The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “No. So when several ATLAS agents end up dead, they’ll attribute it to the act of espionage by this alleged double agent. We learn who he is when they are forced to make an arrest for espionage, they remove him from our midst, and no one is the wiser.”

  Miles leaned back in his chair, relaxing for the first time that day.

  “And Mr. Cavanaugh? These sorts of opportunities come few and far between. If you value your position, handle this matter with great care. I really don’t want to have to find a new deputy security adviser.”

  The sudden dial tone on the other end echoed in his head. He put the phone down, then stared at it for several seconds. The threat wasn’t lost on him. If he didn’t succeed, he’d be found dead. Either by his own hand or theirs. He’d be just another White House statistic. No one ever investigated those deaths beyond the obvious clues conveniently left behind. Something that might titillate the Internet for a few weeks, listed on some conspiracy Web site, then forgotten. The out-and-out murders made to look like suicides were quickly swept under the rug, if for no other reason than to ensure the public that their policymakers weren’t being run by groups no better than the common Mafia.

  Hell if he’d become victim to that. Miles was not going to let Griffin live. Or anyone helping him, either. He needed his own ace in the hole. He’d plant Bose near that lab to make sure Griffin didn’t escape. First, however, he needed to handle the Thorndike matter, so he started scrolling through the numbers on his phone until he found the reporter he’d slipped anonymous information to in the past, Merideth Garrett. He called, saying, “Merideth? It’s me. I have something I wanted to let you know in the utmost confidence. It’s about the deaths on board the Zenobia and a CIA agent in France who is working as a double agent. If you want the story, however, there are conditions.”

  “Such as?” Merideth replied, and he was certain he could hear her salivating.

  “You protect your source, for one.”

  “That goes without saying. Let me get a fresh pad of paper.”

  Chapter 34

  December 11 (the following day)

  Washington, D.C.

  “A double agent?” Thorndike shouted, slamming the newspaper on the table. “It’s bad enough we had to go to the extremes we did to avoid someone leaking the existence of this agent to the press, now I have to contend with the lies that I’m allowing a double agent to operate in the CIA? This is bullshit!”

  Thorndike looked around the room, his face red, the vessel in his temple beating so hard it looked ready to burst. Every other security chief and director shifted in his seat, and Miles imagined that each was trying to think what sort of information might have been compromised.

  The only thing that would make Miles any happier in that one moment would be to hear that Griffin was dead. Soon, he told himself. Aloud, he said, “I’m sure it isn’t as bad as it seems.” He reached for the newspaper, careful to keep his expression from reflecting how he truly felt. Not that he needed to read the article. He’d practically dictated it. “After all, it doesn’t state any names. That’s something.”

  “Unless,” Thorndike said, “you’re the goddamned agent sitting out there deep undercover and the people you’re moving with begin to put two and two together. This is an unmitigated disaster for us, for the agent, for everyone.”

  “Pull the plug on the operation,” Miles said. “Cut your losses and walk away. It’s only money.”

  “For God’s sake, are you insane? There are countless lives at issue. I want to know who leaked this information, because if anything happens to my agent, we won’t need to wait for a special investigation. I’ll personally put a bullet through the bastard’s head.”

  Roy Santiago steepled his fingers as he looked Thorndike directly in the eye. “You aren’t accusing someone in this room, are you?”

  “Tell me who else knew about it?”

  “Does anyone even know who the agent is?” Santiago shot back. “Or even the nature of the operation?”

  “Someone knew the op was in France. How the hell did that happen?”

  Santiago took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair as his gaze swept the room, then landed on Miles. “He’s right. Someone obviously leaked this to the press. Contact DOJ. I want an investigation started. You’ll report to me with your preliminary findings, and since Pearson is here, we can save the DOJ the extra step of contacting the FBI to provide the investigators.”

  Miles grew increasingly hot beneath the man’s scrutiny. “But no name was ever mentioned. There’s no violation of the Intelligence Identities Protection Act.”

  To which Pearson said, “There’s still been a breach of national security. If it gets nipped in the bud now, we save this administration from a major scandal later.”

  “I agree,” Santiago said. “If you don’t feel comfortable taking this on, Miles, then we’ll wait for Phillip,” he said, naming the other deputy security adviser. “He has experience with this sort of thing, and you’re already assigned to the security detail for the global summit.”

  “No,” Miles said. “I’ll get started at once.”

  “Thank you. And if there’s nothing further, gentlemen? I have an appointment that can’t wait.”

  Santiago stood, and everyone else followed suit, except Pearson, who remained seated, watching Miles as the others filed out of the room. “You seem uncomfortable,” Pearson said.

  This was not spinning in the direction Miles had hoped. “I am uncomfortable. There’s speculation of a double agent, and no one else seems too concerned over that fact. I don’t like that it’s in the paper any more than you do. But regardless of where this information came from, what if the real national security breach is that one of our own CIA agents is feeding information to the enemy? Who’s looking into that?”

