Chapter 27 #2
“Tonight,” said Eliza. “What happened to you? One day you’re there, the next gone.”
“New assignment,” said Mac. “HVT in Fallujah.”
“HVT?”
“High-value target,” said Mac. “Eight of spades. We use a deck of cards to keep track of ’em. Sorry I didn’t get to hang around.” He gave her a look. “I know you missed me.”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Eliza. “You have more important things to do than babysit an inspector.”
“So they told me.”
“And?” she asked. “Did you get him?”
“Sooner or later,” said Mac, “we always get ’em. And you—how’d everything turn out . . . you know, with Dr. Shah and his magic container?”
“We’re still evaluating,” said Eliza. “We want to bring in a few experts to validate his claims. Take a closer look at his work.”
“You’re not serious?”
“But I am,” said Eliza. “We are. Me. My father. The Armed Services Committee. The American people deserve to know that we came here for a valid reason.”
“Or an invalid one,” said Mac. “I think what they deserve most is the truth.”
The truth. A malleable commodity, in Eliza’s worldview. One thing was certain: she needed Dekker on her side. “Come back,” she said, taking his hand, swinging it gently.
“Back? Where?”
“The States. DC. I’d like to see you again.”
“My job’s here,” said Mac.
“Your job can be anywhere,” she said playfully, as if he were a sales rep for a software company, not a trained and blooded paramilitary officer. “Last I looked, the CIA has one or two small buildings in Langley.”
Mac laughed, but not in the way she wanted.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“Miss Elkins, I have some bad news,” he said, fixing her with that gaze. “We’re not leaving this place anytime soon.”
“You can do good work in DC too.”
“Me . . . a suit and tie? A commute?”
“Work for my father,” said Eliza. “The senator. He could use a decorated veteran.”
“Use one for what?” asked Mac.
“Legislative aide. Foreign policy adviser. Pick a title.”
“And I don’t even have to apply for the job.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Eliza, with alacrity. “I’ll tell Daddy. Done deal.”
“No kidding,” said Mac. “Just tell Daddy.”
Eliza nodded, proud of herself and her august family in equal measure. “You do know he’s the most powerful man on the Hill.”
Just then, a crowd of men and women streamed out of the front entrance. Their newly purchased desert–war zone attire screamed “congressional delegation.”
“Dekker,” shouted a short, trim man in a khaki suit, his hand raised to be seen.
Eliza recognized him on the spot. Senator Todd Lindhurst, ranking Dem on the Armed Services Committee.
Not Daddy’s favorite. “Good talking to you,” said Lindhurst, straining to be heard.
“I’ll make sure to pass along what you told me.
Appreciate the honesty.” Lindhurst saw Eliza, and his tone cooled noticeably. “Miss Elkins, good day.”
Like that, they were gone.
Eliza grasped Mac’s arm. “You had a meeting with Lindhurst?”
“I was debriefing the ambassador, and he happened to be in the room.”
“Oh, bullshit,” said Eliza.
“They wanted a sitrep of our situation on the ground.”
“Just on the ground?”
Mac nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Did anyone ask about Dr. Shah?”
“It may have come up,” said Mac.
“And you told him?”
“You know, Lizzie,” said Mac. “Look around. We’re not any good at this. Regime change. Empire building. You should have thought of the consequences before you got us into this mess.” He made a show of checking his wristwatch, a beat-up Casio G-Shock. “Listen, I got to run. Have a safe flight home.”
“You bastard,” she said.
He came closer and kissed her on the cheek. “Back at ya,” he whispered.
A week later, The New York Times and The Washington Post ran stories about the “Neocon’s Last Gasp” and “another failed attempt to find the smoking gun.”
A week after that, Eliza was let go, but not before being reprimanded before her father’s own committee—and on C-SPAN, for all the world to see. It was the first and only time she’d lost a job.
It was not something she forgot.
“Mr. McGee,” said Elkins, once again in the present. “When did you lose your leg?”
“Pardon me?”
“In Iraq. The accident with Mac Dekker.”
“April 6, 2006,” said McGee.
“I’m sorry for you,” she replied.
“Shit happens,” said McGee.
April 6, 2006. A week after she left Iraq. She’d been so angry, so caught up in her own hurt feelings, that she’d never wondered if something might have happened to him. A broken leg, knee, and jaw. Laid up six months. All this time she hadn’t known.
“55 Rue du Bac is a five-story building,” said the tech. “There are twenty-six handsets either in the building or within a ten-meter radius. That’s as good as we can get without tapping into NSA.”
That, Elkins knew, was never going to happen. Not without lots of paperwork. The director would have a conniption.
“Forget it,” she said. “We’ll never find him that way.” She turned to Baker. “New idea. If Mac is so keen on finding Ava Attal, maybe we should be too. You said Rosenfeld works at a restaurant. He must speak English. Call and see if he’s there. I want to know what he told Mac Dekker.”