"My team or my government employers might have the technology to work around that, I’ll need to make a call." I excused myself.
I called Martin and described the situation. He said we could try, but depending on how complex that telephone re-routing system was, we might need to get help from Dermot Clenaghan's Research & Execution team, as they had better technology. He conferenced Dermot in and we agreed on a plan.
"Good," I said to Ivanov. "My team will be ready in quarter of an hour. You'll call Morgenthal, and we'll intercept the signal."
We had another glass of whiskey and after I got a call from Martin that everything was set up, Ivanov dialed Morgenthal's number."
"Ron, it's me."
"What's the story?"
"There's a lot of publicity around you these days. They don't know it’s you yet and hopefully it’ll remain that way, as I'd rather not be associated with your antics."
"Don't worry, it's nearly over."
"Be careful, I don't want any fuck-ups."
"No need to worry."
"One more thing. This guy Michael Greystone asked about you once or twice. If I'm right, he’s been commissioned by some government agency to track you down. Do you know anything about it?"
"I know, he’s harmless."
"Better be careful and don't underestimate him. As I said, I don't want any trouble."
"There'll be no trouble," Morgenthal responded.
After a few moments Martin called me to confirm they’d traced the cellphone. I gave Ivanov a thumbs-up sign so that he could finish the call.
"Good, so no trouble and be careful. This is friendly advice, but also a warning, watch your back," Ivanov finished the call.
"Right, they managed to trace him," I said.
"I'm impressed, nice to hear the government’s spending money wisely to acquire technology like that," Ivanov said.
"You wouldn't believe what they spend money on."
"Another reason I'm glad my business is not really taxable, if you know what I mean," he laughed.
"Thanks for that, this time I'll finally get him."
"Good luck, and thanks for disposing of that creep Harker, my would-be son-in -aw. I'm glad that sick fuck is dead."
"And your daughter seems to be coming to terms with the loss of her boyfriend without any major problems. The grieving process will be short, I'd say," I laughed.
"I noticed that too, I'm really happy that she took it so lightly. Thanks for that again."
"No problem, looking forward to doing business with you in the future."
"Sure."
We had another glass of whiskey and I left. When I was passing by the living quarters, I saw the household staff wiping drool from all the surfaces in the house. The medicinal dose of whiskey was working, and Anna Fyodorovna was surely cured by now. The dog was wandering around in the vicinity of the kitchen, surely mindful of the unfinished steak that had been prematurely taken away from him at the request of his mistress.
One of Ivanov's goons had to drive me in my car back to the office, as I’d had quite a few glasses of spirits, so it wouldn't be fit to drive, even though Dermot would fix it if I was caught. Another of Ivanov's entourage followed to take the driver back.
42.
BACK IN MY office, I went straight to Martin's cubicle.
"What's the location?" I asked.
"Cleveland," Martin answered.
"Was it difficult to trace?"
"It was, we don't have the technology, too sophisticated. But Dermot contacted his 'parent company', NSA, and they have the best toys in the world. They have to, since they monitor all calls worldwide, including the ones to Santa."
"Cleveland you say, not far from Pittsburgh, where Lauren Wimbledon lives."
"Yeah, convenient for him."
"What's the plan?"
"We checked the house. Not much documentation remains. The house is not officially owned by Morgenthal, but in the name of some obscure company registered in Nevada, which in turn is owned by a Trust set up in the Caymans. That's probably why we couldn't find Morgenthal before, he cleverly avoided his name popping up on any records. It was originally built many years ago, but a few years back it was redesigned by an architect called James Whitefield. There are no records of any architectural changes having been made. Morgenthal was clever. Worst of all, Whitefield died in a house fire just after he redesigned Morgenthal's house. I'm not sure the death was a coincidence. So we have no way of checking what's in the house, any panic room or whatever."
"From what I understand, this guy is a security freak."
"True, which is not good. We couldn't get too much info on his house’s security features. He’s registered with a minor local home security agency, but when we contacted them they told us he has just a basic package with them, because of the extensive custom-built internally-monitored security features. They didn't have any details about that. We couldn't find anything."
"So what's the plan?"
"Now, that his whereabouts is known to us, we can ask Dermot to get us a few guys from the FBI, from the Special Weapons And Tactics team. A helicopter drop, a lightning-fast strike, no doubt they'll be able handle him."
"Sounds like a good plan."
"Nora will fly with you, to hook up to Morgenthal's computer once it's all over, or to help with IT side of his house's security, if need be."
"Fine." Nora Lewis was a young, brilliant computer scientist – a member of our geek squad.
"You'd better go home and get some sleep."
"I'll have a nap on a couch here in the office."
"Your choice, I'll ask Zara to bring you a blanket."
"Thanks. She's still here?"
"Yeah, I kept a few of the guys in the office in case we had to act immediately. But I'll let them go now, since we're not going to do anything until tomorrow."
"And call Dermot to arrange the SWAT team."
"Sure, will do."
"And ask Zara to get me a glass of whiskey to finish off the day in style."
"I'll gladly have some myself, I'll get a bottle."
