Collateral Damage

by Stuart Woods

  “The Agency recruits from all over the place,” Holly replied. She was being careful; she didn’t often have conversations about her work with civilians, and this woman was a journalist and the subject of an investigation she herself had initiated.

  “Do you enjoy the work?”

  “It’s very gratifying, when things go well. When they don’t, less so.”

  “How did you and Stone meet?”

  “We first met when I was still working in Florida. Some years ago.”

  “Are you staying with Stone while you’re here?”

  “I have an apartment in the city,” Holly replied, offering half a lie. “How about you? Do you and Jim live together?”

  Kelli didn’t blink. “Yes, we do.”

  “Uptown or down?”

  “Downtown. Jim has a loft, and I’m lucky having a man who is a brilliant designer. You must come down for dinner one night soon.”

  “That would be very nice,” Holly said, though she had a very, very good idea what the apartment looked like.

  “I hear today from an acquaintance at the FBI that they’re looking for a woman in connection with the bombing.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” Holly said.

  “Who is she?”

  Now Holly had to decide whether to toss a grenade into the conversation. It didn’t take her long. “Her name is Jasmine Shazaz. Does that ring a bell?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “She is the sister of a man named Ari Shazaz. How about that name?”

  “No, I’ve never heard it.”

  “Perhaps you knew him as McCallister. He was in L.A., too.”

  That stopped Kelli in her tracks. “Ah, yes,” she managed to say.

  “He and his brother were killed while trying to escape the country after the L.A. incident.”

  “So Jasmine is out for revenge?”

  “That appears to be the case. She has been connected to two recent bombings in London—one that killed the British foreign minister, the other at the American Embassy.”

  “Of course, I knew about that,” Kelli said.

  “But you didn’t know the backstory?”

  “No, I didn’t. May I write about this?”

  “Yes, if you refer to me as a confidential source.”

  “Are there other people I can talk to?”

  “You can try the police commissioner and the head of the New York office of the FBI, but I don’t know how much they’ll have to say.”

  “Why haven’t I seen anything about Jasmine Shazaz in the papers or on TV?”

  “That would be a good question for the commissioner and the FBI,” Holly replied, “but don’t tell them you talked to me.”

  “I’m a magazine writer, not a daily journalist,” Kelli said. “I’d need a lot more than this to get a piece into, say, Vanity Fair.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t a lot more I can tell you. You can also try the British Foreign Office and New Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.”

  “They’re not going to tell me much either, are they?” Kelli asked.

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps you should hold your piece until there is a successful conclusion to the case. I’m sure a lot of people would be more interested in talking at that time.”

  “Would you be?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m sure you know that we don’t operate domestically.”

  The waiter returned, and they placed their orders. Kelli did not return to the subject of Jasmine.

  Back at Stone’s house Holly took her laptop into her dressing room, logged onto the Agency mainframe, and accessed the surveillance at James Rutledge’s apartment. She got the two just as they came through the front door.

  “Well, that was fun,” Jim was saying. “You seemed to enjoy Holly Barker’s company.”

  “It wasn’t the first time we met,” Kelli replied, hanging her coat in the hall closet.

  “That’s right, you met in L.A.”

  “Only in passing.”

  “You’ve met her since?”

  “Yes. She and I had a rather scary conversation.”

  “About what?”

  They moved into the bedroom, but Holly still caught the audio.

  “About something she doesn’t want me to talk about.”

  “We’re back to that, are we? You know something I don’t know. All right, if you don’t want to tell me, don’t, but please stop bringing it up.”

  “I didn’t bring it up, you did,” she said, unzipping her dress and stepping out of it.

  “No, you … Oh, never mind.”

  They got undressed in silence and got into bed. There was enough light in the room for the high-definition cameras to register their images. Jim made a move for a breast, kissing her on a nipple. Kelli responded, and soon they were at it.

  Holly used the interval to get undressed herself, then she went back to the computer. The two were lying in bed, breathing hard, spent.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” Kelli said. She rolled over and put her lips close to his ear.

  This Holly couldn’t hear.

  “You’re shitting me,” Jim said.

  “I shit you not.”

  “Christ, no wonder the CIA doesn’t want that out. Do you think the cameras we had taken out were put there by the Agency?”

  “I did at first, but now I think it might be somebody at a rival publication, a tabloid called The Instigator. They’ve done this before—tapped phones, et cetera.”

  “Why would they try to listen in on us?”

  “Because they’re out to subvert Vanity Fair, and they desperately want to know what the magazine is going to publish. They have a shorter lead time, and if they find out what other writers and I are writing for VF, they can get something in their rag first.”

  “Do you think they tried to run you down, too?”

  “No, I’m beginning to think that was just an accident.”

  “You mean, you’re admitting I’m right?” he asked, laughing.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, buster,” Kelli said.

  They got quiet, and Holly switched off her computer and went into the bedroom, naked as usual.

  “What were you doing in there for so long?” Stone asked.

  “Girl stuff,” Holly replied, climbing into bed. “You want to talk, or you want to fuck?”

