by James Hunt
“Whatever they paid you, whatever they told you, it doesn’t have to stay that way,” Grant said, struggling to keep his voice calm and the shotgun steady. “Just put the gun down, and step toward me.”
Silence lingered, and then the mercenary looked past Grant toward the approaching officers. He looked up at the sky at the sound of the chopper. When he lowered his face, he nodded. “All right, then.” He took the pistol off of Anna’s head, and just when Grant was about to exhale in relief, he placed the barrel of the gun against his own head and squeezed the trigger.
6
FBI Director Nathan Links sat slouched in his chair, fingers interlaced and both hands resting on top of his stomach. He lolled his head lazily to the left and checked the time. The conference call had been rambling on for the past twenty minutes, which was nineteen minutes longer than it needed to be.
These discussions were always a formality, a faux “sharing” of information that was nothing more than a circle jerk. He raised his hand, working his mouth and hand at the same time as though he had a puppet, as the CIA director discussed some jihadist stuck in a hole five thousand miles away.
“Nathan,” the Homeland director said, “do you have any updates?”
“Not yet,” Links answered. “Still waiting to hear back on the situation with the girl in the Joza case.” He picked at his index fingernail, trying to flick out a lone piece of dirt wedged inside. “Should have an update on that soon.”
“All right, I don’t have anything else. Jim?”
“Good here,” the CIA director replied.
“All right, till next week, gentlemen.”
The call ended, and Links raised his middle finger to hit the end call button on his phone. He leaned back in his seat. He’d been in this position for two years. And he finally had something big ready. Something that would secure his position for the rest of his life.
A cell phone on the desk buzzed, the name “Hickem” illuminated on the screen. Links reached for it quickly. “What is it?”
“We’ve got her, sir,” Hickem said. “The Copella girl. We’re taking her to a secure facility now.”
“Good.” The word came out practiced but devoid of any excitement. Color had drained from his cheeks, and his lip curled in a snarl. “What about the mercenary?”
“Shot himself,” Hickem answered. “But we still have Gusto Debrov in custody at the US Marshal building. Though he hasn’t given us much to go on save for what we already know. But, um, sir, there is something else.”
“What?” Links didn’t try to hide his displeasure with that. He didn’t need any more surprises.
“The kidnapper was heading east,” Hickem said, his tone confused. “It doesn’t match the intelligence we were given that the mercenaries and Joza were trying to smuggle the Copellas out of the country.”
“No,” Links answered. “It doesn’t.”
“Sir, I was wondering if I could come to DC,” Hickem said. “I’d like the opportunity to speak to Agent Kover myself, see what caused him to—”
“The mole that was inside your unit is no longer your concern,” Links said. “I’ll be handling the interrogation process personally. I think you’ve done enough in that regard, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me know as soon as the Copella girl is in a secure location, and let’s try and keep the media coverage to a minimum. The less we have to deal with battling that front, the quicker we can get this resolved.” Links hung up and then tossed the phone on the desk. He leaned back in his chair, a quiet rage growing inside of him, fanned by his quickened breath.
He shot up and out of his chair and paced the room, doing his best to quell the scream that was building up inside of him, begging to be let out. He raked his fingers through his hair and caught the shimmer of the gold nameplate on his desk.
The phone buzzed again, the number blocked this time. “What?” His tone was short, and he was breathless.
“Asset is secure. Location alpha two.”
The call ended, and Links closed his eyes, trying to get control of his breathing, and then pocketed the phone. Once his heart rate slowed and he fixed his hair in the mirror, he donned his jacket and then stepped out of the office, only one thing on his mind as he walked through the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover building, where he had spent most of his adult career.
It was a call he’d been expecting since Hickem informed him of the mole. And it was a conversation that he had replayed over and over in his head, traveling down different paths and toying with a variety of outcomes. It was a game that he liked to play to keep himself from growing bored. It was also the main reason he joined the FBI and had been promoted to his current rank. He was good at asset management and risk diversion.
Every possible outcome, every possible path, the obstacles and roadblocks, the resources needed, the probability of success or failure, it was nothing more than a numbers game for him, and Links always made sure that the odds were in his favor. But he could do so much more. He could elevate himself, the FBI, the whole goddamn country if people would just let him do his job.
Nearsightedness was the Achilles’ heel of an intelligence agency’s growth. But Links knew better. He saw beyond the corner, and beyond the turn after that, and all the way down to the end of his life and the rest of the world’s. He could make everything better. If only the dumb fucks that surrounded him would listen.
A few friendly smiles and waves greeted Links on his exit, but even he had to swipe his security badge at the checkpoint before he left. People kissed his ass because he was in a position of power. And in return he fed them the lies that every other sociopath and narcissist in Washington fed them: a promise of transparency and integrity.
But everyone had a tell, a weak point, dirty laundry, or a skeleton in the closet that they didn’t want known. Exploitation and blackmail were the name of the game. But Links had gone to a considerable amount of effort to avoid such tactics. The more entangled he became, the harder it was to move around. And he wanted to stay mobile.
