“Good work, Norm, we’ve got a lead …”
They filled him in on what they learned about Judge Adams.
“Dicey proposition, I get that you have to interview him, but if he’s involved in this, he’s going to know you’re on to him. Wiretaps?” asked Stryker.
“Not a chance,” said Alvarez. “We have no evidence, we’d never get a warrant for this.”
“Well, there are other ways …”
“We can’t go there, Norm, at least not at this juncture. When we put this together, it has to be bullet proof,” said Alvarez.
Chapter 20
The next morning Kintrell and Alvarez made the fifty-minute trip to the town of Villanova. Kintrell went by way of the Expressway to City Line Avenue then west on Route 30.
Villanova, made famous by the University that bears its name, is a beautiful community west of Philadelphia, nestled in the heart of the Main Line. Its zip code is the most expensive in the state of Pennsylvania. The median house listing price is just shy of one million four hundred thousand dollars. It is home to a little over nine thousand residents. Among those residents are professional athletes, celebrities, CEOs, lawyers, doctors and the occasional mobster—reformed, of course.
Kintrell pulled up to the gated driveway of the estate. He was about to reach out to a call box, that was within an arm length of his window, when the gates slowly swung open.
The driveway curved around to the left to reveal the house
The judge’s estate sat on five acres of meticulously landscaped grounds. The house was a stone structure with a terra cotta tiled roof. A narrow road snaked off the semi-circled courtyard that fronted the house and disappeared through a covered passageway that led from the house to what appeared to be a garage area. There was also a small carriage house sitting forty or fifty yards from the main house. They exited the car and as they approached the door, it opened to reveal a large black man who could have been a defensive lineman for the Packers. He was dressed in khaki pants, white cotton pullover and navy-blue blazer. The left lapel had, what Alvarez thought, was a miniature version of the trident that the Seals wear pinned to it.
“Agents Kintrell and Alvarez to see Judge Adams,” said Kintrell.
“May I see your credentials, please?”
Kintrell and Alvarez produced them. The man stepped aside.
They entered a small foyer area then passed through two cast iron inlaid doors to reveal a larger foyer, dominated by an exquisite staircase that ascended four or five steps to a landing then branched off in both directions, curling its way up the back wall of the foyer to the second floor. The foyer floor was marble, inlaid in an unusual pattern. The manservant/butler/security guard turned right off the foyer to a corridor, the walls of which were filled with what appeared to be French impressionist landscapes. Two doors on each wall led to other rooms. There were also nooks in the walls which held busts of famous Americans, Jefferson being one of them, as well as a bust, of whom Kintrell thought, was Voltaire. The corridor ended at a room some seventy-five feet away. Their guide stopped at the door, said, “Your guests have arrived, Your Honor,” then stood aside so they could enter.
“Thank you, Paul, and please have Hannah bring in some coffee,” said a deep voice out of sight of Kintrell and Alvarez.
Paul left the room silently, shutting the doors behind him after Kintrell and Alvarez entered the room.
Kintrell studied the man that came around the desk to greet them. Slate grey hair going to white, erect posture, warm, hazel-colored eyes, about five feet ten, Kintrell thought. The judge wore a maroon-colored cashmere sweater, grey slacks, a pale blue button-down shirt and black loafers. He appeared to be in pretty good shape for his age.
“Hello, I’m Michael Adams,” said the judge, shaking Kintrell’s hand.
“Special Agent Tom Kintrell, Your Honor, and this is Agent Laneva Alvarez.”
The judge turned to Alvarez and shook her hand. “How do you do, Agent Alvarez?”
“Nice to meet you, Your Honor.”
“Interesting name, Agent Alvarez. Did you know that your name, while found mostly in Hispanic or Hispanic derivative lands, actually originated with the Visigoths, fifth century Germanic warriors?”
“No, Your Honor, I didn’t know that.”
A muffled knock was heard at the door.
“Come in, Hannah,” said the judge.
An elderly woman in a crisp grey maid’s uniform entered bearing a silver tray containing a beautiful coffee pot, three cups, a sugar bowl with small spoon, and a glass cruet, filled with milk or cream. As she lay the tray on a small table to the right of the desk, the judge said, “Thank You, Hannah.” The maid smiled, nodded at the judge, and left the room.
“Sorry if you prefer decaf, I don’t stock it, I believe it defeats the purpose. Please help yourself,” said the judge.
Kintrell poured coffee in two of the cups, hesitated, raised his eyebrows at the judge and the judge nodded, saying, “Just half a cup for me please, I’ve already had my daily quota. I take it black, no additives.”
Kintrell poured a small amount into one of the cups then placed the cup in front of the judge.
“Thank you, now please sit down and tell me how I can be of service to the FBI,” said the judge.
As Kintrell sat down, he scanned the study—polished mahogany desk, photographs in framed silver of equal size facing the judge, a picture window directly behind the desk, overlooking the grounds. The curved wall to the right of the Judge held a large collection of books—legal tomes as well as classic and modern-day novels. The wall to the left of the judge held a fireplace surrounded by photos of the Judge with different presidents and notable political as well as business leaders, and a smattering of what Kintrell believed to be family. There was also a portrait of a much younger judge in Marine Corps Dress Blues and of a young man in desert camouflaged utilities, Kintrell thought, was probably the judge’s late son.
