The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  0DD17Y: Prove you know Bluefish

  Goshawk tidied the kitchen, fed the dog, and refilled her tea before a ding sounded. When she saw the response, she sat up.

  Achurincro: His office is down the hall from mine I’m on his team

  Goshawk chewed on her lip.

  0DD17Y: Why do you want to give him up?

  Achurincro: Ever tried to raise a family on a government salary?

  0DD17Y: That the only reason?

  Achurincro: My reasons are my own

  0DD17Y: 50 BTC

  Achurincro: I’m not risking my life for less than 80 BTC. How will you use this information?

  Everyone has their price.

  0DD17Y: That’s my business, especially at 80 BTC

  Achurincro: How do I know it won’t blow back on me?

  0DD17Y: You don’t, that’s how these things work

  Goshawk left her chair to use the bathroom, change into a flowing silk robe, and touch up her toenail polish. She was tossing a romaine salad together with a Dijon vinaigrette when the ding sounded again, so she carried the wooden salad bowl to the computer and munched on the greens while she read.

  Achurincro: Okay, we’re on.

  A long string of characters and a web address allowed Goshawk to access an encrypted private escrow account.

  She made the bitcoin transfer and sent Achurincro a confirmation.

  The salad was gone, the kitchen tidied, and a bottle of Domaine Abbatucci General de la Revolution Blanc, whose herbal notes brought to mind the maquis, was half gone before Achurincro got back to her.

  A long string of numbers appeared in the chat window that was a web address in the Dark Web, one that didn’t have the domain name service associated to make it recognizable by a human. She copied the URL and pasted it into a secure browser and was presented with a folder on an Apache web server. After clicking it, she was presented with a series of .txt files with names that indicated encryption.

  Another ding sounded, and a long string of alphanumeric characters—an encryption key—appeared in the chat window. She clicked on the first .txt file and copied the string of alphanumeric characters into the resulting pop-up window, which decrypted the file. When the contents of the .txt file appeared on her screen, she sucked in her breath. After decrypting the rest of the files, she saved them to her own secure server before sending the password to release the escrowed funds.

  Achurincro: Nice doing business with you, stay in touch

  0DD17Y: I just might

  Goshawk sat back in her chair, a mixture of elation and raw fear pulsing through her. If Bluefish was indeed who Achurincro said he was, the eighty Bitcoin was money well spent. Rising, she walked into her bedroom and fished the Glock pistol from underneath her pillow. She racked the slide and checked the magazine before chambering a round.

  I think I’ll carry this around for a while.

  Thirty-One

  London, England

  Cindy’s voice cut through the cabin. “Look at this!”

  Max jumped, now awake. Cindy pointed at her laptop screen, and both Max and Baxter got up from their chairs to get a better look.

  She turned the machine so they could see. “This was in my Twitter feed, where I track a bunch of hashtags.”

  The Daily Mail @MailOnline

  Breaking: Piper Montgomery, US CIA director, has been declared missing. A spokeswoman confirms that the Agency’s head has been missing for three days. Foul play is suspected.

  A recent image of Piper Montgomery in a pantsuit with her hair pulled up under a broad-brimmed hat, walking next to the American president, accompanied the tweet. Cindy turned the computer back around and clicked the link in the Tweet before reading aloud.

  CIA DIRECTOR MISSING

  Tom Bower for the Daily Mail

  Published: 18:00 EDT, 6 November 2018

  WASHINGTON - The director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Piper Montgomery, has been reported missing. The story broke in the New York Times and was confirmed by an Agency spokeswoman but offered no additional details, citing national security concerns.

  According to the New York Times, two members of Ms. Montgomery’s security detail were found dead from gunshot wounds. Their bodies were discovered at the entrance of Whitehaven Parkway on a path frequented by the director on her morning runs. The director’s body was nowhere to be found, leading investigators to believe she was kidnapped. It is unknown whether any contact between the kidnappers and officials has occurred.

