He didn’t say the name, but of course she knew who he meant.
Caine.
No matter how hard she tried, she could not forget the feeling of panic those words invoked. It had felt as though she were trapped in a vacuum, the air sucked from her lungs. She wanted to say no … or even yes, anything, any answer would do, just to put an end to the question once and for all.
The next time she had seen Josh was in her office, when he turned in his transfer request. She approved it, and he returned to the field. Then there was the operation in Sudan.
And now he was missing.
Missing, presumed dead, she corrected herself.
Her driver entered the vehicle and slammed the door shut. Rebecca pulled her long hair into a thick ponytail and tied it off with an elastic band.
“Magpie One, I am in place, the Director is secure, over,” the driver said into the mic of his walkie headset.
“Copy that, Magpie Two. Just wrapping things up with Special Agent Zavala. On my way.”
The chatter of the walkie pushed the bittersweet memories from Rebecca’s mind.
She focused her attention on a white Chevy Suburban SUV parked in front of them. To the left of the SUV, a team of four Federal Marshals emerged from the employee entrance of the Four Seasons hotel. They each wore armored vests under their blue windbreakers. Sandwiched between them was a pale, bedraggled-looking Ted Lapinski. He was wearing a rumpled navy suit, and his hair was a tangled mess, still wet from his shower. A Kevlar vest with FBI markings covered his blazer, adding to his disheveled appearance.
The men swept towards the SUV. Rebecca could see their eyes darting across the rooftops of the nearby buildings. They were checking for snipers.
“All clear!” the lead marshal shouted. They fanned out around Lapinski as the rear door of the Chevy swung open. Lapinski climbed into the vehicle. Even from a distance, Rebecca could see the blank look of fear that hung across his gaunt features.
He sat down on the padded rear seats as the Marshals piled in after him. He turned and looked back at her through the rear window. Her eyes met his. He nodded to her.
According to Zavala’s briefing, the Chevy was modified by Streit USA, a company that specialized in armoring civilian vehicles. The white SUV was reinforced with twelve millimeters of B6 steel plating, bullet-resistant polymer windows, and Level 1 Nato floor plating. Small arms fire, up to and including most automatic rifles and grenades, would be useless against the heavily armored vehicle.
But the look in Ted’s eyes … to Rebecca, he didn’t look like a man about to testify at a Senate hearing.
He looks like a man being driven to his own execution, she thought.
The rear doors of the SUV opened and Clayton slid into the left passenger seat. Across from him, Alejandra Zavala entered and took a seat behind Rebecca.
“Director, I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “Mr. DuBose here told me you would be joining the convoy, so I figured I’d ride with you. Give us more time to chat.”
Rebecca turned her head and stared at her, masking her surprise. The FBI agent had traded her gray blazer for a fitted Kevlar vest. She wore a Glock 23 in a holster at her side. Somehow, the drab tactical vest suited her.
DuBose gave Rebecca a nervous glance. “I told her it was up to you, Director Freeling.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “This is your show, Agent Zavala. Be my guest.”
“Lapinski was turned over to the FBI for questioning, after your, um … operation. But this convoy was organized by the Federal Marshal service. I’m just supervising the transfer.”
Zavala’s walkie squawked to life. “Package is secure, all convoys standing by.”
She brought the radio to her lips. “Affirmative. Standing by, you call it.”
“Copy that.” The reply cut through the hiss of static. “This is Mobile Command. All units … let’s roll.”
A chorus of affirmatives crackled from the walkie’s speaker. A pair of Washington DC Metro police cruised into the parking lot on motorcycles. They took up the lead position in the convoy, and the line of vehicles pulled out of the rear parking lot.
“And we’re off,” Zavala said.
“What did he mean ‘all convoys’?” DuBose asked, glancing out the window as they drove southeast down Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Lapinski is a high-value witness. Based on your intel, we’ve pulled out all the stops when it comes to his security. The FBI rented three decoy suites in various hotels around the DC Metro area. And the Marshals are running three identical convoys. All of them are heading to the Hart Senate Building, each taking a separate route.”
