Nicholas eyed her, alert to her tone, not her words. “There’s more, isn’t there? Something about her, Mike?”
She nodded. “I can’t get over the feeling that she’s familiar, that I’ve seen her somewhere before. Remember in the feed when she looked up at the camera? And we both wondered why she’d do that? Seems to me she wanted us to see her. We’ve got to find her, Nicholas, we’ve got to.”
31
BISHOP TO C5
Eisenhower Executive Office Building
Washington, D.C.
Callan mentally replayed the conversation with Ari while her driver, Redmond, expertly threaded her limo through the heavy traffic to the White House.
“You’re certain I’m the target?”
“Yes, maybe others, we don’t know yet.”
“And who’s behind the hit?”
“We don’t know that yet, either, not for sure, but probably the Iranians, Hezbollah.”
“And just when were you planning on letting me know?”
Was there the slightest hesitation before he said, and she remembered his exact words, “We’ve only confirmed in the last hour. We’ve been working hard to find out where he is, and we’ve had eyes on you. My people, Callan. Trust me, you’ve never been safer.”
“You should have told me immediately even though it wasn’t yet confirmed.”
“Contrary to popular belief, Callan, I don’t owe you anything.”
He’d hung up. She hadn’t bothered to call him back.
She knew all about Zahir Damari, and now that world-class killing machine was after her.
Callan knew she was strong. To those who didn’t like her, she was a ball-breaker, a bitch. To those who did, she was a trailblazer, a former CIA agent turned congresswoman who refused to kowtow to the good-old-boy network in D.C. and managed to keep her dignity and reputation intact—well, most of the time. She remembered, somewhat fondly, that ancient Southern congressman who’d slapped her hand once after a hearing and called her a bad girl. Now he was one of her biggest supporters.
A bad-girl scolding was welcome after what she’d been up against—dictators, military reconnaissance missions, and that bloody stint in the Islamabad Field Office, not to mention a decade in the U.S. Congress, probably the scariest of all. She thought she could handle anything. But Zahir Damari? After her? She didn’t stand a chance and she knew it. It scared her to the bone.
He’d been on the scene for more than twenty years now, a world-renowned assassin, a freelance terrorist, a walking, talking, breathing lethal weapon. She remembered her time as a freshman congresswoman; she’d been assigned to the Foreign Affairs Committee. Of course she knew all about Zahir Damari, seen some of his handiwork, but this was different. She’d never forget the briefing done by a group of Mossad agents on the hunt for Damari because he’d murdered five of their brethren during a special op in Afghanistan. One of the junior agents in the delegations was a handsome, hawkeyed man named Ari Mizrahi.
Callan found herself watching the agent instead of paying attention to the briefing. He had a scar on the side of his neck, long and white, and she wondered how he’d gotten it. Shrapnel? A knife? A bullet? She knew all Israeli men and women served in the military, a mandatory three years when they turned eighteen. Knew he’d seen combat since Israel rarely saw peace.
Later, he’d told her about a sloe-eyed woman who’d gotten close to him in a coffee shop one afternoon when he was with his wife and daughter. A sloe-eyed woman wearing a suicide vest. And how it had changed him, their needless deaths.
Later, she’d traced the line down his neck with her tongue, trying, and failing, to heal them both.
The car turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and Callan dragged herself to the present. Damari. What was she going to do about that madman now that her name was at the top of his kill list? Was Ari right? Had Iran and Hezbollah contracted him?
She had to assume this was tied to her resistance against the peace talks.
They drove through the security gate, parked in the portico between the White House’s West Wing and the EEOB entrance. She hesitated a second before stepping out of the car. Every minute from now until Damari was captured could be her last on this earth, and didn’t that have a way to focus the brain? She took a deep breath, savored the sweet air slipping into her lungs. She had no intention of letting him kill her.
Her heels clicked against the old marble floors as she walked the winding staircase up to her office. She found herself looking at every Secret Service agent on her detail, wondering if they were working with the enemy, and that was the worst, the loss of trust.
