by Lisa Shearin
I sat absolutely still.
There was something else, or more to the point someone else. Running under the chaos of the people who had been in this office—and yes, there had been two, possibly three individuals—was a strong presence. Exceptionally strong, but faded with time. He’d been here first. Several days ago.
Before he’d paid our office a visit.
“Bingo,” I murmured.
“Bingo?”
I gave Berta a slow smile. “He was here. Three, maybe four days ago.”
“Mr. Tall, Cocky, and Annoyingly Limber?”
“In person.”
“Before Pierce and Coe’s deaths—and before he tossed your office.”
I nodded.
“Everybody’s looking for flash drives.”
“Perhaps.” I closed my eyes, letting the faded presence and his intentions wash over me. “Mostly he wanted to find David Barrington.”
We went upstairs to search the rest of the condo. The two bedrooms and bathrooms had been given the same treatment. Closets had been emptied, shoe boxes opened and dumped, the mattress slashed and searched, and the art taken off the walls. Behind one was a safe. It stood open, empty. Every bottle and container in the bathrooms had been opened and emptied.
Our mystery man had come upstairs as well, but he hadn’t spent as much time here as he had downstairs.
There was no blood, at least not that we’d seen, and no sign or sense of a struggle. They hadn’t found David Barrington here, just his worldly goods.
The front door opened and closed.
“Excuse me, Agent Pike,” a smooth male voice called from downstairs. “Perhaps I could assist.”
Berta rolled her eyes and spat a silent curse. She pointed at me, then emphatically at the patch of carpet I was standing on. “Stay,” she mouthed.
I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t object without speaking, so for once I kept my mouth shut and did as told.
For now.
Berta drew her gun, though she kept her arm down, the gun against her thigh. I’d been to the shooting range with her. She could have it up and leveled between the newcomer’s eyes in an instant. “Did you make this mess, Marshall?”
“You wound me, Agent Pike. I would never be so untidy. If I’d searched this house, you’d have never known I’d been here.”
The sense of the man reached me at the top of the stairs, flowing over me.
I froze.
I knew he’d been here—and in our office.
I steadied my breathing, pulling air in and out as quietly as possible. Berta and the intruder continued their banter. He didn’t know I was here. Good.
I heard pieces of mail landing on the dining room table. “There ought to be a law about this much junk mail,” the man was saying. “It’s a wonder there are any trees left.” He was moving around the table to get a better view up the stairs. He knew someone was with Berta, but he didn’t know who. He had seen me in the Russell Building’s rotunda. He hadn’t seen me here. Yet.
I smiled in the shadows. I knew what I wanted to do. I could resist the urge, but I wasn’t even going to try.
I came down the stairs. “Well, hello there, Adam Granger. We meet again.”
Silence.
I’d gotten him. I could tell. Outwardly not one twitch betrayed his surprise, but the psychic shockwave that met me said otherwise. I stopped on the small landing. It let me keep my head above his. Yes, it was petty, but I wanted to maintain as much dominance as I could.
The man was tall, dark, lean, and thirty-something. Any other man who met him on the street would consider him to be unfairly good-looking. He was wearing a suit he clearly hadn’t bought off any rack. Thanks to Grandad’s sartorial choices, I knew a bespoke suit when I saw one.
Berta was confused. “Adam Granger? That’s not—”
“I know. It’s the alias he used to register his BMW getaway bike.” I kept my eyes on his pale gray ones. “Other than that, I only know him by my description to the police: tall, cocky, and annoyingly limber.”
Instantly, Berta had her gun leveled on him.
The man had enough sense to raise his hands. Slowly. Then he smiled at me in a flash of white teeth. “You didn’t call me any of those at the wall.”
“I was exercising my vocabulary,” I told him.
“I can attest that it’s in fine shape.” His attention went to Berta. “I assure you this is hardly necessary.”
“Oh, it’s necessary, and it’s also my pleasure. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed holding a gun on a man this much.”
“You know my name,” I told him, “but I don’t know yours.”
“Gabriel Marshall, CIA.”
“Hmm, CIA. That explains a few things, but not nearly enough. Why were you in my grandfather’s home last night?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“Classified.”
“Of course.”
“If it will put your mind at ease, I will not be back. Last night was a one-time visit.”
“What about your other visit, when you bugged the town house, my apartment, and my grandfather’s car?”
“That wasn’t me.”
He had no reaction that our homes and car had been bugged, not even a twitch. Yet he hadn’t hesitated to deny responsibility.
Gabriel Marshall hadn’t planted the bugs, but he had a good idea who had.
“Do you know who did?”
“Not at this time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
The elephant in the room was his psychokinesis. I wasn’t ready to let on that I knew about his PK. He knew my secret. I’d let him think I didn’t know his, and that he’d fooled me like he had Simmons’s men. For now.
“Agent Pike, may I put my hands down?” Marshall asked. “As much as you would like to shoot me, you won’t, at least not now, if for no other reason than all the paperwork you’d have to do.”