  “Good point,” Pearson said, sliding his chair back. He stood, gathered up his notepapers from the tabletop. “If you happen to know of any firsthand knowledge of information being passed on illegally, I’d like to hear about it.”

  Miles nodded. “I’ll contact DOJ right away.”

  Pearson left. Miles didn’t move for several seconds, not wanting to give away how much the last few minutes had actually shaken him. It seemed the only thing going in his favor at the moment was that the federal government, no matter which branch, operated slowly. Any ensuing investigation was bound to take weeks, even months. That meant there was time for some damage control. And the first thing he needed to control was making sure the reporter didn’t reveal her source. Ever.

  Chapter 35

  December 11

  FBI Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  “The hell I can’t,” Carillo said, pushing past Pearson’s secretary to throw open the office door, that morning’s paper clutched in his hand.

  Pearson, the phone pressed to his ear, eyed Carillo as he stormed into the room. “I’ll get back to you,” he told his caller, then dropped the phone into the cradle. “Shut the door,” he told Carillo.

  Carillo reached back, pushed the door closed. “You saw this?”

  “The article on the double agent in France? I’m pretty sure everyone in D.C. saw it.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And Sydney is heading to France. Is she walking into a trap?”

  Pearson eyed him, as though contemplating what, if anything, he should reveal. Finally, he said, “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Not entirely sure? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “The CIA has been running a covert infiltration operation in France for the past two years that may link the lab in Paris to LockeStarr. In addition, Senator Grogan had sat on the committee involved in the investigation of LockeStarr, at least until it stalled with the death of a CIA operative. And as I’m sure you�
��ve heard, the senator was discussing reopening the investigation just prior to his murder.”

  “None of which is new, except it puts someone associated with LockeStarr at the top of the list of suspects.”

  “Until we received information that the senator was actually part of LockeStarr. What he didn’t know was that he was the focus of the investigation.”

  Carillo opened his mouth, but closed it again as he digested Pearson’s last sentence. “Grogan was part of LockeStarr? Senator Grogan?”

  “Per the CIA.”

  “And he didn’t know they were investigating him?”

  Pearson nodded at the paper Carillo held. “Correct.”

  “Thorndike thinks the double CIA agent was working for Grogan?”

  “As much as Thorndike won’t want to admit it,” Pearson said, “it looks like his undercover operative may have been feeding information to the senator. There’s no other explanation as to why the senator was suddenly fired up to open a new investigation right around the time we were actually about to move into high gear. Had we not suspected him, he could very well have sat on that committee knowing every move we were about to make.”

  “Double agents on both ends.”

  “Exactly. The fact someone recently leaked information about an infiltrated agent that very few people even knew existed tells me this leak is somewhere high up.”

  “So what are you doing about this?”

  “What can I do? I just sat through a meeting this morning, knowing that one of my own agents may be in danger, and I couldn’t say a damned thing. But I can tell you what I would be doing if I was on this investigation. I’d be questioning this damned reporter to find out who her source is.”

  “I’ll head there next. In the meantime, what do you want me to tell Fitzpatrick?”

  Pearson picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, then looked in. It was empty. He set it back down on his desk in frustration. “In light of the article, and this morning’s meeting, I think it’s time we stepped back. Get ahold of Fitzpatrick. I want her to terminate the operation. Her life is more important.”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  “I mean it, Carillo. I want her on the first plane out of there.”

  Carillo reached up, massaged the back of his neck. “Yeah. About that. You realize she’s not exactly the best at following rules these days?”

  “Tell her to get on that plane if she wants to keep her job.”

  Carillo walked out, then called Sydney’s cell phone and left a voice mail. “FYI, an article came out in the paper today about a double agent in France. No names. More that the timing of its release is suspect. Call me,” he added. “I have a bad feeling about this, never mind Pearson wants you off the case.”

  He tossed his phone on the car seat, realizing it wouldn’t matter what he told Sydney. Too damned stubborn for her own good. A commendable trait at times. Unfortunately, one that could get her killed.

  Chapter 36

  December 11

  Off the coast of Brazil

  Marc di Luca felt like a space alien in the full hazmat suit. He stood just out of hearing from several World Health Organization doctors sent to investigate the possibility that some unknown virus had stricken the crew of the Zenobia, after the freighter was found floating in the middle of the Atlantic by a passing naval boat. All aboard were dead, and at first it was believed that pirates were responsible. After all, the ship had been missing for weeks with no word. It was the sight of several corpses in the cabin, their skin unnaturally dark, dried blood crusted around their eyes, noses, and mouths, that made the authorities doubt that pirates were involved at all with the ship’s disappearance, and think that the real culprit was some unidentified illness. They quickly backed off without exploring further. Once word of the illness reached the WHO, then the National Institute of Virology in Johannesburg, South Africa, it wasn’t long before a full investigation was started.

