“Why?”
“What do you mean why?” Sam asked.
“He’s a wanted fugitive,” Noble pointed out. “Why not let Bonner intercept him?”
“They were going to kill him.”
Noble’s lips pressed together in a tight line. Hollywood paints the CIA out to be a shadowy boogeyman responsible for mysterious disappearances all over the globe. Nothing could be further from the truth. The CIA collects intelligence. Occasionally that intel is used by Special Operations Groups to carry out clandestine missions, but very rarely do those missions involve assassination. Bonner must have something to hide if he wanted Duval dead instead of talking to the CIA.
Noble said, “That’s a bad thing?”
Sam folded her arms under her breasts. “I can’t believe you’d say that.”
“He leaked classified intel and put a lot of field officers in danger,” Noble said. “Good men had their covers blown and got killed because of him.”
“He deserves a fair trial.”
“Granted,” Noble said. “But that doesn’t explain why you scuttled your career to help him.”
Duval stuck his head between the seats. “I’m right here, you know.”
“Shut up,” Noble told him.
Sam stared straight ahead and spoke through clenched teeth. “I couldn’t let Bonner execute him.”
“Now your head’s on the chopping block.”
“Fine!” Sam threw her hands up. “I totally blew it. Is that what you want to hear?”
She dashed tears from her eyes.
“Smooth,” Duval remarked.
Noble turned. “Remember what I said about shutting up?”
Sam looked at the old church and said, “What are we doing here?”
“We need somewhere to lay low,” Noble said. “This place has been abandoned for years.”
“How do you know it’s empty?”
“French people don’t go to church,” Noble told her.
“He’s not wrong,” Duval said.
“Besides,” said Noble. “There’s a rusty padlock on the front door.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Jaqueline Armstrong was back in the office by 4 a.m. feeling like she’d hadn’t slept. Her secure line buzzed all night with updates on the situation in France. By three o’clock, she had given up trying to sleep and brewed a pot of coffee before heading back to Langley. Her first stop was her private bathroom where she put on her war paint. She kept a makeup kit under the sink with everything she needed. That done, she scooped up the phone on her desk and called the cleaners, then leafed through an urgent eyes only file while she waited. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door.
A team of professionals filed in, hauling an array of equipment designed to detect listening devises. Her office was swept twice a day. Six of them went over the room, top to bottom. It was actually pretty interesting and Jaqueline had watched them work the first few times, impressed by their speed and efficiency. After the first month, the process had lost its charm. When they finished checking the office and bathroom, one of the men stepped up to Armstrong’s desk. She knew the drill. She rose without a word and spread her arms.
He ran a wand over body. Top to bottom, front to back. The instrument clicked softly as it sought listening devices that might have been planted on her while she was out of the office. After the wand came the mouse. It resembled a computer mouse, hence the name. He ran the device over her chest, hips, down her legs and arms and then moved to the back. When he got to her left shoulder blade, the mouse gave off a rapid, high pitched bleat.
“How’s the shrapnel today, Director?”
“Cold weather makes it hurt twice as much,” Jaqueline said over her shoulder.
He finished and packed the mouse away as he moved toward the door. “You’re clean. Office is clear.”
When they had gone, Jaqueline took out the burner cell and dialed. She kicked off her shoes and lowered herself into the office chair while she waited.
Jake’s voice came on the line. “I was starting to think you forgot about me.”
Jaqueline told him, “Despite what some people think, even CIA directors have to sleep. How is officer Gunn?”
“A little rattled and exhausted. Otherwise okay.”
“Is Sacha Duval with her?”
“What would make you say that?”
“Don’t jerk me around, Noble. It’s been a long night,” Armstrong said. “We’ve got positive IDs on facial rec and the Ecuadorian embassy all but admitted he’s gone.”
“Why ask if the question if you already know the answer?”
Armstrong could practically hear the smile on his face. She said, “How is he?”
“A pain in the butt,” Noble said. “He complains constantly. I’m surprised Sam hasn’t shot him.”
“Has officer Gunn said anything?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line and then Noble said, “She’s under the impression Frank Bonner was on a capture-and-kill mission. Duval was the objective. Any truth to that?”
Armstrong said, “That would be very alarming information.”
“Are you saying you didn’t lay in the op?” Noble asked.
“No operations concerning Duval crossed my desk,” Armstrong told him.
“With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t like to be jerked around either. Did you send me to clean up a failed assassination?”
“Noble, up until a few hours ago, I didn’t even know Duval was in play,” Armstrong assured him. “Bonner never breathed a word of this. It was blind luck Duval happened to look up at the wrong time and we caught his face on camera. Burke was the one who recognized him.”
“Is Burke there now?” Noble asked.
“If you mean at Langley, yes.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“You can talk to him when you bring Gunn and Duval in.”
There was another pause, longer this time. “Sorry. I can’t do that.”
Jaqueline leaned forward and propped her elbows on the desk. “Don’t do this, Noble. Do not go back on your word.”
