The Sixth Man kam-5

by David Baldacci

  Her youngest said, “Is Daddy coming back?”

  Julie Bunting managed to say, “Yes, sweetie, he is.”

  She went downstairs and opened the pillbox her husband had given her. She took three of them. They would make her very sick, but that was all. They would mimic medically all the symptoms she wanted to have happen to her. She next picked up the phone and made the call. She told the dispatcher she had taken the pills and needed help. She gave her address.

  Then she collapsed to the floor.

  The men watching from across the street heard the sirens long before they saw their source. The cop cars, ambulance, and fire engine pulled up in front of the Bunting brownstone five minutes after Julie Bunting put down the phone. The emergency personnel rushed into the house with their equipment along with two uniformed police officers. Two more police cruisers showed up and the men in them set up a perimeter outside the house.

  One man across the street called this development in to their superiors and asked for instructions. They were told to sit tight. They did.

  Fifteen minutes later the stretcher came out with a haggard and pale Julie Bunting lying on it; an IV was running into her arm. Moments later the Bunting children came out, all looking terrified and the youngest one crying real tears. The man impersonating Peter Bunting held this child in his arms. All bundled up because of the cold and surrounded by EMTs, the fake Bunting was well obscured from the surveillance going on across the street. They all climbed in the ambulance with Julie Bunting and it headed off, with one cop car in front and one behind.

  The same man from across the street called this in.

  “Looks like the wife is really sick. The whole family went with them to the hospital, including Bunting.”

  He listened, nodded. “Right. Got it.”

  Most of his men stayed at their current location while he sent two of his people after the ambulance.

  CHAPTER

  66

  THE PRIVATE WINGS TOUCHED DOWN, the stairs were lowered, and Peter Bunting stepped off into the chilly air flowing into Portland, Maine, from the ocean. He had not used the company jet; that was too easily followed. He’d flown in on a rental jet hired by one of his companies. During the flight he’d gotten a text from the man impersonating him.

  It said simply, GTG, which was their code for “good to go.” If Bunting had gotten any other message he would have known they were compromised.

  He walked quickly to the car. There was no driver. No security detail. The wheels were just waiting for him. He climbed in and drove off. As both a New Yorker and a pampered CEO he hadn’t driven a car by himself in years. It actually felt good.

  Sean edged his head around a corner of the building. Clancy’s Restaurant was just across the main street. There were few people about because of the lateness of the hour and the cold weather. Sean huddled in his coat and glanced down the road to his left. Somewhere out there was Michelle, holding a sniper rifle chambering 7.62 175-grain NATO rounds that had an overabundance of knockdown power. She had brought the weapon back with her from Virginia. She had carried the rifle and her sniper stand, disassembled in a black nylon bag, off into the darkness. But Sean was in communication with her through his earbud and power pack. He had lived with a communications bud in his ear for years while standing post as a Secret Service agent. Back then it was his job to look for threats against the president and sacrifice his life for the man if it came to it. Now the threats he would be looking for would be aimed directly at him.

  Before leaving for Portland they had arranged for Megan to be brought to the cottage. The local police could manage only a single deputy to guard her at Martha’s Inn, and he was nearing retirement. On meeting him Sean had not been impressed with either his skill or his enthusiasm.

  Sean had called Eric Dobkin and asked him to watch over Megan while they were gone. He had come immediately. Sean had told him some more of what was going on.

  “Real heavy hitters,” Dobkin had said. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “We need you here with Megan,” said Sean. “No one knows we’re here, but then again, there are no guarantees they won’t find out.”

  “I’ll do my best, Sean.”

  “That’s all I can ask. And I really appreciate it.”

  Megan had once more complained bitterly about not being kept in the loop, and while Sean was sympathetic to this plea, he was in no mood to discuss it.

  Finally he’d said testily, “The less you know about it, Megan, the safer you’ll be. If anything happens you do exactly what Officer Dobkin tells you to do, understood?”

  Megan had stood in the middle of the cottage, a defiant look on her face. “Fine, but just so you understand, when you get back, I’m out of here.”

  “You ready?” Sean now said into his wrist mic, as his gaze swept the street.

  “Affirmative.” Michelle’s voice floated into his ear.

  “Location?”

  “High ground, a hundred yards west of you. I can see everything from here. Perfect sight line to Clancy’s.”

  “How’d you get high ground?”

  “Empty building, pathetic back door lock. Everything in place?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Good, stand by. Let me know when you see him.”

  “Roger that.”

  Sean did another turkey peek around the corner. He counted off the minutes in his head and then looked at his watch. One minute to ten. They’d gotten here early in case either Bunting was thinking of setting up an ambush or he hadn’t been able to get away from the people watching him and they had come in his place.

  The car moved down the street, slowed, and then came to a stop. It turned into a parking spot and the tall man got out.

  Sean stiffened.

  Michelle’s voice came to him. “That’s him.”

  “I see. Do a sweep and report back.”

  Thirty seconds went by.

  “Clear,” said Michelle. “No tail.”

  Sean stepped out onto the sidewalk, his gaze on the tall man across the street. Instead of taking a straight-line path to him, Sean skirted down the sidewalk, keeping close to the storefronts until he was fifty feet past Bunting and behind him.

