by Ty Patterson
A week after the Russians’ box, they saw Broker approaching them as they were cleaning their weapons. Broker was wearing a beatific expression, almost floating in the air.
‘St. Peters called you and confirmed a seat in heaven for you?’ Bwana asked him sarcastically.
‘Better,’ Broker replied, the barb not even registering.
‘They got Floyd Wheat.
‘Dead,’ he added.
Chapter 43
‘Dead?’ Bear asked stupidly.
‘Yeah, you heard me right the first time. Cops found his body floating in the river, a hole in his head and a large part of his face missing, but enough to make him by his dentures and prints. Forzini told me they’d been keeping an eye on him, but he gave them the slip a couple of days back. Looks like he was summoned?’
‘You think…?’
‘Damn right I do, and thank God for that. One of us should, don’t ya think?’
Chloe rolled her eyes and took up the cudgel. ‘The gang did it? That would be confirming that he was their mole, wouldn’t it?’
‘That was sorta the point.’ Broker leant back expansively, crossed his hands over his middle, and closed his eyes, a contented man.
Bwana and Roger looked at each other, thinking of their next camping trip. Bear caught their glance and laughed. ‘Not so fast, guys. We still have unfinished business here. The family needs to be resettled, and then you guys can head for the hills. Broker, how’re Rolando and Isakson doing? Plumb forgot about them.’
‘Isakson’s discharged and is up and about. I need to see him and wrap this up. Rolando is making a good recovery, still in the hospital, though. He’ll be disappointed that this was over before he got back to the job.’
‘We never figured out why Wheat turned traitor, did we?’ Chloe mused.
Bear patted her arm. ‘Let Isakson do some of the heavy lifting. They asked us to find their mole; we did that–’
‘I’ve been thinking about that for some time,’ Broker cut in. ‘Traitors do their dirty work because of ideology, money, or because of coercion. I think we can rule out ideology in Wheat’s case. Going by all the records Isakson has, the psych evaluations, he was a believer in law, hated gangs. Coercion – he didn’t have anyone close to him to be coerced. Divorced, no kids, a mother, but he wasn’t close to her, no other siblings. I guess money was involved, but we haven’t been able to find any traces of money in his account. Of course, he could’ve been stacking wads of it in some hidey hole, in which case we’ll never know. Cash is a bitch to track.’
‘Or maybe he did it because he could. Got a kick out of it,’ Bwana said.
Broker shrugged. ‘That’s the most difficult spy to unearth. The one who spies just because it gives him a trip. In any case, this is Isakson’s shit to clean now.’
He rose and grumped at them, ‘While you all enjoy the sun, I’ve got to bed things down with Pieter and Derek. We’ll take over the family now and move back to my apartment.’
‘What if Wheat wasn’t acting alone?’ Chloe called out.
‘Isakson’s problem. We were tasked with finding one mole; we gave them the bastard. If the whole danged FBI is infested, we can’t do much,’ Broker said over his shoulder.
Dupont Circle was throbbing with traffic and tourists, bright sun bathing the wide, clean streets. Broker grimaced. They must have cleaned up just because I was coming. It was hard, very hard to accept, but grudgingly he had to admit the city was cleaner than NYC. ‘Of course, it’s the capital; it would have to be clean,’ he muttered to himself, drawing a curious look from a passerby. In New York, he would’ve shown the finger; over here, he smiled forcedly.
General Klouse was waiting for him, lounging outside the café, his security detail hanging around nervously, not comfortable with the National Security Advisor’s presence in an open location. Broker grinned at their discomfort, recognizing a fellow maverick in the General.
He’d been to meet Director Murphy, who’d been relieved that their problem had been resolved, but also grimly determined to ensure his agency remained clean. He’d offered Broker a very senior position in the agency, to work with his intelligence people, an offer Broker had politely declined. He’d said he was too much of a nonconformist to fit into a rigid structure, smiling to take the sting out of his words. The Director had nodded in acceptance, expecting just such a response.
