“This is the way we’ll be doing it, Mr. Brixton, and you’ve got no one to blame for that but yourself.”
“I’m not the one who ‘borrowed’ somebody else’s phone number.”
“No, you’re the one who inquired about a certain set of fingerprints. If you want to know who they belong to, I suggest you show up.”
Brixton knew he had no choice at that point. If he failed to show up, the mysterious voice on the other end of the line would find him under considerably more adversarial conditions. He was used to the wheels of Washington turning slowly, the exceptionally vital commodity of information often needing to make its way through various levels before finally reaching its destination. The fact that a hit had come back this quickly on the fingerprints lifted from his coat, and that he’d been “ordered” to a meeting under such clandestine circumstances, testified either to the dead man’s identity or to his apparent involvement in a terrorist bombing.
Maybe both.
* * *
Georgetown Waterfront Park, the site for the meeting, stretched along the banks of the Potomac River from Thirty-First Street NW to the Key Bridge. The park was beloved by many, due to notable design elements such as a labyrinth, a majestic fountain, and charming rain gardens. Visitors came to enjoy the sun and quiet or to take advantage of the open space and walkways. Cyclists, skaters, and pedestrians alike could enjoy being outdoors with no cars about and a view of the Washington waterfront.
There were also the river steps, comprising five levels of tiered seating originally created as viewing grounds for rowing regattas. The steps made for a popular year-round place to take a picnic lunch. More seating, meanwhile, could be found beneath the tall steel and cable pergola, designed as a testament to the waterfront’s more industrial past as a once dynamic center of commerce and trade.
Brixton entered the park on foot, at the point where Wisconsin Avenue NW and K Street met, allowing him to stroll past the fountain that had been a favorite spot of his ever since he’d moved to the Washington area. He walked to the river steps and meandered his way along the row of benches and tables set beneath the pergola, waiting for some sign or signal from someone seated there. When none came, he repeated the process and, having failed to establish any contact, sat down on a stray bench set farther down in the shade.
“That was clumsy,” a man suddenly seated by his side told him. “You stood out, made yourself obvious.”
Brixton collected his thoughts, still trying to determine how this man had managed to take a seat right next to him on the bench without him noticing. The man was the very definition of nondescript, his features no more memorable or distinctive than those of a department store mannequin. He seemed more a projection than actual flesh and blood, his gray shirt and slacks a nearly perfect match for his ashen complexion and Panama hat, which shaded his face from the sun while shading his features from anyone who looked his way.
Brixton thought that if he stared at the man long enough, he might be able to see right through him, as if he were translucent.
“I expected better,” the man resumed, “given the duties you performed so admirably for SITQUAL.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about me, while I know nothing about you,” Brixton said, instantly regretting the lameness of his remark.
“And that’s the way it’s going to stay. I go by lots of names, so feel free to pick one that suits your fancy.”
“Somebody knew how to find you,” Brixton said, not about to mention Mackensie Smith’s name, even though this man almost certainly knew of Mac’s connection to all this through him.
“Because of what I do, not who I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“I make connections, determine where information should be routed. With all the various three-letter organizations and others staking out their own territories, somebody needs to know which is best suited to handle what.”
“‘Somebody’ meaning you.”
“That’s right, Brixton. I imagine this doesn’t come as a shock to you, given that you did a stretch with the private security arm of the State Department.”
Brixton briefly considered some of the internecine conflicts and jurisdictional squabbles he’d been party to, wondering where the man in the Panama hat had been when he’d needed him.
“Your expression tells me you know I’m right, so we can skip the remaining pleasantries and cut to the chase, as they say.”
“The chase,” Brixton interjected, before the man could continue, “being the identity of the man whose body disappeared from that old trolley platform.”
“Your assumption that it was hidden, instead of removed, was spot on. I got word that it was recovered while I was watching you pace back and forth.”
Brixton waited for the man to continue.
“Of course, by then we’d already IDed him—those fingerprints lifted off your jacket did the trick, and sent red flags flashing everywhere.”
“Who was he?”
“His real name doesn’t matter. You’ve got a reputation for stepping in shit, Brixton, but this time you landed up to your neck in it.”
CHAPTER
28
GEORGETOWN
The man waited tautly for a trio of walkers to pass before them, a bit too close for comfort. The man’s hand was there, and then it was inside his jacket, before Brixton could blink.
“I’m going to assume,” he resumed, “that the subway bomber you spotted was personal for you.”
“You know about my daughter.”
“I know a lot more than that,” the man said, leaving it there. “But that’ll suffice for today. It explains how you recognized the woman for what she was and chased her from the car.”
“I didn’t chase her. I followed her.”
“Same thing. Did anyone tell you about the camera?”
“I heard the bomber was wearing one, probably disguised as a button on the coat that concealed her suicide vest.”
