The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  The top of the bluff allowed him an unimpeded view over the tops of the trees. The lights of the base to the north and Washington, DC to the south glowed in the gray morning sky. He squatted on his haunches and removed a small satellite telephone from a compartment in his hydration pack and touched the ON button. As the satphone warmed up, he took out a small device from the pack, about the size of a cigarette box, with a mini USB dongle attached. This he plugged into a port on the satphone and toggled a switch on the box. Lastly, he connected a small tablet computer encased in a protective covering to the phone via a cable. After the gear was warmed up and connected, he dialed a long string of digits on the satellite phone.

  It took a while for the signal to bounce through three orbiting satellites, connect to a ground station in Germany, and speed through six firewall-protected servers in Iceland. While the general waited, a northern long-eared bat darted and weaved above him.

  Not for a moment did General Brown think his actions were treasonous. He was a patriot to the core, a lifelong marine, and he loved his country, having demonstrated a willingness to put his life on the line for her through a dozen deployments in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Somalia. Someone’s gotta fight for this country. The damn president sure isn’t.

  The voice that came over the satellite phone was scratchy and garbled. “Ni hao?”

  General Brown spoke into a microphone located on the small box attached to the satellite phone. The box scrambled his voice, turning it into a metallic drone, making it impossible for either a recipient or a recording device to discern his true voice pattern. Brown answered the Chinese salutation in English. “I believe you and I have a common query.”

  Static came over the transmission. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Brown grimaced. “You may call me Bluefish.”

  Silence.

  “I believe you are hunting for a woman named Kate Shaw,” Brown said. “We can help each other.”

  “How do you know that? Who is this? How’d you get this number?”

  He glanced around the bluff. Nothing moved. “Doesn’t matter, but you’d be wise to listen.”

  A string of expletives filled his earpiece. General Brown narrowed his eyes at the cursing but did not interrupt. When it was over, he said, “I take it that is a yes?” Brown didn’t wait for an answer. “As a show of good faith, I’m willing to provide you with some information that will help you.”

  The other end of the line was silent for so long, he thought she’d hung up.

  When the voice answered, it was surprisingly strong. “I don’t need your help.”

  A throaty chuckle erupted from deep in his sternum. “Of course you don’t. You’re a highly effective and well-trained operative. I’ve followed your career with interest for many years. You’re secretive, but I know some things. I know where you call home. I have access to your bank accounts. I—”

  “Enough. You made your point.”

  “I know a few other things. I know where Kate Shaw is.”

  “So stop yammering and tell me so I can get on with it.”

  “I need something in return.”

  “Tell me.” Her voice was urgent.

  “Mikhail Asimov dead. You make that happen, I’ll give you Kate Shaw’s location.”

  “No problem. How do I get ahold of you?”

  General Brown tapped his finger on his thigh. “Stay by your phone. I’ll be in touch.” He severed the connection, stowed his gear, and resumed his run, his grim expression having nothing to do with the exertion from his exercise.

  Thirty-Four

  Washington, DC

  “We should get rooms at a Hampton Inn instead.” Baxter paced the plush carpet of the expansive three-room suite. “They watch my damn budget like a hawk.”

  Fresh from a shower, Max shrugged on a T-shirt. “Forget it. Life is too short to stay in crappy hotels. Besides, I paid cash so there’s no paper trail.”

  Three knocks rapped on the door and Cindy entered carrying a cardboard tray with three coffees and a bag of breakfast sandwiches from a trendy coffee shop. She handed the cups around and settled onto a settee next a tall window overlooking Georgetown.

  Max peered at the muddy liquid in the cardboard cup. “What is this crap? Can’t I get a normal black coffee?” Cindy frowned, so he took a sip and faked a smile. “Not bad, actually.”

  Baxter tasted his coffee and grimaced. “My CIA contact is nervous, partly because we’re off-protocol and partly because the agency is in shock over Montgomery’s disappearance.”

  Hoping to spot a coffee maker, Max scanned the hotel room. “Understandable.”

