Without Measure: A Jack Widow Thriller Page 16

  “I really can’t talk about it.”

  I heard the strain in her voice and Romey looked at me. She mouthed the words, “Tell her.”

  I said, “Maya.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can tell you that your brother was innocent.”

  She didn’t speak for a moment and then she said, “Thank you, Widow.”

  I said, “Don’t thank me yet. I’ve still got work to do.”

  “Thank you,” she said again. “Without you we’d have no chance of anyone believing us.”

  “You just keep yourself safe, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I listened for a goodbye, but Maya just hung up the phone.

  Romey said, “How did she sound?”

  “We gotta get these guys.”

  Romey nodded and said, “We will. We’re right behind them. We’ll figure out who they are and send the cavalry after them.”

  Not the cavalry, I thought. I wasn’t interested in arresting them, but I didn’t tell Romey this.

  Just then, Romey’s office phone rang. She answered it and said, “Yeah?” And then her face turned to an expression of intense listening. She was quiet for a long time, listening to the speaker on the other side, and then she said, “You’re sure?”

  She was quiet again and finally she said, “Okay. Good work.”

  Romey hung the phone up and looked at me. She said, “That was one of my Marines.”

  I nodded.

  “She spent the last few hours looking up any operations called Good Measure. Or with the tag words Good or Measure. Of course, both came up, but not with those specific words together. And none that were Marine ops.”

  I said, “It doesn’t mean that there was no op. You just can’t find it.”

  “If there had been an op called Good Measure then we would’ve found it.”

  “You couldn’t access my files. So maybe this was the kind of black op that you can’t access.”

  “The difference is that your files are sealed due to your job. Carl’s and Turik’s files wouldn’t be.”

  “The operation might be.”

  “What for?”

  “If it was an agency black op or joint mission.”

  “What agency?”

  I felt my brows furrow. I said, “The agency.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Carl used to run ops in Iraq during the war. I guess some of them probably were CIA missions.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it were other places.”

  “What other places?”

  “The agency runs missions all over the world. Ever heard the phrase ‘We were never here?’”

  She nodded.

  “I did operations all over the world. A lot of unfriendly places.”

  “Doesn’t the CIA use the SEALs for dark ops like that?”

  “Depends. Not always. They might use Marine forces. Sometimes it’s a matter of convenience.”

  “It must be nice to shop around for who does what mission.”

  I said, “They don’t usually care. It’s not their butts on the line. I’ve been around the block and I can’t remember more than once ever seeing a CIA Case Officer close to a hot spot.”

  “What the hell do they do during missions?”

  “Those guys are usually thousands of miles away, monitoring the operations on a laptop, over pizza in a hotel room.”

  “That’s a disgrace.”

  I said, “They don’t get paid the big bucks to do dirty work.”

  “What now?”

  “Now, we go ask our guest about Good Measure.”

  “I’m not so sure you’ll get access to him.”

  I asked, “Why do you think that?”

  “He seemed important.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I told you. I never met the guy. Just the agents and the guy from State.”

  I said, “Let’s go have a chat with all four of them.”

  CHAPTER 36

  ROMEY AND I WAITED for another five minutes and she called out to McKee about meeting with the British Secret Service. He said that they had declined the meeting and then she ordered him to call them again. Which he did, only now they were ignoring him.

  I said, “Take me over there.”

  Romey said, “You have to behave. I still have to work here.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Romey didn’t respond to that. She got up from her desk and led me back out of her office. She turned and locked it.

  She stopped at McKee’s desk and he started to stand and salute again. She waved him off again. I guessed that he did that all the time, which was a good policy to have. In the military, you never know when your commanding officer might be in a bad mood and looking to take it out on someone. Proper behavior and following the rules in the military can mean the difference between pay grades and good assignments versus bad ones. I know. I had had plenty of COs threaten to send me to work in a military shack in the middle of Antarctica more times than I can count.

  Romey told McKee to get on the phone and call them one last time, which he did. While we waited, a text message came from Romey’s phone. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. She let out a murmur or a sigh like she had seen something that stunned her. She looked up at me and handed the BlackBerry to me.

  I took the phone and looked at the screen. It was a message from Maya Harris and it was photograph of Fatima Turik. I wasn’t sure, but I think my jaw dropped. And I thought this because Romey made another sigh and a face, like she was jealous.

  I realized that she had been stunned by the photograph because it was stunning. Fatima was stunning.

  She was dark skin, but I wasn’t sure that she was an Arab. Maybe. I guessed that she was Muslim because I had been told so. I had been told that she was the kind of Muslim who covered up everything, the kind who subscribed to the old, more dogmatic version of Islam.

  Fatima Turik wasn’t just pretty; she was downright gorgeous.

  Romey said, “The camera definitely loves her.”

  “I’ll say.”

  The photograph was of Fatima in a bikini and sunglasses. She was next to Turik by a nice size in-ground pool.

  I asked, “Is that from Turik’s backyard?”