‘No luck with the drones, sir,’ Broker told him once he’d updated the General. The General would’ve been briefed by Director Murphy, but Broker felt obligated to bring him up to speed, since it was the National Security Advisor that had started the ball rolling.
‘Chatter has gone silent for some time, in any case.’ The NSA gave him his thousand-yard stare and smiled grimly at his companion. ‘This isn’t a business where we can relax, is it?’
Broker kept quiet, knowing no answer was required.
‘I have told Clare we might need your help from time to time. Will that be a problem?’
‘No, sir. If Clare is good, we’re good too.’ He paused. ‘I don’t work alone. I’ve a team.’
‘Yeah, I heard about them. They the ones who tore up New York, right?’ The General laughed for the first time. ‘Commissioner Murphy was impressed… other than a few damaged vehicles and some angry media, you guys succeeded in cutting a gang in half.’
‘Our advantage is we work in the shadows; we have fewer constraints,’ Broker said modestly.
‘You’ve made up with Isakson? He’s an upcoming star, and a lot of eyes are on him.’
Broker didn’t hide his distaste. ‘I’m seeing him later today; he’s in town. I’m sure he’s a good agent, sir, but it’s unlikely we’ll be on each other’s Christmas card lists. We’re too different. Director Murphy now… he’s as good as family.’
Broker made his way back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and held himself back from jaywalking, reminding himself that this was a different town. They did things differently here. The ugly structure gladdened him; they didn’t have such monstrosities in his city.
Isakson’s warm smile belied his hollow and gaunt appearance, the shape of the dressings beneath his crisp white shirt visible.
‘How does it feel coming back from the dead, Deputy Director?’ Broker greeted him.
Isakson smiled wryly. ‘I was in no danger of dying… Deputy Commissioner Rolando – now he’s a fighter. I hear he’s doing well. Been to see him?’
Rolando had been Broker’s first stop once Wheat’s body had been found. The cop had gripped his hand firmly and whispered, ‘Looks like it was all worth it, Joe. The Commissioner was telling me all I had to do was lie here longer and you guys would clean up the city.’
Broker squeezed his hand, remembering a time in Mogadishu when Rolando and he, both attached to the Rangers, were jammed behind an abandoned car, exchanging fire with insurgents. It was during that tour that Zeb had saved his life. Rolando and Zeb were the only two who knew his real name.
Broker looked around Isakson’s bare office, similar to the one in New York except for another print of the conquest of Mount Everest, this time Edmund Hillary atop it. ‘You’ve got this at home too? You into climbing?’
‘It’s the conquest that interests me. Besides, that date and year have a significance for me.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘Wheat – the Director and Commissioner briefed me about your findings; we’ll now rip his life apart and see what drove him to this. We owe you.’ He gripped Broker’s hand again.
‘Mrs. Rocka and the kids?’ he asked.
‘They’re back at my apartment. My guys are with them. How’re things progressing with rebuilding their new lives?’
‘I’ll meet them and brief them in person on how this works, and then the Marshals will step in and take over,’ he replied. Witness Protection was run by the US Marshals Service, and the FBI had no role to play in building new lives. ‘You’ll let them know I’ll be coming?’
Broker nodded, and after another hour of discussions, he caug
ht an evening flight back out of Reagan Airport.
It was when he was passing a bookstore at JFK, that a book cover caught his attention – a drawing of Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, the most successful sniper in the Vietnam War.
Broker knew the story of Hathcock, the most famous Marine Corps sniper who broke just about every shooting record when he was in the Corps and won the Wimbledon Cup, the US Long Range High Power Championship.
Hathcock had 93 confirmed, witnessed kills in Vietnam, but he himself believed he had taken out upward of 300 enemy personnel.
Broker stopped and stared at the cover as it dug something deep in his mind and brought up images of marksmen, shooting distances, targets, and positions and close-range shooting. That thing in his mind that made connections between random events and discovered logic and reason and purpose, brought up numbers, and suddenly everything fell in place.
He remained oblivious of his surroundings for long seconds, the curses of passengers behind him lost in the air. He started jogging, then sprinting, and reached the exit and searched for a cab, all the while trying various numbers on his sat phone and finally got through one.
