It Takes a Thief Page 2

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” Greg didn’t have to walk him out. He could have called the security guards to escort him to the front door and take his badge.

  “Micro Technologies? I’ve read about them. Pretty impressive company. When will you start?”

  “Not for a couple of months. I have to sell my condo here and get moved to Oregon. And I thought I’d take some vacation time.”

  “Good plan.”

  At the front door, Logan shook Greg’s hand, gave him the clip-on badge that allowed him entrance to the building, and turned his back on a satisfying and stellar career with the NSA. Within hours his network account at the NSA would be deactivated and an investigation would be started. At first the investigation would be intense, but as nothing was revealed, it would become routine. Eventually, a report would be sent to his supervisor and on to the director of the NSA. It would state that there was no suspicious activity on his part. Nothing to worry about. He wasn’t concerned. He’d made sure there was nothing to cause them to look any further.

  Logan pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on what he had to do before his meeting in less than eight hours with a man he didn’t know.

  October 19, Iraq

  Rashid Fadhil Ali stood before the small mirror over the washbasin and lathered his cheeks and neck with aerosol foam. He scraped the razor over his skin carefully, as this was a relatively new experience. Until recently, he’d never shaved his face, only trimming his beard and moustache to keep them neat.

  At first he had cut himself often. Especially after the cosmetic surgery that had given his thirty-five-year-old face the loose skin and jowls of a much older man.

  Of course, nowadays, more and more Muslim men were shaving. And there was an ongoing controversy as to whether or not shaving was forbidden or only makruh, undesirable. If shaving was wrong, he believed Allah would forgive him. He did it only to become a better warrior against the infidels. It was a small price to pay for an afterlife in Paradise.

  He finished shaving and splashed water on his face, then patted it dry with a towel. The next step would be laser treatments to create a receding hairline. He ran long slender fingers though his bushy hair. Smooth, supple hands that belied the aged look of his face. They were unadorned by jewelry, but he knew the ring had already been made. It was identical to the wedding band Chief Justice Isaac Jacobs still wore, although his wife had died over a decade ago. He pulled on a shirt and walked down the hall.

  “Rashid.” Ziyad Al-Din greeted him when he entered the front room. “You are well?”

  “Yes, Ziyad, very well indeed. And you?”

  “The same.” Ziyad took a moment to examine Rashid’s face and head. “It is coming along nicely, although I believe we will have to use cosmetics to make you look as old as the infidel Jacobs.”

  “We still have several months. Perhaps it will not be necessary, but if it is, I will learn how to apply them so that no one will even suspect I am not the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”

  “Very good. You have been chosen for very special work for the glory of Allah.”

  Rashid shook his head. “I am merely fortunate enough to look somewhat like this man.”

  “Precisely. It is Allah’s will. Why else would the Chief Justice Jacobs look so much like you?”

  “I am truly blessed by Allah.” Rashid smiled. “Are the plans coming together?”

  “Oh, yes. Although we have other matters to attend to as well.” Ziyad frowned.

  “You appear worried.” Rashid shook his head. “I do not know how you manage so many things at one time.”

  “It is sometimes difficult, but we must all do what we are called to do.”

  “There is a complication?”

  “Not with your mission. That is going according to plan. But Mussad has brought another matter toour attention. A group that is bent on world domination much as the Americans are.”

  “What? How is this possible?”

  Ziyad waved his hand in dismissal. “We will handle it. They are just some upstart group that believes they can create a world order where they are the rulers. They call themselves the Order. Mussad’s father is one of them.”

  “That is a terrible burden for Mussad to bear. To know that his own father is an infidel.”

  “True.” Ziyad nodded. “Fortunately for him, his mother returned to the true belief and raised him as a good Muslim.”

  “Allah trusts you to see that the world follows the word of the Prophet Mohammad.”

  “There are many of us to do his calling. You are also one of them.”

  “I give thanks that I have been chosen for such an honor. I pray to Allah that we are successful,” Rashid said. “Our biggest challenge will be to make the switch.”

  “We are making the plans even now. It is only a matter of learning his ways; then we will find the perfect opportunity to take him and put you in his place.”

  “How far in advance will we do this?”

  “Not far.” Ziyad laughed and slapped Rashid’sshoulder. “We can’t put you in the position of actually sitting on the Supreme Court. Although there is a certain humor in that.”

  Rashid smiled. He wouldn’t mind sitting in Isaac Jacobs’s place. He could hand down some judgments that would serve the infidel Americans well. But that was not his destiny.

  His destiny was much greater than that.

  October 23, Florence, Italy

  Drake Leatherman let his stubbled chin rest on his chest. His mouth hung open and a rivulet of saliva and blood trickled down his chin, but he didn’t move. As long as they thought he was still unconscious, they’d leave him alone. At least for a few minutes. His shoulders ached from having his hands tied behind the back of the chair, and the six-inch gash they’d sliced into his arm burned. One eye was already swollen closed, and he thought a couple of teeth were loose.

