The Ares Decision

32

Brandon Gazenga pulled into his garage and closed the door, sealing out the cold wind that had descended on the Washington area. A poorly placed bag of garbage nearly trapped him in the car, and he had to push with his shoulder to open a gap large enough to slip out. Another month and he was going to have to start parking in the driveway.

He’d said it before, but now he really meant it: this weekend he was going to rent a truck and haul all this crap to the dump. And then he was going to hire one of those organization consultants — preferably a dour old British lady with a riding crop. The time had come to take back control of his life.

The house wasn’t in much better condition, but at least it was warm. He flicked on the lights and looked around before committing to the short trip to the kitchen. The Uganda operation had been burning a hole in his stomach for months, but now it was starting to kill him. Smith and his team had been arrested and the initial report that it was because of a fight by the hotel pool went out the window when he received confirmation that they’d been taken to a high-security military base.

And then there were the tentative reports that Mehrak Omidi was personally on the ground in northern Uganda. Finally, and perhaps worst of all, there was Randi Russell and the note he’d put in her pocket.

Had she found it yet? What would she think of an anonymous request for a meeting? Would she report it?

The truth was that there was absolutely no way for him to know. He was just an analyst with delusions of grandeur. Most of what he knew about clandestine meetings he’d learned from James Bond movies just like everyone else.

But this wasn’t a cheesy action flick and he wasn’t Sean Connery. Drake and Collen had put their careers — maybe even their lives — on the line for this operation, and they wouldn’t be happy to find out that some nobody from Langley’s basement was working behind their backs. Not happy at all.

He made his way to the refrigerator and pawed through a mishmash of aging takeout containers until he found something that looked like it was still edible.

He left the living room dark, falling into a leather chair and stabbing into the box of General Tso’s chicken with a dirty fork. The romantic fantasies he’d had about moving into operations were long gone now. There were no Panama hats and ceiling fans. No supermodels or fast cars. Just the constant nagging feeling that you’d made a fatal mistake somewhere and someone was slinking up behind you to make you pay for it.

Going back now, though, wasn’t an option. Randi Russell had his note, and if he didn’t show up to the rendezvous, it was unlikely she would just let it go. Her reputation for tenacity was one of the many reasons he’d picked her.

He crammed another forkful of chicken into his mouth, not hungry but also aware that if he lost any more weight he’d have to buy all new suits.

Things would be better soon. Russell was going to come through like she always did. She’d know what to do, who to talk to. But mostly, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

Gazenga put the empty food container on his cluttered coffee table and headed for the bedroom, locking the door behind him and positioning an empty beer bottle so it would tip if anyone tried to get in. He stripped to his boxers and crawled beneath a traditional African blanket his mother had given him. The lump in the pillow made by the Colt beneath it was even more comforting than it had been the day before, and he caressed the grip for a few moments before rolling onto his back and staring up at the dark ceiling.

Things were going to get better. Soon.

Gazenga awoke in a sweat, his stomach cramping and a numbness spreading through his chest. At first he thought it was just a dream and gave his head a weak shake to wake himself, but that just brought on a wave of nausea.

The clock glowed four a.m. as he pushed himself into a sitting position and struggled to get in a full breath. Because of his frequent travel in Africa, he’d had more than the normal complement of illnesses in his life, including bouts of malaria and river blindness. Enough to know when something was seriously wrong.

His cell phone was still in his pants and he was sliding awkwardly off the bed when he froze. The blackout shades he’d recently bought in an attempt to help him sleep were fully drawn but the light from the clock was enough to pick out an unfamiliar outline near the door. A chair? Had he put it there for extra security? No, he’d used a beer bottle. The chair should have been—

“How are you feeling, Brandon?”

A surge of adrenaline shot through him and he reached beneath his pillow. Nothing. The gun was gone.

“Sorry, I had to take that. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

The voice was familiar, but it still took him a few moments to identify it in the absence of its normal context.

“Dave? What are you doing here?” Gazenga said, his initial shock turning to a deep sense of dread. It was Russell. It had to be. They’d somehow found out. “Has…has something gone wrong in Uganda?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Gazenga reached for the light next to him, but his arm didn’t respond normally and he just ended up pawing weakly at the shade.

“You know why I’m here,” Collen said. “Tell me what you gave Randi Russell.”

“Russell?” Gazenga said, feigning surprise as he tried to calculate his options with a mind clouded by fear and lack of oxygen. “What are you talking about?”

He slid the rest of the way from the bed, discovering that his legs would no longer support him and collapsing to the dirty carpet.

“We have video of you sliding something into her pocket on the elevator, Brandon. You’re wasting time. And you don’t have much left.”

“What have you done to me?”

The shadow grew as Collen stood and took a step forward. “I poisoned you at our meeting this afternoon. That last cup of coffee, remember? It’s an interesting compound based on botulism that causes paralysis and respiratory distress. The official cause of death will be the half-rotted food in your refrigerator. That is, unless you tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gazenga said, struggling to focus. The past and present were becoming muddled as his brain was slowly starved.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Collen said, anger beginning to take shape in his voice.

“I’ve never even met Randi Russell. She’s stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq or something.”

Collen looked through the dim light at the prone figure of his colleague, examining the unnatural position of his mostly paralyzed limbs and the impenetrable shadow hiding his face. It was a frustrating and extremely unfortunate situation. The fact that the loss of Gazenga could put the operation in jeopardy was bad enough, but the lack of anything but the threat of death to extract information was potentially disastrous. There was no choice, though. Other techniques, while more reliable, were slow and left obvious marks — something that they couldn’t afford. The young man’s demise had to be above even the slightest suspicion.

“I have the antidote with me, Brandon. We’re not angry. You got scared and you made a mistake. It happens to everybody. Just tell me what I want to know and we can fix this.”

Gazenga gulped at the air like a dying fish, panic clearly starting to set in. “I didn’t tell her anything. Just a…just a time and a place to meet.”

Collen knelt and pulled a bottle containing two large pills from his pocket, shaking it so the young man could hear their seductive rattle. Of course, they were nothing but an over-the-counter pain reliever, but desperation had a way of making true believers out of even the most ardent skeptics.

“That’s good, Brandon. Very good. Now, just tell me where and when and we can put this behind us.”