The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  “What?” I tried to decide if I were going to jail again. “Something I said?”

  “That was Special Assistant Director McNamara at headquarters. I’ve never spoken to the Special Assistant Director before. In fact, the Assistant Director is about ten bosses over my head. Normally, my boss would call and chew my ass, but no, Special Assistant Director McNamara, the Special Assistant to the Director himself, did. Personally.”

  Uh-oh. “And?”

  “I’m to accept your statement and provide you every courtesy until your ride gets here.”

  “My ride?”

  Agent Combs nodded. “Yes, since your partner left, you’ll need a ride.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Strange about Biggs, though.” Her eyes said she wasn’t sure about me. “He hasn’t shown up at the subject’s house yet. So we’ll take you to wherever you disappear to.”

  “Thanks.”

  A voice called from behind us. “I’ve got it from here, Agent Combs.”

  Victoria Bacarro walked through the crowd of parents and teachers milling about the students.

  “Hello, Hunter.” Victoria’s words had icicles hanging off. “I’m sorry, it’s Special Agent Hunter, right?”

  She was a bit upset with me. “Victoria, good morning.”

  “No, it’s not.” She gave Agent Combs a flip of her head and sent her off. When we were alone, she stepped in close and bore ice through my eyes. “Some big-shot DC suit from the WFO called.”

  “Special Assistant Director McNamara.”

  “Yes, actually.” She poked me in the chest. “Your assignment is real hush-hush. Before he hung up, he told me to get my ass down here because you just stopped a terror attack against these kids.”

  “It was luck.”

  “Luck my ass.”

  I said nothing.

  “Get in my car, Hunter. We have a lot to talk about.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Day 5: May 19, 1040 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Western Virginia

  THE RIDE TO Winchester was great. Just me and my gal Victoria. We laughed, played music, and told jokes. Wait, no. None of that happened. The moment I shut the car door she began grilling me. Minus the hot lights, it was an interrogation.

  After answering most of her questions truthfully, I held up a hand. “Enough. We’re on the same side. I’m a G-man. You’re a G-girl.”

  She wasn’t impressed. “You’ve got some very powerful friends, Hunter. All of a sudden, too.”

  “To know me is to love me.”

  She drove for another mile without a word. Then she started again. “Tell me again how you fell into this attack?”

  I gave her the story verbatim as Shepard and I had rehearsed and as I’d told Agent Combs. “Dumb luck, Victoria. If we’d been five minutes later, it would have been over.”

  “Where’s this mysterious partner of yours? What was his name?”

  “I cannot comment further.” Payback. “We’re following every lead.”

  She shook her head and pulled the car off to the roadside.

  Strangely, she reached across the seat and put a hand on my cheek with odd familiarity. For a moment, she looked into my eyes with a softness and understanding that I’d not seen in her. Just when I thought she’d lean over and kiss me—yeah, okay, my mind was playing tricks on me—she slapped me hard on the cheek.

  “You’re lying, Hunter. Who’s your informant inside Saeed’s group?”

  Time for the CIA two-step. “It was an anonymous.”

  “Really? How does someone living in a garage loft get an anonymous anything?”

  She had me there.

  “LaRue again. You guys have an operation going. Don’t you?” She gripped the steering wheel so tight her fingers went pale. “You and Polo. You’re cut from the same cloth. You play the ‘need to know’ game and I get nothing. That’s exactly what drove Kev away. Why would he want you back for this?”

  The way she accentuated “Kev” rang a bell in my brain under the category of Married men involved with unmarried ladies for 100 dollars.

  Her voice was tiny and tears welled in her eyes. “Just once, how about a little honesty?”

  Damn. Damn. Double damn.

  She reached for the gearshift, and I took her hand. “You loved Kevin.”

  The kewpie doll was mine.

  Victoria dropped her head and let it rain. Her hands went to her face and tried to cover the anguish, but the sobs shook her. The more she tried to contain them, the more they came.

