Empire

Team

Reuben was being followed—but that’s exactly what he expected. By the time he was through a long debriefing—three different interrogation teams—it was nearly dark.

The real question was which group was following him—the FBI, the Army, or the CIA. Maybe all three. Or—always possible—some other agency within Homeland Security. How many parking places should he look for when he got to Reagan National? He wouldn’t want to inconvenience them.

Reuben could hardly blame them for expending resources on following him. What else did they have to go on? The bodies of the terrorists would undoubtedly have no information on them; it might be days before anyone came forward with information about rooms they occupied. And in all likelihood they would be far more disciplined than the 9/11 terrorists had been—there would be no notes, no letters, no convenient ID that might lead to an easier trace.

The only thing they had was Reuben himself—with poor Captain Coleman being interrogated just as thoroughly in another room, by his own teams of debriefers. He had told Cole to answer everything, thoroughly and fully. Including as much as he wanted to of Reuben’s conversation and actions afterward, and all their speculations about why things might have fallen out as they did.

“Tell the truth,” said Reuben. “We want these guys to get the terrorists. Of course they’ll suspect me, and if we pretend we don’t know that I’ll be suspected, the more they’ll think I have something to hide. We’ll answer this weird conspiracy with pure truth, so that they never have a moment where they can say, Here’s what you said, but here’s what we know you actually did. They’ll never catch us in a lie. Clear?”

Reuben had followed his own advice. While he didn’t tell them anything about his activities for Steven Phillips, that was because they were highly classified and his interrogators did not have clearance for it. “If Phillips tells me to go ahead, then I’ll happily tell you everything.” They understood and accepted this—the fact that he told them Phillips’s name was in itself a sign of extraordinary cooperation on his part, since he really shouldn’t have told them even that much. “But we’re all on the same side, here, and I’m not going to let foolish red tape keep you from finding out what you want to know.” Holding back Phillips’s name would have been foolish red tape, with the President and Vice President dead; but keeping his actual activities secret until he was cleared to divulge them was not foolish—it was essential. These guys interrogating him were just as faithful about sticking to protocols, or they wouldn’t be in their positions.

After they decided to call it a night, Reuben went to his office, which he assumed had been searched, and then to the little coffee room, where, inside a brown lunchsack labeled “Keep your hands off my food you greedy bastards—DeeNee,” he reached under a sandwich and took out his newly acquired cellphones. If they had been thorough enough to find these, they must already be convinced of his guilt and he wasn’t going to accomplish anything anyway.

Now Reuben was heading from the Pentagon to the airport—not much of a drive, and probably the one that would make his followers the most worried. He could imagine cellphone speed-dial buttons getting pressed and teams being mobilized. “Stop him before he can board a plane, but otherwise just keep him in sight,” they told each other.

But the followers could take care of themselves. It was the men he wanted to meet with whose response he wanted to see. They hadn’t foreseen anything like what was happening, or even that he would try to assemble them. But he had once told them, jokingly, that if they ever had to save the world, he’d give them a call and meet them at the Delta ticket counter at Reagan National. Just a joke.

But guys in Special Ops didn’t forget things—they were trained to memorize things so they could debrief accurately later. They would remember.

Remember, but… do what? Would he really find a miniconven-tion of extraordinarily fit men in civilian clothes standing around waiting for him?

No. They would have recognized him on the TV news. They would know that his call to them had something to do with the assassination, and the cryptic nature of his message, along with the context of the old joke—saving the world—would prompt them to call each other. Maybe one of them would meet him there. Maybe none.

He didn’t even get to the Delta ticket counter before they made contact. Lloyd Arnsbrach stepped onto the escalator just in front of him. “South of the border restaurant in town center,” he said—in Farsi. If he had said “Rio Grande Cafe in RestonTown Center, the words “Rio Grande” and “Reston” would have been easy enough to understand for any English speaker.

And since there was nobody within earshot, that must mean that Lloyd—“Load,” they had always called him—believed that they were being overheard—either a big-ear listening device or a bug planted on Reuben’s clothes.

“You’re being followed,” continued Load in Farsi. “Get on the toll road on the hill of spring”—which meant Spring Hill. “We’ll make sure you have a clear mile, so get off the toll road immediately.”

When they got to the top of the escalator, Load headed off in another direction from the Delta ticket counter.

So all that was left for Reuben to do was go and buy a ticket on the DC-New York shuttle for tomorrow. If asked—and he would certainly be asked—it was his intention to fly up to join his family tomorrow on their spur-of-the-moment visit to Aunt Margaret.

