by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
“The president-elect’s agent—Jack McClure—has been following a very promising lead.”
“Well, you see, Dennis, now you’ve just put your finger on the nub of the problem.”
Paull shook his head. “I don’t understand, sir,” he said, though he was quite certain he was reading the president all too well.
“It appears to me that Jack McClure is gumming up the works.”
“Sir, I believe he’s on to a lead that could bring us Alli Carson’s abductor. I was under the impression that our first priority was her safe return.”
“Have you forgotten our previous discussion, Dennis? Give the order to Hugh Garner, and let’s get on with it. By the time I return from Moscow, I want the First American Secular Revivalists in custody. Then I’ll address the nation with the evidence he’ll have trumped up from his FSB security force.”
“I’ll inform Garner as soon as you board your flight, sir,” Paull said with a heavy heart. He wondered how he was going to finesse this ugly—and quite illegal—situation the president had dropped into his lap. At the moment, he saw no alternative to turning Garner loose on the FASR, but he held out hope that if he insisted that Jack McClure assist in the operation, the president-elect’s man could find a way to mitigate the damage. Of course, that would put McClure squarely in everyone’s line of fire. He’d take the heat if he got in Garner’s face, but that couldn’t be helped. Agents in the field were designed to deal with whatever heat was thrown at them. Besides, McClure was expendable; Paull’s agent in the Secret Service wasn’t.
During the secretary’s ruminations, the limo had arrived at Andrews Air Force Base. Paull, who had been debating all morning whether or not to bring up an extremely delicate subject, finally made his decision as the presidential limo rolled to a stop on the tarmac twelve yards from the near-side wing of Air Force One.
“Sir, before you leave, I have a duty to inform you …”
“Yes?” The president’s bright, freshly scrubbed face seemed blank, his thoughts already thousands of miles away in bleak, snow-driven Moscow. He was, no doubt, licking his chops at the prospect of putting Yukin in his place.
“Nightwing missed his last rendezvous.” Nightwing was the government’s most productive deep-cover asset.
“When was that scheduled for?” the president snapped.
“Ten days ago,” Paull replied just as crisply.
“Dennis, why on earth are you telling me this moments before I leave for Moscow?”
“He missed his backup dates four days ago and yesterday, sir. I felt it prudent not to bother you before this, hoping that Nightwing would surface. He hasn’t.”
“Frankly, Dennis, with your plate so full, I don’t understand why you’re even bothering with this.”
“Assets are a tricky lot, sir. We ask them to do a lot of dodgy things—wet work. There’s a certain psychology to people who kill without remorse. They tend to think of themselves as the center of the universe. This is what makes them successful, it’s what keeps them going. But I’ve seen it happen before—every once in a while some developmental aspect becomes arrested. Their urge to be someone—to be special, to become known—overrides their self-discipline.”
“What is this, psychology one-oh-one?” the president said testily.
“Sir, I want to make my position clear. When an asset’s self-discipline disappears, he becomes nothing more than a serial killer.”
The president’s hand was on the door handle. His expression revealed that he already had one foot on Russian soil. “I’m quite certain that isn’t the case with Nightwing. My goodness, he’s been an invaluable asset for upwards of thirty years now. Nothing’s changed, I assure you. Stop jumping at shadows. I’m quite certain there’s a good reason for his silence.” He smiled reassuringly. “Concentrate on the missionary secularists. Let Nightwing take care of himself.”
“The trouble with the president’s suggestion,” Paull said, “is that no asset—even one as productive and, therefore, sacrosanct as Nightwing—should be allowed to be so independent. In my opinion, that’s a recipe for lawlessness and, ultimately, the corruption of basic moral principles.”
“The president came to see me.” Some wavering spark inside Louise’s mind had roused her from her stupor. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Very nice, darling.”
Paull sat with his wife on the glassed-in porch of the facility where she lived. He could feel the radiant heat coming up through the flagstone floor.
“Daddy,” she said, “where am I?”
“Home, darling.” Paull squeezed her hand. “You’re home.”
At this, Louise smiled blankly, lapsed back into her mysterious inner world. Paull stared at her face. The dementia had not dimmed a beauty that still made his heart ache. But now there was this glass wall between them, this horrifying divide he could not bridge no matter how hard he tried. She was as lost to him as she was to herself. He couldn’t bear the thought, and so as he’d done before, he’d come and talk to her as if she were the close confidante she never could have been when she’d been young and vibrant. He had of necessity shut her out of his work life; now, to fashion his time with her into a memory he could take back with him into the real world, he spoke his mind to her.
“I inherited Nightwing eight years ago, Louise. What troubles me most is that though I’m his handler, I’ve never laid eyes on the man. Can you believe it? The rendezvous are dead letter drops, always in a different District hotel designated by Nightwing himself, a sealed message left for ‘Uncle Dan.’”
