Page 6 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
Cathy shrugged. “Sure, but Curic is a common name, and it wasn’t very helpful. Facebook wasn’t any better—or Twitter, for that matter.”
“The FBI is the world’s greatest detective agency, and you’re married to the boss. Why not call them?”
“This is personal business. I’m not going to ask my husband to deploy public resources for my personal benefit.”
“Well, I’m not on the government payroll, so I’m happy to do it. I’ve always wanted to visit Sarajevo. I hear it’s an amazing city with a lot of history.”
Senior nodded. “Yeah, a lot of history, for sure.”
As President Durling’s national security adviser, Senior had seen the photos and read the firsthand accounts of the atrocities on all sides when the wars broke out in 1991. He’d urged Durling into action, but the Europeans told the Americans to back off, promising to handle things on their end. Three years later, a suicidal Japanese pilot slammed into the U.S. Capitol building during a joint session of Congress, killing hundreds, including President Durling, the justices of the Supreme Court, and many others, soon followed by a new Middle East war breaking out. By then, there wasn’t anything the newly sworn President Ryan could do about the Yugoslavia situation. Still, many had suffered and died needlessly, and Senior still felt guilty that the United States hadn’t tried to stop it unilaterally when it first began.
Senior repeated himself, almost in a whisper. “A lot of history.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind, dear?” Cathy asked her son. “I hate to be a bother.”
“It’s not a bother at all, Mom. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
4
HAMA, SYRIA
Lieutenant Dzhabrailov trailed Captain Walib as he circled the TOS-2 Starfire vehicle parked in a courtyard next to the mosque, shielded from prying American eyes orbiting in space overhead by computer-designed camouflage netting. The netting broke up the searing sunlight pouring out of the sky as well, a welcome respite. The big Chechen stood a head taller than the slight Syrian. Both carried holstered pistols. Walib dismissed the three Russian enlisted men for lunch break while the two of them conducted a security inspection of the vehicle.
“I’ve reviewed your proposal, Lieutenant.”
“And?” the Chechen asked.
Walib knelt in the dust, checking one of the track plates on the tread. Or pretending to.
“Your... commander. He’s reliable?”
“As reliable as you.”
Walib stood back up, facing Dzhabrailov. “Meaning?”
The big Chechen glanced around. They were alone. He lowered his voice anyway, and shrugged. “Meaning, I haven’t been put up against a wall and shot since we last spoke. So I trust you. And I assume that means you trust me. I’ll vouch for my commander with my life.”
Walib’s eyes narrowed, taking the measure of the man again. “You’re vouching with both of our lives.”
“Understood.”
“And there’s no question in your mind we can pull it off?”
“If there were, I wouldn’t be standing here.” Dzhabrailov glanced around again. “And you are certain you want to do this thing? There is no turning back from it.”
Walib’s face hardened. “As certain as anything I have ever known. I will die rather than turn back. Do you doubt me?”
The Chechen shook his head. “I trust your hate, brother. And the will of Allah.”
“Then we’ll speak no more about it. And I am still your captain, not your brother.”
“Yes, sir. When do you propose to make the move?”
“The sooner the better,” Walib said. He turned around and continued with his halfhearted inspection. “Before the next fire mission, thirteen days from now.”
“How about tonight?”
Walib whipped back around. “Tonight? How is that even possible?”
