The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 17

General William Monroe sat back in his chair and stared at the drab walls of his office as he held his telephone to his ear. As the ranking American in a region that was in constant turmoil, as well as the de facto head of field operations for military intelligence, he worked long hours seven days a week, and today was no different. He ran a hand through thick silver hair and eyed his watch — there was never enough time in his day to accomplish everything that was expected of him.

Monroe listened patiently to the caller as the man finished his report, and grunted approval.

“You’re confident that nothing was downloaded?” Monroe asked.

“Yes, sir. We were able to wipe the phone clean as we siphoned the memory contents, so they couldn’t have gotten anything that would compromise us.”

“What did he have?”

“It appears that our fears were justified, but the area he was triangulating was large. We’re satisfied that he didn’t know anything material.”

“Still — too much has gone sideways on us with this one. We can’t afford any more screwups. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Where are they now?”

“The phone was moving, but it’s now stationary by the Yamuna River and has been for almost an hour. Looks like they’ve gone to ground.” The caller paused. “How would you like to handle this?”

Monroe’s instinct was to send in a platoon of hardened mercenaries to take out the troublemakers, but he dismissed the idea as wishful thinking. The last thing the DOD needed was to be connected with an operation in India — an ally who might take a dim view of the U.S. military carrying out a strike in its capital city.

“I think an anonymous tip to the police would be best. They’ll be anxious to perform after this character made a fool out of them not once, but twice.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I want a full report as soon as it’s over.”

“Of course.”

Monroe hung up and studied the steel-framed black-and-white photographs from his Vietnam tours hanging on the wall. He’d been a lieutenant, young and brash, little more than a boy, to look at it now. Had that really been so long ago? In reality it was a lifetime, but in his mind he could still smell the elephant grass and hear the chatter of M16 fire as though it were yesterday. Two tours of duty there, his parting gift the shrapnel he still carried in his hip and a missing ring finger he swore he could still feel on rainy days.

Now he was the gray sage who directed the young into battle, who waged war in forgotten backwaters on behalf of faceless men in boardrooms halfway across the planet. Not much, and yet everything, had changed, and it was days like this that he felt every one of his years weighing on him.

Monroe turned over a file and stared at a color image of a thirty-two-year-old intelligence operative who’d disappeared in Kashmir several days ago — an operative whom he’d never authorized to probe around in that area and who had done so after signing out for three vacation days. At the time the request had seemed innocent enough, but then his superior had called in a panic, fearful that he’d lost a man. Monroe had talked him down and ordered him to drop the subject, assuring him that he’d deal with it personally, but he was afraid that the officer would continue regardless of his orders. After all, that was what Monroe would have done in the same circumstances.

“Why can’t anything go smoothly? Just once?” he murmured, and then tossed the file aside with a sigh. There would be no inquiry, no investigation, and the operative’s passing would go unremarked and unacknowledged, other than an entry that he was suspected of having gone AWOL. It was a shame, but Monroe had no choice. There could be no link to Kashmir and the DOD’s involvement there — the stakes were too high.

If some eggs had to be broken, that was sometimes what it took to make an omelet, and Monroe had no sympathy for collateral damage. He wasn’t given to introspection; there would be time enough for that on Judgment Day.

Until then, he would follow orders.

Today, that meant turning over a man who’d done his country proud with the SEALs to the Indian police — a man who was guilty of nothing but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The fact that he’d recently become rich and celebrated didn’t alter Monroe’s decision. He would do what was required to keep his secrets, and if this Everett Spencer had to pay the price, it was out of his hands.

He opened another file and studied a photograph of a young Spencer, in his early twenties, hair clipped in a buzz cut, steel in his gaze — a poster boy for the SEALs, had they desired one. Monroe scanned his background and reread three newspaper articles about his startling South American find. In the clipping photos, Spencer stood by the side of a younger man with the slacker look of youth these days, his arm around the man’s shoulder as both beamed at the camera, instant billionaires from their good fortune.

“Hope you enjoyed it while it lasted,” Monroe whispered, and then closed the file and slid it into a desk drawer, his attention required now on other matters — this one a foregone conclusion. He stood and marched to the door, his posture ramrod straight, and called for his secretary; his meeting with Pakistani intelligence was only minutes away. “Get the Jeep warmed up. I’m on my way!” he said, and with a final glance at the photo of his younger self, swung the door open and stepped over the threshold, a man who did his duty with the fearless determination of a bird of prey.