  Stone switched off the light.

  —

  Later, when they were lying in each other’s arms, half asleep, Stone said, “You and Kelli Keane were kind of into it tonight. What was that about?”

  “Like any good journalist, she was pumping me for information about the explosion at our station.”

  “Did you tell her anything?”

  “Actually, I did—just enough to get her calling the police commissioner and the FBI. Maybe that will get their asses in gear.”

  “Getting their asses in gear would be a major achievement,” Stone said.

  “Tell me about it. This job is more fun when I don’t have to deal with people outside the Agency. I haven’t really learned yet how to push the buttons of people like the commissioner and the AIC at the Bureau.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing pretty well, getting Kelli in on the action. She can be a bulldog.”

  “Are you worried about her book coming out?”

  “I’m a little anxious,” Stone admitted. “Not because there’ll be anything terrible in it, but because a lot of people will read it, and I’ll get a lot of calls, and so will Peter. It will probably haunt me for years to come.”

  “Are you worried about what Peter will think?”

  “Not so much. There’s a lot he doesn’t know, and some of it will be in Kelli’s book, saving me from having to tell him about it.”

  “I’m lucky I didn’t have kids,” Holly said. “I’d be in the position of having them ask about what I do all the time.”

  “And eventually, they’d find out.”

  “Maybe more than I’d want them to know.”
/>   Holly slipped into sleep on Stone’s shoulder, and Stone followed shortly.

  Holly was working at her desk when a security guard rapped on her door. “You ordered a sandwich delivery?” He held up a paper bag.

  “Yes, thanks. What do I owe you?”

  He looked at the receipt stapled to the bag. “Twelve-fifty. I gave him fifteen.”

  Holly got the money from her handbag and handed it to him. “Thanks for not making me look like a cheapskate.”

  He waved and went back to his post in the downstairs lobby, where he was one of four these days, two of them posing as people waiting to see people upstairs.

  Holly unwrapped the sandwich and set it on her desk, then opened the can of diet soda that had come with it. She was extremely hungry and was about to bite into it when she heard a muffled explosion from the direction of the avenue. The reinforced walls and armored triple glazing in her building kept out nearly all noise; something she could hear at all would have to be big.

  Holly went to the window and looked outside. Down the block a few doors and at street level she could see the facade of a building blown away and twisted cars in the street, lying in disarray. A few people were picking themselves up from the rubble, and they were all bloody.

  Holly picked up the phone and pressed the paging button. “Security, this is Assistant Director Barker: call nine-one-one, ask for every available policeman and ambulance. Everybody who’s armed, on the street, but stay away from the site of the explosion. Whoever did this is in a car or a cab nearby. Look for a woman in the rear seat. Compare to the flyer on the downstairs reception desk. Move!”

  She slung her bag on her shoulder and ran down the hallway, skipped the elevator, and ran down the stairs. The four security men in the reception room were looking out the small window in the door. “One of you man the phones, the rest of you follow me!” she yelled at them. She stuck her hand in her bag, held her hand on her pistol, and stepped into the street, looking both ways. “You and you,” she yelled to two of them, “go down the block that way. You,” she said to the other one, “follow me.”

  Holly ran up the block in the street, her hand still in her bag, looking into every vehicle as she went. At the next corner she looked both ways, then ran across the street and into a subway station, waving for her man to follow her.

  She leaped the stile and headed down the escalator, holding one position and looking at every person ahead of her.

  There, she thought, standing on the platform, back to her, waiting for the train.

  “That one,” she said to her man, pointing. “Approach with caution, but fast. Police!” she yelled, parting the people ahead of her on the escalator and pushing past them, the gun out now. As she hit the bottom, she flicked off the safety with her thumb; one round already in the chamber. Her man moved up beside her. The train came rumbling into the station, the air brakes hissing as it stopped. The crowd on the platform surged forward onto the car, blocking her way.

  She was nearly to the car when the doors closed. Swearing under her breath, she ran alongside the car as it began to move. A woman sat down on the other side of the car, facing her. Jasmine. Holly brought up the weapon, but a wall was coming at her as the train went into the tunnel, and she had to stop.

  She dug into her bag and came up with her cell phone, pressed a button.

  “NYPD. Commissioner’s office,” a male voice said.

  “Emergency! This is Assistant Director Holly Barker of the CIA. Give me the commissioner now!”

  The commissioner came on the line five seconds later. “Holly?”

  “Explosion across the street from our building—a restaurant, I think. I’ve already called it in. One of my men and I pursued Jasmine into a subway station on Lex. She’s headed downtown. Have them stop the trains.”

  “It’s already being done—part of our protocol.”

  The lights went off in the station, and Holly heard brakes hissing from down the tunnel. “Have them detain every unaccompanied woman who comes close to Jasmine’s description,” she said, then broke the connection and dug into her bag for the small but powerful lithium-powered flashlight she carried everywhere. She turned to the man behind her. “Come on!” She turned on the flashlight, jumped onto the tracks, and started running, the man close on her heels.