“Means when she was looking at you, so was whoever put her on that train to murder an innocent bunch of commuters. That means they blame you for their operation going to shit.”
“There was also mention in the report about the remains of a transmitter being found.”
“Not all that unusual, really, although in this case it was actually a receiver. See, that bomber didn’t blow herself up at all. Her suicide vest was detonated by remote control.
“They must’ve thought she was fleeing, giving up the mission,” the man in the Panama hat continued, before Brixton could get a word in edgewise. “They blew her up, fucked their op, to make sure she wasn’t captured. Classic zero-sum-game shit, my friend.”
“I didn’t know we were friends.”
“We move in the same circles,” the man said, eyeing Brixton a bit differently.
“And what circles did the man whose body you recovered on the trolley platform move in? The wet kind, I imagine.”
The man’s expression crinkled. “That’s not an expression we actually use, you know.”
“What do you use?”
“Nothing in particular for men like the one you met in the bombing’s aftermath, the one you knew as Detective Rogers. Our assumption is he was running the op, meaning he was the one who triggered the blast when things went south, thanks to you.”
Brixton recalled how agitated the man had been in the midst of his questioning on the subway platform. Now he understood why.
“You’re a lucky man, Brixton. He must’ve figured you knew more than you were saying, might have been working for somebody else, or he probably would’ve killed you. He must have believed you were on that train because somebody put you there, somebody wise to the op he was running.”
“Op he was running for who? Who does this guy work for? He was a goddamn American, or have I got that wrong, too?”
“Nope. You’re right as rain, Brixton, which explains how we turned this around so fast and why you and I are having this meeting. This man
’s the ultimate hired hand, the kind whose contact info we’ve all got encrypted on our phones. String any three letters together and chances are he’s worked for that organization at some point. A dark history in black ops, to say the least, but one that has never included foreign employment unless it was ordered through the proper channels.”
“Wait,” Brixton interjected. “You’re suggesting that the suicide bomber was part of an American operation.”
“Was that a question?”
“No.”
“Because if it had been, Brixton, the answer would be yes. I’m not an easy man to scare, but I’m scared right now. That’s why I’m here without backup, why we needed to put this meeting together so fast.”
“I’m guessing you already know everything I do. It’s all in the police report.”
“Now amended for accuracy.”
“So why are we having this conversation?” Brixton wondered, wishing he had a name for the man in the Panama hat.
“Because we need to keep the circle tight and that circle already includes you. You passed what amounted to a background check without issue, and you’ve already worked for us a few times without knowing.”
“SITQUAL?”
The man didn’t bother to nod. “Your mission was to protect State Department personnel, and especially diplomats, who weren’t always diplomats.”
“Yours?”
He almost smiled. “From time to time. You were never aware of their real missions or your part in them.”
Brixton shuddered slightly at that revelation. “And now here I am.”
“Here we are,” the man continued. “Nobody gains anything much from a bombing on a subway train. That, and the involvement of the man you knew as Rogers, tells us it was part of something bigger.”
“I’d call any terrorist bombing big enough in its own right.”
The man lifted the tip of his Panama hat enough for Brixton to get his first clear look at his hooded eyes, which looked as flat and emotionless as glass.
“I’m sorry about your daughter, but everything’s relative, Brixton. Killing a couple dozen people in a subway car, or restaurant, is as awful as it gets, until something bigger comes along.”
“World Trade Center big?”
“Our assumption is bigger than that, a lot bigger. It’s all hands on deck, the problem being we’re not sure which hands are hiding a joy buzzer.”
Brixton flashed his. “Mine are empty.”
“That’s why you’re here. You’re already connected, with a background that can be exploited.” The man paused, giving Brixton a look that cut right through him. “You’re also out of work and pretty much broke. You should know that working for us is not a volunteer effort.”
“I’d do it for nothing.”
“Another reason why we’re having this conversation.”
“So what happens next?”
“You and I are going for a ride, Brixton,” the man in the Panama hat told him. “Just before I joined you on this bench, we came up with a lead, a big one.”
CHAPTER
29
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Upon arriving at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Lia Ganz was escorted to an empty conference room and ushered to a chair to the immediate right of the head of the table. Following protocol, she had bypassed the main entrance, instead using a secret underground tunnel known only to fellow intelligence operatives. The dangers of leaks and social media had mandated such a process, to avoid prying eyes and prevent inquisitive minds from wondering, in this case, what had brought a former Mossad operative known as the Lioness of Judah to Langley. Even then, the tunnel was used only in the most sensitive and clandestine of cases, which might further explain why Mossad had dispatched her instead of a still active agent with an ongoing relationship to the organization’s American counterpart.
Lia had heard rumors of the tunnel’s existence, but nothing had mentioned its elaborate construction or warned her that the agents who picked her up at Dulles Airport would blindfold her before accessing the tunnel. Other foreign intelligence operatives might have found such precautions to be a bit much, but she’d endured similar ones for a lifetime.
