Greg Bear - Quantico

‘What the fuck is Desert Vulture?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know.’

‘Did they ask you about it?’

She nodded.

‘Did they box your ears?’

She shook her head.

‘So with you, they were gentlemen?’

Rebecca lifted her eyebrows and looked down at her hands.

‘Why are we here, can you tell me that?’

Her hands were quivering. She took a shallow breath. ‘How long do you think a sunshine patriot will run around, once you cut off his head?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’

‘No time limit has ever been found,’ Rebecca said. ‘They go on for years. The rest of us take up their slack and shovel their shit-or soak in it-and they live to retire and fill their dens with trophies and flags. They get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to give talks before the American Eagle Forum or the Red White and Blue Institute of I’ve Got Mine, Jack, and then they write their memoirs and dangle their grandchildren on their knees. They cram our ears with tales of patriot glory, when all they ever really did was get good people killed. They squander blood and treasure, and then they try to figure out desperate ways to make it come out right. That’s what Desert Vulture must be. Some old guy’s brilliant idea of how to make the world right again, and to hell with you and me or the grunts on the line, or anybody else.’

‘It was anthrax , Rebecca. Even Lawrence Winter couldn’t go through with what they were planning.’

‘I suppose it was.’

‘And where are these bastards now? Why are we taking their lumps for them ? Fuck,’ William said, and kicked the seat in front of him.

David Grange worked his way to the back, leaning into the seats as the plane banked. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘We’re done,’ William said.

‘We’ll be landing in Oman in an hour.’

‘Tell William what you’ve told me,’ Rebecca said. ‘About why we were busted.’

Grange squatted in the aisle. ‘There’s no way yet of knowing who’s involved in what. An executive order went out-it was pretty broad. They decided to detain anyone who had a connection to Winter or Amerithrax. ATF got handed the lead, but DEA and even the Postal Police are involved-it’s a real zoo. You two got scooped up in the net. Can’t tell the players without a program, and I don’t know anyone who has a program.’

‘David says News may or may not be implicated,’ Rebecca said. Her expression was fragile, hopeful.

‘Newsome may have been stringing some people along, trying to catch up with Winter before any harm was done. BuDark didn’t even exist four years ago,’ Grange said. ‘Why he wouldn’t tell you up front, I don’t know.’

‘He was senior. He had some armor,’ Rebecca said.

‘Yes, and look where that got him. You’re out and he’s still in,’ Grange said. ‘You must have made some impression on the President.’

‘News was there, too.’

‘Well, I don’t know who the hell impressed who,’ Grange said, shifting his knees. Then he stood and flexed his legs. ‘Problems at Quantico and in DC aren’t our biggest worries. Jordan and Turkey have refused permission to land. We’re going to touch down in Oman, then grab a chopper and transfer to a frigate or something in the Red Sea. After that, there’s talk about flying us directly into Saudi Arabia. The insurgency is consolidating its gains, trying to squeeze money out of the Hajj, I suspect, to finance their next moves. We have contacts with what’s left of the Saudi General Intelligence Service, al-Istakhbarah al-A’amah . They’re as interested as we are in preventing a Hajj disaster. So far, we’re just telling them it’s anthrax-that focuses their attention. We’d let them take the lead, but frankly, they’re fuckups when it comes to handling foreign nationals-in their prime, they were best at bullying immigrant workers. Still, I was deputy RSO in Riyadh for a couple of years. I know a few who aren’t too bad.’

‘What good are we in all this?’ William asked. Rebecca took a thermos from her travel bag and poured him a cup of black coffee.

‘We’re short-handed. Desperately so. Most of the career types are covering their asses. After I boosted her from Cumberland, Rebecca volunteered you.’

‘Thanks, I guess,’ William said.

‘We’re bringing along Jane Rowland to handle special communications.’

‘How about the full scoop on BuDark?’ Rebecca asked.

Grange nodded. ‘BuDark began as an internal DS and FBI response to rumors about Desert Vulture.’

‘Pete Farrow?’

‘Not one of us. Like News, however, probably a good guy -just not in the loop. Some agents tried to dig out facts on their own. Three years ago, we went to the senate and the effort became bipartisan. We found conspirators in just about every branch of government. The last administration tried desperately to shut us down, and then they lost the election-finally, and thank God. Right now, we’re a shambles, scattered all over Europe and the Middle East looking for a needle in a haystack. Half the operational directors don’t want to believe there is anyone in Mecca. The other half-well, we have UAVs watching the city right now, mostly from altitude. But we’ve dropped some midges into the town to scope out the street scene. Current plan is, we’re driving or flying to the outskirts of Mecca, escorted by undercover officers who’ve bribed their way into Hijaz Liberation. If we get through-and that’s a big if-we still need to find the truck or trucks. Based on the equipment captured in Jerusalem, we think there may be as many as three. When we find them, we have to stop them and destroy their contents-and that’s where Fouad Al-Husam comes in. He’s been made chief of a team of guys they call Janissaries. All American Muslims, orphans from the first Gulf War. Seems to be quite a story. He’s going to join us outside Mecca. His team has been trained and equipped but they’re not military, they’re not CIA-they’re not even heavily armed. And none of us is going to carry ID. If we get caught, we’re just crazy victims of the Hajj gone wrong-or the revolution.’

‘Sounds like we’re being sent to do the one thing Quantico doesn’t train us for,’ Rebecca said.

‘What would that be?’ Grange asked.

‘Sweep up after the elephant parade.’

William snorted coffee through his nose.

Mecca

The city was now in the eighth day of the last month of the Islamic calendar, Dhu al-Hijja . Islam’s year of twelve synodic months, each of approximately twenty-nine days, was ruled by the moon and cyclically fell behind Western calendars. This had pushed the Hajj into October, a relatively pleasant time of year in Mecca. Daytime temperatures rarely exceeded ninety degrees. Many were now dressed in the two white cloths of ihram, right shoulders protruding, fat and shining and nut-brown or bony, ancient and withered. They were on their way to Mina, carrying their bags and cases of worldly goods or waiting at the curbs for buses and shuttles. There were no trains or subways in Mecca. Travel to Mina could take hours through heavy traffic. Many simply walked.

Winter felt invisible. He looked poor and sick, not prosperous. Indeed, he was sick. And so he stood on a corner near the Grand Mosque and watched as the pilgrims’ mandatory patience-a requirement of ihram -was tried by inexperienced police and guards from Oman and Yemen. The air was cool. He struggled to remember and concluded that he had come in search of something-logically, that would have to be God. He had come to listen. He felt as if there had been long years of grief and pain, an unceasing agony of duty and labor, of betrayal and evil-but somehow the details escaped him. Something had been left unfinished.