Line of Fire

by R. J. Patterson

  “Doesn’t mean someone else didn’t find out about it.”

  “I know you’re right. I can’t rule that out. But I just have a hard time believing it. We do routine checks on all our agents. Bank accounts, leisure travel, phone records, the whole shebang. It’s not that we don’t trust them, but we do realize they’re all human and susceptible to the enticement of riches.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Blunt said.

  “Some of us more so than others.”

  “I take it you haven’t found anything suspicious.”

  Besserman shrugged. “Occasionally we’ve had some red flags raised that required further investigation, but nothing that didn’t get cleared.”

  “Don’t rule that out yet, Bobby. People surprise me all the time, both in good ways and bad ones. And that is the nature of the profession.”

  “I’m as cynical-minded as they come as it pertains to the suspicious death of one of our agents. But I just don’t see it this time.”

  “Then you have to be prepared to face the reality that either McPherson acted carelessly and it cost him his life or that hackers managed to get inside your servers and picked out that information.”

  “If the second scenario is our reality, we’ve got a crisis on our hands, the kind we won’t be able to manage. Everything will simply be damage control.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not the case then,” Blunt said before taking another bite of his sandwich.

  Besserman’s phone rang, and he held up his index finger. “I need to get this.”

  “Be my guest,” Blunt said.

  Blunt scanned the area in front of him. Tourists walked lazily past the monument, some of them not even stopping to glance at the giant sculpture of Lincoln. Blunt estimated that at least half of the people weren’t looking up at all. Instead, they kept their heads down, eyes glued on cell phones.

  He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Besserman had hung up. Blunt hit his counterpart on the arm and pointed at the people.

  “If I ever just walk around and stare at my phone, promise me you’ll have me committed,” Blunt said.

  Besserman remained silent, so Blunt slowly turned toward the CIA deputy director and found all color had drained from his face as he gazed vacantly into the distance.

  “Bobby?” Blunt said. “Bobby? Are you all right?”

  Besserman sighed and then looked at Blunt. “McPherson wasn’t sloppy.”

  Blunt cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

  “Another one of our agents just turned up dead, found shot to death in the back of the head in Berlin. Somebody is picking off our agents one by one.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Washington, D.C.

  CHRISTIAN SHIELDS ADJUSTED her rearview mirror and then pressed the ignition button. She took a deep breath, put her car in reverse, and backed out of the Firestorm parking garage. The day before Blunt had met with Besserman to discuss how to move forward with the situation unfolding in the Middle East. Two undercover CIA agents embedded in different terrorist cells had been murdered the same way within forty-eight hours of each other—and the intelligence community in Washington was reeling.

  While Agent McPherson was relatively a ghost, Agent Alex Palmer was a well-known name. He’d been instrumental in taking down three religious cults during his FBI days, gaining him celebrity-like status among his peers before transitioning to work for the CIA. Since then, he’d become a legend in the agency, penetrating Osama Bin Laden’s inner circle that ultimately led to his demise. Palmer was on assignment in Berlin, worming his way in with the leadership of a burgeoning Neo-Nazi terrorist organization there. Yet, somebody had learned his true identity and decided to make an example of him.

  Blunt had briefed Shields about the matter. He concluded that while there was room for the possibility that it was just a coincidence, it wasn’t likely. The amount of planning required to eliminate two high-level spies in less than two days was immense. This wasn’t the work of a lone man. This was a coordinated attack, one designed to send a message to the CIA that it—whoever it was—intended to get its pound of flesh.

  She had learned that in the nearly twenty-four hours that had elapsed since Blunt and the deputy director met, Besserman had uncovered a treasure trove of information. He wanted the files analyzed immediately, refusing to let his staff do it in case there was a mole lurking in their midst.

  Shields turned the radio to her favorite news radio station, WTOP, and listened as the anchor gave the top of the hour rundown about all the major stories happening in the nation’s capital. The big story was the list of invitees to President Michaels’s big gala at the Kennedy Center in a week’s time.

  “Gag me,” she said aloud before changing the station. She’d never cared about the status of high society celebrities, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  She fought her way through the city’s near-gridlock traffic before noticing her fuel light was on. After checking her watch, she realized she had enough time to gas up before making it on time to Langley for her noon appointment with Besserman.

  In an effort to prevent any potential rumors from circulating—particularly about the purpose of his meeting with Shields—Besserman scheduled the meeting for lunch and was going to meet her in an ultra-protected room below the ground floor. And Besserman also specified that under no uncertain terms could she be late.

  “If I don’t get gas, I’m going to be extremely late,” she said to herself as she glanced at her watch again.

  She whipped her car into a Sunoco station and proceeded to fill up. After she finished, she hustled back to her car to drive off when another car blocked her in. Shields muttered a few choice words under her breath and then put her car in reverse and started to back out. But when she heard a slap on her hood, she slammed the brakes and looked forward. Standing in front of her, waving, was Joe Dunn.

  “I swear I’m gonna kill him,” she said before rolling down her window.