We sat for another hour in the meeting room on a couch and talked life and business. I'd known Martin for a long time, and he’d become a sort of a friend, if you can ever call your employee a friend. But he was efficient and loyal, so I paid him well, and we got on very well.
When Martin left for the day, I wrapped myself in a blanket that Zara brought in and dozed off. I had some nightmares. I saw the whole SWAT team massacred by Morgenthal, single-handedly, while he was reading a newspaper and having a donut. But eventually I fell into a deep, soothing sleep.
Early next morning I woke up refreshed, or as refreshed as you can be after a few glasses of whiskey, going to sleep late, sleeping on a sofa, having nightmares, and waking up early. But I felt fairly refreshed, ready for action.
A quick shower, scrambled eggs, an espresso, and then another espresso.
A phone call to Martin.
"Martin, all set?"
"All set, special agent Lorna O'Grady is running the show. It's nearly eight now. Your jet leaves at ten-thirty. Dermot is sponsoring your flight, he's quite agitated now with the prospect of closing the Morgenthal saga. Agent O'Grady and a few other agents accompanying her will be on the plane with you."
"That's the reason it's free," I said scornfully. "Dermot’s flying his guys anyway, so it costs him nothing to take me along."
"True."
"I'd better get going now."
"One more thing, agent O'Grady is one of the best. She used to be in front-line SWAT, but proved to be super-smart and better suited to analytical and strategic work, not direct combat."
"Nice."
"Dermot told me the real reason she was moved is her boobs."
"What?"
"She's apparently very sexy, but her boobs they say are ginormous. It was said the weight of her breasts made participation in direct combat slightly clumsy. She was still super-fast and agile, and so on, but
according to their assessment criteria, milliseconds count wherever SWAT are deployed. If you have to duck, swerve or dodge, those extra pounds on the chest make a considerable difference."
"Poor girl. Hopefully she's happy in her new role?"
"Who knows, I hope she is. Dermot said not to stare at her boobs for too long, no more than fifteen seconds. Otherwise she considers it not flattering, but offensive, and reminds her about why she was moved from an operational team to the upper ranks."
"Sure, I won't stare at them for longer than quarter of a minute."
"Good."
"Talk to you later," I finished the call.
A Lear 60 was waiting on the tarmac. The FBI agents were just boarding the plane. The SWAT team was to assemble in Cleveland from the neighboring Pittsburgh and Detroit bases.
Nora Lewis, my computer specialist was waiting for me on the airstrip. Nora was one of the top guys on my computer geek squad. Originally from Philadelphia, she studied computer science at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I actually knew her parents, as her father was freelancing for me on various computer-related matters. He was also in the computer science business, and well-known in his field. Everything was going well for Nora. She was top of her class and graduated with honors.
To celebrate her achievement, her parents booked a three-week skiing holiday on Lake Tahoe. They were heading for the airport, when a car crashed head on with their car. Her father managed to swerve just ever so slightly to avoid the worst of it. But it didn't help much, both her parents were killed on the spot. The swerve might have saved Nora's life though.
She had multiple bone injuries, severe concussion, facial wounds, and a broken backbone – her spine cord was severed, leaving her lower body paralyzed. She’s undergone numerous surgical procedures, which have improved things significantly. She didn't resemble Freddie Kruger anymore. I've seen the pictures of her days immediately after the accident. But a beauty contest was out of question. In fact, your heart would beat faster if you saw her face in a secluded spot in the park after dark.
Anyway, her only means of mobility was a wheelchair. She couldn't come to terms with the loss of her parents, or with the loss of her mobility and her face. Even though she wasn't lacking anything, as she had enough money left by her parents and plenty from the insurance payout, she deteriorated mentally in a downward spiral, took to drugs and drink, which was never a good combination. She tried rehab and stuff like that, but it didn't help.
She needed a purpose. Over a couple of months I met with her and eventually she agreed to accept a job offer from me. As time passed, she seemed to become reconciled with her new self to some extent, although I was sure there was some hidden grudge and pain deep down in her heart somewhere.
I walked up the stairs and Nora was carried onto the plane.
Agent Lorna O'Grady was sitting on the plane talking on the phone. She stopped when I entered and greeted me.
"Good morning Greystone, Michael, if I may?"
"Sure Agent O'Grady, Lorna, if I may?"
"Sure."
I inspected her prominent boobs while she finished her call, returning my smile, visibly flattered by my staring at her breasts. I behaved like a gentleman and never looked at her bust for more than fifteen seconds at a time, as Martin recommended.
She finished her call at last and addressed me: "Some whiskey, Mike?"
"Why not, a glass can’t hurt, the flight’s at least an hour and a half."
"Well said," she agreed and poured three fingers into two glasses, albeit female ones, so I would count that as two and a half fingers.
"So what's the plan for today?" I asked.
She picked up one glass and took a small sip of whiskey. This actually required some sophisticated logistics to move the glass from the table up, over the expanse of her boobs, and towards her mouth horizontally, and then back again. But she did it gracefully, surely used to the size of her breasts.
