by Jason Briggs
I scanned my badge at the front gate and drove my truck into the parking lot. I parked facing the water, and in the distance I saw a couple boats cruising over the calm water, the water spreading out behind them.
I stepped out of the truck and was greeted by a gentle breeze coming off the water. Above me palm fronds whispered and lulled lazily through the air. I strolled to the employee entrance at the side of the building, scanned my badge, and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. The first floor of the building was for support staff, crime lab, and IT. On the north end was a small weapons armory containing assault rifles, body armor, flashbang grenades, night-vision goggles, and the like. I said hello to the security guard who seemed to be concerned with a game he was playing on his phone.
Kathleen calling me in on a Saturday prompted me to take the stairs two at a time. I opened the stairwell door and stepped out onto a carpeted floor dotted with desks, cubicles, and floor-to-ceiling windows that served to lighten the entire space. Kathleen’s at a corner office was at the other end of the floor and I made my way to it. As far as I could tell she was the only one up here. I often got work done on a Saturday, especially if an investigation was coming to a head, but it was usually fieldwork. Other than a quick stop to check out a couple of assault rifles and some body armor, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d come into the office on a weekend.
I rapped lightly on her open door and stepped in.
“Ryan,” she said. “Thanks for coming in. Have a seat.”
Kathleen Rose was two years over fifty. She kept her graying brown hair a dark chestnut and trimmed to just above her shoulders. She was slim, of average height, and I was pretty sure that today was the first time I’d seen her when she wasn’t wearing a business suit. Instead, she wore black jeans and a blue collared blouse. Dressed down but incredibly classy.
Kathleen had recently come over to Homeland from the CIA. She was hardly out of college when the CIA sent her to Romania as an undercover operative at the tail end of the Cold War. In the thirty years since she had and spent three years as Brussell’s Chief of Station. Her interest in switching agencies and coming to Homeland was prickled by incessant politics at Langley and a personal desire to move to southern Florida to be near her sister. She was a top-rate professional and even though we butted heads from time to time, she commanded my full respect.
“I hope I’m not interrupting any weekend plans,” she said.
“I was planning on power washing the houseboat. Nothing that can’t wait.”
She swiveled in her chair and grabbed a piece of paper off the printer. She slid it into a blue folder, shut it, and laid it on her desk.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll get right to it. I got a call this morning from an old colleague who now works in D.C. He’s been a squeaky wheel about some concerning things he’s noticed within the Department of Defence.” She handed the file across her desk.
I took it and flipped it open.
She must have noticed the atypical blank look on my face. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” I blinked. “No—I’m not sure.”
“The most confident agent I’ve ever had working for me is stumped and looks a little shell-shocked. Want to explain?”
My eyes raked over the remainder of the papers in the file before coming to rest again on the image staring up at me.
It was a photo of William McCleary.
Chapter Eight
“Ryan?”
I looked back up. “I’m sorry. What’s this about?”
“William McCleary. Retired Army Colonel. He died last night.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“He was my former Battalion Commander.”
Kathleen’s face pinched into a frown. “You knew him?”
“That’s why I was in Miami. I was at his retirement party last night.”
She shook her head. “You would think that with all the intelligence resources we had around here that I would have made the connection.” She studied me for a moment. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”
“Thanks.” I tapped the file. “Why am I holding a file on him?”
“I suppose you know that he started an investigative firm that only does contract work for the government.”
“Yes.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Ryan, what do you think happened last night?”
I sighed. “I’m not sure. There are whispers of suicide or an accident. An accident?—no. And suicide...not a chance.”
“So you think he was murdered?”
“My gut says so. But I don’t have any facts to conclude that.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think your gut is right. And I’m not the only one. Tina Cox is the Miami PD investigator assigned to McCleary’s death. As of an hour ago, she was instructed to conclude that McCleary’s death was an accident. She’ll continue with her investigation and see what she can turn up. But in a few days, she’ll write up her report to that tune and close it out.”
“Instructed?”
“We don’t want to raise suspicion that anyone thinks there was foul play. He fell by accident, nothing more to say. It will look as if no one is the wiser and we’re all moving on. If Cox does find anything, like CCTV footage, or a witness saw something then she’ll forward that our way. However, I have a contact at the Pentagon who called me first thing this morning. He’s one of the few people, if not the only one who has any idea about what’s going on. He’s the individual who got McCleary involved in a case that he thinks led to his death.”
“What kind of case?” I asked.
“He won’t tell me. Not over the phone. Now that McCleary is dead my contact is pretty skittish and frankly, doesn’t know who to trust.”
“Why did he come to you?”
“For starters, because he trusts me. His name is Douglas Peterson. He worked with me at Langley for several years before moving over to Defense. And second, he came to me because the FID has such a low key presence within the intelligence community. Peterson is one of the directors of technologies at DARPA. He has an office in the Pentagon.”
