In the Crosshairs

15

Lucky Sharif drove to Savannah because flying down from Washington meant changing planes in Atlanta, an experience that most sane people tried to avoid. Of course, following the interstates also meant going through Atlanta. It was believed down South that when you die there will be a stopover in Atlanta on the way to heaven or hell. Instead, he meandered down the older coast routes, through miles of pine trees and azaleas that ran wild and the choking tendrils of green kudzu vines; he smelled the stench of the Union Bag — Camp Paper Corporation plant and slapped his first mosquito before he’d crossed the Talmadge Bridge and dropped downtown.

So this was the hometown of Luke Gibson, he thought, nosing slowly down Broughton Street, once the busy heart of commerce before the white residents started to migrate to the suburbs and out to the islands to build mansions on salt marshland. It had a feeling of decay and wasn’t in the same antebellum league as Charleston, just up the coast. He turned toward the water and bumped over the cobblestoned street down to the tourist area along River Street, and up again through the squares, where the old city was flashing its April glory of bright flowers and mighty oaks. The tourists enjoyed the historic area during the daylight hours. At night, strolling among the magnolias was not a good idea. Too many places for danger to lurk, his cop instinct told him.

Following his nav system out of the tourist zone and down the long, palm-lined Victory Drive, he found a little restaurant called Carey Hilliard’s, on Skidaway Road, and worked on his laptop while tackling a barbecue sandwich and a cup of Brunswick stew and sweet iced tea. He sent his wife a selfie to make her jealous. Back in D.C., she would be having a tasteless salad at her desk.

Back in the car, with a refill of tea nestled in the console, he cruised the final mile to 2134 East Fortieth Street, circled through the working-class neighborhood that was laid out in a grid, and finally pulled up in front of the corner lot. It was an innocuous place, much like the other homes: three bedrooms, kitchen, bath, living room, and a garage in the back — a baby-boomer suburb built after World War II as ordinary Americans began riding the economic engine into the middle class. The clapboard had been repaired over the years, but the paint was fresh. The roses were trimmed and the lawn was cut. On a cracking sidewalk, a boy of about six and his little sister leaned on their bikes and stared at him when he got out. “Hi,” he said.

“Mommy!” the little brown-haired girl screamed.

“Are you LeBron James?” the boy asked, never having seen a black man this tall.

Sharif squatted to get smaller and showed his badge. “Don’t I wish? I’m just a policeman. Can you get your mommy for me?”

A neat woman with a pretty face and a dishtowel draped over one shoulder appeared at the front door, shooed the children aside, corralled a yapping spaniel, and said, “You’re a cop?”

“FBI, actually. My name is Lucky Sharif,” he said quietly, extending the cred pack. “May I ask your name?”

“Maureen Alonso. Those are my kids, Bobby and Lisa. Did he do something wrong again? Did he break another window with that dang baseball?” She stepped aside. “Come on in here, Special Agent Sharif. My husband, another Bobby, is at work, and the neighbors are nosy as hell. Now, what can I do you for?” Her eyes sparkled with wit and curiosity.

Sharif ducked his head to clear the doorframe. “Just some routine inquiries that don’t involve you or your family. I don’t know anything about Bobby’s baseball felonies. He looks like he can hit pretty good.”

Without asking, she went into the small kitchen and returned with some cold sweet tea. Sharif thanked her and felt his kidneys starting to ache. “You and your husband bought this place about three years ago, right?”

“Sure did. We got a really good deal on it. The widow woman that lived here died and the family wanted to dump it in a hurry. Neighborhood changing and all that rot. Truth is that it was run-down and dilapidated because she couldn’t take care of it. She went into a nursing home and rented it out, and the renters were slobs. Place was a mess, believe me. Why?”

At his peril, he tasked the tea. It was cool and delicious, and he could feel his arteries beginning to clog with sugar. “Did you ever meet her?

