The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

by S. L. Jones

  He finally accepted the silent consensus that he would have to bring agents in from the local field office; otherwise, the risk of failure was too great. The trick would be making up a good story to go with the job. He was in a position of power, so he would exercise his option to keep the details fuzzy.

  “I think we’ll have an advantage if Millar’s there. We’ll do it your way,” Culder agreed. “We’ll keep it to a minimum.” He nodded to Pagano. “Two locals, as you said. This will go down in a public place, and we can’t afford mistakes from untested agents.”

  Culder had made a good point, and the three men nodded in agreement as the plane came to a stop in the hangar.

  “All right,” Pagano said.

  “They won’t get away with what they’ve done,” Culder assured. “Just keep a level head. Time for payback will come soon enough.”

  Chapter 94

  Kozlov Residence, Lake Forest, Illinois

  PAVEL KOZLOV WHISTLED triumphantly along with the classical music thundering out of his Bang & Olufsen sound system. Music had always been therapeutic for the Russian and helped calm his nerves. This day would be one of the most important of his life. Not only was he a major player in the operation that would destroy the United States and see the Soviet Union rise once again, but he would also achieve something significant on a personal level. He knew Victoria Eden would become one of the most important violinists of his time, possibly of all time. This evening’s performance would showcase him as the man who brought her talent to the world.

  He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his master suite checking the fit of his Brioni tuxedo. He had a penchant for Italian fashion. The finer things in life were a satisfying reward for decades of sacrifice. He considered how his appearance had changed over the years. The gray hair and weathered face projected an air of sophistication. It was a façade that helped to mask his ruthless tendencies.

  A sideways glance through the floor-to-ceiling windows was his gateway to the lake. His sprawling stone-crafted residence took advantage of the coveted views his neighborhood was famous for. A smile formed on his lips as he considered others who might also be taking in the view at this moment. His look of satisfaction had nothing to do with the beauty outside. The Russian knew many fortunes would change from his actions, and Tuesday morning would bring with it a catastrophic wake-up call for many who shared this view of the lake.

  His smile disappeared as he placed a call. “You have been very disappointing to me lately,” Kozlov said.

  “I know,” Bruce Campbell said.

  The Russian fixed his eyes on a boat in the distance, and after a few moments decided he owed the man one more chance. His view would be that of a jail-cell wall if it wasn’t for the man on the phone.

  “We can’t afford any more mistakes.”

  “What would you like me to do?” Campbell asked.

  There was an air of surprise in his voice, and Kozlov realized he hadn’t expected another chance.

  “Two things.”

  “Sure. Whatever you need.”

  “I want you to get in touch with your friends,” Kozlov said.

  Campbell used to do contract work for a private security company before the Bratva had brought him on board. They were all ex-military who worked the protection circuit. They specialized in bodyguarding and perimeter security.

  “I can do that,” Campbell said.

  “We need to secure the Chicago building for the next forty-eight hours,” Kozlov explained. He straightened his bow tie in the mirror, with the phone pinched between his shoulder and ear. “They will be well paid.”

  “Should I have someone contact you?”

  “No. Put them in touch with Dimitri. I want them in place as soon as possible.”

  “Will do. And me?”

  “I want you to head to the Virginia operation,” Kozlov said. “Nobody in or out. Seal the place up.”

  “Got it.”

  Chapter 95

  Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

  MARIA SOLLER’S PANIC gave way to relief when Melody Millar told her the charger for the iPod had been tucked inside the bag the man had left on the desk. She made her way as far along the metal railing as she could, but when she stretched, the bag was just out of her reach. She exhaled in frustration and looked over at Melody and the woman she didn’t know. She flashed them a quick look at her iPhone, and both women’s expressions were lined with hope.

  “The battery is dead,” Soller whispered. She pointed to the wall socket. “If I can just get to that stupid bag, I can plug it in.”

  “I was wondering what you were doing with that chair,” the woman said quietly, looking impressed. “Can you move the desk?”

  Two quick nods from Soller acknowledged the good idea. She grabbed the corner of the desk with her free hand and tried to move it, but the desk was much heavier than it looked. She shored up her grip and put all her strength into pulling it toward her. A shrill screech erupted as the desk moved away from the wall, its metal legs protesting the effort. Soller’s eyes showed fear, a pained grimace frozen on her face.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered.

  The sudden sound of footsteps increased the tension.

  “Get back to your chair,” the woman insisted.

  Maria scurried back down the railing to the sound of scraping metal and slumped down into the chair. She stole a quick glance at the desk and saw that it was noticeably crooked. Her heart pounded in desperation as she saw the door open in her peripheral vision. Her eyes darted to the visitor, and the panic began to erase her senses. She took in a deep breath, and was too scared to realize she was holding it.

  The visitor didn’t seem to notice the desk had moved, and just as he did the other times when he’d shown up, he avoided eye contact. He went through the same routine with his laptop. He plugged it into the jack and went to work punching commands into the keyboard. Soller strained to see what he was doing, but the text that scrolled on the screen didn’t mean anything to her.

