The Devil's Game (The Game Trilogy Book 2)

by Sean Chercover

  “He may be right. I mean, we’re talking about immensely wealthy people doing things in secret. They’re plutocrats, they have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. But looking at what Conrad Winter is aiming to do, I’ll give my guys the benefit of the doubt for the time being.”

  Kara said, “Why would Conrad Winter want to infect an American city? He’s got the bacteria, he could just quietly infect people in Liberia or some other place off the radar without drawing attention to himself.”

  “Good question, and I can see two reasons. The first is simply a numbers thing. Let’s say you want to build, for want of a better term, an army of prophets, say, five hundred strong. With five hundred Tim Trinitys, each spewing information about the future, the hidden past, or otherwise unknown current events, you could grow incredibly powerful. You’d have so much exclusive information that you could completely control the financial markets, international banking, the flow of political power . . . nobody could match your power. Remember, Tim Trinity almost destroyed the status quo in the most powerful nation on earth, and he was just one man. Now let’s say this strain of the plague triggers AIT in one percent of those infected—could be as high as two, but let’s work with one. To get an army of five hundred Trinitys, you’d have to infect fifty thousand people. Even in Liberia, you can’t give fifty thousand people the plague and not be noticed, and you’d be stopped before you could get it done, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So you have to stage it as an outbreak, all at once.”

  Kara said, “Okay, but why do it in America?”

  Daniel said, “That’s the other reason. The thing is, with these people there’s always more than one game at play. AIT is just one game, and the most important one, but Conrad will find a way to play it that supports their other aims.”

  “Which are?”

  Daniel didn’t know how to answer that without getting into issues better left alone. “Conrad’s group always had more influence with authoritarian regimes than democracies, and they’ve been pushing the West steadily toward greater government authority for years. But after the Snowden leaks, Americans started to push back. Conrad knows another terrorist attack on American soil would put an end to that pushback. And if it’s a bioweapon? The public won’t just accept the surveillance state, they’ll demand it. I think that’s Conrad’s plan.”

  “Sounds pretty extreme,” said Kara.

  “So does building a machine that beams voices into people’s heads. But Michael Dillman built one just the same. And now he works for Conrad.” He sipped some wine. “These are not nice people, Kara, and they do not think small.”

  They fell into silence, Kara’s head on his chest, his arm around her shoulder, the muted sound of the jet engines filling the cabin as they finished their wine.

  If not now, when?

  Daniel touched the side of her jaw and gently tilted her face up.

  A long, lingering kiss that grew into something else entirely.

  “So.” She brushed her lips against his. “What do we do now?”

  “We’ve got eight hours and a flying bedroom in back,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  Kara kissed him again, harder.

  Afterward, they slept for a few blissful hours.

  Daniel woke as turbulence jostled the plane. He sat up, put his hand on the bed as the plane again rocked a bit. He could hear rain against the fuselage, but no thunder. He got up from the bed and stood naked, looking out through a porthole window. They were passing through a large raincloud, the entire world a gray fog, water streaking sideways across the window.

  “Hey good looking,” said Kara.

  He turned to face her. “How’re you feelin’?”

  “Amazing.” She smiled. “If a little sore. That was . . . intense.”

  It had been. Daniel could still feel the lines her nails had carved in his back. He returned to the bed and kissed her. “I mean, about everything. What we talked about before. You know, you can still get off this ride. We’re playing against dangerous people. If you want out—”

  Kara silenced him with a kiss. “Thanks, no. I’m in and I’m staying in. For six years the whole world told me I was crazy, and as certain as I was, there was also a small part of me that wondered if they were right. Now I know I’m not crazy. And you know, even if drinking too much kept the voices down, it wasn’t really helping me cope, emotionally. Right now, I feel pretty strong.”

  “Okay.”

