The Warrior

Zeb smiles. ‘I was just a grunt taking orders, doing routine army stuff over there. I didn’t pay any attention to anything but those orders.’

A

It’s late when they break up. Co

Cassandra asks Zeb to stay with her for a few days; he is her only family. He keeps a set of clothes at her apartment for such occasions. He checks his phone when alone and notices voice mails from Broker and Andrews. He sends a text to Broker suggesting they meet tomorrow.

‘This Hardinger story is creating some tension between Lauren and Co

‘He’s been anxious to meet you ever since I told him you were in the Special Forces. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that.’ She looks at him apologetically.

He shrugs; it’s done. He’s not particularly interested in Co

The chances of that happening are pretty remote.

Chapter 4

The next day, Cass hands him a note as she leaves. ‘You. Me. Baseball. Evening.’

She says Rory slipped it under the apartment door on his way to school, after learning that Zeb was staying for a few days.

‘Why has he given this to me? Doesn’t he have other friends to play with, or doesn’t Co

‘He has a friend or two, but he doesn’t make friends easily – and he likes you. What’s wrong with that? In his seven years, the boy has seen constant relocation, moving from Kentucky to New York, and within New York a few more times. All this has led to problems with making friends.

‘As for Co

Zeb says he’ll think about it. He isn’t sure whether he’ll have time to spend with Rory and whether he wants to. To add to that, he doesn’t intend to stay more than two or three more days at Cassandra’s.

He wipes it from his mind and goes to meet Broker.

Meeting Broker requires counter-surveillance tactics. There are many who would love to grab hold of Broker and extract his information. Zeb spends a few hours in the subway randomly changing trains, walking aimlessly over ground, going through large stores; the idea is to lose any tails or make them die of boredom.

He enters a bar on Allen Street and spots Broker immediately, holding court at his table with a few others roaring at his jokes. Broker is the soul of any party. He’s tall, blond, great looking, in great shape, and always stylishly dressed; his ready wit, rich voice and a barely discernible limp draw people to him. It also helps that he always picks up the check.

He shoos away his admirers on spotting Zeb and gives him a long hug when Zeb bends down to greet him. They catch up on old times for a while, discussing friends past and lost.

Zeb gives him the dossiers of Holt, Mendes, and Jones. ‘I’m hunting these three. These are agency dossiers. They may be in the US, they may be abroad. I want to know who they work with, who’s employed them, where they’re based.’

Broker fingers them without opening them. ‘Why isn’t the agency helping you on this?’

‘They’re also looking into it. Rather, they’ve asked the FBI to dig up those details.’

‘Then they’ll get dick. Those assholes will run circles round them all the while giving them the polite face.’ Broker’s respectful opinion on one of the world’s foremost investigative agencies. He drums his fingers on the folders. ‘Is this related to the Congo?’

Zeb isn’t surprised that Broker knew where he’d been, even though this was one assignment Zeb hadn’t mentioned to him. Broker’s gotten to where he is because he has an intelligence network that rivals the agency’s, pays well for information, and has tight lips. Zeb gives him the background as Broker continues drumming his fingers. Broker has seen enough shit to last him a lifetime. He has his own code. No women. No children. Nothing against the national interest. He is very choosy about his clients and likes to know why they want a particular piece of information. If in doubt, he informally runs his assignments, before taking them on, past certain federal agencies. Like a credit check.

‘They might still be in Africa, or they might be here. We want to find them and also find out who their conduit is,’ Zeb finishes.

Broker looks at him, brows furrowed. ‘The kind of work you get involved in – terrorists, lost weapons, security consulting – this doesn’t sound like something the agency should be losing a lot of sleep over or for them to involve you in. It’s not their problem, really. I don’t buy the bullshit Andrews fed you.’

Zeb shrugs. ‘I am involved. I don’t care about the agency’s motives.’

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can get for you. I’m as interested in getting these guys as you are. They give us warriors a bad name.’

He heads off to the bar to pay the tab, but the bartender waves him away, refusing to take his money. It’s on the house since Broker entertained so many of the patrons and was good for business. Typical Broker. Goes on a business visit and gets the frills paid for.

They part ways outside the bar to start their elaborate counter-surveillance routine. ‘Hey, Zeb,’ Broker calls him back. ‘Damn, nearly forgot. This is for you.’ He hands over a leather case.

Zeb opens the expensive leather case and removes a pair of wraparound Aviator sunglasses. He tries them on; they fit perfectly. ‘I like them, but I have enough of these.’

Broker chortles. ‘You’ve never seen a pair like these, my friend. They’re the latest in counter-surveillance toys. They have tiny cameras fitted at the rear of the frames, and those cameras project on the corner of the lenses. The cameras focus the images automatically for the eyes, so that the eyes can see those normally. There’s a tiny switch near the right lens which turns the cameras on or off. The batteries go on for years. The NSA uses these, but I improved them. I installed another switch on the left – you can now forward the images to an email address or to another server.’

‘There are only two pairs of these sunglasses. I have one, and you have the other. Try to take care of them. Repairs are a bitch.’

And with that, Broker is off.

Zeb tries the glasses and the cameras and finds that they work perfectly. With some practice, turning them off and on becomes a casual gesture. He’s getting addicted to these gizmos that Broker supplies.

He executes his elaborate counter-surveillance routine, this time with the Aviators to help, and reaches Cassandra’s apartment a few hours later.

Rory is waiting impatiently for him with his baseball glove and school bag. He looks up with a frown as Zeb enters the apartment. ‘Dude, I bet you don’t keep your girlfriends waiting. Let’s go now. It’s not long before dark.’

He goes to the door and looks back at Zeb. ‘You heard me, didn’t you, dude?’

Zeb, his life hijacked, follows him down the apartment block and a walk across another block. Rory takes them to Riverbank State Park, where he dons his baseball glove. They spend a couple of hours pitching and catching. Rory has excellent hand-eye coordination and catches most of Zeb’s pitches.

Rory flops on the turf after practice, lies back and stares at the sky. He looks at Zeb, who is lying still beside him. ‘Does anything scare you, Zeb?’