by Jack Bowie
“No. No labs, no bugs. But Terry did have a plastic molding made.”
“Some kind of weapon?”
“I don’t know. Quantico’s got it too.”
“Damn. Doesn’t sound like anything that’s gonna get us very far. I was hoping we’d have an ID by now.”
“Well, we’d better find something soon,” Bradley said shaking his head. “From what I hear, all the rest of the teams are coming up empty too. And D.C.’s flipping out. Somebody’s head must be in a vice.”
“Hey, Randy,” called a female agent sticking her head out from under the desk. “What do you make of this?”
* * *
“Tell me again why I’m sitting in this car with you,” Braxton asked. Of all the places he could be on a gorgeous Monday morning, sitting in the back of a stretch limousine with Roger Slattery was pretty low on his list.
“I told you everything I know, Adam,” the agent responded. “I got a call from my boss, Deputy Director Markovsky, saying he wanted me to bring you to the White House.”
Braxton let the use of his first name slide by. No point in making an awkward situation worse. “Why does he want to talk to me? And at the White House?”
“Don’t know why. As to the where, if he has to be in the White House, he’ll sometimes just squeeze short appointments between other meetings. Sit back and enjoy yourself. Have you been to the White House before?”
“Not by invitation. How about you?”
“A few times. Most of them not ones I like to remember. Nothing like this.”
Braxton hoped the agent was right. He had actually been taking the day off, finally getting a chance to finish reading the Sunday Post in his Falls Church apartment. Slattery’s call had been quite a shock. At first he had been skeptical, concerned about some CIA plot against him, but the agent’s near pleading tone had finally convinced him. He had cleaned up—it was the White House—and waited for the limo.
They rolled through the Southwest Gate and pulled to a stop. As they got out, Braxton noticed three commercial vehicles along the driveway, their sides proclaiming North Capital Landscaping, Central Irrigation, and Washington Audio Systems.
“What’s going on?” Braxton asked his host as they passed into the West Wing Entrance.
“Oh, probably just sprucing up for the ceremony on Wednesday.”
“The signing of the intelligence exchange agreement?”
“Yeah, another big photo op for the administration. Gotta have everything look good.”
“You’re not happy with the agreement? I would have thought this would be a big help to you.”
“It’s nothing but a chance for the big chiefs to ruffle their feathers for the voters. Everybody agrees to play nice and share their intel, unless of course it involves information collected on their partners. There’s still too much parochial thinking in the world. It’s just another ‘feel-good’ announcement that makes the good guys look better, but won’t stop the bad guys.”
“Why Agent Slattery, you’re not the federal lackey I thought you were.”
Slattery glared back at Braxton who only returned a toothy smile. It was the least he could do in return for the agent’s ruining of his day.
They passed easily through the Secret Service check-in and down a long hall. Braxton looked into one large room and saw a crowd milling around. A few looked up as they passed.
“The Press Briefing Room,” Slattery commented.
As they walked farther down the hallway, Braxton was struck with the quiet of the residence. He felt that he should talk in whispers, as a small statement of respect. The most powerful man in the world lived and worked here. It wouldn’t do to disturb his concentration.
A short elegantly-dressed man met them around one corner.
“You must be Mr. Braxton,” he said extending his hand. “I’m Peter Markovsky, Deputy Director of the CIA. Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
Braxton returned the firm handshake. “Mr. Slattery was very insistent, Mr. Markovsky. But I would like to know why I’m here.”
“Of course. A few of us had some additional questions for you. This seemed to be the most convenient place to get together.”
“Convenient?” Braxton asked.
“Yes. One of those interested is the Director of National Intelligence.”
Braxton looked over to Slattery and saw that the agent was as surprised as he was.
“Please, follow me,” Markovsky said.
The trio had started down the hall when the Deputy Director turned to his agent.
“I can take Mr. Braxton from here, Roger. We’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Braxton saw Slattery fall behind, another surprised look on his face, as he and Markovsky continued down the hall. If he hadn’t been in the White House, he would have felt like a death row convict being escorted for a last, long walk.
They stopped, and Markovsky opened a door. “This is the Roosevelt Room,” he said.
It was a relatively plain room, furnished with comfortable chairs and Early American reproductions. Two features stood out. The first was a rousing equestrian portrait of Teddy Roosevelt hanging above a fireplace mantel. The second was a grim man sitting at one side of a long conference table. Braxton recognized him as General Steven Carlson, the Director of National Intelligence. There was no one else in the room.
Markovsky paused for a moment, perhaps waiting for Carlson to stand, but the DNI stayed put. Finally, Markovsky concluded the introduction. “Ah, General Carlson, this is Mr. Adam Braxton. Mr. Braxton, I’m sure you recognize DNI Carlson.”
“General Carlson,” Braxton said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Sit down, please.” It was an order. Markovsky and Braxton took seats opposite the DNI.
“First of all, Mr. Braxton,” Carlson began, “I am aware of your relationship with Agent Slattery and the CIA. While I do not agree with the Agency’s, or their friends’, handling of this Yang affair, I do sympathize with their desire to keep secret the loss of a critical intelligence capability. As a civilian, I will also ignore your clumsy efforts at making contact with the Chinese scientist which undoubtedly cost him his life. I place this blame on Mr. Markovsky.”