  She pushed herself up, sitting with her back against the leather headboard. “I had another dream. It didn’t seem like anything, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It was one of those flying dreams, you know the ones. I was just flying through rain with my arms outstretched, but for some reason I didn’t get wet and I didn’t see any clouds. It was like a rain of fine, dark mist on a cloudless day, and I was flying right through the mist. When I woke up, I saw the rain outside so I figured it was nothing. But then I realized I could still taste cinnamon.”

  43: CHAIN OF COMMAND

  DHS Headquarters—Washington, DC

  Don’t get comfortable, boss.” Janet passed Evan Sage a coffee mug before he could even get his jacket off. “P-DUS wants you in his office right away. And from the sound of Helen’s voice, you might want to wear Kevlar.” She stuck a file folder in his other hand.

  P-DUS was Greg Rundle, principal deputy undersecretary for Intelligence and Analysis. Apparently he’d not enjoyed the memo Evan sent before leaving Monrovia.

  Evan sipped some coffee. “Figured as much. Helen texted me to come straight in from the airport. I’ll need a printout of the memo—”

  “It’s in the folder, on top, followed by your previous e-mails on the case in reverse chronology.”

  “Thanks, Janet. You’re the best.”

  Greg Rundle’s office was two floors up. Evan had managed to sleep only four hours on the flight, so he took the stairs two at a time to work up a little energy.

  Didn’t help much.

  He opened the door and stepped into the outer office.

  Helen raised her eyebrows at him. “Go right in.” It sounded like a warning.

  Greg Rundle stood behind the glass desk at the far end of his large office. A tall blond woman stood beside him, her back turned, reading a paper she held in her hand.

  Evan closed the door and she turned to face him as he crossed the office.

  Shelly Henniger.

  Shit . . .

  Henniger was CIA—Evan had worked with her twice before. Both times, she’d snatched the case away from DHS just before the win, and the Company took the credit. She was very good. And very ambitious.

  “Sir. Shelly.”

  Henniger said, “Lovely to see you again, Evan.” The accompanying smile was pure aspartame. She gestured to the printout she’d been reading. “You’ve been busy. Running in all the wrong directions, I’m sorry to say.”

  Evan ignored her and addressed his boss instead. “Sir, I ran a check on flights out of Monrovia and tracked Dillman’s PMCs. I believe the target is in or near Columbia, South Carolina.” He held Rundle’s gaze. “And I believe an attack is imminent.”

  “Colonel Michael Dillman is one of the most respected men at DIA.”

  “Yes, sir. And I believe he’s gone rogue. This plague first showed in blood work that came from a soldier serving directly under Colonel Dillman. The contractors working that facility in Liberia are all connected to Dillman—”

  “I’ve read your reports, don’t waste our time.”

  Not my time, our time. The clear implication being that Shelly Henniger’s time, like Rundle’s, was of more value than Evan’s.

  Henniger said, “You don’t actually know anything, do you? You don’t know that this plague was created as a bioweapon, you don’t know wh
at the facility in Liberia even was—for God’s sake, the country’s scrambling with an Ebola outbreak that could go pandemic across the region at any minute. Maybe they were testing a vaccine—or maybe it’s a legit DIA black op—you don’t even have a credible lead on who Colonel Dillman is supposedly in bed with.”

  “I had a lead,” said Evan, “until I was ordered to let him walk out the door.”

  Henniger smiled again. “Yes, waterboarding. Very unlike you, Evan. Honestly, I think you’ve lost your perspective.”

  “Look, if Daniel Byrne is one of ours—”

  Rundle said, “Daniel Byrne is a business consultant. End of story.”

  “But—”

  “End of story,” Rundle repeated. “I need you investigating actual bad guys who actually mean to do this country harm. To that end, I’m lending you to Langley for a week. There’s been increased chatter out of Yemen and you’ve had experience there in the last year.”

  “Yemen?” Evan didn’t even try to moderate his tone.

  Henniger said, “An Islamist group called the Brightest Dawn—”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “New al-Qaida affiliate. Chatter suggests they’ve developed a bioweapon of their own.”

