by David Spell
Interesting, Burns had thought. The FBI agent might not be as fast on the draw as he once was but he was still a world-class interrogator. One of the things that the Bureau does extremely well is to train their agents in the science of interviews and interrogations. Thomas had asked that question more to aggravate Maxwell than anything else, but he responded much differently than Burns had expected. Most people would have gotten angry, but Sterling had become defensive. I’ll have to file that one away for later, Thomas had thought.
“Two dead bad guys. Both appear to be gang members. They murdered two cops and McCain took them out. I doubt that anyone’s going to care,” Burns shrugged, “but I’m sure you want to go check on your former colleague. Just be careful stepping over those bodies and try not to get any blood on those nice shoes.”
One of the CIA Director’s security agents assisted him as he stepped into the room. Thomas thought Maxwell looked a little pale as he tried to avoid the blood and brain matter still on the white floor. I hope he pukes all over his expensive suit, Burns thought, suppressing a smile.
Sterling still had not provided a go-between from the CIA to assist Thomas and his agents. At this point, however, the FBI agent didn’t care. The head of the spy organization was clearly not concerned about cooperating with the Bureau.
Chuck had overheard part of the conversation and walked up after Maxwell had gone in to speak with Dunning.
“Like an FBI agent friend of mine told me, ‘the FBI definitely doesn’t control the market on pricks in high places,’” McCain had quipped.
A knock on his open office door brought Thomas back to reality.
“Boss? I’ve got something that you’re going to want to see.” Special Agent Valerie Morris said, waiting to be given permission to enter.
“Come on in, Valerie. What’ve you got?”
Morris was in charge of the FBI team coordinating with the local police in regards to the shooting at the hospital. A young African-American male followed her into the office holding a manila folder.
“Right after our meeting a little while ago Agent Towers let me know that he had found something on the hospital’s security camera footage,” Valerie said. “Why don’t you tell the boss what you discovered, Agent Towers?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young man started, clearing his throat. He was clearly nervous but pushed forward. “Sir, we pulled the footage from all of the hospital’s cameras from an hour before up to an hour after the attack on Ms. Dunning yesterday.
“There’s still a lot of video to watch, but I found something interesting,” he said, laying the folder in front of Burns. “I started with the ICU floor. The man in those photos showed up about fifteen minutes before the attack. He came up the stairs.”
Thomas opened the folder to find several eight-by-ten photos taken from the security camera footage. The pictures showed a dark-skinned man with black hair and a short beard, clad in scrubs. He appeared to be Middle Eastern, but looks could be deceiving.
“So, tell me about him,” Burns said, holding up one of the photos.
“Yes, sir. On the footage, he acted like he was just trying to stay busy and not speak with anyone before the shooting started. Whenever someone walked by, he would stare at his clipboard or put his phone to his ear like he was on a call. When those two MS13 guys got off the elevator, the footage shows him moving a little closer towards that end of the hallway. He was eyes-on as everything transpired, not ducking or hiding when the shooting started.
“He waited almost two minutes after the last shot was fired and then left by the stairs again. One of the outside cameras picked him up as he walked out of the hospital and left in a blue Hyundai Santa Fe. We were able to get his license plate from the camera at the exit booth when he paid for his parking.”
Burns felt his excitement rising. This might be the break that they had been hoping for.
“What’d we get off the plates?” suspecting what the answer was going to be.
“It’s a rental car to a ‘Ali Hussein Muhammad.’ The company wouldn’t give us anything else over the phone so we’ve got agents enroute to meet with them. So far, we haven’t gotten anything back on that name.”
Special Agent Morris spoke up. “We’ve run the photos through our facial recognition program, but nothing is coming back. Our database contains mostly bad guys from the US. If this guy is middle-eastern, it’s no surprise that we’re not getting anything. Is there any way you can contact the CIA and see if they’ll run him through their database? After all, it was one of their directors these scumbags were trying to kill. I’m sure they’d be willing to help us out.”
Thomas nodded, remembering the conversation he’d had with Maxwell Sterling the previous day. “Of course. Good work, Towers. Keep me in the loop and I’ll see what I can work out with the Agency.”
After his two agents left, Burns picked up his phone. There was no way that he was going to ask Maxwell Sterling for anything. There was something going on there that the fed couldn’t put his finger on, plus he just didn’t like the man. Chuck McCain, however, would be able to steer him in the right direction.
Ten minutes later, Burns again had the phone to his ear, listening to it ring.
“Hello?” a gruff voice answered, guardedly.
“Is this Andy Fleming? This is Thomas Burns with the FBI. I believe that we’ve met a few times over the last couple of years.”
“Yes, sir, Agent Burns. I know who you are. Can I ask how you got my number?”
“Chuck McCain just gave it to me. I need a favor in regards to the second attempt on Ms. Dunning’s life yesterday at the hospital. I’m assuming you heard about that?”
Thomas heard Fleming laugh. “Oh, I heard. I heard that Chuck punched both of their tickets.”