  I let her go.

  After a long time, she wiped her eyes. “Yes, goddammit, yes. We were involved. I’m sorry. Sorry for Noor. But it happened, and I couldn’t help it. Neither could he. His marriage was over except for the paperwork. Now he’s dead. Gone. All I have are lies and you.”

  Damn. “Do you know who killed him?”

  “What? No. I would have told you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” I reached over and took her hand again. Why, I had no idea, but I think that’s what guys are supposed to do in times like this. “Here it is. The truth. I’m really a rogue CIA consultant. Oscar LaRue got me the DHS creds so I could stop Khalifah and thwart his next evil attack without me getting arrested.”

  She forced a smile. “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I told her the truth behind my role in the North and South School and witnessing the mall attack days before. She couldn’t believe the story, especially about having two Iranians captive in Oscar’s safe house. “I think Oscar has someone inside, but he’s not sharing. I got lucky is all.”

  “Lucky? You got into a shoot-out with three Iranian terrorists last night and now have them hostage.”

  “Detained.” I put a finger to my lips. “Shssh. We don’t take hostages, Victoria. We detained them for further questioning.”

  She shook her head. “Right. Whatever. I don’t get it. We have been monitoring chatter, and there’s nothing that indicates all this should be happening. These terrorists are operating a lot smarter.”

  Chatter was an interesting concept with intelligence folks. In layman’s terms, those that I understand, NSA sucks up most of the communications from cells, the Internet, and whatever in key parts of the world. Well, most of the world. They slice and dice and look for patterns, keywords, and people. Chatter is the byproduct of the volume, tone, and content of communications in certain targeted areas—known bad guys and bad guy locations. Too much chatter means something is brewing. When the chatter goes quiet, hold on to your socks, because the shit is about to hit the fan.

  According to Victoria, nothing in the chatter surrounding the recent events seemed to suggest the bad guys weren’t tipping their hand. Or we’d missed it. It’s possible, even with modern intelligence wizardry. If you grab two trillion gazillion intercepts from the airways around the world, you might miss the mention of “bomb” now and then. It can happen. Not often, but it can still happen.

  “Do you guys have anyone inside, Victoria?”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “The night Kevin was killed, my asset warned me that Saeed was picking something important up at the river. He didn’t know what it was but was going to find out. It was our first big break. We think Saeed is IRGC and they’re behind the mall and Union Station attacks, and now the school.”

  “Where’s your asset now?”

  She frowned. “He was burned up in that pickup truck at the river.”

  “Damn.” I thought about Kevin going to the river. “Follow the money.”

  “The money?”

  “From the missing backpack in Kruppa’s photographs.”

  “What makes you think there was money in it?” Victoria asked.

  “What else would it be?” I snorted. “Laundry? A picnic lunch?” Something struck me and I changed tack. “Victoria, you called Kevin that night. What about?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Her face saddened. “Noor told you that. She told Artie, too. I did not call him.
We weren’t talking for a few days.”

  “Lover’s quarrel?” I regretted the words as they passed my lips. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged. “Kevin shouldn’t have been at the river. We didn’t send him, and he didn’t tell anyone he was going.”

  One hundred grand in cash. I knew the answer. “He was there because he was being paid off for something.”

  She didn’t answer and looked out the window.

  “I know, Victoria. Or at least, I think I do.” I told her about the money hidden at Noor’s house. She wasn’t surprised and I said as much. “You were on to him?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. But I knew something odd was going on for months. He wasn’t himself. He was always angry and distant. Often secretive. Even from me, and yes, that was unusual.”

  It sucks, but it made sense. Kevin had gone bad—a rogue cop taking bribes and doing God only knows what for all that cash. But it didn’t explain the passports with fake names. None of that made sense.

  Victoria reached over and squeezed my arm. “Kevin wasn’t supposed to be at the river, Jon. It looks bad.”