He shook his head, becoming more concerned as his thoughts were made concrete by his words. “At first, Nightwing provided us with intel on Russia and mainland China. More recently, he’s widened his field to include priceless datastreams of intelligence regarding decisions being made behind closed doors in key Middle Eastern states, some of which are our purported allies. These datastreams invariably proved reliable, invaluable, so you can see why the president insists on treating him with extreme kid gloves. But Nightwing has been involved in questionable assignments; he’s a law unto himself. Is it any wonder I’m disturbed that I know virtually nothing about him? His file is unusually thin. I have an unshakable suspicion that the information it contains is more legend than real. Who created the legend and why remains a mystery. Nightwing’s previous handler is dead, so there’s no one else to ask, and believe me I’ve spent many fruitless nights poring through the Homeland Security database—it incorporates those of the CIA, FBI, and NSA now—without finding any mention of Nightwing whatsoever. More than once it’s occurred to me that the file was written by Nightwing himself.”
Louise’s hand in his was cool, as if he were addressing a marble statue, marvelously carved but, for all that, still stone. He wondered whether she heard him, whether his voice was familiar to her, like a favorite radio station one listened to when one was young. He liked to think his voice made her feel safe, secure. Loved. Tears welled in his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He plowed on with his discussion, more determined than ever to make of this visit something private and intimate he could savor later, when out in the bustling world, he’d think of her here, entombed in the labyrinth of her own mind.
“In fact, Louise, only two men know more about the asset than me: the president and the National Security Advisor. Given the president’s nonchalant attitude toward the asset suddenly falling off the grid, I’m beginning to suspect that against all protocol, one of those two men has been in touch with Nightwing without my knowing. However, I’m all too aware that trying to confirm that suspicion is a sure way to commit political suicide.”
No, he decided, as he pressed the speed-dial key for Hugh Garner’s cell, he’d have to take the president’s advice and concentrate on Alli Carson’s abduction and the FASR. For the moment, he had no choice but to leave Nightwing—file name Ian Brady—to his own devices. However, if the National Security Advisor now had the inside track with the president, it was time he h
imself made contact with his own powerful ally, because all at once the political landscape had turned to quicksand. Despite the danger, he had to make a decisive move before it sucked him under.
The call completed, he freed his hand from Louise’s limp grasp. When he leaned over, kissed her pale lips, a tremor of love and yearning passed through him as he thought of her, rosy-cheeked and laughing, her long hair glinting in sunlight, lifted through the air by his strong arms.
15
“Well done, McClure,” Hugh Garner said. “As if we didn’t have enough trouble, you’ve given us another girl—approximately the same age and weight as the First Daughter—who’s also missing. She’s either dead or wishes she was; at the very least, she’s severely maimed.” He slapped three sheets of paper he was holding. “But according to the ME’s report, we have no way of identifying her.” He smirked, looking from Jack to Nina. “Which one of you lovelies is going to volunteer to tell Edward Carson and his wife this bit of inspiring news?”
“I will,” Jack said. “I call him on an hourly basis, anyway.”
“One of these days I trust you’ll surprise me, Jack.” Garner tossed aside Schiltz’s chilling report. “But, no, I need you with me, so, Nina, it’ll be you who provides the Carsons with this morning’s update.”
Nothing on Nina’s face betrayed what she might be feeling. She was dressed today in a smart suit over a blouse with pearl buttons up to her neck, where a tasteful cameo was pinned. How a woman could appear demure and sexy at the same time was beyond Jack.
They were grouped around a desk in the makeshift command center at Langley Fields. The desk was littered with the day’s early dispatches from the FBI, CIA, DIA, NSA, as well as every regional and municipal law enforcement agency that had been dragooned by Homeland Security into the search for Alli Carson.
The trio was the eye of a carefully controlled storm of activity that raged around them. No less than thirty operatives were crammed into the headmistress’s outer office, working the computers that were hooked into the nation’s deepest surveillance networks. Many were simultaneously on the phone, distributing phoned-in leads that other operatives in the field needed to run down. Bags from McDonald’s, KFC, barbecue joints, along with half-empty boxes of subgum chow mein and moo goo gai pan were strewn about. Garbage cans were piled high with empty soda cans. The greasy odors of stale food, sweat, and fear made a permanent fug impossible to escape.
One of these drones had accessed the national missing persons database for the entire District, Virginia, and Maryland, but the printout was useless. Save for the usual slew of runaways from Omaha to Amarillo who had disappeared into the bowels of the District, there was nothing to help them.
“Let’s get to work,” Garner said to Jack as Nina left them.
He led Jack out via the rear exit that gave out onto a dimly lit corridor, down a short flight of concrete steps to the custodian’s area. Here was a warren of workshops and storerooms containing all the many implements and supplies required to keep an upper-tier college like Langley Fields looking shipshape for the parents who paid tens of thousands for the education of their sons and daughters. No fine school could afford to look shabby, and with a large campus like this one, the maintenance was constant.
Clearly, however, the custodial staff was elsewhere because when Garner led Jack into the largest of the workshops, it was deserted, save for two hooded men and their armed guards. They were sitting on opposite sides of the room, facing away from each other. Between them, along the wall, was an oversized soapstone sink and several workbenches above which hung pegboards thick with handsaws, hammers, awls, levels, metal rulers, and planes. Screwdrivers, chisels, pliers, and wrenches of every imaginable size were clustered in one area. Some of the benches had vises bolted to them. The smells of glue and oiled metal were strong in the air. Between the pegboard sections were windows that afforded a peaceful view out over the rose garden, now an army of thorny miniature stick soldiers on a half-frozen parade ground.
