The Black List

by Robin Burcell

  “And how were you supposed to get this information to him?”

  Timothy slipped his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a slip of crumpled paper with a number written on it, which he gave to Griffin. “I—I wanted to get your license.” He tried to laugh. “I needed the money.”

  “Let me see your phone.”

  He hesitated, looked from Griffin to Sydney, but then handed it over. Griffin pressed the recall button, saw the number there, the time showing just a few minutes before. “You told him we were here? In this garage?”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “We might all be in trouble.” He looked away for one instant, to motion Sydney over. Timothy dashed around the column, then fled toward the street. He was fast. Griffin chased after him, was just closing the distance as they reached the parking entrance. He heard the rev of an engine, then tires screeching a split second before he was blinded by headlights as the car raced toward them. He lunged forward, tried to grab the kid, to stop him.

  Too late. The car hit Timothy as he burst onto the sidewalk. And then Griffin felt a rush of air as the fender clipped him, sending him flying like a rag doll.

  39

  Sydney’s heart slammed into her ribs.

  The acrid scent of burnt rubber assaulted her nostrils as she ran up, looked around for Griffin, panicking when she didn’t see him at first. She turned in a circle, calling out his name, when she heard the sound of tires screeching across the blacktop as the sedan made a U-turn, its headlights outlining Griffin’s still form in the gutter as it raced straight for him. For her. She aimed her gun, fired at the headlights over and over. The car veered, then fishtailed as it spun around, speeding off in the opposite direction.

  “Griffin!”

  She hurried toward him, kneeling, saw blood from a head wound, felt for a pulse.

  “Griffin, talk to me. Please. Wake up . . .”

  He stirred, and she holstered her gun, her hands shaking as she pulled her phone from her pocket, hit 911. She stood, surveyed the area as a crowd began to gather. When the dispatcher came on the line, she said, “FBI. Officer down. Two injured in a hit and run . . .”

  “Location?”

  “K Street. The parking garage across from the Wingman and Wingman building.” Her gaze caught on Timothy, saw his crumpled form on the blacktop. “Oh my God, hurry.”

  Sydney pushed her way into the Emergency Room, flinging her credentials in the face of anyone who got in her way. Griffin was sitting up in the bed, alert, right cheek scraped, but otherwise looking good, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s one hell of a way to get out of a date. How are you?”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “Quiet. They’re already talking about keeping me overnight for observation.”

  “And well they should.”

  “I don’t like hospitals.”

  “Butch up, Griffin. You should be an old hand at this by now.”

  McNiel knocked on the wall, then entered. “Just got off the phone with the PD. They found the suspect vehicle about a block away, abandoned. Comes back stolen.”

  “Go figure,” Sydney said.

  “Looks like one of those dozen shots might have even hit the guy. Found some blood in the car, so at least we have that.”

  “You missed?” Griffin asked. “That many times?”

  “Give me a break. I was blinded by the headlights.”

  He laid back on the pillow. “I’ve seen you shoot. Not worried.”

  McNiel eyed him, then slapped the end of the bed. “Looks like you’ll be on desk duty for a while.”

  “I’ll be fine. Give me a day.”

  “Desk duty or nothing.”

  “Desk duty,” Griffin echoed, closing his eyes.

  Sydney watched him for a moment, checking to make sure his breathing wasn’t changing. Ridiculous, she knew, but the image of him being hit by that car was still so frighteningly sharp in her mind.

  McNiel motioned her to follow him out to the hallway, out of earshot. “Pearson’s waiting for you in the lobby.”

  She nodded, then realized she hadn’t inquired about the man who’d been following them. “Timothy. He was brought in the same time—”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  It was a second or two before she was able to process what he was saying.

  “Go home, Sydney.” When she looked back into Griffin’s room, hesitant to leave, he said, “I’ll stay. Get some rest. Busy day tomorrow.”

  “I—I have his gun.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  40

  Clayton Barclay waited until he heard the door close and the sound of Eve’s footsteps retreating down the hall before picking up the phone and pressing the recall button. “She just left,” he said when the man on the other end answered. “How are the plans coming?”

  “Everything’s almost in place.”

  “Any word on Trip’s progress?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let me know the moment you hear from him. And for God’s sake, find his sister and niece. We can’t very well kill Trip before we kill them, or someone’s bound to question the order of things. Not if we’re trying to paint him as a crazed gunman.”

  “Trip’s not going anywhere, until we find them. Trust me.”

  “I do,” he said, swiveling his chair around to glance out the window. Eve was hailing a taxi in front of the building. The woman was becoming bothersome. Always inserting herself into the business, because she knew that Micah would do what she wanted while disregarding everyone else. The man trusted her, and the money they were making off him had been worth the inconvenience of having to deal with his assistant . . .

  “You hear me, boss?”

  Barclay pulled his attention back to the phone. “What? No.”

  “What do you think of my idea about having Eve fly off to Africa with Micah in order to raise more awareness?”

  “I’d have to wonder why anyone in their right mind would want to go there. It’s not safe.”

