“I’m not sure that’s enough,” Uzi said.
“For now, it’ll have to be.”
4
When Vail walked into her house at 3:30 AM, her chocolate brown Standard Poodle puppy, Hershey, greeted her at the door. He stood up on his back legs and bathed her face with kisses. She gave him a piece of duck jerky and found Robby asleep on the couch, a bag of Trader Joe’s spicy flax seed chips on the coffee table perched beside an empty hummus container.
She inched her left buttock onto the edge of the seat cushion beside his thigh and stroked his face. His eyes fluttered open.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Very late at night or very early in the morning. Depends on your perspective.”
He sat up and hung his head. “I was dreaming.”
“About me?”
“Of course.”
“Right answer. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
Hershey followed them into the bedroom and hopped onto the mattress as Robby stepped up to the adjacent vanity and pulled open his drawer.
“So why did I have to leave? And what the hell is going on?”
Vail had been dreading such a question, which she knew would be among the first he asked. “Look, when you’re undercover, you can’t talk about the case, right?”
He popped open the cap on the toothpaste. “What’s that got to do with this? You don’t work undercover.”
“I can’t say any more.”
He stood there, the tube in his right hand and the brush in his left. His brain was not fully awake yet so it was taking him longer to put it together. He set the toothpaste down. “You’re telling me you’re undercover?”
Vail started removing the makeup she had put on before she and Robby had left for the evening. She glanced at him in the mirror and he seemed to get it: she could not talk about it.
He went back to his teeth, then spit and rinsed his brush. “Is it dangerous?”
Vail thought about that, about her run-in with the terrorist tonight, about what Uzi had said about how she had handled it. “Yes.”
Robby set the brush down and looked at her image in the mirror. He apparently decided against commenting.
What can he say? His undercover ops with DEA are dangerous too.
“I don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot.”
Vail tossed the cotton cleansing pad in the garbage. “I know.”
VAIL ARRIVED at the Behavioral Analysis Unit at 8:30 AM—and found a note on her desk from Lenka, the administrative staff for her boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Thomas Gifford.
Rather than lifting the phone, she walked over to Lenka’s desk.
“Morning.”
“Agent Vail. I left a note—”
Vail held it up. “Found it. Boss wants to see me?”
Lenka nodded.
“He pissed about something?”
Lenka nodded again, then buzzed Gifford and told him Vail was there. “Go on in.”
Vail pushed through the door and Gifford motioned her to sit.
“I got a strange call this morning,” Gifford said, “from Liz Evanston. Do you know who Liz Evanston is?”
Not even a hello. Yeah, he’s pissed all right.
“Your ex-wife?”
“No.”
He didn’t say any more, so Vail asked, “If this is twenty questions, sir, can I have a pad and pen?”
“She’s Director Knox’s executive assistant.”
She raised both hands, palms up. “You just ruined the game. I had at least another nineteen guesses left.”
“She had a message for me. From the director. And it was about you.”
“Right. Now I understand why I’m sitting in your office.”
“Well, that makes one of us. I was told that you’re on special assignment. But when I asked for clarification and details—like how long this assignment would last—she said she didn’t know. When I asked if I should reassign your active cases, she said, ‘Probably’.” He leaned forward and rested both forearms on his desk. “Now your unit chief and I have the BAU to run, with a lot of cases and very few agents. As hard as it is for me to admit it, you’re one of my best analysts. So when you’re removed from the equation, I kind of have to know why, and for how long.”
“Well, you don’t really have to know why.”
Gifford looked at her.
“I’m just saying. ‘Why’ isn’t releva—”
“Karen,” he said through clenched teeth. “What the hell is going on?”
“I can’t go into it. But I do need to be excused from my duties for the foreseeable future. I’ll be working offsite.”
“I’m your ASAC. And that’s not an acceptable answer. Where are you getting your orders?”
“I don’t think I can say.”
Gifford frowned, hiked his brow, then grabbed a file off his desk. “Then no, you can’t be excused from your duties.”
“But—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Gifford’s line buzzed. He hit the intercom. “Lenka, hold my calls.”
“It’s Director Knox, sir.”
Gifford glanced at Vail, as if he was starting to put it together. “Put him through,” he said in the direction of the speaker, then lifted the handset. Vail started to rise but Gifford motioned her down. “Mr. Director.” He listened for a bit, his face flushing, then looked at Vail again. It was not a pleasant expression. Finally, he said, “Sir, how can I run my unit without—” The jaw muscles in his face tightened. “The good of the country. Yes sir, I understand … Yes sir, I will do that … No, we’ll manage … Yes. Thank you, sir.”
As Gifford set the handset back in the cradle, Vail slapped her thighs. “Okay, then. We’re good?”
Gifford steepled his fingers, his eyes locked with Vail’s.
“If it helps, sir, I’m not enjoying this.”
“I don’t believe you. And it most certainly does not help. What am I supposed to do with all your cases?”
