its course south-by-southwest from Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan. Seated in the passenger compartment, Jonathan Ransom glanced out the window as a pair of F-18 fighters whizzed past a mile to port. The helicopter passed directly above a guided missile cruiser, the Stars and Stripes flying boldly from the fantail. For the last ten minutes they’d been overflying the naval vessels of Carrier Task Force 50. He’d left one war zone only to enter another.
“Touchdown in six minutes,” said the pilot.
Jonathan checked his shoulder harness, making sure that the belt fit tightly across his chest and waist. The Osprey dipped its nose and began a rapid descent. He had the sensation of being sucked into a vortex against his will.
Since climbing onto the chopper at Tora Bora one week earlier, he’d been constantly on the move. From Tora Bora to Bagram. Bagram to Camp Rhino. Camp Rhino to the embassy in Kabul. Back to Bagram. At every stop he’d endured another debriefing. He’d related the events as best he could. He’d asked to go home. Always he received the same answer: “In due time.” And he waited to be moved again.
The aircraft touched down. Two MPs led the way to a hatch in “the Island,” the imposing tower rising from the flight deck. Jonathan followed, climbing a set of stairs to reach the flag bridge. His destination was an anonymous wardroom with a table and chair and an American flag stuck in one corner like an afterthought.
The hatch opened and a stocky middle-aged man dressed in a rumpled gray suit entered. He was carrying two china mugs and held a leather folder beneath an arm. “You drink tea, right?” he said, thrusting one of the mugs toward Jonathan. “I got you Darjeeling. Two bags and plenty of sugar. Figured you needed something to keep you going. Me, I’m a coffee guy. Don’t care what kind as long as it’s black.”
Jonathan took the mug and looked on as the man struggled to set his coffee and dossier on the table, spilling quite a bit in the process. “Want to join me?” he asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “No? Suit yourself. Me, I have to sit. I swear these long flights give me thrombosis in my legs. Hurts like the dickens.”
“You should make sure you walk around during the flight,” said Jonathan. “Helps the circulation.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say.”
The man unzipped his leather folder and took out a legal pad and some papers and arranged them neatly, as if he were a clerk setting up for business. Jonathan knew better than to be fooled. Whoever this man was, he was anything but a clerk.
“Some shit-storm you went through,” said the man. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. The other guys weren’t so lucky.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“You want to tell me your name?”
“What’s the point? I’d probably be lying to you.”
“You’re Connor.”
The man pulled his jaw into his neck, either surprised or bewildered. “Emma told you?”
“She might have let something slip when we were in London. She said you were a prick. I just put a face to a name.”
Connor found this amusing. “Did she tell you anything else?”
“That you tried to have her killed when she was in Rome.”
“I understand you’re upset. No one likes to be manipulated without their knowledge.”
“I’m still working on your sending a man to put a knife in my wife’s back.”
Connor lost his friendly tone. “We’ll get to that later,” he said, and for the first time Jonathan was aware that he was in the presence of a formidable individual. “Sit down, Dr. Ransom. I didn’t fly seven thousand miles to give you a handshake, a hug, and a kiss on the cheek for serving your country. We have some important issues to get through.”
Jonathan sat down. “Eight years wasn’t enough? I thought I’d served my time.”
“Believe me, we’re grateful for all you’ve done. Especially for your actions in Switzerland. No one more than me. If
“Touchdown in six minutes,” said the pilot.
Jonathan checked his shoulder harness, making sure that the belt fit tightly across his chest and waist. The Osprey dipped its nose and began a rapid descent. He had the sensation of being sucked into a vortex against his will.
Since climbing onto the chopper at Tora Bora one week earlier, he’d been constantly on the move. From Tora Bora to Bagram. Bagram to Camp Rhino. Camp Rhino to the embassy in Kabul. Back to Bagram. At every stop he’d endured another debriefing. He’d related the events as best he could. He’d asked to go home. Always he received the same answer: “In due time.” And he waited to be moved again.
The aircraft touched down. Two MPs led the way to a hatch in “the Island,” the imposing tower rising from the flight deck. Jonathan followed, climbing a set of stairs to reach the flag bridge. His destination was an anonymous wardroom with a table and chair and an American flag stuck in one corner like an afterthought.
The hatch opened and a stocky middle-aged man dressed in a rumpled gray suit entered. He was carrying two china mugs and held a leather folder beneath an arm. “You drink tea, right?” he said, thrusting one of the mugs toward Jonathan. “I got you Darjeeling. Two bags and plenty of sugar. Figured you needed something to keep you going. Me, I’m a coffee guy. Don’t care what kind as long as it’s black.”
Jonathan took the mug and looked on as the man struggled to set his coffee and dossier on the table, spilling quite a bit in the process. “Want to join me?” he asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “No? Suit yourself. Me, I have to sit. I swear these long flights give me thrombosis in my legs. Hurts like the dickens.”
“You should make sure you walk around during the flight,” said Jonathan. “Helps the circulation.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say.”
The man unzipped his leather folder and took out a legal pad and some papers and arranged them neatly, as if he were a clerk setting up for business. Jonathan knew better than to be fooled. Whoever this man was, he was anything but a clerk.
“Some shit-storm you went through,” said the man. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. The other guys weren’t so lucky.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“You want to tell me your name?”
“What’s the point? I’d probably be lying to you.”
“You’re Connor.”
The man pulled his jaw into his neck, either surprised or bewildered. “Emma told you?”
“She might have let something slip when we were in London. She said you were a prick. I just put a face to a name.”
Connor found this amusing. “Did she tell you anything else?”
“That you tried to have her killed when she was in Rome.”
“I understand you’re upset. No one likes to be manipulated without their knowledge.”
“I’m still working on your sending a man to put a knife in my wife’s back.”
Connor lost his friendly tone. “We’ll get to that later,” he said, and for the first time Jonathan was aware that he was in the presence of a formidable individual. “Sit down, Dr. Ransom. I didn’t fly seven thousand miles to give you a handshake, a hug, and a kiss on the cheek for serving your country. We have some important issues to get through.”
Jonathan sat down. “Eight years wasn’t enough? I thought I’d served my time.”
“Believe me, we’re grateful for all you’ve done. Especially for your actions in Switzerland. No one more than me. If
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