That was the risk. If the NSA were wired into the camera’s feed—and these days it was never safe to assume that they weren’t—his appearance would raise red flags. Cause them to take a look at the facility.
He stared down at the key in his hand. He’d come this far. Might as well play it through to the end.
Reaching for the Washington Senators baseball cap on the passenger seat, Kranemeyer pulled it low over his forehead, wrapping a long black scarf around his neck and lower face.
Time to roll.
Bluffing his way past the rent-a-cop at the front gate hadn’t been hard, Kranemeyer thought twenty minutes later, moving on foot down a long row of self-storage containers. It had been painfully obvious that the man had never seen a security threat greater than a rowdy group of teenagers bent on vandalism.
Which was to his advantage. The container matching the number on the key was nearly all the way to the western end of the facility and Kranemeyer paused, glancing toward the security fence. No passerby in the parking lot outside. No further cameras that he could detect.
The door came open with a heavy, grating noise—metal against metal. He cringed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he peered inside.
Nothing.The storage container was, to all appearances, empty.
Dropping to his good knee, Kranemeyer ran his fingers along the concrete edge of the container, feeling for a tripwire, a pressure mat, anything. He was being paranoid.
At length, he straightened, stepping cautiously into the interior of the steel box.
He hadn’t been sent out here to find an empty box, that much he knew. The fear in Rhoda Stevens’ eyes had told him that.
There was something here…unless someone had traced this container back to David Lay and already removed it. If they had managed to make the connection, getting in wouldn’t have been hard, as he had proved.
Nothing to do but cover every inch.
10:05 A.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio Hotel & Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Ah, Ms. Morgan, it’s good to finally meet you.” Brooke Morgan looked up to see the Bellagio’s events manager striding across the ballroom toward her.
The young woman smiled, reaching out her hand. “Likewise—we’ve talked on the phone so many times. I love what you’ve done with the room.”
The “room” might have been an overly casual way to refer to the Bellagio’s 38,000-square-foot Tower Ballroom, but the events manager didn’t seem to take offense.
“I certainly hope it meets your expectations.”
“It surpasses them,” she replied, flashing him another dazzling smile as her gaze took in the room—the red, white, and blue bunting-bedecked stage, a color scheme that spilled over onto the hundreds of round banquet tables. “You’ve made all the arrangements for the evening’s entertainment?”
“Of course. The evening for your guests will begin here, with the banquet and speakers, then transition into the Cirque du Soleil for a special evening performance of ‘O’. A delightful way to spend Christmas Eve, I should say.”
“And Congresswoman Gilpin wished me to convey her most sincere thanks for the way your hotel has gone out of their way to accommodate our requests. The Cirque du Soleil is indescribably magnificent.”
“It is truly our pleasure. As you know, our owner was one of the congresswoman’s most enthusiastic backers. He couldn’t be more happy to play host to this celebration of her victory.”
Brooke nodded, an almost wistful smile crossing her face. “It’s been a hard-fought campaign. I finally got home last week to see my kids. First weekend I had spent at home since September.”
“Then, may I say, that this celebration is most well-deserved. There’s no place to party like Las Vegas, and no one knows how to party like we do here at the Bellagio…”
1:23 P.M. Eastern Time
Outside the Alibek E-Z-Store Storage Facility
Alexandria, Virginia
It had taken Kranemeyer three searches of the storage container before he’d finally found what he had been looking for. A small USB thumb drive tucked beneath a lip of metal near the back of the container and secured with duct tape.
He swung his leg up into the Suburban and closed the door, holding the drive up to the light. If it was password-protected, he was going to be in difficulties. With Carter still in CIA protective custody and sequestered down at Camp Peary, he could hardly turn to him for aid…
Opening his laptop, he plugged the drive into the USB port on the side, waiting as the computer booted up.
His eyes drifted out the window, locking in on a passing vehicle. It was nothing…probably, but he hadn’t seen a great deal of traffic. He reached inside his overcoat, pulling the H&K USP semiautomatic pistol from its shoulder holster and laying it on the center console, within easy reach.
A Welcome screen appeared, and Kranemeyer entered his password, swearing as his fingers played clumsily with the trackpad. Computers were a necessary evil of life in the 21st century. Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
The USB drive opened automatically, revealing several scanned documents and a folder full of .jpegs. He turned to the pictures first and clicked to open one. It had clearly been taken from a distance, probably with a high-powered telephoto lens.
Agency surveillance?
Two men, standing beside a park bench, a briefcase in the taller man’s hand. But it was his companion that caught Kranemeyer’s attention—the silhouette. So familiar.
He clicked to advance to the next picture, and his breath caught in his throat. The man had turned ever so slightly, his face standing out in full relief.
Yes. It was him. And they were in more trouble than he could have imagined.
Kranemeyer dug his cellphone out, dialing a number from memory. Two, three rings.
“Roy, we need to meet.” No pleasantries. No time for such things—he was too shaken.
He remained silent as the man on the other end of the phone responded, barely listening. Rhoda Stevens’ words still ringing in his ears.
