Farooq worked in silence for a few minutes, then hit the Enter key with a flourish. “I’ve set it on a loop. It’ll request a transfer of fifty grand from every company, and once it’s done that it’ll start again. Let’s see . . . okay, three of them requested further verification . . . make that four.” He watched the screen as the results came in, and it didn’t take long for the program to finish running its first iteration. “Okay, seventeen refused the request, but we managed to net $4.6 million. It’s going back to try them all again.”
“And you’re sure it can’t be traced?” Colback asked.
“Not a chance. I set up a string of bank accounts all around the world, with instructions to forward the money as soon as it arrives. The money passes through half a dozen countries that have no disclosure agreement with the United States and then on to Eva’s bank.”
“How are we doing now?” she asked a few minutes later.
“One sec . . . almost done . . . $50.3 million. They’ve all refused further withdrawals, so that’s all we’re gonna get.”
“It’s enough for now. Rees, get some sleep. I need Farooq to dig up what he can on Holmes. I’m sure he’s the connection we’ve been looking for.”
CHAPTER 20
“I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with D.”
“Knock it off, Burke. They’ll be here any minute.”
Danny Castleton couldn’t believe he’d been teamed up with Paul Burke. Of all the men in the unit, he’d got the one with the immature sense of humor, and Burke’s shtick had begun grating on his nerves.
“Lighten up, Cass.”
“Who the fuck shortens Castleton to Cass? Cass is a fucking girl’s name.”
“Jeez, someone hasn’t gotten laid in a while.”
Castleton felt the Glock nestled in his shoulder holster. The temptation to whip it out and shoot his companion between the eyes was almost too much to resist.
“Hey! That’s gotta be him.”
Castleton looked to where Burke was pointing and saw the large figure pull up outside Naser’s house on a moped.
“Nest, this is Eagle Four. We have eyes on Colback. No sign of Driscoll.”
“Copy. Do not move in until you see her.”
“Roger that.”
Burke was suddenly all business. “She’s not gonna show,” he said. “I bet you a hundred bucks she’s waiting for Colback to take Farooq to her.”
“Of course she is, you moron.”
Both men watched as Colback got off the bike and carried the pizzas to the house. He rang the bell. After a few moments, he moved to a window and peered in, then shook his head and took out his cell phone.
“He’s got to be calling her,” Castleton said. “Let Nest know. They might be able to intercept the call.”
Before Burke could get on the radio, Colback put the pizza boxes on the porch and returned to his bike.
“Too late. We’ll have to follow him.”
Castleton waited until the moped had rounded the corner, then fired up the engine and set off in pursuit.
The lack of late-night traffic on the road made it difficult to get close to the subject. Castleton was forced to hang back and let the rider open up a lead while Burke kept West updated. “We’re heading north on South Main Street, just crossed the railway tracks. We’re a hundred yards behind the motorcycle.”
A burst of static preceded West’s reply. “Stay on him. Other units are closing in. ETA . . . twenty minutes.”
They followed the bike through the center of town. Colback seemed to be in no particular hurry, sticking to the speed limit and even obeying stop signs at this hour.
A few minutes later, they found themselves in a residential area off Carroll Street. The bike passed several one-story buildings before pulling up next to one of the white dwellings.
Castleton stopped the car and killed the lights. He and Burke watched the suspect walk into the house and turn the light on in the living area.
“She must be in there,” Burke said. “I say we go in.”
“No, we wait for backup.”
“You’re such a pussy. There’s two of them and two of us.”
Castleton ignored him and got on the radio. “Nest, Eagle Four. We followed the suspect to an address north of town. He’s inside the house. We suspect Driscoll’s in there too.”
He gave West the address, then waited for instructions.
“One of you go around the back in case they try to leave, but do not enter the house until the other teams arrive. Is that understood?”
“Copy.”
“I’ll cover the rear,” Burke said, getting out of the car before Castleton could object.
There were no fences marking out the plots, so Burke was able to walk between two houses and make his way to the back of the building. He’d been out of sight for just a few seconds when West came on the radio.
“Did you get a good visual on Colback?” the boss asked Castleton.
“No, not up close, but who else could it be?”
“The registered owner of that property is one Orlando Simmons. African-American, age twenty-six, weighs 220. Sound like the guy you saw?”
“Affirmative,” Castleton replied, not liking where the conversation was going.
“He works as a delivery driver at a pizza joint. Get in there and get a confirmed visual—now!”
Castleton sent acknowledgment and sprang out of the car. He raced to the front of the house, drawing his weapon as he ran. At the front door, he radioed Burke and told him to go in hard on the count of three.
Castleton took a deep breath, then kicked in the door and rushed into the room, his weapon searching for a target. Simmons was on the couch holding a bag of potato chips while a movie played on the TV mounted on the opposite wall. The deliveryman dropped the bag and raised his hands. “Hey, man, I ain’t got nothing worth stealing. There’s just a few bucks in my wallet over there on the table. Take it.”
Castleton was joined by Burke, who had come through the kitchen door.
