Fault Lines Read online

  The voice was male and flinty from thirty-five years of battlefield command. “You and I need to discuss a new prospect.”

  Charlie came to full alert, the only way to handle this particular caller. “I’m officially on leave for another three weeks, General Strang.”

  “Negative on that, mister. I am inbound for Melbourne airport, wheels down in forty minutes. Be planeside or you’re history.”

  Charlie took his time hanging up the phone. When he turned around, Julio asked, “You okay?”

  “That was my boss. I may be going away for a while. Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. “Buy what you need.”

  Julio raised his hands and backed away. “No, look. I got the job now, I can—”

  “Julio. Look at me. Take the money.”

  Reluctantly he accepted the bills. “This is too much.”

  Charlie felt better than he had for a long time. “Welcome to your new home.”

  7

  Charlie separated all the top brass he had ever known into two piles, bureaucrats and battlefield commanders. The military produced far more administrators than warrior leaders. When it came to the backroom maneuvers required for the highest promotions, even the finest field officers tended to be ground into dust. Major General Curtis Strang was one such casualty.

  Charlie had worked for the general for just under three years, long enough to know the man bore bitter grudges against the Washington infighting that had cost him his career. Curtis Strang hid his sentiments behind the cavernous features of a long-term fitness fanatic. He was sixty-one and still competed every year in what some considered the most grueling athletic contest on earth, the Hawaii Ironman. Charlie’s standard response to any call from the general was to tighten down to a sniper’s intensity. Today, however, was different. Perhaps it was the result of having spent the night in the front seat of someone else’s car. But probably not.

  Charlie treated himself to a ninety-second shower and another cup of coffee. He dressed in what passed for a corporate uniform—blue blazer, white shirt, rep tie, black slacks, and loafers. He pulled out the packed suitcase he kept on the closet shelf for just such emergencies. He unlocked the floor safe and took out a Desert Eagle .45 caliber from Colt. The Desert Eagle was the gun of choice for most specialist operatives, a massive weapon that carried the firepower of a miniature cannon and weighed so much that if the bullets missed he could still beat his assailant senseless.

  Charlie returned to the garage, a separate building divided from the house by a towering stand of bamboo. He heard Julio scratching around upstairs and called up to say he was leaving. Julio appeared at the top of the stairs, his face mottled from what Charlie thought were probably tears. Charlie pretended not to notice, bid his new tenant farewell, and entered the garage feeling remarkably good about this totally strange day.

  He settled into his father’s last car—a memento to an engineer who had lavished far more care and attention on his machines than on his only child. The beautifully restored ’59 Corvette was too small for Charlie. But the car was his final connection to a man he had never really known.

  For the first time ever, the car refused to start.

  Time after time, Charlie turned the key. His father’s pride and passion had always performed perfectly. No doubt one reason why his father had preferred machines to human beings.

  Then Charlie recalled what Gabriella had said about him needing the Range Rover.

  He did not so much walk to the Range Rover as float. Ditto for the drive to the Melbourne. He left the Range Rover in the small lot next to the entrance for private aviation. The guard checked his name against his list and passed him through, but the general’s plane was nowhere in sight. The concrete pavement was a superheated mirror. Charlie set the suitcase by his feet and settled into the routine every soldier came to know and hate. He waited.

  When Charlie had entered the Army at twenty-one, to his utter astonishment he found a home. After basic came officer training, and from there he went straight to Rangers, the Army’s specialist school. Specialist was the American military’s term for attack dogs.

  Six years later, a thoroughly burned-out Charlie exited the military and entered straight into the arms of his new wife. He did his best to put the military life completely behind him. He buried the memories with his uniform. He attended no gatherings. He kept in contact with just one of his old buddies. He took a job selling insurance in Ventura. He wore a starched shirt and a tie. He pretended the flashbacks and the nightmares and the sweats did not happen. He ignored how the boiling cauldron in his brain kept threatening to blow, no matter how hard he fought to keep the lid clamped down tight.

  After his wife died in a traffic accident, Charlie found himself wondering if he had somehow caused her to go off the road. If maybe she had just grown tired of life with a man who only pretended to play at normality. He tried to tell himself that such suspicions were nothing more than survivor’s guilt. Even so, the whispers never fully went away.

  The murmurs remained a fault line between himself and ever feeling close to another woman. Charlie had never mentioned the silent undertones to anyone. But as he waited for the general’s arrival, he could not stop himself from hoping that in exchange for him protecting Gabriella from her own dark forces, she might find a way to free Charlie from his.

  The Gulfstream III whined over to where Charlie waited. General Curtis Strang did not actually own a jet. He enjoyed his little toys, but they did not hold him. In that way, the general was still very much Army. The military taught people in vicious clarity the transient nature of possessions, and of life.

  The general rented his transport from NetJets, the world’s largest owner of commercial aircraft. NetJets offered its clients what the industry called partial ownership. In truth, NetJets was in the business of supplying taxis. Luxurious, incredibly expensive, fast, ego-stroking taxis. But taxis just the same.

