Brady Hawk 07 - State of Play

by R. J. Patterson

  “Be careful, Hawk.”

  Hawk crept toward the front of the house and heard the two agents engaged in a conversation with another familiar voice. It was Mrs. Norton. He also heard a high-pitched bark in the background.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs.—” one of the agents said.

  “Mrs. Betty Norton.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Betty Norton, I’m sorry that no one notified you about this service call, but we’re authorized to be here.”

  Mrs. Norton was persistent. “Without a key? I find that very hard to believe.”

  “I can assure you that we’ve been given permission.”

  “Have you? Well, let me just call the building superintendent and find out.”

  “No, no,” said one of the agents. “He wouldn’t know about us. We spoke directly with the owner of the building.”

  “How about I just call the police and then Jennifer Whitten? I’m sure they’d all love to know about your entering her apartment without permission.”

  The dog continued to bark.

  “Okay, fine,” one of the agents said. “Just forget it. We’ll go get the building superintendent so you know that we’re here on official business and allowed to be here.”

  “What kind of official business? I’ve never seen a cable guy dressed like that.”

  “We’re here to give her a quote for her floor.”

  Mrs. Norton grunted. “Never seen a contractor dressed like that either.”

  “You just go walk your little fluffy dog, Mrs. Norton,” the other agent said. “We’ll have all the people here who can give us keys and provide proper authorization to satisfy your conscience.”

  “If you think you’re getting off that easy, buddy, you’ve got another thing coming,” Mrs. Norton said. “I’m not going anywhere until I see the superintendent.”

  “We’ll be back,” one of the men said.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she snipped.

  Hawk hustled over to the closet where Alex was still hiding.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Good news, bad news. The good news is the agents are gone for now. The bad news is they’re coming back.”

  “Then let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Hawk sighed. “Well, there’s one little problem—Mrs. Norton is still in the hallway and is waiting until they return. Got any ideas how we can get rid of her?”

  Alex smiled. “I think I do.” She scrolled through her phone and called up all the information she’d gleaned from the hack the night before.

  “You ready to go?” she asked Hawk while rushing toward the computer and snatching out the flash drive.

  “I’m not going anywhere until Mrs. Norton is out of the hallway.”

  Alex grinned again and tapped on the screen of her phone. Seconds later, Hawk heard a phone ringing down the hall, followed by Mrs. Norton complaining. Her voice faded as she grumbled.

  Hawk cracked the door open. “Let’s go left.” He checked the hallway, and it was clear. Hawk quietly shut the door behind them, making sure it was locked. They both hustled toward the end of the hall and darted into the stairwell.

  Two minutes later, they were sitting in their delivery van and pulling out of the building.

  “What happens if those agents get inside? They’re going to find the files, aren’t they?” Hawk asked.

  “I hid the files and protected them with a password,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t let Jennifer twist in the wind for me like that. It’s obvious now that she was trying to protect us in the park.”

  “That restores a small sliver of my faith in humanity.”

  “Don’t listen to what’s on this file then. I’m sure it will all be destroyed after that.”

  Hawk shook his head and scowled. “I’ll be handling those men a different way.”

  “But a legal one, right? Remember, we agreed,” she said.

  He grunted and kept driving.

  ***

  ONCE THEY RETURNED to their apartment and listened to the recording, they were both shocked at the frank nature of the conversation but not at the topic. Hawk knew he’d been targeted by someone in the U.S. government, though he never knew who it was. The damning evidence on the file ended those questions.

  Alex called Angela Brentwood and arranged to meet her at a coffee shop several blocks from their apartment. Brentwood confirmed that she’d be there within the hour.

  “Did you make a backup?” Hawk asked.

  Alex nodded. “Made three. I’m going to go bury one in the park right now. Want to join me?”

  “Of course.”

  In less than half an hour, they buried a file in a prominent spot they could direct someone to if necessary. They then headed for the coffee shop, passing the time by discussing their latest favorite Bollywood movie. Hawk insisted that Airlift was the best recent movie, while Alex liked the drama Dear Zindagi.

  “I thought you’d get tired of war-time portrayals of the Middle East,” Alex said.

  Hawk shrugged. “A good story is a good story.”

  “And Airlift was a better story than Dear Zindagi? Please.”

  “Everybody has their subjective preferences as to what constitutes good.”

  “I don’t care if you like action adventure stories over complex dramas, but at least be honest about it.”

  Hawk held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Guilty as charged. I also like a good rom-com too.”

  “As should everyone.”

  When they arrived at the coffee shop, Brentwood was already there waiting on them. Hawk and Alex both glanced around at the patrons, attempting to identify if anyone was out of place. A businesswoman furiously typed on her computer with a stack of realtor cards set out neatly on the edge of the table. A college student with ear buds loudly Skyped with a friend. Two elderly men appeared engaged in a political debate. A mother wrangled two pre-school aged children while on a phone call.

  Looks like the usual suspects.

  They all settled at a table in the back corner after ordering their drinks.

  “This doesn’t need any introduction,” Alex said as she handed a pair of ear buds to Brentwood. “Just listen.”

