He was wearing a tailored suit, a little crumpled from nine hours behind his desk, partnered with a white shirt and red tie. He had black skin, short dark hair going gray around the temples and coarse stubble on his chin from forgetting to shave the night before.
“You know, my wife’s going to kill me,” Ward said, as the elevator doors slid open. “I said I’d be home three hours ago.”
Special Agent Jack Marshall offered a curt nod in response. He looked like the typical agent type, slick and conservative. “I’m sure she’ll understand, sir.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” The director stepped inside and punched in his access code. Marshall sidled up next to him as the doors closed with a disconcerting rattle. “You know, they’ve been talking about renovating for years,” Ward said. “God knows where they’ll find the budget. We’ve got pieces of goddamn wall falling off and all they can talk about is cutbacks.”
“Yes, sir,” said Marshall, as the elevator began its descent.
“So, you gonna tell me what this is all about? Burke was keeping tight-lipped on the phone.”
“Protocol, sir.”
“Right. In-person only, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I take it you’re not the person to tell me?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Well, that’s bureaucracy for you,” said Ward. “Give me a field assignment any day; beats the hell out of department meetings and paperwork.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Talkative guy, aren’t you?”
Marshall nodded. “We’re here, sir.”
The elevator rumbled to a standstill and the doors opened, revealing the portly outline of Deputy Director of the FBI Franklin Burke. He wore an immaculate suit, his FBI service medals pinned to the lapels. And he didn’t look happy.
“Thank you for coming, Director,” Burke said. “I apologize for the cloak-and-dagger approach, but I think you’ll agree it was necessary.”
“I might, if someone would tell me what the hell is going on,” Ward replied, stepping out into the corridor. “It’s not every day I get summoned down to the holding rooms.”
Burke shook his head. “It’s not every day we have to deal with a situation like this. Follow me, sir.” He turned and headed off down the corridor. “We’ll just get you signed in and I’ll brief you myself.”
Ward nodded and kept pace, with Marshall taking up the rear. At the end of the hallway, Burke swiped his security ID and pushed through a set of heavy double doors, leading through to a windowless reception area. A pair of armed agents stood guard behind the visitors’ desk. They beckoned the three over as they entered.
“Just press your thumb down here, sir,” Marshall said, pointing at the fingerprint reader mounted into the console.
“I know the drill,” said Ward. He obliged and one of the agents nodded as the computer verified his identify. Burke and Marshall followed suit.
After signing in, the deputy director led them through to a stuffy conference room and shut the door. A small projector was mounted to the ceiling, hooked up to an ancient computer bolted onto the desk. “Again, my apologies for keeping you late, director.”
“Don’t mention it.” Ward sat down. “So, what’s going on?”
Marshall took a seat opposite.
“There was an incident earlier this evening,” Burke continued. “Caught us on our asses. A man walked into the main lobby at around six p.m., apparently having trailed in behind a group of night shift workers, and set off pretty much every alarm system we’ve got.”
“He pulled a gun?” Ward asked.
“No. Never even made a move. Simply breezed up to one of the booths and handed over his passport. We ran the ID and it triggered an automatic lockdown.”
“Why the hell is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
Burke shifted in his seat. “Obviously, we get a lot of crackpots. We had to run due diligence. Turns out this guy’s legit. A bona fide person of interest just strolls on up to the FBI headquarters and turns himself over – that’s not something we see too often. Says he came to speak with you personally, sir”
“Who is he?”
“He’s gone by several aliases: George Carlill, Thomas Harding, and Raymond Finch, to name a few. He was active two decades ago, but nothing recent.”
“The names ring a bell,” Ward said. “But this is all a little before my time. Why does he want to talk to me?”
“He wouldn’t say. Didn’t speak one word after we took him into custody.”
“No request for a lawyer?”
“I think he knows he wouldn’t get one, sir.”
Ward chewed his bottom lip. “What’s our interest in this guy? Do we have a sheet?”
“Probably better we show you, sir.” Burke turned to Marshall. “Load it up.”
The special agent nodded and turned on the projector. After a few seconds of flickering, the desktop came into view and Marshall signed in to the FBI database. “These records go back about twenty years,” he said, scrolling through a list of text and image files. “The security systems flagged about two dozen case reports and profiles. The most interesting of which is this.” He pulled the document up and it filled the screen.
“Holy shit,” Ward said, a little louder than he intended.
“My exact words when I saw this, sir,” Burke replied. “We checked fingerprints, DNA, and dental records and confirmed the match. He’s had reconstructive surgery on his face over the years, but you can’t fool the DNA results.”
“He’s a ghost,” Marshall said, scrolling through the document. “Hit the Most Wanted List early in his career, then disappeared from the radar for over fifteen years. Intelligence figured he’d either been killed or he retired.”
“In this line of work, they’re one and the same,” said Ward. “Shit, how the hell did we let this guy fall through the cracks? If this is even close to accurate,” he pointed at the screen, “this man is responsible for at least eighteen separate acts of terrorism on foreign and domestic soil. And who knows how many others he could have helped orchestrate. Is the CIA in on this?”