It was late enough in the evening that there weren’t many ticket buyers, which would make it harder for his followers to remain unobtrusive. But they were apparently pretty good at what they did—he didn’t see anybody with that agentish look of studied nondescriptness. It would be surprising if they didn’t have somebody near enough to hear what he said. But then, they could count on being able to ask the ticket agent what he had said—those federal badges were so helpful.

Or… and this is something he should have thought of before… they might very well have planted a bug in his clothing. So they were just sitting in a van somewhere, listening. Or everything was getting piped into somebody’s iPod earphone.

And it wouldn’t have made any difference if he had stopped in his office and changed clothes. They would have bugged the uniforms he kept there. Or if they didn’t they were idiots and he preferred to think the assassination of the President was not being investigated by idiots.

He got back to his car and practically had to force himself not to glance around to see if he could spot any of the tails. Of course they knew he was Special Ops and had been doing clandestine work for the NSA, so of course he’d guess that someone was following him. But looking around would make him seem, not curious, but furtive, as if he had something to hide. And since he did have something to hide, and was about to make it obvious that he did, the last thing he wanted to do was signal them that he was watching out for watchers.

What twisted thinking. Will they guess that I guessed that they’d know I’d assume they were there? But that was part of the training of Special Ops, especially if you were going to be in country on a longterm assignment. You couldn’t take anything at face value. You constantly had to think: How will this action look to them? How will they interpret what I say and do? How should I interpret what their words and actions say about what they believe about me? On and on, never achieving certainty, but getting closer. If you got close enough, you succeeded in your mission. Not so close and you failed. Way not close and you died.

The George Washington Parkway was open again, as were the bridges, and traffic from the District was still flowing out in a much-delayed rush hour. Reuben patiently stayed with the stop-and-go traffic. Getting onto the Beltway southbound took forever, but he stayed with it to the Chain Bridge Road exit, then went around Tysons II till he could get under the toll road overpass and enter the onramp at Spring Hill. There were only two tollbooths there, and sure enough, the human-manned one was being tied up by a guy who had apparently dropped his money and was out of his car looking for it.

Reuben didn’t recognize him, but he didn’t expect to. His team would have their own networks of friends who could be called on to fill assignments they didn’t necessarily understand. “It’s connected with the current national emergency, and it’s a good guy we’re helping.” That would be enough.

He tossed his coins into the basket and moved on through. In his rearview mirror he caught only a glimpse of the driver behind him—who also apparently threw his coins on the ground and had to get out of the car to get them.

The tollbooth operator would have a story to tell tonight. “Two idiots at the same time! It’s a wonder we can even field an Olympic team, when these people can’t hit a two-foot-wide basket that’s a foot from their car.”

Of course, if the guys following him were any good, they already had somebody waiting on the toll road to pick up the tail, but he’d be off by then.

When he got to Reston Town Center he wasn’t sure how to proceed—surely they wouldn’t all be sitting at a big table eating guacamole.

He didn’t get a chance to see the inside of the restaurant. As he pulled up past McCormick and Shmick he spotted Mingo—Domingo Camacho—who crossed the street in front of him, pointing once at the parking garage across the street. Reuben made the left turns to get up into the garage and kept going up to the third level, where Mingo stepped out from the elevator area just in time to stop him. A car pulled out of a parking place as if on cue—because it was on cue—and Reuben pulled his car into the spot.

Mingo put his fingers to his lips and walked to the passenger door. Reuben rolled down the window and through it, Mingo handed him the shopping bag he was carrying. Chino shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops.

Reuben slid past the gearshift and changed clothes in the passenger seat. He thought of keeping his briefs on but decided against it; and that was apparently what Mingo had thought as well, because when he got the clothes out of the bag, there were briefs among them. Everything his size. These guys were good. Thank heaven he hadn’t gained any weight since his Special Ops days. This was where the endless workouts paid off. Reuben was determined never to be one of those sad fat officers who no longer even pretended to live in a battle-ready state.

If he stayed in the service long enough to be a general.

If he stayed alive and out of prison.

With his clothes completely changed, he put the cellphones into his new pockets, put his keys above the visor, and locked the car. It would be easy to open the car later, with the codepad on the door.

He walked with Mingo, still wordless, to a car parked in a handicapped stall. But these guys had been so thorough that a legal-looking handicapped tag was hanging from the rearview mirror. It probably was legal, given how pathetically easy it was to get those tags these days.

