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“We meet up with two of my associates,” he says, “and continue the hunt.”
I give the buildings outside a nice glance, and suddenly we’re back to farmland, rock walls, brush, and small trees. A bit of Shakespeare pops into my exhausted mind:
“This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”
Damn, that Will could write.
I turn back to Jeremy and say, “Why only two?”
“That’s what we have.”
I shake my head. “No, wrong answer. There’s you, who’s exhausted and worn out. There’s me, who’s been smoked. And you have two under your command. All chasing down a cold-blooded terrorist killer who beheaded your comrade in the field, worked up an elaborate scam involving a fake nuclear device just to kill you, and now…we’re nipping at his heels and trying to nail him before he attacks Manhattan. Killing thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.”
Jeremy’s lips and eyes tighten.
I press him. “Only four? For real?”
“I’ve got both field and technical support,” he says.
“But just four,” I say, once again remembering my Shakespeare. “Not really what you’d call a ‘band of brothers.’ So what’s going on? This isn’t a sanctioned op, is it?”
Jeremy, bless him, comes right out and tells me the truth. “Officially, no. My boss, Horace Evans, couldn’t get the sign-offs, the necessary approvals. Hard, actionable intelligence isn’t there. Plus…Rashad has prominent friends in some circles in Britain, and elsewhere, due to his business dealings. He feels confident enough to be seen in public on occasion. But Horace knows…and I know, what Rashad wants to do, what he’s capable of.”
“Like 9/11 once again,” I say. “Information that doesn’t fit the narrative doesn’t get acted upon. Nineteen guys with box cutters able to kill thousands and cause billions of dollars of damage in the space of a few hours? Could never happen.”
He nods. “And without the knowledge the higher-ups say they need, nothing ever happens.”
I say, “Known knowns.”
“What?”
“Poor Donald Rumsfeld, SecDef back in the day. For a while he was a military genius, until he stuck his foot in Iraq and couldn’t get it out. Now he’s forgotten, hated, ignored. But he said one thing that we in intelligence know so well.”
I remember being straight out of one of my early intelligence schools, receiving a speech from Rummy himself. “There are known knowns,” I say, “when you know what an adversary is up to. Then there’s the unknown knowns…where you don’t have a clear idea of what your opponent is up to, but you know his desires and capabilities.”
Jeremy says, “Yes, absolutely. And then there’s the unknown unknowns. Sounds gibberish, doesn’t it? But that’s the worst: the things out there you don’t even suspect, have no intelligence on, no information. Pure unknowns.”
I say, “True. Now, tell me something you know that I don’t: How in hell are you tracking Rashad?”
That seems to knock him back and I take advantage of his surprise. “There’s been a few times you’ve slipped away to make a call, or receive a call, and each time you’ve come back like you’re Father Christmas dispensing a gift: ‘Rashad is on the move. Rashad is in Paris. Rashad is in the UK.’ How are you doing it? It can’t be his clothes, or shoes. Smart fella like this bastard would change into fresh stuff every day. Maybe an associate, but if that’s the case, I’d figured you’d have him rolled up by now. Has to be something internal to him. An implant? Tracking device?”
“Jesus, Amy,” he says, leaning forward to me. “Keep your voice down.” He lets a second pass, then with a lowered voice says, “Two years ago, Rashad fell while playing tennis near one of his estates here. Broke his wrist.”
“Too bad he didn’t break his neck.”
Jeremy ignores my humor. “There had to be an operation. We found out about it. Highly illegal, very highly unorthodox, but while they were resetting his radius bone and inserting two pins, a tracking chip was installed.”
“How good is it?”
Jeremy leans back into his comfortable seat. “Not good enough. Powered by a radioactive source that’s fading. When it started, we could practically come up with his exact address. Now, it’s hit or miss. It appears for a few seconds, then fades out. And the past few weeks have been the worst.”
“So we’re running out of time.”
“Always, always,” he says, looking at his watch. “We’re running out of time.”
Now the landscape has returned to a more urban environment. There are train tracks running parallel to us, and other trains as well, both freight trains and local passenger lines.
“In the meantime…why is he so focused on trains?”