She worked her morning, smiled and shook hands for the meet and greets, got through the dairyland photo op, and finally sat down for her security briefing on the Bayway Refinery explosion and this maniac group COE.
All the faces in the conference room were as familiar to her as her own: the director of National Intelligence, Maureen McGuiness, sweet syrupy drawl, utterly ruthless, and held grudges; the CIA’s director of intelligence, Templeton Trafford, sneaky, more devious than a snake, that was Temp; and the FBI’s deputy director, Jimmy Maitland, stalwart and solid, said what he thought and shut up, lived and breathed FBI when all was said and done.
They all sat silently on the facing chairs and couch, waiting for her signal to begin. They looked serious and jumpy, all except Temp, once a CIA operative, many times on assignment with her in the field, always ready for a good brawl and a clean kill, like she’d been, she supposed, and now he ran the Intelligence Division. Temp always held information close to the vest. He was now sitting with his arm lazed over the back of his chair, his left leg crossed over the right, foot swinging.
Callan raised her hands like a conductor. “Well? Who is behind COE, and what are they really after? And this cyber-attack—are the Russians, the Chinese bankrolling them? At least we know it isn’t North Korea. Jimmy, give us the rundown.”
Maitland sat forward. “Until yesterday, this COE group only worked the fringes, attacking out-of-the-way oil refineries and power grids, threatening any company that worked with Middle Eastern oil. The sheer size of the bombing of Bayway, the fifteen deaths, and the subsequent cyber-attack on the oil companies, driving the oil prices into the tank, trying to get their production offline, this is bigger, they’ve stepped up their game on a massive scale, and, unfortunately, we don’t yet know what it is.”
McGuiness of National Intelligence turned to Maitland and said, her sweet drawl leaking impatience, “Jimmy, why haven’t you identified the ringleader of this group yet? I thought your people had a line on them. We need answers, we need to find out who’s behind this.”
Maitland said easily, “We’re trying to get that information right now, Maureen.”
Callan said, “Good. Now, do we know the full extent of the damage yet? How long the refinery will be offline? And the hack—did they steal anything from the oil companies or was the attack merely destructive?”
Maitland said, “We’ll know more once the final reports are back from the oil companies. And the damage to the Bayway Refinery was, as you all know, severe. It will be weeks before they’re functioning at full capacity again.”
McGuiness was shaking her head, clearly disappointed in her FBI, ready, as always, to go for the jugular. She turned to Callan and threw Maitland under the bus. “Madam Vice President, truth be told, as Mr. Maitland has unfortunately made abundantly clear, we have no idea what’s happening. I fear the FBI isn’t moving quickly enough to get the matter resolved.”
Well, duh, Templeton Trafford thought, eyeing the group. He didn’t like Maureen McGuiness, never had, thought she was a candy-coated pit bull, found her myopic, thought she never saw the big picture. Plus, he didn’t like all the oversight forced down his throat by National Intelligence. A pity she had so much juice. However, he did like Callan Sloane, liked her a lot, actual
ly, since she’d saved his ass more than once out in the field during her years in the CIA. However, he wasn’t about to tell any of them what he knew. He was enjoying watching McGuiness hang herself.
Callan looked from McGuiness to Maitland. What was this blame game all about? They were all on the same team, except for Maureen McGuiness, who, Callan was convinced, wanted to become emperor of the world. She laid her palms flat on the table and spoke, her voice not at all nice. “Maureen, how is that possible? You and your team are supposed to be our highest intelligence organization. Are you saying your people missed this threat? Are you saying there was no chatter, no warning signs COE were about to step up their game? No clue something like this cyber-attack was going to happen? If you are still clueless, tell me now.” So I can start paving the way for your replacement.
“No, ma’am, there was no chatter, nothing.” You power-hungry bitch. “We have been trying to get a line into these people, particularly since the FBI in New York has dropped the ball.”