“That he did. I just managed to get my gun out of the holster by the time that he had dropped them.”
“Well, Chuck’s like that. Make sure you stay on his good side. So, what can I do for you? And congratulations on the promotion a little while back. The Assistant Special Agent for Counter Terrorism is a mouthful but sounds like an interesting job.”
Burns had no idea that Fleming knew anything about him or what he did at the Bureau. No surprise there. It wasn’t the first time that Thomas had underestimated McCain or those who had worked with him.
“Thanks, Fleming, I appreciate that. What I need is for someone at the Agency to run some photos through their facial recognition program. This is a person of interest from the hospital yesterday. He appears to be middle-eastern, but isn’t showing up in our database.
“The CIA Director was supposed to have assigned a go-between from the Agency to help us with these kinds of issues but he hasn’t gotten around to that yet. We need to move on this quick before the trail gets cold. Can you handle that for me?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and then a sigh.
“I’ll see what I can do. There’ve been a lot of changes in the Operations Directorate and several of us who were on Chuck’s or Kevin’s staffs have been transferred to the Agency Security Unit.”
“What? That’s ridiculous! I don’t know all of you, but I know that McCain had quite a team of operators around him.”
“It’s definitely a transition, going from being on the front-lines to checking IDs and manning the metal detectors at the CIA HQ. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll see what I can do. They didn’t transfer all of the old guard out of OPs and I still have some friends over there. Email me the photos and I’ll work on it tomorrow.”
Andy gave Thomas his email address and the two men signed off. Burns felt the man’s frustration. He thought he remembered McCain telling him that Fleming had been a Marine MARSOC operator before being recruited for the CDC Enforcement Unit. And now Sterling had him sitting in a guard shack? What was going on at the CIA?
Georgetown, Washington, D.C., Friday, 2230 hours
Sterling’s home was the most secure place for them to meet and was also
away from the prying eyes of reporters, hoping to break the story of who Saleem might pick as his VP running mate. The CIA Director’s cook had prepared a sumptuous feast of roast lamb and vegetables. With Bashir already one of the front-runners, he had a Secret Service detail assigned to him. They had been asked to wait outside as Saleem, Maxwell, and Amari Roberts ate.
Amari was the presidential candidate’s campaign manager, overseeing everything to do with his sprint for the White House. The light-skinned black man looked much younger than his forty-nine years, having been involved in politics for over two decades. Roberts was considered to have one of the sharpest minds in Washington, preferring to stay behind the scenes rather than running for office himself. His excitement was building as Bashir’s popularity grew every day.
As much as Amari was beginning to believe that they might just pull this off and that he would be working for the next President of the United States within a year, he was still not sold on the idea of Maxwell Sterling as the VP. There had been no public mention of Sterling’s name as one of the contenders and the choice would not be announced until the convention where, Allah willing, Saleem Bashir would be chosen as the Democratic Candidate.
Roberts had discussed the matter with Bashir on several occasions, asking him to consider any of the more qualified and more experienced Democratic politicians. Saleem had refused to reconsider, telling Amari that Maxwell was his only choice. In the campaign manager’s mind, it made much more sense to pick Jamal Harris, the young, energetic African-American congressman from Connecticut. Harris was polling at fifth place, his own campaign without the funds to really make an impact in his own run for president. Amari knew that it was just a matter of time before he dropped out. There were plenty of other options, all of them better choices than Sterling.
“How are we looking in the polls this week, Amari?” Bashir asked.
“This week, we’ve held a solid number two among Democrat voters. The primaries over the next six weeks should really give us an idea of where we’re at. The really good news is that President Asher is polling behind Wilson and you, sir. My main concern, though, is that Mason Wilson has surged a bit this week as the front-runner. I don’t want him to get too far in front of us.”
“Why the sudden surge?” Maxwell asked.
“The last series of ads that he’s put out are really good. They’ve got him walking a nature trail with his wife and grandkids. There are three different commercials and each one has him speaking in that goofy southern accent about healthcare, education, or taking care of seniors. These ads are all over TV, YouTube, you name it.”
Wilson was in his second term as the governor of North Carolina after having served for three congressional terms. He came across as a sincere and likable silver-haired older man, smiling warmly whenever the camera was on him, reminding many of their own grandfathers.
Saleem looked over at Maxwell. “We may need to pull out our secret weapon a little sooner than we had hoped.”
“Secret weapon?” Amari queried, a puzzled expression on his face. “What are you talking about?”
After a moment, Bashir nodded at Sterling. “Go ahead and tell him.”
The CIA Director lowered his voice. “It just so happens that Governor Wilson has some very interesting habits. He’s been observed utilizing the services of a young, local prostitute, just outside of Charlotte. There’s even a video clip of the old man kissing the hooker goodbye. She looks young enough to be his granddaughter, but that’s only part of it. The governor also likes to be dominated. About once a month, he goes to his favorite dominatrix to get spanked and told what a bad boy he is.”
