The Buried

CHAPTER 26

No matter how late Morse stayed up the night before, he was out of bed by 5:15 every morning. This one was no exception.

He kissed his wife on the forehead and limped his long-ago damaged body into the bathroom. After closing the door, he turned on the wall-mounted TV, the channel preset to Prime Cable News. The volume was muted, not because he was afraid of waking his wife, but because he was interested in the images the network broadcasted, not the nonsense the on-air talent spewed.

Television news these days was not news. It was bouts of stupidity wrapped in ridiculous suppositions and opinions disguised as facts. Not that he minded. On more than a few occasions, he’d been able to make use of the medium for his — and his country’s — benefit.

He had just lathered his face for a shave when the only surviving landline in the house trilled. It was his work line and had extensions in every room.

He wiped the foam from one side of his face and grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Director.” Morse recognized the voice as that of Falcao, his assistant director of operations.

“Morning,” Morse growled.

“There’s been a complication.”

“With?”

“Red team, sir.”

“What kind of complication?”

“It’s developing so we don’t have all the details. Communications was lost with them approximately thirty minutes ago, and we just obtained satellite images from their last known position. Their helicopter’s in the middle of a highway, and there are eight bodies on the road.”

Morse had fully expected to wake this morning to news that the girl had been captured, not his team wiped out. “A crash?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you have on-site confirmation of casualties?”

“Not yet, sir. A containment team is en route. There is, however, already local law enforcement on the way to the scene now.”

“No way to divert them?”

“No, sir.”

“Any sign of the girl?”

“None.”

“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

After Morse hung up, he wiped the rest of the foam from his face and picked up the phone again.

“Clark residence,” the English butler answered.

“This is Morse. I need to speak with Mr. Clark.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Clark is still asleep.”

“And I’m afraid you’re going to have to wake him up.”

Assistant Trade Attaché Komarov had just risen from his desk to leave for lunch when his phone rang.

Annoyed, he hit the speaker button while pulling on his suit coat. “Komarov.”

“Herr Komarov, it is Karl Schwartz.”

He stopped, his arm half in the sleeve. “Herr Schwartz? What can I do for you?”

Why would Schwartz be calling again? Komarov’s part in the operation was done. He’d already gone back to being what he really was — an agricultural trade expert.

“I have a request, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“It is concerning the hotel project. There is a problem with the original blueprint. I need to know if we should make an adjustment, but I have not been able to reach our partners in Moscow and was wondering if maybe you could do that for me.”

Komarov closed his eyes. It was exactly as he’d feared. He was being pulled back into the middle.

Trying to keep dread out of his voice, he said, “I would be happy to help.”