Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  “Shouldn’t we all be getting out of here? Isn’t Eskridge due any minute now?”

  It was Calista’s turn to make a face.

  “He is coming?” Gibson said.

  “Oh, most assuredly, he is on his way. However, I perhaps exaggerated the imminence of his arrival. You and I have a little time yet. There is a matter I wish to discuss.”

  Calista got into the limousine and waited. When Gibson hesitated, she held up a thermos enticingly. He reminded himself that this was exactly how Hansel and Gretel had wound up in an oven. He got in anyway. Cools shut the door behind him. At least it was warm in an oven.

  Calista poured coffee into china cups and handed him one. Beside her sat an enormous willow picnic basket, from which she served him a croissant on a small plate. His stomach growled as he tore off a hunk. It had been more than twelve hours since he’d last eaten. Flakes of pastry tumbled onto his lap, which he swept to the floor. When he glanced up, Calista was staring at him. She let her eyes drift slowly to the carpet, gravely disappointed. Chastened, Gibson took his next bite over the plate. Crumbs exploded everywhere anyway, and he gave up. Who served croissants in a car?

  Throughout, he kept one eye on the laminated sleeve balanced on Calista’s knees. Inside he could see a plain brown interdepartmental envelope tied shut with string looped between two red buttons. Calista opened the envelope. Out slid a thick sheaf of papers. She leafed through them carefully while she sipped her coffee. The faintest of smiles played across her lips. She caught Gibson watching her.

  “Our Mr. Eskridge has been an exceedingly naughty boy,” Calista said, returning the papers to the envelope and the envelope to the laminate sleeve.

  “What was it we stole for you?” Gibson asked.

  “It is in your best interests not to know.”

  “Always good to have you looking out for me,” Gibson said.

  “As you wish,” Calista said, holding out the envelope. “See for yourself.”

  Gibson didn’t take it.

  “Wise boy,” she said. “Mr. Eskridge has gained possession of the identities of certain key contacts inside Israel. Unique resources that our intelligence community has developed over the course of many years. Along with methodology and vulnerabilities—everything an ambitious intelligence service would need to turn the source for itself.”

  Gibson felt himself physically shrink away from the envelope. As if the envelope itself were radioactive. If it was actually what Calista said, then it was beyond dangerous. The value of intelligence depended entirely on being the only one in its possession. If it became common knowledge, then it conferred little advantage. There was nothing the CIA prized more or protected more ruthlessly. The last eighteen months had been proof of exactly that.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Gibson asked.

  “Indeed not. Mr. Eskridge has a buyer in the Middle East who will, in exchange, sponsor Cold Harbor as it transitions its operations entirely to that region of the world. Not the sort of thing one would be wise to transmit electronically, so Mr. Eskridge meant to fly these documents overseas. Paper is still the best firewall in the world.”

  Gibson nodded. It’s what he would have done in Eskridge’s place. Hand-couriering documents might be slow and expensive, but it was immune to a hack.

  “So what’s your angle?” Gibson asked. “Hold it for ransom to him to get him off you?”

  “No, that would offer but a short-term solution. I wish to resolve this troubling relationship once and for all.”

  “So what, then?”

  “I wish to entrust it to your care,” Calista said and held out the laminated sleeve. This time Gibson did take it, as much out of surprise as anything. He turned it over in his hands suspiciously, trying to see the hook inside Calista’s bait. Calista said, “Someone in the CIA must be made aware that they have been compromised, and by whom.”

  “Me? You want me to deliver it?”

  “Well, you do know such an individual. I think perhaps it would be worth something to him,” Calista said, pausing for effect. “Don’t you?”

  It would. Gibson could scarcely wrap his mind around it. Damon Ogden was first and foremost a patriot. He wouldn’t like it, but he would make any deal to keep such information off the open market. This potentially changed everything, and Gibson saw possibilities for his life that he thought had been lost. But coming from Calista Dauplaise, he dared not get his hopes up. It had to be a trick. He had to be standing over a trapdoor where she had maneuvered him.