  “Is everyone at Langley high? The al-Qaida allies in Yemen are a bunch of kids with Kalashnikovs and suicide vests. They have neither the funding nor the expertise to even attempt a bioweapon.”

  “So maybe somebody gave them one. And maybe you can help us find out who.” Henniger picked up her briefcase and shook Greg Rundle’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’ll try to return him in one piece.”

  Rundle was decidedly not amused. “I’m doing you a favor, young lady. You play nice, or I’ll take my man back early.”

  “Of course. We’re grateful for Homeland’s help.”

  She turned on her heel and strode out of Rundle’s office, but couldn’t resist rubbing it in, winking at Evan as she passed. “See you tomorrow, my place.”

  After the door closed, Rundle said, “Evan, I appreciate the fact that you’re an unorthodox thinker, that’s part of your value to DHS—we need more people who think like you. But Shelly may be right. There’s a fine line between ‘unorthodox thinker’ and ‘paranoid wing nut’ and you seem to be flirting with it. A week at Langley won’t kill you and you might actually catch a bad guy. Go over your Yemen files and report to CIA at o-nine-hundred tomorrow. But feel free to slap her down if she keeps on with the snark. I’ll have your back on that. If she wants your help, she treats you with due respect. And try to get some rest—you look like hell.”

  The subject was firmly closed, but Evan had to pry it open again.

  “Sir, I’m telling you, we are on the verge of a major bioterror attack on American soil. Never had a stronger gut instinct in my life—and no, the facts I’ve uncovered so far don’t prove it, but they sure as hell support it. Even Shelly knows a bioterror attack on American soil is far beyond the current capabilities of Yemeni Islamists. These are American PMCs, all connected to Dillman.” He opened his file folder. “And I do still have one lead: Daniel Byrne told me Dillman is working with—”

  “Let me put this simply.” Rundle snatched the file folder from Evan’s hand, dumped it in the wastebasket. He leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the desk. “Conrad Winter does not exist for you. Period. You are to stand down on this investigation. Even if I wanted to let you run with it, I couldn’t.”

  The world’s axis shifted, and a knot formed in Evan Sage’s gut as he incorporated this new information . . . this new reality.

  Shelly Henniger hadn’t lobbied Rundle to shut down Evan’s investigation at all. It wasn’t even Rundle’s decision. It had come down to Rundle from higher on the food chain. Much higher.

  He said, “Who is this Conrad Winter that he’s so untouchable?”

  Rundle shook his head. “I wasn’t invited to ask. And neither are you.” He dismissed Evan with a nod toward the door.

  Evan crossed the office and stopped, looking at the doorknob but not reaching for it. He knew he should just walk out the door . . .

  He spun around. “A plague is gonna hit Columbia!”

  Greg Rundle said nothing, just stared him down.

  “And you and I will both live with the fact that we could’ve done something, but didn’t.”

  Greg Rundle said, “Close the door behind you.”

  Evan stormed down the stairs all the way to the lobby, thinking, Maybe that bastard can live with it . . .

  By the time he got outside, he’d made his decision. He lit a cigarette and texted his secretary:

  Catching a cab to Dulles.

  Book me next flight to Columbia, SC.

  44: JACOB’S LADDER

  Columbia, South Carolina

  10:00 a.m.

  Daniel and Kara sat parked across from a two-story red brick apartment building on Gervais Street. Gerald had texted the address while Daniel was renting the car at the airport. As James Bragg, Colonel Michael Dillman had a six-month lease on apartment 205.

  The rear passenger-side door opened and Pat ducked back into the car.

  “Look like nobody home but can’t be certain, interior doors are closed.” Pat unzipped his duffel bag, pulled out a hefty black Para-Ordnance .45, and holstered it under his Windbreaker. It was already seventy-five degrees outside, heading for a high of eighty-six, not a cloud in the sky. So a little warm for a Windbreaker, but Pat insisted on carrying the canon whenever possible. He reached into the bag again, handed Daniel a compact stainless Sig Sauer P232.

