The Black List

by Robin Burcell

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  “You are very welcome.”

  Tex ended the call and repeated the information.

  Donovan showed him the photographs. “The offices where this information came from.”

  “That’s where Eve was supposed to be going.”

  “Was.”

  “Almost too bad they’re sending them home.”

  “We better call HQ.”

  Tex informed McNiel of what they found and what the Kenyan officer had told them.

  “You’re sure about the location of this office?”

  “You mean where the one list of criminals was processed through under different names? Yes. There’s even a photograph of the book sitting on the office desk. Whoever prepared this was very thorough. In fact, there’s info on here that I’m not even sure what it belongs to. But it’s got that evidentiary look to it. And that’s not including the page with all the dollar signs on it. If I had to guess, there’s a lot of money being laundered through a number of black-list countries. The tip of the iceberg. Just the little we were able to make of it tells me that A.D.E. would not want this out there.”

  “Send me what you have electronically. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  “I just sent an encrypted e-mail of what I have. I’ll get MI6 to lock up the original. Since A.D.E. operates in both countries, I’m sure they’re going to want in on the action.”

  McNiel called back in less than fifteen minutes. “Change of plans.”

  “Didn’t know we had any plans,” Tex told him.

  “We didn’t, the CIA did. And now we’ve made some of our own after receiving the latest intel that Yusuf may have gone through the refugee contractor office on your list.”

  “They’re not still thinking he’s in Africa, after all this time?”

  “No. We’re fairly certain he’s here. But they are thinking that if you can find the office where he was issued his bogus ID, we may be able to figure out what name he came into this country with. If we can tie the evidence together to show the flaws in the system, we’ll be able to shut down A.D.E., and any charity running under them. More importantly, we’ll be able to stop at least that hole that is allowing the terrorists to enter the country through the refugee program. Which is why the CIA has changed their minds about calling Eve stateside. She’s heading to the Dadaab refugee camp.”

  “That’s insane. It’s a friggin’ war zone there.”

  “We’re not about to walk away from a lead that might give us Yusuf and the criminal element used to facilitate his entry into the U.S. She’s going. And since embedding journalists has become so common in this day and age, Donovan and Lisette are flying out with her as members of the press. Turns out the International Journal for World Peace is very interested in doing a feature article on Micah and his charity. I believe the editor will be calling his publicist with the good news as soon as the office opens. You get to tag along for good measure. We’re hoping no one notices there’s a third wheel.”

  “East Africa . . . Lovely time of year.”

  “Better than the rainy season.”

  “And what about Micah?”

  “Find a good hotel in Nairobi where he can drink daiquiris until you’re done. I have a feeling that once he gets his first glimpse of a real refugee camp, he won’t object to the suggestion of being Photoshopped into the pictures.”

  42

  The Greyhound to Washington, D.C., took slightly less than three days. The bus, Yusuf found, was cleaner than the one he took up to the Mexico border. He did not talk with any of the passengers when they tried. His conversation with the border patrol guard had spooked him enough to make him realize there were nuances of speaking this American language that one couldn’t learn from watching old movies, and he still worried about the police car that showed up at the storage facility. If anyone put it together, they might figure out what was going on, and the last thing he wanted was to be memorable. When he started throwing up, spending more time in the bathroom than in his seat, few people wanted to talk to him, so it really didn’t matter. By the time he arrived in Washington, D.C., the only one who paid him any attention was a little old lady who had been seated on the bus in the aisle across from him, until she finally moved away on the last leg of the trip. As it was, his right hand felt odd. He was weak, from vomiting and diarrhea, and had difficulty holding the backpack that contained his few clothes and the capsule.

  He did not like Washington. Far too cold. Even the leather jacket he had purchased in Mexico was not warm enough. He waited outside the bus station for the man who was supposed to pick him up, but his fingers hurt from the cold and he was shivering. Eventually he had to return to the terminal to wait. Not too long, though, before the car described to him in the phone call—a green Chevy Impala—stopped in front of the terminal.

  He walked out, saw the Kenyan flag decal in the window—they’d decided it was safer to fly a Kenyan flag instead of Somalian—then opened the vehicle door. The driver, a dark-skinned man with short black hair stared at him a second, saying, “You have come a long way.”

  “For God’s work.”

  “Good, good. Hurry, then. It’s cold out there.”

  Yusuf got in, closed the door, and immediately felt the heat from the car blasting against him.

  They drove for several minutes in silence, both of them instructed not to discuss the other’s business. The man stopped in front of a brick apartment building. Yusuf exited the vehicle and then the man drove off.

  Yusuf looked around him, feeling very much like he’d been dropped on some other planet. The air was cold, crisp, and his nose was running like a faucet as he hurried across the street, nearly slipping on a patch of ice as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He entered the building, which stank worse than the refugee camp in Dadaab, eventually found apartment 203 on the second floor and knocked.