Maitland took the shot, said in his mild, stolid voice, “Madam Vice President, we’ve assigned Agents Drummond and Caine to the case, and believe me, they’ve been at it nonstop. I know it’s frustrating, but I assure you they’ll find these people and put a stop to it.”
There was a small, discreet snort from McGuiness, which everyone ignored. Callan saw that Temp was smiling behind his hand. He knew something, but what?
She said to them all, “Do we at least have confirmation COE is responsible for the bombing last night? Have they claimed responsibility?”
McGuiness beat everyone to the punch. “Yes, their signature claim showed up at CNN twenty minutes ago. So clever, aren’t they? ‘No more oil from terrorist countries or you will pay the price.’ We haven’t been able to trace it.” McGuiness added, “Yet.”
Callan slapped a hand down on the table. “Come on, people. Work with me. Tell me we have something I can go out with today and give a great snappy sound bite that will calm the populace. Or at least something Costello can give The Washington Post on background. These people are making us—and that means you—look like incompetent morons.”
Everyone at the table was pissed at her words, afraid they were true, and that they were all circling the drain.
Callan looked at all their insulted faces. “Allow me to rephrase. I want names. I want these people in custody, and I want it to happen immediately.
“You are all trusted advisers of the president. You know what’s at stake. If the president were here, he’d be livid, since he’d know, as all of us do, that COE is disrupting his Middle East peace talks, focusing the public’s attention on how vulnerable we are being dependent on Middle East oil, particularly since most of the oil-producing countries hate our guts and would like to see us destroyed. And if the talks get derailed, I won’t want to be in any of our collective shoes. Find out who is behind this group, and do it today. Do I make myself clear?”
Nods.
“Good. Jimmy, you said Drummond and Caine are running the investigation now in New York?”
Maitland nodded. “Yes, and Milo Zachery is up to his ears in this investigation with them, and you know Milo, he’s a bulldog, never gives up, plus he has an excellent brain.”
McGuiness raised an eyebrow. “This Drummond is the one who stopped the micro-nuke attack a few months ago? He used to work for Scotland Yard, recently joined the FBI?”
“The very same.”
“Pretty new, isn’t he, for this critical an assignment?”
Maitland said, “He’s not only sharp, he’s fast and a genius with computers. His partner, Agent Caine, worked with him on another major case as well, recovering the Koh-i-Noor diamond when it was stolen from the Met.”
McGuiness gave him a nod and a sneer. “And what about your golden boy, Dillon Savich? The wunderkind? Why isn’t he a part of this?”
32
ROOK ON F TO E8 CHECK
Maitland didn’t tell McGuiness to go shoot herself, though he did have to take a second to clear that lovely thought from his brain. He said calmly, “Agent Savich is very aware of the situation.”
Callan said, “Bring him in, Jimmy, have him oversee the entire op. Hook him up directly with Agents Drummond and Caine, have him coordinate all of it.
“I’m not kidding, people, get me some movement on this. The president will be back in the States to give a great, triumphant announcement to the American people—assuming he gets all those disparate entities to sign an agreement—during his speech on Thursday afternoon at the Yorktown Oil Refinery. I want to be able to celebrate his success with news of the capture of this group.”
Maitland said, “Ma’am, about the speech. The FBI believe it would be wise to postpone, or change venues. The Bayway bombing—”
Callan stood, walked to the window, then turned to face them, arms crossed. “He’ll never go for it. What sort of message does it send? The president of the United States can be forced to alter his agenda by a group of terrorists?” She turned around. “Yes, I said terrorists, and that’s exactly what they are, whatever their agenda, however we may sympathize with them, whatever they said about their enemies. The bottom line is after Bayway and the wanton murder of fifteen people, they are no better than the Islamic terrorists we battle every day across the planet, day in and day out. No, it won’t happen. He will demand to make his big announcement Thursday, and we’ll do it at Yorktown, and that’s because you and your people will have solved this case. Do I make myself clear?”
