Part 26 (2/2)
I glanced at my watch. I was sixteen hours late for my rendezvous with Eric Finder--but if Phyllis had known to send transportation from Kuwait, I a.s.sumed she had also reset our meeting.
Then Carl said, ”That ain't where yer goin', though.” I looked at him, and he added, ”The blood-dimmed tide is loosed.”
After a surprised pause, I replied, ”And everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
If you're interested, this is Phyllis's eccentric idea of pa.s.swords, a pa.s.sage from a Yeats poem. I guess I understood how this might be sort of a poetic metaphor for this case and all that. But the golden rule of operations is KISS--keep it simple, stupid.
I mean, Carl could have said two, and I could have replied three. Works fine.
Indeed, we were on the same wavelength, because he asked me, ”Who thought up that silly s.h.i.+t?”
”My boss.”
He stared, obviously wondering if it was contagious.
I stared back. ”You're Eric Finder?”
”Nope. Still Carl Smith. I'm taking you to Finder.”
”There must be a good reason you lied and didn't identify yourself.”
”Must be.”
”I'd like to hear it.”
”'Cause you'd of spent the whole drive askin' me dumba.s.s questions.” He stared straight ahead. ”Don't really like to bulls.h.i.+t.”
To confirm his suspicion, I asked, ”Tell me about your group.”
”Like what?”
”How many?”
”Fifteen. Only ten are involved in this, though. Orders are to keep it small and tight as possible.”
Of course. The less witnesses the better. ”Who are they?”
”Former Delta or Rangers mostly. There's two ex-SEALs, and one guy who was NYPD SWAT.” He commented, ”He talks real funny.” He glanced at me and remarked, apparently in reference to his own credentials, ”Delta. Five years.”
”Is there a name to this organization?”
”Nope. Truth is, we don't like to be known. We don't bodyguard or handle facility protection like them other groups.”
”What do you do?”
”Wetwork.”
He confided this matter-of-factly, as though I was expected to know he and his team specialized in rubbing out human targets. In fact, I was now a little embarra.s.sed that I ever accepted Carl Smith for a simple driver.
His impressive physical fitness aside, the man was intensely wound, and a stone-cold introvert. A man of few words is often a man of few thoughts; or he can be someone whose thoughts are best kept to himself.
There was a time when I recognized dangerous men, which was how I survived three conflicts, albeit the last time the bad guys scored a few points by pumping two rounds into yours truly. But that Sean Drummond had lost his edge; if he wanted to survive this one, he needed to remember that. I asked Smith, ”How much do you know about this mission?”
He smiled. ”Much as I need to know. Why?”
”You know what it's about?”
He shook his head. ”We're paid plenty not to know.”
”How much?”
”Fifty thou' apiece. Plus expenses.”
I whistled.
He glanced at me and insisted, ”Hey, we ain't mercenaries.”
”Then how about you guys do this one on the house?”
He did not find this funny. After a moment he asked me, ”How much you know 'bout Falluja?”
I pointed at the three thick binders on my lap. ”I've read and memorized every detail inside these Agency binders.”
He asked a little dubiously, ”What do they say?”
”I'm an idiot if I go near the place.”
He nodded that this was a good insight. In fact, he said, ”That's all you need to know. This here's one of them things where a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Just do everything we tell you; don't even think you know what the heck's going on.” He glanced at me and confided, ”We get into Falluja a lot.”
”No kidding. Where can I buy some postcards?”
He ignored my nervous sarcasm and informed me, ”The Agency hires us to tag buildings.”
”Which means what?”
”What we do, we hang around inside the city and sort of watch out for hajis. We see one, we follow 'im back to his nest. We tag the building with an electronic marker, call it in, and wait around to make sure the a.s.shole stays put.”
”And then?”
”Then . . . well, 'bout an hour later, an F-16 comes along, launches a big missile, it locks onto the electronic signature from the tag, and boom. No more a.s.sholes.”
This sounded like an interesting job, and I wanted to know a little more, but he continued, ”Point is, Falluja's a.s.shole central. They're Sunnis, right? . . . Only they're Wahhabis, like the Saudis. Big-time fanatics. Got it? They don't even get along with other Sunnis, and even Saddam had trouble with this place. He finally said f.u.c.k it, problem too hard. Gave up.”
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