‘Tony,’ he shouted, ‘get–’
A black van wheeled in front of him, its doors swung open, and Broker bitterly realized he was outwitted when he saw muzzles pointed at him.
The gunmen, masked and silent, snatched his phone, thumbed it off, and drove him to his apartment block. They whipped off their masks when they reached it and prodded him to the entrance, past his security code at the main entrance, up the passkey-coded elevator, and up to his floor.
He didn’t recognize any of them, but recognized the build and their moves – they were the gang’s best hitters, experienced mercenaries who’d joined the gang. He stood in front of his apartment door, ferociously thinking of ways out, hoping beyond hope that the one factor he was counting on turned out right, when a blow to his head from behind brought him to his knees. He was grabbed by his shirt and pulled upwards, his vision darkening, and a gun jabbed in his ribs. The message was clear, he had to disarm the security on his door and enter it.
A split second of hesitation and he was hit again, harder, almost losing consciousness, and pulled up again, the gun ramming harder in him. With shaky fingers, he entered the code, swiped his finger, and looked in the eye scanner, and the door swung open.
He was flung inside, stumbling, and when he looked up, despair flooded him.
The four of them were there in front of him, all bunched close together, several heavies behind them. Bwana and Roger had gone out, and he’d been hoping against hope that they hadn’t returned yet and would be the rescue team. He saw Bwana shrug in resignation at his glance, and both Roger and Bwana fell as rifle butts hit them.
Another hood brought Broker to his knees with a rifle. Dimly, he heard a voice yelling at them, ‘Don’t fucking move a muscle.’
He coughed, a ribbon of blood spooling from his lips, sagged back as he was pulled up, and jerked once as cold water was poured over his face. He retched drily, wiped his face with his shirt, and breathed deeply, sight returning to him slowly. Bwana was still on his knees, though the hitters had stopped raining kicks and blows on him, his breathing loud and harsh in the silence of the room.
There were six hitters behind the four; Rocka and the kids were to the right of them. Lisa and Shawn were in shock, their eyes wide and blank, mercifully not comprehending the events before them. Beyond them, Broker saw the lighted skyline of the city through the darkened glass wall of his apartment.
There was one hitter with his gun aimed at the family, two behind Broker, nine heavies in all. Bwana, Roger, Chloe and Bear were not tied or restrained in any way, but were bunched so close together that any aggressive action was impossible.
Soft footsteps sounded, and a huge man glided into view, wearing a sports jacket over a tight T-shirt and jeans, his litheness of movement belying his size, a panther on the prowl, his hawk eyes inspecting the scene before him, a thin smile breaking on his lips when they lighted on Broker.
‘Broker, I presume,’ he said in a cultured voice. Scheafer, born and battle-hardened in Kosovo, had acquired a cultured accent and had slowed down the pace of his delivery. Murderer, rapist, thug, killer, and torturer, he might be, but who said refined speech didn’t go along with that job.
‘You’ve decimated half my gang. What I built in five years reduced to a fraction in less than a year,’ he said, a savage expression crossing his face. ‘It all ends today, though.’
‘Maybe not for all of you,’ he said, glancing at Chloe. ‘This little one, now, I just might keep. That other one’ – he nodded in Elaine Rocka’s direction – ‘is too old. No use for her.’
She looked at him steadily, her voice clear and firm. ‘On the farm we used to put down rabid dogs and foxes. Your mother should’ve put you down at birth.’ She fell heavily as he stepped to her and slapped her savagely.
‘Bitch. In Kosovo, women knew their place. Fucking and children. That’s all their purpose was. In your country, you’ve been given too much freedom.’ He glared at her for a moment and turned back to Broker.
‘Why’re you here? Any of your thugs could’ve killed us,’ Broker asked him, asking him anything to buy time. He didn’t have a plan, they didn’t have a plan, but every minute they bought gave them an opportunity to think of one.
‘I brought him,’ a new voice replied, and a figure stepped into view behind Scheafer, a hand on his shoulder.