“I said I’d find Sam,” Noble said. “I found her. I never said anything about turning her over to the Company.”
“You have my word she’ll get a chance to tell her side of the story.”
“Sure, after you torture her for seventy-two hours straight,” Noble said. “And then what? She goes to jail for the rest of her life? No dice.”
Jaqueline massaged her temples with her free hand. “Jake, I want you to think about what you’re doing. I want you to think about what this means.”
“I thought about it.”
“Noble, I’m begging you to do the right thing,” Armstrong said. “Bring them in, and I’ll reinstate you with the Company. You’ll get your full pension. It will be like you never left.”
The line went dead.
Jaqueline put the phone down and a smile crept over her face. Noble was in love, just like Burke had said. He would make sure Sam disappeared, probably into the Orient where she’d blend right in. No one would never see her again. It saved Armstrong the trouble of having to waterboard and imprison a traitor two months into her stint as Director. She reached for one of the thin cigars she kept on her desk.
To be young and in love. Jacqueline shook her head. She missed those days.
Chapter Forty-Five
Burke popped a pair of aspirin in his mouth and then sipped from a can of Dr. Pepper while IMINT techs sifted through security footage from the surrounding areas. The game had changed. The arrival of the mystery man in the Nissan forced them to take a step back, reexamine all the players, and a prolonged search meant a changing of the guard. Burke had been forced to bring in fresh eyes to replace exhausted analysts who had been working all night. It meant updating a new crew on the situation, and inviting more possible leaks. It meant a logistical nightmare.
He took his time getting the new people up to speed, giving Sam a window of opportunity. N
ot much, but the best he could do under the circumstances. The techs were busy tracing back the movements of the Nissan in the hopes they could ID the driver. It was a painstakingly slow process. While the image professionals poured over security footage, the drones monitored the highways in an ever-expanding circle. So far, nothing.
New people brought with them new smells and of course, someone was wearing too much perfume. There was one in every crowd. This time it was a woman in a floral scent. Empty food wrappers and stale coffee added to the pungent aroma. But there was another smell, something Burke couldn’t define. He put down his can of Dr. Pepper and sniffed an armpit. His nose wrinkled.
“You’re pretty ripe,” Dana told him. She sat next to him in a rolling office chair with her shoes off, rubbing her arches.
“You’re no rose garden,” Burke said.
She stuck her tongue out.
“French police found the Nissan abandoned in the tunnel,” a signal tech said. He was rail-thin with dun-colored hair and a set of headphones clamped over a pair of ears big enough to pick up signals from outer space. “They switched cars.”
Burke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me something I hadn’t figured out myself.”
“The car they stole is a Black 2015 Peugeot model 308. We’re combing through footage now to see if we can pick up the trail.”
“Get that description to the drones,” Burke said. “Any pics of the driver?”
“Not yet.”
Dana shifted her weight and said, “Hmmm.”
Burke turned to her. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m just a secretary, remember? I make the coffee.”
“We could do with some more,” Burke said.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Come on,” Burke said. “Don’t make me waterboard it out of you.”
“Duval was safe at the embassy in London and our files indicate he’s a physical coward,” Dana said. “People like that tend to stay where they feel safe. Makes me think he didn’t leave voluntarily.”
Burke chewed that over. “He wasn’t abducted. If a covert team had violated the embassy, we would have heard about it. They wouldn’t cover something like that up. It would be front page news. Something forced his hand. Some change in circumstance made a move necessary.”
“That’s my point,” Dana said. “Something happened and Duval was no longer safe at the embassy.”
“Any idea what?”
“Two things come to mind,” Dana said. “Either he found out Ecuador was going to expel him, or he learned someone was going to assassinate him.”
“I found the car and I’ve got a picture of the driver,” one of the IMINT techs announced.
Burke threaded his way between desks. The image showed the Peugeot at a stoplight. Burke recognized the driver’s windblown hair and angular features right away but he said, “Get a copy of that down to facial rec. Where did they go from here?”
“We’re working on that part, sir.”
Chapter Forty-Six
The elevator dinged and Ezra stepped out. He had two Starbucks lattes in a cardboard drink caddy and his coat draped over one elbow. Several people greeted him as he passed. Gwen was already in her chair, light from the monitor reflected in her thick glasses and her mousy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
Any discussion of leaving the Company for the private sector had vanished, replaced by this new mission. Breaking the CIA databanks was something they could sink their teeth into. It was something worth their time and talents. They had a productive first day. Not that they had made any progress, but they had been introduced to everybody in the third-floor basement and been invited out for drinks after work.
They found themselves at a tucked-away kombucha bar in Foggy Bottom frequented by Langley computer ninjas. Their work for Coughlin being hush-hush was enough to make them minor celebrities. After a few hits of kombucha, both analysts loosened up enough to test their moves on the dance floor. In a hipster bar full of computer cowboys and net rangers, they danced as well as anybody. Better by far, at least in Ezra’s opinion, they had shared a dance, one tight hug, and a lingering smile with plenty of eye contact. All good progress so far as Ezra was concerned.