“This is only the beginning.”
2:09 P.M.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Cahill’s arrival in the Oval Office was as unceremonious as it was unannounced. He was ushered in through the protective ring of Secret Service by Curt Hawkins himself and shown in to see the President with only the briefest of delays.
Hancock looked up from the Resolute desk as his chief of staff entered. “Tell me you have some good news, Ian.”
The faintest hint of a smile passed across Cahill’s face as he collapsed into a chair. The Irishman was typically rumpled, his tie loose around his neck—his sweat-stained collar unbuttoned. “You might call it that. You’ll be sitting behind that desk for another four years.”
The President fairly beamed. “I take it Senator Coftey was able to bring the Justice around?”
“As I had told you he would,” Cahill replied. “I’ve known the man for years—he didn’t become a Chief Justice by being a risk taker. Given a hard decision…and the right inducements, of course, he’ll make the safe choice.”
“And they say the Court is apolitical,” Hancock mused, getting up from his chair. There was a decanter on the endtable and he poured three fingers of brandy into a crystal snifter, handing it to Cahill.
“How soon will they make their announcement?”
“On the first of the new year, in a 5-4 decision. You’ll be sworn in on the 20th, right on schedule. We owe Coftey…his willingness to run with the ball on this has been invaluable.”
“I always pay my debts.” The President raised his glass. “To success—and the damnation of our enemies.”
“As ever.”
11:54 A.M. Pacific Time
The abandoned mansion
“How are things coming along?” Harry asked, coming back through the kitchen.
Carol didn’t look up. “Fine. I nearly have the botnet formed, ju
st need to exploit a couple dozen more computers before I can run a test.”
“A botnet?” The term seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“This one laptop doesn’t give me nearly enough firepower to bring down the grid. LA has used DHS dollars to harden their defenses over the last few years. I’ve been working since last night to build a network of a couple hundred infected computers. With their combined power, I can brute-force the system and bring it down—at least for a few minutes. Long enough for you and Han to get in. That’s the good news.”
“And the bad news?”
“From the energy outputs I’m seeing, it looks like Andropov’s security system is hooked to his back-up generator, located in the poolhouse…here,” she said, tapping the satellite photo with her index finger.
“How long does that give us?”
She shrugged. “Some of the modern generators…ten, fifteen seconds.”
Yeah, that didn’t give them much time. Not much time at all. He cast a glance toward the door of the bathroom where Pyotr was imprisoned, his mind working through the possibilities. But she wasn’t done talking. “You might be able to get over the wall and to the door of the house in that time, but then…”
“There’s a security keypad on that side patio door, isn’t there?”
“Yeah.” She finally glanced up to meet his eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Pyotr is going to give us those codes.”
A look of pain spread across her countenance. “Harry…”
“What’s wrong?” It seemed an inane question, but it was the one he asked. A human impulse.
“I don’t know.” Carol looked away, as if unwilling to face him. “He’s just a kid—a big, stupid kid. The panic on his face when Han ambushed him…”
She was silent for a long moment. “How do you deal with it—living life this way?”
He yearned to reach out, to hold her in his arms…to tell her that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t, and the walls he had built around his heart were too high, no matter what he might have wished.
“The same way you deal with anything in life,” he responded coldly. “Just keep putting one foot in front of another. Keep moving forward. Do what you have to do.”
“The end justifies the means?” she asked—a bitter echo of himself, years earlier. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed.
He shook his head. “No…no it doesn’t. It’s just a matter of deciding which set of consequences you can live with. That’s all it is, in the end. Nothing more complicated.”
Chapter 20
3:57 P.M. Eastern Time
Graves Mill, Virginia
There’d been a six-pack of Coors in Stevens’ refrigerator. Past tense. There were only two left, including the half-empty one in Thomas’s hand as he leaned against the counter.
Nothing from Kranemeyer. He’d been gone for hours now, leaving them to guard the DCIA. Yeah…
He felt someone’s eyes on him and looked up to see Tex standing there in the doorway.
“How’s it going, bro?” he asked, registering somewhere in a dark recess of his mind that he was slurring the words. He hadn’t had that much to drink.
Tex crossed the kitchen, a strange look on his face. Darkness. “Just look at you.”
Before Thomas could react, the Texan reached out, ripping the beer can from his grasp and crushing it in one of his big hands.
“What are you doing?” Froth bubbled over the Texan’s fingers as he threw the demolished can into the sink.
“You are on duty, soldier,” he replied, taking a step into Thomas’s zone—a dark light shining from his eyes. It was the closest Thomas had seen the big man come to displaying emotion, but he ignored the warning sign.
“I…can handle my liquor,” he replied, putting up a hand. “You know that.”
“Handle it?” Tex demanded. “You shot the Director of the CIA. My op, my responsibility—you pulled the trigger.”
“It was dark, okay? He fired first.”