  “That’s my point exactly. Because who would question a photo op of Micah at some of the actual sites he’s raising funds for? And the Kenya refugee camp is conveniently located a short drive from the Somalia border. The way I see it? It’d be a shame if something happened to Eve on the trip . . .”

  “I do like the way your mind works, Willis.” Barclay turned back to the window, watching Eve get into the taxi. “Be sure to book a first-class ticket for Miss Sanders. This is one photo op we don’t want her to miss.”

  Micah stood when Tex and Donovan walked into the dining room of the hotel.

  “Ah, the reporters from Washington,” he said, shaking their hands. “Good to see you. Can I interest you in a late breakfast?”

  “No thanks,” Tex said. “We already ate. But I would like to get your views on how you think the refugee program is going. Are you happy with the way it’s progressed? Any improvements on the way things are handled?”

  “Couldn’t be happier,” Micah said, while Donovan snapped a few photos to make it look good. “In fact, I’ve just heard that the U.S. has earmarked even more money to be put into the refugee program. Wonderful news, since it will allow so many who are being persecuted in their own countries to be able to come to ours and have what we’ve always taken for granted. The American dream.”

  American pipe dream in a lot of cases, Tex thought, but he jotted Micah’s statement into his notebook, trying to look interested as he added, “So what’s next on your agenda?”

  “You probably haven’t heard, but we’re going to Africa.”

  “Africa?” Tex saw the excitement on the man’s face.

  “To visit some of the actual refugee camps. Amazing that we’re going to get to see it working from Ground Zero, so to speak.”

  “Ground Zero. Clever . . .” He closed his notebook and looked around. “So who all’s going on this trip and when do you leave
?”

  “Eve and I leave this afternoon. Ah, there she is now,” he said, nodding in the vicinity of the restaurant entrance.

  “Very . . . exciting. I’ll, uh, let my photographer get some shots of you while I interview Eve.”

  “Good. Good. Thanks for coming out.”

  “Any time.”

  Tex walked up to Eve, who had a very neutral look on her face, and he wondered what she was thinking about this latest development. She was dressed in a wine-colored business jacket and skirt, with black high heels. Very secretary looking, as opposed to the woman wearing all black who had broken into their safe house last night.

  They shook hands, and he said, “Good to see you again.”

  “You, too. Did you get what you needed from Mr. Goodwin?”

  “I did, but I was hoping for a different angle. Maybe from your point of view. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Why don’t we sit in a quiet corner and let Micah finish his breakfast.”

  “Perfect.”

  They walked out into the Promenade lobby, taking a seat well away from anyone, and Tex asked, “What the hell?”

  “Barclay informed me this morning that he wants Micah and me to head to Africa. I’m sure Micah told you all about it.”

  “Even odds,” Tex said, “the closest he’s ever been to one of those refugee camps is watching a National Geographic TV special from the safety of his own living room. Have you even seen his documentary? The one he shows at all his fund-raisers?”

  “More times than I can count,” Eve replied.

  “The guy’s a fraud.”

  “I’ll admit there are . . . issues with his Sticks to Bricks. He means well,” she countered.

  “Bullshit. And you know it. The only thing he’s doing is living the parasitic life of a celebrity and raking in money left and right for even bigger parasites like A.D.E. who have the art of exploitation down to a science. People are throwing money at this guy left and right with no clue as to how it’s being spent, and he’s just as clueless.”

  “Granted he has no real idea what these places are like, but he believes in what he’s doing. We are not, however, going. I just finished talking to Lou, and after conferring with the powers that be at Langley, Micah and I will head to the airport, pretend we’re en route, at which time I’ll take ill and we’ll get on a flight for the States instead.”

  “That’s good, because I’m not about to let you go. Too dangerous.”

  Eve laughed. “Can you imagine if I came bursting in on one of your missions? Demanding that you stop because it’s dangerous?”

  “You already did,” Tex replied. “When you called me yesterday afternoon, trying to convince me you weren’t guilty of the hit on Marty.”

  “Touché, Mr. Dalton. Only I didn’t know you were a covert agent, did I?”

  “Tex.”

  “Well, then, Tex. Suffice it to say that all is well and you won’t need to come charging in on your white steed. We’ve got things under control.”

  “Good, because I’m not very good on horseback.”

  She leaned back in her seat, glancing toward Micah as Donovan played photographer. “As much as I’m looking forward to getting back and putting this case to bed, I can’t help wondering about this book. It would be nice to find it.”

  “Trust me. We looked. And unless it’s in Marty’s office—”

  “It’s not. Barclay had it searched top to bottom. Same with his house and apartment.”

  “—then I haven’t a clue.”

  “What exactly did he say to you right before he was shot?”

  “Promise to protect his wife and daughter. He handed me his briefcase, then unwound his scarf, saying something about hiding it in a Kipling novel.”

  “Rudyard Kipling. Why the hell Kipling?”

  “Good writer?”

  She took out her cell phone, opened up a Web browser, and moved her finger across the screen, searching for something. “I followed him from the Tube to where he got shot. He ducked into a restaurant for a few minutes, and Lou went back, searched the trash, so it’s not there.”

