Hunter sat on the couch and gazed at Amy, who was in a chair on the other side of the living room. He was wondering if they’d ever have a chance to follow up on their dream. He could see the tears running down her cheeks from beneath her blindfold, but there was nothing he could do. His wrists were tied securely behind his back, his ankles were taped together, and two men were pointing pistols at him.
The small man in the sharp suit and tie who’d interrogated him last night in the basement of the office building in lower Manhattan wasn’t around tonight. Tonight it was a tall, big guy who was sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“So,” the big man began with a smirk, “perhaps we were wrong. Perhaps you don’t know anything. I’m sorry for the inconvenience of the last twenty-four hours.”
They’d forced the clear plastic bag down over Hunter’s head four times since last night. He’d passed out each time, and as his eyes were fluttering shut the last three times he was certain he wasn’t going to wake up. In fact, he was hoping he wouldn’t.
“You’re not sorry at all.”
The man nodded. “No, I’m not.”
“Let us go. Please.”
“No,” he said, “you can still be helpful to me.”
Hunter saw him gesture to one of the other men in the room, who moved to where Amy was sitting and pulled her blindfold down roughly. She blinked several times and then glanced over at him, terrified.
“My number’s programmed into your phone,” the man explained, pointing down at Hunter’s cell phone, which lay on the coffee table beside him. “It’s stored into your memory as AAA. Anytime you speak to Jack Jensen, you call me immediately. He’s tried to reach you several times since you two had drinks last night, so I suggest you check in with him as soon as you can. I want you to be in touch with him as much as possible, and I want you to find out all you can about where he is and what he’s doing.” The man hesitated. “But whatever you do, don’t make him suspicious.”
“You want me to spy on my best friend?”
“You catch on fast, Hunter.”
Hunter glanced over at Amy. Her lower lip was trembling, and her tears were flowing in two steady streams. They were going to take Amy with them, and the man standing beside the coffee table was going to say that Amy would suffer the consequences if Hunter didn’t help.
“I assume you know what’s going to happen.”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered dejectedly, gazing at Amy. “I know.”
“Good. By the way, don’t try tracing my phone number. You do and your wife dies. And I will know if you or anyone else tries.”
“OK.”
The man leaned forward. “Hunter, are you absolutely certain you don’t know where Jack Jensen is or where he’s going?”
It didn’t surprise Hunter when the clear plastic bag came sliding down over his face from behind and the rope tightened around his neck. But it seemed worse than the other four times because this time he could see Amy’s horrified expression and hear her petrified screams as he tried pathetically to fight back. It was emasculating to have her watch him panic so badly, to struggle helplessly against his assailants and beg for mercy like a baby just before he passed out. He wanted to kill these men so badly.
It was the first time he’d ever had that horrible urge.
CHAPTER 17
FROM HIS hiding place in the dense grove of trees, Carlson watched Daniel Beckham pace back and forth in front of the small country store. It gave him immense pleasure to see the mounting frustration that was etching itself deeper and deeper into the young man’s tight-lipped expression.
The store was set on the north side of a winding road that cut a narrow swath through the thick woods of central Virginia just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains’ first wave. It was after nine o’clock, and the place had been deserted for hours. Except for the light coming from a bare bulb hanging above the front door, it was pitch dark out here. But the bulb was bright, and Carlson could see the aggravation burning in Beckham’s eyes.
They’d been running him all over the state since two o’clock this afternoon, starting with his pick-up by Yellow Cab on Pennsylvania Avenue right in front of the White House. Thirty minutes later the cab had dropped him off at Dulles Airport, where a friendly agent of a privately owned northern Virginia security company had confronted him inside the terminal. That agent had quickly collected his two mobile phones before leading him into the handicap stall of a men’s bathroom, where he’d stripped Beckham of a poorly hidden wire and a more creatively concealed transponder.