“It’s not him,” Castleton said. He’d studied Colback’s picture enough times that day to know he was looking at the wrong man.
“Why were you delivering pizza to the place on Fowler?” Burke asked.
“It’s my job. I deliver pizza.”
“Yeah, but who requested it?”
“Some girl called Sue. Paid the boss in advance and said to deliver it for a party, only no one was there. I just left the pizzas and came home. Is that what this is about? The pizza?”
“What did Sue look like?”
“Kinda hot, if you know what I mean. Small, tight body, about twenty-eight.”
Castleton dug out his phone and flicked to the photo gallery. He handed it to Simmons. “Is this her?”
“Yeah, that’s her. The hair’s different, but the same sweet face.”
Castleton holstered his Glock and took his phone back, then indicated for Burke to follow him outside.
With weapons no longer on show, the pizza guy seemed to gain confidence. “Who are you guys, anyway?” he asked as he stood, puffing out his chest. “And who’s gonna pay for my door?”
Castleton pulled a money clip from his pocket and peeled off a couple of hundred-dollar bills. He put the cash on a small table by the door on his way out.
Unsurprisingly, Driscoll had set them up. All Castleton could do now was call it in.
“Nest,” he said into his radio once clear of Simmons’s house, “Eagle Four. No sign of Colback or Driscoll. My guess is that Naser’s plan was to join Driscoll, not avoid her. They’ve got over an hour’s head start.”
Having followed instructions to the letter, he couldn’t be blamed for the fuck-up. At least, that’s what he hoped. The wait for a reply was almost unbearable.
“Get back to Naser’s house and turn the place over. We need some clue as to where they’re going.”
Castleton acknowledged the order and got behind the wheel of the car. He was sure it would do
no good, but after the pizza fiasco, it was best to just do as he was told.
At least there would be free pizza while they worked.
CHAPTER 21
Carl Huff’s laptop was already logged into the Homeland Security network via a socket they’d opened for him. Using his phone as a Wi-Fi hotspot, he brought up the satellite image of Naser’s home, a simple row house on a residential street devoid of any character.
With one eye on the road as he drove, he used two fingers to expand the view on the laptop’s touchscreen. Two streets from the target house, he saw a figure on a bicycle heading into town.
Where are you going, Farooq?
Naser’s story about fleeing to avoid bloodshed might have fooled West, but Huff knew Eva Driscoll all too well. She wouldn’t try anything as amateurish as posing as a pizza delivery person. Walking into traps was not one of the observed protocols in their business.
Red taillights loomed in front of him, and Huff overtook the slower vehicle before returning his attention to the laptop screen. Naser was now on the main street that bisected the town, and Huff watched him pull into a gas station before disappearing under the canopy that sheltered customers from rain and snow.
Is this where you’re meeting her?
Huff made the decision to pull off the highway onto the shoulder and concentrate on Naser’s movements. It was a toss-up between missing Naser leaving the station and getting into the area before Driscoll had a chance to leave. His priority was knowing her exit plan. Once she met Naser, she wasn’t going to hang around.
Cars flashed past his window as he concentrated on the laptop. Traffic on the screen was sparse, and no one seemed to need gas at such a late hour.
After what seemed an age, Huff saw the glow of headlights illuminate the image on his screen. They came from a car parked on the opposite side of the road from the gas station, around a hundred yards down the street. He hadn’t seen anyone approach the vehicle, so the occupants must have been inside all along.
Waiting for someone.
Naser.
Huff watched the car pull out and drive quickly up to the gas station. It passed under the canopy and emerged a few seconds later, joining the light traffic heading north.
It looked like she’d stopped just long enough to pick up Naser, but he had to be sure. It took a minute to tap into the street camera network, and he had to wind the coverage back a couple of minutes. Soon enough, a Chevy Impala filled the screen, and he could see a woman behind the wheel with an African-American male in the front passenger seat.
The recording wasn’t of sufficient quality to zoom in for a positive ID, but it was too much of a coincidence not to be Driscoll.
Huff entered the vehicle’s plate number into the nationwide alert database, requesting a notification every time the car was spotted by traffic cameras on the network.
He could now follow at his leisure and pounce at the optimum moment.
Huff started the car and rejoined the highway, sticking to the speed limit. A few miles down the road, his laptop beeped to inform him that Driscoll was now heading west on US-22. He checked the map for a course to intercept her.
Anton West would be pissed that he hadn’t shared his discovery with the team, but Huff didn’t care. They’d soon realize that Farooq had double-crossed them, by which time Huff would be on Driscoll’s tail while everyone else chased shadows. The less time spent dealing with West and his amateurs, the better. He was happy to accept any information they cared to feed him, but it was a one-way street. Carl Huff worked alone. End of story.
The next update showed the target car on I-70, approaching Columbus. Huff’s only concern was that with three people in the car, Driscoll and her cohorts could keep moving all night as they took turns driving, while he would have to stop and sleep at some point. All he could do was pray that Colback or Naser demanded a comfortable bed; otherwise they’d eventually open a big lead on him.
