just luck of the draw and a byproduct of his relationship with Saddam?”
“We don’t know,” Dr. Green said.
“Sad holiday,” Dale said. “I wonder what that means.”
Charley Payne was enjoying his job. He walked outside on the manicured lawns and carefully maintained flower beds that bordered the Victorian house, and drank in the summer air. He lingered for a little bit on a wide piece of grassy space that was bathed in sun, and he closed his eyes for a moment and let the heat of the sun warm him.
Life was good.
He was banking1,500 a day plus his minimal expenses and working with a fine crew. He enjoyed his conversations with the younger Dale, who was a good team leader—seasoned and confident enough to clearly state what he wanted and then get out of the way of his people while they did their work. He enjoyed being partnered with Dale. The younger operator had a hell of a resume, bits and pieces of which came out in their frequent conversations. Charley relished the interplay between him and the other members of the team, and it reminded him, painfully, of his best days as an operator. He knew his best days were behind him, but Dale was just into his prime, and Charley wondered what his team leader would do once this operation got handed over. Charley had his photography, but Dale didn’thave a mission. The suppressed mentor in Charley wanted to take Dale under his wing, urge him to find something he could lose himself in, but he wisely bit his tongue and let the young man run.
That was the beginning of wisdom, to know when you didn’t really have anything to say anymore.
Charley let his arm down and pressed slightly against the Glock holstered beneath his shirt. He was dressed in Levis and a short-sleeved denim shirt worn with the tails out. A small walkie-talkie was tucked into the shirt pocket of his shirt, with an earpiece running from the pocket to his ear. The team was small enough to maintain an open single frequency.
“One-Zero, this is One-Two,” Charley said.
“One-Zero, go ahead,” Dale’s voice was tinny in the earpiece.
“All clear at the quarter hour,” Charley said.
“Roger all clear,” Dale said. “One-Zero out.”
Charley continued his stroll around the grounds, and walked up the slope of a small hill that bordered the center. The access road came in from the parkway road there, wound around the hill, and then made a horseshoe loop in the driveway in front of the center. A bicycle and jogging path followed the road along the parkway, and from where Charley stood he could see people jogging as well as a solo bicyclist slowly peddling along.
It was a beautiful day, and there was no sign of a threat in sight.
Marika Tormay peddled her bicycle as slowly as she could without stopping. She saw the lone man standing atop the slight hill that hid the Torture Center from the main road. She had come this way several times a day for the last few days, looking for signs of security. There was the uniformed presence of the university campus police, who patrolled the grounds of the center and other properties here on the edge of the campus area, but in recent days she’d seen men in plainclothes lingering on the grounds of the center—not staffers, but not patients either. Their attention to who and what was in the immediate area marked them out as security.
She’d ridden her bicycle down the access road and made a loop around the driveway. While no one had challenged her, she was aware of the scrutiny of a man in the garden, who’d been joined by another man. Both muscular, dressed in casual clothes, with their shirttails out, no doubt to hide their weapons. They had the look. She had plenty of experience with armed men, first in the West Bank, then in Beirut, and her training in the camps in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon had refined her eye even more. As an intelligence gathering operative for the Al-Bashir network, she had been idle, a sleeper agent on a student visa in the
“We don’t know,” Dr. Green said.
“Sad holiday,” Dale said. “I wonder what that means.”
Charley Payne was enjoying his job. He walked outside on the manicured lawns and carefully maintained flower beds that bordered the Victorian house, and drank in the summer air. He lingered for a little bit on a wide piece of grassy space that was bathed in sun, and he closed his eyes for a moment and let the heat of the sun warm him.
Life was good.
He was banking1,500 a day plus his minimal expenses and working with a fine crew. He enjoyed his conversations with the younger Dale, who was a good team leader—seasoned and confident enough to clearly state what he wanted and then get out of the way of his people while they did their work. He enjoyed being partnered with Dale. The younger operator had a hell of a resume, bits and pieces of which came out in their frequent conversations. Charley relished the interplay between him and the other members of the team, and it reminded him, painfully, of his best days as an operator. He knew his best days were behind him, but Dale was just into his prime, and Charley wondered what his team leader would do once this operation got handed over. Charley had his photography, but Dale didn’thave a mission. The suppressed mentor in Charley wanted to take Dale under his wing, urge him to find something he could lose himself in, but he wisely bit his tongue and let the young man run.
That was the beginning of wisdom, to know when you didn’t really have anything to say anymore.
Charley let his arm down and pressed slightly against the Glock holstered beneath his shirt. He was dressed in Levis and a short-sleeved denim shirt worn with the tails out. A small walkie-talkie was tucked into the shirt pocket of his shirt, with an earpiece running from the pocket to his ear. The team was small enough to maintain an open single frequency.
“One-Zero, this is One-Two,” Charley said.
“One-Zero, go ahead,” Dale’s voice was tinny in the earpiece.
“All clear at the quarter hour,” Charley said.
“Roger all clear,” Dale said. “One-Zero out.”
Charley continued his stroll around the grounds, and walked up the slope of a small hill that bordered the center. The access road came in from the parkway road there, wound around the hill, and then made a horseshoe loop in the driveway in front of the center. A bicycle and jogging path followed the road along the parkway, and from where Charley stood he could see people jogging as well as a solo bicyclist slowly peddling along.
It was a beautiful day, and there was no sign of a threat in sight.
Marika Tormay peddled her bicycle as slowly as she could without stopping. She saw the lone man standing atop the slight hill that hid the Torture Center from the main road. She had come this way several times a day for the last few days, looking for signs of security. There was the uniformed presence of the university campus police, who patrolled the grounds of the center and other properties here on the edge of the campus area, but in recent days she’d seen men in plainclothes lingering on the grounds of the center—not staffers, but not patients either. Their attention to who and what was in the immediate area marked them out as security.
She’d ridden her bicycle down the access road and made a loop around the driveway. While no one had challenged her, she was aware of the scrutiny of a man in the garden, who’d been joined by another man. Both muscular, dressed in casual clothes, with their shirttails out, no doubt to hide their weapons. They had the look. She had plenty of experience with armed men, first in the West Bank, then in Beirut, and her training in the camps in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon had refined her eye even more. As an intelligence gathering operative for the Al-Bashir network, she had been idle, a sleeper agent on a student visa in the
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