“So, as we sit here today and listen to more stories about what made Agent McPherson and Agent Palmer the great men that they were, let us not leave this room without strengthening our resolve to do good by their sacrifice. Let us all determine to continue this fight we have with all the passion, commitment, and courage shown by our fallen brothers. God bless you all, and God bless America.”
Had Michaels uttered those words at a political rally, he would’ve expected a thunderous applause as he exited the stage. A pulsating beat from a popular song that echoed his campaign’s motto would’ve rattled the rafters. But only the clicking of his shoes on the hard floor could be heard as he yielded the lectern to the next person in the memorial service program.
When he reached the wings, Quinn patted Michaels on the back. “Excellent speech, sir. That’s exactly what the agency needed to hear right now.”
“It’s what I need to hear right now. We can’t let this setback beat us twice.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, sir.”
After the service ended, Michaels asked Quinn if they could have a quick word before leaving.
“Of course,” Quinn said. “Come with me.”
Michaels followed Quinn to his office. He gestured toward one of two empty chairs in a corner of the room. The two men sat down across from one another.
“I should’ve said something earlier,” Michaels began. “I just didn’t realize how important it was for me to say this until after sitting through that somber memorial.”
“What is it?” Quinn asked. “Just be frank with me. We’ve been friends a long time.”
“Do you still think about him?” Michaels asked.
Quinn nodded. “Almost daily. I can’t get that image out of my mind.”
“Me either. Some days are better than others, but I can’t help but think that we could’ve done something differently.”
“We definitely could’ve, sir. And we should’ve. But we didn’t. Instead, we can just add that to our pile of regrets and move on. Dwelling on it won’t bring him back.”
“I know, but . . .” Michaels’s voice trailed off as he stared out the window overlooking the Langley complex.
“But what?”
“You think we did the right thing?”
Quinn shrugged. “There’s not always right and wrong in this business. But if you mean did we do the right thing for the safety and security of the American people? Probably.”
“If I’m ever asking a question like that again, I want a definitive answer.”
“Sir, you know this world is full of a million shades of gray. Thinking the answer is always black and white is a pipe dream.”
“Doing the right thing should always be black and white. Don’t forget that as you’re leading all these incredible men and women here.”
Michaels arose, and Quinn did with him. The two men shook hands.
“Remember, sir, if we hadn’t have chosen to do what we did that night in Islamabad, you wouldn’t be President. And who knows how dark this world might be.”
“It still haunts me,” Michaels said.
“Me, too, sir.”
Quinn walked Michaels into the hallway and to the elevators, where the Secret Service guards escorted him to his next appointment.
Before the doors closed, Michaels looked up at Quinn and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 7
Washington, D.C.
SHIELDS SLUNG HER BAG over her shoulder and hustled into the Firestorm offices. She’d spent the past fifteen minutes parked while reading through the file Besserman had given her. Her mind was still trying to absorb everything she’d seen.
Black tilted his head and furrowed his brow as she breezed past his desk. “You all right?”
She didn’t stop. “Meet me in the conference room, and hurry.”
Shields paused only to knock on Blunt’s open door before poking her head inside.
“You’re back,” he said. “Find anything useful?”
“Yeah, you’re not gonna believe this. Join me and Black in the conference room.”
Shields headed down the hall and was only a few steps ahead of Black and Blunt for the impromptu meeting she’d just called. She placed one folder down before spreading the rest from her bag across the table.
“What’s all this?” Blunt asked, a half-gnawed cigar hanging out of his mouth.
“It’s our haystack,” she said.
“And the needle?” Black asked.
“If Besserman’s right about the CIA servers not getting hacked, the needle is one of the names in these personnel files. These are the agents who accessed information on both Agents McPherson and Palmer in the past six months.”
“This shouldn’t be too difficult to narrow down then,” Black said.
“Well, this all might be useless then,” Blunt said.
Shields scowled. “What do you mean?”
“I just received word that a third agent named Ron Olson was found dead in Prague about an hour ago, killed the same way as both McPherson and Palmer,” Blunt said. “So, unless you can verify that these people also accessed Olson’s details, this was a big waste of time.”
“Maybe, or maybe we already have our guy: Wilson Wellington,” she said, tapping the folder in front of her for emphasis.
“Wilson Wellington?” Blunt asked. “The dead senator?”
Shields paced around the table. “Look, I know how this sounds and—”
“It sounds crazy,” Black said. “He’s dead.”
“I understand that, but hear me out. I’m not suggesting he’s the one pulling the trigger, but I think there’s a good chance he orchestrated this.”
“Before he died?” Blunt asked. “That was about six months ago.”
She stopped and leaned against the wall, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Have you ever heard of the CIA program called MH-Allectus?”