Mingo pointed to the rear passenger seat, where Reuben lay down on the floor as Mingo closed the door behind him, then got in front and drove. Reuben didn’t try to look and see where they were going—trust meant you didn’t expose your face in order to second-guess the route.

That didn’t mean Reuben could turn off the part of his brain that automatically counted turns and estimated distances. When he figured they were on Route 7, heading back toward Tyson’s Corner, Reuben finally spoke.

“Am I supposed to stay down here till we get where we’re go-ing?”

Mingo picked up his cellphone from the cup holder in the center console, flipped it open, and only then answered Reuben, so that if someone saw him talking they’d think it was on the phone. “Safer, don’t you think? We go to all this trouble, it’d be pretty dumb to have one of your tails spot your big happy white face just by chance.”

“Destination?”

“Play along, Rube. I want you to guess.”

“Not a restaurant where we have a waiter who can overhear us. But a place where it’s okay for a bunch of guys to gather around and talk in Farsi. So that means something like a Starbucks or a bookstore with a cafe in it. We’re on Route 7 so I’m betting on the Borders across from the Marriott in Tyson’s Corner.”

“Shit,” said Mingo.

“Is that a good shit or a bad shit?”

“Bad.”

“How much you lose?”

“Just a dollar, but you know Benny. ‘Never bet against the Rube.’ ”

“Is that what he says?”

“I wasn’t betting against you” said Mingo. “I was betting that Benny’s plan sucked so you’d think of a better one and assume that’s what we’d do.”

“Good plan so far,” said Reuben. “But I have one more man to bring to the party.” From the floor of the van he called Cole and spoke only a single sentence, in Farsi: “Borders on Route 7 in the Corners now.” Couldn’t say “Tyson’s Corner” because “Tyson” didn’t translate.

Not that the people tailing him wouldn’t already have gotten a Farsi translator after Load’s words to him in the airport. So if Cole had been careless, or somebody had opened DeeNee’s lunch in the break-room fridge, this would bring his tails right back on him, and implicate everybody else in whatever conspiracy they supposed him to be part of. But you had to take some risks, or you might as well pull a Saddam and hide in a hole somewhere till you were arrested and put through a show trial.

They got to the Borders and soon had taken over two tables and eight chairs in the coffee shop.

Speaking quietly in Farsi, Reuben quickly explained how his own plan had been used to kill the President. Cole arrived—in civvies, mercifully—and Reuben introduced him around.

But Cole had to know more than just names. “Were you a team once? I mean, in-country?”

“We’ve all been in the same team with Rube, one time or another,” said Arty Wu. “But that was long ago and far away.”

“We’re his jeesh now,” said Mingo.

Cole knew his Arabic, even when the word was dropped into the midst of Farsi. “His army?”

“His little tiny army,” said Load. “Because he’s our hero.”

“We’re guys who trust each other,” said Reuben.

“And were really good at killing bad guys,” said Drew.

“So we gave our club a scary Arabic name,” said Babe.

“Cole, tell them about the meeting we had outside the White House,” said Reuben.

If Cole wondered why Reuben, who knew more, was having him make the report, he didn’t show it. Cole’s Farsi was okay—good enough, and now and then when he struggled somebody would supply a word. The idea wasn’t to impress them with his language ability. They needed to hear Cole’s voice and see that Reuben trusted him, despite having met each other only today.

“My family is with Aunt Margaret Diklich in West Windsor, N.J.,” said Reuben in Farsi. “Unless I can think of a better plan, I’m driving up there tomorrow, because by now the FBI or whoever’s tailing me knows I have a ticket to La Guardia. I have no plans beyond that, except that I’d like to not be arrested while I’m trying to find out who gave those plans to the terrorists and what their goal really is.”

“You mean you don’t think it stops with killing the President and Vice President?” asked Arty Wu. “That’s kind of like Al Qaeda’s idea of nirvana right there.”

“I don’t think the terrorists planned anything more than what they did today, no,” said Reuben. “But the people using them have to have something more in mind. Surely we didn’t have Steven Phillips inside the White House and whoever ‘shared’ my plans from inside the Pentagon acting out of a desire to see the President and Vice President dead. I’m assuming that these Americans did this with some goal in mind that has nothing to do with Al Qaeda.”

“Destabilization,” said Cole, in English. He continued in Farsi. “But that’s obvious.”

“Yes,” said Reuben, “but we believe in saying the obvious. We’re not here to impress each other with our guessing ability. Except for Benny and Mingo.”