DARPA was the acronym for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. DARPA was an arm of the Defense Department, responsible for the development of emerging technologies for use by the military. On one level it seemed like a bunch of nerds playing with a three billion dollar annual budget that allowed them to keep building science fair projects. The agency made headlines a few years ago when it revealed a new project called ‘Warrior Skin’, an exosuit intended to alleviate musculoskeletal stress on soldiers while carrying heavy loads. Other notable projects included a computer-derived rifle scope that combined various features into one optic, an autonomous robotic satellite-servicing project, and extensive research into various forms of cancer.
“Did he give any clues at all about what he gave to McCleary?”
She shook her head. “He’s terrified right now, and rightly so, if your former colonel's death wasn’t an accident. He trusts me and he’ll talk with whoever I put in front of him. So I’m sending you to D.C. to meet with him. He’s tossed his personal cell and is using a burner phone right now. You’ll find his number in the file.”
“When do I leave?”
“I know you just came from there, but your plane leaves out of Miami in just under four hours.”
“No private jet this time?” I asked.
“I need you as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing I want is for some mole on the inside of the intelligence community to check charters flying into D.C. You’re flying coach into Baltimore, then renting a car for the drive into D.C. Hotel arrangements are in the file. Speaking of which, when you’re done reviewing them, the files stay here at the office.”
“Okay. Are you putting Brad on this with me?”
“You’re working this one solo. The fewer people involved, the better. Besides, I need someone to locate that source in the Criswell case. If you get down the road on t
his and need his help, let me know. In the meantime, keep me updated. I’ll have my phone on me all weekend.”
I stood up and headed for her office door.
“Ryan.” I stopped and turned back. “Be careful.”
Chapter Nine
I returned to my desk and looked out the sprawling window in front of me. My view was enviable: a sheet of water stretched all the way to the horizon, spotted only by the occasional mangrove island. I scooted my chair in and opened the file.
McCleary’s boutique agency was Pursuant Services. He had filed the business name with the state of Maryland five months ago, formed an LLC a week after that, and retired from the service two months after that. Pursuant had been operational since then, with an office in D.C. just off DuPont Circle.
A quick online search showed no public information on the company, which wasn’t unusual being that McCleary didn’t cater to the wider public. With his network of connections and his contract with the DoD, he must have hit the ground running.
The million-dollar question was, what had he been investigating when he died? He had obviously gotten too close to the truth, whatever that might be, and it seemed likely that he had been silenced for it.
Besides his daughter Charlotte, McCleary had a secretary and one other investigator on the payroll, a Travis Barlow. According to the file, Barlow was also ex-military, a retired Army Major who had spent much of his time as an enlisted soldier in the role of Military Special Agent with the Army Criminal Investigation Division Command (ACIDC). A little further digging showed that McCleary and Barlow had met while on TDY in Europe over ten years ago.
I decided to wait and reach out to Barlow when I got to D.C., after first speaking with Peterson. It seemed that Peterson was the horse’s mouth, and I wanted a clear picture of what was going on before I questioned anyone else.
I grabbed up my desk phone and dialed the number for Peterson listed in the file. It rang, kept ringing, and never went to voicemail. I tried a second time with no luck. I decided to call again before I left for Baltimore.
I closed the file and stood up. Pulling my keys from my pocket I slipped the file into my center desk drawer before returning to the stairwell and exiting the building.
I drove back to my marina and returned to my houseboat, where I hung up my suit, returned my Oxfords to the bottom of the closet, and emptied my overnight bag before stuffing it again with fresh clothes. I left the toiletries in the side pocket. My service pistol was in the truck, locked in the console, and I brought a hard-sided carry case so I could check it on the airplane. I locked up, stepped off the boat, and walked down to the Wilsons’ catamaran. Neither Rich nor Edith were there. I stood at the end of the dock and called their phone. I left a voicemail, letting them know that I was leaving town unexpectedly on business and wouldn’t be able to make dinner tonight. I returned to my truck and checked the time. I still had a couple of hours to burn before starting the return trip to Miami so I decided to head over to my favorite watering hole, the Wayward Reef.
Five minutes later my Ram’s tires were crunching over the crushed shells of the bar’s parking lot. I turned off the truck and stepped out. It was after noon and the sun was high and blinding in the sky. The two plastic dolphins mounted on The Reef’s eave smiled down at me as I stepped inside.
It was lunchtime on Saturday, and the place was buzzing with happy conversation and easy laughter. The wide roller door at the back was up, allowing a welcoming breeze to come inside, stirring the various accoutrements hanging from the ceiling and walls: fishing lines drooped between the exposed rafters with clothespins clipped over them, grabbing onto iconic vinyl record covers from past decades that seemed to know what good music was really all about, stuffed fish replicas, and a shrimping net that hung loosely from the ceiling. I loved living in the Keys, and The Reef and the good people who frequented it was just one of the many reasons why.
I made my way to the bar where a muscular man with growing love handles was perched on a stool. I slapped him on the back as I bellied up to the bar. “You get any sleep last night?” I asked.
