Mariposa

  With a faint rustle, the snake maneuvered around a shrub, approached the ramp, and cautiously wormed into the craft's hold.

  The ramp swung shut.

  "Amazing," Mason said.

  Jane settled back in her chair, chin almost on her chest. "No way of knowing whether it got what it came for," she said.

  The pilot's voice announced takeoff. "I've got three Talos craft within a kilometer radius," he said. "Looks like they're taking an interest."

  The drone was quickly airborne.

  "Beeline home," Mason instructed. "Do not outmaneuver, do not engage."

  "Up and away. Precious cargo—one, repeat, one snake," the pilot said. "We'll have it delivered in forty minutes."

  "We always get our snake," Mason said, and glanced at Jane.

  "Our team is bringing in the necessary equipment," Jane said. "We'll do the rest in the hangar—by ourselves, please. No observers, no assistance."

  Tom took off his spex, shook his head with a sigh, and slumped in his chair. He was instantly asleep. His real duties began when the snake was returned.

  If it carried what they were hoping for.

  And failing that, if they couldn't save Fouad Al-Husam.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The Smoky

  After the robot snakes, the night passed without further incident.

  Fouad ate a small late snack of crackers and hummus and sardines, then turned on the television and watched a movie about young cowboys. Absorbing yet also disturbing that in a Western—so much about chivalry and honor—young men should be taught to kill and exact cruel vengeance as a necessary rite of passage.

  Of course, he had no excuses before Allah. He had killed and likely would kill again.

  He switched off the television, then spread his small threadbare rug and prayed salatu'l isha' but did not ask for advice or guidance, perhaps because it seemed his fate was already decided, and it was not polite to be pushy and impatient.

  Fouad went to bed and slept soundly.

  The soft noises of boots in his room brought him half awake, and a firm shove on his shoulder an instant later finished the job.

  It was six in the morning, still dark outside.

  Broad shoulders and a bullet head on a thick neck.

  "Mr. Price requests your help," Schmitz said. "Fifteen minutes."

  This time, they met in the office where Price received foreign guests. The room was palatial—a high-beamed ceiling arching over two thousand square feet of pearlescent slate tile, surrounding a circle of rustic wood floor on which Price's stainless steel desk sat, backed by great sliding windows that overlooked more acres of tallgrass prairie.

  Price was signing papers as Fouad entered. The secretary lingered. Price waved her off.

  "Thank you for coming, Fouad."

  Fouad nodded but Price wasn't paying attention. The window drew his eyes out to peace and greenness: a controlled, secure domain, like the wilderness of myth.

  "I'm embarrassed to have to talk about this," Price said. "A crack team of men has hijacked a high-profile prisoner from our Lion County lockup. So far, they've evaded capture, but we'll have them soon, and then I'm going to face a difficult dilemma." Price swung around. Fouad observed that he was genuinely angry but keeping himself in check. "Looks like the feds have come for Little Jamey Trues. Do you know anything about this?"

  "No sir," Fouad said.

  Price examined him closely, then glanced at his desktop, where a flat screen showed a schematic of a human figure—red, yellow, and blue blotches spread around limbs, face, hands. Price looked back at the windows. "I have four sons and three daughters. You?"

  "No children," Fouad said.

  "I can't imagine losing a son. You'd think FBI would teach its kids gun safety."

  "A tragedy."

  "Murder, actually." Price faced him, eyes mild but somehow, with that cold little smile, even more dangerous. "I also can't imagine having a son strapped down on a couch while a bunch of rednecks pump poison into his veins. I'd rather take him out and shoot him myself. Patria potesta, the Romans called it. Power of the patriarch. Isn't that what should have happened, Mr. Al-Husam? Taking care of our own messes?"

  "It is not my place to comment, sir."