  Sean watched as Bunting stood in front of Clancy’s looking around for him. Once he checked his watch.

  “Hello, Mr. Bunting. Good to see you again.”

  Bunting whirled around.

  “You startled me. Didn’t hear you coming.”

  “That’s the point,” said Sean.

  “Where’s your partner, Maxwell?”

  “Around.”

  “No one followed me.”

  “Good to know.”

  Bunting looked at the door to Clancy’s. “I think they’re still serving. You want to go in?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER

  67

  THE RESTAURANT APPEARED EMPTY. No one came to greet them, so Sean led Bunting around a corner and into a smaller room set off the main one. There was only one person in the dining area.

  Bunting gasped and stopped when he saw her sitting there.

  Kelly Paul looked at him from where she sat at a table with her back against the wall.

  “Hello, Peter, it’s been a long time,” she said quietly.

  Bunting shot a glance at Sean. “I didn’t know she was going to be here.”

  “Problem with that?”

  “No, I’m actually thrilled to see her.”

  Bunting sat across from Paul while Sean settled down next to her, his hand in his pocket clenching his pistol.

  Bunting said, “I presume you’re both armed.”

  Sean picked up his menu with his free hand. “Why? Make you feel safer?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied Bunting. “Your family?”

  “I took certain steps. They’re safe, for now. I got confirmation. Thanks for asking.”

  “I have family in danger too, Peter.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, I know,” he said, looking guilty.

  “Is it as bad as I think it is?”

  “Probably worse—” Bunting paused because the waitress came over to take their orders. She was wide of hip and weary of face, and her calves were red and puffy, probably from being on her feet for ten hours carrying large platters of seafood and mugs of beer. They ordered coffees and she departed, looking relieved that that was all they desired.

  Bunting put down his menu and took off his glasses.

  “Tell us,” said Paul simply.

  “They want to shut down the E-Program. They want to destroy me. They want to do the same to your brother.”

  “In fact they want things the way they were, you mean,” said Paul.

  “Yes.”

  “You had to know this day would come.”

  “Knowing and doing something about it are two very different things. And I guess I had hoped, however naïvely, that the climate had changed for the better. I was wrong, obviously.”

  She said, “Who’s playing the black chess pieces?”

  Sean said, “Hold on, here comes our coffee.”

  The waitress set down the mugs, creamer, and sugar and said, “Will you all want anything else? The kitchen is getting ready to close up.”

  “No, thanks,” said Bunting. He handed the woman a hundred-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.

  She walked off beaming, and Bunting turned back to Paul.

  “The black pieces, Peter?” she said again. “I think I know but I want confirmation.”

  Bunting pulled out two photos from his jacket. He laid them next to each other on the checkered tablecloth. “Just so we’re absolutely clear on the point.”

  Paul nodded and said, “Thanks for the confirmation.”

  “So you suspected?” he asked.

  “Of course. She was the most logical choice.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Bunting asked Sean.

  Sean couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from the photos. “The lady is Ellen Foster from DHS. I don’t recognize the man.”

  “Mason Quantrell, CEO of the Mercury Group.”

  “They’re a big player in the intelligence field, right?” asked Sean.

  “One of the biggest. And my chief competitor. Ever since the E-Program came on-line and supplanted what he was doing for the government, he’s been mostly relegated to low-hanging and far less valuable fruit. Though he still makes truckloads of money.”

  “And that didn’t sit well with Mr. Quantrell, did it?” asked Paul.

  “You know him?”

  “Of him. He has a reputation for underperforming and overbilling. In most sectors that would lead to disaster. In the defense and intelligence-gathering world it simply gets you more of what you don’t deserve.”

  “It’s not just about the money, it’s about the prestige. He doesn’t like playing second fiddle, getting my leftovers. He’s been after me ever since,” said Bunting. “His way is to throw a lot of expensive shit against the wall and see what sticks. No integration. No thought. God forbid any sharing of resources or results. With that philosophy it’s a wonder we only had one 9/11.”

  Paul tapped the photo of Foster. “I knew Ellen Foster before she was Madame Secretary. You would be hard-pressed to find someone more ruthlessly ambitious. With the brains to match.”

  Sean said, “But DHS? I thought it would be more likely CIA or NSA playing dirty games like this. DHS is homeland security. Are they that big on intelligence now?”

  “They want to be the dominant player,” answered Bunting. “And they have the budget and manpower to accomplish that. Especially with someone like Foster at the helm. She’s a member of the Cabinet. The CIA director does the daily presidential briefings, but he’s not Cabinet level. Foster has figured out that she is in a prime position to take over the throne and run America’s intelligence empire. And she’s making a hard run to do just that. But the E-Program is based on integration among agencies and cooperation. That model does not fit into Foster’s plans.”

  “And Quantrell?” asked Sean.

  “Extremely capable and equally adept at playing all sides. He’s apparently riding Foster’s coattails on this one.” She gazed at Bunting. “The bodies in the barn?”

  “I believe so, yes. Strongly believe, in fact.”

