One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [27]
The security man nodded and went about his tasks as if he had been told to bring a glass of water.
Miguel spoke to the Arabs in English. “I’m sorry, but something of urgency has come up. You’re welcome to stay in the guesthouse. I’ll send someone for you when we can continue our conversation.”
The taller Arab nodded and said, “I hope it won’t interfere with our transaction, but we understand the demands of your business.”
The head of Miguel’s security entered the room just as the Arabs were leaving. A large man, at six feet four inches, Jake walked with the grace of a cat. The only gringo on the detail, he was also the only one with any true security experience. He had been expelled from the British Special Air Service for activities that he wouldn’t elaborate on. The rumor making the rounds was that he had enjoyed interrogating suspected terrorists a little too much, using force long after the subject had spilled his guts. Since then, he had hired out to numerous organizations, finally landing as Miguel’s head of security.
“You wanted me?”
“Yes. I need you to go to Flores and find a man named Cahill. He’s an American professor staying in a hotel in the town. Probably a flop-house. Don’t hurt him. Bring him back here with all of his equipment. Pay particular attention to any electronic items such as computers or GPS. I need him in the next forty-eight hours. Take my plane to the airfield at Santa Elena.”
Jake simply nodded and left the room. That was another reason Miguel liked him. He never asked questions. Given some guidance, he simply executed, unlike all of the other pipe-swingers he employed, who would ask a thousand questions to ensure they didn’t screw up. Jake was fire and forget, and just like a guided missile, once he locked on there was little that could be done to stop him.
17
In the fourth-floor conference room of the Old Executive Office Building, Harold Standish glared at Kurt Hale, infuriated. The man was arrogant to a fault. The Oversight Council meeting was winding up, and Standish had been stiff-armed on every question he had asked. It didn’t help his mood that nobody else on the council seemed to think Kurt was being insubordinate. In fact, most seemed to agree with him. Tall, at six feet six inches, Standish looked like a cross between Ichabod Crane and Christopher Plummer, with a head of close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and the sour disposition to match. At the official conclusion of the meeting, he closed his portfolio, stood up, and stalked out of the room before anyone could stop him.
He went down to his NSC office on the third floor, flew through the anteroom without addressing his secretary, and fell into his chair. Staring at his computer, he began to calm down. He was still, after all, a very powerful man. A political strategist of rare skill, he had risen from the trench warfare of American politics by mastering the art of manipulating information. He was the go-to guy when it came to playing dirty. By the time he was thirty, he was richer than he’d ever thought he would be. By the time he was forty, he was the undisputed master of political destruction. By the time he was forty-five, he was becoming aggravated at how he was treated. How could he be so rich, and yet still feel like the boy with the dirt between his toes, begging for scraps?
He vividly remembered the victory party for the previous president’s second term. He was celebrating with the rest of the campaign staff when the president-elect motioned for his top advisors to follow him into his suite. Standish, who had been standing in the group, went along as well. Once the doors closed he found everyone looking at him like he was a turd in a punch bowl. The silence was extremely uncomfortable. The president-elect finally broke it.
“Harold? Is there something I can do for you?”
“Sir? Uh . . . no. I thought you had asked me to come in here.”
“No, Harry, the campaign’s over. Your job’s done. We have real work to do now.” Standish