  Baxter nibbled at a breakfast sandwich. “He agreed to meet with me alone.”

  “Fine,” Max said. “I’m happy to listen in.”

  The MI6 agent shifted in his chair and dabbed at his goatee with a napkin. “How do you expect to do that? We’re stateside, without access to gear, with our tallywacker hanging out for everyone to see. One false move and we’re in a vat of hot water.”

  Max shrugged. “I’m sure your embassy has something we can use.”

  “I’m sorry, Max.” Baxter stood and threw his napkin down. “This time I draw the line.”

  “You have two choices.” Max sipped his coffee. “You can let me listen in or you can watch while I nab him, strip him down, cover his head with a sack, and pour water on his face until he tells us what he knows.” He set his cup down while holding Baxter’s gaze.

  Cindy’s eyes darted between the two men. Baxter fumed and paced, yanked his goatee, muttered to himself, and threw his arms in the air. “Bloody hell, Max. Fine. I’m sure the embassy has something we can borrow.”

  The meeting was to take place on a park bench on the National Mall near the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, in full view of the World War II Memorial. The reflecting pool’s fountains were turned off for the winter, but the water hadn’t yet frozen solid. The National Mall’s lawn was various shades of brown this late in the fall, and only a few hearty souls bundled in wool or down braved the November bluster. Baxter was wrapped in a thick overcoat, scarf, and wore a flat cap that made him look like a bootlegger from the twenties as he sat on the specified bench bobbing his leg up and down to stay warm.

  The MI6 SUV was parked on Constitution Avenue opposite the Academy of National Sciences building. Max and Cindy sat in the rear, both wearing headphones, while Harris sat in the driver’s seat. The transmission from Baxter’s hidden mic ran through Cindy’s computer to record the conversation. Max pointed a digital SLR with a telephoto lens through the darkened windows to watch Baxter and snap pictures of the mysterious CIA contact.

  The appointed time came and went. They had only the mic, buried in Baxter’s wool coat, and no two-way communications.

  Max focused the lens on Baxter’s face as the minutes ticked off his watch. Hang in there, my friend.

  Fifteen minutes past the appointment, Baxter glanced at the SUV and shrugged. A moment later, when Baxter rose to his feet, a burly man in a parka sat down on the far side of the bench. The camera’s motor whirred as Max snapped pictures, and the images flowed to Cindy’s laptop over a secure Wi-Fi connection. The man had a fleshy face with a bulbous nose, heavy eyebrows, and an unkempt beard. His jacket was blue with some kind of logo on the sleeve and a hood trimmed in fur. His pants were wool, and his shoes were scuffed wingtips.

  “Looks like the CIA’s version of Baxter,” Max said under his breath. “Ever seen him?”

  Cindy laughed. “No, I haven’t. Want me to see if I can get into the CIA mainframe and pull down their organizational chart?”

  Max kept his eye glued to the camera. “Sure, but be careful.”

  Their voices were low, but Cindy amplified the audio feed.

  The CIA man spoke first. “What brings you over the pond?”

  Baxter tightened his scarf. “Oh, bits and bobs. You know, the usual.”

  “We’re off the record, right, Callum? You have to give me your word.” />
  “Absolutely, Stephen. We’ve known each other too long.”

  The CIA agent gazed out over the reflecting pool. “This thing is a real mess, Callum. Langley is in total chaos. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Doesn’t the agency have a succession plan in place?”

  Stephen sputtered. “Of course, but I’m not talking about the abduction. Most of the old guard is quietly drinking a toast to her disappearance to the point where I wonder if it isn’t an inside job. And I’m not the only one.”

  Baxter’s shaggy eyebrows darted up. “Good God. You can’t be serious?”

  “No one wanted her,” the CIA man said. “No field experience. No empathy for the man out running agents, putting their butts on the line to generate intel so she can fluff it up with the White House. We’re an ass hair away from another attack on US soil, for Pete’s sake.”

  His face placid, Baxter leaned back and crossed a leg. “Not to mention she’s a she.”

