He and his old partner had felt the need to discuss the current crisis face to face. They’d met at the golf club many times; it was a convenient midway point for them both, as far by plane for Roos as it was for Tomblin to drive to from his home further north in Virginia and his day job at CIA headquarters in Langley.
While in the air, Roos had exiled the call, the one that had awakened him well before he had planned to get up, from his mind. Instead, he allowed himself to savor skimming the frothy blanket of clouds below him, totally cut off from the complications of the world below.
Now that he was back on the ground, the facts as he was aware of them had rushed back into sharp focus, and they required his urgent attention.
He took the Midlothian Turnpike into an area to the west of Richmond which had morphed from having originally produced the very first commercially mined coal in what would become the United States to becoming home to several golf clubs. In the decades that he had known the area, the last remaining forests had almost entirely given way to suburban sprawl, leaving a couple of small parks and the lush, undulating hills and managed woodland of the clubs as the only reminder of how the land had looked. This continuing spread of subdivisions—and the highways that serviced them—was one of the prime motivating forces in his move to the Outer Banks and then later to Ocracoke, the simple fact being that the island had extremely limited capacity for development along with a community that understood the raw beauty of their environment.
Salisbury Country Club had genuine history, something he always looked for when selecting a location where he would regularly spend even the smallest amount of time. The clubhouse, built along Colonial lines in the 60s, had replaced the original eighteenth century hunting lodge which had burned to the ground in 1920.
Roos waved to the valet as he pulled up to the clubhouse. Although he came here fewer times with each passing year, he was still well known by the staff, and they kept the formalities to the barest minimum whenever he was here. The club was civilized enough to have no need for security cameras, except at the perimeter, the member vetting process alone being enough to ensure this would suffice. None of them would be signing in or out. If anyone asked, none of them had been here.
The door swung shut softly behind him as Roos walked into the largest of the wood-paneled private rooms. A large oil painting of Thomas Jefferson—who had saved the property from being confiscated by the British when its owner was captured coming back from Scotland on revolutionary business—hung over a massive stone fireplace, which took up most of one wall.
Edward J. Tomblin was sitting in a burgundy leather armchair drinking tea. He wore a dark brown tailored corduroy suit, handmade loafers and a forest-green V-neck sweater over a cotton shirt that appeared to be at least ten years old. Along with his Yale University tie, his attire made him more like a college professor than one of the most powerful men in the intelligence community—a position few people who met him would suspect, as he exuded the kind of easygoing authority that had always perfectly complemented Roos’s more intense manner. As befitted his position, though, Tomblin was a very shrewd operator. He had the influence and inside knowledge to move between the agency’s often warring factions and always come out on the side that appeared to have won, even if it hadn’t. Running the National Clandestine Service was the culmination of his career management skills. The only step up from there would be running the whole agency, which was a remote but not an inconceivable possibility.
Tomblin looked up from his tea. “I’m not sure I approve of what they’ve done to the back nine.”
Roos sat down on the floral-patterned couch to the right of his friend. “I’m not sure someone with a handicap that’s almost as high as his age is entitled to an opinion on that matter, Eddy.”
Tomblin snorted. “Maybe, but I still have to look at it every time you drag me down here. Are you going to join us for Christmas this year? Mary was asking.”
“As she has done every year since my divorce,” Roos replied. “It’s still no. Regretfully, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll pass it on.”
A waiter brought Roos the coffee he had ordered, then left again. Roos glanced around the room as he took his first sip. There was no one seated within earshot. The large room was silent except for the crackle of logs in the huge fireplace.
“This is a total clusterfuck,” Tomblin said. “How the hell did Reilly get out?”
“We don’t know. They said he got sick so they were taking him to a hospital when he made the break.”
“What about your inside man? Is he still missing?”
Roos nodded. “Last time we spoke, he was trailing Reilly’s woman. He thought she was going to meet with him.”
“So Reilly took him out.”
“Looks that way.”
“That’s what happens when you use a non-vetted asset.” Tomblin thought about it. “We need to find his body. It only makes Reilly look worse. In case.”
“Screw the body. We need to take Reilly out. That’s all.”
“Does Sandman have any leads?”
“Nothing at the moment. But Reilly’ll resurface. He has to.”
Tomblin said, “At least the Feds are taking our lead on this and keeping it shuttered. But we need to shut him down before we lose that window.”
“I’m down with that, as the kids say. What about the penetration attempts? Have they stopped?”
Tomblin didn’t seem alarmed at all. “No. Someone’s still trying to break into our servers. Looking for you. This guy’s got a real hard-on for you.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Roos cursed the day he’d accepted to help out an old friend at the DEA with his offbeat plan to bait a major Mexican drug baron—a favor that had first put Reilly on his trail.
“Reilly’s got someone helping him. Whoever it is, they’re very good. Not many people out there with that much talent. If we can backtrace their location, it’ll lead us to him. We can’t let this get any further, Gordo. No more screwups. Any of this comes out and . . . you want to spend the rest of your years behind bars?”
“It’s not going to happen.” Roos struck the arm of his plush chair with each word.
“We need to put Reilly down. Fast.”
