Threat Zero

by Nicholas Irving

  Neither Stone nor Weathers was hiding behind the pallets.

  He sat next to Hinojosa as the plane gained altitude over the Caspian Sea, the blue lights of the police vehicles replaced by the azure blue waters of the inland sea.

  “Who’s Emmanuel?”

  “FBI field agent,” she said.

  “I saw the look. He’s more than that.”

  She was staring at her lap then tilted her eyes up at Harwood.

  “Emmanuel Hinojosa. He’s my ex. FBI. Gets around this part of Asia.”

  Harwood looked away and thought about it. Big coincidence? What did it matter? They were on an airplane flying to the United States.

  “I’m glad he was there for you,” Harwood said.

  “Not an accident. I gave him a heads-up when I got alerted that our cover was gone.”

  Harwood nodded.

  “So you’re Sammie’s sister?”

  “Yes. I’m on the list. Bronson gave me a heads-up.”

  “Bronson?” Harwood smiled. His first legitimate feeling of ease in forty-eight hours.

  “Deke’s a good man,” Hinojosa said. “Cut him some slack.”

  “We shall see,” Harwood said.

  The cockpit door opened as the plane leveled into a smooth glide heading west.

  The pilot was a tall, gray-haired man wearing a white short-sleeve shirt and black slacks. He smiled and said, “Get comfortable. Fourteen hours to Dulles. Understand you’re a military couple returning from your honeymoon?”

  Harwood almost bust out laughing. That was the cover her ex-husband had provided the Arco team?

  “Yes, thank you. Just hiking through the Caucusus,” Hinojosa said.

  “Well, congratulations, and I’m glad you caught us before takeoff.”

  The pilot smiled again, nodded, and then opened the latrine door.

  The steward stepped forward and provided them drinks and food. Steak, cheese, eggs, and dinner rolls. Harwood and Hinojosa ate it all.

  In between bites, Hinojosa said, “So, do you want to know what’s next?”

  “I know what’s next. I’m going to kill every son of a bitch who framed Sammie and find out who actually killed him.”

  Hinojosa stared at him, possibly frightened by the ferocity of his words.

  “But first let me borrow your phone. I need to talk to someone.”

  Hinojosa handed him the satellite phone that had a good signal. He made the call.

  “Reaper!”

  “Hey, Monisha, just checking on you.”

  “I’m good. I’m here with Sergeant Major now. Where you at?”

  “Ask me the right way and I’ll tell you.”

  He could feel Monisha rolling her eyes.

  “Okay, where are you?”

  “I’m on an airplane. Just wanted to check on you. Glad you’re okay. Put the sergeant major on, please.”

  “Wait. I want to talk some,” she said. “I miss our nightly talks.”

  “I miss them, too, but I’m kind of in a rush.” His voice was clipped and Monisha got the picture.

  “Talk.” Sergeant Major Murdoch was a legend in the Ranger community and a man of few words.

  “In some serious stuff. Team Valid turned on me. Headed where you sent me. Will need a secure ride to somewhere safe.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  He handed the phone back to Hinojosa.

  “That your girl?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Monisha’s my fifteen-year-old ball of fury.”

  “Thought you said you’d never been married?”

  He didn’t recall saying that but responded, “I’m not, never have been. Found her in a bad situation a year ago and adopted her. Thought Sammie might have told you.”

  Hinojosa nodded and looked away. Harwood leaned back in his chair, thinking, something’s not right, but sleep overcame him for almost the entire flight.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sloane Brookes was drinking a glass of wine at a trendy bar at the Wharf in southwest D.C.’s newly gentrified district. She sat across from Deke Bronson, the FBI agent in charge of the Camp David Ambush investigation.

  He had suggested they meet, and him being something of a playboy, she agreed. Perhaps she could nudge him that fifty-one percent to be on her side, should anything untoward come to light. It was always good to have a hole card.

  Her phone buzzed and displayed UNKNOWN CALLER.

  Jessup. From whom a call was extraordinarily rare.