Then he’d escorted Beckham to the general aviation terminal and a waiting helicopter, which had flown southwest from the airport to a secluded farm. In the basement of the farmhouse they’d performed a fairly benign interrogation—for them—including a thorough strip search despite his violent protests. Then they’d put Beckham back on the chopper and flown him a short distance to a car, which was waiting at another farm. There were several more exchanges with other vehicles in secluded places around the state before they’d finally dropped him off ten minutes ago at this location, twenty miles west of Charlottesville.
Beckham was a senior aide to President Dorn’s chief of staff, Rex Stein, and he wasn’t accustomed to this kind of treatment, Carlson knew. That was obvious, and it was satisfying to see how easily they’d gotten into his grille.
When Beckham turned away with his head down, Carlson slipped out of his hiding place and moved to the end of the concrete slab that stretched from one side of the storefront to the other. He waited for Beckham to turn around and almost get to where he was standing before he spoke up.
“Hello, Danny.”
“Jesus Christ!” Beckham barked, quickly backtracking several steps. “What the hell?”
“I’m Roger Carlson. It’s good to meet you.”
“Yeah, it’s outstanding to meet you too, Roger,” Beckham shot back sarcastically. “But next time I’ve got to go through a strip search to meet somebody, including a certain body cavity exam I know I’ll never forget, I think I’ll pass.”
Carlson managed to mute his chuckle. Beckham had probably figured his first foray into the intelligence world was going to be more exciting than anything else he’d been doing for the last nine months in Washington—but not as exciting as this.
“You won’t pass if your president tells you not to.”
Beckham was probably wishing he could get back to the more comfortable surroundings of the West Wing as soon as possible. By the end of this battle he was going to wish he’d never come to Washington.
“You understand me, son?”
“Whatever,” Beckham muttered.
Beckham was a tall, red-haired, rich kid whose family had amassed an enormous fortune trading commodities in the last hundred years and felt so guilty about it they’d moved to the left side of the political aisle two generations ago. That was how Beckham had ended up in Dorn’s administration and not the GOP camp where he certainly looked like he ought to be with his tortoiseshell glasses and preppie wardrobe. He’d never had to really work for anything in his life, and that severely stacked the odds against him in this battle, Carlson knew.
Carlson also knew that the twenty-seven-year-old standing in front of him was only marking time in Washington to pad his résumé. He was planning to resign a year from now to found a private equity fund and make some serious dough his father and grandfather couldn’t take credit for. Neither President Dorn nor Beckham’s father knew about all that. But Carlson did, thanks to Maddux’s team of Falcons.
“Let’s go,” Carlson ordered gruffly as a dark blue Town Car pulled up in front of the store. “Get in the back on the right side.”
“Why did I have to go through all that crap anyway?” Beckham demanded when they were inside the car. It was moving through the woods, and the partition between the front and back seats was up. “Why the damn runaround?”
“Welcome to the intelligence world, Danny.” Carlson had
wanted to make certain no one was following Beckham, but he’d wanted to put Beckham through hell too. “Now, what do you want?”
“You know what I want, Roger. I’m your new contact at the White House. I report directly to the president on all matters related to what you and I discuss.”
“You aren’t reporting directly to the president,” Carlson replied evenly. Now he was two steps away from the president—maybe more, maybe a whole staircase. At the least, Beckham and Rex Stein were in between his now-lost direct access. “You’re going through the chief of staff on this. You’re going through Rex Stein.”
Dorn was a Washington rookie, but Stein was a DC veteran. The Democratic Party had chosen Stein to be Dorn’s chief of staff, not Dorn. And Stein would have gotten an extensive download on Red Cell Seven during the administration’s first national security briefing, which would have occurred at Langley within a few weeks of Dorn’s election. Stein would never allow Beckham to report directly to the top of the chain on something as crucial as this. He was too savvy.
At least, that was what Carlson had believed a minute ago. But maybe this was even more serious than he’d imagined. Maybe Dorn was hiding this from Stein. That thought sent shivers through Carlson’s body.