Benny raised an eyebrow, and Mingo handed him a buck.

“What we’re looking for,” said Drew Linnie, who was now a professor at American University, “is what they plan to do next, so we can be there first and catch them with their pants down.”

“An image both colorful and vaguely gay,” said Babe Austin.

“Cui bono?” asked Cat Black, who was a lawyer. “If America is in chaos, who benefits?”

“Showing off by speaking Latin,” muttered Load.

“We can rule out LaMonte Nielson,” said Reuben. “Cessy knows him and he’s a decent guy. Besides, I have a feeling nobody in their right mind would consider being President right now a ‘benefit.’ ”

“Nielson’s going to have this big sympathy thing for a few minutes,” said Cat, “but it’s not likely to translate into a lot of support. He could never have been elected President, and he’s too conservative not to be a lightning rod.”

“Assassinations aren’t enough to really destabilize the country,” said Load Arnsbrach. “We’ve had them before and the country goes on.”

“We’ve had unelected Presidents before, too,” said Benny.

“One, anyway,” said Load.

“So, we’re all political geniuses here,” said Cat. “Anybody else figure that this is only Step A?”

“I think,” said Cole, “that Step B is Major Malich, here. I think that the people who gave the info to the terrorists didn’t care if the assassinations worked or not—the fact that Al Qaeda or whoever it was succeeded might even appall them. The purpose was to set up Major Malich.”

“Reuben,” Reuben corrected him.

“Rube.” Mingo corrected his correction.

“I think to find out who did this, we need to look at Rube,” said Cole—it was clearly painful to break protocol like that—“and see who would benefit from having him put on trial for betraying his country and conspiring to assassinate the President and Vice President.”

“You mean Rube, specifically, or Special Ops war hero Major Reuben Malich, symbolically?” said Arty.

“It’ll be Rube, specifically, who goes to jail,” said Cat.

“So if Rube takes off running,” said Benny. “Or hides. Anything that makes him look guilty. They win. From that moment on they don’t need him alive, because he’s guilty in the public mind. In fact, he’s more useful to them dead. Because nobody will feel much urgency about clearing the name of a dead man.”

“Assume that’s the plan,” said Drew. “Rube is painted as part of the conspiracy and then he’s dead. Excuse me for the hypothetical fatality, Rube.”

“I’m checking my pulse,” said Reuben.

Drew went on. “What, exactly, could anyone do with Rube’s death?”

“Discredit the right wing?” offered Mingo.

“I’m not that right-wing,” said Reuben. “My wife’s a Democrat, for pete’s sake.”

“You don’t have to be an extremist to be called one,” said Mingo. “Hell, you’re a soldier, man. Look at you. The poster child for the anti-war image of the mighty Aryan warrior.”

“I can’t help being an incredibly good-looking Serb in perfect shape,” said Reuben.

“For an old fart in his forties,” said Benny.

“I’m thirty-seven,” said Reuben.

“An old thirty-seven, though.”

“Look,” said Cole, “we still aren’t there yet. What can you do with the image of a red-state warrior who planned the assassination of the President? You can’t win an election with it—the President was a red-stater and his successor is too. Who’s in favor of presidential assassinations? How can you win elections on the basis of being anti-assassin? Who’s your opponent?”

Only now did Reuben put it together. “Who said anything about winning elections?”

“Well, what else?” said Mingo.

“Maybe it’s not my being a red-stater. Maybe it’s about my being Special Ops. The elite of the Army. Maybe it’s an attack on the military.”

“The p.c. crowd attacks the Army all the time,” said Load dis-missively. “They’ve never let go of the Vietnam-era baby-killer slogan.”

“Yes, but sane people ignore them. Not now,” said Reuben.

“This still isn’t it,” said Drew. “Nothing in this justifies such a monstrous act.”

“Al Qaeda—” began Cat.

“They’re in the monstrous-act business,” said Load. “It’s the other guys. The American guys. Why would they go after Reuben, the Symbol of Militariness? Why discredit the Army in such a drastic way?”

Babe slumped farther down in his chair. That meant that he was about to say something he thought was important. Sometimes it even was. “I don’t think we’re going to find out what they mean to do with Rube until they do it.”

“But then he’ll be dead,” said Arty.

“Since we won’t let anybody kill him,” said Babe, “what I mean is this: We have to see how the story is spun, and who does the spinning. Then we’ll know what they set him up for.”

“So we do nothing?” said Cole.