  “I think so. He has a pool.”

  “So much for the burka.”

  Romey said, “I thought it was called a hijab?”

  “No. That’s the one that only covers the hair and neck like a veil.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Burka covers the whole body. It’s that black thing.”

  Romey said, “No, I mean what for? Why have the difference?”

  I shrugged and said, “I guess the more modern versions of Islam don’t have to cover up completely. Most of the Muslim world lives in the hottest part of the planet.”

  “So if they can choose, then why go with the old thing?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Thought you were an expert?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “You seem to know a lot about the subject.”

  I said, “I know very little about it. I know a little about a lot of things, but not a lot about any one thing.”

  She shook her head and said, “I don’t believe that.”

  I said, “So Fatima is a beautiful woman. No wonder Turik married her.”

  “Do you think he knew she was beautiful when he met her?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “We should’ve asked Maya for more information.”

  “Let’s find her alive first. At least be able to give Maya some good news.”

  Romey nodded and turned back to McKee. He finally put down the phone and said, “No answer still.”

  Romey said, “Forget about it. Let’s just go over there.”

  I nodded and followed Romey back to the stairwell and back out of the building to the lot. We got in her police Mustang and fire
d it up and headed toward the Harriton dorm.

  CHAPTER 37

  THE WIND HOWLED as we stood in front of the Harriton dorm building. The streets were still completely deserted of Marines. The chill factor picked up and the wind carried it along like a haunted field.

  I felt the precipitation in the air. It was so thick that I could smell it.

  Romey said, “I think it’ll start snowing soon.”

  “Or raining.”

  “No way. Not this time of year. It’s going to snow.”

  I didn’t argue. She would be the expert, not me.

  Romey led me up a straight cement walkway. The grass was still from the weight of the snow, which was just heavy enough to anchor it from the wind.

  I looked over the sky. The base had been built high and was surrounded by forest, but there were no trees on the base. I could see the sky clear enough. It was still overcast and gray.

  We stopped at a set of big double doors. Romey pulled out a keycard and swiped it to unlock the doors. Inside, I saw a hallway that was short, but wide. On the farthest end was a staircase that led up into the ceiling. Off to the right was a single elevator.

  Romey said, “Elevator.”

  I nodded and we went over to the elevator. She hit the call button.

  We heard the cables far above chime and screech. The elevator sounded and came slowly down the shaft. Then we heard the ding sound from a floor counter on the left of the elevator doors. It dinged until the elevator reached us and the doors slid open.

  We got on and Romey hit the top floor. We rode in silence except for the scraping noises that echoed in the elevator shaft.

  At the top floor, Romey led the way. She said, “They’re at the end of the hall. There are a couple of suites on this floor that are for officers who come here to train.”

  I nodded. I didn’t expect that the State Department would put up some foreign diplomat in with the enlisted. Spare no expense.

  We stopped at the end of the hall and Romey knocked on the door. We waited a long moment. She raised her hand to knock again, but was interrupted by the sounds of unlocking deadbolts and the chain on the door.

  The door opened and a short, stocky guy in trousers and a button-down shirt answered the door. He opened it all the way. I glanced him up and down, quickly, as he was doing the same to me, also quickly. In fact, he was faster than me, which was impressive because he had more ground to cover than I did.

  He looked at Romey and then back at me. He asked, “What you want?”

  I heard his accent quite clearly. I’d heard many, many comments in my life about men with British accents. And not just in America. I’d heard women from all over the world make comments about how they loved British accents. I’d heard it in South America, Mexico, Australia, Russia, and all over Europe. The one place I never heard anyone talk about it was in the U.K. Why would they? Everyone had an accent there.

  I’d heard women everywhere describe the British accent as the most pleasing accent to listen to. Some had even used the word sexy to describe it.

  This guy didn’t have one of those kinds of accents. His was Irish and a very slurred dialect, which was like listening to a train wreck. But I understood him enough to know what he was saying.

  Romey said, “We need to speak with you.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “We need to speak with you inside.”

  The guy didn’t look back at the rest of the room. I shifted my vision and looked past him. Not a slow look, and not quite a glance either.

  There were two other guys in the room. One had his back to us. He sat far off in the corner. He was bald and was reclining on a chair with his feet up on an open window. He was smoking a cigar. He was the asset. No doubt.

  The other guy was standing in a kitchen, leaning against a counter, his hand behind his back.

  “Yer not getting in here,” the guy said.

  Romey said, “I’m not asking you.”

  The guy said, “Surry, love. Yer not comin’ in.”

  Romey looked the guy square in the eyes. She was giving him the professional evil eye that I’d see cops try before. It was a good weapon to have in her arsenal. It reminded of the looks that she’d tried on me when she and Kelly arrested me this morning. It was a good technique, a good effort, but useless. The guy wasn’t budging.

  Romey asked, “Where’s Eastman?”

  “Who dat, love?”

  Romey turned her face sideways and said, “Don’t call me that.”