When he stepped outside, the security valet offered to grab his car, but Links waved him away. “Think I’ll walk to lunch, Bill.”
“All right, Director Links, no problem. Hey, you watch the Nationals last night?”
“Strasburg pitched a gem.” Links forced a smile as he turned around. “Too bad he couldn’t have been healthy all four years we’ve had him.”
“We’re making up for lost time!” Bill hollered, the statement followed with a gut-bursting laugh.
Links turned around, continuing his walk toward the black site, and trying to rid himself of that wretched taste of effort on his tongue. In truth, he wasn’t much better than the politicians that plagued the city like rats, but at the very least, his own aspirations were in line with the betterment of the country and, in turn, its people.
But the slack-jawed masses and vacant-eyed expressions of the common folk that Links passed on the street weren’t the bedrock of his true motivations. He only wanted power. But to want power in a democracy was to be branded a demagogue. And it was hard for a demagogue to get anything done in this town. You had to practice the smile, the wave, the handshake with those idiots charged with the power of the vote. And for the past fifteen years with the FBI, he had played that part with the people around him. But it was close to being finished now. So fucking close.
Links kept to a serpentine path on his way to the black site, the walk sporadic but cunningly efficient. The Capitol was infested with cameras that the intelligence community monitored like hawks. Every day, everywhere, people were photographed and recorded. But there were certain paths that operatives could walk throughout the city that would shield them from cameras.
Most of the walkways were from the FBI building to the handful of black sites that were still operational but off the books.
It was all part of a game played in the shadows, and if you didn’t learn how to feel your way through the dark, then you wouldn’t last long.
Links turned the last corner of the route, which led him down a narrow one-way street north of the city and just past DC’s downtown. It was on a hill, and when he looked south, he had a good view of the National Mall.
The Washington Monument stuck out as it protruded triumphantly toward the sky. To the east and west were the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol building. There were tens of thousands of tourists down there, gazing at the Romanesque structures that had been erected as a testament to the country’s strength and honor.
Links had visited them only once since he moved to DC when he first started with the bureau. He stood beneath the shadows of all that history, and only one thought entered his mind: I wonder where they’ll build mine?
Links removed his security badge as he walked up the steps of a two-story building wedged between an out-of-business convenience store and an office building for lease. Of course neither building on either side was ever under any private control. The FBI owned all three and just made sure to rotate what was happening with them every few months. It was a charade that had worked effectively for the past four years, ever since black sites in the capitol were “barred” from existence. But that was the point of a black site, wasn’t it? To be invisible?
The door opened, and a security guard sitting behind a desk nodded as Links passed through the foyer and into the next room, which had three doors. Links reached for the door on the left and pressed his thumb against the brass knob. His print was scanned, and once cleared, he was granted entry to the staircase that led him to the cells underground.
The halogen lights that flickered beneath the earth always provided an eerie glow that he enjoyed, though he was probably alone in that enjoyment. The white light illuminated the path down the bland concrete hall, which contained no cameras, no recording equipment of any kind. Not even Links was dumb enough to try to bring something down here. It left the site devoid of its purpose. They could do things here that they couldn’t do in the outside world.
Here, secrets could be told, truths could be twisted, and lies were broken by whatever means necessary, which Links enjoyed even more than the lights.
A door was sealed halfway down the hall, and Links knocked once. The heavy crank of a lock disengaging echoed through the thick steel, and the door opened. The man inside sported a beard covered in sweat, disheveled hair, and an M-16 strapped over his left shoulder. Two other men stood in the room, dressed in similar fashion, each of them armed.
The cell had only one light, which was fixed in the center of the ceiling, and beneath it, tied to a chair with his hands behind his back and his head slumped forward with his chin on his chest, was the mole in Hickem’s unit: Matt Kover.
The interrogator who opened the door returned with a second chair and set it down in front of Matt. Links, keeping his eyes locked on Kover, said only one word: “Leave.”
The three men immediately filed out of the cell then shut and locked the steel-plated door behind them. Links remained quiet, waiting to see if Kover would stir, but the moment never came.
Links dusted off the seat before he sat and then crossed his left leg over his right and folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Hello, Matthew.”
Kover stirred, his shoulders twitching wildly, flinging his head back and forth like a pendulum. The halogens exposed the welts and bruises from his altercation with the man he was supposed to kill. His left eye had swollen shut, and the blood that lined his face in crimson patches was still wet from the sweat pouring off of him in buckets. The dark patches beneath his eyes looked like bruises, but Links knew better. The man hadn’t slept since he was brought here. It was all part of the process of breaking them down. It was the truth they sought down here, and if they couldn’t get that, then a confession was just as good.
Kover stared at Links, his one good eye blinking a few times before realization of who sat across from him finally sank in. He looked around, making sure they were alone, and then he leaned forward. “You have to get me out!”
Links grimaced. “You fucked up, Matt. You royally fucked up.”