  The article went on to describe Montgomery’s long and distinguished career as a six-term Maryland senator and chairwoman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence before her recent appointment as director of the CIA. She was hailed as a reformer, a no-holds-barred fighter for what she believed, and a skillful administrator who enjoyed the ear of the president.

  Max smirked. “Looks like Spencer got to her.”

  Baxter held one of the Lear’s secure telephones to his ear while he talked in a hushed voice. Cindy was busy clicking and reading.

  After picking up one of the Lear’s secure satphones, Max dialed a long string of digits and put the phone to his ear. A series of clicks came through the headset before a droning ring sounded.

  After three rings, Goshawk picked up. “Go.”

  “Nice. How about great to hear your voice—”

  A snort. “I’m busy. What do you—”

  “Did you see the news? What do you know that the newspapers aren’t reporting?”

  Rapid typing in the background. “Yeah, sugar. That’s why I’m busy. I can’t raise him.”

  “He’s probably just busy interrogating that bitch. You know how—”

  A huff in the phone. “No. That’s not it. He disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They made the snatch—”

  Max held up a hand. “Wait. Who’s they?”

  “An old war buddy of his. Drove the getaway van.”

  The back of his head hit the headrest. “An amateur. Great.”

  In the background came more clacking on a keyboard. “You wouldn’t help him. What else was he supposed to do?”

  He frowned. Everything’s my fault. “Fine. Go on.”

  “Had her under interrogation for two days and made all his check-ins until about two hours ago. He missed that one, and now I can’t get a signal on his mobile phone.”

  “What about this accomplice? Do you have a name?”

  The typing stopped. “Working on it.”

  Standing, Max paced the Lear’s aisle. “I’ll stay on. See if you can roust the guy.”

  Baxter took the phone from his ear and typed on a small laptop.

  Max waved at him. “Anything?”

  Baxter talked while he typed. “I called an old friend at the CIA who sounded rattled. Apparently, this has never happened before. Protocols are in place, but he’s afraid to talk to me right now. Said he’ll call back.”

  Max put his phone on speaker so Baxter and Cindy could hear. “Can this plane get us to the States?”

  Goshawk’s voice came through. “Sugar, I got the accomplice. Name’s Knuckles. I’ll conference him in.”

  Max groaned. “Knuckles? What kind of name—"

  Clicks and whirs were heard through the headset before a crusty voice came on the line. The man talked at such a pace that Max had trouble following. “Whoa there, partner. Slow down. Start at the beginning.”

  “We had her in a safe house,” Knuckles said. “Spence was... Wait. Is this line secure?”

  Goshawk sighed. “Of course.”

  The man’s voice broke several times as he talked. “Spencer was getting through to her. He had her on the ropes, man. On the ropes. We stopped to give her a rest, and that’s when it happened, man. Four paramilitary dudes stormed the safe house. I thought they were going to mow us down, like they were CIA or FBI or somepin’. But they took ’em both, man. This was no leo raid.”

  “What’s a leo raid?” Max asked
.

  A groan. “Law enforcement, man. Shit.”

  Max leaned his elbows on his knees. “How did you escape?”

  Knuckles sucked in his breath. “One minute I was staring at blank screens, the next minute the house was full of commandos. I was conked on the head and went out. When I came to, the house was empty. Everyone was gone.”

  Baxter rolled his eyes.

  “Describe what they were wearing,” Max said. “Any markings or insignia?”

  Rapid breathing came through the phone. “All black uniforms. Negative on the insignia, man.”

  Max eyed Baxter. “Okay. Knuckles, right? Slow down and breathe.”

  Two deep breaths were heard through the phone. “Okay.”

  “What were their skin color?”

  “Masked,” Knuckles said. “Gloves. I couldn’t tell.”

  “Helmets?”

  Siren’s sounded in the distance, and Knuckles took a minute to answer. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you search the safe house after?” Max asked.

  “Negative. I got the hell outa there, man.”

  Max leaned back in his chair. “How long ago was this?”