“Not at all,” said Babe. “What we got to do is, don’t give them anything to work with. And meanwhile, we spin back. Or, I guess, Rube spins back.”

“Nothing for them to work with,” said Reuben. “So you mean I shouldn’t go to Jersey? Nothing that could look like I’m hiding?”

“No, I mean you should talk to the press first,” said Babe.

“About what? All my work was classified.”

“How long do you think that’ll last, once they start leaking about how you came up with the plans?” said Babe. “How classified do you think any of this shit will stay when the investigation turns ugly and political?”

“It’s a crime to reveal classified information.”

“That became irrelevant the second your classified information was used to kill the President,” said Babe. “Besides, just the fact that you met with us here, that’s already enough for the press to infer a conspiracy.”

“Babe’s right about that,” said Load. “The fact that he ditched a tail is probably enough. Shows a guilty conscience, right, Cat?”

“You watch too much Law and Order, Load,” said Cat.

Cole laughed in disbelief. “Come on, are you saying Major Malich should hold a press conference?”

“No,” said Babe. “You got to announce those in advance and the feds can shut you down. I think that right now, while he’s still not being tailed, we get his ass over to The Washington Post?’

“Why The Post?” said Reuben. “Why do I have to go to the people who are most dying to destroy me?”

“Because their story will get picked up and used everywhere,” said Babe. “Even if they mock you for it, your statement that somebody deliberately set you up to take the fall for this will resonate with people. Then, if somebody kills you, it will backfire on them. A lot of people will believe that someone killed you to shut you up.”

“I don’t want to find out what people believe about why I was murdered,” said Reuben. “This is a really disturbing conversation.”

“If they don’t think it will help them, there’s no reason for them to kill you. Tell it all to The Post. Name all the names you can.” Babe grinned. “I’m in p.r., and I’ll tell you what I’d tell Brad Pitt and Russell Crowe—don’t wait for them to tell the story on you, you tell it on them first.”

“They’re not your clients,” said Arty.

“I didn’t say they were,” said Babe. “Rube’s nowhere near as pretty as they are. Though I will say he’s almost as manly.”

Which is why, at eleven o’clock at night, Reuben found himself in a conference room at The Washington Post, with his whole team around him, as he and Cole sat there to be photographed and questioned by the reporters and editors working on the assassination story.

“We’re not answering questions for the first while,” said Reuben. “I’m just going to tell you exactly what happened, including some classified stuff whose classification got blown all to hell. But I’m getting set up, and I at least want my story out there to compete with the lies that are going to be told about me.”

They didn’t like it that he wanted to be in control of the interview.

“Just listen to what I have to say and then decide whether it was worth getting out of bed for.”

The lead reporter on the story was Leighton Fuller. He was their top political reporter, and he also had his own weekly column in which he had already killed every idea the President had ever had. Though he never admitted they actually rose to the level of being called ideas.

“I don’t see what this is about,” Leighton said. “You’re a hero, you tried to save the President. Who’s trying to set you up?”

“Okay, I’ll pretend I’m answering your question,” said Reuben. Then, with Cole affirming or correcting or supplementing him all the way, he told about the day’s events. Including how on his own Reuben would never have seen the signs of the submersibles.

And at the end, Reuben explained about the manuscript of his plan for assassinating the President. “If they find my fingerprints on the copy the terrorists worked from then you’ll know something important.”

“What will we know?” asked Leighton.

“I never touched the final report with my own hands. The division secretary delivered it electronically to the printing office and they printed it and bound it and she delivered it around. I wasn’t making a point of not touching it, I just wasn’t in the country when I finished it and emailed it to DeeNee. If my fingerprints are on it, then it’s a rough draft. One of the ones I hand-carried to people for comment.”

“Which people?”

“The division secretary is putting together the list.”

“Can I have it?”

“No. I’ll turn it over to the FBI. But I want you to know it exists in case it gets ignored there.”

“You do realize how paranoid you sound,” said Leighton.

“Yes, sir,” said Reuben. “And if they never do any of this stuff I’m anticipating, then I’ll have to agree with you. But which of you would have been paranoid enough to think the President and Vice President might be killed within minutes of each other—that the President could have been blown up right through a West Wing window?”

“I’ll give you this,” said Leighton. “You two are the only people who even tried to stop this assassination when there was still time to have a chance to stop it. I didn’t like this President, but I didn’t want him dead. He was the President. So you’ve earned a fair hearing on your completely wacko account. Does everybody understand that?” Leighton looked at his editor. “I don’t want us to screw around with the headline or the captions to paint this guy as guilty.” He turned back to Reuben and Cole. “Unless we get evidence confirming that you really did collaborate with terrorists.”