Alvarez started to speak. “Your Honor, as I mentioned on the phone, Agent Kintrell and I are investigating the recent killings of the senator and the two representatives. Judging from the precision and planning it took to carry out these killings, we believe they were orchestrated by persons with unique skill sets, people who know their way around explosives and sophisticated weaponry. People that most likely had specialized training, are disciplined, committed and supremely confident in their abilities. Where better to find such people than special operations personnel, most likely from our own country, former Navy Seals, Delta or Green Berets.”
Kintrell watched the judge carefully as Alvarez spoke.
“Most likely?” said the judge.
“Some of our analysts entertained the idea that these killings were carried out at the behest of a foreign government,” said Alvarez.
“So, you believe the men you now have in custody are what? Scapegoats?”
“Yes, sir, we do,” answered Kintrell. “As Agent Alvarez has said these attacks were meticulously orchestrated. The men in custody do not appear to have that level of sophistication.”
“Well, back to my original question, how can I be of help?”
“We know of your Foundation and the work you do with former special operators and their families. We were hoping you could perhaps put the word out for information, anything that might help us find out who is behind this,” said Kintrell.
The judge and Kintrell stared at each other for a few moments.
“Agent Kintrell, these men my Foundation help are America’s finest, as far as I’m concerned. They put themselves in harm’s way in the most dangerous places in the world. I think you know whereof I speak. When they are killed, more often than not, their families have no idea where or how they died. Some of those that make it back are broken men—men who relive the horrors of the terrible things they have seen and done in their dreams. They come home to a country that, for the most part, doesn’t give a damn what they and their families have sacrificed to keep us safe. When t
hey are killed the families receive a mere pittance as payment for a life of quiet heroism.”
“Do you agree, Your Honor, with what these men are trying to accomplish?” asked Alvarez.
“I’d venture to say that a majority of Americans believe in what these men are trying to accomplish, Agent Alvarez.”
“Do you believe that a majority of Americans believe in the means these men are employing, to achieve their end?” asked Kintrell.
“I couldn’t say, Agent Kintrell, but it’s an interesting question. Let me pose a question to you. Do you believe a majority of men in the north, at the start of the Civil War, thought it was a good idea to be drafted into a war to free the slaves in the south, or were they forced into it, without their consent, by a man who knew it was the right thing to do?”
“That’s a fair point, Your Honor, but Lincoln didn’t go around assassinating those in the Congress who disagreed with him about the war.”
“He might’ve, if he thought he could get away with it,” said the judge, laughing.
Kintrell laughed, in spite of himself.
As the judge rose, he said, “I’ll consider your request, Agent Kintrell, and also offer a word of advice. If these men are former operators, I should take care if I were you, for such men would prove deadly foes. I’ve enjoyed your visit,” said the judge, as he came around the desk.
The judge then extended his hand to both Kintrell and Alvarez.
“Come, I’ll walk you out,” said the judge.
“This is the most beautiful house I’ve ever been in, Your Honor,” said Alvarez as they walked the corridor that led to the foyer.
“Thank you, Agent Alvarez. It’s a pity there will be no one … to leave it to,” said the judge.
Before they left, Kintrell spoke up. “If I’m not mistaken, Your Honor, you have a bust of Voltaire in that corridor we just exited.”
“Yes, that’s correct, Agent Kintrell. Interesting man, Voltaire.”
“I agree, Judge, I believe it was he who said, ‘Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.’”
“Very good, Agent Kintrell. It’s unusual to find someone so well read, in law enforcement,” said the judge.
***
“Voltaire?” asked Alvarez.
“My mother was a professor of philosophy at Bryn Mawr,” said Kintrell.
“It’s him, huh, Tom?”
“Yeah, ninety-nine percent,” said Kintrell sadly. “He’s somehow put together a team to carry out this plan and when you come right down to it, he’s put these individuals in harm’s way. There will be no good outcome here, for him, his team or anybody else.”
“You like him though, don’t you, Tom?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think of him. We’re going to stop him, whatever it takes.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the trip back to the office.
When they arrived at the office, Kintrell requested a meeting with Dede.
After they were seated Alvarez said, “We think we know who’s behind this, Boss.”
They laid out what they had. After they were finished Dede said, “It’s a bit thin. How certain are you?”
Kintrell then said, “It’s him, Dede, no doubt in my mind. He knows my background. He would have had to know I was with the Teams, and the only way he would know that is if he had access to my personnel file, which opens up another can of worms. We have a mole.”
“Shit,” said Dede.
“You’re going to have to bring Dixon in on this, you know.”
“I was hoping to have a little more evidence before I mentioned this to him,” said Kintrell.
Dede pondered this for a few moments.
“Okay, take two days and see what you can come up with.”
“Thanks, Dede.”
***
Kintrell placed a call to Stryker requesting a meet at the Capitol Grill Bar on Broad Street at 6:30 that evening. Stryker agreed. He also asked Alvarez to join them.