  She had no desire to head back to her estate, get in her boat and travel to Tangier Island, so she didn’t.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Bronson, who stood as she slid past him, her fingernail accidentally grazing his thigh. Bronson was physically fit and a sharp dresser. He had an open English spread white collar above a light blue shirt. He wore a silk sport coat that had to be either Canali or Zegna, cut perfectly to show off his V-shaped physique. Perfectly creased dark slacks fell atop shiny-as-a-mirror burgundy Berluti Scritto slip-on loafers. She had been considering a way to get him in the sack when Jessup called.

  She stepped outside and walked toward the Potomac River. Traffic zipped on the 14th Street bridge just a few hundred yards away. She was alone and feeling vulnerable. Her black Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress, which set her back five thousand dollars, rustled as she walked in her five-inch Louboutin heels. She was always leveraging her height to her advantage, but Bronson appeared almost as tall as her and not the least bit intimidated. He was a former marine, and that kind of turned her on.

  But still, Jessup. He was a total buzzkill.

  Just tell me, she texted to Jessup. He called, and she answered. Their communications, he assured her, were filtered through a secure server that bounced the data packets all over the world before being received on either end.

  “Check Maximus Anon Twitter,” he said.

  She pulled up the Twitter account of the handle Maximus Anon, saw that his number of followers had fallen from one million plus to just under one hundred thousand. That wasn’t the concern, though. He had just tweeted:

  1.  The #CampDavidAmbush is not what it seems. It’s far worse. Follow my logic.

  2.  As you recall before I was shut down, I reported that Carly Masters had discovered something sinister within the Senate Intel Comm. It is my belief she gave this info to Army Ranger CPL Samuelson.

  3.  CPL Samuelson had a silver MacBook in the background of his FB live video feed. Reports are that the FBI never found that MacBook. There are reports that @SloaneBrookes is missing a laptop. Brookes was on SIC.

  4.  Samuelson’s best friend, Vick Harwood, aka The Reaper, is army Ranger sniper. Harwood was on mission called #TeamValid that U.S. government abandoned after Perza and Sultan families were killed.

  5.  The Reaper is nowhere to be found, but his name was leaked by the government to me. They want me to know and they want you to know. Why would they want this?

  6.  Well, just as Samuelson is the fall guy for the Camp David Ambush, the Reaper will be the fall guy for killing the Perza and Sultan families. Their deaths have already been confirmed by the Iranian and Russian governments.

  7.  But get this: there is no evidence that Perza and Sultan had anything to do with the Camp David Ambush, which makes us wonder, why would someone want their families killed?

  8.  It all goes back to Carly Masters. One unreported fact NO ONE is covering is the murder of Raafe Khoury, the “IT guy” for the Democrats. Khoury worked specifically for Sloane Brookes for a short time.

  9.  All magnetic compasses are all starting to point at Sloane Brookes.

  Her stomach sank.

  “Um, that’s kind of specific and defamatory, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve tried to shut him down, but he must be running something inside Twitter, because he’s still up,” Jessup said.

  “Remember, this is what I pay you for, though,” Brookes said.

  “I know. I’m trying, but this is bad,” Jessup sai
d. “I think this Reaper guy might have something to do with it, not sure.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They didn’t get him in Baku. He’s on an airplane right now headed to Dulles. Weathers and Stone are messed up pretty bad, but they’re on their way back, too. I got them an airplane.”

  She hung up. Bad was not what she needed right now. Everything she had carefully put together needed to stay glued together. This wasn’t Crossfire Hurricane. This was nothing. There was no code name for this non-operation. It was her playing Machiavellian politics in an effort to get the upper hand. All was fair in love and war, as the saying went, and this country was at war with itself. High crimes were being overlooked. Threats directly against the president were okay in today’s political environment.

