The van was much larger than the truck Tex and Carillo had used. As the back door opened, Carillo saw a man in black standing guard just inside. Tex hopped up, followed by Carillo. The guard patted first one, then the other, looking for backup weapons. The interior of the surveillance van contained monitoring equipment with two chairs at the console, both empty.
Tex sat in the first chair, Carillo the second. Thorndike stepped in, pulling the door closed.
Tex glanced at the monitors, then back at Thorndike. “Why are you here, Thorndike? Trying to get some dirt on your buddy Cavanaugh to keep him in your pocket?”
“Trying to find out if my agent’s in danger.”
“Which agent would that be?”
“Covert. That’s all you need to know.”
“I’d think you’d save this local surveillance work for your minions. You’re operating out of your jurisdiction.”
“You think I’m worried about spending time in jail?”
“I think you’re worried about something, or you wouldn’t personally be here.”
Thorndike stared at Tex, his jaw clenching. He nodded toward the door, telling his men, “Leave us alone for a few.” The two CIA agents exited. Thorndike never took his eyes off Tex. “What do you think you know?”
“You were the one who burned Griffin trying to get him out of Europe.”
“And why would I do that?”
“After this morning’s paper, I’m guessing to protect a certain agent in France.”
“This is interesting. Go on.”
Carillo said, “Might as well show him.”
Tex pulled the copy of Sydney’s drawing from his pocket, unfolded it, then held it out. “This was the sketch from a description by our now dead witness, who said this woman was with the guy who killed Faas.”
Thorndike looked at the drawing, then sank into the chair at the monitor console. “It’s true then.”
“What’s true?” Tex asked.
“She’s turned.”
Tex looked as if he were going to be sick. “So it is Griffin’s wife?”
Thorndike nodded. “That’s why I approved Griffin’s burn notice. I couldn’t take the chance he might run into her. It was too dangerous.”
“And what? You thought he’d hop on the first plane home after his contact was stabbed? He thought he was getting information on who killed Becca.”
“And now it seems she’s the one behind the murders.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Who do you think started this mess to lure Griffin out there?”
“You’re saying Becca is trying to kill her own husband?”
“What other explanation is there? It was her idea to fake her own death.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.” Thorndike glanced at the monitors, then back at Tex. “She’d been working as a double agent that entire time, and she needed a safe out to move over to LockeStarr. She knew that Griffin would never allow her to go.”
“If she’s working as a double agent, maybe—”
“Don’t you get it? She lured Griffin out there. She alone knew the name of the contact, Faas. Not her handler. Not anyone. Why the hell else would she do it, if not to draw him over there?”
“And why would she?” Tex said, his voice rising.
“Because we were about to reopen the investigation into LockeStarr. And look what’s happened as a result. Every one of us has been spinning our wheels looking for Griffin and trying to salvage my operation over there. And what do we have to show for it?”
“Depends,” Carillo said. “You kill the reporter?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Murdered.”
“My men saw her leave her office,” Thorndike said. “She was very much alive this evening.”
“And we saw her lying on her dining room floor, very much dead.”
Thorndike got up, opened the back door of the van, looked at the man who’d been sitting at one of the monitors when they’d first walked in. “Get Lawley on the phone. I want to know what’s going on with that reporter.”
Tex must have decided Thorndike’s reaction was legit, that he wasn’t behind the homicide, because he added, “Carillo’s telling you the truth, Thorndike. Someone killed her.”
And Carillo said, “Broke her neck in the time it took us to walk across the street to her side yard. Whoever it was, they were in and out.”
“Professional hit?”
“Definitely,” Tex said. “I have a feeling that the only reason they didn’t have time to stage it as an accident was because we showed up. So I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”
“Cavanaugh knew that I was running a double agent. He’s the only one who could have leaked that info.”
“He knows Becca’s alive?”
“No. Only I do. He only knew I was against Griffin going to investigate his wife’s death because I was worried it would compromise my operation. I never mentioned her name. To anyone.”
“And what?” Carillo said. “It didn’t occur to you that he might want Griffin burned for nefarious purposes himself? You realize he had about a million bucks in gold stashed away up there?”
“Oh my God. He’s the leak. Someone’s been paying him, and I’ve been handing him information the whole time . . .”
“Clearly the Network got to him,” Tex said. “Question is, how’d you get roped into it?”
“I wanted to expose LockeStarr.”
“I get why you wanted that. But Cavanaugh?”
“Miles wanted it for the political gain. Renew the investigation, reap the glory. At least, that’s how he explained it to me.” Thorndike took a defeated breath. “And since it went hand in hand with my goal, why not? And then Griffin stepped into the mix. I’m sure that rattled Miles, but not for the same reasons. I was too busy trying to protect my asset in the field to realize what was going on. For me, if Griffin recovered this package and exposed our mole inside LockeStarr, all hell would break loose.”
“What package?” Tex asked.
