Oath of Office

Jack wasn’t privy to the calls among Clark, Gerry Hendley, and Mary Pat Foley. All he knew was that Clark gave him the thumbs-up to travel. Foley liked to keep as much separation from her office and The Campus as possible, but sometimes they had to talk in order to prevent the team from running headlong into an operation that they knew nothing about. Deconfliction was, after all, one of the main purposes of the ODNI.

Caruso and Ryan made the one-hour Iberia flight from Seville to Madrid, then had a few hours to stock up on snacks before they boarded an Emirates flight to Dubai. They traveled under black diplomatic passports, obviating the need for visas in most countries. Caruso used his own name, but for obvious reasons, Ryan went by an alias. It was standard procedure to pick a legend with the same first name, adding a layer of safety if someone recognized you and called out. Given Ryan’s family connections, he decided to go a different route, choosing the name Joseph “Joe” Peterson. “Jack” was just too obvious.

Their connection in Dubai would give the two operatives enough time to navigate the airport and eat something that wasn’t warmed up on an airplane microwave. Emirates was a pretty cushy airline, but the Hendley G5 had spoiled them. Commercial travel also put a crimp in their normal loadout of gear. Both men traveled with only a small backpack that they carried on. No weapons, no gear other than their clothing, some emergency food bars, and a satellite phone. Both wore good boots and light jackets. The desert could get chilly at night — and the jackets doubled as extra pillows in their cheap seats.

Ryan had never been on an Emirates aircraft that didn’t have a new-car smell to it. The planes were plush, well appointed, and dripping with customer service. Unfortunately, the cavernous A380 was almost full. Jack and Dom had to settle for two economy seats in the rear, jammed against a bulkhead so they didn’t recline all the way.

“Sorry about this,” Jack said as Dom slid across and situated himself next to the window.

“No worries.” The lines around his eyes said he was none too thrilled. “You know me, cousin. I’m always game to help you save the girl.”

Jack chuckled at that, picturing the fire in Ysabel’s eyes. “Yeah, well, this girl’s kind of a badass.”

Caruso yawned. “Even a badass needs to be rescued once in a while.” He rolled his jacket and shoved it between his head and the window, eyelids already drooping. “Adara and I have an agreement. Sometimes I save her, sometimes she saves me.”

39

Ding Chavez had the eyeball. He was having a hard time figuring out if da Rocha and his creepy killer girlfriend were inexperienced or if they just believed they were invincible. Da Rocha kept checking his watch, which was weird, but not overly so. Whatever the deal was, neither of them seemed to be looking for a tail. They’d come out of the hotel a little over a half-hour before, dressed for a casual evening. Fournier wore a loose light jacket over a dark T-shirt, perfect for hiding whatever kind of pistol she’d have under there. Da Rocha, wearing slacks and a long-sleeve paisley dress shirt, carried a leather messenger bag slung diagonally across his body.

Nice man-purse, Chavez thought.

The wily bastard had gone all day without logging on to his computer. Nobody did that. The team had decided that if he didn’t pop up online by that evening, something had gone wrong with Gavin’s malware. As it was, they were operating in the blind, with no idea of what da Rocha was up to.

A stubby two-car commuter train squealed and rumbled down the tracks in the middle of Calle San Fernando, north of the Hotel Alfonso XIII and the Hard Rock Cafe, where da Rocha and Fournier had apparently gone for drinks. They were inside only a half-hour before they came out and hung a left, hand in hand, looking for all the world like tourists. It seemed odd to Chavez that someone would come to a city as steeped in history and culture as Seville and go to a Hard Rock Cafe, but, he supposed, if you were from Europe, a Hard Rock offered a change of pace — and, at the very least, a cool T-shirt.

It was late evening, and the streets around Seville University and the Real Alcázar park teemed with people heading off for predinner drinks. Flocks of tourists took advantage of the temperate spring weather before it gave way to the incredible heat of an Andalusian summer. The Plaza de Toros was less than a kilometer to the northwest. There had been another bullfight tonight, which added substantially to the crowds.

Hundreds of people, some milling in place, some rushing here and there, broke up the human terrain and made it relatively easy for Chavez to follow without being spotted. It didn’t seem to matter. Da Rocha and Fournier were so engrossed in sightseeing that they never even looked behind them.

“Heads up,” Chavez said over the radio. “They must have somebody out there running countersurveillance.”

“Maybe,” Clark said.