“To an operative vying for a job with your agency, that sounded like a directive.”
Blunt sighed. “I’m sorry you interpreted things that way. This organization wasn’t designed to pick off political enemies for me or anyone else. It was created to protect the country’s interests.”
“And you’re the one who gets to determine that without anyone watching over your shoulder? What a farce.”
“I’ve never operated within a vacuum. The fact that you think so shows just how little you know about me. You were a great agent, but you have let the freedom you were given go to your head. And now, you’re done.”
“That’s what you—”
Antoine failed to finish his sentence, instead doubling over in pain. He slumped to the floor, his hands still tethered to the table.
“Guard!” Blunt said. “Get in here quick. This man needs some medical attention.”
A pair of guards rushed into the room and began inspecting Antoine. Blunt stepped back and took in the scene. The device attached to Antoine’s belt started beeping.
“He’s diabetic,” Blunt said, remembering that fact about the aspiring Firestorm operative. “Check his blood sugar levels.”
One of the men inspected the readout on Antoine’s belt and then rushed out of the room. Moments later, the guard returned with a candy bar, a piece already halfway unwrapped.
“Here,” he said, handing the snack to Antoine. “Eat this.”
Antoine gobbled it up and remained on the floor for a couple minutes, holding his head in his hands. After he looked up, he checked his device again.
“All better,” he said as he eased back into his seat.
The guards nodded and then exited the room, leaving Blunt alone with Antoine again.
“Before you pass out on me again, I need some answers,” Blunt said.
“How about no,” Antoine said.
“Cute,” Blunt said. “Now, where’s Dr. Matthews?”
“You think I’m just going to give out that information without some sort of quid pro quo?”
“If you’re not willing to work with me, I can’t help you.”
“You are going to help me?”
“Maybe,” Blunt said. “As it stands right now, information about Dr. Matthews’s whereabouts is your only bargaining chip. Use it wisely or you may get stuck in here.”
“If you think that’s my only leverage, you’re sorely mistaken,” Antoine said. “I know all about Blue Moon Rising. It’s going to be the end of you.”
Blunt shook his head. “I don’t care what you think you know about that, it’s wrong. And if you believe that’s going to help you get out of this predicament, you’re gambling with your life.”
Antoine shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just let the public decide.”
“Good luck with that,” Blunt said as he stood. He ambled over to the door, knocked on it, calling for the guards. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about Dr. Matthews’s location, I’ll be ready to listen.”
“Maybe we’ll do it in person since I’ll be out of here before you know it,” Antoine said.
Blunt chuckled. “You truly are delusional, Antoine. Have a nice life.”
“You’re going to pay for everything you’ve done by the time I’m finished,” Antoine said, calling after Blunt.
“Goodbye, Antoine,” Blunt said just before the door slammed shut behind him.
Besserman was waiting in the corridor outside the interrogation room. “How’d it go?”
“I’m not sure he knows anything about Dr. Matthews,” Blunt said. “If he does, he isn’t saying. That’s going to cost him dearly if I learn otherwise.”
Besserman nodded. “We’ll try some other methods to get that intel out of him, but I’m not making any promises.”
“I understand. Just do the best you can.”
Blunt ambled back to the car. He had work to do, especially regarding Blue Moon Rising.
How did Antoine even know about that?
CHAPTER 15
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT YANKED OPEN THE DOOR to the restaurant 1789 and strode up to the host stand. He didn’t have a reservation nor did he want one. While Blunt was hungry, he wasn’t here to eat. One of Senator Wilson Wellington’s new assistants had been far more forthcoming with her boss’s schedule than she should’ve been when Blunt inquired.
Wellington is going to hate this.
The thought made Blunt smile as he asked about Wellington’s whereabouts from the young man at the lectern doling out seating assignments for each dining party.
“The senator and his guest are in the corner,” the man said, nodding toward the back. “But he didn’t say anything about anyone else joining them.”
Blunt shrugged and patted the host on the shoulder. “Maybe it slipped his mind.”
Wellington was seated in a booth with a shapely blonde woman some thirty years his junior. He swilled his wine, smelled it, and then crinkled up his nose before handing the glass back to the waiter.
“It’s chilled too much for my liking,” Wellington said. “Take it back. Bring me back one of your French merlots not a degree cooler than sixty-three. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said before hustling away with the bottle.
Blunt marched up to the table, wearing a faint smile. While he wanted to punch Wellington in the face, Blunt hadn’t become successful in Washington without learning to be diplomatic.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cowboy,” Wellington said, offering his hand to Blunt.
Blunt took the senator’s hand and nodded politely at Katrina Rutherford, the socialite who was at the center of Wellington’s marital scandal several years earlier and was dubbed the “marriage wrecker” by New York tabloids. Including Wellington, she had broken up four D.C. power couples and was unapologetic about it. However, Wellington was the first one she’d decided to settle down with. She tilted her head to one side and mirrored his gesture. And Wellington, ever the spin doctor, had turned his marriage to the beauty into a positive moment in his political career, deploying her to reach out to younger disenfranchised voters. The move had helped him solidify the grip he had on his seat.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, Wilson, but being from Texas doesn’t make you a cowboy,” Blunt said.