“Mrs. Gibson? Oh, no. We dealt only with the Realtors. The papers were signed by her son, but it was all done by mail. I think he’s a soldier off somewhere.” Mrs. Alonso twisted the napkin while she thought. “You know, Mr. Sharif, she did leave behind a box of stuff that we didn’t throw away yet. We thought maybe the son might want it, but he never replied when we told him about it. So I’m more than ready to get rid of it. You can have it if you want.”

After lunch, Coastie borrowed the Land Rover and drove sixteen miles to the town of Clarke, where she bought an AR-15 rifle and a box of 5.56 ammo from a private collector for less than nine hundred dollars and no paperwork. “It’s for my husband,” she explained to the seller, who had posted an ad on the Internet. When she returned to the ranch, she hid the waterproof case near the bell.

Kyle Swanson felt that if he had been a bloodhound his sensory intake would have been quivering from overload. Nicky Marks was here, his presence almost the light touch of a bug on the arm. The vibe was that tight. “You feel it?” he asked Gibson after they deplaned.

“Oh, yeah.” Gibson removed his sunglasses and took a slow look around. “Not here, here, but somewhere.”

The Gulfstream had flown them more than three thousand miles, from Germany to Rome to Istanbul, and finally to the Pakistani military air base in the capital. Even aboard the executive jet, with all its comforts, the two special operators were exhausted and unsteady when it slid to a stop. Bones creaked, crotches itched, and armpits smelled sour.

“Like Grant told Sherman after the first bloody day at Shiloh, ‘We’ll lick ’em tomorrow,’” Gibson quoted with a weary roll of his shoulders.

They walked side by side to a waiting sedan that ferried them to the CIA compound, where a briefer informed them that the man they had come to see, the ISI officer who had fingered Marks, had been blown up in his car two hours before they landed. Marks was in the wind again.

“That fucker!” Gibson snarled.

Swanson shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, Luke. He’s still here. This will be the end of the road.”

Sharif dug two boxes of memorabilia out of Maureen Alonso’s dusty garage, and Bobby helped load it into the car. There might be jewels in them, or just trash. Wouldn’t know until he went through it. He was leaning toward jewels.

“You ever shoot anybody?” Bobby asked.

“Oh, you saw my weapon? I just use it to scare bad guys.”

“I bet you shot a bunch of guys. How tall are you?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

They went back to the house so that Sharif could say goodbye to Maureen Alonso, but the perky woman suggested that he go across the street, one house down, and talk with old Mrs. Boykin, who had lived there forever and had probably known the late Mrs. Gibson very well. “Bobby, take Mr. Sharif over yonder and introduce him to the nurse, then you come right back home.”

“Before we go, could I use your bathroom?” Sharif asked. “All this iced tea is killing me.”

Bobby was waiting in the branches of a chinaberry tree in the front yard when Sharif came back out. He was delighted to escort his new best friend, the tall black man with a badge and a gun, and he hoped Rodney and Teddy would see them crossing the street together. He rang the bell, and the door was opened by a middle-aged black woman in comfortable clothing who radiated an aura of gentleness. “Hey, Miz Adele, this is Mr. Sharif from the FBI, and he wants to talk to Miz Boykin.”

Sharif showed his identification. “Bobby, you go on back home now and guard the car, okay. Don’t let anybody steal my boxes.”

“If I do that, will you let me hold the gun?”

“No. It’s not a toy. Now scoot.”

“He’s a handful,” said the woman as she invited Sharif inside. “A normal boy. I’m Adele Anderson, an extended-care nurse for Mrs. Boykin. You caught us at a propitious moment; she’s just up from a nap and is quite chirpy. Can I ask what this is about? I don’t want her upset if we can avoid it.”

“I only want to ask what she might remember of a former neighbor, the people who lived in what’s now the Alonso home.”

“Good. She’s ninety-six, but she has a pretty good memory for someone her age. Just be gentle. Can I get you some tea?”

Lucky blanched. “No, thanks.”

Clara Boykin was in a sunny little parlor, with a white lace shawl thrown over her shoulders. She was in a wheelchair, and blue slippers peeked from beneath the hem of her cotton nightgown. She studied Sharif from head to toe as Adele made the introductions and motioned him to sit down. The small room was filled with loaded bookshelves, and a Garfield cat glared at the intruder.