A figure they knew very well.
Chapter 44
Deputy Director Isakson.
His professional façade was replaced by an air of contempt as he surveyed them all, his eyes flicking over all of them before swinging back to Broker.
Broker realized how it must’ve gone down. Isakson’s presence at the apartment would have lowered the alertness of Bear and Chloe, with the Fed probably presenting Scheafer as a Marshal to them. Scheafer’s men would’ve swiftly entered the apartment, overpowering them, and when Bwana and Roger entered, they would’ve been felled by the concealed heavies.
‘You don’t seem very surprised to see me,’ Isakson sneered at him. ‘Your guys, on the other hand… I think they’re still not believing it.’
Roger and Bear turned their burning eyes on him, underlining his comment.
Broker answered him slowly. ‘For a traitor, you did everything right, better than Hanssen. You probably wouldn’t have been made.’ He fought the urge to launch himself at Isakson and ram his smirk down his throat.
‘I was at the airport, and it was a book cover that made the connection for me. I realized Hamm’s gunman at the hotel couldn’t have missed you, shouldn’t have missed your heart or head. You were a couple of steps ahead of Rolando, closer to the gunman and just ten feet away from him. At that range, those shots weren’t a lucky accident, not when Rolando’s shots were more lethal.’
Isakson was silent, and after a pause Broker continued. ‘The bullets went where they were intended to – your shoulder, injuring you, but not fatally. Rolando, on the other hand, got lucky. When I met him at the hospital, he said he’d stumbled just at the moment your gunman shot him – that saved him. Of course, then, I didn’t attach any significance to his words.
‘Then the poster and print of Mount Everest in your two offices – you had some fascination for that conquest. But it wasn’t just that, was it? Everest was conquered in nineteen fifty-three, a year divisible by nine. The four digits added are divisible by nine. Twenty-ninth of May. Two, nine and five. Their product is divisible by nine. There are so many links to the number nine in that date that they should’ve jumped out and slapped me in the face the first day I met you.’
Broker grinned at Isakson through his split lips as he saw the FBI man’s face tighten.
‘Shattner’s journal had one more page that we didn’t share with you, since we didn’t trust the FBI or the cops. That page referred to the “nine” the gang used to access messages. Y
ou probably made that code on the spot as you leant back in your office and your gaze fell on the date.’
He grinned wider when Isakson didn’t respond, his silence acknowledging Broker’s deduction.
‘Why? You’re the second most powerful man in the FBI? Why, you bastard?’ Roger asked him, and if eyes could set fire, Isakson would’ve been ashes.
Isakson laughed. ‘That’s the most common question heard in law enforcement. You overrated assholes, I became the second most powerful man in the FBI just because of this.’ He gazed scathingly at Roger.
‘I came across Scheafer many years back, before he started the gang, during a drug raid. He was hiding in the garage, and I was the only agent to see him. We had a few words, and his proposal intrigued me enough that I let him go. I figured I had nothing to lose, and truth to say, I had already contemplated this idea. I didn’t really think he would get in touch again, but he did, and from there, my career took off. I “busted” some deals of his, and in return I made sure we looked the other way when he wanted me to. It worked for both of us.’
He smiled arrogantly. ‘You stupid fools, we played you all along. Wheat was meant to be found. He was a crooked agent, turned by Hamm, but the way we set up our drops with him, he was our decoy, and you guys fell into that trap. You’ll find the floorboards of his home and car stuffed with cash. His Laundromat was where he collected the gang’s cash. It was so simple that no one got it. Go in with dirty laundry, come out with clean laundry wrapped around his payment.’
‘If that’s the case, why this? Wheat is dead. There was no need for you to out yourself to us,’ Broker asked as he edged closer to the two thugs behind him. Closer reduced the chances of gun use.
Scheafer snapped, ‘We couldn’t risk that you hadn’t stop digging. I’ve never underestimated my enemies. That’s why I’m alive, they’re dead.’ He glared at Isakson. ‘Enough of this show and tell.’