“And you’d been drinking.” It wasn’t a question, but a simple, cold accusation, hanging there between them. “I know Harry had been covering for you with Kranemeyer, before all this started. He never said anything, but he had to be.”
The Texan paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I won’t.”
4:09 P.M.
1806 I Street
Washington, D.C.
“Convivial men the world over find pleasure and recreation in the association of others so minded.” So began the 1884 charter of the Alibi Club, but its founders had faced a far different world.
As for Kranemeyer, he was in anything but a convivial mood as he approached the 19th-century Italianate brick townhouse that housed D.C.’s premiere men’s social club. On foot, he carried the laptop in a carrying case slung over one shoulder.
The building itself was nondescript, the DCS thought, waiting on the doorstep. So unremarkable that the National Register of Historic Places didn’t even list the name of its architect. Which was as it should be—perfect for men who valued their privacy.
The Alibi Club had never numbered more than fifty, but they had counted among their ranks Washington’s most powerful in their day, including Allen Dulles—the director of the CIA during the ‘50s.
He left his coat with the doorkeeper, retaining the H&K under his suit jacket as a young blonde woman ushered him up a flight of stairs and into a second-floor den, its walls decorated with over a century’s worth of memorabilia. The room exuded warmth, flames crackling in the fireplace to Kranemeyer’s right. Age. Power.
“Barney,” a familiar voice greeted him, a silver-haired figure rising from a leather chair on the far side of the den. “It’s been far too long.”
“Likewise, Roy,” Kranemeyer responded, managing what passed for a smile as he reached out to shake the senator’s hand. Currently on his sixth term as a U.S. Senator from Oklahoma, Roy Coftey was the chairman of the powerful Senate Select Committee On Intelligence. And, in another life…a Special Forces lieutenant. “You had enough of the Democrats yet?”
The older man laughed, a throaty rumble rising from deep within his belly. “They were good enough for my daddy, and his father before him. I reckon that means they’re good enough for me.”
Kranemeyer shook his head. “Give me that old time religion…”
“That’s right, Barney. Melody, will you bring us something to drink?” His attention turned from the blonde back to Kranemeyer. “You still take your bourbon neat?”
“Yes.”
“Then just bring us up a bottle.” The senator watched her sashay out of the room, an appreciative smile on his face.
“That girl’s got a great future ahead of her,” he observed, giving Kranemeyer a crooked grin that left little doubt as to who controlled that future or what she might be doing to obtain it.
She was hardly the first.
“Be careful, Roy.” The DCS paused. “A man in your position…can be vulnerable to blackmail.”
Coftey inclined his head to one side. “The only folks in this town who lose sleep over blackmailers are the people pretending to be saints. Everyone knows I’m an old goat.”
“If you say so.”
Before they could say anything further, the blonde returned, bearing a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a pair of shot glasses on a silver tray.
“So, tell me, Barney,” the senator began, splashing the amber liquid into both glasses. He passed one over to Kranemeyer. “What’s on your mind?”
Kranemeyer took a sip of his bourbon—waiting until the woman left the room, closing the door behind her. “Something’s come up and I need your advice, Roy…no, forget that. I know what has to be done. I just need air support.”
Coftey straightened in his chair, a glint entering his eyes. He was still a warrior, Kranemeyer thought, regarding his old friend carefully.
Still the same man that, in the early months of ’67, had led his Spe
cial Forces team across the border into Cambodia as part of Operation Daniel Boone. He knew what it was like to be out there, on the edge of the world. Knew what it felt like to have politicians trying to push you off.
“Go on,” the senator urged, gesturing with his glass. “What’s this all about?”
“The assassination of David Lay,” Kranemeyer said quietly, opening up his laptop case. “I believe that I know why he was killed—and who was behind the hit.”
“Then why are you here? You should be talking to the FBI.”
The DCS rose and placed the laptop on the edge of the desk. “That’s not an option. Not yet. Look at this.” He clicked through the first couple of photos.
Coftey’s brow furrowed as he stared at the screen. “That’s the Deputy Director, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Kranemeyer took a deep breath. “The photos and accompanying documents provide conclusive proof that Michael Shapiro has been passing CIA secrets to the Iranians over the last few months, at least as far back as Operation TALON.”
“The hostage rescue, correct?” Coftey asked, staring intently at the screen.
“Yes.”
“Who took these, Barney?”
“David Lay, to the best of my knowledge. Of several meets between Shapiro and members of the Iranian delegation to the UN. The man in the picture here is head of security for UN Ambassador Nasrollah Najafi. The PDF files are scanned pages of CIA documents with notes in Farsi scribbled over them. Apparently printouts of the documents Shapiro passed to him.”
The senator shook his head. “How would we—or Lay—have access to those?”
“I have no idea. Unless David went behind my back and commissioned members of the Intelligence Support Activity for an off-books mission…”
“But you’re certain that all of this is genuine?”
“Yes. And I believe that it caused Lay’s death.”
For a moment, the senator sat there in silence, clicking through the photos. At length his face hardened. “If what you say is true, then we have a decision to make.”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 36
