Chris Mooney - World Without End

Tomorrow morning, in what was destined to be national headlines for weeks, the world would know the story of how FBI Special Agent and counterterrorism expert John McFadden sold devastating secrets on joint FBI and CIA operations to the Russians over a ten-year period. Even more chilling was that Bouchard believed that McFadden, using a high level and still unknown source within the CIA, had discovered the identity of the IWAC group and knew about its operations. It was quite possible, Bouchard had said, that they had been sold out years ago to Armand, who had high-ranking Russian contacts.

That part of the story wouldn't make it to the papers. And Bouchard was strict with his orders: This information was not to be shared with the other team members. It would only put them on the edge. God knew they were edgy enough today. Once this morning's mission was completed, they would be advised of this recent development during this evening's debriefing.

She thought about the Elf again. She knew better than to try to rush the answer. It would come to her. As she moved through the space between the rows and rows of parked cars, her eyes focused on the end of the lot where the FedEx truck was parked, she felt the sharp knock of the Clock housed in the shoulder holster bounce against her ribcage.

Pasha eschewed the usual garnishes of femininity; she did not wear makeup or paint her fingernails, wear perfume or jewelry; she did not wear dresses, shorts, or the kind of shoes women often enjoyed wearing.

She opted for what was traditionally men's clothing, pants and suits, and favored stylish Kenneth Cole loafers, which were comfortable and, if need be, excellent for running. She had never played or dressed the role of the pretty, delicate Barbie doll. Barbie couldn't bench press two hundred pounds. Barbie didn't know how to snap a man's neck or, if necessary, line up the sight of a nine millimeter and blow an enemy's head off with one shot.

The men around her were often troubled by her appearance and demeanor.

It didn't surprise her. Men were terrified of women they couldn't control or mold, let alone one who could with a single punch drop them to their knees.

But not Stephen.

Stephen Conway was different, one of the rare handful of men she had met who wasn't intimidated by her abilities or lack of feminine wiles.

And unlike the majority of men around her, Stephen had no problem learning or taking criticism from a woman. Stephen looked at her as an equal.

The fact that he made her knees buckle when she saw him in those tight knit boxers didn't hurt either.

The man at the airport has something to do with black ops. Something to do with Raymond Bouchard.

Pasha stopped walking.

At Bouchard's… was it his house? No. An assignment. Something to do with Her phone rang and the thought swam away.

She unzipped the cell phone from her belt and pressed it against her good ear. Parked in the corner of the lot and looking like a toy was a FedEx truck housing the five members of Hazard Team Four. Unit Three was inside the airport. Hazard Team Two and a surveillance man watched Stephen and Major Dixon. Everyone was in place, ready.

"Spader just collapsed inside the airport," Bernard said, his voice excited but not panicking an emotion she refused to tolerate.

"Walk me through it," Pasha said, her eyes fixed on the FedEx truck.

"He grabbed his chest and fell forward and tumbled over the table. The watch he's wearing that monitors his pulse, it just flat-lined."

The FedEx truck exploded.

Pasha felt the ground shake beneath her feet; she stumbled forward, off-balance, reached out with both hands and grabbed the trunk of a white Honda Accord. All of it happened so fast her brain could only digest video snapshots: the two surrounding cars pushed onto their sides, knocking against the other parked cars in a screech of buckling metal and shattering glass; the force of the blast expanding, blowing out hundreds of windows and car headlights; the torn fragments from the truck showering down across the parking lot and roofs and hoods of the parked cars, dozens of car alarms going off.

Pasha turned away from the wreckage, looked back toward the IWAC surveillance team's white telephone-repair van and brought the phone back up to her good ear.

A man wearing shorts, sneakers, and a white T-shirt was hunched over the gas cap of the surveillance van. The brim of his orange UT baseball hat covered his face. Then he turned and ran up the road, his eyes covered by cheap sunglasses.

Stuck against the metal right above the gas cap was a device the size of a pack of index cards.

"Pasha, Unit Three has…"

"Rick, there's an explosive on the van, get everyone out of there."

Pasha tossed the phone to the ground and then reached inside her jacket for the Clock. Over the rooftops of the parked cars, she saw the man stop running, open up the back door of a black BMW and throw himself inside. The car sped away in a squeal of rubber too late to get a shot.

Her attention snapped back to the news van, the side door open now. She was a good distance away but close enough to make out the frightened expression on Rick Bernard's face as he stepped out into the parking lot.

Pasha blinked and the next image she had was that of Rick Bernard being torn apart.

The van exploded. Too close, she thought, I'm too close. Then the shock wave slammed into her body and knocked her up into the air so hard and fast she saw her shoes jump off the ground. Her arms stretched wide, her hands clutching at the air, she flew backward with dizzying speed to the row of cars parked behind her. The last image she held in her mind before blacking out was that of her father sitting next to her at the kitchen table, his stern, cold voice telling her to shut her mouth as his meaty hand pressed the medicine-soaked rag against the freshly burnt stump on the side of her head.

Conway's hands were quick. He removed the harness and then worked himself out of the jumpsuit, the air hot and smelling of baked grass and dirt. He noticed that his phone and Palm Pilot were still attached to his belt. A wave of relief washed through him. He thought that while he was unconscious, Angel Eyes's men may have removed the devices.

First, the phone. He removed it from its leather case and dialed Pasha's number, each number beeping loudly in still air pounding with heat from the unrelenting Texas sun. He hit the SEND button and pressed the phone against his ear. High above, very faint, was the sound of the plane's engines, fading. Conway made a visor with his hands, and covering his eyes looked up and saw the Cessna, so far away it looked like one of those remote-controlled model flyers.

He listened to the phone ring… and ring… Come on, Pasha, pick up.

The connection died.

Conway swallowed, his throat dry, and dialed the number again. The call wouldn't go through.

Either the satellite was down or sunspots were interfering with the signal.

Or Angel Eyes is jamming your signal. He knows you're alive, that you're going to try to call and warn the others. You think he's going to let you get away with that?

If they were jamming the signal entirely possible that meant Angel Eyes and his men had to be close by. That didn't help Conway with the more pressing problem: calling to warn Pasha.

Conway tried a third time. Nothing. He shoved the phone back into the leather case and snapped it shut. He started pacing.

You're pissed because Pasha and Bouchard didn't listen to you.

Congratulations. You won the "I-Told-You-So" Ribbon. Go ahead and pin it on your chest. Feel better? Good. Now get to work and solve the problem.

I'm standing in the middle of afield, surrounded by trees, and I need to get back to the skydiving school.

Conway's Palm Pilot had been modified by the Information Fusion Lab, one of the many labs within the CIA's massive Office of Science and Technology. He removed it from his case, powered it on, and then pressed his thumb against the square pad area normally used for writing. His thumbprint was scanned and then accepted. In the bottom right was a whisper-sensitive microphone half the size of an eraser.