It was half past midnight when West phoned him to say that Farooq had disappeared, presumed to be with Driscoll and Colback.
“Keep your men in the area,” Huff said. “I’ll head west to check out her known associates out there.”
“I’d prefer it if you remained in the area to help close the net.”
“Sure,” Huff replied. “What’s she driving?”
“Unknown.”
“And her last known heading?”
“We’re working on that,” West said.
“Which means you have no idea, and as they’ve got a good head start, my guess is that they’ve put New Lexington far behind them. I’m going to Fresno. I’ll contact you once I get there.”
He ended the call before West could argue, now more astounded than amused by the DHS man’s incompetence. Only an idiot would have failed to put a tail on Naser.
By three in the morning, after many more updates from the traffic cameras, it was obvious Driscoll wasn’t stopping. He’d closed to within fifty miles of them, but fatigue was hammering at the door.
A road sign gave him an idea. It was showing the turnoff for Dayton International, and he decided to kill some time at the airport hotel and see where Driscoll was when he woke up. She wouldn’t be more than a few hours away by plane, and he could even overfly her position and lie in wait for her.
Five minutes later, Huff was being admired by the young woman behind the hotel’s reception desk. Normally he would have flirted and perhaps even had a little fun, but business came first. He took his key and found his room, which was functional at best. After plugging his laptop in to charge, he took a quick shower and settled naked on the bed.
The laptop was still running, and the latest report was that Driscoll was still driving west. Huff closed his eyes and pictured her as she’d looked a decade earlier, until sleep came and robbed him of the vision.
CHAPTER 22
The black limousine pulled up outside the Calico Club just off Park Avenue in Washington, D.C. The driver got out to open the door for the sole passenger and offered his hand, but the old man in the back seat waved him off.
Henry Langton gingerly climbed out. He straightened his cashmere Burberry overcoat and adjusted his fedora, then made his way slowly to the front door of America’s most exclusive private club. The attendant had the door open before he’d left the vehicle, and he closed it just as quickly behind the great-grandson of the club’s founding member.
The Calico Club was more than 170 years old and its decor had changed little in that time. The original oak panels still lined the walls, although the carpets and furniture had been replaced over the years.
For the last sixty years, it had been the meeting place of the ESO.
Langton handed an attendant his hat, coat, and scarf. “I’ll take breakfast in thirty minutes.”
The man responded with a simple bow of the head, and Langton continued down the wide corridor lined with portraits of former members, his great-grandfather Isaiah among them.
The Langtons were old money—a line of bankers that few people had even heard of before the advent of the Internet. These days, the name was synonymous with extreme wealth and secrecy. The mainstream press portrayed them as philanthropists, and as long as Langton controlled the major newspapers and networks, that would continue.
For more than a century, the Langton dynasty had owned most of the central banks of the world, including the US Federal Reserve. The family’s net worth was estimated by some to be a shade over a trillion dollars, a figure that always made Henry Langton laugh. Their true wealth was beyond the comprehension of most people, and he went to great pains to ensure the exact amount remained a closely guarded secret. That was one of the reasons the Langtons never made the Forbes list, even though their capital reserves were enough to match that of the largest governments in the world.
The alternative press did its best to warn people about the Langton empire, but to no real effect. When their allegations were quoted in mainstream media interviews, the rumors were said to be baseless
lies. On the odd occasion when someone got hold of information that could prove Langton’s involvement in unpatriotic behavior, the matter was dealt with swiftly and permanently.
Those irksome websites aside, Langton had the population of the United States exactly where he wanted it. Decades of dumbing down the education system had produced a couple of generations largely incapable of free thought. They believed what they were told because that’s all they knew growing up. Listen, repeat, accept as true. When the news outlets spun a story the way Langton wanted it to be told, few people doubted the veracity. Those that did were blasted as conspiracy theorists, ironically labeled too dumb to know the truth when they heard it.
Even the three most popular social media sites were pawns of Langton and his associates in the ESO. They’d recognized the potential at an early stage and had invested heavily in making them yet another tool in the misinformation game.
Langton reached the room at the end of the hallway. He opened the door and walked in, glad to see everyone else was already in attendance. Judging by the smoky atmosphere, they’d been there for some time, all keenly aware that he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Gentlemen,” he said, as he took his seat at the head of the ornate oak table, “what’s the latest on Colback?”
The six other men in the room looked at Langton as he lit a cigarette and exhaled his own contribution to the haze in the room. Smoking laws were for normal folk, not the men who ran the country.
“The latest update said he’d managed to evade our men in Ohio. He and Driscoll met up with one Farooq Naser, a former IT specialist with the CIA.”
The man who had delivered the report was Langton’s eldest son Edward. At forty-six, he was the youngest in the room by fifteen years, and next in line for the unofficial throne. His status and bloodline did not prevent him from receiving his father’s ire.
“How the hell did they slip through the net? I thought West had this all covered.”
“He’s working with limited resources,” Edward said. “And it’s a big country. We need to throw more people at the problem.”
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