  He smiled as he hustled around to her door.

  “Joe, what are you doing?” Shields asked, poking her head outside.

  “I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I’d see if you’d considered my offer,” he said.

  “I took your card to be polite, Joe. But let me be frank with you: I’m not interested.”

  “Perhaps I should’ve told you first about the generous compensation package my boss is willing to offer.”

  Shields scowled and narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear here, so I’m going to say this again very slowly so you can understand. You ready?”

  He nodded.

  “I . . . am . . . not . . . interested. Got it?”

  “My boss doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “And I never say yes to anyone I don’t know. Now, if you’ll kindly step away from my car so I don’t injure you as I leave, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Christina, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Stop stalking me. I’m not changing my mind.”

  She hit the gas and lurched away from Dunn before roaring around his car and heading back toward the street.

  “Once a creep, always a creep,” she said to herself.

  * * *

  SHIELDS SET OFF alarms as usual while going through the metal detector in the CIA lobby. One of the guards tipped his hat at her and smiled.

  “Nice to see you back, Agent Shields,” he said.

  “When are you ever gonna get that thing fixed, Ray?,” she asked, hiking up her pants legs high enough to show off her prosthetic. “Every single time.”

  He chuckled. “It’s outdated technology, unable to tell the difference between a gun and a leg.” He tapped his temple. “Nothing beats human technology.”

  “Have a good one, Ray,” she said as she scooped her briefcase off the conveyor belt and followed Besserman’s liaison. The young man appeared to be in his mid-twenties, a goatee covering his babyface. He glanced at her leg before clumsily offering hi
s hand.

  “Tyler Wells,” he said. “Mr. Besserman asked me to direct you to your meeting location.”

  “Thank you,” she said and then shook his hand.

  Moments later, she was sitting alone in a sparse room where the walls were decorated with a single television monitor and the furniture consisted of two plush chairs and a glass coffee table.

  Besserman strode in shortly thereafter, struggling to contain all the folders in his arms.

  “Need some help?” Shields asked as she hustled over to prevent an impending disaster.

  “I think I got it,” Besserman said before plunking all the documents onto the table. He collapsed into his chair and let out a sigh of relief.

  “What’s this?”

  “Everything you need to get started on figuring out where the leak is coming from,” he said.

  “Based on everything we know, it has to be internal, right?”

  Besserman nodded. “I’ve compiled a list of all the accounts and corresponding agents who have accessed the files of McPherson and Palmer over the last six months.”

  “You want us to sort through all this?” she asked as she eyed the stack, placing her estimate just north of twenty-five folders.

  “I know it’s a lot, but you should be able to narrow it down quickly and then work from there. I just can’t let anyone know what’s going on here. I don’t want to spook anyone.”

  “Don’t wanna spook the spooks,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Exactly. And to be honest, most of them live on edge, worried who might be looking over their shoulder or recording them anyway. If we give them any reason to put their guard up, we’ll never figure out who instigated these attacks.”

  Shields started shoving the folders into her briefcase. “Any of these stand out to you?”

  “I’d be suspicious of all of them. But in my short time here, I don’t really have a bead on the likely culprit.”

  Shields shrugged. “No worries. We’ll figure it out.”

  She went to reach for the folder in his hand, but he retracted.

  “I wanted to tell you about this one before I gave it to you,” he said, holding the file against his chest.

  Shields drew back. “What’s in there?”

  Besserman gestured toward her chair. “Have a seat.”

  They both sat down before he continued.

  “Now, I know this may sound strange to you, but do you believe in ghosts?”

  She furrowed her brow and cocked her head to one side. “I'm sorry, sir. Did you say ghosts?”

  “Yeah, you know, the unexplainable, the thing that goes thump in the night, waking you up from your sleep?”

  “I . . . well, I never . . . What are you getting at?”

  “There’s one other link to these two men that I just think we should take a look at.”

  “What’s that got to do with ghosts?”

  Besserman sucked a breath in through his teeth before answering. “This particular connection is dead, gone from this world.”

  “And you think this merits us looking into this because . . .”

  “I actually believe he is capable of pulling something like this off from beyond the grave,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Now, I’m not necessarily saying this is the guy because I know I sound like a kook when I say it out loud. But you should at least rule him out as a possibility.”

  “Of course, sir. If you think this warrants a closer look to eliminate someone from the suspect pool, I’m happy to take the extra time to evaluate the possibilities.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “And keep that under wraps in your office. He had so many secret allies that I’d be wary of alerting anyone else to the fact that you’re looking into any ties with him.”

  She nodded. “Do I know who this man is?”

  Besserman finally held the folder out to Shields. “You’ll recognize his name right away.”

  Her eyes widened as she read the name and tucked the file into her briefcase with all the other documents Besserman had given her. She thanked him and headed for the exit. Wells returned to escort her to the lobby, where she gave Ray a friendly wave before hustling to her car.

  Once she got inside, she called Blunt.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Besserman loaded me down with personnel records of people who’d accessed both accounts of the two deceased agents.”