  She ran through what Jessup had told her and distilled it down to three points. First, the Reaper was a loose end that needed to go away. They had tried to nip that in the bud at the outset, but he had escaped. He had an adoptive daughter. Was there something they could do there? Some leverage? She thought so. Second, someone in Twitter was not cooperating with their longstanding unofficial policy to shut down conservative “conspiracy theorists.” Who might that be? Could it be someone from the FBI? Could it be Bronson and might that be why he invited her tonight? Perhaps. She would play that by ear. Third, someone was feeding information from the government to Maximus Anon. Again, was it possible this was Bronson? Bronson had called to speak with her informally. Was he just hitting on her or was he investigating her? Trying to entrap her? She was accustomed to all the crazy conspiracy theories about her that were tossed around like a beach ball at a Jimmy Buffett concert. The idea that someone would seize upon any one of them—she was a lesbian, she was a man, she was an arms dealer, she was selling intelligence, she had a secret love child—and do anything beyond create more name buzz for her seemed ludicrous.

  But she was concerned.

  She texted Ravenswood: Camera ready. Then meet at your place in an hour.

  He replied immediately, as he was trained to do. Fortunately for Brookes, Ravenswood was in the top-floor penthouse of the condo building next to the restaurant where she had met Bronson.

  She walked back into the dimly lit establishment. It was flush with people of all walks and ages mingling, having dinner, laughing, and shouting. People were enjoying the area that used to be a fisherman’s wharf. Seemed like a good upgrade.

  “Everything okay?” Bronson asked, standing.

  “Yes. As I prepare my campaign, I have more calls than I care to take. But this was essential. Seems we’re polling well in some of the battleground states,” she said. She placed her hand on his knee as they sat in chairs placed at ninety degrees. He looked at her hand then in her eyes. Based on the smoky gaze, Brookes knew what he wanted.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said.

  “Tell me, Special Agent, don’t you usually go for much younger women?” she asked him.

  “I go for intelligent, beautiful women, and you get a solid checkmark in both of those boxes.”

  “Well said.” Brookes smiled, flashing her perfect white teeth at him. She’d chosen a muted red lipstick that accentuated her smile.

  “Seeing how we just met, though, and that I’m a gentleman, I’d like to get to know you a little bit, first.”

  “First? What’s second?” she purred.

  Bronson shifted in his seat, obviously aroused.

  “I like to focus on one thing at a time,” he said.

  “So, what are we focusing on tonight?”

  “Pick your poison,” Bronson said. He smiled. He was a beautiful man, she thought. Shaved head. Caramel skin. Perfect smile. Piercing copper eyes. Stylish dresser.

  “I prefer to focus on you,” she said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Likewise. Where should we do all this focusing you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m sure you have a place in mind,” she said.

  “Well, I live upstairs. We could always enjoy the view along the river.”

  “I’m following your lead tonight,” she said.

  He laid a one hundred dollar bill on the table, nodded at the waitress, who had probably seen him do this move more than once. They took the elevator up to the penthouse and stepped directly into his large apartment. It smelled new. Freshly painted and lacquered. Pristine condition. The view was better than the one Ravenswood had one building over. They stepped onto the balcony and she leaned against the rail. He pressed up behind her and whispered in her ear.

  “Beautiful women are my weakness.”

  She could feel him pressing into her back. He was definitely excited. He placed one hand on her waist and pulled her to him, as he slid his other hand around her throat.

  She turned so that she was facing him, the hand now on her back and the other cupping her neck. He pulled her to him and they kissed. It was a perfect kiss. She was buzzing with excitement. He was deft and gentle, but still firm and seemed to be on the verge of forceful. Mystery combined with anticipation.

  They held the kiss as he slid her dress up her legs and tucked the hem inside her thong. He ran a thumb along her wetness and she shivered. She unzipped his pants and was surprised to find he was commando. He spun her around slowly and slid her thong to the side as he entered her.

  There, on the balcony, they did what Sloane Brookes liked to do—have sex with good-looking, powerful men. This was her secret and she didn’t care if every camera in the world was watching.

  Plus, and more importantly, she was compromising the man in charge of investigating the Camp David Ambush.

