pleasant smile when he was in public, took the bag and left directly behind Givens.
No one would suspect he’d been born in Saudi Arabia; when he was five his parents had immigrated to Atlanta, where he’d completely assimilated, down to a soft Georgia accent. Nor would he be pegged as a CIA-trained NOC, non-official cover, field officer, the same as Kangas, who’d been born and raised in southern California. Both of them knew how to lie, how to fit in, how to fade into the woodwork, how to be anyone at anytime.
They had been picked for the program because both men had been born with a fiercely independent streak, exactly what the Company wanted. But after six years in the field, Kangas in Central America and Mustapha in Syria, Lebanon, and Iran—his parents had insisted that he learn Arabic as a child—they’d become too independent, which was all too common. And they’d also gotten fringe, over the top and in the end too brutal. Each was credited with half a dozen or more unauthorized kills of Enemies of the State and the Agency had pulled them in, offered them citations, and generous severance packages.
Kangas had left the Agency two years ago, and within five days he’d been offered a position with Washington-based Administrative Solutions—Admin—a private contracting firm second only to Xe, formerly Blackwater USA, in revenues, prestige, and the occasional missteps. S. Gordon Remington, an Admin vice president, had known just about everything in Kangas’s CIA file, which had been nearly as impressive as the six-figure salary he’d offered.
The job had been boring most of the time, guarding high-ranking businessmen in Iraq and Afghanistan, making the occasional hit when it was needed, and usually as part of a firefight, which was ridiculously easy to engineer in countries where almost every male between the ages of twelve or thirteen and forty was armed and carrying a serious grudge—usually religion-based.
Mustapha had been recruited last year, and had joined Kangas in Afghanistan where they’d become partners. Their tradecraft was similar, their ambitions were about the same—hurt people and make a lot of money doing it—and they knew how to cover each other’s back.
Van Buren was getting up, as Kangas took out his encrypted cell phone and speed-dialed a number that was answered on the first ring.
“Hello,” Remington answered, his British accent cultured.
“The meeting has taken place.”
“We’re you able to record their conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Is there damage?”
“Yes, sir. Just as you suspected, our subject handed over a disk.”
Remington was silent for several beats, and although Kangas had never had much respect for anyone, especially anyone in authority, he did now have a grudging respect for Admin’s VP. The man knew what had been coming, and he’d been prepared.
“The situation must be contained,” Remington said. “Are you clear on your mission?”
“Both of them?”
“Yes. And they must be sanitized as thoroughly and as expeditiously as possible. This afternoon, no later than this evening.”
“Give us twenty-four hours and we can cut the risk by fifty percent,” Kangas said. Running blindly into any sort of a wet operation was inherently dicey, even more so in this instance because of who Van Buren was; his background was impressive.
“This is top priority,” Remington said. “All other considerations secondary. Are we clear on that as well?”
Van Buren was coming down the stairs.
“Standby,” Kangas said, and he avoided eye contact as the CIA officer passed by and left the restaurant through the hotel lobby to the valet stand.
Kangas got up, and left by the front door, which opened on the street, just as Mustapha pulled up in a dark blue Toyota SUV with tinted windows.
“We’re in pursuit now,” he told Remington. “But with the weapons we’re carrying this won’t look like a simple robbery.”
Remington chuckled, which was rare so far as Kangas knew. “You’ve been out of the country too long to understand what the average bad guy carries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call when you’re finished.”
Van Buren was waiting at the curb, and as Kangas broke the connection, pocketed his phone, and got into the Toyota, a valet parker brought a soft green BMW convertible around and got out. Van Buren handed the man some money, got behind the wheel, and took off.
“Don’t lose him,” Kangas said.
Mustapha waited for a cab to pass, then he pulled out and, keeping the cab between them and Van Buren, started his tail. “Is it a go?”
“Yes, but right now this afternoon. Both of them.”
Mustapha gave him a sharp look. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”