“You read all those books, Mrs. Boykin?”

“I certainly did. Those and many more.” Her voice was soft but clear. “I was an English teacher for thirty years. But age took my eyesight and all I can do now is listen to audiobooks. I don’t get the same flavor that the writers wanted to convey from audio. Do you read?”

Sharif grinned. “Not as much as I’d like. Mostly I’m wrapped up in work, and official forms aren’t very literary.”

“You look smart.” She appraised him. “Play ball in college?”

“Basketball at Marquette. Majored in criminal justice, and a master’s in psychology.”

The woman nodded approvingly. “Ask your questions then, young man, before Adele forces more pills down my gullet.”

“This is just routine background information-gathering because a former neighbor of yours is being considered for a high-ranking position in the federal government. He lived right across the street. His name is Lucas Gibson.”

The levity drained out of the old woman, the eyes sharpened, and her mouth went grim. “Luke. I should have figured that out. Well, Special Agent Sharif, I remember him well and have absolutely no use for that imperious little shit. Do not trust him. Do not give him the job. Let me tell you.”

Sharif was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. “May I record this?” he asked, putting his cell phone on the table.

She smiled. “Yes, you may.”

Director of intelligence Martin Atkins got a kick out of meeting Janna Ecklund in a McDonald’s out beyond the beltway. He was long past his clandestine days as a CIA field agent, but there was always something about hiding in plain sight. They were in a corner booth, and his security detail occupied the surrounding tables. The yells of kids back in the play area would overwhelm any listening device.

He had a chicken salad, while Janna had a Big Mac with fries. An agent placed the order and delivered the red trays to their table. “You’re not really going to eat that, are you?” Marty asked.

“Maybe a little. I want to send a picture of my meal to Lucky first. He’s down South eating like a pig and torturing me with his food. I hope he gains a hundred pounds.” She snapped, clicked, and sent, then pushed the meal aside except for a single French fry to nibble on. “So, what’s up?”

Atkins drew in a deep breath. “We have some potential problems, and I wanted to give you guys an early warning. Word is going around Capitol Hill that the agency is running drugs again, that Kyle is involved, and that, somehow, Excalibur Enterprises and Sir Jeff are behind it all.”

Janna pushed back against the hard bench and chewed thoughtfully. “Bullshit.” She swallowed, then smiled. A shark smile. “Utter bullshit, Marty.”

“I know, I know. It’s a political thing that came out of nowhere. A congresswoman from Nebraska, of all places, is trying to tear a piece off the agency’s hide to earn some Brownie points.”

“Where does it stand now?” She picked another fry from the carton.

“The chairman of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence says he’s concerned. Nice choice of words there, eh? Means nothing either way. So I have to go to a private meeting to explain things, which I will not do. Next step will be for the minority committee members to leak it to the press to force something.”

“Ouch,” said Janna. “This have anything to do with Kyle being out chasing Nicky Marks?”

Atkins pushed the salad aside and helped himself to an oily fry. “No such thing as a coincidence in this business, Janna. You’re FBI-trained and know that. For protection, I’m going to have to shut down the Marks thing and get Kyle and Luke Gibson back under cover until the political flap blows over.”

“You think Sir Jeff should also hunker down? He’s not the type to hide from some politician. He’ll go after them with everything we’ve got — and we’ve got a lot.”

“I cannot advise you to do anything. Excalibur is your business, but none of us want to put a light on the help the company provides on special operations. Tell Sir Jeff what’s going on and get Kyle back on safe ground. I’ll get around to Nicky Marks later.”

“Good enough. Thanks for the tip, Marty. You’re a good friend.”

Atkins wiped his hands on a few little paper towels and slid out of the booth. A coterie of security men and women stood at the same time, like flowers blooming in a group. “Right. Be careful what you say about this.”

Janna nodded and her snowy hair kept its shape. She made no move to get up. “Yeah. The hell with Lucky, I’m going to finish my Big Mac after all.”