Luke Stone 04 - Oppose Any Foe Read online

  He shook his head to clear the dark thoughts, finished his cigarette in three deep inhales, ignored the garbage can, and pitched the butt on the ground. He turned back down the alley. He passed a round red sign with a horizontal white stripe—DO NOT ENTER. The street was too narrow for car traffic. If the police suddenly decided they wanted to pursue him, they’d be forced to do so on foot. Either that, or circle around several blocks. By the time they returned, he’d be gone.

  After fifty meters, he turned quickly and unlocked the entrance to a particularly dilapidated building. He climbed a narrow stairwell three stories until it dead-ended at a thick, steel-reinforced door. The stairs were old, made of wood and crazily warped. The whole stairwell seemed to twist this way and that like taffy, giving it the feeling of a carnival funhouse.

  Jamal made a fist and hammered on the heavy door, his knocks coming in a careful sequence:

  BANG-BANG. BANG-BANG.

  He paused a few seconds.

  BANG.

  A gun-hole slid open and an eye appeared there. The man on the other side grunted as he verified who it was. Jamal listened to the guard turn keys in locks, then remove the steel t-bar wedged into the floor at the bottom of the door. The police would have a very hard time entering this apartment, if their suspicion ever fell upon it.

  “As salaam alaikum,” Jamal said as he entered.

  “Wa alailkum salaam,” the man who opened the door said. He was a tall, burly man. He wore a grimy sleeveless T-shirt, work pants, and boots. A thick unkempt beard covered his face, meeting the mass of curly black hair on his scalp. His eyes were dull. He was everything the thin man was not.

  “How do they seem?” Jamal said in French.

  The big man shrugged. “Good, I think.”

  Jamal passed through a beaded curtain, down a short hallway, and entered a small room—what would have been the living room if a family were occupying this place. The dingy room was crowded with young men, most wearing T-shirts, jerseys from their favorite European football teams, track pants, and sneakers. It was hot and humid in the room, perhaps from the proximity of all the bodies in a small space. It smelled like wet socks mingled with body odor in there.

  In the center of the room, on a wide wooden table, sat a bullet-shaped device made of silver metal. It was about a meter long and less than half a meter wide. Jamal had spent time in Germany and Austria, and the device reminded him of a small beer keg. In fact, except for its weight—it was quite light—it was a very close replica of an American W80 nuclear warhead.

  Two young men were at the table while the others circled around and watched. One stood in front of a small laptop computer mounted inside a steel suitcase. The suitcase had a panel which ran alongside the laptop—there were two switches, two LED lights (one red and one green), and a dial built into the panel. A wire ran from the case to another panel along the side of the warhead. The entire device—the suitcase and the laptop inside it—were known as a UC 1583 controller. It was a device designed for one task only—to communicate with a nuclear weapon.

  The second man was bent over a white envelope on the table. He wore an expensive digital microscope affixed to his eye, and slowly scanned the envelope, looking for what he knew must be there—a tiny dot, no larger than the period at the end of a sentence, in which there was embedded the code that would arm and activate the warhead.

  Jamal moved closer to watch.

  The young man with the microscope slowly scanned the envelope. Every few seconds, he covered the microscope with his hand and took a larger scale view with his uncovered eye, looking for ink spots, blemishes, any dots that were likely suspects. Then he dove back in with the microscope.

  “Wait,” he whispered under his breath. “Wait…”

  “Come on,” his partner said, an air of impatience in his voice. They were being judged not just for accuracy, but for time. When their moment came, they would be forced to act very quickly.

  “Got it.”

  Now it was the partner who was on the spot. From memory, the young man typed in a sequence that enabled the laptop to accept an arming code. His hands shook as he did so. He was nervous enough that he botched the sequence on the first attempt, canceled, and started over.

  “Okay,” he said. “Give it to me.”

  Very slowly and clearly, the man with the microscope read a sequence of twelve numbers. The other man typed each number as it was spoken. After twelve, the first man said “Done.”

  Now the man at the laptop went through another short sequence, flipped the two switches, and turned the dial. The green LED light on the panel popped on.

  The young man smiled and turned to his instructor.

  “Armed and ready to launch,” he said. “God willing.”

  Jamal also smiled. He was an observer here—he had come to see how the recruits were progressing. They were true believers, preparing for what was likely a suicide mission. If the codes were entered incorrectly, the warheads might simply shut themselves down—they might also self-destruct, dispersing a deadly cloud of radiation and killing everyone in the vicinity.

  No one was sure what would happen in the event of an incorrect code. It was all hearsay and speculation. The Americans kept those secrets closely held. But it didn’t matter. These young men were willing to die, and that’s probably what they would do. Regardless of the codes, when the USA discovered that their precious nuclear weapons had been stolen, they weren’t going to respond kindly. No. The giant beast would lash out, its tentacles flying, destroying everything in its path.

