The Sixth Man kam-5

by David Baldacci

  “Why is that so important?” asked Sean.

  “We are in an information-overloaded society. Most people receive more information from just their smartphones in a week than their grandparents received in their entire lives. On the government and, most critically, the military end, it gets a lot trickier. From PFC cubicle warriors staring at hundreds of TV screens at top secret installations to four-stars muddling over their handhelds at the Pentagon. From a first-year clandestine analyst at Langley staring at a zillion satellite images to the national security advisor trying to make sense of reports stacked ceiling high on his desk, they’re all trying to take in more than is humanly possible. Do you know why air force pilots call their data screens ‘drool buckets’? There’s so much information on there they almost turn into zombies staring at it. You can train people to use technology better or focus more effectively, but you can’t upgrade someone’s neurological capacity. You have what you were born with.”

  “And that’s where this E-Program came in?” asked Michelle.

  “My brother is the latest in a short line of peculiar geniuses that have sought to fill that role. He is the ultimate multitasker who also has perfect attention to detail. His neurological pipe is immense. He can see it all and make sense of it.”

  “And who exactly is behind the E-Program?” asked Sean. “The government?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “That’s all you can tell us?”

  “For now.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “I don’t work for anyone. I work with certain others. Of my choosing.”

  Sean said, “Isn’t it a coincidence that your brother is working in intelligence too?”

  “No coincidence about it. I encouraged Eddie to work in the field. I thought it would be a challenge for him, and I also thought he would be a terrific asset.”

  She opened the car door.

  “Wait,” exclaimed Sean. “You can’t leave now.”

  “I’ll be in touch. For now, just do your best to stay alive. It will become harder as time goes by.”

  “One last question,” said Sean.

  Paul paused at the door.

  Sean said, “Is your brother innocent like you said you believed? Or did he kill those people?”

  At first Sean didn’t think she was going to answer the question.

  “I stand by what I said, but at the end of the day only Eddie can definitively answer that.”

  “If he did kill those people, his life is over. He won’t be going back to this E-Program.”

  “In some ways my brother’s life was over a long time ago, Mr. King.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  PETER BUNTING SAT DOWN at the head of the table and looked around at the faces staring back at him. He was surrounded not by policy wonks who lived in the world of the hypothetical but by people who were deadly serious about national threats. Bunting both admired and feared these folks. He admired them for their public service. He feared them because he knew they routinely ordered the killing of other humans without losing a minute’s sleep over it.

  This particular briefing, while perfunctory, was being handled by Bunting because of the high level of people present and also because of the extenuating circumstances, chief of which was Edgar Roy’s current situation. He didn’t send in the lackeys when he had a Cabinet secretary, various directors of intelligence, and four-stars seated at a table with china coffee cups in front of them. They expected him, and they were paying a lot of taxpayer money for the privilege.

  There was one person there who should not have been, but Bunting could do nothing except register his official complaint before tersely being told to carry on with his report.

  Mason Quantrell sat next to Ellen Foster, his hands in his lap, and his whole focus on Bunting. The only time Bunting stumbled during his presentation was when Quantrell had smiled at a statement of his and then whispered something in Foster’s ear. She had smiled, too.

  Bunting handled the ensuing questions, most of them penetrating and complex, with precision. He had become an expert at reading the poker faces of these men and women. They seemed, if not exactly pleased, then at least satisfied. Which meant he was relieved. He had been in meetings that had not gone nearly so well. Then Quantrell cleared his throat. All heads had turned to the Mercury CEO. Now Bunting suspected the entire meeting had been carefully choreographed.

  “Yes, Mason?” asked Bunting, whose grip on his laser pointer tightened. He had a sudden impulse to aim it at Quantrell’s eyes.

  “You’ve told us a lot today, Pete.”

  “That’s usually the point of a presentation such as this,” Bunting replied, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

  Quantrell didn’t appear to hear him. “But what you haven’t told us is how you can continue to expect a single analyst to keep up with all the data being generated. While it’s true you’ve had some success—”

  “I would modify that to say we’ve had enormous success, but please, carry on, Mason.”

  “Some success,” repeated Quantrell. “But the reality is that by relying solely on one analyst we’ve weakened our national security considerably, possibly irreversibly.”

  “I disagree.”

  “But I don’t disagree.”

  All heads turned, but only slightly, for this comment had come from Ellen Foster.

  Bunting studied the woman who had become his most potent adversary. Yet as she was also the head of the largest federal security agency, he had no choice but to be respectful to the woman.

  “Madame Secretary?”

  “How do you rate your performance today, Peter?” she asked.

  She wore a black dress, black stockings, and black heels with minimal jewelry. Bunting noticed, and not for the first time, that she was a very attractive woman. Nice skin, slim figure, but with curves where men usually wanted them. Foster had an impressive résumé both in the field and the boardroom, and possessed even more impressive political connections. The divorced head of DHS was low-key by nature, but every once in a while her picture would appear at some society event, where she was on the arm of an acceptably high-ranked gentleman.