  After a couple of minutes, he stood up and grabbed his bag. The three women watched with dread as he sifted through its contents. He pulled out a USB drive and set the bag down before leaving the room.

  Maria Soller turned to the others. “Oh my God, that was close.”

  They nodded in agreement.

  Soller waited for the footsteps to fade before she worked her way back to the desk. Her body formed a cross as she leaned toward the bag with the handcuff restraints supporting her weight. She was closer this time. Her fingernail made a scratching sound as it moved back and forth against the bag’s material trying to find a hold. Maria quickly removed her shoe and assumed the same position. This time she used its rubber sole to push the bag down against the desk and then pull it toward her.

  “Bingo,” she said in victory. The word came out a little louder than she would have liked. A mixture of excitement and fear swirled through the air. “Sorry,” she said, her voice much softer this time.

  Soller sifted through the bag for the charger. She raised the white cord into the air with a smile and pushed the bag back across the desk to where it was. She stretched out as far as she could, and was barely able to push the charger into the wall socket. The woman confirmed the coast was clear with an eager nod, so Soller pulled out her iPhone and used its length to seat the charger’s plug firmly into the socket. Her shoulders tensed up at the sound of the familiar beep that indicated power. They froze in the silence for a long moment, and then shared a celebratory look.

  Maria Soller smiled and said, “Hot damn.”

  Chapter 96

  White House Oval Office, Washington, DC

  WASHINGTON, DC SERVED as a breeding ground for political secrets. When it came to secrets, President Vincent Cross was no exception to the rule, and he had already carefully considered what he was about to do from every possible angle. He and FBI Deputy Director Ivor Hood barely knew each other, but Cross was a man who had risen to the highest office in
the land with a keen instinct. Knowing whom he could trust and when to trust them was a skill that kept him several steps ahead of the game.

  He had just finished getting everything he needed together when his guest arrived. He looked up as a secret service agent directed Hood into the Oval Office.

  “Mr. President.” Hood nodded respectfully. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  The president stood up from his desk and approached him with his hand extended. “Assistant Director Hood,” the president said as he waved off the secret service agent. “Not a problem. This isn’t something that can wait.” He offered a tight smile.

  The politician was a big fan of the handshake. It was a simple gesture, but one that conveyed a lot of information. The initial acceptance of the gesture, the firmness of the grip, the amount of shake, and the duration of the action all told a story. He would measure eye contact, spoken and body language when he sized a person up. Hood managed to pass his test with flying colors, but Cross had expected as much.

  Hood’s face was full of concern.

  “I appreciate your time,” he repeated nervously. The deputy director instinctively looked around to make sure they were alone. “They found my goddaughter’s car abandoned in Leesburg, Virginia. There wasn’t any blood, but it was parked well off the road behind some bushes.” Hood’s eyes hardened. “It doesn’t look good.”

  The president motioned for Hood to have a seat on one of the two couches that were separated by a coffee table in the middle of the room.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  When they were seated, the president pushed a white binder across the table between them. The binder was labeled NSPD 26: Intelligence Priorities and was dated February 26, 2003.

  “Let’s not waste any more time then,” Cross said. “But before you open that…” the president leaned toward his visitor and locked eyes, “…I need to make something clear.”

  Hood glanced down at the binder, and Cross waited for his recognition that the circulation of its contents had been extremely limited.

  Hood’s eyes narrowed. “Of course.”

  “Your source for this information is even more confidential than the information itself,” the president said in a tone that meant business.

  “Yes, Mr. President. I understand.”

  Cross gave him an approving nod, and the deputy director picked up the binder.

  Hood looked across the table and said, “Wherever this leads me, you can be sure that I will take our words today and this document to my grave.”

  “Good.” The president leaned back, satisfied with the answer. “Maybe you could help me with something.”

  “Absolutely,” Hood said.

  The president gestured toward the binder and said, “Why don’t you have a look at that first?”

  Hood opened the binder and reviewed its table of contents. The president read the deputy director’s facial expressions as he flipped to the first document. It was a National Security Presidential Directive from February 2003 titled Intelligence Priorities: Eliminating Terrorist Risks on US Soil. He noted the deputy director’s brow crease as he read through the pages.

  The document authorized and detailed the formation of a top-secret FBI team with the purpose of eliminating known terrorists operating within the United States’ borders. The directive included a detailed decision tree, which provided the necessary criteria to authorize a hit. The definitions meant the team could act on its own, providing a layer of deniability to keep the politicians out of the loop.

  Cross reflected on the irony of the situation. The impetus for the NSPD was the very incident that delivered Frank Culder to the bureau’s top spot at the expense of his good friend. Now it had all come full circle, a sparkling example of the “what comes around goes around” theory.

  Hood peeled his eyes away from the document and looked to the president. “Wow,” he said, before continuing.