  “What’s your name?” she shouted back at him.

  “Troy.”

  “You’ve seen the flyer with the woman’s photograph?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’re going into the last car on the train and work our way forward. She will resist, and she may have an explosive or a gun. Take no chances, be prepared to kill her.”

  “I’m with you!”

  Holly could see the train fifty yards ahead, now. The emergency lighting had come on in the cars, and they were dimly lit. She reached the rear car, got a foot on a step, and grabbed the door handle. Locked. She banged on the glass with the butt of her gun, and someone looked at her from inside. A man came and opened the door.

  “Police!” she yelled. “Stand back!” Her man climbed in behind her, and she started moving down the packed car, the flashlight playing on each face. Nothing in the first car. She moved into the next car and searched it thoroughly, then moved on to another car. This one was very crowded, and as she opened the door, she saw a side door open ahead of her. “Police!” she kept yelling. “Everybody down!” People hit the floor in a hurry, and she could see the open door. She leaped over the prostrate people and jumped out the door, looking both ways.

  Troy jumped down beside her. “I saw somebody run past the car on the tracks, headed back uptown. I couldn’t tell if it was a woman.”

  “That way, then!” Holly yelled, and started to run back the way she had come. She checked between each car as she passed, then shone her small beam down the tracks. A shape was moving away from her. She ran after it.

  Ahead another sixty yards or so she saw someone trying to climb onto the platform, and a couple of men were helping her. Holly sprinted toward the spot. “Troy!” she yelled. “Give me a leg up!” He did and she hit the platform on her knees and got to her feet. “Police!” she yelled at the crowd. “Which way did she go?”

  Half a dozen people pointed toward the escalator. “Come on, Troy, the power is off. We’ll gain on her!” She elbowed her way through the crowd, shouting at them to get out of her way, and as she did, the station lights came on.

  “Shit!” she yelled, and kept on, making her way toward the escalator, now operating. She ran up the moving steps, yelling at people, moving as fast as she could in the crowd. The station level was only a few yards ahead. She broke free of the crowd at the top of the escalator and ran toward the exit. She couldn’t see anyone who looked like Jasmine.

  She got through the exit stile and ran toward the street, the daylight welcoming her. Then she was on the sidewalk, looking both ways. Traffic was at a halt. She leaped onto the hood of a taxi and climbed on top, giving her a good view in both directions.

  Troy joined her, saying nothing, just looking.

  “Anything?” Holly asked.

  “Nothing,” Troy replied.

  Holly let out a lungful of air. “That’s what I see, too,” she said.

  The cabdriver got out of his cab. “Hey!” he yelled. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Tap dancing on your roof,” Holly replied.

  Holly went through the building, checking who was out. “A lot of us had lunch at that place two or three times a week,” a secretary told her. Holly made a list of names of people not in the building. Finally, she went down and called the director.

  “Holly, I’ve been waiting for your call. I was told you were in pursuit.”

  “I was, with a security guard named Troy, and we came close. She was on the subway, but she made it back onto the tracks and to the station while we were dealing with knots of passengers. She disappeared on Lexington Avenue.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Don’
t know yet,” Holly replied. “Fourteen people are not in the office, plus one who called in sick. The restaurant that was bombed was popular with our people, so we’re looking at losses. I haven’t heard the news reports, but I don’t see how anybody inside the place could survive that explosion. We’re going to have to keep everybody in the building for their whole shifts until we get Jasmine and her bunch.”

  “Issue that order soonest,” Kate replied. “Call me back when you have a body count. I want names.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Holly hung up, wrung out from her massive expenditure of adrenaline. She closed the door and locked it, then flopped onto the sofa and was quickly asleep.

  —

  She was awakened later by someone hammering on her door, and she struggled to her feet and opened it. A woman she recognized as an analyst was standing there, holding a sheet of paper.

  “What time is it?” Holly asked.

  “Five minutes to four,” the woman replied, handing her the sheet. “This is a list of everybody who didn’t come back from lunch.”

  “Sorry, I was out,” Holly said, taking the list.

  “I understand.”

  Holly looked at the list. “They should all be back?”

  “Yes. We’ve got one out sick, the rest are all accounted for.”

  “Spread the word: nobody goes out for lunch during a shift. If the food in the cafeteria isn’t good enough, I’ll do something about it.”

  “I’ll do that,” the woman said, “and we could use a proper chef, instead of the dietitian. People say the food is a cross between prison and school dining hall.”

  “Come on in,” Holly said. She sat down at her computer and typed for a moment, then sent it to the printer and got a couple of dozen copies. “Hand these around, and put one on every bulletin board,” she said. “I’ll do something about the food.”

  The woman took the memo and left. Holly called the director.

  “Yes, Holly?”

  “Looks like six of our people died—three secretaries, two analysts, and a computer tech. I’ll e-mail you the names, but I don’t think you should release them to anyone, including families, until we have identity confirmation from the coroner’s office.”

  “All right. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Authorize the hiring of a chef. Everybody hates the food in the cafeteria.”