“I did exactly as you told me to do!” His voice was a harsh whisper, despite the fact that there wasn’t anyone around. “I held up my end of the bargain.”
Links rubbed the fingers of his left hand against his thumb. The heat of the city in the summer was unbearable even below ground. The sweat made the grime on his skin roll into tiny balls at his fingertips. “You were supposed to make sure the family was taken. The entire family. Not just the father, or the mother, or the daughter—all three of them.” He flicked off the pieces of dirt and then wiped the remains along his pants leg, making a mental note to shower when he was done here. “We only have the parents. And we still only have the parents.”
“Fuck!” Matt exploded, but the brief flicker of rage quickly died out, and he worked his mouth in a sad attempt at grief. “Please, Nate. Don’t do this. I haven’t said anything. You know I haven’t, because if I did, you’d be down here with me.”
“You’re right,” Links said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “I also know that you haven’t talked because I know where your sister and her two kids live. And you know that I could kill them any time I wanted.”
Kover exploded forward again, this time with enough momentum to send him crashing to the concrete floor. With the restraints still keeping him tied to the chair, Matt could do little more than wiggle impotently while Links cocked his head to the side, examining the pathetic creature beneath him.
“I’ll tell them,” Kover said, the threat as empty as a child warning a parent that they would run away from home. “I’ll tell them everything!”
“No, you won’t.” Links stood, the heels of his expensive shoes echoing loudly and bouncing off the barren walls. “Because if you talk, your family dies. I told you the consequences of failure. I didn’t force you into this position. I didn’t threaten you. You volunteered to do this. You wanted to make a difference.”
“I wanted to give my life for my country,” Matt said. “But not for you, you elf motherfucker.”
Links tried to retain a stoic expression, but the comment revealed the lightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a reaction from all those years in public schools and the kids that teased him. He knew there were those who still did even though he was in his current position with the FBI. He knew their names, their dirty laundry, and when the time was right, they would get theirs. Just as Kover was about to get his.
Links’s green eyes flickered brightly under the halogen lights, and his pointed ears wiggled as he smiled, his features negating the joy spread across his face. “You failed. And you’ll keep quiet about our little arrangement, or I’ll make sure your sister and nephew are in a cell down the hall.”
It was all Kover could do to whimper on the floor as Links walked back to the door and banged on the steel. When it opened, he stepped outside and passed the three armed interrogators. “Bag him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Links’s heels clacked, their noise echoing down the hall on his exit. He ascended the stairs then left the building, and once he was down the street, he reached for the burner phone he kept in his left pocket while he was still out of the views of any cameras. He had the number memorized, and the phone only rang once. “The mole has been taken care of. I’ll deal with the girl myself now. Inform Joza.” He hung up then tossed the phone in a trash receptacle and absentmindedly reached for the tips of his ears.
The wounds sustained as a child never really left a person. They were scars that faded but never disappeared. But Links was close to accomplishing his mission. He was close to bringing himself and his country to the precipice of a new dawn. And he wasn’t going to let it fall apart now. He had worked too hard, waited too long, and sacrificed too much. He wasn’t the elf anymore. He was the director of the FBI and on his way to becoming one of the most powerful men in the world.
All that was left was to get the girl back and then deal with this advis
or who was helping the marshals. Chase Grant was turning out to be the aching thorn in Links’s side.
7
The scene was organized chaos. Dozens of officers clogged the dirt road. Choppers buzzed overhead, and the flash of blue and red lights was enough to challenge the sun for brightest spot in the area. The woods were flush with investigators scouring the ground for any drop of evidence that they might have missed. The mercenary’s body was already bagged and placed in an ambulance to be carried out to the nearest hospital for a post mortem.
And while everyone patted each other on the back and cracked dark jokes about the fact that the coward mercenary decided to blow his brains out rather than go to jail, Grant leaned back against the squad car with Lane, thinking.
“Grant,” Lane said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Looks like your partner’s here.”
He turned, expecting to see Mocks and wondering what the hell she was doing out here in the first place, but instead he saw Sam. The one who didn’t believe him about the girl in the first place.
“Hey,” Sam said, slightly winded from the rocky terrain and the long walk. “You all right?”
“We need to talk.” Before she could respond, he stepped away, searching for a place that wasn’t occupied, and then gestured to a small patch of grass off the road ten yards up. Sam followed, and when Grant stopped, he made another quick sweep to make sure they were alone. “We need to question Gusto Debrov.”
“We did. He didn’t give us anything,” Sam said.
“We should do it again,” Grant said. “This time with the cameras off.”
Sam tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. “Look, I know I was wrong about the ferry, but just because you were right doesn’t mean—”
“He killed himself, Sam,” Grant said, stepping closer. “He knew the game was up, and he just shot himself instead of being turned over. What does that tell you?”
Sam blanked for a moment, unsure of what to say. “I don’t—It could mean anything. These people we’re dealing with aren’t stable. Maybe it was some kind of suicide pact. Maybe—”