There were nods, but they all knew what she was really thinking. It was no secret that Vice President Sloane was dead set against the president’s peace talks in Geneva because she saw them as pure and simple capitulation to Iran. They also knew that each of them, regardless of whether or not they agreed with the president’s agenda, took their oaths seriously. They would do all they could.
Callan looked at Trafford. “Temp, you’ve been very quiet. Do you have anything to add?”
Trafford had a low Virginia drawl that always made her think of a college boy’s fraternity and too much beer at tailgates on Saturday afternoons. “No, ma’am. The CIA will do everything we can to support the FBI’s and National Intelligence’s efforts. All our ears are to the ground, listening, probing for information.”
McGuiness rolled her eyes. Callan was hard-pressed not to grin. Truth be told, she liked getting them into the same room together to watch the cockfight, all the one-upmanship. Who knew? Maybe the competition made them sharper. She looked around the table at each of them in turn. “There’s one last thing. I’ve had word Zahir Damari is in the United States on a contract.”
This froze everyone in their seats.
“Any word on who Damari is after?” McGuiness asked.
“According to my source, the contract was taken out on me and there could be others, as yet unidentified.”
Callan wondered if she could hear a pin drop, it was so suddenly still. Then everyone talked over everyone else.
Callan held up her hand for silence, looked at Trafford and said, her voice very quiet, “Temp, would you like to explain to me exactly why you didn’t know this, since you have all your CIA ears to the ground, listening and probing? And yet you’ve not heard a single word about Damari here to assassinate me?”
He was as shocked as the rest of them, she realized, staring at him. If he hadn’t heard anything, was the threat real? Was it possible Ari was wrong?
“No,” he said slowly, “your source can’t be right. Our latest reports have Damari in Jordan. He supposedly has a villa there—at least there’s a money trail tied to the villa, though no one’s ever seen him there. We’d kill to get eyes on the man, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
Callan said, “Since he had his extensive cosmetic surgery, you haven’t gotten a look at his new face, have you?”
Maitland sat forward, his hands clasped bet
ween his knees. “Madame Vice President, the only confirmed surgery we know is cheekbone implants, though I hardly think he stopped there. Without a new front facial baseline, we can only reconstruct so far. It’s impossible to keep Damari on a watch list if no one knows what he looks like.”
“Regardless,” McGuiness said, “if your people have had such little luck tracking him down, Mr. Trafford, perhaps it’s time to hand over the duties to National Intelligence. We’ll get a bead on him, and do it fast.”
Temp didn’t say a word. Did he realize his people had fallen down on the job? It scared her that he hadn’t known about Damari for the simple reason that it could well mean there were other critical things he’d missed. She didn’t like it, and he didn’t, either, she was sure of that.
Maitland said, “If your source is solid, Madam Vice President, I can only assume it’s to do with the president’s talks. Right, Temp?”
Temp finally said, his voice hard, “I can’t explain why we hadn’t already picked up on this threat, but you know I will find out. Now, no more playing around. We all know you’re toeing the party line here for Bradley, that personally you’re against his approach, his seeming appeasement of the Iranians, but the thing is, you’re hardly the only one who disagrees with Bradley on this; there are plenty of people who don’t want to see peace in the Middle East that leaves Israel hanging out to dry.
“So why you? Who took out the contract, and on you, specifically?”
33
KING TO F1
Callan said, “It’s very possibly the Iranians acting with Hezbollah. But as yet no positive verification. I’ve given this a lot of thought. If they’re indeed behind hiring Damari to kill me, it’s because they want to disrupt and cause chaos, and damn the consequences. It also sounds like ISIS, and our never-to-be-forgotten Al Qaeda, all of them willing and eager to kill all of us, reduce us to dust. One does not assassinate someone in my position and hope to survive, unless one does not have a country or care about it at all.”
The End Game Page 13