  She closed her eyes and rode the wave of pleasure, felt him quicken, and they both released, breathing heavily. He leaned across her back, pulled her hair, and made one final thrust, a knight skewering an opponent.

  Afterward, they were on his sofa, drinking sparkling water.

  “You’re welcome to spend the night,” he said.

  “I’d love to,” she lied. “But I have business to attend to. I’m hopeful we can repeat this soon … and often.”

  “Your wish. My command,” he said, pointing from her to him.

  “I doubt that. You seemed pretty commanding.”

  He walked her to the elevator, they kissed, the doors opened, and she stepped in. Pressing the lobby button, she turned and looked at him. His eyes followed her until the doors snapped shut.

  What was that look? Conquering hero? Satisfaction? This was as close to a random hookup that she had had in a long time, maybe even since her college days.

  She left the lobby of Bronson’s apartment building and received a text from Jessup as she was stepping into the elevator to Ravenswood’s apartment.

  BRONSON MADE A PHONE CALL AS SOON AS YOU LEFT.

  K. WHO?

  TRACING IT. DC NUMBER.

  TELL ME.

  NAME BLOCKED. CAN’T GET IT.

  MAXIMUS ANON?

  MAYBE.

  ANY ADDRESS?

  LET ME WORK IT.

  K

  She stepped into Ravenswood’s apartment.

  “Did you get that?”

  “Did I get it? Yes. Full facial pictures. You shouldn’t have acted like you enjoyed it so much, though,” he said. He showed her his SVR camera and multiple close-up pictures of her and Bronson obviously being intimate on his balcony.

  “Who said I was acting?”

  Ravenswood paused.

  “Don’t be jealous. You know I use my men for my purposes.”

  “Well, this is big. He’s the pivot point on the Camp David thing.”

  Jessup called this time.

  “The number he called was someone named Maxwell Winsome. He’s former army intelligence and was part of the DIA for a bit. I’ve traced his server activity. He’s definitely Maximus Anon. He was wounded in Iraq, lost both legs, and now is on disability in an apartment near Capitol Hill. He sits at home, researches and posts on Twitter. I’ve got the address.”

  She wrote
down the address and handed it to Ravenswood.

  “Make it look like a suicide,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’m calling my physician.”

  * * *

  Ravenswood took his elevator down to the lobby, leaving Brookes in his apartment. He was still seething from watching the FBI agent rail her on the balcony just fifty yards away. Using his camera he snapped away and captured the incriminating evidence as she had requested. He had thought they were going to have a conversation and wanted to capture them talking. He even had a directional microphone, which only picked up her moaning and his grunting.

  He had his share of women, but as a marine who was now out of the service, he was a possessive alpha male. He had nailed Brookes right there in his apartment. She was good. He had felt the power, the conquest. He was fucking a former U.S. senator and current presidential candidate. It had been a rush, but she had been cold, calculating. When they were finished, she was up and out of the bed. It felt more like a transaction than making love, if it was possible to call it that.

  The bitch of it was that he had the goods on Brookes. He knew what she had done and continued to do. He hadn’t wanted any part of her scheme, but had gotten sucked in like he guessed so many other men had. The interesting thing about the way Brookes had let Bronson take her on the balcony was that even though she said she enjoyed herself, she also appeared to struggle and resist, then came the choke hold. Fine acting. She could legitimately blackmail him for rape and expected that she would if it came to that. Meanwhile, I’m calling my physician.

  He shook off the anger and jealousy and retrieved a burner phone from his blazer inside pocket and pressed Dial on the only number in the address book.

  “Hola.”

  “El lugar habitual, ahora.”

  “Sí.”

  He snapped the phone shut and walked four blocks to the Metro. Took the Orange Line to East Falls Church. Keeping his ball cap pulled low over his head, he exited the station and walked four blocks into the dilapidated neighborhood of small, post-World War II, low-slung brick ramblers. He spotted the watchers, who he hoped had been alerted he was on the way. They liked his money and he liked their results.