“A biological agent shipped to and stolen from a lab in France, that we believe was intended to be sold to terrorists. That and the proof we needed to shut down LockeStarr.”
Carillo doubted that Tex was about to mention that they’d recovered the suspected vial. Not until he knew more and could inform McNiel. “What sort of biological agent?” Tex asked.
“Manufactured. Specifically for a bioweapon. Beyond that, I don’t have a clue.”
To which Carillo said, “And that was before you discovered that your double agent was two-timing you?”
“Yes. So as you can see—”
“Thanks to our very own double agent right here?”
“What?” Thorndike said.
“Cavanaugh.” Carillo nodded at the monitor, showing two men standing in the front of the apartment building. “He’s home. And he’s brought a friend.”
Carillo watched Cavanaugh on the display talking to some man wearing a ball cap. Unfortunately they couldn’t see his face. “Anybody know this guy?” Carillo asked.
No one did, and Tex said, “Time to make some hard and fast decisions, Thorndike.”
Thorndike stared at the monitor, his gaze fixed on Cavanaugh. “Fine,” Thorndike said. “You two follow whoever this other person is. We’ll stay on Cavanaugh, since we’re already set up.”
“We’re on it,” Tex said.
“Soon as we get our guns back,” Carillo added. Thorndike nodded to the guard at the door, who returned the weapons to the two men. Carillo holstered his, saying, “Been nice. But let’s not do this again anytime soon.” He jumped out, then waited for Tex.
They crossed the street, not wanting to walk up directly in front of Cavanaugh’s apartment building. “How do you want t
o work this?” Tex asked.
“Since neither man probably knows me, I’ll move up on foot. You be ready with the truck, just in case.”
“Be careful. If they’re from the Network, they’re pretty sophisticated.”
“A bullet’s a bullet,” Carillo said. “One hits you, doesn’t matter who’s wielding the weapon.”
“Except these guys don’t often miss. I’ll get the truck. Call me if they move.”
Carillo started that direction, then stopped, saying, “You think Thorndike’s on the up and up?”
“I don’t always agree with his methods, but yeah, I think he is.”
“That’s all I need to know.”
Tex left and Carillo started toward the apartment, wondering exactly what Miles Cavanaugh’s involvement in all this was. Normally a guy like Thorndike would be far removed from a case such as this, but then normal cases didn’t usually involve deputy security advisers to the president. The thought of what Cavanaugh had access to was frightening, but not as frightening as whom he might be passing it on to.
About a block down, Carillo crossed over so that he was on the same side as Cavanaugh. As he neared, he could hear the two men speaking. Cavanaugh faced Carillo, though he wasn’t looking at him. His attention was clearly focused on the man whose back was to Carillo. Carillo eyed the stranger, thinking that for this neighborhood, he seemed . . . out of place. Definitely out of place in comparison to Miles Cavanaugh’s suit, tie, and camel overcoat. In contrast, the man wore jeans, tennis shoes, a leather jacket, and a ball cap, not that any of those would be out of place for a young upwardly mobile sort out for a casual stroll. But this was clearly no casual stroll, and the ball cap bothered the heck out of Carillo.
There were certain places that hats screamed, Look at me, banks being one of them. Carillo had lost count over the years on how many guys wearing ball caps had robbed banks. They did it to hide their features from security cameras placed above eye level. Like cameras in banks. And security cameras out in front of posh apartment complexes.
Carillo slowed his pace, alarm bells ringing in his head as Cavanaugh’s eyes widened, and he took a step back, saying, “What are you doing?”
Two shots and Cavanaugh crumpled to the ground.
Carillo was reaching for his gun when the suspect turned, fired at him.
Carillo dove behind a car at the curb. When he came up the suspect was halfway down the block. Carillo ran after him, saw Cavanaugh on the ground. He raced past, figured someone would call the cops. More important to catch the shooter. Then he heard a screech of tires as a vehicle sped down the street. Thank God, he thought. Tex.
But it wasn’t Tex. It was a smaller white van—probably the same one that Izzy and Maddie had described. It stopped at the far corner, and the shooter got into the passenger seat. It sped away and Carillo ran after it, hoping to see a license plate. There was none.
By the time Tex made it to Carillo’s location with the Pepco truck, the shooter was long gone. They made a quick search of the area, then returned to brief the CIA operatives who’d been monitoring the complex. Thorndike was livid as he stared down at the body of Miles. “What the hell did you get yourself into, you goddamned son of a bitch?”
“Just a thought,” Carillo said. “But you shoulda asked him yesterday.”
The CIA surveillance vehicle pulled up, stopped outside the apartment complex.
Thorndike stiffened. “Get that van out of here. Everyone get the hell out of here before we’re connected to this mess.”
Carillo shrugged out of his utility jacket, then looked up at the security camera. “Before you go, you might want to confiscate that video if you don’t want the cops to have it.”
Thorndike nodded at one of his men. “Get the damned camera recording first.”
Carillo pulled out his phone.
“What are you doing?” Thorndike said.
