“We snagged a terrorist with a lot of secrets.”
“Exactly. Someone big. Someone worth saving.”
“That makes more sense to me. Terrorists are off-the-grid to begin with. No reason to bring them into the system. Smuggle them to a cave and let Schmidt work them over until he got them to talk.” Jones paused, thinking things through. “Let’s face it, Schmidt and his men would’ve been perfect candidates for that type of work. Still angry from the hospital attack.”
“Plus it explains the village.”
“How so?”
“A foreign national wouldn’t cover up his escape. If anything, he’d blow the whistle on the cave, showcasing the evil nature of America. But a terrorist? He’d want everyone dead.”
“Good point.”
“Speaking of which, did I mention that Dr. Sheldon is dead?”
Jones arched his eyebrows. “No.”
“Raskin searched his personnel file, and he was listed as dead. Died three years ago.”
“Wow. He was a little pale, but he didn’t look dead.”
“Just because he’s white doesn’t mean he’s pale.”
Jones smiled, no racial tension at all. “What else did his file say?”
“Not much. Randy was supposed to see what he could find. Maybe we’ll luck out.”
“Maybe we already have.”
“How so?”
“Think back to our meeting with Colonel Harrington. When he talked about Schmidt, he said he ceased to exist after the incident. That term’s been bugging me ever since. At first I thought he meant Schmidt went nuts. But maybe he was talking in different terms. Maybe that’s when they recruited him into black ops. One minute he was in the system, the next he wasn’t.”
“And you think the same thing happened with Sheldon? They killed him on paper so he had more freedom overseas. ... That’s not a bad theory.”
“I have my moments.” Jones yawned, suddenly feeling tired. “What else did Randy mention? Anything about the prisoners?”
“Unfortunately, he was pretty tight-lipped on the topic. He hinted that Harrington could get us clearance, but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to fly solo for a while. I’m still pissed about his lack of disclosure. He should’ve told us about Schmidt from the very beginning. It would’ve saved us a lot of legwork.”
“Any thoughts on where we can get the intel?”
Payne nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ve got someone in mind.”
Nick Dial was known for two things: one professional, one personal. He ran the homicide division at Interpol, the first American ever promoted to such an illustrious position in the French-based agency. But to his friends, he was known for his chin. His world-class chin. The type that movie stars would pay big bucks for. It sat at the bottom of his face like a perfectly sculpted granite masterpiece. Very heroic-looking. Like Dudley Do-Right.
Because of his job, Dial kept strange hours, often flying from country to country to cut through red tape or handle border disputes whenever they interfered with a case. Never knowing where he might fly to next. Or when he might get there. Interpol was a worldwide organization, which meant his duties were international. And his knowledge was extensive.
The sound of Dial’s phone was followed by a low growl. One of utter frustration. He was sitting at his desk in Lyon, France, trying to catch up on his paperwork. But this was one of those days when his phone wouldn’t stop ringing— six times in the past fifteen minutes—and his only recourse was to growl at it, trying to intimidate it. Hoping it would stop. Yet the damn thing kept ringing over and over again. Finally he felt obligated to pick it up.
“What?” he barked.
“Oh, crap, someone’s cranky.”
Dial grinned, recognizing the sound of Payne’s voice. “Sorry, Jon. Long day.”
“Me, too. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“You mean lounging in your corporate penthouse, counting your cash? Yeah, tough life.”
“Not today I’m not. They pulled me back in.”
No further explanation was necessary. Dial knew who they were. He’d met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars & Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they’d kept in touch ever since—occasionally bumping into each other in the strangest places. Last time was in Italy. At the airport.
“Anything I can help you with?”
“That depends. How secure is this line?”
“Hold on.” Dial stood from his leather chair and walked over to his office door. He locked it with a loud click. “Okay. We’re good.”