The Ares Decision

47

The crunch of icy gravel sounded impossibly loud as Randi walked toward a small cabin tucked into the woods about ten miles from the nearest asphalt. The drive there had offered no opportunity for escape, and the situation wasn’t getting any better. Her captors were a good ten feet behind her, one thirty degrees left and the other thirty degrees right, staying close to the tree line.

The chances of her making a break and getting to cover without catching a bullet seemed to be hovering somewhere between slim and none. It would have been an easy shot for someone half as good as the people covering her. But even if by some miracle they did miss, that left her running unarmed through the snow in heels and a skirt.

Randi stopped at the front door and glanced back, unsure what to do. The woman, who looked much more sleek after shedding the elaborate foam belly, motioned her inside.

The trees were tantalizingly close, and Randi focused longingly on them in her peripheral vision before reaching for the knob. At this point she just had to keep breathing long enough for someone to make a mistake. Not a great strategy, but the only one currently available.

There was a green-wood fire crackling to her right as she entered, and she couldn’t help reveling for a moment in the heat coming off it. The galley kitchen at the back of the cabin was separated from the main living area by a granite-topped island, and there was a man standing next to the sink working on something she couldn’t see. He was a little less than six feet tall, with thinning hair and a suit that apparently had a healthy fear of irons.

“Randi,” he said, glancing up at her. “I’ll be right with you. Pour us some wine.”

There was a carafe on a coffee table near the fireplace, and she examined the odd way the light played off it and the two glasses next to it. Plastic. A quick sweep of the room confirmed that any object more dangerous than a soft cushion had been removed.

The man came around the counter and slid a plate of cheese and fruit onto the table before settling into one of the sofas surrounding it. “Please. Sit.”

He didn’t look even mildly athletic, but behind his glasses his eyes were sharp — a little sharper than she would have liked. The intelligence didn’t just reflect there; it glowed.

Still devoid of options, she took a seat across from him and poured. He reached for a glass and took a careful sip, nodding approvingly. “I was afraid it might be a little past its prime, but I’m happy to say I was wrong. Please don’t let it go to waste. If I wanted you dead or unconscious, you already would be.”

It was hard to argue with his logic, and she put the plastic glass to her lips. Credit where credit was due. The man knew wine.

“First let me apologize for the melodrama. You’re being watched by a surprising number of people, and not all of them are from my organization. We had to make the switch quickly enough that no one would notice.”

“Your organization?” Randi said.

The man frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. My name is Fred Klein.”

Randi took another sip of wine, processing the name impassively.

“Can I assume you’ve heard of me?”

“There was a Fred Klein who worked for a while at the CIA and then spent years at the NSA. After leaving there, though, I don’t know what happened to him.”

“Oh, he did a bit of this and that — finally culminating in our meeting.”

“I see,” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. She’d never met Fred Klein personally, and there was no way to confirm this was him. It was an intriguing claim, though. He had a serious reputation in the intel community, and the suddenness of his resignation from the government had led to more than a little speculation in the circles she ran in.

“You left Jon Smith a message a few days ago,” he said. “I mentioned it to him and he was concerned.”

Smith. Still popping up in the oddest places.

“It was nice of him to be worried, but it was just a personal call about my sister. Do you know where he is? I’d like to connect with him.”

“Unfortunately, he and I recently lost touch.”

“That’s a shame. Well, I’ll try to catch up with him when he gets back. Thanks for the wine. Any chance I could get a ride home?”

Klein smiled and stabbed at a piece of cheese with a toothpick. “Do you know where Jon is?”

“No idea.”

“So I should just chalk it up to coincidence that you booked a ticket to Cape Town for tomorrow?”

“My compliments. You’re extraordinarily well-informed.”

“I have to admit to a little luck on that one. I’ve had occasion to do business with the same Czech forger you used to have that passport made. But, unfortunately, Jon’s no longer in South Africa.”

“No?” Randi said, unwilling to reveal anything herself, but perfectly happy to let Klein — or whoever he was — talk.

“He caught an internal flight to Uganda four days ago.”

“Really?” she said noncommittally. “How interesting.”

Klein sank back into the sofa.

“Perhaps we should change the subject for a moment. The reason I knew about the message you left Jon isn’t because we’re watching him. It’s because we’re watching you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because there are people high up in our government who have been interested in you joining our little family for some time now.”

“Exactly what people and what family is that?”

Klein studiously ignored the first part of her question. “I work for an organization called Covert-One.”

“Never heard of it.”

“And neither has anyone else. We were formed as a fast-response team — small, agile, and outside the normal bureaucracy. I think you’re familiar with one of our top operatives…”

“Jon.”

He nodded.

“I can’t tell you how much that explains…,” she said before catching herself and falling silent again.

“And I can’t tell you how far beyond top secret the things I’m telling you are.”

There was no question of that. If it came out that there were forces in the U.S. government running a black ops group that circumvented oversight, there would be hell to pay. Having said that, she’d worked with the conventional intel community long enough to be sympathetic to the need for such a group.

“Do you know a man named Brandon Gazenga, Randi?”

“Never heard of him,” she lied smoothly.

Klein smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you? I wonder why it is, then, that you called your friend at the FBI and asked him to send someone to Gazenga’s house.”

This time, Randi didn’t bother to hide her surprise and Klein didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at finally getting a reaction out of her.

“Okay, Fred. I’m officially impressed. But what are we really talking about here? Why pick this moment to recruit me? Could it be that you sent Jon on an errand to Africa and something went wrong? That you need me to bail him — and you — out?”

He frowned and reached for another piece of cheese. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but I wouldn’t say your assessment is entirely inaccurate.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why is Jon in Africa?”

Klein didn’t react immediately, thinking for a few seconds before using a remote control to start a video on the cabin’s television. “This was taken in northern Uganda two weeks ago. The men are from our top blacks ops unit. I’m afraid none of them are still alive.”