The male agent looked up. He didn’t look pleased. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘I need to see the Director, immediately,’ Hunter said.
The man pursed his thin lips, smiled mirthlessly and shook his head. ‘Not a chance, unless you’ve got an appointment, and you haven’t, because if you had, I’d know about it.’
Hunter walked over to the desk, picked up the agent’s nameplate, looked at it and then replaced it, his movements slow and deliberate.
‘OK, Timothy,’ he said, leaning both hands on the desk and looking straight at the seated man, deliberately intimidating. ‘Let me explain things to you. I’ve come here all the way from Roland Oliver in Nevada to see the Director. What I want you to do is go in to him and tell him exactly that. Nothing more, nothing less.’
Out of the corner of his eye Hunter noticed that the typist was smiling broadly, and he guessed that very few people ever walked into the room and showed so little respect for Special Agent Timothy Myers.
Myers looked up at Hunter for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze. ‘You’re from who?’ he asked.
‘Roland Oliver,’ Hunter said, ‘but it’s an organization, not a person.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘I’d be surprised if you had,’ Hunter replied. ‘Don’t worry, the Director will know all about it.’
‘What’s your name?’ Myers demanded. ‘Let’s see some ID.’
Hunter shook his head. ‘My name isn’t important,’ he said. ‘It’s who I represent that matters. Just go tell the Director.’
‘OK,’ Myers said, getting up reluctantly. ‘I’ll see if he can make time for you.’
Helena, Western Montana
‘He’s not here,’ Morgan said, stating the obvious.
He and Harris were standing in the middle of Hunter’s living room. The door hadn’t given them any trouble, but their entry had still been very cautious. If Hunter had somehow found out about Kaufmann’s disappearance, or if he had been contacted by Sheriff Reilly, then he would certainly have been on his guard, and might even have been waiting for them in the building.
Harris had first rung the apartment phone from the telephone booth down the street. Then he’d pressed the bell in the lobby and waited. Neither action had produced any response at all, so they’d used a twirl on the deadlock and a strip of celluloid on the Yale, and eased open the door.
What they’d found was nothing at all. No Hunter, for openers, but no sign of hurried flight either. The place looked as if the occupant had just gone off to work or out for the day.
‘Maybe he’s at the Agency?’ Morgan suggested.
Harris nodded. ‘Could be,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s get out of here and call.’
The two men walked calmly out of the building – nobody attracts attention quite as much as someone who sneaks around – and Harris re-entered the telephone booth down the street. Morgan stood nonchalantly outside, apparently reading a newspaper but actually looking closely at everyone who entered or left Hunter’s apartment building.
Harris checked the Agency number from a contact list he had prepared earlier, and dialled. When the phone was answered, he spoke for a little over a minute, then replaced the receiver and stepped out. Morgan looked at him inquiringly, but Harris shook his head.
‘Some guy called Michaelson,’ he said. ‘He’s the Senior Resident Agent. He’s no idea where Hunter might be, and from the sound of it he doesn’t much care. He also,’ Harris added, with a slight smile, ‘doesn’t seem to know where Agent Kaufmann is.’
FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.
As Hunter had expected, Myers re-appeared from the Director’s office in less than a minute, and beckoned him over. Hunter inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod, walked past him into the inner office and closed the door behind him.
Donahue was sitting at his desk, two open files in front of him, but stood up as Hunter approached.
‘Mr. –?’ he asked, somewhat hesitantly.
‘My name isn’t important,’ Hunter said, echoing his statement to Myers of a few minutes earlier. He ignored Donahue’s outstretched hand and sat down in front of the desk. After a moment, Donahue sat down again.
‘I need to know who I’m dealing with,’ Donahue persisted.
Hunter shook his head firmly. ‘My FBI identification was checked when I walked into this building,’ he said. ‘All you need to know is that I’ve come up from Nevada and I represent Roland Oliver.’
As he said the words, concentrating on sounding as American as possible, Hunter wondered whether that really would be enough, whether Reilly had extracted enough information from Wilson. All he actually knew about the project was its name and the state where it was located, so that was literally all he could use. He watched closely, but the Director didn’t seem particularly uneasy or surprised by what he’d said.
Donahue stared across the desk for a long moment, considering. His dealings with Roger Ketch had been brief and somewhat unpleasant, and he was keenly aware that the head of Roland Oliver was not a man who would take kindly to having his instructions challenged, even by the Director of the FBI. And there was an undeniable presence – or perhaps more accurately menace – about the man sitting opposite him which suggested that he was the genuine article. Somehow, he looked like just the kind of man Ketch would employ.
But still the Director wasn’t satisfied, wasn’t completely certain. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I accept that your name may not be important, but I have to be certain that you are from Roland Oliver.’
Hunter shook his head in apparent exasperation. ‘How many people know about Roland Oliver?’ he asked. ‘The fact that I’m here at all is proof enough that I’m genuine.’
Donahue thought that through for a few seconds. ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘I still need proof. Ketch didn’t tell me he was sending anyone to Washington.’