  Silence for a beat. “Twenty hundred Eastern, sir.”

  Max looked at his watch and did the math. Three hours ago.

  The million-dollar question. “Did you learn anything from Montgomery? Anything at all?

  “Naw, man. But she was breaking, man. I know it. Spence was close. I could feel it.”

  “Where are you now?”

  He mentioned the name of a no-tell motel in Northern Washington, DC. “Not sure if I can go back to my place. Not sure what to do.”

  Max waved at Baxter, who got up and disappeared into the cockpit. “Sit tight. We’ll be there in ten hours.”

  A moment later the Lear made a hard bank to the west.

  Thirty-Two

  Washington, DC

  “The American’s call this thin ice.” Baxter scowled at the dark city through the vehicle’s window. “And we’re on it.”

  Max looked up from his mobile phone, which he had used to try to raise Knuckles since they landed. No luck. Buildings flashed by in the darkness, their lights twinkling in the raindrops on the vehicle’s window. They were in the rear of a SUV speeding through the rain-soaked streets of the American capital. Baxter sat in the middle bench while Max and Cindy were in the third row, the latter typing furiously on a laptop tethered to a secure cellular connection. The driver was standard livery from the British Embassy, while a young MI6 man rode shotgun. They were ten minutes out from the Crown Motel located in Washington’s Brookland neighborhood.

  Max removed an MI6-provided Glock 9mm from a shoulder holster and checked the mag before slipping it back underneath his leather jacket. “How so?”

  “We’re violating about a hundred different intelligence protocols and probably a few laws. Starting with failing to inform our counterparts at Langley.”

  Max scoffed. “We had a protocol at the KGB. It was called never alert the locals that we were there.”

  “And how’d that work out for you?”

  Leaning forward, Max held Baxter’s gaze. “We got a lot done without interference and red tape. Besides, about the worst thing we can do is alert the CIA to our presence. They’ve got Kate.”

  Baxter’s toe tapped a fast rhythm on the SUV’s carpet. “Second on the list of offenses is bringing in a rogue agent—”

  Max dismissed him with a wave. “As my father used to say, this is what’s for dinner.”

  The MI6 agent in the passenger seat, an Oxford man named Harris, who was still fighting a rash of acne, turned around. “Two minutes out, sir.”

  The team was quiet until they turned into the empty parking lot of the Crown Motel. Two letters on the neon sign were out so it read Crow M tel. The pavement was in disrepair, and the roof sagged over the inn’s tiny office. A yellow light glowed from one office window. A Harley Davidson motorcycle was parked outside the door of room 221, but otherwise the parking lot was empty. Max pointed to the motorcycle. “Over there.”

  They piled out, except for the driver, who left the SUV running, and Cindy, who was glued to her laptop. As Max walked by the motorcycle, he put his hand near the exhaust pipe and found it cold. He hoped his failure to raise the former marine meant he was sleeping or had stepped out to get food. As he approached the door of room 221, he drew his pistol out of habit. Sirens rang in the distance.

  When Max touched the handle, the door creaked as it swung open on dry hinges. “Knuckles?” Don’t fucking shoot me.

  Chemicals, raw sewage, and heavy perfume, along with moist and fetid heat hit him in the face. Did someone leave the shower on? He stepped in with his gun drawn while Harris was behind him, similarly armed.

  The hotel room only had space for a queen-sized bed, a chair, and a credenza with a television. The bed was stripped of its sheets, and a muted television displayed a grainy image of a war movie. A window air conditioner hung askew at the back of the room, and a chair with ripped upholstery lay sideways on a threadbare carpet. A steam radiator chugged and rattled in one corner on its highest setting.

  Harris groaned. “Oh, man.”

  Oh man indeed.

  In the center of the bed was a naked man, between sixty-five and seventy years old, a faded tattoo of the POW*MIA symbol on one shoulder, his chest unmoving. A length of rubber tubing was wrapped around his elbow, just below his bicep, and a syringe was stuck into his forearm. More drug paraphernalia was on the round Formica table within the dead man’s reach. His prick was limp but encased in a condom. A canvas duffle bag overflowing with clothing sat on the floor near the bathroom.