Wellington withdrew. “You say that as if you act like I made a disparaging comment. You know I love those Texas ranchers. In fact, I’m about to enjoy the fruits of their labor with a nice filet mignon served with my wine.”
“They do raise the best cattle there,” Blunt said. “But I didn’t come here to talk with you about choice cuts.”
“Then, please, tell me why you’re here, because my lovely bride and I have a lot to catch up on after her recent trip to Naples,” Wellington said.
“Are you sure you want her to stick around for this?”
“Of course,” Wellington said. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.”
Blunt shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tapping the file folder in his hands against his leg. “I just wanted to ask you to rein in Allan Elliott and have him stop this ridiculous hearing.”
Wellington cautiously eyed Blunt and waited a moment before responding. “Do you have something to hide, J.D.?”
“I haven’t done anything I’m ashamed of, if that’s what you mean,” Blunt said. “I’ve only done what my country has asked me to do.”
“Then why are you so worried?”
“Some valuable assets will have their covers blown if this circus is allowed to take place. And you have the power to shut down Elliott’s witch hunt before it gets started.”
The waiter returned to the table, pushing a cart with a wine bottle nestled in an iced pitcher. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Nah,” Wellington said as he scribbled something on a napkin and handed it to Blunt. “Just signing an autograph for a big fan.”
Blunt stepped back to allow the wait
er access to the table. He poured a glass of merlot for Wellington, who immediately screwed up his face and puckered his lips after tasting the drink. He placed the wine stem on the table and dismissed the glass with a wave of the back of his hand.
“I thought I said sixty-three degrees,” Wellington said. “That was at least fifty degrees. Far too cold for any proper wine serving.”
The waiter maintained a straight face before rolling away the cart.
“Would you drink wine that was fifty degrees?” Wellington asked Blunt.
“I wouldn’t drink it at any temperature.”
Wellington pointed at Blunt. “You see, this is why we don’t get along. You don’t even drink wine. That’s just preposterous.”
Blunt flung down the folder on the table. “Not nearly as preposterous as this.”
“What’s that?” Wellington asked, nodding at the documents.
“It’s for your reading pleasure, the kind of thing that will end up ruining your political aspirations, no matter how you try to spin it,” Blunt said. “Maybe you and Katrina can read it together.”
Wellington huffed and shook his head. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”
“Documents that every news media outlet will have if you don’t stop Elliott’s hearing tomorrow.”
“There isn’t anything in there that’s even worth looking at since I don’t have any skeletons in my closet,” Wellington said before leaning back in his seat and interlocking his fingers behind his head.
“Perhaps I should read something from this quote about you, Colonel Wellington,” Blunt said. He picked up the documents and turned to a page near the back.
“Is this really necessary?” Wellington asked.
Blunt ignored him before reading a passage aloud. “Col. Wellington ordered Capt. Black to fly over the area that was designated as a no-fly zone, according to Capt. Miller and Capt. Braxton. The two pilots pleaded with Col. Wellington to rescind his order, but he refused.”
“And the investigation into the matter found no wrong doing on my part,” Wellington said.
Blunt shrugged. “Is that going to matter when the media gets a hold of this? They’re going to cast you as the one who pulled the trigger on a decorated war hero.”
“There’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this, one that I would think someone from the intelligence community could appreciate,” Wellington said. “But apparently you’re not as concerned with keeping secrets as you claim to be.”
“Put an end to Elliott’s hearing, or we’ll let the public decide about your actions.”
“You think Elliott’s my puppet?”
“He’ll listen to you,” Blunt said, “especially since you were the one who put him up to this.”
“This is getting more outlandish by the minute.”
“Is it? Or do you find that the truth stings?”
Wellington shook his index finger at Blunt. “First of all, I never put Elliott up to anything. And secondly, these files you dug up on me don’t amount to much dirt, at least the kind that puts politicians on the defensive. It’s easy to explain why I did what I did, especially in the heat of war.”
“Then why were these records sealed?”
Wellington set his jaw but didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” Blunt said. “You don’t have an answer for that, at least one that anybody is going to believe.”
After a few moments of silence, Wellington spoke. “I’ll consider your request.”
“Thank you,” Blunt said. He pointed at the folder on the table. “You can have that. I have plenty of copies, all ready to go out in the mail first thing in the morning. You have until 10:00 p.m. tonight to decide what you want to do.”
Blunt spun and walked toward the door, confident Wellington would acquiesce to the demands.
But if he didn’t?
Blunt wasn’t sure he had any other options—and that idea scared the hell out of him.
CHAPTER 16
TITUS BLACK ADJUSTED his wig and then fixed his fake mustache. While looking like Thomas Magnum wasn’t all bad, Black hated how the appliqué made his upper lip itch. He checked himself once more in the mirror before climbing out of his car and heading inside Off the Record, his favorite bar to eavesdrop for Washington gossip before he supposedly died. He usually went in disguise, but walking in without one would make people think they’d seen a ghost, not to mention igniting rumors that he was still alive.