“Have you put the Fort on him?” he asked, using his preferred nickname for the NSA.
“As of this morning,” Tomblin said. “I got one of our guys there to set it up quietly. Full spectrum, priority one. We’ve got a lot of videos and recordings for the cameras and voice taps to work off, which helps. He’s bound to turn up soon.”
This pleased Roos. He knew how pervasive the NSA’s reach into surveillance camera networks was and how effective their face recognition software—to say nothing of voice-match monitoring of phone lines and keyword tracking. “Who gets the alert?”
“Just you, me and Sandman. We’re keeping it in the family.”
“Good.”
“Speaking of family . . .”
Roos set his mug down. He sensed there was more at play here.
“I’m worried about contagion and our favorite brainiacs.”
Roos knew where this was going. He just shrugged. “They were always going to be a weak link. That’s why we’ve have them on such a tight leash.”
Tomblin leaned in. “They’re civilians, Gordo. They’re old. And they’re not like us; they didn’t join up for the cause. They’re scientists who more or less stumbled into this. They gave us their expertise out of, I don’t know, a sense of duty, an intellectual curiosity, maybe for the thrill of it . . . but at the end of the day, they’re still civilians. With all the vulnerabilities and failings that entails.”
“And we can’t risk that any more.”
“Padley had his Road to Damascus moment and decided to clear his conscience. The three of them—they talk to each other. Especially Padley and Orford. They were close back in the day. How do we know it’s not a feeling they all share? How do we know one of the others won’t do what P
adley did?”
“Won’t try to do, you mean,” Roos corrected him.
Tomblin brushed the comment away. “I think we should clean house.”
Roos let the notion sink in. He’d already considered it himself, but thinking about it and doing it were two different things. He knew these people. He’d worked with them for years. They’d done everything asked of them, without fail.
And now they’d have to die. Simply because they were a security risk.
Roos let out a small chortle. “You want the Janitors cleaned up? Not all of them, I hope. I’m kind of partial to sticking around a bit longer so we can enjoy these little chats before I embarrass you out on the course yet again.”
“You know what I mean,” Tomblin told him.
Roos nodded. “OK. We should start with Siddle. He’s the more clued-in of the two.”
“Sandman’s going to have his hands full.”
“It’s what he does. Let’s finish our tea and head out. I’ll send him instructions from the first tee while you go through your mulligans.”
Roos studied his old partner. “Did you tell Viking what’s going on?”
“No need,” Tomblin said. “We can take care of it.”
Roos nodded and leaned back into the couch. He could see two problems. One was that Sandman was indeed going to be a busy man. The other was not so much a problem as a subtle alarm going off deep in the folds of his experienced brain: he needed to make sure any blowback from this whole mess didn’t end up catching him in its blaze.
Ex-partners and old friends counted for a lot, but every relationship had its breaking point, and he knew things were getting stretched unbearably thin. Beyond the fact that they would all end up in prison if this thing ever blew up, some of his old partners had even more to lose if that ever happened.
He’d need to watch his back from here on.
34
Chelsea, New York City
I woke to the sound of Gigi busying herself at a kitchen range which occupied the center of the large loft. The sofa bed in one corner of the huge open-plan space was surprisingly comfortable and the low partition walls around it, though far from reaching the high ceiling, made the contained area feel like a separate room. The main bedroom had proper walls and a suspended ceiling, though I was still pretty sure I’d heard Gigi’s muffled wails of ecstasy during the night.
We’d taxied back to her place well after midnight, after I’d retrieved the holdall. Gigi had insisted we stop for some Thai food on the way back and, seeing as I was her guest, I could hardly tell her otherwise. I also needed the nourishment.
Without turning on the main lights she’d gestured to the corner, told me to make myself at home, then pulled Kurt toward the bedroom. I unfolded the bed, opened a couple of the screens, took off my boots and jeans, fell onto the bed and was asleep in under a minute.
“Hey, you want bacon with your pancakes?”
By the sounds of it, breakfast was definitely going to be better than a motel muffin loaded with enough preservatives to survive into the next millennium.
Gigi’s head peered around one of the screens. “Wanna keep me company? I gave Kurt a major workout last night, so I doubt he’ll be up for a while.”
The wink only made it worse and I shuddered. “Gigi, seriously. Way too much information.”
She gave me a curious look, the mischief never buried too deep. “But you’re happy for him, right? I mean, I can tell you like him. When he told me about you, I thought you must be using him, but he was adamant that you were a team.”
“I’ll deny it if he asks me, but yes, I am fond of Cid. Or Snake. Or whatever avatar he’s using today.”
“Good. Because I’m kind of fond of him too. And I wouldn’t want anyone messing with him. He’s a doll. And a surprisingly generous lover—not many of those around, let me tell you.”
I gave her the look.
“OK, OK, sorry.” Her expression shifted, her eyes now probing me. “Tell me something. You promised my big boy a get-out-of-jail-free card in exchange for helping you out. Which, let me tell you, while he’s with me—he ain’t gonna need, I’ll make damn sure of that. But regardless—you’re not in any position to help anyone out now that you’ve joined the dark side, are you?”