  Brentwood jammed the small knobs into her ears and nodded at Alex, who pressed the button to play the recording over her laptop. It didn’t take long for Brentwood’s eyes to widen then bulge, followed by her mouth falling agape. When the recording ended, she slowly handed the ear buds back to Alex.

  “Whoa,” Brentwood said.

  “I told you.”

  Brentwood nodded. “This is going to make this city come unhinged.”

  “It’s also going to make you a superstar in the world of journalism,” Hawk added. “Now, how would you like to make the world forget about Woodward and Bernstein?”

  Brentwood took a sip of her drink before responding. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Portree, Isle of Skye

  Scotland

  BLUNT HAD JUST FINISHED receiving an update from Hawk and Alex when he decided to fix a pot of tea and wind down his day. It was just after 11:00 p.m., and he’d grown tired of reading all the online articles designed to incite hysteria surrounding American politics. Blunt was under no illusion that the country’s political scene used to be more cordial. He was a learned student of American history and understood how contentious policy debates had always been, beginning with George Washington and the Federalists against Anti-Federalist candidate George Clinton.

  Such partisan rancor had persisted under fairly peaceful terms since the infancy of the U.S., serving as a touchstone of the country’s freedom. However, such debates also ripped families apart, leading to the widespread advice in American culture that it’s best to avoid talk of politics and religion. Blunt winced as he witnessed such civility erode with the rise of social media where anyone could be vociferous about their opinion.

  Blunt closed his computer and shook his head.

  “People just don’t kno
w when to stop,” he grumbled aloud to himself.

  He steeped a tea bag in his mug of hot water and followed the wisps of steam rising upward. The wind had been blowing strong across the sound since he finished eating his dinner more than four hours ago. The chimes clanked against the side of the house as rain pelted the roof.

  Carefully lowering himself into the recliner in the living room, Blunt got comfortable before picking up his mug. He blew across the top of it in hopes of cooling down the herbal drink enough so that he could enjoy it.

  Blunt savored the moment, one quiet enough to contemplate his next move. Truth be told, he was enjoying his time in Portree, the largest village on the breathtaking Isle of Skye. But Blunt didn’t want to stay here forever. He still had work to do—terrorists to root out, conspiring cabals to topple, a world to make safe.

  A large bang against the backdoor startled Blunt so much that he spilled a small portion of his drink on his lap. He lumbered toward the kitchen to grab a towel to dry himself off when he heard what sounded like someone rapping on the front door.

  Blunt set the towel down and fished his gun out of the kitchen drawer. He skulked around the corner in an effort to catch a glimpse at who might be knocking at this time of night. The sound of glass breaking in the kitchen arrested Blunt’s attention. With his back to the wall, he edged toward the noise, only to be jarred again when he heard the sound of his front door being kicked in.

  Blunt decided he’d be better off shooting first and asking questions later. He spun and charged back toward the front door, his gun pointed out directly in front of him. As Blunt came around the corner, he was ambushed. A man in a suit shoved Blunt against the wall, disorienting him. Blunt made a half-hearted attempt to punch the man, but Blunt’s wild swing was greeted by a vicious fist to the face, knocking him out.

  When Blunt regained consciousness, he was reclining on the couch. He looked up at a half dozen men who stood over him.

  “As I live and breathe,” the man said. “It’s J.D. Blunt.”

  Still out of sorts, Blunt squinted and shook his head. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I think you know who we are,” the man said, displaying his CIA credentials in one hand. “And what we want is for you to join us on a little plane ride.”

  “Where are we going?” Blunt mumbled.

  “It’s not about where we’re going, but what we’re going to do,” the man said. “And, Mr. Senator, we’re going to get justice.”

  CHAPTER 33

  ANGELA BRENTWOOD WELCOMED Harry Bozeman into one of The Washington Post’s conference rooms designed for studio-style interviews. Printed words were important, but so were videos. The Post editors placed heavy burdens on their reporters when it came to social media, and they realized creating such spaces for important interviews were not only helpful but also necessary.

  Bozeman finger combed his hair and settled into the chair opposite of the camera. He interlocked his fingers and fidgeted in his seat.

  “Can I get you something? A bottle of water, perhaps?” Brentwood asked with a smile. As in any interview, she aimed to set the subject at ease. However, Bozeman appeared distant and nervous—and none of Brentwood’s efforts calmed him.

  Brentwood stepped from behind the camera. “You’re okay with me recording this, right?”

  “You have my full permission,” Bozeman said.

  “Excellent,” she said as she settled into her chair across from him. “Let’s begin.”

  Bozeman slowly wiped his hands on the side of his pants and smiled, one Brentwood thought looked forced. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Now, I’m assuming you know what this story is about.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been briefed.”

  “Great. I just wanted to get your story out, the real story about what happened to you while you were missing in Rome, like who took you and why and how you escaped. We’ve heard pieces of your story, but not all of it straight from your mouth. And that’s what I’d like to capture today for our readers and viewers.”

  “That all sounds fine with me. I’ll be happy to tell you what you want to know.”