As a favorite hangout spot for prominent lawmakers and media members, Off the Record was tucked beneath the Hay-Adams hotel just a half-block from the White House. Black descended the steps and scanned the room. It didn’t take him long to find Melissa Nash, a family friend who’d ascended the ranks at the CIA to become one of the agency’s top analysts. She tucked her straight, brown hair behind her ears and looked up. Her eyes lit up when she saw Black.
“Mr. Jackson,” she said, standing up and offering her hand.
“Please, just call me Luke,” Black said with a subtle wink. “Can I buy you another drink?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m drinking a gin and tonic.”
Black signaled for the waitress, who came over and took his drink orders before scurrying off to the bar.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“Well, don’t believe everything you read. We’ll have to catch up at a different time, maybe in a more secure location. But this couldn’t wait.”
“I understand,” she said, sliding her hand across the table and touching his. He also felt the small device she jammed under his fingertips. “Just being cautious.”
“Of course,” Black said. “Anything else I should know about the information contained on here?”
She shook her head. “I don’t make judgments. That’s your job. I just find what I find and let you put the pieces together. That’s what you’re best at. But everything should be in there for you to figure out what’s what.”
Black nodded and eased the flash drive into his pocket. “For what it’s worth, Melissa, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth about what happened. I know that—”
She held up her hand. “No need to apologize. We’re in the same line of work. And I think it’s safe to say that we understand both the risks involved as well as the limitations on what can be said. It’s why we could never be together.”
“I do wish things could’ve been different.”
She shrugged. “We both chose this life. And we knew the sacrifice that went along with it. No need to pine over the past.”
Black nodded. “Thanks for this. I have to get going.”
He threw a fifty dollar bill on the table and stood.
“Be careful,” she said. “What I found, there are some powerful people connected to that group. If you start poking around—”
Her words trailed off, her insinuation clear.
“I’ll watch my back,” he said. “And thanks for the heads up.”
Black spun toward the door and sauntered off. He drove straight to Shields’s apartment, accessing her place through a private elevator on the lower deck of the parking garage. She was sipping a cup of tea while leaning against her kitchen counter when he walked in.
“What’d she give you?” she asked.
“This flash drive,” he said, holding up the device. “She said all the information on here should help us make a decision about what to do.”
“And she didn’t tell you anything one way or the other?”
Black shook his head. “Melissa’s an analyst. She looks at the data. According to her, that’s all she does.”
“I know that’s a lie,” Shields said.
“Well, that’s what she said. But she also issued a warning that the people connected with Blue Moon Rising were powerful people and to be careful.”
Shields held her hand out. “Enough talk. Let’s see what’s on there.”
Black placed the flash drive in her hand, a
nd then she jammed the device into the side port on her laptop. Then she clicked on a folder and scanned a list of files. One by one, Shields clicked on them. After perusing the data on the first few spreadsheets, she whistled.
“Look at this,” she said, pointing at the screen. “There’s a lot of money running through this company.”
“No kidding,” Black said. “So, where’s it going?”
“Private bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, according to this corresponding file,” she said.
“That doesn’t exactly tell us anything,” he said. “Blue Moon is giving money to people who don’t want anyone to know they’re getting money. Certainly not a novel idea, nor is it criminal.”
Shields gasped. “Wait a minute. Look at this name.”
Black squinted at the small font on the screen, peering closer to it. He furrowed his brow. “I don’t recognize that one.”
“You don’t?” Shields asked, her fingers flying furiously on the keyboard. “Check this out.” She hit the return key and tilted the screen toward Black.
Black’s eyes widened. “Oh, now that is a name I’m familiar with—Andrei Orlovsky.”
“Yep, Andrew Olson is the alias he uses during his transactions with the West.”
Black shook his head. “What on Earth would Blunt be funneling money to Orlovsky for?”
“It’s not just Blunt,” she said. “He’s not the only one whose name is listed on the articles of incorporation.”
Black scanned the list. “What are we getting ourselves into here?”
“I don’t know,” Shields said, “but I’m not sure this helps us get to the bottom of anything.”
Black sighed. “Maybe the bottom of some muddied waters. I’ve got an uneasy feeling about this.”
“That makes two of us,” Shields said.
CHAPTER 17
BLUNT PACED AROUND his library, gnawing on a cigar. He checked his watch, and it was two minutes before the deadline he’d given Sen. Wellington. As someone with aspirations of ascending to the highest office in the land, Wellington would struggle to weather a political storm that cast him as a nefarious military commander. The public sentiment toward the military was a mixed bag. The overwhelming majority of the American people were proud of their soldiers, but there was a vocal minority who felt the military was full of corrupt leaders after a rash of scandals. And the loudest of those people all seemed to occupy seats behind news desks on just about every cable television network. Risking such a story breaking as Capitol Hill swirled with rumors that Wellington had formed an exploratory committee regarding the upcoming election could torpedo his run before it ever got off the ground.
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