“Hey,” Brad said, “I was just about to step outside and call you.” He shook his head in response to my question. “I dropped Lisa off at her house and then went home. But no sleep. Not after all that. You okay?”
I shrugged. “I guess.” I wasn’t. With each passing hour, I could feel a wave of deep-seated anger growing steadily inside me.
The swivel door leading back into the kitchen swung out and a round man with red, glowing cheeks stepped out. He had a snowy white beard and hawkish eyes that seemed to never miss a thing. “Ryan,” he said, and then reached out and shook my hand. “I’m sorry about your friend. Brad was telling me about it.”
“Thanks, Roscoe.” Roscoe was The Reef’s owner and a good friend. He grabbed a tall glass, filled it full of beer from the tap, and set it in front of me. “That one’s on me. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to make a phone call back in the office. I was expecting a delivery this morning, but it still hasn’t shown up yet. Let’s make sure we talk later.”
“Sure thing. And thank you.” I took a long draw off the beer. I was about to set the glass down when I decided to drain some more. The refreshing liquid felt good going down. Just what I needed. I don’t drink while on the job, but since I still had some time before the flight, and I wasn’t scheduled to land in Maryland for another five hours, I had no second thoughts at getting after this one.
I felt a light hand on my back and turned to see Roscoe's granddaughter standing behind me. Amy’s blonde hair was shot through with bright pink highlights, and she had a smile that could brighten anyone’s cloudy day. She was carrying a food tray, and a waitress apron was strung around her waist. She reached in and gave me a hug from the side, saying how sorry she about what happened in Miami.
“Do you want something to eat?” she asked.
“No. The drink is fine for now. Thank you.”
She went around to the front of the bar and set the tray down. “Lisa called me this morning. She’s not doing so well after seeing all that last night.”
“I feel really bad about it,” Brad said. “Of all the gin joints in all the world I had to take her to one right down the street from the scene.”
“You didn’t know,” Amy said. “It sounds like she had a great time before that.”
Brad winced and brought a hand to his chest. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Fine. Just feel like someone is stabbing me at random times of the day.”
“It’s probably just gas,” I said, and he shot me a chastening glare. He hated it when I said that.
Three months ago, Amy's boyfriend had gotten involved with a bad group of criminals who were running illegal cargo up into the Bahamas and through the Keys. The whole affair didn’t end up working out well for him, and in the course of our investigation, Brad had been shot twice in the chest at point-blank range. By some miracle, the former Marine hadn’t died. His recovery was slow, and he had only returned to work a couple of weeks ago. He still got sharp pains in his chest every so often. The doctor said they were nothing to worry about, that they were part of the healing process.
“I think maybe I shouldn't have tried to chase down Harker,” Brad said.
“If I remember correctly, I’m the one who did most of the chasing.”
“But not all of it.”
I leaned across the counter and smiled coyly at Amy. “You wouldn’t happen to have a quarter, would you?”
She rolled her eyes and feigned irritation. “I swear, every time you or Brad come in I leave with about five dollars left in tips.”
I gave her the same reply I did every time she brought that up. “I don’t carry—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “You don’t carry change. Here.” She dug around in her apron and produced two quarters. “There’s an extra one. Because Lord knows you’ll ask again.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks, Amy
.”
I turned around and went to the back wall where the jukebox was sitting. The thing was a gem and the most recent addition to The Reef. Vintage vinyl albums sat in rows beneath the glass and were moved by a robotic arm once you made your song choice. The exterior was framed in salvaged wood from an old pirate ship and the keypad’s buttons were shaped like tiny anchors. I leaned over and scanned the playlist. There were a hundred and eighty songs to choose from. I was about to select Guns N' Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” when my eyes fell on a title I hadn’t played before: “All Along the Watchtower”. I remembered that Colonel McCleary had enjoyed listening to Hendrix. I located the playlist number, slipped a quarter in the machine, and selected the song.
As the drums kicked off and Jimi’s electric guitar quickly joined in, I found myself remembering the Colonel, the kind of man he was, the dedicated leader, father, and friend. The song was halfway over before I returned to the bar with my mind freshly steeled to a promise to uncover the truth.
I finished my beer as Brad made conversation with someone beside him. After a few minutes, he turned back to me. “Any more news on what happened?”
I pushed my empty glass to the side and nodded toward the back deck. He got off his stool and followed me outside, across the deck, and down the narrow dock where a few fishing boats and skiffs were tied off.
Now that we were alone, I wasn’t worried about being overheard. I filled Brad in on my meeting with Kathleen and what little was known so far: how McCleary had been working on a case that was somehow connected to the Defense Department, and how that the man who had fed him the investigation was running scared, convinced that the Colonel had been murdered because he was getting a little too close to the truth.
“Any idea what McCleary knew?” Brad asked.
“No. Kathleen’s contact is too paranoid to say anything over the phone. Can’t say that I blame him.”
“What’s the next step?”