  "Asymmetric warfare group has done excellent work getting our Haitian boys ready. No small thanks to you and your language courses. We'll be moving about two thousand of them to Arabia Deserta, into Jiddah and Riyadh, in three or four days. They'll join with crack team of Sunni officers . . . getting ready to subvert Shia guerrilla groups and pass power to a provisional Baathist government. Secular little fascists. Just love Adolf. Mind you, it's all with the covert blessing of key folks in the CIA and the State Department. How's that for irony?"

  "Impressive," Fouad said.

  "And for that, Talos will get a half percent of gross oil revenues coming out of the Persian Gulf for two years. A tidy bit of cash, even with oil futures dropping. Crazy old world, Fouad. In thirty years, the Middle East might not stack up to a hill of beans, but we'll have had our moment in the sun, we'll get out, and there'll be someplace else that needs fixing."

  "No doubt," Fouad said.

  "But this Little Jamey mess . . . I think the old FBI is looking for its own brand of justice. Don't you?"

  Fouad said nothing. If Price was speaking the truth, then the complications could be almost too devious to imagine.

  Price chuckled. "My God, Fouad, what an expression. You're shut tighter than a virgin's legs. Doesn't anything upset you or amuse you?"

  "I am not paid to be amused," Fouad said.

  "Well, if either of us were drinking men, I'd say we both need a snort of good Scotch. But we don't have that luxury, do we?"

  "No sir."

  "Ever thought of building some sort of foundation, having a family? I find strength in my wife and kids. Keeps me humble."

  "Do you wish me to be humble?"

  Price laughed. "No. But I won't be responsible to Allah for all your sins."

  "Just the ones you are paying for," Fouad said.

  Price chuckled, then assumed a somber cast, eyes glittering. "Tell Allah not to forget that."

  "He is ever present and listens to the heart," Fouad said.

  "I think him and my Jesus would actually get along pretty well," Price said. "Don't you?"

  "I have no doubt, sir."

  "This prisoner hijacking—it's a well-planned operation, as far as it's gone. Whoever carried it off certainly had help from inside the Texas DOC—and from Washington. You used to be FBI. You're the most prominent former agent on our payroll. Some of my security people are pointing fingers. They say you're the inside man.

  "But my equipment—such as it is—shows you're telling me the truth. Still, if you have any insight—if you've heard anything, even rumors—I'd appreciate it if you'd pass it along. Could take some heat off the both of us. The mayor's screaming bloody murder, and Huntsville ain't happy, either."

  Fouad stepped forward. "I know nothing of this, but I doubt that active-duty agents are involved."

  "Well, that's not the sentiment around here." Price shook his head as if dismissing all that as beneath their notice. "We know they're using a truck with a falsified rancher RFID. We know they'll try to cross into New Mexico. They'll realize that route is blocked while they're still a little south of highway 62.

  "If you have any way to contact these men—tell them we'll cut them some slack if they turn their prisoner over now. We'll ship them out of Texas, no rough stuff and no questions asked. But we keep Little Jamey, of course."

  Another couple of seconds. The sound of grass whispering beneath the office windows.

  "If this isn't why you're here, then I've got a real puzzle, my friend," Price said. "I've also got my instincts. I'm going to come down on one side or another, right here. Right now." He lifted his finger, dropped it to the left, then down. "One way or another, you're not being square with me. I just want to know why. I've had programmer t
rouble recently. Worse, I got some sort of gremlin burrowing into my infranet, but that might not be you—probably isn't, in fact, since a lot of it seems to come from outside. Very clever. Little boy sobbing. I'm thinking Spider/Argus—they do that sort of thing, don't they?"

  Fouad lowered his gaze to the desk, the carpet.

  Price looked over the display. "Bingo. No ice cups this time. Lots riding on our upcoming meeting. If you're after data—my experts aren't sure where you're hiding it. We've swept your quarters, it's not on your Talos body chips, and you don't have any others.

  "You know I could kill you right here, but . . . you might have some other use, down the road a ways. Tomorrow, maybe. And I still might have something to learn from you. Maybe I can solve two problems at once. I like that approach."

  Fouad knew better than to speak. Any protest or defense would be meaningless. It might be best if he just moved in and killed Price here and now. But he would get no closer than a few meters and then he would die, and there would be no point.