  Max checked the bathroom while Harris looked under the bed to make sure the room was empty.

  “Latex gloves?” Max asked while he stuck his face near to the dead man’s mouth to ensure there was no breath.

  Harris disappeared out the door while Baxter stuck his head in the room. “Oh, bloody hell. We shouldn’t be here.”

  Harris returned and tossed Max a pair of black latex gloves. “Pretty obvious what happened here, don’t you think? Heroin and a hooker. Man overdoses. Hooker bolts, leaving the door open.”

  Max snapped on the gloves. “That’s what they want you to think.” He examined the man’s arms and looked closely between his fingers before raising each foot to check between his toes.

  Harris stooped next to Max. “What are you looking for?”

  Max let a leg drop back to the mattress. “This man was not a drug user. Junkies like to hide their needle marks between their fingers or in the webbing between their toes. I see no evidence of drug use, other than the needle stuck in his arm.” He rooted through the contents of the duffle bag. “Search the room, Harris. Look for a mobile phone or a computer or anything of that nature.”

  The sirens grew louder as Baxter rapped his fist on the doorjamb. “We can’t be here when the cops get here.”

  A quick but thorough search revealed no devices. Max gazed around the room but saw nothing else of interest. “This smacks of a professional job.”

  Baxter snapped his fingers. “Let’s go. Now!”

  The three men piled into the SUV and the driver floored the accelerator and spun the wheel, sending them over a curb and onto a dark side street. As the hotel disappeared behind them, three DC patrol cars roared into the Crown Motel’s parking lot, lights flashing.

  “Poor Knuckles,” Max muttered. “He deserved better.”

  Thirty-Three

  Fort Meade, Maryland

  The soldiers on duty at the south gate of Fort Meade didn’t blink twice when, at zero three thirty on a blustery November morning, a figure jogged toward the gate, his distinctive jerky gait marking him as Lieutenant General Vincent “Vinny” Brown, USMC. The squad guarding the gate came to attention while their team leader gave the order to raise the barrier. As the three-star general lumbered through on one of his legendary early morning ten milers wearing nothing but
shorts, a general issue sweatshirt, a stocking cap, and a small hydration pack on his back, the soldiers all shook their heads in amazement.

  South of the tangle of government buildings, the rows of stark dormitories, and the forest of white satellite dishes that populate the US Army base and the National Security Agency’s headquarters lay the Patuxent Research Refuge, a 12,800-acre wildlife area managed by the US Fish and Wildlife Service. Gusts of snow, blown by a harsh Maryland nor’easter, swirled around the general’s feet as he ran south and ducked onto a trail that disappeared into the hickory and dogwood thicket of the refuge. Even though his combat boots were quiet on the dirt trail, he spooked a snowy egret from her perch next to a frosted pond.

  The general had been stationed at Fort Meade long enough to remember when the north tract of the reserve was US Army property. This was before President Clinton exercised a general reduction in army bases and 1,800 acres were given to the refuge. As General Brown exited the army base proper, he picked up his pace and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The trail stretched straight west from the gate, covered in places by a thin layer of blown snow, and he soon left the army base behind.

  As the deputy commander for Support of the United States Cyber Command (USCYBERCOM), Vinny Brown had intimate knowledge of Fort Meade’s security systems. His daily runs through the refuge over the years gave him a detailed familiarity of the wildlife area’s hidden nooks and crannies. He switched the headlamp off and allowed his eyes to grow accustom to the dusky moonlight as he followed a trail he knew well.

  An hour into his run, the general halted when the trail paralleled a small stream. Shrugging off his hydration pack, he pretended to rummage while looking in both directions. Convinced he was alone, he ducked off the path and scrambled up a rocky incline. If one looked closely, they might notice the vegetation and limestone scrabble was recently disturbed.