  “Why would you do this for me? I don’t understand.”

  Calista smiled. “Ah, I understand your confusion. Why would I do you this kindness?”

  “Something like that.”

  “The answer is that I am certainly not doing it for you. I am clearing the way for my son. Tidying up my affairs, which certainly encompasses Mr. Eskridge. However, the scope of my affairs also encompasses George and Jennifer and Daniel. And it encompasses you too. As such, it suits my interests that your present dilemma resolve favorably. I have asked myself what you know that might be traded to the CIA for a more lenient sentence. The fates of Suzanne and Benjamin Lombard come to mind. But the resulting scandal would scuttle my son’s career in politics before it truly begins. However, I think we can agree that the documents now in your hands make a far more compelling bargaining chip than my family’s good name.”

  A knock came on the limousine’s window. Calista lowered it fractionally.

  Cools said, “It’s time, Ms. Dauplaise.”

  She acknowledged him and closed the window. They sat there for a moment in the still of the limousine.

  “As much as I do enjoy our time together, I am afraid that duty calls.” Calista leaned forward. “Do we have an understanding? Will you do this one last service for me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do it. But not for you.”

  “Excellent,” Calista said as if they’d agreed on a restaurant. She knocked on the window, and Cools held open the door. Gibson followed her out. Cools and Sidhu looked uneasy. Both anxious to be gone before Cold Harbor arrived.

  “Gentlemen, your services are no longer required,” Calista said, turning to her men. She handed each an envelope. Confused, the two men opened them and thumbed through a thick stack of bills. “Consider this your severance,” she said.

  “Ma’am?” Cools said. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I do hope your cold improves,” Calista said. “You may keep the SUV. The title has been transferred to your name, Mr. Cools. My limousine will remain here. As will Mr. Vaughn.”

  Cools and Sidhu glanced at Gibson and then at each other. They came to a silent conclusion. Without another word, they hustled to the SUV and drove away. When they were out of sight, Calista handed Gibson a key.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “The key to your automobile. I had it delivered in the expectation that we would reach an accord. You will find it in a small lot beyond the fence behind these hangars. Eskridge will not look there so long as you wait until he departs.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I must see that Mr. Eskridge is greeted properly. He and I have much to discuss.”

  “He’ll kill you.”

  “I am touched by your concern,” Calista said, pulling her fur coat tight around her. “But I have the situation under control.”

  “If you say so,” he said, meaning it to sound dismissive, but he had no doubt that she did. She’d orchestrated everything exactly to her liking. He’d have admired her if she wasn’t so damned contemptible.

  “I do say so,” she said and held out a hand. He shook it. The first time that he had ever touched her. She was shivering, or trembling. It was impossible to say which.

  “One last thing,” Calista said. “There is a laptop in the passenger seat of your vehicle. Show the recording on it to your prisoner along with the documents in the sleeve. I believe it will paint a rather damning picture of dear Mr. Eskridge.”

  “A r
ecording of what?”

  “You will see. But now it’s time for you to go.”

  Gibson lingered a moment longer. It seemed there should be more to say to this woman who had loomed so large over his life. Who had brought so much suffering to so many. The thought that she might pull this off, and that he’d helped her to do it . . . Tidy her affairs, as she called it, and simply retire from the world so that her son might be king—it sickened him. But what could he say to her that would make a difference, to her or to him? He’d wasted too much of his life on dreams of revenge that, in the end, always proved hollow. Allowed those dreams to consume him.

  That ended now.

  Calista was right.

  It was time to go.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Duke leaned against the SUV, waiting on Gibson. Gone was the charcoal suit, replaced by chinos and a polo shirt as if it were a summer’s day at Pamsrest. Gibson braced for whatever would come next. Another diatribe about how ashamed Duke was to call him son.

  But to his surprise, his father looked up and smiled. A gentle and kind smile. One Gibson knew well. A smile straight from his childhood. The one that said, It’s just you and me, kid, against all comers. The one that promised a late-night milkshake at the nearest diner. Gibson couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it, but he knew how much he’d missed it.