“General,” Braxton responded, “I really don’t think . . .”
“Braxton, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think. You’re here to listen, not to talk. The obviously ill-conceived request by the CIA,” Carlson glared at Markovsky, “did not give you the authority to go breaking into commercial buildings and destroying invaluable private property. They should know better than to send a wit-less scientist on an intelligence mission.”
“Wit-less scientist?” What was he talking about? Did he know about Vision One? But we didn’t destroy anything!
“I don’t know what you thought you were doing sneaking around the Vision One facility, and I really don’t care. I just want to make it perfectly clear that you are never to discuss your little escapade with anyone, and should you attempt to do so, you will find yourself in a federal prison for the rest of your life. I believe you are familiar with these confidentiality requirements.”
What was Carlson doing? Braxton had never been spoken to like this in his life. And Markovsky seemed as shocked as he did. The Deputy Director’s face was scarlet. Had the DNI lost his mind?
“General. I don’t understand. We didn’t destroy anything! Sydney Marino and I found . . .”
“Damn it, Braxton, shut the hell up!” Carlson’s voice echoed through the room. “The ephemeral Miss Marino, eh? Well, perhaps she’ll verify your story. If we ever find her. She seems to have disappeared. And I suppose it would come as a surprise to you that the underground security vault at Vision One in Utrecht was destroyed last night? Luckily they had another backup of all their documents off premises. We don’t have any proof of your involvement in that fire, but it is quite a coincidence don’t you think?”
“Vault?” Braxton exclaimed. “It wasn’t a vault it was . . .”
“What now, Mr. Braxton? You’re going to tell us it was some nefarious secret laboratory?” Carlson shook his head. “We are all aware of the unfortunate death of your ex-wife. I suppose I can understand your need to blame someone. But this doesn’t allow you to go off and create shadow conspiracies. I suggest you go back to your cubicle and keep a very low profile. Now get out of here before I change my mind about being so lenient.”
Markovsky looked around as if he didn’t know what to do, then stood up and pulled Braxton off his chair.
“Thank you, General,” the Deputy Director said demurely.
“Thank you for what?” Braxton whispered to Markovsky when they were out of the hall. Getting no response, Braxton simply fumed to himself. As he passed the Secret Service guards he saw a look of disdain in their eyes. He had no doubt that Carlson’s outbursts had made it outside the small room.
“See that Mr. Braxton gets home safely, Roger,” Markovsky finally said when they met Slattery in the entryway. “And give me a call when you get back.” The Deputy Director immediately turned away and disappeared into another hallway.
“Ready to go back, Adam?” Slattery said cheerfully.
“You can go to hell, Slattery,” Braxton whispered. “All of you!”
He walked up to the nearest Marine guard. “I presume I can get a taxi around here?”
Chapter 49
Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
Monday, 10:30 a.m.
“That’s the status of the investigation, General. It’s clear Vision One has been withholding critical information on their progress. How would you like us to proceed?” Captain Edward Fraser closed the folder in front of him and looked over to the imposing figure at the end of the table.
Army General William Robert Yancey, head of the Defense Intelligence Agency, tapped his fingers on the long conference table. The sound echoed like a war drum through the small room. Splayed on the walls of the sanctum were the photographs of distinguished officers and commemorative plaques recognizing heroic deeds performed by their agency. Unfortunately, most were unknown except by the few who frequented these halls. Even their sister agency, the CIA, was at least glamorized by the public. The DIA acted in the background, their work unappreciated, and usually demeaned, by the rest of the intelligence community. This was a perception not lost on the attendees of the meeting.
“That’s an issue we’ll have to take up later, Ed. Right now, the most important thing is to make sure our tracks are covered. We have to find some way to recover from your screw-up, wouldn’t you say Lieutenant?”
Yancey turned to the only other figure in the room. Army Lieutenant Sydney Walker, Intelligence Analyst II, looked up from her notes and returned her General’s penetrating stare. She had known the briefing would come down to this confrontation. Walker took a deep breath and began her defense.
“I don’t see how I could have reacted any differently, sir. The civilian had an agenda that was in direct convergence with ours. I felt it was critical that we intersect Mr. Braxton’s initiative if only to mediate any adverse incidents. As a result we were able to develop new intelligence that supported our hypothesis.”
“But in doing so, you blew your cover. Your behavior eliminated any opportunity to return you to Vision One. You screwed up, Lieutenant, and put the operation in jeopardy.”
She glanced over to Fraser for support, but he refused to acknowledge her.
Not a big surprise. Her boss was an Academy lowest-quartile whose main goal was to avoid doing anything that would draw attention to his incompetence.
“Braxton would have been exposed in any case, and perhaps captured,” she replied. “My identification was unfortunate, but there is still no evidence that Vision One suspects my real mission. We can just confront them with the evidence.”
“I hardly think your word would stand up in an inquiry, Lieutenant. The courts don’t look kindly to breaking and entering.”