  “Who are ye referring to?”

  “The guy from State? You know? Your babysitter?”

  “Oh, he’s here.”

  “Where?”

  Just then we heard a door open from out of our line of sight and a medium-sized man stepped out of the bathroom. We heard the sound of a flushing toilet and Eastman had a towel in his hand, like he was using it to dry his hands. Why he had decided to carry it out of the bathroom? I had no idea.

  He walked up behind the agent with the Irish accent and said, “Major? What’s this about?”

  Romey said, “We need to speak to the asset.”

  Eastman held onto the hand towel and put his hand on the shoulder of the secret service agent. He said, “I got this.”

  He stepped out into the hall, past the agent and shut the door. Which wasn’t a good sign.

  CHAPTER 38

  EASTMAN SAID, “What are you doing up here, Major?”

  “I just told you.”

  “You know that you can’t come up here and question a foreign diplomat.”

  Romey said, “I’m conducting an ongoing investigation. I can talk to whoever I damn feel like talking to.”

  Eastman said, “Okay. That’s enough, Major. I outrank you in this matter.”

  “You don’t outrank me in any way imaginable!”

  I raised my hand up like a mediator and asked, “Who are you?”

  Eastman looked up at me. He wore a tie, a button-down shirt, and a pair of blue trousers. All of it was ironed and creased professionally. There wasn’t a wrinkle that wasn’t supposed to be there. He even wore cufflinks. He wore every part of a professional suit except his coat, like he wasn’t supposed to be too comfortable in front of the foreign guy.

  Eastman said, “Who are you?”

  I said, “I asked first.”

  Eastman thought for a moment. He broke eye contact with me and looked at Romey, just a quick glance. Then he said, “My name is Miles Eastman. I work for the State Department.”

  I said, “There, was that so hard?”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Jack Widow.”

  I was watching his eyes to give away exactly who he was. As in what was his real position? I had met State Department officials before. There was a wide range of people who worked for State. Sometimes they were professional diplomats, working in foreign embassies. Sometimes, they were representing American interests in foreign markets. Most of them had been good, hardworking people, doing a hard job. Then there were two other types. The first was a lackey. No real explanation needed for that, but basically a lackey was an errand boy or, in this case, a babysitter.

  Then there was the second type of State Department official. This was the type who claimed to be a lackey, but actually was something else entirely. Normally, this was a dangerous type of guy. Usually, it was a guy who had a cover as a State lackey. These guys were usually CIA or NSA or some other alphabet agency that operated in the dark. These guys were typically up to no good. The question that I always asked myself was: were they up to no good that was in the best interest of the country? Or were they up to the type of no good that was more on the illegal side?

  Luckily, Eastman was the former type of lackey. I knew instantly because he recognized my name. A CIA agent wouldn’t have reacted at all, even if he had seen my file. He would’ve acted all cool, like it totally didn’t matter who I was, like he wasn’t impressed.

  Eastman started trembling, not a terrifying rea
ction, not overblown, just enough for me to notice it. He said, “Widow, I know about you. What are you doing back here?”

  I said, “That’s good that you know who I am. It’ll make this easier.”

  Eastman repeated his question, only not to me. He turned to Romey and said, “What the hell is he doing here?”

  She stayed completely quiet. Good cop, I thought.

  I said, “I’m here to see your asset.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

  I looked at Romey and said, “Didn’t you forget something?”

  She looked at me, puzzled.

  “Didn’t you forget something, back in the car?”

  She looked at me with some kind of expression on her face that I assumed was supposed to give me a signal, but I couldn’t read it. I wasn’t her partner. I imagined that she and Kelly probably had a whole slew of expressions that basically made up their own secret language.

  I nodded like I did understand. She said, “I did.” She looked at Eastman and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  She turned and walked away. She got all the way down to the elevator. Eastman watched her the whole way. Then he looked at me.

  I said, “That elevator is slow.”

  Eastman said, “What are you doing?”

  “I told you. I’m going to talk to your asset. We have some things to discuss. Are you going to help me?”

  Eastman looked back over my shoulder like he was praying Romey would come back. I stepped in front of his line of sight. He was an average size, average build. Nothing was particularly interesting about him. He was so forgettable, that I almost second-guessed my earlier assumption that he was a real lackey because a great CIA agent would’ve been good at pretending. But he was the real deal.

  I said, “She’s not coming back for at least ten minutes. Which gives me enough time to get in there and talk to the guy I need to talk to.”

  “I told you. I can’t let you do that.”

  I reached out and bunched up his collar. He watched my hand like he was witnessing a baseball bat swinging at his face in slow motion. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who had ever been in a fight before. I’d be surprised if he ever had.

  I grabbed him by the collar, fast, and jerked him up off his feet and slammed him into the opposite wall. I clamped my left hand over his mouth. I didn’t want him screaming. I didn’t want a couple of British secret service agents running out of the room. If they were secret service agents.