Roberts was used to being in control and was known for his meticulous planning. This conversation caught him completely by surprise. Amari understood dirty politics, but this was another level, especially in a presidential election.
“How do you know all of this?” he asked Maxwell, immediately remembering who he was speaking with.
“I’ve got access to information, Amari. I just happened to come across these tidbits and…”
“But we can’t use this! I’ve got no problem with playing hardball, but this is the kind of thing that could backfire and take all of us down.”
“We can use this information and we will use it,” Saleem said, quietly. “No one will ever know where the story came from. We can have it sent anonymously to the networks. They’ll be falling all over themselves to put this on TV.
“This is where we need your expertise, Amari. We need to make sure that this goes public at just the right time. If it’s too early, the voters will forget about it by the time the convention rolls around. If we wait too long, we risk falling further and further behind. My first thought is that we leak the story about the prostitute. That will be big news for a week or two. Then, just when things start calming down, the second story comes about the governor enjoying being spanked.”
The presidential candidate locked eyes with Amari and placed a hand on his arm.
“This is one of the reasons that I hired you, my friend. You have great instincts. You’ll know exactly when to release these stories. Can I count on you?”
Roberts had been involved in some dirty campaigns with some sleazy people. This new twist made him very uncomfortable, but he realized if handled correctly, it might very well ensure Bashir’s victory.
“Of course,” he finally managed to smile. “Let me see everything that we’ve got and I’ll make sure that it’s handled correctly.”
“Thank you, Amari. I’m very glad that you’re the one managing my campaign. I know that I can always trust you. It’s about time for us to head back to the hotel. Would you mind giving Maxwell and I a few minutes alone?”
“No problem,” Roberts said, standing. “I’ll go let the Secret Service know that we’ll be leaving soon.”
After Amari left, the two friends sat in silence for a moment before Saleem spoke.
“What did you learn when you visited the hospital yesterday after the shooting?”
“I learned that that bitch has nine lives!” Maxwell said, angrily. “The FBI agent overseeing the investigation and one of Dunning’s former assistant directors were visiting her at the time. The gang members killed the two cops guarding the room but were taken out before they could kill the woman.
“And who is this mysterious contact of yours, Saleem? He has me contacting him, or I guess it could even be a her, through an Islamic dating website. Do they really know what they’re doing? It shouldn’t be this hard to kill Sandra Dunning.”
Bashir gave a slight smile. “There are some things that it’s better you not know. This person is extremely good at what they do. I agree that things have not gone as we would have wished, but in the first attempt, her security team fought back like lions and killed most of the hit squad.
“In the hospital, no one could have known that the FBI would be paying her a visit. Allah works in mysterious ways. For now, no more attacks on Dunning. That is enough.”
“But, Saleem…”
The presidential candidate held up his hand, silencing the CIA Director. “We’re not arguing about this. Maybe we’ll have her eliminated later, but for now, all the attention will be focused on that Mexican cartel and the MS13 gang. I don’t want to take any more chances of having this point back to us. Are we clear?”
Sterling hated the idea of leaving a loose end fluttering in the wind, but he was smart enough not to argue about it with his friend and, possibly, the next president.
“Of course. I’m sure she won’t be a problem.”
“And if she becomes one,” Bashir nodded, climbing to his feet, “we can revisit this conversation. Thank you for your hospitality, my friend. The future is looking very bright.”
Matamoros, Mexico, Saturday, 1115 hours
Vincente Villarreal and Juan Guerra sat with three of the other cartel lieutenants around a table, eating a brunch of beans, rice, tortillas, and eggs. Fernando “El Toro” Ramos sat next to his
boss, enjoying the invitation to have breakfast with the other men. They were at the ranch located east of the Matamoros. Villarreal moved around periodically, sleeping in different locations in an effort not to present an easy target for any of his enemies. The mood was somber and there wasn’t much conversation as they ate.
Guerra had arrived in Brownsville, Texas, Thursday night with Sanchez still clinging to life. The gangster had texted Vincente before they had gotten to where the tunnel entrance was hidden in a remote area south of Brownsville. The cartel leader had eight of his best soldiers waiting for them, along with two doctors, also on his payroll.
The wounded man had been whisked through the tunnel under the Rio Grande River to the waiting vehicles on the Mexican side of the border. Damien was placed in a black delivery van and rushed to the cartel’s warehouse. The doctors had examined him as best they could during the forty minute ride, trying to assess the extent of the damage. By the time they arrived with their patient, the surgeon and the general practitioner had both reached the same conclusion. Within minutes, they were prepping their patient for surgery.
Several hours later, Villarreal and Guerra received the news. Sanchez would live if they could keep the infection under control. They’d had to amputate his right arm between the elbow and the shoulder. Two hollow point bullets had severely damaged the limb, shattering the bone and destroying much of the muscle and tissue. The surgeon had managed to save the former soldier’s right leg, although he wasn’t sure how well it would work after it healed up. The left arm had also been spared, the bullet having missed the bone.