“What is this?” Jack said, alarmed.
Garner pulled him back into the hallway for a moment.
“We’ve brought in the co-leaders of the First American Secular Revivalists,” he said in a low voice. “A number of FASR members have vanished, only to resurface as part of E-Two. At the very least, FASR is a training ground for E-Two terrorists. In our estimation, it’s a legit front for the revolutionary group.”
“Brought in? Are these men criminals?”
Ignoring Jack’s question, Garner concluded: “Keep your mouth shut, bright boy, and you just might learn something.”
Returning inside, Garner signaled to the guards, who jerked the prisoners’ chairs around, pulled off their hoods. The men blinked, disoriented. They stared at each other, then at Garner and Jack, their eyes wide open. They were clearly terrified.
“Who are you?” one of the men asked. “Why are we here?”
Garner strode over to the soapstone sink, inserted a rubber stopper in the drain, turned on the cold-water faucet full-blast. As the water began to fill the sink, he said, “Peter Link, Christopher Armitage, you’re members of E-Two, the missionary secularist terror group.”
“What?” both men said nearly simultaneously. “We’re not!”
Garner stared down at the rising water. “Are you telling me you’re not missionary secularists?”
“We believe that organized religion—all organized religion—is a danger to modern-day society,” Chris Armitage, the man on the right said.
“But we’re not terrorists,” Peter Link said from the opposite side of the room.
“You’re not, huh?” Garner signaled to Link’s guard, who unshackled him, hauled him up by the back of his collar, frog-marched him over to where Garner was standing. Garner turned off the cold-water tap. The sink was filled to the brim.
Link stared from Garner’s face to the gently rippling water. “You can’t be serious…. What do you think this is, a police state?”
Garner slammed his fist into Link’s stomach. As the man doubled over, Garner grabbed both sides of his head, jammed it into the sink. Water fountained up, foaming as Link began to thrash.
“You can’t do this!” Armitage shouted. “This is America—we’re guaranteed the right of free speech!”
Garner hauled the sputtering, choking Link out of the water. The guard grasped his arms as Garner turned to Armitage, dug in his jacket pocket, flipped open his ID for the other man to see. “As far as you and your pal here are concerned, I am America.”
Stowing his ID, he got back to work torturing Peter Link. But as Link went under for the second time, Jack put a hand on Garner’s arm.
“This isn’t the way,” he said softly. “You’re being foolish.”
He sensed that was the wrong thing to say. Garner kept his hands on the back of Link’s submerged head as he glared into Jack’s face.
“Get your fucking hands off me, or I swear to God you’ll be next.”
“You brought me in for my help,” Jack said quietly. “I’m giving you my opinion—”
“I didn’t bring you in, McClure. In fact, I fought to keep you out. But the new president will have his way, even if it’s the wrong way.”
Using the edge of his hand, Jack struck Garner’s elbow at the ulna nerve, breaking his grip on Peter Link. Jack hauled him out of the water. Tears streamed out of Link’s eyes, and he vomited water all over himself.
“Jesus Christ!” Armitage shouted, terrified.
Garner broke away from Jack, stalked over to Armitage, yelled in his face, “You don’t get to use those words!” He was seething, his shoulders bunched, his hands curled into tight fists. A pulse beat spastically in his forehead.
Jack, seeing that Link was semiconscious, laid him down on the floor. He knelt beside him, checked his pulse, which was erratic and weak. Looking up, he said to Garner, “I sure as hell hope you have a doctor on premises.”
Garner opened his mouth to say something, apparently tho
ught better of it, hauled out his cell phone. Not long after, the door swung open and a physician appeared. He hurried over to where Peter Link lay in a puddle of water and his own vomit.
Jack rose and said to Garner, “Let’s take a walk.”
The sky was piled with ugly-looking clouds, ready for a fight. A stiff wind hit their faces with a chill edge, making their noses run, their eyes water.
“I’ll have your career for this,” Garner said as they walked past the dormant rose garden.
“You’d do best to cool down,” Jack said, “before you make threats.”
Garner stalked ahead, then whirled on Jack. “You challenged my authority in there.”
“You exceeded your authority,” Jack said quietly. “We’re not in Iraq.”
“We don’t have to be,” Garner said. “This is a matter of national security. We’re dealing with homeland terrorists, traitors to their own way of life.”
Jack peered into Garner’s face. He was determined to keep his voice calm and steady. Someone had to be rational in this discussion. “Because they don’t think like you or the current Administration?”
“They kidnapped the First Daughter!”
“You don’t know that.”
“Quite right. Thanks to you, I don’t. Not for certain, anyway. On the other hand, we have E-Two’s signature at the scene of the crime.”
“Someone else could have left those,” Jack pointed out.
Garner laughed bitterly. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“To be honest, I don’t know what to believe, because we don’t yet know what’s going on.”