  “How’s he doing?” Drake recognized the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Robertson again. That stung more than the physical damage they’d inflicted. Hank Robertson had led the Marine Force Recon team that Drake had served on for seven years. What the hell was he doing with the Order?

  “He’s not exactly cooperating.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s not your average agent,” Robertson said. “Might want to step it up a bit. I’ll be back soon.”

  Drake could hear Robertson’s footsteps, then the faint swoosh of the door opening and closing. He brought up a mental picture of the room, trying to determine the best escape route if he got the chance. But the room boasted only one door and a single window too small to squeeze through. He hadn’t heard the click of a lock when Robertson left, so at least that was a possibility.

  “Yeah, I got something that’ll loosen his tongue. Rico, bring me that pipe.”

  Drake heard the pipe clatter on the concrete floor and barely kept from reacting. How much more time could he buy before they started in on him again? Not that it mattered. In the end they’d just kill him. They’d killed the other agents. The best Drake could do was die without giving up any information. Unless they screwed up and gave him an opening.

  One of the men kicked the leg of the chair he sat in. Drake cursed himself silently when his body jerked and his head lifted. He opened the eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut and looked at the man.

  “Good. You’re awake.”

  “I must have dozed off earlier,” Drake said. “How rude of me.”

  The man laughed. “You got a smart mouth, you know?” He picked up the pipe from the floor.

  Drake smiled, even though it made his swollen lip crack and bleed again. “Wish I could say the same for you.”

  The man grunted and scowled at him. Good. Drake wanted to piss him off. An angry man made mistakes. And a mistake could be his ticket out.

  “I don’t think you’re going to be laughing much longer.” The man took a knife from the table and hauled Drake to his feet.

  Drake didn’t flinch when the man slipped the knife under his
belt and cut through it. But when he sliced through his jeans and shorts, Drake’s heart beat faster, his breath came in short, shallow gasps, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths.

  The man grabbed a handful of denim and cotton and ripped Drake’s pants away from his body. He pushed Drake back into the chair and looked at Rico. “Go get it.”

  “Now?” Rico asked.

  “I said to, didn’t I? And give me the pipe.”

  “Sure, Mort.” Rico handed him the two-foot-long pipe and moved to the back of the room.

  Drake concentrated on his training and tried to ignore that Mort had exposed his crotch and he was defenseless with his hands tied behind him. Mort walked around the chair, slapping the pipe against his palm. He stopped in front of Drake and grimaced.

  “Damn, I hate this part.”

  Drake gritted his teeth when Mort reached down and lifted his penis. He could hardly swallow, his mouth was so dry. Elevated blood pressure caused his staccato heartbeat to thrum in his ears and he forced himself to think. What were they doing? Cutting his dick off wouldn’t get them what they wanted. He’d pass out from the pain, then die from the blood loss. He felt a flash of relief. They weren’t going to castrate him. Probably.

  Mort fitted one end of the pipe over Drake’s penis, then shoved it so the three-inch-wide pipe was pressed painfully against his pubic bone.

  Sweat beaded on Drake’s scalp. He’d been trained to withstand torture. He knew what to do. How to think. How to get through it. But a silent scream of horror reverberated through him as he fought for equilibrium.

  “Go ahead,” Mort said to Rico.

  Rico stepped around from behind the chair. His heavily gloved hand held a large squirming rat by its tail. Drake inhaled sharply, then forced his mind todetach. He looked at the situation logically, refusing to allow any emotional reaction. Rico would drop the rat into the pipe. The rat would find his penis and start chewing on it. At some point, he would lose consciousness from the pain. Drake wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he closed his eyes and prayed that he’d be dead before he woke up again. He felt the pipe move and his eyes flew open. The rat was halfway inside the pipe.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Drake jerked his head around at the sound of Robertson’s voice.

  “You said to step it up a bit.” Mort shrugged. “This is how I step it up.”

  “Put that thing away,” Robertson told Rico, then looked at Mort. “And get that pipe off him. When I said step it up, I didn’t mean for you to maim him.”

  Drake watched as Rico moved to the back of the room where he’d left the rat’s cage and Mort and Robertson walked to the wall opposite the door. The door Robertson had left open. It wasn’t much of a chance. How far could he get with his hands tied behind his back? He didn’t even know how many guards he might run into or if he’d be able to get out without encountering doors that required security codes or key cards. But his will to survive clamored for him to take the chance.

  Drake took a deep breath and blew it out. Robertson and Mort were still talking. Rico was trying to get the rat back into the cage. He wasn’t close enough to the door to try anything subtle. His only option was to make a run for it. It was a stupid idea. He’d never get away. There was no way he could run fast enough with his hands behind his back that they wouldn’t catch him.

  Still, he was going to try. He might get lucky. Maybe he’d find a place to hide until he could get his hands free.

  Drake pushed himself to his feet and ran toward the open door. He made it across the threshold and half a dozen strides down the hallway before the pipe slammed into his shoulder. He turned against the pain just in time to see Mort swing the pipe again. His last thought was that Mort moved really fast for such a big guy.