  Daniel tucked the pistol behind his belt in the small of his back. He looked at Kara and said, “Ballcap.”

  Kara was wearing jeans and a red-and-black USC Gamecocks football jersey. She now added a matching ballcap, tucking her hair behind her ears. Pat handed her a pair of glasses with tortoise frames and plain lenses. She put them on, then reached down by her feet and picked up the small white cardboard box with a courier logo on it.

  “Ready,” she said.

  Pat reached for the door handle. “We go carefully. I’ll take the fire escape in back, you guys go up the front like civilized people.”

  As they crossed the street, Daniel stuck the car keys in Kara’s hand. “Like before, stay behind me. Anything goes wrong, you take off, don’t wait for us. Call the number I gave you, ask for Raoul, and tell him what went down.”

  Kara squeezed his hand. “Just don’t let anything go wrong.”

  Pat said, “Knock in five minutes. Starting in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  Daniel started the chronograph on his watch and Pat jogged away, disappearing behind the apartment building.

  A young man in running gear walked his dog along the other side of the street, past the rental car. Another man—middle-aged, suit, tie, leather briefcase—walked in the opposite direction on this side.

  Both men, if they glanced at the building, saw Daniel and Kara walking hand in hand, slowly up the path. Just a happy couple on their way to visit a friend. The closer man might have heard Daniel say something about Georgian architecture while pointing at the decorative molding above the front entrance.

  The men kept walking, leaving the block empty for the moment.

  At the front door Daniel reached into his back pocket, handed Kara a folded street map of Columbia. “Gimme a screen.” She unfolded the map and held it open just above waist level and started musing aloud about the local attractions they might visit after lunch.

  Daniel examined the lock and bet himself he could pick it in a minute-thirty. There was also an electronic combination keypad of no better than average quality. The landlord had gone cheap with the hardware, he’d probably also gone cheap with the installer. And half-assed locksmiths often forgot to erase the factory code while adding the combination supplied by the landlord.

  Daniel p
ressed 0-0-0-0-#.

  The door buzzed open.

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing no one along the way.

  The second floor hallway was equally empty.

  Daniel took his position beside the door of apartment 205. He counted down the final thirty seconds on his watch, then nodded to Kara. She held the box in front of her, knocked on the door.

  Silence.

  She knocked again. “Delivery for a Mister Bragg. Gamecock Couriers.”

  Silence.

  After a minute passed with no sound from inside, Daniel stepped forward and checked the locks. The deadbolt was better than the lock downstairs. Might take three or four minutes. He kneeled, put his pistol on the floor, concealed it with his right foot, then pulled out his lockpicks and went to work.

  Without warning, the deadbolt clicked open from the inside and the door swung wide. Daniel dropped the picks and scooped up his gun and raised—

  “Don’t shoot, broheim.” Pat grinned down at him from inside the apartment.

  “Jesus,” said Daniel. “Give a guy a heart attack.”

  Pat shrugged. “Got bored waitin’. He’s not home, c’mon in.”

  The place looked like one of those long-term executive rentals, everything high quality, everything generic, safe, the framed prints on the wall selected for their pleasant blandness, no risk of offending anyone’s taste. That is, beyond the small minority offended by pleasant blandness.

  Daniel headed for the bedroom, checking closets and drawers. All empty. Nothing under the mattress, either.

  “Doesn’t look like anybody lives here,” said Kara as he returned to the living room. “The fridge is completely empty, cupboards bare.”

  “But look.” Daniel pointed through the open wall into the kitchen. “There’s a bowl and a glass in the drying rack.” He crossed to the kitchen. There was also a single spoon in the rack, like someone had had cereal and juice for breakfast. But nothing in the fridge, and no cereal box to be seen.