  “That doesn’t help with the old boys. But the mess I’m talking about is the agency’s relationship with the White House. She fucked that up to the point where I’m told the president didn’t even meet with her. The old director used to give the president a briefing every morning.”

  “So, Wodehouse is now the acting director?” Baxter referenced Chester Wodehouse, the deputy director, a man who came up through the ranks and spent time as bureau chief in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya and enjoyed the support of the CIA’s rank and file.

  “For now. He won’t last. They’ll put another bureaucrat in there who can pander to the DC policy wonks and budget hounds. Someone who doesn’t know shit about running an op.”

  Stephen pulled a cigar from his pocket, snipped the end, and lit it with a wooden match. “Hoping you have some intel for me on this one. I could use a break. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  Baxter shook his head. “I was in town. Thought I’d get the scoop.”

  “Bullshit, Callum. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. You’re never just in town. What gives?”

  Max held his breath.

  Cindy tapped on his shoulder and pointed to her screen. It showed an image of a man in a suit jacket and tie who resembled a much younger version of the man sitting on the bench next to Baxter. Curly red hair, face freckled from the sun, and a glint in his eye. In contrast, the man on the bench looked tired and gray. Max returned his eye to the camera. “Who is he?”

  “Stephen MacCulloch. Director of the Counterintelligence Center Analysis Group. Pretty senior guy.”

  His eye still glued to the camera eyepiece, Max nodded. “Counter intel, huh? Interesting connection.” He directed his attention back to the conversation.

  “We’ve known each other for a while, Stephen. I think our relationship has been mutually beneficial over the years, don’t you agree?”

  MacCulloch glanced at Baxter. “You’re not going to pull this on me again, are you?”

  Baxter took his hands out of his pockets and gripped the edge of the wooden bench. “You do it to me. I do it to you. What comes around goes around. Our countries are stronger and better off for it.”

  The CIA agent rolled his eyes. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  “Any details about her abduction that aren’t in the press?”

  MacCulloch shook his head. “Why are you asking?”

  Baxter lifted one eyebrow.

  “Fine,” MacCulloch said. “But if you find out anything—

  Baxter grinned. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “It was a straightforward snatch,” MacCulloch said. “Two bodyguards were shot twice each at midrange with a 9mm. The shots were accurate enough to avoid the vests. Shooter probably waited in the bushes to the left of the path. So far, we’ve got nothing—and I mean nothing. No abandoned getaway vehicle, no weapon, no eyewitnesses. It’s as if she disappeared like a ghost.”

  “What else?”

  “Another reason we think it’s an inside job? They knew her route and the exact timing of her run. They knew her security detail.”

  “That information might have been generated through surveillance.”

  The CIA man snorted. “Doubt it. She changed her route often and randomly. Even her security detail didn’t know the route until the night before. The CIA is good at protection.”

  “Not good enough.” Baxter said. “What else can you tell me?

  MacCulloch shifted on the bench. “You must know something or you wouldn’t be here. This is serious, Callum. You can’t hold out.”

  Baxter stretched his arm along the back of the bench. “You have my word. The moment we do, I swear we’ll let you know.”

  Atta boy.

  Max snapped a few more pictures of the two men. Before getting into the SUV, Max had routed the camera to deliver the images to two locations—Cindy’s laptop and his own Blackphone—and programmed his phone to send the images through a secure connection to a server Goshawk could access.

  The long silence made Max worry that the mic had cut out.

  MacCulloch cleared his throat. “This doesn’t make sense. I should be the one asking you for information. This is going to even the score, you know.”

  Baxter smirked. “That’s why I’m here.”

  The CIA man grimaced and scanned the area around them. “We found where they held her. At least initially.”

  Both Baxter’s eyebrows shot up.

  “In a house. More of a mansion, really, up in Chevy Chase, north of DC.”

  “And?”