“No, sir.” Burke shook his head. “After we verified his identity, you were the first person we informed.”
“Good. Keep them out of the loop for as long as you can. As long as he’s here in the US, his ass is ours. I intend to keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir. How do you want us to handle it?”
“Set up a ring fence and get the attorney general on our side – he can smooth things over with The President if we need to bring this up. Issue a bulletin to CIA Director Franklin, but make sure it gets waylaid. I don’t want this coming back to bite us in the ass, so make it look like a computer glitch.”
“No problem, sir,” said Burke. “Marshall, get this thing rolling.”
“Yes, sir.” Marshall got up and left the room.
“Where are you holding him?” Ward asked, as the special agent closed the door.
“Level Zero. The area’s on full lockdown. Authorized access only.”
“Good. Let’s get down there and find out what he’s got to say for himself. I just need to make a quick phone call.”
“Sir?”
“My wife. It looks like I’m not going to make it home tonight after all.”
Chapter 5
LEVEL ZERO WAS the FBI’s dirty little secret. A legal loophole allowed for most terrorist suspects to be treated as enemy combatants – meaning the bureau’s laissez-faire approach to habeas corpus went largely overlooked – and Level Zero was where domestic suspects were held prior to a formal trial. If they ever got one.
Burke led Director Ward through to the viewing room, a secured area roughly the size of a squash court but with lower ceilings. A small team of agents manned the room and the walls were lined with banks of oversized computer monitors. One of the agents got up to greet the pair as they entered.
“Welcome to the dungeon, sir.” She stood a little un
der six feet tall, dressed in a conservative suit, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Ward wasn’t sure which one of them she was speaking to.
“This is Special Agent Carter,” Burke said. “She runs the ops team down here. Been keeping our guy under a microscope since he came in. Anything to report?”
“Vitals are normal,” she replied. “Pulse rate never goes above sixty-five beats per minute. He hasn’t said a word since you brought him down. He just sits there looking up into the camera. A little freaky, if you ask me.”
“Show me,” Ward said.
Carter waved the two men over to her workstation and unlocked the console. “Most of Level Zero is locked down from surveillance, for obvious reasons,” she said. “But we still have cameras in the cells and holding areas, and we can access them from up here.” The monitor lit up and displayed a black and white video image. “Here’s your man.”
Ward blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glare. The monitor showed the interior of one of the cells, a small eight-by-ten room with a sink, toilet, and cot (bed) bolted to the floor. The suspect sat serenely on the edge of the mattress, looking up at the camera. Thanks to the high-resolution lens, Ward could make out his features clearly: graying hair, a chiseled jaw and faint scars around the neck and eyes. His frame was trim and muscular, and he wore suit pants and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and cuffs. All things considered, the man looked perfectly at home. It was unnerving.
“You got a line to him?” Ward asked.
“Sure,” said Carter. “Just speak into this. You’ll be able to hear his responses through the speakers on the wall.” She pointed toward a slim microphone mounted on the desk. “Just press the red button when you’re ready.”
“Let’s see what this guy has to say.” He leaned in to the microphone and activated it. “This is Director Richard Ward. To whom am I speaking?”
Inside the cell, the man smiled and stood up, stepping closer to the camera. “Ah, Director Ward,” he said, his voice coming through loud and clear. “So kind of you to drop by. I thought you might have been delayed.”
“I was told you wanted to speak with me. Well, you’ve got my attention. What do you want?”
“We’ll get to that, don’t worry. I’m sure your wife and son are desperate to have you home.” His words cut through the air like a knife.
Ward felt his stomach clench. “I feel like this conversation is going to be a little one sided,” he said. “You know all about me, but I know nothing about you. Who are you? Why are you here?”
“You seem to be working under the assumption that you get to ask the questions,” the man replied. “I asked to speak with you because we both know how this works – you’re the only person here who can get things done. So why don’t you settle down and pay attention?”
“I’m listening,” Ward said. “But if I don’t hear something that makes this little trip worthwhile, I’ve got a team of agents who are just dying to have a chat. Like you said, I know exactly how this works.”
The man smiled and tilted his head. “In 1997 the FBI and the CIA sanctioned thirteen operations designed to disrupt Middle Eastern oil interests in the US. Over the course of twelve months, more than fifteen agents were killed in the line of duty. The details of the campaigns were never reported and the deaths were blamed on terrorist cells. In truth, after the operations failed, the agents were stranded undercover and left to die. Their families never knew what happened.”
“How the hell...?”
“In 2000, the US government accepted funds from liberation movements in Angola and Sierra Leone. The money came straight from the diamond cartels. Naturally, the cash was used to fund weapons development. Many of those weapons ended up in Iraq and Iran – used to help the natives fight and kill each other. Clearing a path for later, so to speak.”
“Where are you getting this information?”