  “What, he shot your asset and tossed the gun? Then he shot himself and tossed that gun? Who shot at me?”

  “No one said he worked alone.” She held my eyes.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Victoria looked down. “There’s more.” She gathered her thoughts as she closed her eyes. “Artie found something on the hillside hidden beneath an old tree, too.”

  “What?”

  She opened her eyes and studied me. “The missing backpack. Before Kruppa’s photos showed us it was missing.”

  Oh, no.

  “Another fifty grand, Hunter.”

  My heart almost stopped. “I thought you didn’t find any evidence, Victoria.”

  “We’re protecting Kevin.” Her eyes softened. “No one knows this but Artie and me. We found it ourselves. None of it has been entered into evidence. Nor will it be.”

  I said nothing.

  Her eyes filled with pity. “A dirty cop won’t get any survivor benefits, Hunter. He wouldn’t have gotten that police funeral with honors, either. Noor deserves better.”

  She and Artie were protecting Noor. Protecting Kevin’s reputation.

  I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  She reached into her pocket and produced my fifty-dollar bill I’d given “G” at the library. “Ghali had this. There’s a phone number on it.”

  Oops.

  “Your phone, Hunter.”

  Well, not my phone any longer. Fariq and his pals shot the crap out of it last night.

  “You knew all this time, Victoria? Even before you released me yesterday?”

  She grinned a self-satisfying grin. We sat there eyeing each other—the fox and the hound. “You owe Artie. He wanted you out. I wanted to slap you in jail for obstruction.”

  She’d been pretty honest with me, and while I knew she wasn’t telling me everything, I decided to throw her some help. “Victoria, my people think that Kevin was trying to warn me about the attacks. First, the mall bomber lived at the Christian Run address. His family was held hostage to force him to carry out the attack.”

  “We think the same things. How did you know about the family at Christian Run?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a secret.”

  “LaRue.” She shook her head. “What about what Kevin said, ‘Maya in Baltimore’?”

  I gave her a taste of what LaRue had told me. “Maya is not a person. It’s the code name of some pending attack. Maya will be the attack in Baltimore. Somewhere, sometime soon.”

  Her eyes got big and she looked down, contemplating everything I’d told her. “Is LaRue sure?”

  “As sure as we can be. It all makes sense. Khalifah is calling the shots. Caine is his intelligence man, and Saeed runs the terror cells. We just don’t know how many there are.”

  After a long time, she started the car and pulled back into traffic heading for Winchester. “Okay, Hunter, from now on, you and me, we’re on the same team?”

  “Of course. What about Artie?”

  She frowned. “What about him?”

  Reluctance? “He and I go way back. I trust him and he never slaps me.”

  She giggled a little, relieving some tension. “I don’t think he trusts me at all.”

  Wow, two FBI agents and no one trusts anyone. “Well, leave Artie to me. He owes me from Riyadh.”

  “Let me guess, you got into a gunfight or two?”

  I winked. Oh boy, she really had my number.

  CHAPTER 52

  Day 5: May 19, 1200 Hours, Daylight Saving

  Time Old Town, Winchester, Virginia

  “YES, DIRECTOR, I understand.” Oscar LaRue sat at the small dinette table in his George Washington Hotel suite and contemplated the secure speakerphone where the voice of the DCI—Deputy Director of Intelligence—emanated from. “For the record, Director, I do not share the DO’s assessment. The facts on the ground are simply not what they appear.”

  The DCI’s thoughts were calm and succinct, no matter the crisis, and always indifferent to Washington politics. It was a trait that held the President’s ear for many years. “LaRue, all roads point to the IRGC. It is unprecedented that the Iranians are operating so overtly here. Are you telling me there is another explanation? Other facts I don’t have?”