  Jamal nodded and recited a silent prayer of thanks. It had been quite a task pulling together this project. They had the mujahideen necessary—but then, young men willing to die for their faith were easy to acquire.

  The other elements were more challenging. They would soon have the launch platforms and the missiles—Jamal would see to that himself. The codes had been promised, and he was certain they would receive them as described. Then all they would need were the warheads themselves.

  And soon, if it was Allah’s will, they would have those as well.

  CHAPTER THREE

  October 19

  1:15 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time

  Fairfax County, Virginia—Suburbs of Washington, DC

  Luke had hired a chopper to take himself and Gunner out of the canyon. He had finagled a new flight for them, and driven like the devil to make it to Phoenix in time to catch the plane. All the while, he had fended off Gunner’s questions about why they had left so abruptly.

  “Your mom just wants you home, Monster. She misses you, and she doesn’t like you skipping all this school.”

  In the passenger seat, the highway zooming by his window, Luke could see Gunner’s antennae twitching like crazy. He was a smart kid. He was already learning to catch people lying. Luke hated—hated!—that he had to be one of the first people Gunner would catch.

  “I thought you worked all that out with Mom before we left.”

  “I did,” Luke said with a shrug. “But it got unworked out. Listen, we’ll all talk about it when we get there, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  But Luke could see that it was not okay. Soon, it would be a lot less okay.

  Now, two days later, here he sat, on the big plush sofa in the living room of his former house. Gunner was at school.

  Luke glanced around the place. Once upon a time, he and Becca had had a great life here. It was a beautiful home, modern, like something out of an architectural magazine. The living room, with its floor to ceiling windows, was like a glass box. He pictured Christmas time—just sitting in this stunning sunken living room, the tree in the corner, the fireplace lit, the snow coming down all around as if they were outside, but they were inside, warm and cozy.

  God, it was nice. But those days were gone.

  Becca bustled around, cleaning up, dusting, putting various things away. At one point in the conversation, she took the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and let it rip. She was i
n a very bad place psychologically. He had tried to hug her when he first arrived, but she had gone wooden, her arms at her sides.

  “I was over you, did you know that?” she said now. “I was ready to move on with my life. I even went on a few coffee dates when you had Gunner with you this summer. Why not? I’m still young, right?”

  She shook her head bitterly. Luke said nothing. What was there to say?

  “Do you want to know something about yourself, Luke? The first one I met, he was a teacher on his summer vacation, nice guy, and he asked me what you do for a living. I told him the truth. Oh, my ex-husband’s some kind of secret assassin for the government. He used to be in Delta Force. You know what happened after that? I’ll tell you. Nothing happened. It was the last I ever heard from him. He heard Delta Force and he disappeared. You frighten people, Luke. That’s my point.”

  Luke shrugged. “Why don’t you just tell them I do something else? It’s not like I’m going to—”

  “I did. Once I caught on, I started telling people you’re a lawyer.”

  .For a second, Luke wondered what the plural “people” meant. Was she going on dates every day? Two a day? He shook his head. It was none of his business anymore, as long as she was safe. And even that… she was dying. She would never be safe again, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  A long paused passed between them.

  “Do you want to get a second opinion?”

  She nodded. She looked numb, in shock, like the survivors of disasters and atrocities Luke had seen so many times. The amazing thing was that she also looked perfectly healthy. A little thinner than usual, but no one would ever guess that she had cancer. They would probably think she’d been on a diet.

  It’s the chemo that makes them look sick. Half the time, it’s also what kills them.

  “I’ve already gotten a second opinion from an old colleague of mine. I’m going for a third opinion early next week. If it’s consistent with what I’ve already heard, then by Thursday, I’ll begin the protocols.”

  “Is surgery an option?” Luke said.

  She shook her head. “It’s too late for that. The cancer is everywhere…” Her voice trailed off. “Everywhere. Chemotherapy is the only option. If I exhaust the approved chemo drugs, then maybe clinical trials, if I’m even still alive.”

  She started crying again. She stood in the middle of the living room, abjectly, her face buried in her hands, her body shaking with the sobs. To Luke, she looked just like a little girl. It stung him to see her reduced to this. He had been around death a lot in his life, seen too much of it, but this? It couldn’t be true. He stood, and went to her then. He would comfort her if he could.

  She pushed him away, violently, like a child in a playground fight.

  “Don’t touch me! Get away from me!” She pointed at him, her face a raging mask of anger. “It’s you!” she shrieked. “You make people sick, don’t you realize that? You steal all the oxygen in the room. You and your superhero garbage.”

  She bobbed her head from side to side, mocking him. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” she said in a caricature of a low masculine voice. “I’ve got to run off and save the world. No telling if I’ll be alive or dead three days from now. Raise the boy for me, won’t you? Just doing my patriotic duty.”

  She was seething. Her voice went back to normal. “You do it because it’s fun, Luke. You do it because you’re irresponsible. You enjoy it. For you, there are no consequences. You don’t care if you live or die anyway, and everybody else has to deal with the fallout and the stress.”