“Allectus?” Black asked. “The Roman accountant-turned-assassin?”
Shields shook her head. “Clever name given the objective of the program.”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell for me,” Blunt said.
“Well, when Wellington was in the Air Force long before his days in the senate, he worked in conjunction with the CIA on a secret program called MH-Allectus,” Shields explained. “The idea was to create a type of sleeper operative who had top-level skills but could be hidden in plain sight. Instead of taking embassy jobs, they would be teachers or doctors or businessmen who would integrate seamlessly into the community wherever they were placed. Wellington held a PhD in psychology and had also been utilized as a consultant at the Pentagon for his expertise in the field. So, the CIA asked him to help develop the program. However, a shortage of qualified agents brought a halt to MH-Allectus, forcing the well-trained individuals back into service.”
“Fascinating,” Blunt said. “Wellington was a master manipulator, so this makes sense based on his background. But what does that have to do with the rash of agency murders?”
Shields held up her index finger. “What was the name of the agent again who was just found dead?”
“Ron Olson,” Blunt said.
Shields flipped to one of the pages and ran her finger down a long list of names. “Olson, Olson, Olson. Okay, here it is. Ron Olson.”
“What is it?” Blunt asked.
“Olson, along with McPherson and Palmer, was in the MH-Allectus program,” she said.
“So, we have a connection,” Black said, “one that’s not likely to be a coincidence. But that doesn’t tell us who’s doing this. Because I know for damn sure it’s not Wellington.”
“You’re right,” Shields said. “That’s still the missing piece of the puzzle. In the meantime, Besserman added a primer to this folder, explaining the agency was attempting to alert all active agents who participated in the program to be extra vigilant, and in some cases, recalling them from the field if feasible. The problem is many of these agents are working undercover in place
s that have taken years to penetrate. If the agency pulls them voluntarily, it could set U.S. intelligence back a decade.”
“But why do this now?” Black asked. “Wellington could’ve used a threat to enact a plan like this that would’ve saved his life.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to live with what he’d done,” Shield said.
Blunt nodded. “I’m not surprised he took his own life after the kind of scrutiny he would’ve been facing,” Blunt said, eyeing Black closely. “He was a prideful man. His legacy would’ve been forever tarnished if he admitted publicly what he did to your father in Afghanistan.”
“Okay, so was this some sort of failsafe plan? I just don’t get why now? He’s been dead for months.”
“Revenge?” Blunt suggested. “Spite? It’s difficult for us to comprehend the ways of narcissists, no matter how many times we’ve seen them do something.”
“Let’s think this through then,” Black said. “If somebody was acting on Wellington’s behalf, what would murdering two agents less than twenty-four hours apart trigger? An investigation? Some sort of other protective measures?”
Blunt shrugged. “If the agency feels like their agents are at risk, they could be removed from the field, even ones in deep cover. Director Quinn would do anything to save the life of his agents because they’re the lifeblood of the organization.”
“Well, it triggered a memorial service today,” Shields said. “The president was rumored to be attending as well. Everyone was scurrying around to get the facility in tip-top shape when I was there this morning.”
Blunt’s eyes widened. “I’ll call Quinn.”
CHAPTER 8
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
QUINN STRODE TO his office and scowled as he rubbed his face with his hands. Despite inviting the president in to speak to the CIA, Quinn felt a sense of fear and dread from every agent he spoke with. The angst was nearly palpable before the memorial service. He could only hope it would ebb soon.
“Sir, I need to speak with you about something,” a man said.
Quinn spun around to see Besserman standing a few yards away. “What is it?”
“I’m afraid you’re not going to like this, but there’s been another murder.”
Quinn shook his head slowly before letting out a string of expletives. “Who was it this time?”
“Ron Olson.”
“He was stationed in Prague, wasn’t he?”
Besserman nodded. “I know that’s probably the last thing you wanted to hear today, but we need to do something about this before it gets too far out of hand.”
“You have Firestorm working on this?” Quinn asked as his phone rang. He glanced at the number. “Speak of the devil.”
“Is that Blunt calling?”
Quinn nodded and sent the call to voicemail. “I’ll speak with him later. So, is Firestorm working on this?”
“I handed over the files this morning. If we have a mole in our midst, we can’t risk letting them know we’re on to them.”
“Absolutely. I just don’t know if they’ll be able to move fast enough to find whoever is behind this.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how quickly they work.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
Besserman turned and disappeared down the hall. Quinn leaned against the wall and looked upward. He let out a long sigh before heading to his office. On his way, he passed his administrative assistant, Ann Klinger.
“Where are you going, Ann?” he asked.
“Sorry, sir, I’ve got to pick up my daughter from school. She just came down with a high fever. From what the school nurse said, it doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, I hope she feels better,” Quinn called after her. “See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here bright and early.”