  “Don’t know that we have time for a milkshake,” his father said with a wink.

  “Probably not. Rain check, then?”

  “You betcha. Now let’s get you in where it’s warm.”

  Gibson unlocked his car and got behind the steering wheel. His breath immediately fogged the windshield, and he started the engine so he could run the heater. In the backseat was the duffel bag of clothes that Gibson had left at the Reston house to be destroyed. On top of it was his passport and an envelope with a credit card in his name. “In case of emergencies,” read a yellow sticky.

  In the passenger seat sat Calista’s laptop, connected to a large external battery. He peeled off another yellow sticky from the touchpad: “Click record.” Suspicious, he tapped the spacebar, and the screen blinked to life. He saw a video feed from the runway. A split screen showing two different angles of the rear of the C-130 and the limousine. Calista had had the area wired for video and sound. What was she up to?

  Gibson started recording the scene and put on the headphones connected to the laptop. At first, all he could hear was the wind. Then the back door of the limousine opened, and Calista stepped out. She stood defiantly in the cold, holding her china cup and saucer. Gibson heard the rumble of approaching vehicles. Calista turned to greet the two panel vans that roared into frame and slammed to a halt.

  Cold Harbor mercenaries leapt from the backs of both vans. Unlike their brethren at Dulles, these men were armed for war. A pair disappeared up the ramp and into the aircraft. Two more cleared the limousine, checking the front and back. The remaining men fanned out to secure the nearby hangar. None paid Calista any attention as she stood stoically sipping her coffee.

  Titus Stonewall Eskridge Jr. clambered out of the passenger seat like a man buried beneath the bodies of his enemies. His photographs did not do him justice. Well into his fifties, he carried himself with the arrogant bravado of a twenty-two-year-old athlete. The scar that ran down his jawline pulled the corner of his mouth into a permanent scowl. Gibson doubted he’d ever been a handsome man, but he could see the blunt-hewn charisma that would inspire awe in a certain kind of man. The gun Eskridge held in his right hand looked anxious for a target.

  “You are too late for coffee, I am afraid,” Calista said.

  In answer, Eskridge cracked her across the face with the butt of his gun. She went down hard. Her china coffee cup shattered, but Calista Dauplaise didn’t make a sound. She worked herself back to a sitting position, found her hat, and repositioned it atop her head. It wasn’t the reaction Titus had expected. He stood over her, unsure of himself. Clearly not a familiar or comfortable feeling.

  “You always did lack imagination, Titus,” she said and glanced toward the flight manual, which still lay on the tarmac, bleeding pages. “It’s one of your more charming qualities.”

  Eskridge followed her eyes and let out an inchoate roar. He snatched up the binder and paged through it furiously, flinging it away when he’d confirmed what he already feared.

  “Get up.”

  “I do wish you’d make up your mind,” Calista said, rising shakily to her feet. She was hurt worse than she let on, and Gibson could hear the pain in her voice.

  “Do you have it?” Eskridge demanded.

  Calista gave him a disappointed look that Gibson knew well. “Of course not. It is far, far from here now.”

  “You’ve been working with that bitch Charles.”

  “I always was. How has it taken you so long to catch up?”

  “And?” he said. “What do you think you’ve accomplished? You don’t think I have another copy?”

  “In fact, I am counting on it.”

  “Bullshit,” Eskridge snarled. “If that’s true, why are you still here?”

  “So that you would know it was me, and so that I might see firsthand.”

  “See what?”

  Calista drew herself up to her full height. “You run.”

  Gibson didn’t doubt that Calista thought she had the situation under control. She had a plan. She always had a plan, but for the life of him he couldn’t see it. This wasn’t like her. Sticking around to gloat. Eskridge wasn’t the kind of man you goaded. If she kept on this way, she really would get herself killed.

  And, like that, Gibson understood her plan.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because the CIA takes a rather dim view of treason, Titus.”