Berta lowered her gun, but she didn’t put it away. She didn’t trust him, probably for good reason. It was obvious this wasn’t the first time the two of them had butted heads. Right now, she had a physical advantage over Gabriel Marshall, CIA, and she wasn’t about to give it up.
Marshall lowered his hands, but wisely kept them in sight. “You didn’t wait for your warrant, Agent Pike. How naughty. I’m so proud. There may be hope for you yet.”
I had no problem understanding why Berta didn’t like this guy.
“Naturally, you don’t have one,” Berta said.
“I don’t need one. I’ve been asked by Dr. Barrington’s superiors to find him. He’s missing, and his CIA family is concerned for his well-being.”
Again, he was telling the truth. Though there was a deep undercurrent of what Gabriel Marshall wasn’t saying.
“What has your family told you to do with Barrington if you find him?” Berta asked.
“You know I rarely do as told.”
“True. Not unless it suits you. What does it suit you to do with Barrington?”
“Ask him a few questions, then keep him safe.”
“Safe implies unharmed.”
“I have no reason or need to harm Dr. Barrington.” He glanced around the room. “Others do.” His movement was casual, the interest negligent. The reality was that those gray eyes were making a detailed inventory of the room, its contents, their condition, and based on the damage, compiling a list of items the intruders could have been looking for.
“What do you think they wanted?” I asked him.
“Dr. Barrington could hardly have concealed himself in a sofa cushion. What these men may or may not have found here does not matter to me. My only concern is the safety of Dr. Barrington.”
“So, you’re staking this place out.”
“Officer Marshall is a busy man,” Berta said. “I’d say he’s installed at least one
video camera here. Who else did you see paying Dr. Barrington a visit?”
“Unfortunately, no cameras this time. If I knew where Barrington was, I would be where he is and not here.”
Berta’s phone rang. She answered it, never taking her eyes off the CIA officer. “Guess who’s here? Our friend Gabriel Marshall.”
It had to be Rees.
Her mouth twitched in a fierce smile, and I wondered if Rees’s word choice had been similar to hers. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.” Berta ended the call. “Hate to search and run, but you’ll have plenty of company soon. An FBI forensics team is on the way—with a warrant.”
Gabriel Marshall held out his card to me.
“Don’t bother,” Berta said. “I’ve got his number.”
Marshall smiled. “In more ways than one.”
CHAPTER 19
Most of the FBI hated the CIA or at least distrusted them—and the feeling was mutual.
Boy Scouts versus spooks.
By-the-book versus “Rules? What rules?”
Marshall had implied that the CIA was one big, happy family. Big families like that were seldom happy. They could put on a good act, but behind closed doors, the knives came out.
I’d taken to carrying the device Simmons had given me for Grandad’s car in my purse.
I took it out and looked at it.
The little red light was on. We had a bug.
Berta saw and didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. I could read her lips just fine.
I pushed a button, and the red light flashed and then turned green. Simmons had explained that if it’s green, the car/house/apartment is clean. Well, not clean, but no signals would be going out.
It didn’t matter if the bug was Marshall’s doing or that of the same people who’d done a number on my apartment and Grandad’s town house and car. Someone wanted to know where we went, and possibly what we said while we went there.
Berta pulled out her phone and sent a text, then she showed me the screen. She’d told Rees we had a bug and that we needed another car. She was in no mood to take any chances of being followed to where we were going next.
We drove in silence to the McDonald’s on Wisconsin Avenue, where Rees had a replacement car waiting for us. We traded off and went to our next destination. The agent in our bugged car proceeded to lead Gabriel Marshall or whoever had planted the tracker on a scenic tour of Pentagon City.
Berta and I were heading out to Dulles.
Pete had tracked one of the calls made to Julian Pierce’s burner phone to an extended-stay hotel near the airport.
“So, how did Gabriel Marshall know about me?” I asked Berta.
“We didn’t tell him.”
“I know you didn’t, but someone did.”
“You work with me and Rees. We’re the Odd Couple, emphasis on odd. If a case smells like woo-woo, we’re there, and you’re right alongside. It wouldn’t take much to figure it out.” She glanced at me and then back to the road. “Impressive back there, IDing Marshall as your intruder. I thought you had to touch someone to get that kind of information.”
“Most of the time I do. Occasionally, a person has a strong enough presence that I can place them in a room they were just in. Gabriel Marshall’s not the kind of guy who enters a room unnoticed. People would either do the moth-to-flame thing or prey-to-predator. Flirt or flee.”
Berta nodded. “I could see that.” She huffed a laugh. “I’m glad you didn’t tell him he had a strong presence. We’d never hear the end of it.”
I grinned. “How often does he cross your path?”
“Not that often. Though he manages to show up when he’s least wanted, or you say his name three times and he appears, like a combination of Beetlejuice and Voldemort.”
“So, is he entertainingly crazy or completely psycho?”
“Washington’s full of psychos and sociopaths. I’d put Gabriel Marshall in the high-functioning sociopath basket. I think.”
“What do you mean, ‘think’?”
“He’s what he needs to be, depending on the situation. I don’t believe I’ve ever met the real Gabriel Marshall. I’m not even sure there is one.”