They met at the appointed time. Stryker ordered a Fire Rock pale ale, Alvarez a Bud Light, and Kintrell had a Glenlivet over ice.
The bar was packed so they adjourned to a small table out of earshot of the after-work crowd.
“We believe we know who’s behind these killings, but we have no direct evidence linking this person to the crimes,” said Alvarez.
“The judge, huh?” inquired Stryker.
“You may remember him from a few years ago, he was nominated to the Supreme Court but was never confirmed. Somebody put forth some bogus claims about him, which later proved false, but by that time the new administration had been installed and that was the end of his chances.”
“So, what? He’s decided to kill these pols in retaliation?” said Stryker.
“There’s probably more to it than that, but that’s definitely a factor,” said Alvarez.
“So, what do we do?” asked Stryker.
“Before we do anything Norm, you should know that the judge knew who we were before we interviewed him, and there was a veiled threat,” said Kintrell.
“He said we should be careful, because if we were right about these guys being former Seals or Berets, our lives may be in jeopardy. He’s right about that, Norm, these guys are some of the most dangerous dudes on the planet and they know who we are, and we don’t yet know who they are, so now would be a good time for you to bow out. Alvarez and I are committed, we have no choice but to pursue this. You, on the other hand, don’t have to and if I were you, I’d walk away right now,” said Kintrell.
“Well shit, Tom, this kinda reminds me of a story I heard. A guy was making his first parachute jump, the instructor tells him to count to seven then pull the primary chord, if that doesn’t work, pull the secondary chord and a truck will be nearby when you land to pick you up and take you back to base. So, the time comes, and the guy jumps out of the plane, counts to seven and pulls the primary, nothing happens. He then pulls the secondary, again nothing happens. As he accelerates towards impact, he says to himself, Bet that fuckin’ truck won’t be there either.”
They all chuckled a bit.
“In for a penny, et cetera,” said Stryker. “And besides, maybe they don’t know about me?”
“On a positive note, these guys appear to be averse to collateral damage. They’ll also realize that both the Bureau and Philly PD will leave no stone unturned if one of their personnel are assassinated,” said Kintrell.
“You are so full of shit, Kintrell,” laughed Stryker.
“Tom, I’ve been thinking, I don’t know if this is possible, but maybe your buddy … Wilkins? … at the NSA can somehow put a flag on that thread that led them to the guy in the coffee shop that sent the e-mail out,” said Alvarez. “If the NSA could somehow establish a trace on the laptop this guy used, we may be able to get a location.”
“The laptop in question would have to be on-line while they searched, and these guys have been very careful. That laptop may be sitting at the bottom of a lake as we speak,” said Stryker.
“Good idea, Lanny, and yeah Norm, you may be right about them being careful. They did, however, make one mistake in leaving that partial boot print behind at the compound, which reminds me. I haven’t heard from forensics about that. It’s probably too late now, but I’ll call down tomorrow about the boot and then place a call to NSA.”
***
The following morning Kintrell called forensics.
“Thurber here.”
“Matt, Tom Kintrell here, have you dug anything up on that partial boot print found at the compound?”
“The tread pattern matches a Salomon Quest 4d GTX boot that Seals and spec ops favor. Can’t tell you the exact size but it’s probably not any bigger than a size ten, judging from the size of the tread. The residue on the bottom of the fence was soil that can be found at the site, and probably was deposited by someone shimmying into or out of the compound.”
“Thanks, Matt,” said Kintrell.
Kintr
ell then placed a call to the NSA.
“Wilkins here.”
“Chuck, Tom Kintrell …”
“I know, you need a favor.”
“Hey, is that any way to treat one of your homeys?”
“You’re right, buddy, let me rephrase, what can I do for you now, that will probably get me fired, and ruin my kids’ chances of ever going to college?” said Wilkins.
“That’s more like it …”
“What is it this time, perv?” said Wilkins.
“Simple, the laptop that sent the e-mail that you guys tracked down for us. I just need you to find it again,” said Kintrell.
“Oh, is that all? I’ll just re-task a couple satellites for what? Twenty-four hours or so. Do you have any idea the amount of shit that will land on my head for doing that, without authorization from the highest levels?”
“Let me see what I can come up with,” said Kintrell.
Kintrell thought about approaching Dixon but was pretty sure Dixon would not only shoot the idea down, but also forbid him from pursuing it, so he decided to call an old friend.
***
“Hello?”
“Tom Kintrell here, Rick, listen I have you on speakerphone, my partner is with me.”
“Tommy me boy, how the fuck are ya?”
“Good, Rick. Er … my partner’s name is Lanny. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Where are you, and what’s your schedule look like the next couple days?”
“I’m in New York for the next two days, then I head back to Idaho. Can we talk about it over the phone?”
“No, I’d prefer to do it in person. I can catch a train and see you some time tonight.”
“Sounds great, I’m at the Ritz Carlton, just off the Park. There’s a lounge here called Contour, nice little place, quiet and somewhat private,” said Rick. “How about staying overnight?”
Termination Limits: Tom Kintrell Book 1 (Tom Kintrell Thriller Series) Page 12