A pair of bulky escorts were waiting for her when the car reached its debarkation point and her blindfold was finally removed.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Colonel,” her driver said, the fact that he’d addressed her by her rank indicating that he’d been briefed on who she was and where she’d come from.
“I’ve subjected others back home to far more inconvenient practices than this,” she told him. “Perhaps someday I can return the favor.”
The man shared a smile with her. “Perhaps.”
At that point, the man who’d picked her up at Dulles turned her over to a pair of escorts, who took up posts on either side of the single door of the windowless conference room, lit only by recessed fixtures built into the ceiling. They would remain there, Lia knew, until whoever was coming to meet her appeared.
Those are remains recovered from the scene of that failed terrorist attack.
Clearly, there was a connection between the deadly drone attack in Caesarea and the suicide bombing on the Washington Metro, which had claimed only the life of the bomber. Since it had been a search of Dar Ibrahim al-Bis’s secret workshop on the grounds of the Kif Tzuba amusement park that had sparked her visit, Lia knew that’s where the connection must have originated. She’d been ruminating the whole trip on the possibility that the suicide bomber might be part of the same terrorist cell that had struck Caesarea. But Hamas had quickly claimed credit for that strike, and al-Bis was reputed to be that organization’s top bomb maker, with no links to either al-Qaeda or ISIS that Mossad could find. This made no sense to her, since Hamas had never attempted a strike inside the United States.
You are looking, Colonel, at the transmitter and camera that were salvaged from the remains of the drones recovered at the site of the attack in Caesarea.
She was replaying Mossad chief Moshe Baruch’s words in her head when the door opened and an older man with wispy white hair entered. He was dressed casually, a rumpled sports jacket worn over slacks and a shirt without a tie, his appearance more in keeping with the less formal Israeli approach to things, and Lia had the feeling he was the kind of operative who moved among the ranks and operations without ever having his name or identity revealed. Back home, such men were called “lifers.” They might step away from day-to-day operations, but they never really retired. She’d also heard of former New York police detectives called “tin badges” being enlisted at times to run lead on cases they were better equipped to take on than any of those who still carried a badge. The United States and Israel, it seemed, were of one mind in respecting experience and institutional memory, both of which were irreplaceable when it came to fighting an enemy who never retired.
The white-haired man waited for Lia’s two escorts to exit and then closed the door behind them, smiling at her as if they were old friends.
“It’s been a long time, Colonel.”
“We’ve met before?”
He smiled again. “Never formally. Let’s just say we’ve been in the same room on a few occasions, and on the same video conference on others. We were never introduced, and you not recognizing me is understandable in that I tend to stick to the shadows.”
“You too?” Lia posed, matching his smile with her own.
“You shortchange yourself. The Lioness of Judah was never known for keeping a low profile.”
“I haven’t been that person in a long time.”
“And yet here you are.”
Lia nodded. “Here I am.”
“My name is Winters and I’m here to brief you on the circumstances that have brought you halfway across the world.” His expression tightened, soured. “My condolences for the loss of so many to that drone attack.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand you were on the beach at the time.”
Lia nodded. “In the water, which is the only reason why I was spared.”
“Along with your granddaughter.” Winters’s expression tightened even further. “I’ve been at this a long time, since the days of Black September, and I’ve never understood the penchant of terrorist organizations to target children.”
“It goes to the low regard in which they hold human life in general,” Lia told him.
“But it sets their cause back, robs them of the hearts and minds they need to succeed.”
“And yet the ruthlessness helps replenish their coffers. They are nothing without money, Mr. Winters, and their backers feast on the spilling of blood, the younger the better, because of the anguish it breeds.”
The man finally took a seat at the head of the table and laid a manila folder on the wooden surface before him. “It’s not ‘mister.’ Just ‘Winters,’ Colonel. And I assume you know what you’re doing here.”
“I know it involves a connection between the drone attack in Caesarea and the failed bombing on your Washington Metro that occurred one week later.”
“Indeed, it does,” Winters said, opening the manila folder and extracting a photograph, which he eased in front of her. “These objects are familiar to you, yes?”
Lia responded while keeping her eyes locked on a pair of objects pictured. “The camera and transmitter each of the drones contained.”
Winters extracted a second standard-size photograph. “And this?” he posed, sliding it in front of her as well.
Lia regarded the twisted pieces of metal recovered and reassembled as much as possible after being shredded in the blast that had claimed only the bomber’s life. “Remnants of the suicide vest the bomber was wearing, I assume.”
“Nothing more?”
“The remains are too mangled to make much out of.”
Winters smiled tightly, as if Lia had made his unspoken point for him. “Then try this,” he said, handing her a fresh glossy printout. “The computer digitally reassembled the remains. Tell me what you see.”
Murder on the Metro Page 13