“How about him wanting to keep Barrington safe?” I asked. “Is that on the up-and-up?”
“There’s all kinds of safe. What did you get from him?”
“The condo being trashed was news to him. He knows what they were looking for, and it’s the same thing he broke into Grandad’s town house to find.”
“How about the bugs in your office, apartment, and car? Do you think he planted them?”
“No, and I wish he had. That just means somebody else did, and I don’t know who or why. But Gabriel Marshall does.”
Berta scowled. “I’m not surprised. You didn’t get a sense of someone having been in your office who didn’t belong—aside from Marshall?”
“None. And I’m tuned to that sort of thing. I know if someone has been in my home who doesn’t belong.”
“Maybe it was someone who did belong. Have those security people been in your apartment?”
“Yes, but other than last night, it’s been at least six months.”
“Had any repairs done?”
“None. Believe me, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of who it could be. Tell me everything you know about Gabriel Marshall.”
“Apparently I don’t know everything. I didn’t know he was psychokinetic.”
I grinned. “Is that why you kept your gun on him?”
“That and he just pisses me off.”
“I can see how he’d do that. Neither you nor Rees likes him. May I ask what he did to earn it?”
“Marshall works for the CIA, but they’ve been known to greenlight his ‘cooperation’ with other agencies if the CIA wants to be owed a big favor.”
“He lets himself be used as currency? That’s surprising.”
“No one uses Gabriel Marshall, and he doesn’t take orders. He’s a wild card, but he’s good at what he does, so the CIA lets him call the shots.” She paused. “Literally.”
“He’s an assassin?”
“He was, and probably still is. He’s more of a fixer. When there’s a big mess, Marshall cleans it up—and if it can’t be cleaned, he makes it go away.”
“Including people.”
“Last year, we were close to busting a human trafficking ring that was operating out of Baltimore. Locals were running the ring, but the strings were being pulled further up. Russian mafia. We had a lead on the boss, Dimitri Arkolev, a Russian-American who split his time between New York and Moscow. His lieutenant was running the Baltimore operation on the side for himself. We got the lieutenant, but we wanted Arkolev. So did the CIA. He was an arms dealer. Not a big player, but getting there. We wanted him alive to prosecute and give us more names. The CIA wanted him as a bargaining chip. Arkolev was a weasel who’d made a lot of enemies, powerful enemies who had information the CIA wanted—for a price. That price was Arkolev dead. Enter Gabriel Marshall. I don’t know if he pulled the trigger himself, or just made the arrangements. That hit bought us information to prevent an attack on two US Army bases in Turkey and Syria.”
“Human lives used as currency, and Gabriel Marshall is the collection agent.”
“Pretty much. Though that operation resulted in one bad guy gone, and hundreds of American lives saved. I can’t fault the math. But that wasn’t the only time Gabriel Marshall has forced his way into one of our investigations and scooped up our perp. The CIA will only cooperate with other agencies if there’s something in it for them, but they sure as hell don’t share their catches.”
“I didn’t think they could operate on US soil.”
“That’s where the ‘cooperation’ with other agencies comes into play. Marshall always has whatever credentials he needs when he needs them.”
“Wonder who he’s cooperating with now? A senator and his aide are dead, killed in t
heir Capitol Hill office. Marshall was there—and knew why I was there. Julian said that David warned him, so Barrington is involved in some way. He’s in the wind, and Marshall is looking for him. I think it’s safe to say we’re all looking for Julian and Alan’s killer.”
Berta flashed a fierce grin. “We’ll get him. Gabriel Marshall’s not gonna steal this one. Are you sure the man you sensed in Pierce’s office wasn’t Marshall?”
“Positive.”
“That means we have two assassins to tangle with.”
“Lucky us,” I muttered.
CHAPTER 20
We had a copy of the photo of David Barrington from Julian’s office. It was more recent than any that’d been found online, and definitely better than his CIA ID, which looked more like a mug shot.
Barrington wasn’t CIA in the sense that Gabriel Marshall was CIA. He was a doctor, a scientist, presumably not used to moving around undercover. However, he had been a Marine in an infantry unit in Vietnam.
Barrington had made a phone call from one of the extended-stay hotels that had sprung up like a ring of mushrooms around the Beltway.
“These are great places for hiding and blending in,” Berta said as she pulled into the parking lot. “You get all kinds of people, and no one pays much attention to anyone else. It’s Joe Q. Government Contractor’s home away from home. There always seem to be plenty of bars nearby. Makes coming back at the end of the day to glorified cheap-ass furniture bearable.”
“I take it you’ve stayed in one before.”
Berta nodded. “It’s about all you can afford on an FBI expense account. Though the free breakfast bars are good.”
Grandad called extended-stay hotels storage units for people. They often had a leading hotel chain’s name attached to the words “home,” “extended stay,” “suites,” or the like. They tried to make the logo or the outside of the building look like something other than what it was—a place to put your stuff, nuke a Hot Pocket, and sleep while you were in town doing what you wanted to get done so you could go back home to your family and/or dog.