  She burst into tears. “I’m done with you. I’m just done.” She waved her hand at him. “I’m sure you can find your own way out of here. So just go. Okay? Go away. Let me die in peace.”

  With that, she left the room. A moment of silence passed, and then he heard her down the hall in the master bedroom, sobbing.

  He stood there for a long moment, not sure what to do. Gunner would be home in a couple of hours. It wasn’t a good idea to leave him here with Becca, but he didn’t know if he had much choice. She had custody. He had visitation rights. If he took Gunner with him now, without her permission, it was technically kidnapping.

  He sighed. When had the legalities of a situation stopped him before?

  Luke was at a loss. He felt his energy draining away. And they still hadn’t explained anything about this to the child yet. Maybe he should call Becca’s parents and talk to them. The truth was Becca had handled nearly all the domestic details during their relationship. Maybe she was right about him—he was a lot more comfortable out in the world, playing cops and robbers with very dangerous people. Other people worried about him, he knew, but he didn’t worry. What kind of person lived like that? Maybe one who had never grown up.

  On the glass table near the sofa, his telephone began to ring. He glanced at it. As it often did, it seemed almost like it was alive, a viper, dangerous to touch.

  He picked it up. “Stone.”

  A male voice was on the line.

  “Hold for the President of the United States.”

  He glanced up, and Becca hovered in the doorway now. Apparently, she had heard his phone ring. She was back again, ready to listen to his conversation and confirm all of her worst feelings about him. For a split second, he felt real hatred for her—she was going to be right about him, no matter what. All the way into her grave, she was going to have him nailed.

  Now the voice of Susan Hopkins came on.

  “Luke, are you there?”

  “Hi, Susan.”

  “Long time, no see, Agent Stone. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “You?”

  “Good,” she said, but the tone of her voice said something else. “Everything is okay. Listen, I need your help.”

  “Susan…” he started.

  “It’s a one-day thing, but it’s very important. I need someone who can put it to bed quickly, and with complete discretion.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t talk about this over the telephone,” she said. “Can you come in?”

  His shoulders sagged. Ah, man.

  “All right.”

  “How soon can you be here?”

  He glanced at his watch. Gunner would be home in an hour and a half. If he wanted to spend time with his son, the meeting would have to wait. If he went to the meeting…

  He sighed.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Good. I’ll make sure they bring you straight to me.”

  He hung up. He looked at Becca. There was something cruel and mocking inside her eyes. There was a demon in there, dancing on a lake of fire.

  “Where are you going, Luke?”

  “You know where I’m going.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to stay and have a nice time with your son? You’re not going to be a good daddy? That’s a surprise. Gee, I would have thought—”

  “Becca, stop it. Okay? I’m sorry that you’re—”

  “You’re going to lose custody of Gunner, Luke. You go off on missions all the time, right? Well, guess what. I’m going to make you my mission. You’re not even going to see that boy. With my dying breath, I’m going to make it happen. My parents are going to raise him, and you’re not even going to have access to him. You know why?”

  Luke headed to the door.

  “Good-bye, Becca. Have a nice day.”

  “I’ll tell you why, Luke. Because my parents are rich! They love Gunner. And they don’t like you. You think you can outlast my parents in a legal battle, Luke? I don’t think so.”

  He was halfway outside, but he stopped and turned around.

  “Is this what you want to do with the time you have left?” he said. “Is this who you want to be?”

  She stared at him.

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head.

  He didn’t know her anymore, if he ever did.

  And with that, he left.

  CHAPTER FOUR />
  11:50 p.m. Eastern European Time (5:50 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  Alexandroupoli, Greece

  They were thirty miles from the Turkish border. The man checked his watch. Almost midnight.

  Soon, soon.

  The man’s name was Brown. It was a name that was not a name, for someone who had disappeared a long time ago. Brown was a ghost. He had a thick scar across his left cheek—a bullet that had just missed. He wore a flattop haircut. He was big and strong, and had the sharp features of someone who had spent his entire adult life in special operations.

  Once, Brown was known by a different name—his real name. As time passed, his name had changed. At this point, he’d gone by so many names he couldn’t remember them all. This latest one was his favorite: Brown. No first name, no last name. Just Brown. Brown was good enough. It was an evocative name. It reminded him of dead things. Dead leaves in late fall. Dead trees after a nuclear test. Wide open and staring dead brown eyes of the many, many people he’d killed.

  Technically, Brown was on the run. He had ended up on the wrong side of history about six months ago, on a job that hadn’t even been explained to him. He’d had to leave his home country in a hurry and go underground. But after a period of uncertainty, he was back on his feet again. And as always, there was plenty of business to do, especially for a man with the kind of bounce-back ability he had.

  Now, just before midnight, he stood outside a warehouse in a rundown section of this seafaring town’s port district. The warehouse was surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire, but the gate was open. A chilly fog rolled in off the Mediterranean Sea.