  She had a home in the upper-brackets region of D.C. and a vacation place on Nantucket, where she would go to unwind with her security detail tagging along. Her ex-husband, a New York–based private equity fund manager, had amassed an enormous fortune using other people’s money while paying an income tax rate lower than that of his secretary. She had gotten half of his net worth in the divorce and could do what she pleased. And what she pleased was to run the nation’s security platform and apparently make Peter Bunting’s life a hell on earth.

  “It seems as though everyone was satisfied with my report.” He eyed Quantrell and then his gaze flitted back to her. “Well, almost everyone.”

  “You’re joking, right, Peter?” she said.

  “If you have some definitive examples I can certainly discuss them with you.”

  “What’s to discuss? The analysis you delivered today was total crap and everyone in the room knows it. Other than you, apparently.”

  Bunting gazed once more at the people around the table. Not a sympathetic face in the bunch. “I answered every question and every follow-up question. I didn’t get a standing ovation, but I left nothing hanging, either.”

  Foster leaned forward. “In your contract renewal you’ve asked for an increase of twenty-three percent based on a variety of factors.”

  Bunting shot a glance at Quantrell, who was shaking his head and making clucking sounds.

  “Madame Secretary, with all due respect, one of my main competitors is sitting in this room. That information was delivered in confidence to—”

  “I’m sure we can rely on Mr. Quantrell’s professionalism.”

  Bunting wanted to say, What professionalism? He’s a slimeball and you know it. But instead he said, “Every single cost increase is justifiable. My people spent months cranking the numbers. And t
hey worked with the government side on all of it, so there’re no surprises in there.”

  “While we in Washington have the reputation of being a blank check with a rubber stamp, some of us do like to get what we pay for.”

  Though nearly a foot taller than the woman, Bunting now somehow felt much smaller than Foster. “I think we bring considerable value to the table.”

  “Frankly, I gave you a chance, Peter. You blew it.”

  “I spoke with the president,” Bunting said hastily and then instantly regretted it.

  She compressed her lips. “Yes, I know. Neat little end-around. But all it bought you was a little time. Nothing more.”

  Foster looked around the room. “I think that concludes the meeting. Mr. Quantrell, if you would join me in my office, I have some important matters I’d like to discuss.”

  She left the room with Mason Quantrell following.

  As the room cleared Bunting stood there for a few moments staring down at the useless briefing book in his hand. When he finally did leave no one looked at him as he passed little conversation groups in the hall. Foster had done her work well, it seemed.

  He waited outside her office until she came out with Quantrell.

  “May I have a word, Madame Secretary?” Bunting asked.

  She gazed at him in mild surprise. “I have a full schedule.”

  “Please, just a minute.”

  Quantrell looked amused. “I’ll talk to you later, Ellen.” He slapped Bunting on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Pete. You can always come back to work for Mercury. I understand we need a geek in the IT Department.”

  Quantrell walked off and Bunting turned to Foster.

  “Well?” she said. “Make it quick.”

  He drew closer. “Please don’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “The preemptive action.”

  “Good God, Bunting,” she hissed. “You’re talking about this out in the damn hallway? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Just give me a little more time.”

  She looked him up and down and then closed her office door in his face.

  * * *

  On the drive back to the airport, Bunting noted the inconspicuous building set at the end of a strip mall. And the brick structure that backed up to a suburban neighborhood. Then there was a building that looked like it was made of all glass but that in reality had not one window in the place. These were all footprints of intelligence gathering. They were stuck like splinters into pieces of the outside world and most of the people passing by them had not the remotest idea what went on inside of them.

  Intelligence work was dirty and at times deadly. Whether your adversary was killed quick with a bullet or slow with an enhanced interrogation session, or was anonymously obliterated by a drone strike launched from thousands of feet up, he was still dead. Like Edgar Roy might be soon. Dead.

  Bunting settled back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Right now the two-point-five-billion-dollar contract didn’t seem nearly worth it.

  CHAPTER

  35

  “DO WE SHADOW Carla Dukes? Do we go see Edgar Roy again? Do we try to bust Murdock’s chops somehow? Do we dig into Kelly Paul’s background and see what turns up? Do we investigate Bergin’s and Hilary’s murders? Do we keep going after the six bodies in Edgar Roy’s barn?”

  Michelle fell silent and looked expectantly at Sean as they walked along the oceanfront near Martha’s Inn.

  “Or do we do all of that? And if so, how?” he replied. “There’s only the two of us.”

  “We multitask well.”

  “Nobody multitasks that well.”

  “But we have to do something.”

  “The six bodies can cut two ways. Either someone knew that he was the Analyst for the government and framed him. Or he killed those people and the government is trying to keep what Roy actually did from the public.”

