Page 19 of Out of Control

Spencer picked up the phone once more and took another, closer look.

He would never, ever forget those eyes, hard and dark. The left one had a distinctive gold mote at the edge of the iris. It was tiny, but there it was, an unmistakable speck of pigment. Other than that, the face was completely unrecognizable. Clearly Jabril Hamza had undergone extensive facial reconstruction surgery.

He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I was.”

“Does the CIA know Hamza’s alive?”

“I told them. They didn’t believe me. They found copious amounts of his blood at the hotel and matched the DNA to him. They’re convinced he was vaporized along with his victims. Apparently eyewitnesses saw him running into the building just before it came down and crushed everyone inside.”

“I never did believe he fit the profile of a suicide bomber,” Spencer commented.

“You and me both.”

Spencer leaned back hard in the kitchen chair. “So you’ve been hunting him on your own?”

“Hell yeah, I have.”

“Does the CIA know what you’re doing?”

Drago snorted. “Nah. Their official line is that Hamza’s dead. A bunch of politicians made a lot of hay over having caught the Grand Med bomber. No way can the CIA go back on that assertion now.”

“Ahh, politics. The bane of people like us.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“What was Berlin, then? Did you think you’d found him and kill the wrong person?”

“I didn’t kill anyone in Berlin!” Drago burst out.

“Then who killed the guy in the brothel?” Spencer asked reasonably.

“It sure as hell wasn’t me. Is that what the agency’s saying? That I killed the man in the brothel? Is that why they put out the rendition order?”

“Who was the victim?” Spencer asked. “What was his name, again? Fayez Khoury?”

Drago leaned forward, staring earnestly into his eyes. Spencer recognized the intensity. Most of the time Drago was mouthy and sarcastic, pretending that he didn’t care about anything or anyone. But underneath the don’t-give-a-shit bravado lay the heart of a man with intense passions. And strong beliefs. A man he’d loved, once upon a time.

Drago was speaking again. “…swear I didn’t know who he was before I went in. I got a tip that one of Hamza’s guys from the old cell—our cell, the one we tracked together—would be there. I went in looking for him.” He paused and then added, “And yeah, my intent was absolutely to kill the motherfucker if he turned out to be one of Hamza’s guys. But first I was going to force him to tell me where Hamza was and how to find him.”

Spencer studied Drago’s face intently, appraising the smooth olive skin stretched across muscles that were perfectly relaxed, showing no signs of stress. No signs of dishonesty. But Drago Thorpe could undoubtedly lie with the best of them if he wanted to. He was an experienced covert operative, and deception was one of the core tools of the trade.

“Think about it, Spencer. Why would I kill one of Hamza’s guys without talking to him first?”

“Maybe you did talk to him first. Is that how you knew about the meeting in the desert?”

“No! I have an informant inside the Syrian Army. He got a read on that meeting. My guess is the Russians tipped him off. My army guy is the one who told me Kurbaj—Hamza—was expected to be there.”

“Was he there? Did the US military accidentally kill the most wanted terrorist on earth when they blew up that compound?”

Drago didn’t answer immediately, and Spencer pressed harder. “You were practically on top of the buildings, and you’d been there a week. Was Hamza there?”

“No. He never showed up.”

The frustration and ragged anger in Drago’s voice had to be real.

“Damn,” Spencer breathed. “Is there any way he knew you’d be there?” A worse thought occurred to him. “Or is it possible he informed on the meet to the US military in order to get a bunch of his rivals killed? He calls a meeting, makes sure to be late, and gets everyone else dusted?”

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