Hunter noted the name without expression. ‘He didn’t think it would be necessary to advise you,’ he replied, mentally crossed his fingers, and took a sudden gamble. ‘Call Ketch right now, if you like, and confirm it with him. Otherwise, all I’ve got is this.’
Hunter fished inside his jacket pocket and brought out the Omega card Reilly had obtained from Wilson and tossed it onto the table in front of Donahue.
The Director picked it up, examined both sides, and then extracted an almost identical card from his own wallet and compared the two. Then he nodded and passed the card back.
‘OK,’ Donahue said. ‘Now, what exactly do you want with me?’
‘We have to talk, Director,’ Hunter said. ‘This operation has started coming off the rails, and we need to recover it. But we can’t talk about it here.’
Donahue looked surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘Walls can have ears, Director,’ Hunter said. ‘You know the classification of this project. Roland Oliver procedures mean that we have to talk outside, in a totally secure environment.’
‘We have secure briefing rooms here. What’s wrong with using one of those?’
‘They’re not secure enough, Director. Ketch is worried, and time’s running out. He’s given me instructions for you that have to be implemented within hours, and there’s another man here in Washington that you have to meet. I’ve got a car waiting outside. Let’s go.’
Hunter stood up and walked to the door, then stopped and looked back expectantly. If Donahue stayed where he was, Hunter’s only other option was to try to frog-march him out of the building at gunpoint, and he had no illusions about how successful that might be.
‘OK,’ Donahue said, got up and walked to the door leading to the outer office.
‘Myers,’ he said, as he walked through the room. ‘There are two Secret files on my desk. If I’m not back in an hour, lock them in my safe.’
Myers looked up, surprised. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘you have a meeting with the CID Assistant Director in forty minutes.’
; ‘Cancel it. This is more important,’ Donahue snapped and walked out of the office, Hunter three paces behind him.
Groom Lake Air Force Base, Nevada
Roger Ketch slammed the telephone receiver back into its rest with enough force to crack the plastic of the base unit.
‘Fucking idiots,’ he shouted, stood up and stalked round the office. Then he sat down again. He was a man quick to anger, but calculatingly rapid in his recovery from it.
Harris had been apologetic, but unhelpful. To add to the fiasco of Sheriff Reilly shooting his way past – or rather through – two of the Alert Team, he now had to contend with the disappearance of Hunter. Ketch closed his eyes for a moment or two, then reached for the phone and dialled a number in Washington, D.C.
FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.
Agent Myers was in a less than good mood. He hadn’t liked the look of the man from Nevada from the moment he walked in through the door, and his arrogant attitude had made him, Myers, look a fool. He’d expected that the Director would have refused a meeting and told him to throw the man out, but that hadn’t happened.
Four minutes after Donahue had left the office, Myers heard the Director’s telephone ring. From the distinctive sound, he knew it was the internal line that meant Myers could and should answer it. He pushed through the door and picked up the receiver.
‘Director Donahue’s office. Agent Myers speaking.’
‘This is the Communications Centre. We have a Priority One call on a secure line for the Director.’
‘He’s not in the office,’ Myers said, thinking fast. A Priority One call had to be answered by somebody. ‘He’s stepped out for a few minutes. I’ll come down and take it.’
Three minutes after that, Myers walked into the soundproof booth and closed the door behind him. ‘Special Agent Myers.’
The voice in the earpiece was harsh, grating and unfamiliar. ‘Where’s Donahue?’
Myers liked and respected the Director, and didn’t much care for the caller’s tone of voice. ‘Director Donahue has left the building for a few minutes. I’m his assistant. Who’s calling?’
‘Jesus wept. He isn’t supposed to leave the fucking building. Where’s he gone?’
Myers was confused, and not a little alarmed. The voice radiated authority, and Myers frantically tried to identify it. The number of people who could order the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to stay in the building, or to do anything else for that matter, was extremely small, and Myers wondered for a brief moment if he was actually talking to the President. He discounted that – he’d never spoken to Charles Gainey in person, but his voice was familiar enough from any number of presidential broadcasts.
‘Just a moment, please,’ he said, and leaned out of the booth.
‘What’s the origin of this call?’ he shouted across to the Communications Officer.
‘Origin? You mean where it’s from?’
‘Yes.’
The officer checked the display in front of him for a moment, then looked up. ‘Nevada,’ he said. ‘Groom Lake Air Force Base, to be exact.’
Myers nodded his thanks and closed the door again. ‘Who are you?’ he asked into the mouthpiece.
‘Who I am doesn’t matter, and is no concern of yours.’
Myers was getting a little tired of hearing that.
‘All that matters is where the hell the Director’s gone,’ the voice continued.
‘I can’t tell you,’ Myers said, ‘because I don’t know.’
‘Listen. This is a Priority One call concerning a subject classified above Top Secret. You do know what that means, I hope?’
‘Yes,’ Myers replied, ‘but it doesn’t help. I still can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
‘OK. Did he have an appointment outside the building?’
‘No. In fact, he had a meeting scheduled for this afternoon that I’ve had to cancel.’
‘So why did he leave?’