She was right. But I wasn’t going to encourage it. I needed her and Kurt in my corner. I just looked at her, and said, deadpan, “And your point is?”
She just stared at me, not moving a single facial muscle, just expressionless. Then she burst into a big grin. “I’m just messing with you. Hell, I’m happy to do it just for the fun of it.” She pulled her face back and headed back toward the kitchen area. “Come on, Squidward. Your feast awaits.”
The loft took up the top floor of a six-story, early twentieth-century building a couple of blocks east of the highline. From what I saw when we arrived late last night, it looked pretty iconic with its elaborate brickwork and beaux arts touches. The living space was huge and bright, even on a cloud-dampened day like today, enhanced by the light from the full-height windows at the front and the glass doors that lead to a small, private garden-like terrace at the back that was further enhanced by a commanding view of the Empire State Building. I glanced down from the window of my enclave. The street was lined with high-end furniture stores and quirky fashion showrooms, all with big logo-bearing flags outside marking their territory. Directly across from the building was a restaurant whose name I recognized, one of those big, trendy brasseries that are always packed. Gigi was clearly doing very well for herself, which I was curious about.
I pulled on my jeans and ambled out into the open space. It was dominated by a massive steel table at its center that was covered in stacks of every flavor of personal computer, server and router imaginable but only a single Mac. I guess that was yet another thing Kurt and Gigi had in common—a hatred of all things Apple.
A high-tech, glass-fronted cabinet stood along the sidewall, lights blinking asynchronously across the faces of the shiny new kit bolted within. I had no idea what any of it did, but I assumed that some of it was what enabled Gigi to roam the Internet undetected.
“Careful,” she said as she appeared from the kitchen. “That’s some highly tuned machinery you’re looking at.”
She explained that it was her gateway to the digital world, and I quote, “running across multiple fiber connections and defended by myriad firewalls, each and every IP packet bouncing both internally through spoofed IP subnets then externally through POPs at random and constantly changing locations around the globe and back again before reaching their destination.”
I just nodded like I even understood ten percent of it. I glanced around, took in the space and the technology, and told her, “Nice.”
She gave me a curious glance. “I know, right? And I bet you’re wondering who’s paying for it all?”
“I wouldn’t presume,” I said with a smile.
“Just another classic tale of a black-hat hacker turned corporate security consultant. I tell banks how not to get compromised. In return, they pay me considerably less than if I were hacking their firewalls and moving funds into my own account, but it’s still some serious green and at least I don’t have your cyber-crime buddies on my tail. And yes, I’ve done that, though I never kept a cent. It was just a thrill, but the whole thing’s got a bit boring, which is why I’m enjoying all this black ops stuff Kurt and you are into.”
I was happy to hear it was all legal. I was rapidly becoming a fan of Kurt’s gal and, although she was still breaking into all kinds of secret databases—a lot of it for me—I was glad she wasn’t involved in anything else that could land her behind bars.
I followed her to the gleaming white island around which the rest of the kitchen was arranged. An industrial-strength laptop was open at one end, so I sat at the other. Gigi was wearing an oversize Metallica T-shirt and track-pants, her hair scrunched up pineapple-style. Without makeup or a costume, she still looked pretty damn good. Maybe even more so.
Kurt’s toast had definitely landed jam side up.
Gigi set down two plates piled with pancakes, bacon and fruit, then brought over a cafetière and two white china mugs.
She pushed the plunger down and poured us some coffee. She took a sip from her mug and started tapping away at her laptop keyboard.
I asked, “Anything overnight?”
“You’re extremely hot right now.” She realized what she’d just said and blushed, something I wouldn’t have guessed she was capable of. “I’m talking about the chatter. You’re not my type, though.”
“Duly noted.” I steered the conversation back on track as I dug into the pancakes. “FBI? CIA? Any others?”
She smiled. “All of them. The NSA has been particularly animated. Everyone’s asking how a killer got himself invited to dinner at the White House. Somewhere, I suspect, heads are about to roll.”
I shook my head sadly. “I never did get Angus Beef with the truffle-scented Merlot sauce.”
“All served on official White House china,” Gigi added.
“Of course.”
“Wow. That sucks.” She pointed at my plate. “Try the bacon. I fry it in maple syrup. It’ll run rings around that Angus Beef any day.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second.” I took another sip of coffee and bit into a strip of bacon. I was impressed. She saw the look on my face, and it clearly pleased her.
“You’ll be glad to know that the cops have been told to back off,” she added. “There’s no BOLO. No all-ports. No all-agency alerts.”
“Nothing about a missing FBI agent?”
“Not that I saw.” She set her mug down and fixed me squarely. “So . . . what do we do now?”
I finished my mouthful. “There was something else. This guy called me. Like with a proper, ‘Deep Throat’ vibe. Not the movie,” I added. “I mean, not that movie.”
She grinned. “I kind of got that.”
“He told me he had information for me. Stuff he wanted me to put out there. A record of something he was involved in. He said that the last person he reached out to got burned to death. Said he told the guy not to look into it before they’d met, but he did. Said it was in his blood and that he couldn’t help himself.”
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