  The door opened slightly, a chain barring the way. “Who are you?”

  “I am here from home. I have come a long way.”

  The man lowered the chain and opened the door wide. “Come in.”

  Yusuf entered. The apartment was sparse, the carpet threadbare, the walls a dingy gray from about waist-level down. Four men sat around the table, eyeing him as he eyed them. He heard the door closing behind him, turned to look, and the man who had let him in indicated he should join the others at the table. He did, grateful to notice that the smell inside this apartment was not as bad as outside.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Long.”

  “Did you have any trouble getting into the country?”

  He’d been told that if there was any indication that anything had gone amiss, they would be scrapping the plans. Too much rode on the success, and they would far prefer waiting, replanning, and he thought about the incident at the border. If they were looking for anyone, it would be a student at UCLA. No one would think to look for him here in Washington. “None. Everything went smooth.”

  The man nodded. No one there used their real names. He didn’t know them, and they didn’t know his. Just as well. “Do you have the item?” the old man asked.

  He nodded, then took the heavy capsule out of his backpack, handing it over.

  “Did you make the calls when you arrived?” he asked Yusuf.

  “Yes. San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, and Washington, D.C.”

  The old man nodded and the others smiled. The four targets would be hit simultaneously, the venues chosen due to the heavily populated areas. Only theirs would have the capsule. But theirs was the most important, with its proximity to the White House, and it would instill the right amount of panic in the entire country.

  “We should get started,” one of the men said.

  “Patience,” the old man replied.

  Patience? Yusuf had no time for patience. He seemed to be getting sicker each day. If they waited too long, he intended to strike out on his own.

  43


  Sydney’s ex, Scotty, was hovering outside Pearson’s office in the morning when she arrived to give her statement of the accident and shooting.

  “I just heard,” Scotty said. “My God, why didn’t you call?”

  “I didn’t think about it. It all happened so fast.”

  “Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “To think I was there last night. I—” He cocked his head, saying, “I never did find out why you wanted to meet?”

  She glanced toward Pearson’s office, then drew Scotty away. “Have you heard anything about an investigation into Wingman Squared?”

  This time it was Scotty who looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard. “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing. The girl I introduced you to last night mentioned that everyone in the bar was talking about a political corruption case involving them.”

  “Political corruption?” He took a deep breath, the whole time looking at her as if coming to a weighty decision. “See me when you get done with Pearson. And do me a favor. Don’t mention Wingman Squared to him. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Can you please just trust me on this? For once?”

  “Fitzpatrick?”

  Sydney turned at the sound of Pearson’s voice. He stood in the doorway, watching them. “Coming.” She looked back at Scotty. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, more that she wondered what his agenda was. “How about coffee later?”

  “Sure.”

  She left him, walked into Pearson’s office, closing the door behind her.

  “How are you this morning?”

  “Not bad, considering.”

  “So what happened?”

  She thought about what Scotty had said, not mentioning Wingman Squared. It seemed counterintuitive, since Pearson was aware she and Griffin were working an investigation outside of the FBI’s influence. A quick decision, and she decided to start the story where they were being followed. “Griffin and I were walking back from the restaurant after having dinner with McNiel, and he caught some college student following us. The kid said someone paid him, and the next thing I knew a car was coming out of nowhere and plowing them down. When it came back around for a second try, I shot at it.”

  “Did you see anyone? A description? Anything?”

  “No. The headlights were on.”

  “Any ideas as to why they singled you out?”

  Trust me, Scotty had said, and it seemed she could feel the staccato beat of her pulse in the space of her hesitation. “No.”

  He held her gaze far longer than she felt comfortable under, and it was everything she could do to maintain her cool. After all, it wasn’t really a lie. She had no idea who was behind the wheel. Her speculation was just that. Finally he said, “You’re still okay working with McNiel?”

  “So far.”

  Someone knocked on his door, then opened it. His secretary. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the deputy director called down.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at Sydney. “Written report to me, as soon as you get a chance.”

  “Of course.” She stood. When it seemed he had nothing else to say, she left and called Scotty. “Where are you?”

  “My office. But let’s go somewhere. I’d rather not talk about this here.”

  “Java Stop?”

  “Meet you there in about fifteen.”

  She was curious, and had concocted a number of implausible scenarios as to why she shouldn’t discuss Wingman Squared with Pearson. Pearson dealt with politicians on a daily basis. This was Washington, after all, and if the case had to do with political corruption, she supposed that made a certain sort of sense. But surely he wasn’t trying to say that Pearson was involved?

