“Corporal—”
“They’ve already called it in, sir. You’ll have to speak with the major.” The young soldier turned away as the jeep crossed the threshold of a courtyard that housed the fleet of jeeps. The convoy stopped and the soldiers dragged David out and marched him inside the building, down several corridors, and parked him inside a cell with heavy iron bars and a small, high window.
David stood in the cell and waited, his hands still bound and fastened to his belt. After a time, loud footsteps echoed against the stone floor and a soldier appeared. His black uniform was unruffled and a single silver bar sat on his shoulder. A lieutenant. He squared with David, but kept his distance beyond the iron bars. Unlike the corporal in the jeep, there was no hesitation in his voice. “Identify yourself.”
David stepped toward him. “Don’t you mean: Identify yourself, Colonel?”
Hesitation crossed the man’s face, and he spoke more slowly. “Identify yourself, Colonel.”
“Have you been briefed on covert operations here in Morocco, Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant’s eyes darted left and right. Doubt. “No… I’ve haven’t been notified—”
“Do you know why?” David held up his bound hands. “Don’t answer. It’s rhetorical. You haven’t been notified because, that’s right, the operations are covert. Classified. You log my presence here, my operation will be blown. And so will your chances of promotion or ever doing anything besides peeling potatoes. Understand?”
David let the words linger in the young man’s mind a moment. When David continued, his tone was less harsh. “Right now, I don’t know your name, and you don’t know mine. That’s a good thing. Right now, this is just a mix-up, a stupid mistake by a low-ranking perimeter patrol. If you release me and provide me with a jeep, it will be forgotten.”
The lieutenant paused for a moment, and David thought he was about to reach for something in his pocket, possibly the keys, when a set of boots began clacking against the stone floor and another soldier emerged in the hallway, a major. The higher-ranking officer glanced from the lieutenant to David as if he had caught them in the middle of something. His expression was mild, almost blank, somewhere near amusement, David thought.
The lieutenant straightened at the sight of the major and said, “Sir, they found him in the hills below Jebel Musa. He refuses to identify himself, and I don’t have any transfer orders.”
David studied the major. Yes, he recognized the man. His hair was longer and his face was leaner, but the eyes were the same as those David had seen several years ago in a small square photograph paper-clipped to a printout of an after-action report. The operative had handwritten the report in neat block letters, not cursive, as if every letter and word had been considered at length. The major had been a Clocktower operative—a member of the covert operations group David had worked for. David had recently learned that Clocktower had actually been under Immari control. The major might actually know who David was. But if not… Either way, David was finished if he didn’t make a play.
He stepped to the iron bars. The lieutenant moved back and placed his hand on his sidearm. The major stood his ground. He slowly turned his head.
“You’re right, lieutenant,” David said. “I’m not a colonel. Just like the man standing next to you isn’t a major.” David continued before the lieutenant could speak. “I’ll tell you something else you don’t know about the ‘major.’ Two years ago, he assassinated a high-value terrorist target named Omar al-Quso. He shot him at dusk at a range of almost two kilometers.” David nodded to the major. “I remember it because when I read the after-action report, I thought to myself, now, that’s a hell of a shot.”
The major cocked his head, then shrugged and broke his gaze for the first time. “Truth be told, it was a rather lucky shot. I had already chambered the second round when I realized that al-Quso wasn’t getting up.”
“I don’t… understand,” the lieutenant said.
“Clearly. Our mysterious guest has just described a classified Clocktower operation, which means he’s either a station chief or a chief analyst. I don’t think analysts get to the gym nearly as much as our colonel here. Release him.”
The lieutenant opened the cell and unbound David’s wrists, then turned back to the major. “Should I—”
“You should make yourself scarce, Lieutenant.” He turned and began down the hall. “Follow me, Colonel.”
As David walked down the stone hallway, he wondered whether he was now deeper in the trap, or on his way out.
CHAPTER 36
Immari Operations Base at Ceuta
Northern Morocco