  “What about a library? Or a bookstore? Could he have stopped and hidden it in plain sight?”

  “Kipling, London books . . .” She read aloud what she typed on her virtual keyboard, then a moment later said, “Lots of copies out there.” She turned her screen toward him, saying, “I don’t suppose he gave you a specific title?”

  “No.”

  “Phantom Rickshaw? Gunga Din? Jungle Book? Just So—”

  “Jungle Book?”

  “He said that?”

  “No. But there were all these Disney DVDs at the house. Disney did Jungle Book, right?”

  “Animated musical. You said he told you a novel.”

  “Give me a sec . . .” He pictured the moment, saw Marty removing his gloves, saying, Just so you know. It’s well hidden in that Kipling story. Tex laughed. “He didn’t say book. He said story.”

  “Story?”

  “As in it could be a DVD. And last I heard, you could put several books on one of those.”

  Tex and Donovan left Eve at the hotel and drove straight for Marty’s wife’s house. The longest fifteen-minute drive of their lives. “You’d think,” Donovan said as Tex turned down the neat little residential street, “that for a guy whose favorite movie is Roger Rabbit, you’d at least pay attention to other animated cartoons and the original stories they came from.”

  “Least thing you could have done was open it and make sure it’s the real deal. You were holding them.” Tex pulled up in front of the house. “Isn’t that the nosy neighbor?”

  “I’ll have a proper British chat with her while you pick the lock.”

  “Good show, old boy.”

  While Donovan crossed the street, Tex walked up to the door. It took him less than a minute to bypass the lock and enter the residence, which smelled even more like a wet campfire now that it had been closed up all night. He saw the DVDs on the kitchen counter and scooped them up, relieved when he saw The Jungle Book among them. He opened it, saw a disc with the same name on the face of it, clearly the Disney copy, and he wanted to shout out his frustration, then hurl the thing across the room like a Frisbee. He started to close it, then realized there was a second DVD behind the first. He removed the top disc, saw one that was not a Disney imprint, closed the cover and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Everything looks good,” he called out to Donovan, then waved to the neighbor, trying to keep it neutral enough to match whatever story Donovan might have spun for her.

  Tex handed the case to him after he got into the car. “I think we have it.”

  “You didn’t check it out?”

  “Wasn’t about to take a chance. We need to burn a copy and figure out what the hell’s on it. Next stop. Safe house.”

  41

  Tex slid the DVD into the drive as Donovan pulled up a chair to take a seat beside him. When the icon appeared on the computer monitor, Tex burned a copy, then set the original aside before opening the files. “Here goes nothing.” He double-clicked on the copy DVD, and accessed a folder containing files.

  “You going to stare at them or open one?”

  “You’re like a kid at Christmas. Let’s see what we have under the tree first.” What they had was a lot of photos, dozens, and way down at the bottom of the list one very large document file. He opened that first.

  “What is it?” Donovan asked.

  Tex scanned a few pages, clicking past each, trying to make sense of it. “I’m looking . . .”

  “Not fast enough.” Donovan reached over, took the mouse from Tex and scrolled down. “It’s a refugee list.”

  “I’m not seeing that as earth shattering.”

  “Some of the names have an asterisk by them.” He scrolled down to the bottom. “It shows the office that issued the name, because they had no ID.” He scrolled even further. “The names they had when they came in . . . d
on’t match the names they ended up with.” Donovan pointed to the other computer. “Access the No Fly list. I have a feeling . . .”

  Tex did as he asked. Donovan read off the first name. Tex ran it. “Clear.”

  “What am I missing . . . ?”

  “Criminal history?”

  “Can we access this country?”

  “Not from here. But we could get someone from MI6 who’s already over there. If they have someone.”

  “Call.”

  Tex did. The only number he had was Alice’s. “It’s Tex.”

  “I guessed. How are things?”

  “If this is what we think it is, we may have our first solid link on the first stop for the terrorists who are getting into the country.”

  She gave him the number of the agent in Kenya. He called and explained the situation once more, and was finally put in contact with an officer of the Kenyan police agency, a man named Jomo. Tex read off the first several names, along with their birth dates.

  He heard the sound of a keyboard clicking in the background as the officer ran them. “They’re all criminals,” Jomo said, his voice deep, his accent distinct. “Every one of them. Their crimes range from minor theft to robbery, and one is for attempted murder. Where did you get these names?”

  “From a contact here in England.”

  “Several of them have warrants for their arrest. Do you know where they are?”

  “Not yet. But I’m beginning to think they’re not where they’re supposed to be.”

  “We have long believed that some of these offices that are opening to help these refugees are . . . how do you say it? Suspect.”

  “Suspect, how?”

  “They receive grants of money from various charities to resettle these people in other countries. In theory, a good idea to help. In reality, when there is that much money changing hands, there is much graft and corruption, even within my own government, I’m sorry to say. The charities get paid by the body. No bodies, no money. To them, the background matters little. And for those eager to get out of a country that intends to prosecute, they are willing to pay even more. The icing on a cake, as you call it.”