  The jet did not power down. The door opened and the stairs unfolded. The copilot saluted Charlie’s approach. As soon as he slipped through the door, the copilot retracted the steps and sealed the door and moved back into his seat. The jet was already spinning around and taking aim at the runway before Charlie buckled himself into his seat. The pilots had obviously flown the general before.

  The general closed the file he was reading and said, “I left eleven messages on your cell, Hazard. When I reach out for my people, I expect to connect. Day or night. No excuses, no lag time.”

  “Sorry, sir. My phone was broken last night.”

  “Then you should have replaced it. In our business, seconds are valuable, minutes irreplaceable.”

  Four months after his wife’s death, Charlie had gone to work for the general. Within days it felt as though he had known no other life. “Understood, General.”

  Strang reopened the file and adjusted his reading glasses. “Moving on. What can you tell me about Harbor Petroleum?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You’ve never had contact with the group?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “What about Weldon Hawkins, their senior vice president of human resources?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s interesting, soldier. Since he knows you.”

  Charlie thought hard. “I’m coming up blank, General.”

  Strang flipped the page, but Charlie had the impression the general was not reading. “It’s interesting that a company of their size would put their VP of personnel in charge of corporate security. I asked his assistant about that. She said Harbor Petroleum specialized in drilling for oil in high-risk areas. Security was an essential part of their business plan.” He turned another page. “What about Reese Clawson? When did you last meet the woman?”

  “Never, sir. At least, not by that name.”

  “I find that remarkable as well. She knew everything about you, Hazard. We might as well have been examining the same file.” Strang removed his gla
sses and took aim at Charlie. His eyes held all the warmth and color of glacial ice. “The woman you claim never to have met told me point-blank that either I came with you or I did not come at all.”

  The attack of 9/11 had caused a huge transition in the American struggle against terrorism. Public awareness was heightened like never before, and many hidden trends were accelerated.

  Curtis Strang’s last military assignment had been second in command of American forces assigned to NATO’s bases in Italy. Liaising with local military, Strang was granted rare access to European tactics in maintaining high-profile security. He knew several well-financed American groups had begun offering high-level security as a component of their operations. The largest by far were USG, Blackwater, DynCorp, Falcon, and KBR. Strang resigned his commission and opted to specialize. He targeted the highest-risk individuals in the most dangerous of circumstances. He worked on either side of the law. When questioned by the FBI and the DEA over granting protection to certain clients, Strang and his legal team always responded that they didn’t consider it their business to know why the people were under threat. Their job was to keep the body breathing.

  The Gulfstream flew Charlie and Strang south of Orlando and Tampa, across the Gulf of Mexico, and into an approach for Galveston. The skies were clear, the air still, the waters calm. Charlie watched tankers headed for offshore oil depots while smoke from the refineries of Houston and Galveston rose like veils knitted between heaven and earth.

  The plane landed and pulled up in front of two black SUVs with tinted windows. A trio of dark-suited men and one woman stood braced against the jet’s backwash. As the copilot opened the jet’s door and lowered the stairs, Charlie studied the security detail through his window. These first impressions were crucial. Typically, the local security staff considered Charlie a threat. He didn’t care. His one concern was whether they would try to undermine his mission. If so, they had to be disposed of, and quickly. The others were given a chance to prove themselves. Few measured up.

  One glance was enough to know this crew was different.

  The men were tall and trim. They were fanned out around the cars. None of them watched the jet. Instead, they scanned the horizon. Their eyes remained hidden behind shades, but Charlie could see their heads move slightly as they split the scene into tight gradients.

  No question. These guys were pros.

  The woman called, “General Strang?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Reese Clawson. Glad you could join us.” She was blonde in the manner of a pure-blood Scandinavian, with golden skin and pale blue eyes and lips that Charlie could only describe as both full and inviting. She wore her hair short with little trails in front of her ears like white-gold sideburns. Diamond stud earrings and a gold Rolex were her only jewelry. She was tall and trim, yet feminine enough to have Strang’s gaze drifting slowly south. She smirked in the manner of a woman who took such looks as part of the terrain. She offered Charlie her hand. “Mr. Hazard, this is a real pleasure.”

  “Have we met?”

  “Glenda Gleeson is a friend.”

  “Then you move in high circles.” Glenda Gleeson was a Hollywood star of the highest order, one of only three women able to command fifteen million dollars per film. She was also a UN Goodwill Ambassador, a title first granted to Audrey Hepburn. These ambassadors made high-profile junkets to regions where public attention and government funds were desperately needed. When Glenda visited Darfur, Charlie had been in charge of her security. Somewhere near the disputed border between Sudan and Chad, the star’s entourage had come under attack. According to the media blitz that followed, Glenda was rescued by UN security forces. In Charlie’s world, success meant remaining utterly unseen.

  Reese said, “I knew Glenda before fame struck. We were friends in college.”

  “Rutgers, right?”

  “Actually, I was down the road at Princeton.”

  Strang inserted himself back into the conversation. “Smart as well as beautiful. What say we continue this discussion out of the heat?”

  “Certainly, General. Perhaps you and Mr. Hazard would care to join me in the first vehicle.”