“So how many people know where you were really holding Lapinski?” Rebecca asked.
“It's a short list. Myself, the Marshals in this convoy, and my boss. Your director Paulis probably knows as well. And now you two, of course.”
Zavala leaned back and stretched her arms over her head. A yawn escaped her lips.
“Lo siento. Sorry.” She gave DuBose a sheepish grin.
“We keeping you up, Agent Zavala?” he asked, smiling.
“No,” she groaned. “I caught a red eye flight last night from another operation.”
Rebecca stiffened. Something about the woman’s behavior seemed contrived, as if it was a performance. She was probing, measuring their response.
DuBose and I took a red eye as well, she thought. After the rendezvous in Florida…
DuBose didn’t seem to catch on to the agent’s veiled interrogation. “They spreading you a little too thin, huh?” he asked
“You could say that,” Zavala continued. “I had to do cleanup on an operation of mine that went south. Rebecca, oddly enough, this one involves you as well. A rogue agent. The one who broke out of CIA custody in Virginia?”
Rebecca kept her eyes on the vehicles ahead of them. The convoy looped around the Washington traffic circle, heading south. To her left, she saw the bronze statue of George Washington mounting his horse at the battle of Princeton. To her right, a circular garden of fiery orange tulips waved in the breeze.
“Yes, Thomas Caine,” she replied. She glanced up at Zavala in the rearview mirror. The woman’s two-toned eyes stared back at her.
“Quite a background on that one. Or rather, lack of background. There are so many black marks in his service record, I thought maybe the printer broke down.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t comment on Mr. Caine’s background, or operations he may or may not have been involved in.” Rebecca’s voice was a flat, practiced monotone.
“Classified, right? Need to know. Sure, I get it. Look, I don’t want to … how did you put it? Piss in your pool? But I was wondering … do you know if this Caine had any interest in the DNI?”
“Why do you ask?”
Zavala glanced toward DuBose. He averted his gaze and looked out the window. The vehicles exited the circle and motored onto 23rd Street. At each intersection, a pair of motorcycle police would roar by, their light and sirens blazing. The police stopped traffic, allowing the convoy to continue along its way without stopping.
“It’s funny. We received an anonymous tip about this operative of yours. We followed the intel and tracked Caine to Louisiana. Tailed him en route to the airport, but then he spooked. He must have spotted us. He changed his pattern, ended up in a shopping mall. We lost him there. He took out a few of my men. FBI SWAT, Hostage Rescue Team. They're the best of the best when it comes to our agents.”
Rebecca turned in her chair. “Yes, I read your report. I was under the impression you had no casualties on that mission.”
Zavala pursed her lips, then nodded. “That's true. Be a couple weeks before one of them is walking again, though.”
“I’m sorry, but I did advise your agency to let my people handle Caine. He’s highly trained and extremely motivated.”
“He trusts you?”
Rebecca shrugged. “He knows me. I don’t think he trusts anyone.”
Zavala nodded and looked up for a second, as if mentally filing away this tidbit of information. “I see. While we were there, we followed up on a crime scene report from the Sheriff’s Department. Gunfire, bunch of explosions in the bayou near Honey Island. Two of the bodies were identified as mercenaries in the employ of a private military company, Delta Blue. Witnesses placed them with the DNI in New Orleans earlier the same day.”
Rebecca turned her head around to face the agent. “What about Blayne? Was he there?”
Zavala shook her head. “No sign of him. No body. And no Caine. My agents on site said he must have had help. Someone got him out of Louisiana before we could close the net.”
DuBose glanced over at her. “This is starting to sound a little unfriendly, Agent Zavala. What’s your point, exactly?”
Zavala cocked her head and smiled at him. “No point. Just an observation. You two look as tired as I feel. And your eyes are pretty red for a guapo hombre like yourself. Want to borrow my eye drops?”
“Now wait a min—” DuBose began.
Rebecca cut him off. “Agent Zavala, like I said, I can’t comment on Caine’s background or operations. But I can tell you this. If you think the DNI was murdered, and you’re looking at Caine as a suspect, you’re on the wrong track.”