“We didn’t . . .”
“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant,” Yancey barked. “We obviously should have sent a more experienced man to do this job. Your little midnight affair with the civilian may have blown our only chance to find out what is really going on at Vision One.”
“There must be something . . .” Walker pleaded.
“There’s an inspection team on the way now, Lieutenant,” Fraser finally replied. “They’ll be at Vision One tomorrow.”
“And you better hope they find something to support your story, little lady,” Yancey concluded. “Or I’ll have your ass in Alaska inspecting igloos for security violations.”
* * *
“What the hell happened in there?” Slattery screamed into the telephone.
“Roger,” Markovsky calmly replied. “I thought you’d be calling. What did our Mr. Braxton have to say after the meeting?”
“He told me to go to hell and took a taxi home. I’ve been trying to get you for hours!”
“I just got back to the office. It’s been quite a day.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“You’d never believe it. Carlson reamed your friend’s ass. He implied he knew all about our game with Claude. I gathered he didn’t think much of our strategy, but it was Braxton’s extra-curricular activities that really pissed him off.”
“What activities?”
“You remember his ex-wife got killed a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with us?”
“Apparently he thinks her employer, some company called Vision One, had something to do with her death. So when he was in Amsterdam, he and a lady friend go and sneak around the place. They broke into some secure area. God knows what else they did. Carlson was purple with rage. I thought he was going to put the guy under house arrest. He said if he ever heard of him again he’d throw him in Leavenworth.”
Shit! That was why Braxton agreed to go to Amsterdam. So we could pay for his goddamn B&E.
“Who was this friend of his?”
“Some woman named Marino. Carlson didn’t seem too worried about her though. Mostly just chewed out Braxton.”
Marino? So that was Fowler’s game. He and Braxton are still working together.
“So what do we do now?” Slattery asked.
“With Braxton, not a goddamn thing. Don’t talk to him. Don’t go near him. I don’t believe you knew what this asshole was going to do, but we can’t give Carlson any more ammunition. Just keep working with Flynn and the rest of the advisory group. We do have a real problem to solve.”
Slattery hated to bring it up, but he hadn’t had a chance to talk to his boss in days. And the story had smelled funny from the beginning. “Have you read my report on Braxton?”
“Yes.” The response was cold and flat.
“What do you think about what Yang said about Robinson? Any chance he’s lying to us about the algorithm?”
“Why? What would it gain him?”
“I don’t know, but it’s put us in one helluva position.”
“I can’t believe it. Robinson’s ass is in a vise for not getting the algorithm out of Yang. Claude would never put up with it.”
“If he knew. Did you say Carlson knew about IMAGER?”
“It seemed like it.”
“Who told him? And why?”
There was a pause on the phone. “Good question, Roger. I suppose Claude could have felt there would be too much pressure. But he should have told me first. I’ll find out.”
“Anything else, Peter?” Slattery replied in the most sarcastic tone he could manage.
“No. Bad luck getting caught in this, Roger. Just keep your head down for a while. If I find out what really set Carlson off, I’ll get back to you. Oh, and don’t forget about the advisory group meeting this afternoon.”
“Thanks. Just what I need is more face time with Carlson. I’ll bring my body armor.
“You know somebody’s stonewalling us, right? It could be Stroller, Robinson, or even Carlson. But we’d
better figure out who it is. And fast.”
* * *
Everything had been put in place, everything was ready. Gary hit the “Send” key and relaxed for the first time in months.
CHARLIE on schedule.
HALFTIME preparations complete. Ready to execute.
Tyler camp compromised. All connections destroyed.
He swallowed the handful of pills and closed his eyes. How much time did he have left? Enough to spend the bounty he had collected?
It really didn’t matter. The money was simply a way to keep score. What did those religious fanatics know about real terrorism? Indiscriminate bombs. Suicide squads. They were nothing. He was the best. He had told his bosses and they had laughed at him. Well, they weren’t laughing now.
The move on Tyler had been faster than he had expected. He doubted the FBI could have done it by themselves, the Agency was undoubtedly involved. Even the gut-less bureaucrats would have recognized the threat by now.
Wicks was a particularly unfortunate loose end. The spine-less sycophant would spill his guts if the FBI pinched him. There wasn’t much he could tell, and the booby trap had done its work, but the error bothered the mercenary’s sense of closure. Under other circumstances he would have sanctioned the informant on principle, but the damage was done and he had another assignment to complete.
He had had to leave Tyler quickly but had found a motel in Phenix City where he could go to ground. He was about to leave this latest home when his cell phone chimed a new message. He clicked it open and read the text.
Consultant becoming dangerous.
Sanction approved.
Mail from the Commander was very unusual. They had decided direct field communication should be minimized. The plans had been finalized months ago; every step worked out in excruciating detail, every option listed and prioritized. There was no need for polite thank-you’s. Just concise status updates.
Gary shook his head. The request was ill-timed. He still had a few last-minute duties left, but it wouldn’t do to cross his paymaster. He would take care of the primary mission then handle this new one. It shouldn’t take too long.