“Of course you’ll get evidence like that,” said Cole. “It’s being planted even as we speak.”

“Evidence that satisfies me,” said Leighton. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Major Malich, and you’ve proven you’ve got brains and guts. The way you tell it, this is all part of a larger plan. And if you’re right, do you know what that smells like to me?”

They didn’t.

“It smells like war. Somebody wants America’s military to be humiliated and demoralized before the war.”

“Who?” asked one of the other reporters. “Who’s going to dare to attack us?”

“I guess we’ll find out when they’re through crucifying Major Malich,” said Leighton.

One of the editors spoke up. “Leighton, it looks to me like these guys are just trying to use us to spin the story.”

“Everybody tries to use us to spin the story,” said Leighton contemptuously. “And when we like them or their cause, we follow their spin. I don’t know if I like these guys. But I also don’t know but what they’re telling the truth. So my story is going to report their claims neutrally. Then we’ll see who jumps on it.”

“Or on us,” said the editor. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to let them use us this way.”

“That’s honest enough,” said Reuben, getting up. The other soldiers also rose to their feet. “We’ll go to the Washington Times, then, and hope the truth seeps out somehow.”

Several of the reporters laughed nervously. Leighton grinned. “You’re right—telling the Times isn’t a leak, it’s seepage.”

“Thanks for coming back to the office so late at night,” said Reuben. “Now I’ve got to go wake up the Times.”

The editor looked annoyed. “We want the exclusive. That’s what you promised us.”

“We wanted a fair hearing,” said Reuben. “You’re already planning to spin it against me.” He headed for the door.

Load said, in Farsi, “Can’t we bruise them a little bit, as long as we’ve got them all in the same room?” Reuben’s team laughed.

Reuben had to walk past Leighton to get to the door. Leighton winked at him. “You watch,” he said. “You’ll have your fair hearing.”

Reuben paused and studied Leighton’s face. He didn’t know this man. Did the popularity of his column give him so much power at the paper that he could override his editor? Or did he simply trust in his powers of persuasion? Or… was he lying right now, to keep Reuben from going to the Times?

Reuben made his guess, and bet his future on it. When he and Cole and the rest of the team got back to their cars, he told Mingo the combination to the keypad on the door of his car back in the Res-ton Town Center parking garage. “The keys are above the visor,” he said. “I need to take your SUV, if you don’t mind my borrowing it.”

“I made some modifications,” Mingo answered. It took him only a few minutes to show Reuben where the weapons and ammunition were hidden.

“I hope I don’t need this,” said Reuben. “I’ll surrender before I shoot at Americans.”

“So you’re not going to the Times?” said Cole.

“I’m betting on Leighton,” said Reuben. “But in the long run, we know it’s going to go against me. Because they’ll have evidence. And they’ll have some Jack Ruby wannabe waiting for me.”

“That’s why I’m coming with you,” said Cole.

“Then we really will look like a conspiracy.”

“We’re going to look like one anyway,” said Cole. He glanced around at the other guys. “Heck, we are a conspiracy. We’re plotting to save your life and your name.”

“I hope what we’re doing,” said Reuben, “is working to find out who killed the President and prevent them from hurting America any worse than they already have.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Cole as he got into the passenger seat of Mingo’s SUV. “That too.”

“Help me pull him out of there,” said Reuben.

“No way,” said Mingo. “He’s Special Ops.”

“He’s a bad dude,” said Cat.

“He might hurt me,” said Benny.

Reuben was annoyed. “Why should two careers go down the toilet on this?”

“He’s assigned to you by the Pentagon,” said Drew. “It makes sense for him to stay with you.”

“And we need him,” said Babe, “to tell us the truth about whatever danger you might get into. Because we know you’ll never tell us to come kick ass for you.”

“It all depends on whose ass needs kicking,” said Reuben. He pointed to Cole. “Right now, it’s his, and you guys are worthless.”

“Only because he’s so strong,” said Load. “And his American accent when he speaks Farsi is so bad.”

“Let’s go, sir,” said Cole. “Let’s get you to your family.”

It was time, Reuben knew, to accept the fact that his friends might well see things more clearly than he did. He took Mingo’s keys and got into the SUV.

“I’ll never forgive you for making me drive a Ford,” said Mingo.

Reuben closed the door and drove out of the parking garage.