London Bridges

heard a noise behind me.
    I turned around quickly.
    Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up.
    “What’s wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?” she asked. “This isn’t right. Who’s calling the house this late at night?”
    I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.

Chapter 42
    THE NEXT DAY I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our assignment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable—
fast,
incredibly fast.
    Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it’s difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth.
    “Mercenaries, the ‘dogs of war,’ so-called. Mostly former soldiers from Special Forces—Delta Force, Army Rangers, SEALs, SAS if they’re Brits. Many are totally legit, Alex, though they operate in a kind of legal netherworld. What I mean is that they aren’t subject to the U.S. military’s code of conduct or even our laws. Technically, they’re subject to the laws of the countries where they serve, but some of those hot spots have piss-poor judicial systems, if they have any system at all.”
    “So they’re pretty much on their own. That would appeal to Shafer. Most mercenaries work for private companies now?”
    Monnie nodded. “Yes, they do, Grasshopper. Private military companies, PMCs. Earn as much as twenty thousand a month. Average probably closer to three or four. Some of the larger PMCs have their own artillery, tanks. Even fighter jets, if you can believe it.”
    “I can. These days I can believe anything. Hell, I even believe in the big bad Wolf.”
    Monnie turned away from her computer screen and looked at me. I sensed that one of her famous “stats” was on the way. “Alex, the Defense Department currently has over three thousand contracts with U.S.-based PMCs. Contracts are valued at over three hundred billion dollars. You believe
that?
”
    I whistled. “Well, that sort of puts the Wolf’s demands in perspective, doesn’t it?”
    “Pay the man,” said Monnie. “
Then
we’ll go catch him.”
    “It’s not my call. But I don’t entirely disagree. At least that could be a plan.”
    Monnie went back to her computer. “Here’s a tidbit on the Weasel. Worked with an outfit called Mainforce International. Listen to this—offices in London, Washington, and Frankfurt.”
    That got my attention. “Three of the targeted cities. What else do you have on Mainforce?”
    “Let me see. Clients include financial institutions; oil, of course; precious stones.”
    “Diamonds?”
    “Are a mercenary’s best friend. Shafer was going under the name Timothy Heath. Worked in Guinea to ‘free’ some mines taken over by ‘the populace.’ Heath/Shafer was arrested in Guinea, charged with trying to bribe local officials. He had a million pounds on him, cash, when he was arrested.”
    “How did he get out of that one?”
    “Says he escaped. Hmmm. No detail. No follow-up, either. Odd.”
    “That’s one thing the Weasel’s always been good at. Wiggling out of tight spots. Getting away with it. Maybe that’s why the Wolf wanted him for this job.”
    “No,” said Monnie, and she turned and stared into my eyes, “the Wolf wanted him because Geoffrey Shafer has gotten under your skin. And because you’re close to the director of the FBI.”

Chapter 43
    AT TWO THAT SAME afternoon, I was on my way to Cuba, Guantánamo Bay. Gitmo, as it’s called. I was on a mission from the director, and also the president of the United States. Lately, our base at Guantánamo Bay had been much in the news on account of more than seven hundred “detainees” being held there in connection with the war on terror. An interesting place, to say the least. A historical one, for better or worse.
    Once I landed, I was escorted to Camp Delta, the site of most of the cellblocks. All around the prison area were several guard towers and razor wire. According to a rumor I’d heard on the ride down, one U.S. corporation was receiving in excess of a hundred million dollars a year for services provided at Guantánamo Bay.
    The man I was there for was originally from Saudi Arabia. He was being kept in the small psych ward on the