  Brentwood took a deep breath and stared at the papers in her hands. “Before we jump with those questions, I do have a few other questions for you about another topic right now related to your role at the White House.”

  “Okay. If it’s something I’m authorized to talk about, I’ll do my best to answer.”

  “As you know, President Michaels has some near historic-low approval ratings as he gears up to seek re-election next year. To what extent do you blame these numbers on the increased terror attacks on U.S. soil over the past year?”

  Bozeman shifted in his seat and propped his elbows on the chair’s arms. “There’s no denying that terrorist groups such as Al Hasib are becoming more aggressive and even brazen in their attacks, so I’m not surprised that people feel unsafe. But as I’ve directly spoken with the president about these issues and advised him on how to address them, the bottom line remains that we’ve stopped these attacks from killing innocent people. Meanwhile, we’re aggressively pursuing them through intelligence measures in the Middle East.”

  Brentwood resisted the urge to smile as she knew her hook was firmly set. “Now that’s interesting that you say that, Mr. Bozeman, because I got access to something that I want to play for you and get your comment on.”

  She opened her laptop and tapped on the keyboard until the audio file began playing. The voices of Bozeman and President Michaels came through the speakers as the two of them engaged in a conversation about the best method to jolt Michaels’s approval ratings upward.

  Bozeman: If you want to see spikes in recent presidencies, just look at what happened when Saddam Hussein was caught or Osama Bin Laden. Huge waves of favorable ratings.

  Michaels: This is an idea I can get behind. How do you propose going about and making this happen?

  Bozeman: Glad you asked. I’ve got just the plan. First, we use a bit of intelligence we recently collected about an arms sale between Al Hasib’s Karif Fazil and weapons dealer Malik Bashir. We send one of our operatives to kill Bashir and pose as him with Fazil, who has never seen a picture of the reclusive arms dealer. Then, we seize the missiles and capture Fazil. It’s a big win-win. We can even use the missiles to stage future failed terrorist attacks.

  Michaels: What about the operative? What if he doesn’t play along?

  Bozeman: There are ways of dealing with him.

  Michaels: Such as?

  Bozeman: Perhaps we’ll brand him as a traitor after an elite team of agents sweeps in and ties up all the loose ends.

  Michaels: I like it.

  Brentwood studied Bozeman’s face during the recording. His expression slowly transformed from shock to rage.

  “I also have information from a trusted source that you also enabled the attack on Nationals Park several months back. Care to comment on any of this?”

  Bozeman pointed at the camera. “Turn that off right now.”

  Standing, Brentwood walked behind the camera and tapped a button. Bozeman leaped out of his seat and walked behind the camera.

  “What are you doing, sir?” she asked.

  “Delete that file, and I need you to get rid of that audio file immediately. It’s a matter of national security.”

  “I can hardly agree with you,” she said. “Based on your own comments, to me it sounds like you and President Michaels are as big of a threat to national security as any terrorists are.”

  Bozeman faced her and shook his finger in her face as he spoke. “I don’t know where you got that recording from or who doctored that up to make it sound like my voice, but that wasn’t me or the president. This administration does everything above board. That file was completely fabricated.”

  Brentwood gestured toward Bozeman’s chair. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Bozeman. I’m not here to attack you. I simply want to hear your side of the story like the one you’re giving me r
ight now.”

  Bozeman’s scowl had become permanent, one he seemed to wear proudly as he continued with her line of questioning. He slowly eased back into his chair.

  “Now, I will admit that I’m not a voice expert, and if I’d heard this from a disgruntled former federal employee of the White House, I would’ve dismissed it with a wave of my hand. But then I read the report out of Saudi Arabia about the raid on Malik Bashir’s hideout and the capture of the missiles.” She paused for effect. “Something went wrong, didn’t it? Maybe your operative wasn’t compliant with pulling the wool over the eyes of the American people?”

  “Now you’re just slinging wild accusations like an irresponsible member of the press. It’s probably why you spend half your time tweeting inane blog posts about Kim Kardashian’s weak links to some political story.”

  Brentwood’s eyes widened.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I did my homework on you before I came, half expecting this type of bullshit interview. I know what kind of pathetic journalist you are. You failed miserably by printing lies, and The New York Times kicked you to the curb. Now you’re just peddling click bait.”

  But Brentwood didn’t flinch. “Your personal observations about my career aside, would you finally care to comment on the story?”

  Bozeman leaped from his chair and charged toward the camera. He knocked it over and then picked up the tripod and began smashing it against the ground until broken pieces of plastic littered the floor. He opened the door containing the camera’s flash drive and yanked it out.

  “If you ever post that fake conversation that sounds like me and the president, I swear I’ll do everything I can to make sure you end up at Gitmo,” Bozeman said, pointing at her for emphasis. “And don’t ever call me again if you know what’s good for you.”

  Bozeman stormed out of the conference room, rattling the walls as he slammed the door shut behind him.

  In his haste to get out of the office, Bozeman never saw Brentwood’s phone in the corner, which streamed the entire interview live to thousands of viewers.

  CHAPTER 34