  “Six bodies. Eddie was the first E-Six.”

  Bunting grimaced. “Occurred to me too. Sick bastards’ idea of a joke.”

  “The bodies were never identified,” noted Sean.

  Bunting shrugged. “Easy enough to do. You wouldn’t believe the number of unidentifiable bodies floating around. Foster and Quantrell could get what they needed from multiple sources. Quantrell has assets all over Latin America, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe. Bodies are a dime a dozen in those places. You just ship them back.”

  “But there was different dirt on the bodies,” said King. “That’s a red flag.”

  “In an ordinary legal case, perhaps,” said Bunting impatiently. “This is not an ordinary legal case. I don’t envision any scenario where Edgar Roy goes on trial. They simply won’t let it happen. The dirt is irrelevant. Foster knows that.”

  “And Eddie knows far too much,” added Paul. “Which begs the question of why my brother has been allowed to live this long.”

  Sean looked at her in surprise at the unemotional way she was discussing her brother’s potential murder.

  She noted his surprise and said, “If I had time to play the role of the ordinary sister, I would, Sean. I don’t.” She turned back to Bunting. “Why is he still alive?”

  “My theory is that Foster is orchestrating this like some insane symphony. Every piece in its place. She wants to discredit the E-Program and destroy me. Your brother is an integral part of that, so he has to go too. But he has to go down in a way that will satisfy both Foster and the people she has to answer to.”

  “Like the president?” commented Paul.

  “Exactly. They framed him with the bodies in the barn to get him pulled off the E-Program. And I’m certain they’ve been feeding a pack of lies about me to the people who matter. Merely killing your brother is not enough. Now I have no doubt they plan to murder Edgar, I just don’t know when or how. Hell, they’ll probably try to blame that on me too, somehow. Bottom line is, I’ll be gone, the E-Program will be over, and a concept like that will never be revisited again. Then it’s business as usual. That’s their plan. And it’s actually a damn good one.”

  “How long have you suspected their involvement?” asked Paul.

  “I suspect everyone. But I didn’t seriously suspect them until recently. Frankly, though I know anything is possible in the intelligence field, even I didn’t think they’d go that far. I was wrong.”

  “Foster needs political cover on this,” noted Paul.

  “She’s been working that for some time. She’s managed to cut off all my critical sources of support. I know she also made a very recent trip to the White House. She probably painted me as the second coming of Attila the Hun. And I can almost guarantee that the discussion involved your brother.”

  “And me, do you think?” Paul asked him.

  “That I don’t know,” replied Bunting. “They know of your connection, obviously. And they may suspect that you wouldn’t just idly stand by while your brother is in such danger.”

  Sean said, “And you visited your brother at Cutter’s. They have to know that.”

  “I’m quite sure that Ellen Foster has built her political cover at the very highest level,” said Bunting. “She excels at stabbing people in the back. And chances are very good she’ll come out smelling like the proverbial rose.”

  Sean said, “I worked on the federal side a long time. I know how dysfunctional it can be, but do you really think a Cabinet secretary is capable of something like this?”

  Paul smiled wryly. “You were Secret Service, Sean. You were with the Mr. Cleans of the federal government. Peter and I play in a different neighbo
rhood.”

  Bunting nodded in agreement. “The intelligence side hoards its toys and scores the occasional triumph at the expense of a competing agency. They try to one-up each other every minute of every day. At least that’s how it worked ever since World War II.”

  “And until you designed the E-Program and got them to sign off on it,” pointed out Paul.

  Sean shook his head. “And Foster says to hell with the safety of the American people? Like you alluded to—what about another 9/11 happening?”

  Bunting said, “Cost of doing business in their eyes, Sean. And blame can be deflected. You don’t reach for such lofty positions in life and not expect the power to come along with it. Believe me, I’ve met with both Foster and Quantrell recently. Their intentions could not have been clearer. And they’ve backed me right into a corner.”

  “So we know the players,” said Paul. “We know their strategy. They dealt the hand and they’re blaming you for the result. What do we do about it?”

  Bunting said, “She’s poisoned the well against me. I have no allies left on the government side. I’m a pariah.”

  “You said she visited the president?” asked Paul.

  “Yes. It was an off-schedule meeting, so it must have been important because the president squeezed the time in.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “National security advisor.”

  “Is he in Foster’s pocket too?”

  “I believe they have an understanding,” replied Bunting. “One of mutual assured cooperation.”

  “You don’t do an off-schedule with the president for anything less than the most critical reasons.”

  Bunting said, “That’s right. What’s your best guess?”

  Paul said, “She needed authorization for something. Something highly out of the ordinary that she was unwilling to stick her neck out for in the ordinary course of business.”

  Bunting nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  Sean said, “She’s DHS Secretary. According to you she’s already had four people killed, including an FBI agent. Hell, isn’t that out of the ordinary enough?”

  “That was window dressing, Sean,” said Paul. “And don’t think I’m being callous. I know there are four people dead who shouldn’t be. But the blame for those deaths will be placed elsewhere, so in her mind they don’t even count. What Foster was probably going to the president for was explicit authorization for her to take extraordinary action on her own.”