Myers pondered for a few seconds, shrugged, and answered. ‘Somebody arrived to see him, and they left together. And before you ask, I don’t know his name because he refused to give it. All he said was that he was from Roland Oliver.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ the voice said, surprisingly softly.
In his office in Nevada, Roger Ketch leaned back in his chair and held the telephone handset away from his ear for a few seconds. The operation was going wrong in spectacular fashion.
What he knew for certain was that no authorized Roland Oliver personnel were in Washington, which meant that whoever had called on Director Donahue was not authorized, but obviously knew something about the project. The only people who fitted that description were Sheriff Dick Reilly and Steven Hunter. With the APB out for Reilly, Ketch was prepared to put money on the man being Hunter.
He reached a decision and spoke urgently. ‘Listen, Myers. You have to find the Director, and as soon as possible. The man who called on him is an impostor, and the Director’s life is definitely in danger. I’ll call you back in half an hour.’
Sitting in the booth, Agent Myers found himself listening to a dead line. He replaced the receiver, glanced at his watch and walked quickly out of the booth. There was just a chance that he might be in time. He picked up an internal phone and called the front entrance security.
‘This is Agent Myers. Has the Director left the building?’
There was a brief pause as somebody else was consulted, then the guard replied. ‘Yes, sir. He left with another man about three or four minutes ago.’
‘OK,’ Myers said. ‘This is an emergency. Take any available guards and get outside now and see if you can spot him. If you find him, tell him to return to the building immediately. Carry weapons – the man with the Director is armed and dangerous. Now do it.’
Groom Lake Air Force Base, Nevada
Roger Ketch slumped back in the leather chair in his office, weighing the options open to him.
He was certain that the man in D.C. who’d kidnapped the Director was Hunter, simply because there was nobody else it could be, except Sheriff Reilly, and Ketch doubted very much if the Montana sheriff could even have talked his way into the FBI Headquarters Building, far less managed to persuade Donahue to walk out of it with him.
No, it had to be Hunter. But the chances were good that Sheriff Reilly was with him, simply because Hunter would need help to get the Director away from Pennsylvania Avenue.
Of course, Ketch mused, it was always possible that Myers might be able to get agents out on the streets and locate Donahue before whatever escape plan Hunter and Reilly had in mind could be implemented. On past form, though, Ketch doubted it. This operation seemed to be a perfect demonstration of Ketch’s version of Murphy’s Law – ‘if anything can go wrong, it will, at the most inconvenient moment, and with the most unfavourable possible consequences.’
Hunter and Reilly, he guessed, would kill or injure Donahue in an attempt to get him to tell them what he knew about Roland Oliver, and they would then dump him and try to get out of Washington as quickly as they could.
In that case, it was pointless having Harris and Morgan cooling their heels in Helena. The quarry was in Washington D.C., so that’s where the hunters should be. He nodded to himself, checked the number of Harris’s mobile and reached for the telephone.
Washington, D.C.
Hunter and Director Donahue stood on the pavement about seventy yards from the front entrance of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Donahue wanted to talk, but Hunter just ignored him: he was too busy checking the traffic for the car Reilly should be driving.
Hunter glanced at his watch. Reilly was late. He was supposed to have pulled up nearly three minutes ago.
As he stared up the Avenue, Hunter saw two uniformed guards run out of the entrance of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and look up and down the road. One of them looked straight at Donahue, gesticulated to the other, and they both began running towards Hunter, grabbing at their holst
ered pistols.
‘Oh, shit,’ Hunter muttered, and looked again into the traffic for Reilly. Then he eased back slightly, so that Donahue was between him and the approaching guards, and extracted the Glock from his belt holster.
When the first guard was about twenty feet away, Hunter grabbed Donahue round the throat, stepped clearly into view, and levelled his pistol straight at the guard. The man stopped dead.
‘What the hell –’ Donahue spluttered.
‘Shut up,’ Hunter said, and moved the barrel of the Glock slightly to include the second guard. A brief flash of headlamps caught his eye, and he saw a black Ford easing in to the curb.
‘Stay right where you are,’ Hunter shouted. ‘Keep your hands away from your weapons.’
The Ford drew up. Hunter pushed Donahue over to the curb, reached out and opened the rear passenger door with his left hand. Then he motioned the Director towards it.
‘Get in,’ Hunter snapped.
The Director looked at him, but didn’t move. Hunter glanced back at him, and with a single backward blow smashed the barrel of the Glock across Donahue’s face. Donahue staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. The pistol was back in position, covering the two guards, long before either of them could react.
‘I said, get in.’
Donahue bent almost double, but crawled into the back seat of the Ford, his hands covering his face. Hunter wound down the rear window, never taking his eyes off the guards, and climbed in beside him. He closed the door, but continued to cover the two men with his pistol through the open window.
‘Go,’ he said, and the Ford surged away from the curb. Only when they were lost to sight in the traffic did Hunter relax slightly, wind up the window and look again at his captive. Donahue was hunched in the seat, a handkerchief held over his face.
‘You son of a bitch,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve broken my goddamn nose.’
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