“Don’t bullshit me, Danny.”
“Think what you want, old man, I don’t care. But here’s the deal. From now on you and I will meet at least once a week but probably more like two or three times. And there won’t be any more of this run-Daniel-all-over-hell’screation crap when we do, or I can promise you Red Cell Seven will cease to exist immediately. Do you understand?” He paused. “Let me say that again so I’m sure you really hear it, Roger. RCS will cease to exist immediately. All I have to do is say the word to President Dorn and it’s over. Even Rex Stein wouldn’t be able to save your beloved cell at that point. I am the key to its existence and yours,” Beckham added proudly. “What do you think of that, old man?”
Jesus. Dorn and Stein had even told Beckham the name of the cell. That violated all RCS protocol. “Watch your tone, Danny,” Carlson warned.
Then it hit him like a freight train. Shane Maddux could be right after all. If Beckham really was reporting straight to Dorn on this, then everything Maddux claimed his Falcons had picked up in the shadows would make perfect sense.
“Red Cell Seven has been in business since the Nixon administration,” Carlson began again. This time it was in a low, unsteady voice. He couldn’t remember feeling this afraid in a long time. “And I’ve been—”
“Now that’s something to be proud of,” Beckham cut in rudely. “Jesus. If only we could erase that administration from the history books we’d be—”
“And it will continue to be in business for a long time,” Carlson interrupted right back, forcing his voice to be strong. “A long time after you’ve hung up your Washington cleats for the private equity world a year from now. That’s when you’ll quit President Dorn’s staff to start your firm in New York City.”
“Red Cell Seven might continue to exist,” Beckham retorted. “Might,” he emphasized, “but not in its present state, I can assure you.” He waved as if he didn’t give a rat’s ass about what Carlson had just said about him hanging up his cleats. “And big deal, Roger, so you found out about me making some money my father can’t take credit for. Impressive, but not that impressive, because digging up information is one of the things you’re in business to do. And if you use it against me, I’ll deny it and say you’re just being a prick and trying to make my life difficult, which Rex and the president will believe right away. Then I’ll tell the president to blow up RCS immediately. Besides, my grandfather’s one of Dorn’s biggest financial backers. He won’t want to piss my family off even if he does think I’m leaving.” Beckham pointed at Carlson. “Here’s the deal, Roger. By the end of this week I want a list of all your agents in the field as well as all overseas twilight contacts and your assets domestic and abroad. Like that maze of safe houses you run out in Reston. You need to understand that your fiefdom’s about to become my fiefdom. And don’t try to hide anything, Roger. We’ve got our own people in the field now, and they’re watching yours. If we find out that you’ve held anything back on us, that you haven’t been completely transparent, we could file criminal charges against you. Then everything would be out in the open. How do you like that, old man?”
Jesus Christ. This was worse than he could have imagined. Maddux had been right on target. So on target Carlson felt physically ill. President Dorn meant to shut down Red Cell Seven, and he meant to do it immediately. That was the reason he wanted a list of all those things Beckham had just reeled off. Dorn wasn’t just trying to get a better handle on what RCS was doing. He had no intention of letting it continue to exist in any form. He was going to destroy it. That was the only way Carlson could interpret Beckham’s request for all of that highly classified information.
Carlson shook his head in disbelief. Dorn had to understand what he was doing. He had to understand that this action would send shock waves down the corridors in Langley, at the Pentagon, and in the Capitol.