  “It was rescinded soon thereafter. We found a more suitable arrangement,” Cross said, referring to Island Industries. His tone grew angry as he considered what Culder had done. “It looks like our friend took dismantling the team as a suggestion rather than an order.”

  Hood nodded without commenting and continued to read. The next page held the personnel details.

  “So they were part of the team.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Jacob R. Sanders and Rudy M. Pagano. Unbelievable.”

  “It was funded by a shell corporation called BlackRock.”

  “Is that the redacted section?”

  The president nodded slowly.

  Hood exhaled. “He could have kept this going without anyone knowing? It’s like J. Edgar Hoover all over again.”

  “I think so.” Cross thought out loud. “With some help.”

  “Obviously, you weren’t pushing for this. Can you tell me who was?”

  The president looked at the FBI man. The wet team, Culder, everything about the situation had been a prime example of a political power play. The sort of move that in his mind screamed for the introduction of term limits in congress and the senate.

  “Senator Soller,” the president said flatly.

  “So you think he’s in on this?”

  “Let’s just say I think you’re on the right track. The effort was needed, but the risk with doing it this way, with Culder being Soller’s puppet, was too great.”

  “The Stagehand program,” Hood said with contempt. “Culder makes sure everything that goes on there is well guarded. He keeps it a bit too close to his chest for comfort. I hear about some of what goes on secondhand, but only because everyone assumes I’m in the loop.” He thought for a moment and said, “Nothing too outlandish, but I’d guess they only paint a partial picture under the circumstances.”

  Stagehand was the code name for the bureau’s program to outfit the FBI’s tactical operations teams. All of the individuals on the hit squad had once been a part of that team.

  The president nodded. “Stagehand would be my guess too. Everything is hush-hush there anyway, so it’s the perfect place to get things done off the radar.”

  Hood looked to the binder and then to the president as if something had occurred to him. “So the others involved—they might not even know the team had been ordered to shut down.” He took a measured breath and exhaled. “They probably think their operations are legit.”

  The president nodded. “That’s a distinct possibility.”

  Hood’s eyes met the president’s. “I need to find this Sanders guy,” he said, looking to the document and then back to Cross. “And what is it that is it that I can do for you, Mr. President?”

  “I want what you want,” Cross said. “I want to know what Culder is up to, and I’ll need your help to get this under control.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Almost,” Cross said as he stood. “I want you to work with a close friend of mine on this. I’m certain you and your goddaughter will find the collaboration to be mutually beneficial.”

  Chapter 97

  Travelodge Hotel, Chicago, IL

  HE FOUND THE keys to the Chevy Impala under the visor. Traffic was light, so it took less than thirty minutes for Jake Sanders to drive the three of them to the hotel. He and Rudy Pagano had brought suits along and they had laid them out on the two beds. They were a requirement if they wanted to blend in with the attendees at the performance.

  FBI Director Frank Culder was in rare form. His men had never seen him so anxious.

  “We’ll go in after the show has already started,” Sanders said. “That way he’ll be in his seat and preoccupied with the performance.”

  “Sounds good,” Culder said. “We need to try to get him during an intermission. Keep it as low-key as possible. Only the elite can afford to attend this event, so going in there hard and fast isn’t an option. Pissing off the wrong people could be problematic.”

  Sanders reached into one of his bags and pulled out a small black leather case. He shook it and sm
iled.

  “M99,” he said. “Pop him with this and he’ll be out cold. We can make it look like he’s sick and carry him out of there.”

  “Good.” The FBI director clasped his hands together and said, “I’ll put in a call to get the two men from the local office to help.”

  “We need four to cover the inside,” Sanders reminded him. His tone was edgy and it was clear he wasn’t on board with what they’d agreed to on the plane. “How will you cover the exits alone?”

  “You four head inside,” Culder said, and pointed to the blueprint that was spread out on the table. “There aren’t too many exits, so if you make sure he doesn’t get out the front door, I’ll only have one exit to cover.”

  Sanders studied the blueprint for a long moment. “That works,” he finally agreed. “We can squeeze him out the back if we miss him in his seat.” He gave the director a probing look and asked, “What do we know about the target? Trent.”

  Culder’s face was full of disdain. “He works for Island Industries.”

  Pagano rubbed his eyes and tried to remember where he’d heard the name. “Sounds familiar. Is that—?”

  “It should.” Culder’s posture tightened. “It’s the company Admiral John Simpson founded after he resigned from the CIA.”

  “Right,” Pagano said. “I suppose we still haven’t been able to get many details on their operation?”

  “You suppose correctly,” Sanders said, now remembering. The director had been trying to dig up dirt on Simpson since the day they’d met. “He’ll be a pro,” he continued. “You can count on that.” He stood and began to pace as the details he had uncovered about their operation came back to him. “Don’t underestimate him, or you’ll find yourself pulling your head out of your ass. And that’s only if he decides not to turn you into a ghost.”