  Price smiled, observing on his screen the play of Fouad's emotions. "Good boy. You're tensing in all the right places. You could be a bargaining chip if nothing else. Hell, even Little Jamey might have his use. Do we understand each other?"

  "Not in the least," Fouad said.

  "Get back to your bungalow."

  Fouad was about to leave but Price held up his hand, an imperious gesture, accompanied by a dip of his chin and an undershot gaze.

  His eyes were steely.

  "Before you go, my technicians are going to strip out your chips. All of them. Won't take more than a few minutes. You can't go anywhere around here without them. As for the hijackers, if they don't hand themselves over to my people, the locals will find them. They have no love for federals."

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Lion County

  The Tahoe had come to a halt on the edge of an irrigation ditch with no water in it.

  Water was scarce out here. The "tanks" were mostly empty and of course the cattle were long gone. This was a land of flyaway dirt and dusty, half idled oil wells and gray scrub—and Mexicans flowing north, heading for anywhere but Mexico.

  William was thinking about how those Mexicans could be useful.

  "Something's jamming the grid," he said. "I'm not even getting GPS."

  "That's illegal as hell," Curteze said.

  "Let's sue Mr. Price, why don't we?" Kapp said. "What are they waiting for? We're sitting ducks. They know where we are, don't they?"

  Curteze snorted. "What the hell was any of us thinking? We're out here upholding the honor of an agency that no longer exists, breaking every known law, in the middle of a state that's pretty much been abandoned by a government that's spent itself dry twice over. We're pissing off a guy who supplies decent paychecks to ninety thousand locals. Christ, you'd think we'd have better things to do."

  "Shut it," Kapp said.

  The boy was awake now and sitting up in the backseat, cradling his arm. William looked in the rearview mirror and saw his eyes gleaming like a trapped animal's—fright and trauma catching up.

  None of them had eaten in many hours.

  "Where are all the little birds?" Kapp asked, rubbing his nose, trying to keep from picking it. Their noses were dry and crusted, no matter that it was night and they were sucking down bottled water at every opportunity.

  "They don't need them. They know right where we are," William said. "They're waiting to assemble a posse."

  Curteze looked up at the headliner and made a face. "Posse," he said.

  "They're coming to take me back?" the boy asked, and his hand pinched the seat in front of him.

  "Not if we have anything to say about it," William said.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was supposed to have been informed by now of the next step—another chance to locate and retrieve Nabokov. But nothing had worked as planned.

  Vengeance is mine, saith Axel Price and all of his rich cronies. Do unto us—or let it be perceived that you do unto us—and we will give you a fair trial and then ship you to the Walls Unit in Huntsville.

  The boy's defense had been mounted by Justice Department attorneys, the very finest, but prosecutors—and not used to playing criminal defense, certainly not used to playing that game as currently allowed in the Lone Star state.

  Little Jamey's attorneys had been threatened multiple times during the trial. One had his motel room firebombed by young men in pickup trucks, never identified, much less apprehended.

  The judge had ruled against nearly all of the defense motions; she owed her seat to popular vote and the people owed their livelihoods to Axel Price, and she wasn't about to contradict his wishes, expressed or intuited.

  The boy never had a chance.

  Right now, Texas felt even more exotic than Mecca.

  "Time for plan B," William said.

  "Great," Kapp said "That's El Paso over there. We should have hit the state line hours ago. We should be having burgers and a beer in New Mexico."

  "I can't go back," the boy said. "You guys know what that would mean." Suddenly he sounded very grown-up. "My father visited me a month ago. He said this was the worst thing he could possibly imagine—that they were going to execute his son for an accidental shooting. He said it was vengeance and not justice."

  The agents in the truck watched the darkness. Low clouds had moved in and reflected some of the light from El Paso. Otherwise it was pitch-black. The truck still made a decent heat signature, of course. High-altitude birds could target them at any time.

  Price had Hellfires on his drones, just like the military. Why were they still alive?

