “If you want to leave afterward, you’re more than welcome to do so.”

“What is it?”

“Just sit. It’ll only take a moment.”

“I think I’ll stand.”

Mygatt laughed softly. “Fine. Then stand.” He looked at Green. “Please.”

Green picked up a remote control from the coffee table and aimed it at the television monitor on the credenza at the end of the sitting area. The screen flashed a vibrant blue before displaying a paused nighttime video.

“This is the main entrance to the Majestic Hotel in Dar es Salaam,” Green explained. “I assume you’ve never been there.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Peter said. “New, right?”

“It just opened a month ago. Watch the area close to the building about fifteen feet beyond the entrance.”

Green hit PLAY, and the still image began to move. People went in and out of the building in a steady stream-couples, a few men together, several men on their own-keeping the two doormen out front busy.

“Here we go,” Mygatt said.

For a moment, there was nothing unusual, then something flashed down from the top of the screen and whacked into the sidewalk.

“Son of a bitch,” Peter couldn’t help saying.

Where seconds before people had been walking, a body now lay sprawled on the concrete, its arms and legs jutting out at impossible angles.

“Who the hell is that?”

Green paused the playback. “His name was Lawrence Rosen.”

Rosen? The name sounded familiar. “A security guy, right? Does protection, things like that?”

“Very good. He went freelance a few years ago.”

“So what was he doing in Tanzania?”

“Meeting someone.”

“Looks like the meeting got cut short,” Peter said. “Is there a point here?”

“Patience,” Mygatt said. He nodded at Green.

The playback started up again. Most of the people closest to the entrance turned and stared in shock at Rosen’s body. One person, though, ran out from the darkness on the far side over to the dead man. It was a guy who had left the hotel moments before, Peter realized, the one wearing a baseball cap.