Zavala’s blue and brown eyes squinted. Rebecca knew she was a trained interrogator, and she could sense the woman trying to get into her head. She was sifting out the grains of truth hidden between her lies.
“How can you be so sure of that?” Zavala asked. “According to what little information I could find, Caine’s not exactly Captain America. He's a traitor. He murdered his partner and ruined a crucial anti-terrorist operation. Maybe Blayne hired Delta Blue as extra security. Maybe he knew Caine was coming after him for some reason.”
Rebecca exchanged a quick glance with DuBose. The man exhaled and shrugged.
She looked back at Zavala. “You’ve got it wrong. Blayne, Lapinski, Caine’s old handler … they’re all linked together. The raid in Virginia, the helicopter attack … that was all part of it as well.”
“I heard the conspiracy theory. That’s what Lapinski is testifying about in front of this Intelligence Committee. Little paranoid for my tastes,” Zavala said. “But let’s say you’re right. How is Caine involved? He’s not an active CIA operative, is he?”
Rebecca shook her head. “No. He … He has his own reasons for seeing this through.”
Zavala thought for a moment. “So, in your opinion, this is personal. Revenge?”
“Yes. But not against the DNI. And I think it’s more than just revenge.”
The convoy turned left and roared down Constitution Avenue. They were nearing their final destination, the Hart Senate Building. To their left, the ivory bricks and columns of the Smithsonian rose up above rows of marble steps. Off in the distance, the ivory spire of the Washington Monument thrust above the tree line.
“Enlighten me, Rebecca," Zavala said. "I trusted you with Lapinski. Now it's your turn. What the hell is going on here?"
“I believe … In his own way, he thinks he’s protecting someone.”
Zavala cocked her head and thought for a moment. “Wait, hold up. Did he go after Blayne to protect you?”
“I didn’t say me …”
“You didn’t have to.” Zavala smiled.
Suddenly, Zavala’s walkie crackled to life. “Mobile Command, this is Metro One, we have an obstruction up ahead, over.”
Rebecca turned back to the road. The line of vehicles rolled to a stop. A jackknifed tractor trailer sat in the middle of the intersection. Traffic cops were waving cars to the north and south through side streets.
“Send civilian traffic south," the reply hissed back. "We’ll divert to the alternate route and take Pennsylvania the rest of the way.”
“I don’t like this,” DuBose muttered. His hand dropped towards his shoulder holster.
“Hey, easy, big guy,” Zavala said. She rested a hand on his arm. “You two are just observers, remember? The Marshals can handle it.”
CRACK!
The retort was deafening, and unmistakable.
Gunfire.
Sparks flew from the engine block of Lapinski’s SUV.
“Director, keep your head down!” DuBose shouted. He drew his pistol and scanned the street. Pedestrians screamed and ran from the congested intersection.
“Get us the hell out of here!” DuBose shouted at the driver. The man spun the wheel of their SUV, but the traffic diverting to either side of them cut off the exit streets.
CRACK! CRACK! Two more shots rang out.
Smoke billowed from the white SUV’s front grill. Whoever was shooting at them, they were using a weapon powerful enough to penetrate the vehicle’s armor plating.
Rebecca's driver leaned on the horn and pulled up next to the white SUV. He turned right, driving up onto the median of the road. Angry horns blared as he turned into the opposite lane and cut off the oncoming traffic.
“Mobile Command, I need a SITREP! What the hell is going on out there?” Zavala shouted into her walkie.
“We have shots fired, repeat, shots fired. They took out the engine, we are sitting ducks! We need back up, repeat, all decoy units, we need back up at Pennsylvania and—”
Before the man could finish his sentence, a deafening thundercrack roared through the air. The jackknifed trailer exploded, and a billowing cloud of fire engulfed the vehicles in the intersection.