Progress on busting into Langley’s operations database was an altogether different problem. So far, the Seven Dwarves had defeated every cipher, every code, and every backdoor hack they could think of. They had even written new code in the hopes of working around the system’s redundancies, all to no avail. But Ezra’s enthusiasm was undiminished. He laid awake half the night thinking about Gwen and the other half thinking of new ways to break into the database.
He crossed the floor and put a cup down next to her elbow. “Skinny caramel. Just the way you like it.”
A smile played around the corners of her mouth. “Thank you.”
“I’ve got a few new ideas.” Ezra dropped his coat into an unused chair and logged into his terminal.
“Me too,” Gwen said. “Last night I was thinking we could try a self-testing algorithm that would run all the various possible permutations in alternating patterns.”
“That’s a possibility,” Ezra said.
She picked up her coffee and sipped. “You got a better idea?”
“I was thinking we could pull out the hard drives.”
She stared at him.
He shrugged. “Bypass the front interface altogether and go straight to the source. It makes sense. Anyone trying to break into the system would have to know the hardware. While we’re in there, we install an encrypted algorithm that would show us how the databanks are protected in real time.”
She leaned back. Her brows pinched together over the bridge of her nose. “That’s really clever.”
“Thank you.”
Before they could discuss the idea further, Coughlin stepped out of the elevator and cut across the floor to their work station. The left side of his face bunched and released in spastic patterns. His tie was pulled down and his hair was out of place. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept all night.
“Heads up,” Gwen said.
Ezra swiveled in his chair.
Despite his appearance, Coughlin fixed a smile on his face. “How are my net rangers this morning?”
“Good,” they chorused. The fact that Coughlin made an effort to use the lingo was appreciated.
He propped an elbow on the corner of their cubicle. “Any progress?”
“You want the good news or the bad news?” Ezra said.
“Always start with the good news.”
“The good news is our system is very secure.”
Gwen nodded in agreement.
“Are you saying you can’t crack it?” The tick in Coughlin’s eye winked several times fast.
“We still have a few tricks we haven’t tried,” Gwen assured him.
Ezra said, “I’d like to actually enter the database and get a look at the hardware, sir.”
Coughlin blinked. “What?”
“I want to physically remove a hard drive.”
“Won’t that… crash the system?”
Ezra grinned and shook his head. “No. We wouldn’t actually disconnect the drives. We just want to have a peek at what kind of hardware we’re working with. It will give us a much better idea of any weaknesses and how to get past the security measures.”
“And you’re sure it won’t… I don’t know… fry the database?”
Ezra resisted the urge to laugh. The layperson’s ignorance when it comes to computers was amazing. Sometimes he wondered how the troglodytes even managed to turn them on. “It won’t fry the database.”
Coughlin looked to Gwen for confirmation.
She shook her head. “Completely safe.”
“How long would that take?”
“Couple of hours,” Ezra told him. Always overestimate. That was Ezra’s motto.
Coughlin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do whatever it takes, just make it
happen. I’ve got a meeting with the director in fifteen minutes. I’ll check in on you later.”
“Uh…” Gwen started up from her chair, rose halfway, and hung there. “We need authorization.”
“How’s that?” Coughlin asked.
“We need authorization,” Ezra explained. “To actually enter the database.”
Coughlin thought that over. For one brief second, a dark shadow passed over his face, the tick stopped, and his mouth formed a hard line. It was a look that filled Ezra with disquiet. He didn’t like being on the other end of that look and feared Coughlin was about to explode in a tirade, but his face cleared just as fast and a smile appeared. It happened so fast, Ezra wasn’t sure he had even seen it. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or the product of a long night dealing with whatever was happening upstairs. Coughlin said, “I’ll see that you get the necessary clearance.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Burke entered the Director’s office to find Coughlin already waiting, along with the Director of National Intelligence. An air purifier hummed softly in one corner. The space was impeccably clean with tasteful track lighting and neatly shelved volumes on the bookcases. A pair of deep leather sofas flanked a low table. Armstrong, in a pinstripe suit jacket, perched on the edge of one of the sofas. Her hair was up in a knot and a few loose strands framed her face. Half a dozen files were open on the glass table in front of her. She looked up as Burke entered. “Have a seat.”
He lowered his bulk across from Armstrong. The sofa groaned under his weight. The summons had come on the heels of an eighty-eight percent facial recognition match for Jacob Noble. Burke had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. His former protégé walks into an operation to hunt down his current protégé. It didn’t look good. He reached for a carafe of water and poured himself a glass.
Across from the new DCI sat the Director of National Intelligence. Oliver McPherson was a Wheaton graduate and Army Staff Sergeant who worked his way up through the political system with a foot planted firmly on either side of the aisle. He supported gay marriage but opposed more stringent gun laws. How a former Staff Sergeant had managed to grab the DNI position, Burke could only guess. One thing he was sure of, anything said here would be reported directly to the president.
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