Kassar was about to lay Rickman on the floor and then he thought of the long drive ahead. There was no way he could stand the smell, and if he was stopped by the police or border agents the smell alone might cause them to search the vehicle. So, instead of tossing him on the floor, Kassar carried him down the hall to the back of the house and laid the body in the bathtub.
He checked his watch and wondered how much time he could spare. He decided ten minutes wouldn't make a difference. Kassar turned on the water and used his knife to cut Rickman's foul-smelling boxers from his body. Once the underwear was disposed of it was relatively easy. A little bit of soap and a washcloth and the body was clean enough for the journey. Kassar dried Rickman as best he could and then carried him to the bedroom, where he dressed him in some loose-fitting clothes. The only problem they had now was the bloody and battered face. Kassar would lay him in the backseat and cover him with a blanket. If he were stopped he would tell them that he was bringing his brother home to be buried. In the West it might have seemed strange, but here in Afghanistan, morticians were not so common.
Kassar had to take care of one more thing. He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the laptop. His fingers glided over the track pad until he had what he wanted. He had edited the video earlier in the day. Rickman had spoken a few lies, but he had also given up some valuable secrets. The Americans would lose their minds when they saw this. Kassar was smiling as he posted the video on a popular jihadist website. Like a pebble in a lake, the video would ripple across the World Wide Web. There was no way the Americans could hope to contain it.
Chapter 31
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
WILSON was back down in front of the main desk, and the pimple-faced airman was trying to figure out how some uneducated Latino woman could deter nine special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation from doing their job. The only reason he wasn't yelling at his overpaid, overqualified entourage was that he'd been unable to get past her as well, and he was in charge.
Wilson hadn't gotten to where he was in this world by simply quitting every time an obstacle was placed in front of him. No, Joel Wilson was better than that. If this Air Force bitch thought she could defy his authority, she was in for a rude lesson. Tapping the reception counter with his knuckles, he demanded, "Who's in charge of this place?"
"I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to be more specific."
"This place," Wilson repeated, and waved his arms around. This further cemented Wilson's belief that the military had become the great dumping ground for America's dim-witted masses.
"Brigadier General Earl Kreitzer, sir."
Wilson filed that one away. "What about this hospital?"
"Overall is Colonel Wyman, sir. He's the task force medical commander, but Lieutenant Colonel Brunkhorst is the medical chief of staff."
"Are either of them here right now?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Brunkhorst is, sir. May I ask what this is about?" The man snatched the handset out of the cradle. "She's going to want to know."
"It's about that rude woman you have in ICU . . . Something, something Sergeant Sanchez."
The eyes on the young man from Kansas grew large with recognition and he placed the handset back in its cradle. "Command Master Sergeant Sanchez."
"That's right."
The Kansan looked over both shoulders. "Technically, sir, Lieutenant Colonel Brunkhorst is senior in the chain of command, but truth be told, Command Master Sergeant Sanchez runs this place."
"Shit." Wilson slapped his hand on countertop.
"I hope you didn't do anything to upset her, sir." Then he leaned forward and whispered, "She's not someone you want to get on the wrong side of."
"No shit, Sherlock." Wilson was on the verge of really losing it, when the most surprising sight caught his eye. Coming down the hall toward him was one of his former FBI special agents, Sydney Hayek. They had once had a deeply complicated relationship that Hayek had ruined. According to Wilson's very credible information, she was now working for the CIA. Wilson stepped away from the desk. "Sydney," he shouted with a friendly wave. "You're the last person I expected to find here."
Hayek, normally good at masking her emotions, was incapable