  Of course WHO knew only part of the story. They had no knowledge that Director McNiel had pulled Marc and Lisette from the Desdemona and flew them south off the coast of Brazil to pose as two of the several WHO doctors who were dispatched to the Zenobia. Even though Marc had no medical training besides basic first aid, HQ insisted that he accompany Lisette because of the possibility of terrorist action, and he found himself wondering if their assignment together bothered her as much as it did him.

  Then again, maybe she was over him. Marc had a way to go yet, and he tried to put her from his mind, telephoning ATLAS headquarters as soon as they’d seen enough to report back. When their boss answered, Marc told him what the initial findings were. “No signs that any violence occurred. No signs of weapons. No signs of pirates. And definitely no AUV on board. Which is not to say it wasn’t here.”

  Director McNiel was quiet a moment, then, “Any chance this was natural, and not part of some terrorist action?”

  “Lisette tells me we really won’t know until further tests are run. In the meantime, they’re treating the scene as a biohazard. She wants to take a more thorough look without drawing attention.”

  “Check back with me when you know more.”

  Marc disconnected, finished suiting up, then waited with Lisette and the other doctors to board the ship. Once on deck, he and Lisette broke off from the main group. Their goal was to search places that might have been overlooked, and they started in the mess hall, since, if pirates or even terrorists had been on board, they would have had to eat, like the rest of the men. Lisette began examining the tables, while he started in the kitchen.

  “Over here,” Lisette called out. He returned to the mess hall to where Lisette stood near one of the smaller tables in the far corner of the room. There were only two chairs set around it, as opposed to the larger table in the center, which seated twelve.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Small bits of broken glass.” She pointed to the floor in the corner.

  He took a closer look, saw thin, curved clear pieces as though from a vial.

  They moved the chairs, then lifted the table away from the wall. Lisette crouched down, not the easiest thing to do in their hazmat suits with the breathing apparatus. She opened her small equipment bag, found a wooden tongue depressor to scoop the bits of glass into a plastic tube, and used it. Once the tiny shards were safely contained, she dropped the tongue depressor in with them and was about to cap it shut when someone walked into the room. They both looked up, unable to see who it was because he also wore a biohazard suit and mask.

  But then they weren’t looking at his face.

  They were looking at the gun he pointed at them.

  Marc stood, shielding Lisette. “Who are you?”

  “You may call me Daron. Not that it matters.” His accent was thick. Somewhere from South America, Marc thought. “What does is why you two would be interested in trivial things.” He waved with his gun. “Step away from the table, so that I can see what you find so interesting.”

  Marc remained where he was.

  The man leveled his weapon. “You would die for your friend?”

  “Yes,” Marc said.

  “No,” Lisette interjected, moving from behind Marc. He felt her brushing up against him as she took her place on his right.

  “And what is it you found?” the man asked.

  “Broken glass.”

  “Give it to me.”

  She placed the cap on the tube, held it out, and Marc could see the wooden tongue depressor inside it.

  The man took it, lifted it to the light, then gave it a shake. “Now the three of us are going to walk out of here, then off this ship, without alerting anyone as to what you’ve discovered.”

  “And if we don’t go?”

  “A lot of people will die between here and the shore. So if you care to see their executions, try to make a break. If you would like to sa
ve many lives, cooperate.”

  Marc and Lisette both had weapons, but they were secured beneath their hazmat suits, rendering them useless. It was, unfortunately, a necessity, as they were there undercover, hoping not to alert anyone who might be watching the boat that they suspected something more. Apparently their efforts had failed. Or someone had been forewarned they’d be there. “We’ll cooperate,” Marc said.

  “I thought so. You first,” he told Marc. “Dr. Perrault and I will follow, as though she were ill. If anything happens, she will be the first to go.”

  Marc focused on Lisette, saw her give the slightest of nods. He turned, walked up the few short steps out of the mess hall onto the deck. Outside, he glanced back, saw their captor with one arm around Lisette as though physically assisting her to walk. One of the other doctors approached, and Marc said, “Dr. Perrault doesn’t feel well. We’re taking her back to shore.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “No. We’ll be fine.”

  The others went about their business, paying the three of them little attention as Marc climbed down into the waiting boat—not a simple task dressed as he was. There they found a second man, dark hair, weathered face, wearing a hazmat suit without the breathing apparatus or hood. He was also armed. The twenty-foot sport boat was not the same one they came in on, and Marc wondered how it was that no one seemed to notice when it pulled up to the ship. Daron directed Marc to take a seat next to him, then had Lisette sit directly opposite in the U-shaped seating area at the back of the boat. As the vessel set off, their captor removed his hood and facemask, then his gloves.

  “Are you sure that’s wise without being decontaminated?” Lisette called out over the roar of the boat’s motor.

  “There is nothing on board the Zenobia that can harm you. The virus is long dead.”

  Lisette removed her headgear, then set it on the seat next to her. “Hemorrhagic filovirus?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? What does that mean?”