  “But does he have any hunches who it might be?” Blunt asked.

  “He does,” she said. “And you’re not going to believe who his prime suspect is.”

  CHAPTER 6

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  LANGSTON QUINN SHUFFLED some papers on his desk and stacked all his ongoing projects in a neat pile. He buffed his nameplate and then took one last look at his desk. In most cases, he would’ve never fussed over the appearance of his office when an old friend was popping in for a short visit. But when Quinn’s old friend happened to be the President of the United States, it was different.

  Quinn’s assistant knocked and then swung open the door. She smiled as she gave way to President Michaels and then closed the door as she exited into the hall.

  Michaels wore a wide grin as he strode over to shake Quinn’s hand.

  “How have we gone two years without seeing each other?” Michaels asked.

  “I hear you’re a busy man,” Quinn said, forcing a smile.

  “Not as busy as you,” Michaels said as he sat in the chair across from Quinn. “You’re the one on the frontlines taking bullets these days.”

  “It’s what I signed up for years ago,” Quinn said. “I can handle it.”

  “You're a better man than I am.”

  “Well, you’re the one who appointed me to this position, so I hope you’re confident I can do the job.”

  “I saw what you did in Islamabad when I was the station chief there. The way you handled some of the most challenging assignments with both diplomatic skill and unflinching resolve was all I needed to know about you. Those are the assets necessary to be successful in this position, and I couldn’t be happier that you’re running this agency.”

  “I didn’t always handle every situation perfectly.”

  Michaels waved at Quinn dismissively. “Let’s let bygones be bygones. You’re here now, and that’s what matters the most.”

  “I only wish it was under different circumstances.”

  “You and me both. Now, how are Lindsay and the kids? You guys doing okay?”

  “Better now,” Quinn said. “Lindsay and I had a little rough patch about a year ago, but we’re in a much healthier place now. And the kids are thriving in their new school.”

  “That’s good to hear. So, what’s really going on right now? Why do we have two dead agents?”

  “We’re working on it. I’m letting Besserman handle it with a hand-picked team, but it’s a frightening scenario.”

  Michaels nodded in agreement. “And we haven’t been hacked by anyone?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Our cybersecurity team says the number of attempts to hack our system is holding steady, so it’s not like some bad actors have broken through our firewalls. According to our security reports, we haven’t had any breaches.”

  “So, you’re thinking this is an inside job?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a coincidence.”

  “Two stellar agents getting their cover blown twenty-four hours apart and killed the same way? I doubt it.”

  “I doubt it, too. But we can’t rule that out at this point. It’s just unsettling to everyone here in the agency, which is why I wanted you to speak at this memorial service today. With the Commander in Chief here, I thought it might be good for morale.”

  “I’ll do my best to offer some comforting words and project some confidence,” Michaels said. “But it’s never easy to lose someone you work with.”

  Quinn looked down at his desk. “No, it’s not, is it?”

&
nbsp; He glanced up at Michaels, whose eyes had also drifted toward the floor. Much to Quinn’s relief, he could tell the president didn’t want to talk about what happened in Islamabad. That was an incident neither of them wanted to rehash, especially not now. Quinn preferred to never speak of it again.

  * * *

  PRESIDENT MICHAELS ascended to the podium and situated a hardcopy of his speech on the lectern. He took a deep breath before looking up at the large crowd filled with several hundred of the agency’s finest. Michaels had met Palmer once while training some of the new recruits before embarking into politics. His sister sat on the front row, clutching the hand of Palmer’s mother.

  Only the sound of occasional sniffles broke the heavy silence that had fallen on the room.

  Michaels cleared his throat and then began his speech.

  “I’m often asked by people what I’m most proud of in my life. And I think they expect me to tell them about some policy I’ve enacted that made a difference in the lives of millions of Americans every day. While there are some bills I’ve signed into law that I’m very proud of, the surprising answer I respond with is this: Serving in the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “All of you here today understand why. We take incredible risks to ensure that our loved ones are safe back home. Most citizens will never understand the sacrifices you make each day when you get up and enter the quiet war zone that exists right in plain sight. Yet no one sees it. They only see the failures. And if you’re doing your job right, they never see those either.

  “Randy McPherson and Alex Palmer were two incredible agents who sadly have paid the ultimate price with their lives. I had the great pleasure of instructing Agent Palmer in one of my field training exercises. At the time, I remarked to several others that Alex was a natural and would definitely go places in the agency. And he did. Unfortunately, there were more places for him to go, higher places, places that were cut short when he gave his life for this country.

  “Now in the case of both Agent Palmer and Agent McPherson, we can mourn their loss and then move on, probably forgetting them after a few years. But that wouldn’t honor their deaths, at least not the way they’d both want to be honored. Neither one of these men understood the word quit. They would work and work until they got the intel necessary to take down another terrorist cell or prevent another attack on American soil. These two men embodied the best of this agency. They worked tirelessly and fearlessly, two traits necessary to stop an unrelenting evil that hates this country and what it stands for.