  “Yes, Director.” LaRue closed his eyes and inventoried his data. “I confess that the attacks on Fair Oaks and Union Station were carried out by Afghan and Iraqi refugees. Their families were subsequently killed. Two separate nationalities of refugees participated in the attack at the Leesburg school. However, all those involved, all of the families at least, were dedicated to becoming American citizens and rebuilding their lives here. None were connected to extremists or radical groups or showed any indication of threat. Above all, we were caught off guard. No chatter. No intelligence. No reason to even consider them potential risks. That fact is my key concern.”

  “We were not watching them? These families were not subject to FISA operations?”

  “Correct.” LaRue raised a finger in the air to make a point, knowing the DCI was some sixty-five miles away at Langley. “Forensic results from the secondary car bombs at each target led us to Kazan Limited, a Middle Eastern importer. Most interesting were results from the school assault.”

  “Yes, I read the reports.” The DCI’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “The driver’s family was also held hostage, as were those in the previous attacks. But the men delivering the ground assault were suspected IRGC.”

  LaRue raised a hand even though the motion was moot. “Sir, the IRGC Pāsdārān had taken the identities of refugees already cleared to be in the States. These operations are being run with far more clarity and organization than any ISIS or other group has done since 9/11. I do not believe the IRGC is solely behind this wave of threats.”

  The Director was silent.

  “There is more than we can see here.” LaRue stood and began pacing. “My analysis is too raw and untested. I need more time.”

  “Time? We don’t have much time, LaRue. Have you seen the news? There’s chaos brewing all across the country. Things are getting out of hand. Completely out of control. There aren’t enough police to protect the mosques. The Muslim community is threatening to protect themselves. Do you know what that means?”

  “I do.”

  “Dammit, do we have potential targets yet? Do we know what is next?”

  LaRue hesitated. To reveal too much to the Director might cause a reaction in Washington that might tip their hand. To reveal too little could cause a cataclysm. “Many, sir. Clearly, Washington is always a target of opportunity. There are many soft targets as well—schools, shopping centers, more transportation terminals. But my concern, sir, is for the Baltimore Harbor.”

  A pause. Finally, the DCI said in hushed tones as though concerned someone else might hear, “The Israeli delegation meets with the President at t
he Baltimore Harbor.”

  “Yes, at the National Aquarium, sir. A substantial endowment from the Leviev-Blumenthal Trust is being presented to the facility in two days. It’s a show of goodwill to heal wounds inflicted these past years.”

  The DCI grumbled something and his tone hardened. “Right, of course. Nonetheless, the Joint Chiefs are readying a response. Special Operations are already increasing their footprint in the Gulf. Naval resources are moving.”

  “I understand, Director.”

  “The Attorney General is drafting a plan to round up Middle Eastern refugees for interrogation and a complete reverification of their status. I do not have to tell you that action will effectively set us back seventy-five years.”

  “Internment. Yes, Director. I understand. You must intercede. I need more time.”

  The DCI was silent. When he spoke, his tone was stressed and dark. “The President is prepared to authorize strikes within the week. LaRue, it’s 9/11 all over again. Perhaps worse. We’re going back to war.”

  LaRue said nothing.

  “You have twenty-four hours, LaRue. Get me an answer I can brief the President. If there’s one that keeps us from a war, bring it fast. If not, God help us all.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Day 5: May 19, 1200 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Winchester, Virginia

  VICTORIA DROPPED ME at my hotel where LaRue had my rental car returned. I hopped out and walked around to her window.

  “What now, Victoria?”

  She looked at her watch. “Let’s meet for lunch in an hour. We can talk more then.”

  “Good plan,” I said, “and bring Artie. Maybe the three of us should talk. You know, compare notes.”

  “All right, I’ll call him.” She reached for her cell phone just as it rang. She took the call and her demeanor evaporated instantly into uneasiness.

  “What’s wrong, Victoria?”

  “All right, I’m on my way.” She listened for a few more moments. “Keep a lid on this until I get there. No outsiders. Bureau only.”

  “What, for Christ’s sake?”

  She stuffed her phone into her pocket. “Our safe house outside town was hit an hour ago. Two agents are dead.”