  “But you don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “No, though I don’t have any solid reasons to back that up.”

  “So the people framing him must be enemies of this country. They know what he does and they’re trying to stop him? But why not just kill him? He lived alone on that farm. It would’ve been easy.”

  “Well he must have had security, so it might not have been that easy. But maybe they wanted to do more than simply deprive America of its brilliant analyst.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Sean admitted.

  “Who do you think shot out our car windows?”

  “Either our side or the other side.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Lot of dangerous folks out there.”

  “Exactly.” Michelle took his arm. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Ninety minutes later Sean was walking out of Fort Maine Guns with a new Sig 9mm.

  “I haven’t fired a pistol in a while.”

  “Which is why we’re going there next.” She pointed to a door in a building adjacent to Fort Maine with a sign outside that said Shooting Range.

  An hour later Sean studied his results.

  “Not bad,” Michelle said. “Total score of ninety percent. Your kill zone shots were right where they need to be.”

  He glanced at her targets. The holes were huge because the bullets had all congregated in the same spot.

  “What was your score?”

  “A bit better than yours. But just a bit.”

  “Liar.”

  When they got back to the inn Megan was hard at work at the round table in the parlor, with papers and files strewn around.

  She looked up when they walked in the room.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sean.

  “Working on some motion papers.”

  “Regarding what?”

  “Ms. Paul’s information was very intriguing. I want to know whatever the government knows about Edgar Roy’s background. And what he actually does for them.”

  Michelle said, “But if he is working in intelligence they won’t tell us anything. They’ll just bury it under national security mumbo-jumbo.”

  “That’s right. But if we can get that on the record it may be enough to raise reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind. It’s certainly critical evidence. And in order to try to get that evidence we have to pull the government’s chain. Hard.”

  “But the guy may never go to trial,” pointed out Michelle.

  Sean said, “But if he does, some of the forensics help us. The different dirt, for instance, found on the bodies. It’s possible the bodies were brought from somewhere else and dumped in Roy’s barn.”

  “Well, that could be all the exculpatory evidence we need,” said Megan hopefully.

  “Unless they argue Roy killed them somewhere else, hid the bodies for a while there, and then dug them up and brought them to Virginia.”

  “And buried them in his own barn so someone could find them and arrest him?” said Megan incredulously. “For such a smart guy that’s pretty dumb.”

  Sean said, “And then there’s the mysterious caller that conveniently tipped the police off about the bodies in the first place. Who is that person and how did he know about the bodies? Maybe the tipster killed the people and set Roy up.”

  “We still have to prove that,” noted Michelle.

  “No, proof of guilt is the government’s job. We just have to raise it as a way to get reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind,” responded Sean.

  Michelle said, “Murdock will be really pissed off when he sees the filings.”

  “Let him be.” He looked at Megan. “You cool with that?”

  She smiled. “The FBI doesn’t scare me anymore.”

  Sean and Michelle headed up to his room. “There are a lot of roads we could go down, but I want to focus on Carla Dukes.”

  “She’s probably an FBI agent.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  �
��You and I have dealt with lots of FBI agents. She’s no spring chicken, so if she were with the Bureau she’d have been with them for years now. She doesn’t have the walk or the talk of an FBI vet. And an FBI agent would have anticipated we’d pull the media card to get in to see Roy and would’ve had an answer for it. She didn’t.”

  “But still, to her we’re the enemy,” replied Michelle.

  “Enemies can still reach common ground.”

  She cocked her head. “You mean we find some leverage with her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’ll have to be some damn heavy-duty stuff.”

  “Yes it will,” said Sean.

  “Do you have any in mind?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “When do we do it?”

  “Tonight of course.”

  CHAPTER

  36

  CARLA DUKES PULLED her car into her garage around nine o’clock. She unlocked the door that led into the kitchen, put her bag down, and stood in front of the alarm code pad, her finger poised to hit the appropriate buttons. It took her a moment to realize that there was no high-pitched squeal from the alarm system telling her that she had to disarm it before the delay ran out.

  That was because the alarm wasn’t on.

  She whirled around.

  Sean stood there, the butt of his gun visible at the waist.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Dukes demanded.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “You broke into my house.”

  “No I didn’t. The door was open.”

  “Bullshit. I lock everything up before I leave and then arm the system.”

  “You must’ve forgotten. As you can see, the alarm system is off.”

  “Then you turned it off.”

  “I said, you said.”

  “You’re in my house. I’m calling the police.” She eyed his gun.

  He looked at where she was looking. “It’s a Beretta nine mil. Standard issue for the FBI, ironically enough.”

  She slid her cell phone from her purse. “Good, why don’t we call them to come over and collect it and you?”

  Before she could hit even one button, Sean said, “Would Agent Murdock want to know you’re working for someone else?”