Quinn retreated to his office where he found an agent sitting on the couch against the wall in the waiting area.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn said before fishing for a name. “Agent—”
“Agent Miles Jackson,” the man said as he offered his hand.
“Agent Jackson, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with you before, so please forgive me for not remembering your name. However, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later when my assistant can book a time for you to talk with me.”
“Oh, it’ll only take a minute, sir.”
Quinn shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m incredibly busy trying to manage everything going on right now. Please check back with her in the morning, and I’ll be happy to carve out a few minutes to chat with you.”
Jackson stood and peeled back his blazer, revealing his weapon. “I’m afraid this can’t wait, sir.”
Quinn raised his hands and followed the agent’s commands. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Neither do I, and if I get any, you’re going to pay a hefty price. Is that understood?”
Quinn nodded.
“Good, now sit down at your desk and follow my instructions.”
“What’s this all about?” Quinn asked.
“Did I instruct you to ask me any questions?” Jackson asked. “The less you say, the better we’ll get along. Nod for me if you understand what I’m saying.”
Quinn complied with Jackson’s request.
“Much better,” Jackson said. “Now, here’s what I need you to do.”
* * *
PRESTON VOGLE HANDED Langston Quinn a thumb drive and instructed him to insert it into his computer. Vogle fiddled with the fake CIA credentials hanging around his neck. He always liked the name Miles, while Jackson was generic and powerful sounding. Not that his alias really mattered. He had dozens of them to choose from, but the more the agency had to work to uncover his true identity, the better. They’d find him eventually, but it would be too late if everything went as planned.
Vogle pulled a chair right next to Quinn and continued directing him.
“You’re never going to get away with this,” Quinn said.
Vogle scowled. “Get away with what?”
“This,” Quinn said, pointing at his monitor. “Whatever it is you’re doing, we’ll be able to track it.”
“Just enter your access code so we can be done with this. I’ve things to do.”
Quinn narrowed his eyes before casting a deliberate sideways glance at his captor. When he finished and the next page flashed up on the screen, Vogle nodded at the chair across from Quinn’s desk.
“Have a seat over there until I’m finished. And remember, I still have my gun trained on you.”
Vogle worked quickly to download all the files necessary to complete his mission. He checked his notes once more before logging out and completing a wipe of the system and Quinn’s computer. No one could know what information Vogle was after or what he downloaded.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Quinn said. “You don’t just waltz into the CIA director’s office and start downloading at your leisure.”
Vogle chuckled and slowly looked around the room. “I hear what you’re saying, but I’m wondering if you live in a different reality than me. Because I’m actually doing exactly what you said I can’t do.”
“We’ll catch up with you. And when we do, don’t expect any mercy.”
“You talk big for a man who’s all too familiar with scandals,” Vogle said before reaching into his coat pocket and producing an envelope. He tossed it on the desk.
“What’s this?” Quinn asked.
“Open it up. Take a peek. I brought those especially for you.”
Vogle closely watched Quinn. The director’s face lost all color as he peered at the photographs tucked inside.
“What do you think?” Vogle asked. “Pretty sweet photography.”
“You’re going to pay for this,” Quinn said as he tossed the photos back at Vogle.
“Based on that response, I’m pretty sure your wife doesn’t know about that young agent you’re with in thos
e photos. And I bet if she saw them, she’d leave you for good this time.”
“Why you piece of—”
“Direct your anger elsewhere, Mr. Quinn. I wasn’t the one who couldn’t control my animal instincts.”
“You’re playing with fire, Jackson.”
“Yet you’re the one who’s going to get burned.”
Vogle stood and took a deep breath. “I appreciate your compliance, Director Quinn. Now, I’m going to walk out of here. If you attempt to stop me or alert security to my presence, those images will be sent to every major news outlet in America along with every member of congress. Your wife will undoubtedly see them along with your precious children. So, if being in charge here is important to you along with your marriage, you’ll keep your mouth shut until I’m long gone. And then, good luck catching me.”
“Listen here, you sonofabitch. You better run so fast that your feet don’t hit the ground. Because when I catch you—and I will—I’m gonna put you in a hole so deep in the ground that you’ll kill yourself before you see the light of day again.”
Vogle chuckled. “That is some rich hyperbole, sir. You have a good day now.”
Quinn glared at Vogle as the two men locked eyes. “I’m coming for you.”
“I look forward to it,” Vogle said as he turned and headed toward the door.
He didn’t look back as he sauntered down the hall to the elevators. He knew Quinn wouldn’t be able to keep any of his toothless promises.
Vogle rode down to the ground floor, clutching his USB drive. He exited without a second glance from the security detail in the lobby.
A faint smile spread across his face as he stepped back into the fresh Virginia air.
Line of Fire Page 4