  With a quick glance behind them, MacCulloch kept his voice low. “Our theory is there was a second incursion. The safe house looked like it had been invaded. We found evidence of a battering ram similar to those used by law enforcement on both the front and back doors. The room where the director was held looked like a team swept in, grabbed her, and left. Chairs knocked over, a table upturned, that sort of thing. There was interrogation paraphernalia left behind but no electronics. It’s a damn mystery.”

  A wind ruffled the stiff hairs on Baxter’s chin. “Can you trace any of the gear?”

  MacCulloch sucked on the cigar and blew out a puff of smoke. “Working on it. A lot of stuff was left behind, so we’ll find something eventually.”

  “I need one more thing,” Baxter said.

  MacCulloch let out a long breath. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Someday.”

  Silence from MacCulloch.

  “I need to know where you’re holding Kate Shaw.”

  MacCulloch frowned. “Who?”

  “Come on, Stephen, it’s cold out here.”

  The CIA agent’s eyes roved around the park before he answered. “That’s the thing, Callum. We don’t have her anymore.”

  A frown from Baxter. “Come again?”

  “We had her at a black site. She was scheduled for transport to the Hampton Roads brig in Virginia, but she was nabbed en route. Once again, we think they had help from the inside. The mere fact that we had her was a closely guarded secret, let alone her transportation schedule. It was a commando team that looked and operated like SWAT or special ops. All blacked out. They used a small C-4 charge to blow the door to the van, tear gas canisters in the cab, zip ties to secure the guards, black bag over her head. The whole thing took less than forty-five seconds. Pro job all the way.”

  Baxter glanced at the SUV. “Jesus.”

  “Tell me about it,” MacCulloch said. “No leads. Our theory is she’s in the US. We’ve got the borders, the coast guard, and the airports on high alert.”

  Baxter stood and stretched his legs. “Something tells me you’re wrong.”

  Thirty-Five

  Washington, DC

  The MI6 SUV roared down Massachusetts Ave NW, made a left on Observatory Circle NW and another left into the driveway of the chancery building that comprised the working portion of the British Embassy. While guards checked credentials and used mirrors and bomb-sniffin
g dogs to examine the vehicle, Max scrutinized the building. Resembling a dormitory on a land grant college campus, it was a far cry from the Elizabethan architecture of the ambassador’s residence next door. Square and squat, four stories high, with window-covered red brick walls, its utilitarianism was very un-British. Antennas, satellite dishes, and pipes covered the roof and security cameras dotted the walls and perimeter.

  When the vehicle was cleared, they proceeded up a winding drive and disappeared down a ramp to an underground garage where they wound down two floors. After they parked, Max, Baxter, Cindy, and Harris filed through a security door and down a bland corridor covered by threadbare beige carpet and lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs.

  Max poked Baxter’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen this place in any James Bond movies.”

  Without slowing his pace, Baxter said, “Shut up and keep quiet.”

  An elevator took them deeper under the embassy proper, where they emerged into a concrete bunker filled with folding tables, dated laptops, and monitors hung on the walls. Two pink-faced men with loosened ties and rolled-up shirt sleeves sat at a table intent on their machines. Cindy found an open spot between them and opened her laptop. Harris poured himself some coffee.

  Max stopped at the door. “What is this place? Who are these men?”

  Baxter smiled and held his arms out. “Meet Task Force Middleton.” He pointed at the two men, one after another. “This is Wood, and that’s Kelly.”

  Max leaned against the door frame. “Sounds like a law firm. What’s Middleton’s mission?”

  After hunting through his pockets for his pipe, Baxter gripped it in his hand and used it for emphasis. “You didn’t think Her Majesty’s secret service was going to give us a jet and an expensive cover and let us prance around the globe on her dime, did you? The task force produces intelligence briefings on our progress and serves as a support team.”

  Max glanced over Baxter’s shoulder and into the room. Both analysts resembled overworked office staffers. One was balding, wore reading glasses, and hovered his face close to his screen while the other was younger, boyishly handsome, and talked earnestly to Cindy, who listened with squinted eyes. “What’s Middleton mean?”