“In the summer of 2004, the FBI traced a human trafficking syndicate down in Florida. You used the immigrants as moles for your own ends, under threat of deportation. For those who survived, you sent them home anyway. Most likely to face imprisonment or execution for trying to flee.”
Ward gripped the microphone a little tighter. “So, this is extortion? You want something from me?”
The man laughed. “No, Mr. Ward. I’m merely giving you an idea of who you’re dealing with.”
“What do you want?” Ward asked again.
“I’m here to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
He stepped closer to the camera. “All of you. But that will have to wait – the person I need to speak to isn’t here yet.”
“Then why ask for me?”
“Because you can bring him to me. And you can make him listen.”
Ward gritted his teeth. “Who are we talking about?”
“That question I will answer,” the man said. “There’s only one person who can understand the implications of what I’ve got to say. I need you to find him and get him here.” He paused. “I need you to bring me Leopold Blake.”
Chapter 6
THE MEAL HAD been excellent. An appetizer of grilled scallops with truffle oil followed by pork belly and Dauphinoise potatoes had left Leopold feeling tired and sated. The bottle of Chablis hadn’t helped with his energy levels, either. Now close to eleven p.m., and with his solitary dinner settling in his stomach, Leopold rode the elevator up to his penthouse apartment and considered whether or not he should finish the night with a glass of brandy.
The elevator doors opened up into his hallway and he stepped out, hanging his coat up on the stand as he made his way toward the kitchen. As usual, the cavernous apartment resembled a bombsite – papers and files stacked knee-high on the floor, books everywhere – but at least it was clean. Leopold passed by the study and the guest bedrooms, neither of which he used, and was about to step through into the living room when the sound of music stopped him in his tracks. The melodies were muted, but the unmistakable riffs of Miles Davis’ “Bye Bye Blackbird” were coming from somewhere in the house.
Leopold whipped around. To his left stood a tall bookshelf, just next to an empty wall where the faint outlines of long-removed photograph frames were still visible. Since the accident that claimed his parents’ lives, Leopold had taken down most of the old family portraits and had given up trying to find suitable replacements some time ago. Behind the wall, the music seemed to get louder and Leopold leaned in and knocked on the plaster.
The music stopped.
“Whatever you’re doing, keep the noise down,” he called out.
No response.
“Don’t make me come in there.”
The music started up again. Leopold sighed and reached up toward a light fixture hanging overhead. He located the hidden switch and pressed it. “You know I hate this damn thing.”
A metallic clunk sounded and the bookcase shuddered. Leopold grabbed hold of a shelf and pulled, swinging the unit outward on its hinges. Behind, a steel door with a keypad mounted onto the metal stared out at him. He punched in the code and the door slid open.
“It’s getting late, Jerome,” he said, as the interior came into view. “And this is a panic room, not a storage closet.”
Jerome stood in the center of the floor, a selection of handguns laid out on a steel table in front of him in several pieces. Despite the late hour, he wore his usual uniform: a well-tailored Armani suit, the fabric almost as dark as his coal-black skin, with a white shirt and silk tie.
“You only cleaned those a few days ago,” Leopold said, stepping inside. The panic room was large enough for six or seven people to stand comfortably side by side, but the harsh fluorescent lights and flat panel monitors mounted into the walls made it look a lot smaller.
“It gives me something to do,” Jerome said, picking up the guide rod from a Glock 30. “Besides, it’s my job to make sure these things work when they need to.”
The stereo system switched to the next track.
“We shou
ld really work on getting the soundproofing fixed in here,” said Leopold. “It hasn’t been the same since they put in the new systems.”
“I’m a bodyguard, not a plasterer.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Dinner didn’t go well, I take it?” Jerome said. He wiped the rod down with a cloth.
“The dinner part was fine,” said Leopold. “It was the lack of company that bothered me.”
“Your contact didn’t show?”
“He was there. I wasn’t. He bolted.”
“I’m betting Sergeant Jordan wasn’t impressed.”
“Is she ever?”
“Point taken.” Jerome finished with the guiding rod and picked up the slide. “So what’s the next move?”
“We’ll need to go through the French legal system. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“I meant; what’s the next move with Sergeant Jordan?”
Leopold frowned. “There is no ‘next move.’ She’s pissed off, but she’ll get over it. I got there a little late; it’s no big deal. Not with everything else going on.”
“Maybe she doesn’t see it that way.”
“Like you said; you’re a bodyguard. You’re not a shrink.”
Jerome shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He finished with the Glock’s slide and placed it back on the table. He started putting the gun back together. “But you know I’m right.”
Leopold opened his mouth to reply, but found himself cut off by his cell phone ringing. He pulled out the handset and checked the incoming number.
“You going to get that?” Jerome asked.
“It’s a blocked number. And it’s getting late.”
“Only a handful of people know how to get hold of you on that thing. It might be important.”
“More important than a decent night’s sleep?”
“They’ll only call back. Better get it over with.”
Fallen: A Leopold Blake Thriller (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers Book 5) Page 2