  When Drake woke, his feet were bound to the metal foot railing of a hospital bed, his wrists secured to the side rails. His jaw ached and he moved it cautiously and ran his tongue around his mouth, surprised that he wasn’t missing any teeth.

  He tried to pull against the restraints, but his shoulder burned and his legs felt weak. Why were they keeping him alive? He opened his eyes to a narrow white room that contained only a chair and thebed he occupied. Lieutenant Colonel Hank Robertson sat in the chair.

  “They tell me that most men scream like an eight-year-old girl as soon as they see the rat.” Robertson shook his head. “You didn’t make a peep. Even when they put the rat in the pipe.”

  “Yeah, well, I was trained by the best.” Drake tried to clear his mind. He didn’t know why he was even still alive, and wondered what Robertson had to do with it. Who the hell knew? He’d been sent in to spy on the Order. But his cover had been blown and then Robertson had shown up. He hadn’t seen the man since he’d left the Marines and nothing he knew about his former CO could explain his association with these people.

  “You still think I’m the best after what you’ve been through here?” Robertson asked.

  “Well, hell, you made Rico pull the rat out of the pipe before it got to me. I don’t know how much more a man could ask from his CO.”

  Robertson shook his head. “I had no idea they were doing that to you. I’d never have let them start if I had.”

  “I appreciate that.” Drake watched Robertson stand and pace across the room. What the hell was his former CO doing with the Order?

  Robertson turned at the sound of Drake’s voice. “You can trust me on that.” Robertson returned to the chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll tell you everything I can and then you can decide what you want to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Drake deliberately let his voice take on the cadence and tone of a marine speaking to his CO.

  “I’m a member of a group. We’re working to make the world a better place.”

  “Sounds like something you’d get involved with. I remember in the Corps, you were always talking about each of us having an obligation to make the world better.”

  “This is different. I’ve been a member all my life, just like my father. And my grandfather. It’s something that’s been passed down in my family for generations, centuries.”

  Drake kept his features passive. But Robertson wasn’t making any sense and his words confirmed Drake’s belief that the man had undergone some fundamental change over the past few years. And Drake was putting the emphasis on mental.

  “I can’t tell you all of it. Besides, you wouldn’t understand anyway. But these are good men. I know that’s probably a little hard for you to believe right now, considering your recent experience.”

  “There is that,” Drake agreed.

  “We’re called the Order. The leaders are men of vision. Of knowledge. And the time has come forus to help the world. To make a change. To make life better for every single person on the face of the earth.”

  Drake watched Robertson in fascination. His former commander sounded like he’d found Jesus or something. Robertson’s eyes were lit with an inner fire as he talked, changing subjects frequently, rarely completing his thoughts.

  Drake didn’t understand most of what Robertson said. But he knew brainwashing when he saw it. He was stunned that his former CO would succumb to brainwashing. The man had been his leader and his mentor when Drake was in the Marine Force Recon. Robertson had trained him to endure pain and discomfort far beyond what he’d ever thought possible. Drake had learned perseverance, loyalty, and dedication from this man.

  “So, do you understand how important this is?” Robertson asked him. “How this new energy will help everyone? And there’s more than just the energy. A lot more. The Order will soon put an end to poverty and war. For the first time in history we’ll live in peace. Permanent peace.” Robertson smiled at him. “We could use your help, Leatherman.”

  “Me? How could I help? It sounds like the Order has everything under control.” Drake knew he had to tread lightly. He focused on Robertson, trying to find a shred of
the man he had once known.

  “The Order is very close to some discoveries that will change the world. But we aren’t quite there yet. And there are people, governments that would stop us.” He shook his head. “Sadly, our own government would stop us if they could.”

  “Why would they want to stop you? I mean, it sounds like the Order knows what it’s doing. Why would anyone not want an end to poverty and war?” Drake hoped Robertson believed he was buying this.

  “The government is fucked up. You’ve known that since you were in Force Recon. I imagine you’ve seen even more evidence of it in the CIA.”

  “You got that right. Bureaucracy, red tape, every decision made by a committee. I’m amazed they ever get anything done.”

  “Exactly,” Robertson said. “And governments are always afraid someone else will take over because they know what a lousy job they’re doing.”

  “And you really believe the Order can change everything? They can come up with this energy source? Stop poverty and war? That would really be something.”

  “Absolutely. We’re close, Leatherman. Real close.”

  “Then it’d be a shame if anyone stopped them.” Drake watched Robertson closely for any sign that he didn’t believe him. But Robertson nodded in agreement. Drake realized that his former CO believed him because he wanted to. Just another sign that Robertson had been thoroughly brainwashed.

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “Me? I don’t know what I could do.”

  “The CIA is investigating us.” Robertson laughed. “Well, hell, you know that. They sent you here.”

  “Yeah. The world works in strange ways, doesn’t it? I mean, who would have thought I’d run into you like this?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird, all right. But we worked together real good back in the Marines.”

  “Semperfi.” Always faithful.

  “Semper fi,” Robertson answered. “The Order wants to know what the CIA learns about us. We need someone inside who can get that information to us.”