  No. She’d worked with Pearson before on another ATLAS case. In fact, the last time she’d been to the Java Stop, she met Tex after Griffin had gone missing, and Pearson gave his blessing, such as it was, when she’d been enlisted to help. So if Pearson wasn’t involved in the corruption, then who? Her head was spinning by the time she arrived at the coffee shop. Scotty was already there, had her coffee waiting, and she sat, grateful for the caffeine after her restless night. She wanted to get to the hospital, find out how Griffin was doing, but hadn’t yet had a chance after getting through all the red tape of a shooting. And now this. She only hoped that whatever he had to say wasn’t a waste of her time. Some agenda of Scotty’s that she hadn’t been able to foresee.

  And sure enough, before she could get a couple words in edgewise, he asked, “I was wondering what you were doing this coming weekend?”

  She hoped for a date with Griffin, but knew better than to count on anything in their line of work. Nor was she about to throw it in Scotty’s face, so said simply, “I have plans.”

  He slid an envelope toward her. “I got an invitation to the Vista View’s Rooftop grand opening.”

  “Scotty—”

  “Look, I know we’re not a thing anymore, but anyone who is anyone will be there, and you know it looks better if you have a date at these things. This is the hot political event of the year. A couple former congressmen bought the place and renovated it. To even get an invitation . . . This is big.”

  Scotty was all about the movers and shakers, and she knew it meant a lot to him. It was not, however, the world she liked to frequent. “What about that girl you met last night?”

  “Amanda?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know, Syd. It’s not like I know her.”

  “You could get to know her. She seemed competent. A law student, after all.”

  He hesitated. “What if she can’t go?”

  “Then call me. I’ll see what I can swing. Now about this Wingman Squared thing?” she asked, imagining any number of possible reasons he might give for making this into something it wasn’t. “Why shouldn’t I mention it to Pearson?”

  “If Pearson even knew you were looking in that direction, he’d assign you to some obscure little corner of the country as far from here as possible.”

  “Why?”

  He looked from side to side, then leaned forward, whispering, “Because they were involved in the BICTT scandal.”

  There had to be some mistake.

  When she didn’t respond, he said, “The bank the CIA was laundering money through?”

  But she knew exactly which bank he was referring to. She just couldn’t believe it. BICTT had been closed down for the last couple of decades at least, and she was trying to wrap her head around the implications of what he was saying. Wingman and Wingman tied into BICTT? Scotty knew nothing about that envelope Carillo had given her—the numbers from BICTT she’d locked in her desk file—and it wasn’t like she could come out and announce it, or ask anyone else. Yet if it was true, that Wingman Squared was connected to CIA, surely Griffin and McNiel knew that? So why the hell hadn’t they told her when she’d mentioned Wingman Squared last night?

  Sydney pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What’s wrong?” Scotty asked. “Look, if it’s about this thing with Pearson, I just think—”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t hear it from me. Not anytime soon, at least. I’m not about to open that can of worms.”

  He nodded, and when it was clear she was insistent on going, said, “At least take your coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  She grabbed the cup and walked out, hurrying across the parking lot to her car. When she got in and started it, she sat there for a few moments, staring out the windshield, trying to remember her conversation last night with Griffin and McNiel when she’d mentioned Wingman Squared. It wasn’t that they’d come out and denied knowing about it, more that they hadn’t really offered information on it. Griffin knew the company, and McNiel said he’d look into it.

  The W2 file on Redfern’s desk . . . Like it wasn’t that big a deal.

  She drove straight to the hospital, f
iguring that if anyone owed her an explanation, Griffin did. When she inquired as to which room he was in, she was told he’d checked out.

  “When?”

  “Early this morning.”

  “I was informed last night that he was being kept for observation.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. All I can tell you is that he is no longer in this hospital.”

  “Thank you.”

  She wasn’t sure why the news bothered her, except for the events of the night before. The fact he hadn’t been honest with her.

  And that made her laugh. Cynically, of course, because when had he ever been honest with her?

  She drove to ATLAS, almost expecting to be stopped on the way in, feeling like she was the only one who didn’t know what was going on. But no one stopped her and she was able to access the upper floors without issue. Griffin wasn’t in his office, neither was McNiel; and she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do without them.

  She sat at Griffin’s desk, staring at his computer.

  Wingman Squared.

  She moved the mouse and the monitor lit up. Password protected. Not that she expected to see anything less on a government computer. Her gut, however, told her that if a file on Wingman and Wingman was to be found, Griffin would have it there.

  Unfortunately, she’d never paid attention when he entered his password, because quite simply, she’d never thought that she would need to get into his files.

  She’d pulled the keyboard forward and placed her hands on the keys when McNiel walked past the door, then stopped on seeing her.

  “Sydney. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I dropped by the hospital. Griffin wasn’t there.”

  “He’s at home. Apparently he knows better than the doctors.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  He walked in, looked at the computer screen. “Is there something you were looking for?”

  After Scotty warned her off, she wanted to see McNiel’s reaction. “Information on Wingman and Wingman.”

  “Because you saw the file on Redfern’s desk?”

  “Yes. And because someone tried to kill Griffin last night after I was asking about it in the bar.”