“Reporting the shooting,” Carillo said. “Since I’m working the senator’s murder, it’s not a big stretch that I’d be out here.”
Thorndike nodded. “Everyone else, move.”
When the CIA guys left, Tex took stock of the situation, then said, “I think I’ll park the truck a couple blocks from here. Might be hard to explain.”
“Any chance you can bring my overcoat back with you? It’s flipping cold out here.”
Tex left, then returned a few minutes later with Carillo’s coat.
“You sure you want to be here?” Carillo asked him.
Tex held up his press pass. “Reporter for the Washington Recorder.”
“Forgot about that cover. Convenient.” He leaned down, patted Cavanaugh’s pockets, pulling out a cell phone. “The way I see it, he won’t be needing this anymore, and the cops will just tie it up in evidence for weeks.”
Tex grinned. “You realize that’s not exactly by the book?”
“Like I said, all about the gray.”
The cops took Cavanaugh’s murder as an attempted robbery, and Carillo didn’t bother to correct them. He did, however, give a description of the shooter, admitting that he was just a few feet away when it occurred. By the time they finished questioning Carillo and he was allowed to return to his hotel, he was dead on his feet. The moment he sat on the bed, Tex called.
“Griffin’s back, they’re safe. Figure that’s worth finishing the bottle over. I can bring it to the hotel. It’ll save me the commute home. I’m beat.”
“The extra bed’s yours. What happened in France?”
“Apparently they had a bit of a run-in with the lab owner.”
“What’d Griffin have to say?”
“Haven’t talked to him yet. Dumas called me right after he dropped them off at their hotel. Griffin lost his phone in the op. Give ’em a few, and they should be up to their room. Maybe you could give Sydney a call, find out what’s up. And tell Griffin I’m glad he’s okay.”
“Sure thing.”
“See you in a bit.”
Carillo called Sydney’s number on speed dial. “You need anything out there?” he asked when she answered. “A shipment of arms? A ticket home?”
“All of the above?” Sydney replied.
“How you doing?”
“There are some places in Europe I’d rather watch on the Travel Channel.”
“Like?”
“Every place in which someone’s trying to kill me, which pretty much covers the entire continent these days. I take it you heard about our operation?”
“Only that you were missing and now you’re found. Figured you would have called by now.”
“Sorry, but I was in imminent need of a shower. A little too much bone dust for my taste.” She briefed him on what happened and their near escape.
“Pearson won’t be too thrilled when he hears,” Carillo said when she’d finished. “He’s already threatened to terminate you if you don’t leave there now.”
“Last I checked, he’s the one who signed my vacation papers. What’s got him all fired up?”
“Besides a couple murders and some intel that the CIA was running a covert action operation in the very country you’re visiting?”
“France is a big country. There’s bound to be more than one covert action running out here.”
“Except it’s only now coming out that their undercover operative is actually a double agent, who has apparently been feeding info to the Black Network. You did get my message about it breaking in the newspaper?”
“That makes no sense. If the Network is handling this double agent, why would they leak the info to the press? That’s the last thing they’d want to do.”
“Maybe it has nothing to do with them. Maybe it’s simple down-home politics. Someone discovered some dirty laundry and is airing it as a way to divert attention. What didn’t come out in the paper is that Grogan might have been working both
sides himself.”
“Grogan?”
“They think he wanted to open up the investigation into LockeStarr as a way to keep tabs on what the good guys were doing so he could give the info to the bad guys.”
“Then who killed him?”
“That, Pollyanna, is the million-dollar question. The more I dig into the shooter’s background, the more I’m beginning to believe in conspiracy theory. And while you two are running around sightseeing in Europe, your ATLAS friends are out here searching for the source of a mysterious virus that killed everyone on board a pirated freighter found floating off the coast of Brazil. You’ll never guess where that freighter was seen just days before everyone ended up dead.”
“I’m stumped.”
“Atlantis.”
“Atlantis?”
“As in the lost city. Under water.”
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. One location of this legendary city is believed to be off the coast of the Cayman Islands, which is where a bunch of college kids were shot when said freighter was passing by days before it was found with everyone on board dead from the virus.”
“The virus we’d been carting around?”
“We’re thinking they’re probably one and the same.”
“My brain’s starting to hurt from even contemplating all this.”
“Tell me about it. Right now though, ATLAS is missing two agents who went to the ship to investigate.” He told her about Marc and Lisette’s mission.
“What does all this have to do with running a double agent over here?”
“Because every time someone ran an operation to expose LockeStarr, it blew up in their faces. Figuratively and literally. The case with Griffin’s wife being the first. The fact you were caught being next. Which brings me to my next point. The identity of the double agent. You in a place we can talk?”
“Hold on a sec.” He heard what sounded like a door opening, then closing, and he guessed that Sydney had moved somewhere she couldn’t be overheard. “Just what the hell are you trying to tell me?” she asked, her voice lower, sounding on edge.
The Dark Hour Page 23
