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“Anyway,” Court said, “I picked up some intel on what’s happening. Can’t give it to Lacy; she wouldn’t be able to slip it into the mix without an explanation of where it came from. Thought maybe I could bring it to you. I thought you could find a way to sneak the intel into wide circulation with no comebacks.”
Hanley took another bite. “What do you know?”
Court told him about Guatemala, about Mexico, about the name Martina Sommer and the code name Cyrus, and he passed over the piece of the circuit board, wrapped in a plastic bag from a Mexican supermarket.
He left out any mention of Zoya, for now anyway. Presently she was at a hotel a mile away on Calle 17, annoyed that Court didn’t want her to come along tonight, but also still recovering from her cuts, bruises, and sore joints from the evening before.
And Court didn’t mention Don Fitzroy, either. Don was probably still in the hospital in Cozumel recovering before he headed back to Europe.
By the time Court was done relaying most of the events from the past week, Hanley was most of the way through the tub of ice cream, the circuit board on the table next to him. He put the lid back on, wiped his face with a cloth napkin Tatty always left out on the table for him, and then he leaned back in his chair.
“That story has more holes in it than you do.”
“The holes are there for a reason.”
Hanley nodded again. “These robot things. Were they autonomous, or was someone commanding them?”
Court held up his hands. “You know, I meant to ask them that, but honestly, they weren’t all that chatty.”
“Look,” Hanley continued. “We’ve tested unmanned weapons systems, of course, but unless the DOD is holding out on CIA, there’s no word that we’ve adopted artificial intelligence to lethal platforms.”
“I don’t think this shit was from America.”
“Of course not. I’m just thinking about the ramifications if an enemy is fielding lethal autonomous weapons. I mean, you seemed to handle those platforms, but—”
“They killed eleven armed men, injured three more of us. They weren’t nothing, Matt.”
“Right. But if China or Russia can translate that capability to a fifth-generation fighter aircraft, a warship, a submarine, shit…unmanned nuclear missile launchers, then those rifle-wielding puppy dogs and grenade-toting buzzbombs you fought against won’t seem quite so scary anymore.”
“I get your point.” Court swigged his beer. “What are we going to do?”
“We? Nothing. You’re done, kid. I can weave this intel into the system some way, but I can’t tell anyone you showed up at my door and handed it to me, because the Agency still officially wants you dead.”
Court wasn’t as sure he was out of this. “I’d love to be done, but if the entity that’s been trying to kill me for the past week is still out there, then I’m still involved. I’ll stay in Bogotá for a couple of days, give you a way to contact me if you need me. When you get the intelligence to the right people at the Agency, try to get something from them that I can use.”
Hanley said, “I have to figure out how I’m going to pass this on. I’ll reach out to Lacy, see if she has any ideas.
“What are you going to do in Bogotá while you wait on my call? I wouldn’t lay out on the beach if I were you. You look like a fucking lobster.”
“I might take up knitting.”
Hanley didn’t smile. Instead, he reached out his hand. “Whatever you did with Angela to help me out, I’m in your debt.”
After a handshake, Court said, “Angela’s a good one, Matt. If you should rocket back up the ranks at Langley, don’t forget about her.”
“From what I hear, she’ll be running ops a hell of a lot sooner than I’ll get my old job back. Hope she doesn’t forget about me.”
THIRTY-NINE
Anton Hinton emerged from his office at nine thirty p.m. after a quick email check, and Zack stood from the leather sofa where he’d been waiting. He helped his protectee once again put on his ceramic body armor encased in a canvas chest rig, and while he tightened the cummerbund around him, Zack said, “Back to La Finca?”
Gareth Wren entered the lobby of the office, his messenger bag on his shoulder.
Hinton shook his head. “I’m starving. A group of about twenty of us are going to a restaurant on the south side of Havana, only fifteen minutes north of La Finca. Great food, family place.” Off a worried look from Zack he said, “The restaurant closes at ten, they’ll stay open for us, so we’ll be the only ones there. Won’t be a soul but me and my people, you and your security men, and a staff that I’ve known for years.”
Wren said, “I’ve arranged an army escort outside, as well.”
Zack looked to Wren, who just smiled back at him. As soon as Hinton headed out of the lobby and into the hall, Wren said, “I never promised you this would be easy, mate.” He added a shrug and said, “I will add, though, that the ropa vieja and mojitos at this place are to die for.”