If Dorn didn’t understand that, Stein certainly would. Stein would understand that there were many senior people within the CIA, the NSA, and the FBI who would be diametrically opposed to destroying the cell because over the past five years it had morphed into the glue that held the entire national defense structure together. It was the glue that had allowed domestic and foreign-based US intelligence assets to communicate seamlessly without turf wars breaking out all over the place like they had in the wake of 9/11. Those senior people in the respective agencies would view shuttering RCS as an action equal to Jack Kennedy’s attempt to destroy the CIA in the early sixties. They’d view it as treason. For them, Red Cell Seven was indispensible, mostly because no one in RCS ever cared about getting credit for anything. RCS agents didn’t care about credit because RCS wasn’t even supposed to exist—and because they cared more about the country than themselves. Absolute demonstration of that loyalty was a requirement for initiation into the cell.
“By the way,” Beckham said, “my name is Daniel, not Danny. Don’t make that mistake again. You got it, Roger?”
“Yeah.” Carlson had barely heard Beckham. “Sure.”
“I’m your boss now, and one way or the other you will give me respect.” Beckham’s eyes danced. “This is about doing the right thing, Roger. This is about getting control of an intelligence cell that’s been operating basically unchecked for forty years. It’s about getting control of a cell that’s become too powerful in the past five years, a cell that believes it’s bulletproof and doesn’t have to play by the rules. People must be held accountable from now on if the world is truly going to get along.” Beckham sneered. “The hell with people; you need to be held accountable. You’re the only one that matters. You’re the Red Cell Seven dictator.”
Beckham’s image blurred in front of Carlson as he stared. He wasn’t worried about criminal charges being filed against him or Dorn’s people watching them. They were idle threats from naïve people who were already into the quicksand up to their necks, even though they didn’t realize it yet. What terrified Carlson so completely was that he suddenly realized the country had an administration in power that believed it could protect the United States of America without Red Cell Seven. An administration that believed the country could survive without those agents who were willing to do all those terrible things in the shadows that no one wanted to talk about on the Sunday morning talk shows. An administration that seemed to think it could keep the United States safe playing by the rules, within some sort of ethically acceptable global framework.
Which was ludicrous, Carlson knew, absolutely ludicrous.
If Dorn was successful in destroying RCS, it could lead to a disaster for the United States on a scale of unimaginable proportions—abroad and at home. Terrorists would be so much freer to operate because the ability of law enforcement and the armed forces to short-circuit hijackings, bomb
ings, and assassinations before they happened would be severely constrained. Advance information on terrorist activity would be cut to a minimum so that domestic assets would be operating basically in the dark—unable to anticipate, only react.
Carlson actually shuddered as the enormity of all that hit him right between the eyes.
“Do you understand me, Roger?” Beckham demanded harshly.
“I understand,” Carlson replied softly. “I understand perfectly.”
“Why are we going north, Uncle Sage?”
Speed Trap glanced at the compass on the bridge’s control panel as the Arctic Fire’s bow cut a sharp wake through the day’s relatively calm ocean. They’d finished unloading for a second time, and the king crab season was over. They’d reached their quota well before any other ship had, so they should have been headed west for a cod run or south to Seattle before coming back to Dutch for the opilio season, which would start in a week. But they were following a north-northeasterly heading.
“Why are we going this way?”
“Why are you such a question-head, kid?”
The less than friendly answer didn’t surprise or anger Speed Trap. He was accustomed to Sage’s demeanor after so long. “Just naturally curious, I guess.”
“Don’t be,” Sage snapped. “It’s irritating. You remember all those teachers in school who told you that the only bad question is the one you don’t ask?”
“Yeah. So?”
“They were assholes. They didn’t know what they were talking about.”
The ship covered a few miles of rolling ocean before Speed Trap spoke up again. He’d thought about going below to get some sleep in the bunk room like Duke and Grant were doing. But he wanted to make sure Grant hadn’t been bullshitting about the DUI and resisting arrest charges over in Seward. It still seemed too good to be true.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Uncle Sage?”
“What do you mean?”
“About my charges over in Seward.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sage hissed under his breath. “You and your brother are just like your father. Neither of you can keep your mouths shut. It’s like I’m dealing with a couple of old ladies at a quilting convention.”
Arctic Fire Page 11
