loyalty.”
“That question lacks specificity.”
“Based on Joseph Ledger’s psych profiles, can he be bought? Could Rasouli buy him away from the DMS?
“Unknown.”
“But we can’t discount it?”
“That would be unwise.”
She peered through the scope. Ledger was still sitting on the floor with his dog. Was he crying? The blowing curtains on Ledger’s window made it impossible to tell, but the American looked like he had something on his cheeks. Tears or dog slobber?
“How dangerous is this man?”
“To others or to himself?”
The question did not surprise the sniper. She was more than half-convinced the marks on Ledger’s cheeks were not there because of his dog.
“As a fighter and field agent,” she said.
“According to psych profiles and all other available data, Captain Joseph Edwin Ledger should be considered a Class-A threat.”
The sniper found that very interesting.
There was movement. Ledger abruptly straightened and looked at the closed door against which he sat. Then he and the dog climbed quickly to their feet. Ledger reached inside his jacket but after a moment brought his hand away without a gun. It was clear that someone had just knocked on the door, and it seemed apparent from Ledger’s body language that the visitor was expected.
But who was it?
Rasouli?
Another of St. Germaine’s agents? The Sabbatarians?
Or one of those unholy bastards in the Red Order?
“Oracle. Stand by.”
“Standing by.”
As Ledger reached for the door handle, the sniper leaned her shoulder against the stock of the rifle. Her slender finger stroked the cold metal rim of the trigger guard.
Chapter Fifteen
Golden Oasis Hotel
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 8:47 a.m.
When the delivery man knocked on the door I nearly jumped out of my skin. I leapt to my feet and spun toward the door. Ghost gave a low growl and took up a defensive stance next to me. He was too tactful to mention that I spent five seconds scrabbling inside my jacket for a pistol I wasn’t carrying.
I peered through the peephole and saw a teenage boy in a kufi.
Before he could knock again, I opened the door and he handed me a package, accepted a tip, and departed without saying a word. He threw some cautious looks at Ghost, though, as if aware that this was a ferocious mankiller for whom a packet of goat strips would not assuage a savage hunger. Ghost apparently had the same thought and glared at his retreating back until I closed the door and told him to knock it off.
Inside the package was a carton of Bistoon cigarettes, which I threw out. The other items in the paper sack were the battery and a cell-phone charger wrapped together with a blue rubber band.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and slid the battery into the phone and was delighted to see that it was already charged. I should have given the kid a bigger tip.
Our DMS phones have a USB port, and I fished out the flash drive and plugged it in. It did not look particularly damaged from the outside, but then again the outside was plastic. I was more than a little surprised—or maybe “suspicious” is the appropriate word—that Rasouli gave me the original rather than a copy. I was glad he did, though, because once I uploaded what I could I was going to find a way to get the flash drive into a diplomatic pouch for an expedited trip across the ocean. Once Bug got his sweaty little hands on it I was sure the drive would yield up everything there was to find.
Could Rasouli have had that in mind? Did he know about MindReader? Sure he did, he knew Vox.
My gut turned over. Every time I thought I had a grasp on how much damage—past, current, and potential—that could be laid at Vox’s feet, something came along to broaden my perspective. MindReader was an ultrasecret system and part of its strength lay in the fact that the bad guys didn’t know about it, or if they did they didn’t know what it could do. Vox did. That meant that anyone he told, every government or
“That question lacks specificity.”
“Based on Joseph Ledger’s psych profiles, can he be bought? Could Rasouli buy him away from the DMS?
“Unknown.”
“But we can’t discount it?”
“That would be unwise.”
She peered through the scope. Ledger was still sitting on the floor with his dog. Was he crying? The blowing curtains on Ledger’s window made it impossible to tell, but the American looked like he had something on his cheeks. Tears or dog slobber?
“How dangerous is this man?”
“To others or to himself?”
The question did not surprise the sniper. She was more than half-convinced the marks on Ledger’s cheeks were not there because of his dog.
“As a fighter and field agent,” she said.
“According to psych profiles and all other available data, Captain Joseph Edwin Ledger should be considered a Class-A threat.”
The sniper found that very interesting.
There was movement. Ledger abruptly straightened and looked at the closed door against which he sat. Then he and the dog climbed quickly to their feet. Ledger reached inside his jacket but after a moment brought his hand away without a gun. It was clear that someone had just knocked on the door, and it seemed apparent from Ledger’s body language that the visitor was expected.
But who was it?
Rasouli?
Another of St. Germaine’s agents? The Sabbatarians?
Or one of those unholy bastards in the Red Order?
“Oracle. Stand by.”
“Standing by.”
As Ledger reached for the door handle, the sniper leaned her shoulder against the stock of the rifle. Her slender finger stroked the cold metal rim of the trigger guard.
Chapter Fifteen
Golden Oasis Hotel
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 8:47 a.m.
When the delivery man knocked on the door I nearly jumped out of my skin. I leapt to my feet and spun toward the door. Ghost gave a low growl and took up a defensive stance next to me. He was too tactful to mention that I spent five seconds scrabbling inside my jacket for a pistol I wasn’t carrying.
I peered through the peephole and saw a teenage boy in a kufi.
Before he could knock again, I opened the door and he handed me a package, accepted a tip, and departed without saying a word. He threw some cautious looks at Ghost, though, as if aware that this was a ferocious mankiller for whom a packet of goat strips would not assuage a savage hunger. Ghost apparently had the same thought and glared at his retreating back until I closed the door and told him to knock it off.
Inside the package was a carton of Bistoon cigarettes, which I threw out. The other items in the paper sack were the battery and a cell-phone charger wrapped together with a blue rubber band.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and slid the battery into the phone and was delighted to see that it was already charged. I should have given the kid a bigger tip.
Our DMS phones have a USB port, and I fished out the flash drive and plugged it in. It did not look particularly damaged from the outside, but then again the outside was plastic. I was more than a little surprised—or maybe “suspicious” is the appropriate word—that Rasouli gave me the original rather than a copy. I was glad he did, though, because once I uploaded what I could I was going to find a way to get the flash drive into a diplomatic pouch for an expedited trip across the ocean. Once Bug got his sweaty little hands on it I was sure the drive would yield up everything there was to find.
Could Rasouli have had that in mind? Did he know about MindReader? Sure he did, he knew Vox.
My gut turned over. Every time I thought I had a grasp on how much damage—past, current, and potential—that could be laid at Vox’s feet, something came along to broaden my perspective. MindReader was an ultrasecret system and part of its strength lay in the fact that the bad guys didn’t know about it, or if they did they didn’t know what it could do. Vox did. That meant that anyone he told, every government or
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