  “To hell with Israel,” Eskridge said. “Those sons of bitches have it coming.”

  “Be sure to mention that in your interrogation. Everything you stole is on its way to Langley, along with your particulars. I expect you will be a most popular fellow in a few short hours. The belle of the ball, as it were. If I were you, I would—”

  She never finished that sentence. Eskridge’s right arm flashed up, and Calista crumpled to the tarmac alongside the flight manual. Her hat rolled away again, but this time she didn’t sit up and she didn’t reach for it. The gunshot echoed across the airfield. For a moment, Eskridge stood rooted to the spot, as did his men. Then he holstered his gun and began shouting orders to refuel the C-130.

  “What are you looking at?” he bellowed. “I want to be wheels up in thirty!”

  One of his men moved toward Calista, and Eskridge snapped at him to leave her where she lay. Then he stood there and admired his handiwork with the sneer of a man whose temper had gotten the better of him. Slowly, his chin dropped to his chest, and he ran a calloused hand down his face as if someone had spat on it.

  Gibson took off the headphones and turned off the SUV’s engine, suddenly paranoid that it might be heard from the runway. He sat in silence, watching Cold Harbor bring up a fuel truck, unsure how he felt about what he’d witnessed. How should he feel? Calista didn’t deserve better, but she deserved something else. He didn’t know what that might be, though, so this would have to do.

  Calista had never struck him as the suicidal type, but this clearly had been her plan all along. She had fallen prey to the same ruthless calculus behind all her decisions. Everything she did, she did for her family’s legacy. Anyone who threatened it or stood in its way paid a terrible price: Duke Vaughn, Suzanne Lombard, Michael Rilling, George Abe, Benjamin Lombard. She’d had her own sister murdered. And those were just the ones Gibson knew of. Nothing and no one was immune. Not even Calista Dauplaise herself.

  How long had it taken her to reach the conclusion that she herself had become a threat? To admit that she would always be a scandal away from toppling her son? That if she died, at least, the threat died with her? It would have made perfect sense in her mind. He doubted that she had questioned it for e
ven a moment.

  And he’d be damned if it hadn’t worked. Her affairs were now in order. She had settled up with those who would settle, mortally wounded those who would not. Eskridge would soon be branded a traitor and a murderer. And somehow, Calista had managed to die a martyr and a patriot. That was quite some trick.

  Gibson didn’t dare restart the engine until he saw the C-130 rise above the trees. While he waited, he changed out of his Tyner Aviation uniform and into something less conspicuous. Then he powered up his cell phone, which had been off since before Dulles. He hadn’t had any calls or texts, but his phone vibrated to let him know he had an e-mail. It was from Nicole and had arrived last night. There was no message, but attached was a photograph of Ellie.

  His daughter stood on a grassy field in a dirty soccer uniform. In her hands, she held a trophy of a girl kicking a ball. She smiled, but something had caught her eye, and she looked past the camera. Perhaps a group of girls calling her to join them? Gibson wiped away a tear. He couldn’t believe how she’d shot up in the last eighteen months. She was all legs and would be tall like her mother. His daughter.

  His eye flicked up at the image of Calista lying on the runway, alone beside her limousine. One of her legs was twisted under her at a cartoonish angle. Gibson shut the phone rather than look back at Ellie. He didn’t want to associate the two images in his mind. Besides, he still had one errand left to run for Calista.

  And hopefully for him as well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The radio that morning was dominated by stories of a brazen midnight attack at Dulles International Airport by armed assailants. As he drove, Gibson skipped around the dial listening to the various accounts. No one could agree on a motive. There were conflicting reports coming out of Hangar Six as to whether anyone had been killed. He listened to two commentators argue about whether it qualified as a terrorist attack. The number, race, and gender of the attackers varied from station to station. Although whether that was genuine confusion or intentional misdirection by the FBI, Gibson didn’t know. But it was only a matter of time before they put it together if they hadn’t already.