“If I were the ASAC, I’d reass—”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Right.” Vail rose from her seat. She started to leave, then stopped with a hand on the knob. “You have your orders, sir. And I have mine. Neither of us are happy about it. How about we leave it at that?”
Gifford did not reply, so she pulled the door open and left.
5
Lucas Dempsey sat in the back of the black town car, its gray leather soft and pliant against his hand. The thick soundproof glass separating the rear and front seats had a slight green tint, but was otherwise unobtrusive. He glanced down and checked his watch and awaited the arrival of Frederic Prideux.
Like Dempsey, the name Prideux was chosen at random off an online directory of a company’s board of directors. It was a nice irony, but in truth he selected Dempsey because it gave the impression of a fighter. And he liked to think of himself in that light.
While his contact knew his true identity, it was safer to use aliases in conversation so the prying ears of the NSA or FBI could not make an easy identification.
But if they were smart, and careful, they would not arouse suspicion.
Prideux approached the vehicle—and was frisked a dozen feet away by Dempsey’s personnel before being cleared to approach.
The back door opened and Prideux sat down heavily.
Dempsey, staring straight ahead, said, “What the hell are you people doing?”
Prideux, a slight man whose English was well practiced and near-flawless, tilted his head. “We’re doing what’s necessary.”
“You’re working against me. That’s not the arrangement. And it’s counterproductive, to say the least.”
“You move too slowly. And you’re restricted in what you can do and when you can
do it.”
Dempsey laughed—not out of humor but because of his “partner’s” audacity.
“Did you or did you not tell me there are limits to what you can do?”
“At times, yes. But we have a plan and we’re executing according to that plan. Setting up sleeper cells in DC? Are you out of your mind?”
Prideux snorted. “We’re quite sane, I assure you. There is a method to what you perceive as madness.”
“Perceive? Perceive? Federal agents raided your cell, found bomb-making components and goddamn it, your man blew himself up in the middle of the city!”
“Yes, well, that was unfortunate. But …” He shrugged. “So what? We have others that will gladly take his place.”
“I’m not worried about losing a man. Or two, or three. I’m worried about the FBI getting close. If they figure out—”
“No, no, no,” Prideux said slowly, shaking his head. Calm, cool. “There is no risk here. Remember, we have a man on the inside.” He smiled broadly. “Don’t we, now?”
Dempsey turned away. He did not feel like the fighter he pretended to be. He felt controlled—when the opposite should have been the case.
“You’re moving too slowly,” Prideux said. “It’s been two years.”
“I’m laying the groundwork. It takes time. We discussed this. There are a lot of considerations.” He faced Prideux. “You just have to trust me.”
“Trust is not the issue. We do trust you. But we want results.”
“And I said I’d deliver. I didn’t say when because I couldn’t. Things are fluid.”
“Yes, things are fluid. And that’s why we decided to take a more active role.”
“A lot of good that did. Your bomb-making factory and safe house are gone.”
Prideux turned his entire torso and leaned against the door, facing Dempsey. “Lucas, my friend, do you really think we would go into a war with only one weapon?” He smiled—deviously.
Dempsey was certain the man was studying him, reading his expression. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re well prepared. I mean we know what we’re doing. I mean that you should not worry about us, about our end of things. We have it all under control. Let the FBI think they’ve scored a major victory.”
“You’re just making it more difficult. Give me time to sort this out. Let things settle down. Let the media find something else to cover.”
Prideux frowned and turned to look out the rear window.
“I thought you people take the long view, the long war. Decades, centuries.”
“I don’t subscribe to that model. I’m an impatient man. I’m selfish. I want to see this to fruition. I want to taste the olives of my labor.”
“You will. But don’t fight me.”
Prideux laughed. “And why not? We fight everyone else. And we win too. Look at Europe, Lucas. Look at what we’re doing. We are taking over. Some may think it’s a slow process, but it’s happening very quickly. In twenty-five, thirty years Belgium will be ours. Brussels, the headquarters of the European Union and NATO, will be under Sharia law.
“Allah will be the judge and jury of what’s permitted and what isn’t. There and in the major European cities—Antwerp, Amsterdam, Rotterdam. And my home country, France. It’s all going to be under Sharia law very soon.”
“Twenty-five years is not soon. Things can happen that derail your plans.” Dempsey knew it was a weak shot, a punch without any muscle behind it. Because he knew Prideux was right.
“This is different. We control the process so I can wait. Twenty-five years? Just a matter of time now. Nothing anyone can do to stop it.” Prideux chuckled. “Unless non-Muslims start having six kids per couple—which is not going to happen. We will out-reproduce them. We will outnumber them. We will then out-vote them—and vote them out.”
“And what is that going to get you?”
“It’ll get us Europe. And then we’ll move on from there. North America? South America? Maybe both at the same time? Eventually it’ll be everything. That is our goal, Lucas. Not just an Islamic state. An Islamic world.”