"The plan is simple, two helicopters, five SWAT agents in each, drop onto the property, use tear and nerve gas, plus some smoke, get into the house, locate the subject, and incapacitate him if he’s not yet taken out by the gas. It’s a waterfront property and we've seen a boat moored by the pier, so we'll have two boats with FBI agents close by, plus two police boats on standby just in case. The local police have been notified. They’ll block the traffic five minutes before we go in to minimize civilian casualties. Twelve men will cordon off the property on three sides, plus the ones on the boats at the back. A few agents will remain on the main road, plus plain clothes agents will enter the neighboring houses, four in each, to make sure the inhabitants don't wander in the direction of the theater of operations."
"Sounds bulletproof."
"This is a high-profile case so we don't want any mistakes. We're using more than enough force, this can’t go wrong."
I briefed her on all I knew about Morgenthal. And she had a full dossier from Martin and Dermot as well.
43.
WE LANDED IN Cleveland around twelve, got into FBI Suburbans, and drove off.
Avalon Drive, just off Lake Road in the Rocky River neighborhood. Upmarket waterfront properties, at least one and a half million dollars each. The detached houses with large gardens on each side made our task easier as more space meant less risk for civilians. A nice, large family house with plenty of space for adults and kids. Some shrubs and trees to the front provided just a little more privacy in this already private setting.
We stopped a few houses away from Morgenthal's house. I was sitting in the command center van with screens for satellite footage and the SWAT team cameras. Two silent drones with cameras were hovering above the property transmitting live images of the area. I was wearing headphones. Dermot with his team and Martin with my team were on the line too.
Agent O'Grady was in the command van with me. She was re-confirming commands to her team.
"Research & Execution traced the target's phone and confirmed the target is still in the house. The helicopters are approaching and the neighboring houses are now under control. Two boats are guarding the rear. Four cars with twelve men will surround the property and will shoot gas and smoke bombs through the windows. They’ll enter the house once the airborne agents are in. No sooner. Do not approach the property before that, the perimeter may be guarded and alert the target. We don't want to scare him. We're going in in about eight minutes. Everybody ready? The police are closing Avalon Drive on both sides in 3 minutes." Agent O'Grady knew her business and inspired confidence in her skills to manage the situation.
After a few minutes:
"Avalon Drive is now closed. The perimeter is closed off. We're going in in five minutes."
We waited a few moments. All seemed to be going well.
"One minute to go."
I heard a voice on the radio. One of the agents positioned on Avalon Drive. "Missing boy reported by his mother, three houses to the left. She said he must be playing somewhere between the houses."
"Fuck, find him. We’re going ahead with the plan anyway. Thirty seconds to go," Lorna shouted into the microphone.
I heard the FBI choppers in the distance. The sound of the rotors was very muted, as SWAT had a few quasi-stealth helicopters spread around the country. They used Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, albeit modified to ensure more silent operation. It was the same model that was used in the raid on Osama bin Laden in 2011, but without the anti-radar stealth features. You don't really need it here, silent operation is enough on top of what is an ordinary UH-60.
"Fifteen seconds."
"Ten seconds."
I could see two UH-60s hovering over the property ready for action. The two FBI boats on the lake approached within shooting range and could now be seen on the drone cameras.
"Five seconds."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a little boy coming out of a bush just in front of Morgenthal's house. He had a toy gun in his hand.
"Now," Lorna commanded.
The agents outside the house shot tear and nerve gas shells along with smoke bombs. At that instant, when any possible intrusion alarms inside the house would already have been triggered, the SWAT teams in the choppers descended onto the property and ran towards the house.
I saw the boy jumping and waving this toy gun thinking it was great fun. I just prayed somebody wouldn't shoot him by mistake.
I grabbed a gas mask, put it on, and shot out of the van. The wind was blowing off the lake and there was a lot of smoke outside. Some of the gas bombs must have bounced off the walls and rolled into the front garden. I could see the boy going into the smoke cloud and heading towards the house.
Visibility was diminishing and there was a risk the boy could be paralyzed as well. The gas was apparently safe for adults, but I'm sure it hadn’t really been tested on five-year-old boys.
There were shouts coming out of the house, as the SWAT teams cleared it room by room.
I ran towards the spot where I’d last seen the boy, hoping he was moving slowly. I could only see a few meters in front of me.
Suddenly, there were shots from an automatic gun. I ducked instinctively to the ground.
I made two circles on all fours around the area I thought I would find him, hoping not to get shot in the process.
I could still hear shots and cries. Something wasn't going as planned. The target should have been subdued by now.
Finally I found the boy. As I expected, he must have inhaled some gas already and was writhing with pain on the grass. I lifted him to carry him away from the scene.
There was medical van parked on the street fifteen yards behind the command center car, so I headed in that direction.
Suddenly, I heard a SWAT team member shouting: "Grenade, grenade!"
I took two more paces and collapsed flat on the ground, putting the boy on his back and covering him with my body, with our heads away from the house. The explosion was deafening, and I heard shrapnel whizzing all around us.
The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) Page 23