  Charlie knew his boss well. Curtis Strang did not like sharing the limelight. In fact, any employee who threatened his position as the corporate face was soon eliminated. Strang hired his men to remain invisible, both on the job and in making the deal. He assigned duties in strict military fashion, and he was tasked with going in first and establishing the corporate beachhead. He glad-handed, made the right noises, won the deal, negotiated the contract, and headed back for his waiting jet. Bang and gone.

  Charlie said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll travel with the second unit.”

  But the woman was already walking over and opening the first SUV’s rear door. “I insist you ride in the back with me, Mr. Hazard. And I am the one who signs the checks.”

  8

  Harbor Petroleum is the nation’s largest privately owned extraction and refinery corporation. Turnover stands at just under eight billion per annum. We specialize in high-risk regions. We operate fields in Algeria, Libya, Azerbaijan, and Mongolia. Our refineries are in Nigeria, China, and Kazakhstan.”

  Charlie sat beside Reese in the rear seat. He was positioned behind the general, who was clearly displeased to be treated as the second guest. Strang sat ramrod straight, eyes never diverting from the front windshield, body radiating resentment.

  “We are the only American oil company still operating in Venezuela,” Reese continued. “We also maintain joint ventures with the governments of Burma and Russia and Georgia. We are currently exploring new fields in the disputed waters off the coast of Turkish Cyprus and in the Chechen hills.”

  Charlie had the impression that Reese was enjoying Strang’s ire. She occasionally gave a brief smile in the general’s direction. Then she turned back to Charlie and continued talking.

  But not before she gave him the look.

  Her eyes were the color of dawn through a winter fire, more blue than grey, and sparked with a feral wit. Her right hand rested on the seat between them. Her fingers caressed the leather, the motions bringing her fingers close enough to touch Charlie’s trousers. Every now and then she would stop talking and touch her tongue to her lips, as though she wanted to taste a certain word, as though another thought was crowding into her mouth. When she did, she gripped the soft leather seat, clawing it with her nails. Watching Charlie with those hot-cold eyes as she did.

  Charlie had known since his Army days that certain women were drawn to the scent of hidden danger. But they were not normally women in limos, with security details of their own, sent to ferry the hired help back for a corporate meet and greet.

  His attention was caught by the driver lifting his shirtsleeve and speaking into a mic attached to his watch band. “Beta One to CC. Inbound at one.”

  Instantly the woman’s hand gyrations might have been in another state. Specialist military assault squads often sectioned themselves into Alpha and Beta teams. Such teams referred to headquarters as CC, which stood for combat controller.

  Sending a cluster of former military pros to a Texas airport with a lone woman, no matter how fine the package, was a curious thing.

  Harbor Petroleum’s headquarters was a block off the main port, rimmed by smokestacks and oil-sized pipelines and holding tanks. The water washing against the breakwater was scummy and the color of dirty copper. The building was a solid cube of black glass and gleamed like an opal set beside a sludge pit. High overhead, the company’s initials were framed by a pair of oil rigs that spouted umbrellas of gold.

  As soon as Charlie opened his door, the air stank with sulfur. But the general had regained his good humor. He rose from the SUV, took a deep breath, and declared, “Smells like money to me.”

  The man waiting for them by the corporate entrance was a bulldog, built close to the ground and solid as a concrete block. “General Strang, I’m Weldon Hawkins. Welcome to Harbor Petroleum.
” He turned his attention to Charlie. “You must be Hazard.”

  “Affirmative, sir.” Charlie suspected Hawkins was a former Marine. Or rather, no longer in that branch’s active service. Marines liked to say they never stopped being one. Hawkins was hard as nails and merciless as the Texas heat. Handshake to match.

  “Why don’t we seek shelter.” Hawkins marched them through a vast marble-clad foyer, up a central staircase, and into a conference room. A young man stood at a civilian’s semblance of attention by a fully stocked bar. “Anything you gentlemen care for in the way of supplies?”

  “We’re good to go, sir.”

  Hawkins said to the young man, “You’re dismissed.”

  The young man touched a keypad and the bar disappeared behind a mother-of-pearl shoji screen. Charlie noted the security had vanished.

  Hawkins said, “What say we dispense with the niceties, gentlemen.”

  Strang settled into a chair. “I’ve got nothing but the highest respect for a man who values his seconds.”

  “We’re facing obstacles and multiple threats. Two of our frontline execs in Bogotá have recently been kidnapped and are being held for ransom. We can’t afford another such incident. We maintain the highest degree of professionalism in our ranks because we pay the best wages and we take our people’s safety very seriously.”

  Strang said, “We maintain what I feel is the best hunter-seeker team in the business. I’d be happy to offer their services.”

  “Thank you, General. But that matter is already being taken care of. What we want to discuss with you is how we can ensure this never happens again.”

  Charlie said, “Your people seem professional.”

  “They’re overstretched. What’s more, we don’t want to maintain a full cadre of our own. You read me?”

  Strang said, “Maintaining an in-house fighting force is not your business.”

  “Right the first time.” Hawkins crossed his arms. “You’ve got ninety seconds, General. Impress me.”