Dempsey wondered what he had gotten himself into. Then again, was there really a choice?
“It’s all so very simple, Lucas, but they are fools. They don’t see what’s going on right in front of them, all around them. We even tell them what we’re going to do. It’s not a secret. And still they don’t see it! We say it on TV, in interviews, in our mosques, they debate it in their government offices. Their own Members of Parliament warn of it. And still they let it happen. Religious tolerance, the political correctness of this generation only makes it easier, faster.” His left eye narrowed. “They have let it happen. Willingly. None of those countries deserve to survive as a nation, as a culture. And they won’t.”
Dempsey cleared his throat. He felt a sense of anxiety, as if he were Dr. Frankenstein … and the monster had just awoken and was about to leave the nest.
Prideux clapped a bony hand on Dempsey’s thigh. “Thank you for your time, Lucas. We’ll be in touch.” He winked, then popped open the door and got out.
6
Uzi set his leather satchel on his desk at the FBI’s Washington field office, then headed over to check in with a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, Special Agent Hoshi Koh.
Hoshi’s desk was a hodge-podge of files, notes, and a variety of tech gadgets: her smartphone, a tablet, a Bluetooth headset, and an external battery pack.
“I’m impressed,” Uzi said, taking inventory of the devices.
Hoshi tilted her head and examined his face. “You look tired.”
“Late night.”
“Another hot date?”
“Not exactly.” He stifled a yawn. “Who says hot date anymore?”
“Obviously I do.”
“Hey, where do we stand with that wild and crazy theory of Hezbollah collaborating with the Cortez cartel?”
“Soon as I got your email this morning I checked in with DEA. They’re running a new informant in San Diego that’s shown promise.”
“When are we expecting to hear?”
“They’re going to get back to us. Any day.” Hoshi slipped her glasses on. “Oh—Shepard wants to see you.”
Uzi walked into his ASAC’s office a minute later. Marshall Shepard leaned his large frame backward in his chair, making the springs creak loudly. “’Bout time you brought your ugly ass into my office. Left that message with Koh an hour ago.” He yanked off his glasses. “Take a seat, man. You look tired.”
“Jeez, between you and Hoshi, a guy can’t have a bad night.”
“You hear about that explosion on Irving Street, near 14th? They’re calling it a gas main, but I’m not buying it. I called Metro and they said they had no complaint on file. I ran it up the line and the brass wouldn’t even take my call, like they were dodging me. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Uzi tried to maintain a neutral expression. “Yeah.”
“I want you to look into it. Quietly.”
“Quietly, Shep?”
“Yeah, just you and—well, maybe Koh. That’s it. Let’s find out if there’s something fishy going on. I don’t know, maybe I’ve seen too much. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I see the CIA’s hands in this.”
“Really.” Uzi grabbed a toothpick from the cup on the desk. “Can’t it just be a gas main explosion? They do happen.”
Shepard scrunched his dark skin into an animated frown. “I am talking with Aaron Uziel, right? After all that shit that went down with the Armed Revolution Militia, you really think some suspicious shit can’t be going down that they’re keeping from us?”
Shepard was referring to a case a couple of years ago involving domestic terror attacks aimed at bringing down the US government.
Shepard’s desk phone rang. He listened a moment, then said, �
�Yeah, put him through.” He glanced at Uzi and said, “I need to take this, can you—” Before he could finish, the line connected. “Yes sir. This is Shepard.”
Uzi rose from his chair to give his ASAC some privacy. But Shepard suddenly rapped his knuckles on the wood desk. Uzi stopped and turned.
“Can you give me details on—” Shepard sat up in his chair. “No, no, of course. I’ll make him available. Whatever you need.” He hung up the phone and glowered at Uzi.
“What?” Uzi asked. “Who was that?”
“You know damn well who that was. I thought you were my friend.”
Uzi took his seat again. “I am, but I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
Shepard grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. “You’re going to be working a project for the director. And you didn’t see fit to inform me?”
“Oh, that.” Uzi unwrapped the toothpick and placed it in his mouth. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. It puts me in an awkward position, given our relationship.”
“Which relationship are you referring to?” Shepard asked, his eyebrows raised. “That I’m your boss or that I’m your friend?”
“Both.” Uzi started rolling the cellophane wrapper between his fingers. “C’mon, Shep, we’ve been through this before.”
Shepard shook his head. “Care to tell me what you’re going to be working on?”
“Can’t.”
Shepard leaned forward, his gaze boring into Uzi’s. “This have anything to do with that explosion last night?”
Uzi did not reply—but he did not need to. Shepard was a sharp guy and he knew Uzi very well. A slight twitch in his eye, a dilated pupil—it didn’t take much—and Shepard would know the answer.
Shepard slapped the table with a large, thick hand. His brass FBI paperweight jumped. “Knew it.”
The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3) Page 5