Chapter Sixteen
According to the report from Khairi, Dr. Vasani’s clinic was located in Omdurman. The neighborhood was one of three urban districts that met at the conflux of the Niles. Together, they made up the greater capital of Khartoum. The address was east of Caine’s hotel, across the White Nile.
As Caine’s taxi crossed the Victory Bridge, they left the gleaming buildings of the prosperous Nile District behind. The streets grew darker, and potholes littered the cracked, broken pavement. Then the pavement disappeared altogether, replaced with dirt and rocks. Rows of crumbling brick houses and piles of debris lined the dark, narrow streets. Caine rolled down the rear window of the taxi. A hot breeze stirred the night air and whipped through the window. Caine tasted dust and sand in the back of his throat.
He had the taxi drop him off a few blocks from his destination and took a long, meandering path to the address in the file. Khairi had promised him a two-day head-start before he would notify the NISS. Caine doubted the brutal secret service would take kindly to his presence in the city. They could have had people watching Khairi even in the tiny, ancient village on Tuti Island. Best to be sure he was not followed.
The streets bustled with activity despite the late hour. Taxis beeped and growled as they lurched through the crowded intersection. Men haggled over slabs of lamb and beef that hung from hooks above tiny butcher stalls. Steaming cups of coffee and tea were set out for patrons beneath the thatched awnings of the local cafes.
Caine stopped and bought a glass of hibiscus juice at one of the stands. The cool, velvety liquid soothed his dry throat as he examined the crowd for familiar faces. Then he made his way further down the street and cut though an alley. Above him, he could hear the sounds of running water and dishes clattering. Sitar music drifted from the speaker of a transistor radio sitting in an open window. The warbling notes echoed through the cramped space between the buildings.
The alley exited onto a dirt street. Sheets of laundry hung from the nearby buildings and fluttered in the hot breeze. A wooden barricade blocked off the center of the street. Behind the barricade, a massive pothole gaped in the darkness.
Caine remained hidden in the shadows of the alley. He stared at the numbers on the building across the street. They matched the address in the file. This was Nena Vasani’s clinic.
The clinic, and her adjoining apartment, were on the second floor. The ground floor housed a shoe store that appeared to be closed for the evening. A few pedestrians walked down both sides of the dark, confined st
reet, but the crowd was much thinner here. The buildings were quiet and uninviting.
Caine’s emerald eyes peered out from the darkness. He spotted a dark-skinned African man in a rumpled blue suit, pacing near the entrance of the building. The man checked his watch, then pretended to examine the shoes in the window of the closed store. Caine watched as he moved on. Five minutes later, he crossed the street and circled back. Caine ducked into the shadows as the man walked past the alley.
He crossed to the other side of the street and continued loitering outside the clinic.
No way is this guy NISS, Caine thought. Khairi had mentioned that Dr. Vasani was on a watchlist. But this man was clearly an amateur when it came to surveillance.
Twin high-beam headlights pierced the dusty air and illuminated the storefront. The man hurried off and disappeared down the street. A battered pickup truck swerved around the barricade and pulled over in front of the store. The vehicle was crusted with dried mud. The windows were nearly opaque, covered by a thick film of dirt and grime.
He heard the thunk of the passenger door slamming closed. A slim, petite figure grabbed a pair of duffel bags from the truck bed. He heard a woman’s voice speaking Arabic. There was some shared laughter, the woman and a man, the truck's driver. Then the vehicle pulled away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
A woman dressed in olive-green cargo pants, a khaki shirt, and a floral-patterned hijab stood on the edge of the road. Her face was lit by the screen of her cell phone. Caine could not quite make out her features in the haze-filled air. She turned and walked down an alley next to the clinic.
It’s got to be her, Caine thought. Khairi said she had clinics in the south, she must have just returned. And someone was waiting for her.
As she disappeared into the shadows between the buildings, Caine heard men speaking in the street. They were not speaking Arabic… the dialect sounded East African, possibly Nuer, but he could not be sure. The man in the blue suit reappeared, followed by three more men wearing casual clothes. One of them, a tall, muscular man, wore a dark hoodie that hid his face.
Fire and Forget Page 14