  Because blasting federal agents to little bits—even agents whose agency didn't have a name any more—might look bad even for Price. No need to start a range war out here—or a new civil war. More precision action was called for—finesse, caution; hence, the delay.

  Or Price was playing a crafty game of checkers, waiting to scoop them up when he could make two jumps at once.

  Just as he had scheduled Little Jamey's execution to impress his gathering allies. And what did that reveal about his allies?

  Calling them jackals might impugn the jackals.

  "We're turning around," William said, gripping the wheel. "They know where we are, but they haven't got their act together yet. So let's drive back to Lion City."

  Curteze shook his head low and wide like a cow. He groaned, then kicked at the door until the moment passed.

  "That was good," Kapp said.

  "Fuck you."

  "There's a big meet under way," William said. "They're flying in politicians and bankers and oil sheikhs and corporate execs from around the world. They've hired hundreds of cars and trucks to transport all their guests from the airport to deluxe accommodations on the campus and at Price's ranch. The sooner we get lost in that crowd the better. They don't dare take us down in public—bad for business."

  "You know too much, Agent Griffin," Kapp said, in a sinister Asiatic voice. "Who's playing who here?" He opened the door and got out. "I'm the speed demon on these rough roads. You drive like a pussy. Let's swap again and get the fuck out of here."

  William swung down from the driver's seat. "Wait a sec." He went to the back and brought out a small bag.

  "What the fuck is that?" Curteze asked, stretching.

  "An earth-current transceiver," William said. "Interference won't block its signal—I think."

  "That's not in our plan," Kapp said. "Where'd you get this shit? Who's out there listening?"

  "There's a listening station outside Lion City, and supposedly there's another near El Paso. But we're way outside the normal range. Last chance." William kneeled and plunged the stake into the soil, using a small hammer to pound it deeper.

  Then he hooked the battery to the amplifier and the telephone handset.

  William's finger started clicking. After a couple of minutes, the answer came back in Morse. Tongue poking from between his dry lips, he pen
ciled the words on a notepad from his shirt pocket, then read them back.

  Surprise—Kunsler had been doing some last-minute thinking. Maybe the snakes hadn't made it to their target.

  He kept the handset to his ear as he said to Curteze and Kapp, "I'm going back to the airport. But you're not. Your best chance is to walk. We're as close to El Paso as we're going to get. You'll just be a couple of heat blips—and the border is crawling with those. You'll blend in with the Mexicans."

  "You're shitting me!" Curteze said.

  William frowned—no more clicks but a tinny, scratchy voice. He waved his hand for silence.

  "Highway too dangerous. Evade and hide. Ditch your vehicle. Wait outside Lion City airport. Then push through. I think you'll know when—still being arranged. That's the best chance. We're coming in. Be swift, be patient. And be there . . ."

  The transmission faded into static, then the dots and dashes resumed, signaling an end to the message.

  He barely recognized Kunsler's voice.

  Nothing about Nabokov—nothing at all.

  "We're out of options," William said.

  Kapp was dismayed. "Jesus, you want us to walk in the dark?"

  William flung up his hand at the sky glow. "There are the lights."

  "That's nuts—"

  His last words.

  A bullet sang out with a melon-splitting thunk and the top of his head blew out over the truck. He dropped and piled up on the dirt, legs out, arms splayed, like a puppet with cut strings. He did not even jerk.

  The boy cried out and Curteze held him down, out of the line of fire.

  "Inside!" William shouted. He had already dropped the handset and climbed back into the truck to start the engine. As Curteze pushed Jamey into the backseat and then jumped on top of him, William notched the truck into grinding reverse, then spun the wheel, almost toppling the Tahoe as they bounced through a deep rut.

  The cabin pitched and slammed right and left.

  William continued the circle. Best to make a lot of dust. No looking back. Kapp was gone, the airport was miles off, and that likely meant they would still die—and then be erased from West Texas, the U.S. of A., this hard old world—never to be seen by anyone again.