Free Running the Maze by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis Page A

L. Jackson and Brad Pitt. Task Force Trident. Pentagon.” Double-Oh produced some identification.
    Kyle said to the man across from him, “Holmes and Watson. Not very original.”
    “Better than movie stars.” Watson flashed a crooked grin. “I don’t make these things up. I just carry the plastic.”
    “Yeah, I know the feeling. Well, here’s what is going on, Special Agent Watson. Petty Officer Ledford is currently on extended temporary duty with Task Force Trident, we’re not going to let her go, and we’re not going to let anything happen to her.”
    “It’s a terrorism thing with us,” said Watson. “Nothing was going to happen to her.”
    Dawkins replied, “Your appearance here just underlines what we already know: that the State Department is somehow involved in those medical team murders in Pakistan.”
    Watson scratched his cheek. “I wouldn’t know about any of that. Our instructions were just to follow Ledford and see who she contacts. She met you, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Pitt. And I never heard of Task Force Trident, so since the quiet surveillance has been blown, you boys are just going to have to get out of the way now and let us have Ledford for some questioning.”
    “Not gonna happen, Mr. Watson. Call your boss and tell him or her that it’s over.” Kyle’s words were emotionless. An order.
    “Well, I hate to tell you, Brad Pitt, but your Task Force Trident, whatever it is, does not outrank the State Department. I can have a dozen agents in here in five minutes.” He pointed toward the table where Ledford sat.
    Dawkins took a cell phone from his pocket. “No, we don’t, but the White House does, and they will back us. We already have four more guns in this place right now, and none of us wants a firefight. But when Ledford leaves, she’s going with us. Want me to make the call?”
    Watson looked over to where Ledford was staring at them. Sybelle Summers, wearing the black pants and white blouse of an IHOP waitress, was leaning back against the table, facing them, with her right hand holding a pistol that was barely visible beneath a white dishcloth.
    Watson waved his hands slowly. “OK. OK. Make that call, Mr. Samuel L. Jackson, and tell whoever it is to set up a meeting between all the right people. Then both sides here know what’s what. This is obviously some kind of fuckup, and I don’t want to get shot over a stack of pancakes.” He winked good-naturedly at Summers. “Say, miss, could you put away the artillery and get us some coffee over here?”
    Summers smiled sweetly and said, “Fuck you.”

 
     
    8
     
    H E DREAMED OF GREAT ropes of shining steel hanging in the sky, double-deck trusses, towering monopoles, and H-shaped pylons standing tall, probing into the clouds above wide bodies of water, and supporting wide carriageways and pedestrian footwalks, all illuminated by lights hidden in the ribs. Asleep, his brain amused itself by solving the mathematical and technical riddles of the complex Tsing Ma Bridge in Hong Kong, the majestic sweeping curve of the Øresundsbroen, between Denmark and Sweden, and the impossibly beautiful Rion-Antirion over the Gulf of Corinth in Greece. All were works of art in his opinion, classical outdoor statuary that would serve mankind for ages. In the dreams, each bridge had an engraved stone that hailed the name of the greatest Islamic builder of the twenty-first century—Mohammad al-Attas: Chief Engineer and Architect. Then he awoke in his wide, soft bed and lay still. Just dreams. Someday, Allah willing, such miracles could come to pass for him.
    For now, instead of building a sky-piercing colossus, he seemed to be working in the opposite direction, creating a smooth, single-arched bridge of rock across a flood-chiseled chasm in northeastern Pakistan. His task was to make it utilitarian and strong, unremarkable in every way, so that the casual eye would pass right over it instead of lingering and applauding the ingenuity involved.